Except the Queen (7 page)

I counted what I had. There were five pieces of the paper. The numbers on them were 20, 20, 20, 5, 5.

Glancing through the window, I saw that the leaves of the trees were barely trembling. The sky shone a brilliant
blue. If there ever was a day that signaled success, this was it.

Wrapping the keys in some bone-white paper I found hanging in the smallest room—for I understood that without them I could not get back into my place again—I stuck the small packet of keys and the money papers into my pocket, nestled against my patch of silk. Then I kirtled my skirt above my knees, and went down the stairs.

The door snicked shut behind me. I turned to memorize it, a solid oak door painted green with a carving of vines. It had no name, but a number. Thirteen. Yes, full of magic. I would know it again.

Turning, I walked first to the tree. There was another dove sitting on a low branch: a male, quite fit. He cooed when he saw me.

“Keep watch, my man,” I cooed back, “and there will be something for you.”

He fluttered his wings, then stretched his neck, and turned his beady little black eyes toward the steps of my place.

“Fly well,” he said.

I nodded, then walked down the street, turned a corner, and ran right into chaos.

T
he first time I see her, she comes down the street just as the police car blocks the avenue and the fire trucks drag out hoses like great gray anacondas. I note she is frightened.

She has a lovely face, like a Madonna, with sharp black eyes, though who has dressed her in those awful clothes I cannot guess. Perhaps she is one of the
locas
who stroll around here mumbling and stealing my apples.

This one, though, she walks as if she remembers being young and beautiful and cannot quite understand how she has gotten to the age she is, shoulders back but with her hands tight at her sides. However, there is wisdom in her eyes and I smile at her. Wisdom is so seldom found here in Nueva York, we must prize it when we can.

“
Buenos dias
,” I say to her, because it truly is a good day, if one discounts the swirling light of the police car, and the shouts of the firemen as they set their ladders against the wall of the tenement across the street. With the sun out and shining down in the canyons of this great city one can believe, if only for a moment, that things are clean and bright here, which is a kind of
magico
.

She leans down and smells the
fruta
displayed on the front shelves. Not touching, not like the others, the
locas
, who just look around quickly to be sure no one is watching before grabbing. Or the bad boys who do it openly
and lift the finger to me. But I watch her and think:
maravilloso!
How else to tell the age and the ripeness if one does not smell the
fruta
. Also I think, for a moment, that she must be from the old country, so I address her in Spanish. I say,
“Claro, Dona,
ustedes conocer las frutas.
” The minute she looks up, those blackberry eyes not quite in focus, I see she is no Latina but someone more exotic. I do not know exactly what. But I say quickly in English, “My pardon, lady, I have mistaken you. Call me Juan Flores. It means Flowers in the English tongue.”

The smile she gives me is gracious and full. “Your fruit is fresh, sir, and I wish to have some.”

Her accent is strange, and I cannot place it. “Have or buy?” I ask. I have lived here in this country long enough to be forward.

She puts a hand into some hidden pocket of her voluminous skirt and pulls out five bills and a set of keys wrapped in toilet paper. I am careful not to laugh.

“Buy, of course,” she says. “One does not take without compensation. I would not be beholden to thee.”

Her way of speaking is, somehow,
arcaico
and I like that, wherever she is from. I nod.

She chooses five Galas, ripe and beautiful, plus four Bosc—though these are still hard and not ready for eating.

“For later,” she says.

“Keep them in the paper sack,” I tell her, “and they will ripen more quickly.” I wrap them for her and she smiles broadly. Her teeth are even and very white.

She takes also wheat bread—the new-baked kind I get fresh daily from the bakery, not what comes in plastic wrap—three kinds of cheese, a handful of dark green spinach, and pots of marjoram, rosemary, and thyme.

“I cannot live without these,” she says. “Can you get others?”

I nod again. “What would you have?”

She closes her eyes, thinks for a bit, then says, “Lady Bug Bean, agrimony, bitter aloes, angelica . . .” She smiles. “Especially the angelica.”

“Wait, wait,” I tell her, for none of those do I know. I take a pad of paper from my breast pocket and a nub of a pencil and have her say those things over again so I can write them down.

“And asafetida, barberry, bay leaf.”

I hold up my hand. “Dona, I
have
bay leaf.”

That smile again. It is so much younger than she.

“And basil.”

“That, too.” I go back inside the
bodega
and get both, and she hands me all her money as if she does not know its worth. The keys she replaces in her pocket. Carefully, I count out the change. When I touch her hand, it is soft as if she has never done a day’s work. “The rest I shall find for you if I can.”

She touches my hand back. “Blessings.” And smiles once more, as if consciously trying to charm me. Which she does.

I start to pack everything in a brown paper bag, but she takes the bag from me and places everything carefully in it herself, speaking to each fruit and vegetable, each herb in some language I do not think I have ever heard, but it is sweet and full of watery sounds. I am thoroughly confused by her, but it is a pleasant confusion. I take the paper bag for a moment and fiddle with the top, hoping to keep her here longer.

“I need paper and something to write with,” she says, “such as the little things in your hand. Do you have those, too? I do not see them in your . . .” She waves a hand.

“My
bodega,”
I say. “My shop.”

“Yes, shop, that is what Jamie Oldcourse calls it.” She runs her tongue over her top lip. “But I like your word,
bodega
. It has the sound of water over stone. I
appreciate
it and will use it, Man of Flowers.”

“Juan,” I say. And then I tell her about the stationers, which is well away from the firemen and the police car; how she is to go straight back the way she came and then to the left at the light to find it. And without a word more she walks off.

I smile at her back, having made her a present of a star fruit that she will find when she opens the bag. Not to be
beholden
to me—what a lovely way to say it—but to remind her that there are friends here whatever terrible passage she has recently made, for I can tell she has not been here long.

As she heads off, I realize I am moved as I have not been since my Marianna died. It is a long time since I have been with a woman. Five years, twelve days.

I wonder if this dona lives in the neighborhood. I wonder if I could ever tell her that she is dressed like a bag woman who should have been wearing the clothes of a queen. With women in this country, I am never certain how they will take such words.

Perhaps my nephew will know. He knows more about
Americana
women than I will ever learn, though he knows nothing about
fruta
and nothing at all about putting customers at ease, or selling except to take the money and give the change.

T
he sun rose out of the lake’s blue horizon and spilled its golden light across the humped rocks and sand. As we left the beach, I was wearing a voluminous garment, printed with a bright pattern of crimson roses and green fronds that Baba Yaga called a “house dress.” I also wore white leather “walking shoes,” and was most disappointed that they had nothing in common with seven-league boots, which magically transport the wearer long distances. It appeared I had to do the walking on my own.

Baba Yaga also gave me a large purse in which to carry my belongings that now amounted to several pairs of “panties” that gripped my loins in all manner of uncomfortable ways; two “bras” that dug into my padded flesh; three dresses of various patterns; and a huge maroon scarf, also printed with flowers in riotous colors and tied with a fringe. I learned about zippers—Baba Yaga’s favorite convenience as they involved rows of miniature silver teeth that clenched tightly together. I hid my treasures wrapped in fairy silk in one such zippered pouch inside the purse.

Baba Yaga slung her leather bag over one shoulder. “Ready?”

“Yes, I think so,” I answered, hoisting my large purse onto my shoulder.

“Good. Follow me then and pay attention. I will teach you some useful things about this world.” Baba Yaga walked toward a road that followed the shore of the lake, her bowed legs moving with surprising rapidity. I had to hurry to catch up, tripping every now and then in the unaccustomed shoes.

We reached a tree-lined street that at that early hour was quiet. Arched branches of maple and elm swayed gently over the path providing a green shade. Set back from the path were rows of tightly packed houses, three stories high and most with steps that led up to broad porches. There was grass, though it was sparse and downtrodden, littered with cups, paper, and empty bottles. Occasionally, a few flowering shrubs festooned with torn paper huddled miserably against the flank of a house.

As Baba Yaga instructed me, the city around us gradually awoke. Shutters opened with a clatter, horns sounded, and workmen in orange-and-yellow vests shouted at each other across the road. Two men clung to the back of a huge green wagon reeking of spoiled food. It rumbled down the street, stopping every few paces where the men scrambled down to pick up another barrel of rotten goods to toss into the wagon’s waiting maw.

“Cars, trucks, buses,” Baba Yaga said, pointing out all manner of conveyances that had begun to crowd the streets. “No horses here. These go fast; they do not stop unless told by that red light. Don’t get involved with them or you’ll get hurt,” she warned. “Stay always on the sidewalk,” she added pointing to the paths we now walked. “Cross only when others do, that way you won’t make mistake and get splattered.”

“Splattered?”

“Tenderized.” She grinned. It did not suit her. “Like tough meat.”

I began to see why she liked it here.

*   *   *

A
FTER A MORNING OF WANDERING
through the city, I wondered if I could ever make sense of it, much less call it
home. There was too much noise, too many people, and all of them so young they seemed to mock my new identity.

I asked Baba Yaga about it and she shrugged. “We are near a university—a place where these children pretend to learn. But really, they do very little that does not involve too much drink and too much sex.”

“So why do you come here?” I asked.

She turned to me and I saw the fiery glint in her milk-blue eyes. “They no longer come into the woods. I must seek them out and give them a chance to
really
learn.”

“And if they don’t?”

She shrugged and waved her hand in the air. For a brief moment the blue-black nails gleamed. I thought of those nails in soft flesh and shuddered.

In the sunlight, I became keenly aware of all the youths now strolling in the streets. Some were seated at tables drinking and talking, while others lounged on benches or the grass, harmless as mayflies. Serana and I might have meddled, tricked, and addled our human playmates, but never had we . . . 

I shuddered again—
eaten
them.

“Bah!” Baba Yaga puffed, glancing down at me and reading the horror on my face. “I don’t do
that
 . . . anymore. But I do like to fuck up their lives for a while,” she sniffed. “At least until they learn a thing or two.”

“
Fuck
 . . . up?”

“Yes,” she answered. “A useful word in this place. Of course you already know it, but here, everyone says it for everything. It can even be a greeting. Watch this,” she said and shoved her elbow hard into the shoulder of a slender young man walking toward us, books nestled in the crook of his arm.