The Boy in the Black Suit (18 page)

“Oh yeah?” His eyes lit up. “Which restaurant?”

“I never remember the name of it, but I think it was somewhere around One-thirty-fifth and Amsterdam.”

He thought for a moment. “Can't place it, but I didn't live too far from there,” he said, still trying to figure out what restaurant it was. “What's your folks' names? If they was uptown, I might know 'em, and if I don't, they probably know me.” He smiled. All gums.

“My father's name is Jackson,” I said. “Jackson Miller. And my mother's name was Daisy.”

“It
was
Daisy? What's her name now?”

“She passed away,” I said, fast. As I said it, it dawned on me that this was the first time I had really thought about my mom since I had been at the shelter. I looked down at the chessboard to avoid any look Candy Man might have been giving. If it was a pity face, I didn't want to see it. And if it was a stupid, no-big-deal face, I didn't want to see that one either.

“Oh,” he said, stuck. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, it's cool. So what about you?” I flipped the conversation on him quickly. Didn't want to give it time to simmer and bubble. Just wanted to move on.

“What about me?”

“What's your story? Love told me you used to play ball.”

“Yeah, I used to. Played a few years for the Knicks.”

“I heard!” I tried to contain my excitement. Like I said, I'm
not even a big sports dude, but actually meeting somebody who played in the pros was big. Couldn't help it.

“What was that like?”

Candy Man ran his hand along the back of his head. “Y'know, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. And also the worst.”

“Oh yeah?” I pretended to sound surprised. “Why you say that?”

Now it was his turn to look down at the board. I wasn't trying to put him on the spot, but it just kind of happened.

He turned a pawn on its side and spun it like he was spinning a quarter.

“Partied a little too hard.” He gave the pawn another spin. “Started putting that shit in my veins.” Now he flicked the pawn away. It skittered into one of mine, knocking it over. “It was like one day I was standing at the foul line shooting free throws, and the next day I was fifty, sleeping every night on the street. And the crazy part is, I don't remember nothing in between.”

“You ever been married?” I asked.

Candy Man snapped his neck back and then he started laughing. “Naw, son. Only thing I ever been committed to is rehab. And even that ain't work out so well.”

“No kids?”

“The little youngins running round here are my kids.” He looked me straight in the eyes. “And Lovey.”

I know he said that we didn't have to play another game, but I picked up the two pawns, reset them, then made a first move. Might as well.

He moved after me.

“And this is one of our new volunteers.” Lovey came out of nowhere. The smell of fruity perfume and food came down on me as she approached the table. She interrupted my next move (not that it would've been a good one) and she brought the whole news crew with her. The guy with the big camera, the dude holding the light, the lady in the stiff suit—everybody.

“Hi, I'm Connie Whitlock of New York One. Would you mind if we just ask you a few questions about your experience as a first-time volunteer here at Helping Hand?”

I looked at Lovey. And even though I always suck at this kind of thing, her face made me say yes.

Damn girls.

“So what's it been like, spending your turkey day here at the shelter?” Ms. Whitlock, who my mom used to watch all the time, asked in that weird, phony voice newspeople always talk in.

“Well,” I started as I stood up and tried to get my thoughts together. Ms. Whitlock held the mic just under my chin like a mother holding an ice cream cone for a kid to lick. “It's been cool. I mean, I've never done anything like this before, and when Love, here, invited me, I thought maybe I'd come and everyone would just be bummed out—” Argh!
Bummed out?
Stupid, stupid, stupid. “I mean, like, I thought folks would be sad to be in such a tough situation for Thanksgiving,” I went on hurriedly, trying to recover. “But when I got here, and started helping, I realized that most of these people are kind, and just grateful for a hot meal and someone to talk to. We all can relate to that.”

“Fantastic!” Ms. Whitlock exclaimed like she was reading it off a cue card. “And there you have it, folks. Love Brown, the granddaughter of Gwendolyn Brown, has taken the baton and keeps the giving tradition alive here at Helping Hand Shelter. I'm Connie Whitlock, and from all of us here at New York One, have a happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Now, back to you, Carla.”

The guy holding the big camera said, “Clear,” and then Ms. Whitlock and Lovey shook hands and talked a little longer as I dropped back into my seat to continue with the whooping that was waiting for me by Candy Man.

I moved my own knight.

Candy Man moved it back, and moved another one of my pawns. Then he looked at me and said, “I just want it to last a little longer.”

Ouch.

Then he moved his knight.

“Take it easy on him, Candy Man, I don't want you to beat him so bad he too scared to come back down here.” Lovey was interrupting again, this time by herself—the newspeople had left. She propped her camera up to her face for a shot of the chessboard. “I like him, so don't scare him off.” She flashed a smile as she turned the lens, zooming in and out.

Candy Man gave his best cheese back. “I'm taking it easy,” he assured her with a wink.

“Good, because you don't want
me
to sit down at this table.”

Candy Man leaned toward me. “She's the only person here who ever beat me.”

Then Lovey leaned toward me. “That's because I'm the only person he lets win.”

For another hour Candy Man went on and on, telling stories about Lovey, and how she was when she first started coming to the shelter with her grandmother. He talked about her big brown penny eyes, and how even though she was adorable, she was tougher than most of the boys.

“Man, she'd have holes all in her little jeans, and her knees would be bleeding, because she was outside wrestling with the boys,” Candy Man remembered. “But she wasn't no baby. She was tough and she never cried. Never. The boys, though, forget about it. They'd be boo-hooing all over the damn shelter until Gwen came and gave them hugs and whatnot.”

This was, I think, the third story. The first one was about how Lovey would growl at boys, like a wolf or something. That one was funny. And the second one, Candy Man was laughing so hard I couldn't understand what he was talking about, but I know it had something to do with boogers.

Lovey gave Candy Man a terrible look.

“Why you always gotta tell these stories?”

“That's why I let her win, son”—he totally ignored her—“because, truth is, I'm scared of her.”

“Candy Man!” she yelped, and punched him lightly in the arm. He hooted and held his arm, hollering about how he was thinking about trying to go back to the
NBA
, but now she'd permanently injured his arm, so he couldn't.

Then he reached for her and pulled her in tight for a hug, like
the kind that fathers give daughters, or mothers give sons. Then I shook his hand and told him it was nice to meet him.

“Good to meet you too, son.”

“Matthew,” Lovey reminded him.

“Yeah, Matthew,” he said, pointing at me.

The night was perfect for a walk. The sun had gone down just behind the brownstones, making it seem like all of Bed-Stuy was glowing. And it was crazy warm for the end of November. A breeze swept down the block and around me and Lovey as we started on our journey home. Neither one of us questioned whether we should catch a cab, or a bus, or jump on the train. It was obvious, walking was the only option.

“Bummed out?” Lovey started teasing. I knew she was too quick to miss that slipup, and something told me I was going to pay for it. “Bummed out, Matt?” She exploded into laughter. “I can't believe you really said that!”

“You threw me into the fire! I didn't know I was gonna be interviewed. You set me up!” I threw a fake glare at her, but that only made her laugh harder. But I got her to ease up as soon as I asked her if that's what she sounded like when she used to howl like a wolf when she was a kid.

“Hey, watch it,” she said, wiping laugh-tears from her eyes.

“Okay, okay. But, seriously, is Candy Man always that funny?”

“Martin ‘Candy Man' Gandrey is a trip,” Lovey said. She made air quotes when she said
Candy Man
. “You caught him on a good
day. A sober day. Sometimes he's all there. And sometimes”—she sort of shrugged—“he's not.”

“Martin Gandrey?” Where had I heard that name before?

“What?” Lovey asked.

“Nothing. Just feel like I know him,” I said.

“Please. Everybody thinks they know that dude,” Lovey replied with some snark.

“Yeah, I bet,” I said. I mean, he used to be famous. Might've heard his name anywhere. I continued. “Anyway, back to the point. Today he wasn't high, right? So was everything he was saying true about you? You really that tough?”

She sighed and shot me a smile. “When I need to be. Does that scare you?”

Then she started cracking up again, totally ruining the whole cool thing she had going for her. Once she got through her silly spell, she said, “Look, I lost my mom when I was seven. Never knew my dad. I had to be tough. It was the only way I could deal with everything.”

“Yeah, I get it.” My eyes were drawn to the windows of the connected houses. Families, laughing and leaning back in their chairs at the table. Kids running around. Football on the big screen. “I can understand that.”

“But I'm much better now. Much sweeter.” She blinked her eyes at me all fast.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yep, and I can prove it.”

Those penny eyes, as Candy Man called them, were twinkling
or sparkling or whatever it is girls do with their eyes, and driving me crazy. I wasn't sure how she was going to prove it, but I had a feeling I was going to like it.

“Okay, so prove it,” I said, stopping in the middle of the block. I don't know why I stopped walking. I guess I was trying to let her know that I was ready for what was coming, and pretty much hoped it was a kiss.

Lovey stopped and turned toward me. Then she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of paper towels. She unwrapped what seemed like a hundred pieces of paper towel to reveal . . . a cookie.

“You know what I had to do to save this for you? Those kids are maniacs when it comes to anything chocolate chip related. This was the only one left, and I thought it would be rude for you not to have at least a little of what you brought to the table, especially since you
made
them.”

I couldn't believe it. She saved me a cookie. And if she saved me a cookie, that meant, yeah, it did, it meant she was thinking about me. Supercool.

“How you know I made them?” I asked. I'd never gotten around to telling her that.

“I could just tell by the way the kids were eating them. Plus, some of the cookies looked a little funny,” she teased.

“Yeah, but they don't taste funny,” I bragged, breaking the cookie down the middle. “Want half ?” I asked, remembering what Mr. Ray told me to do if she doesn't like chocolate chip cookies.

“Are you kidding? I was gonna be so pissed if you didn't offer!”
She held up her fist, then grinned. “Chocolate chip are my faves.”

Thank God.

I don't know how many blocks we walked. Twenty, maybe thirty before finally making it back to her house. But then, at her stoop, she made it clear that I couldn't come inside. I mean, she didn't say it, but she didn't open the door, either. She just kind of stood there, and we had another movie moment where both people get super weird about what to say and do next and so they both just act crazy. Yeah, we did that. Again. Just like at her grandma's funeral.

“So,” I said.

“So,” she repeated.

“Thank you so much for inviting me to dinner,” I said, trying to be cool without seeming like it. “I never experienced anything like that before. It was a different kind of Thanksgiving, but just as good.”

“I'm glad,” she replied, her hands behind her back. “And you're welcome.”

“Um, how often do you do that? Every holiday, right?”

“Yeah, we do the big dinners for all the holidays. You thought this one was crazy, wait till you see the Christmas one.” She caught herself. “I mean, if you're around.”

“I'll be around,” I said, quickly. “So, y'all do it for Christmas?”

“Yep.”

“New Year's Eve?”

“Oh man, homeless people dancing all over the place,” she joked.