The Road to Paris (2 page)

“Watch yourself,” said Malcolm, in his grown-up voice. They hurried to the bus stop two blocks over and stood so long, their feet grew roots in the sidewalk. Finally, the bus came. Malcolm climbed up first to pay for their fare, then reached down for his sister’s suitcase. On another day, she might have told him that she could do it herself, but not this day. Her arm was sore from lugging that battered old case. She handed it over.

Paris followed Malcolm to the middle of the bus. Soon as they were settled, she turned to her brother and asked, “Malcolm, are you sure you know where we’re going?”

T
hey were on their way to their grandmother’s house in Washington Heights. Malcolm reminded her there was nowhere else for them to go.

Paris’ white blue-eyed father abandoned her when she was four. Apparently, he couldn’t handle being seen walking down the street with a child whose skin was so much darker than his own. He’d wince every time she called him Daddy in public. Malcolm’s father had been even more of a stranger. He lasted less than a year. Malcolm had seen a picture of him, but that was the extent of his familiarity. As for their mother, she had no use for them. She was the reason they were in foster care to begin with.

Paris blamed it on drink. Her mother blamed it on loneliness. In a way, they were both right. Viola drank
some when her most recent husband, Clark, was around, but she drank even more after he was gone.

Paris remembered clearly the night he left. They were sitting at the dinner table, plowing through mounds of mashed sweet potatoes, fried chicken wings, and green beans, too.

Clark polished off the first helping and belched without apology. He reached for more chicken, but Malcolm moved the platter, then smiled. If Viola hadn’t been there, Clark would have smacked Malcolm, and they both knew it.

Whenever Clark had too much to drink, which was about every Friday after he got paid, he was in the habit of smacking Malcolm around, as long as Viola wasn’t looking. Malcolm never told her, though. He figured it was something his mother didn’t really want to hear. Paris didn’t like it one bit.

This evening, though, with Viola in the room, Malcolm could do whatever he wanted, and Clark wouldn’t dare touch him.

For a second time, Clark reached for the platter, and Malcolm pulled it away.

“Stop it, Malcolm!” snapped Viola.

Paris pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.

When Clark reached for the chicken a third time and Malcolm yanked the dish away, Paris burst out laughing.

Clark banged his fist on the table and shot up out of his chair.

“That’s it!” he spat out. “I’m outta here!”

“Aw, baby,” Viola cooed, “don’t be like that.” She snatched the platter from Malcolm, boring her eyes into his before turning back to Clark.

“Here, sugar,” she said, holding the dish out to him. “Here’s all the chicken you can eat. And I can always fry some more.”

“Forget it,” said Clark, heading for the door. Viola set the plate down, slipped past Clark, and blocked his path.

“Look, honey, I’m sorry about Malcolm. He was just playing. You know how kids are.”

“Actually, I don’t know. And guess what? I’m really not into raising somebody else’s brats.”

“Clark, look, if you want, I can send the kids to my mother’s for a while so we can have some time alone. How would that be?” The more desperate Viola got, the softer her voice became. But Clark just pushed past her and disappeared into their bedroom. Viola ran in after him.

Paris and Malcolm stayed at the table, picking at their food quietly.

A few minutes later, Clark slammed out the door, suitcase in hand. Viola stayed locked in her bedroom for the rest of the night.

“Good riddance,” said Malcolm.

“Yeah,” said Paris. “Good riddance.”

Clark being gone was nothing but good for Malcolm and Paris. As far as Paris was concerned, he was nobody her mom should be lonely over. And yet, Viola was.

That was when Viola started going to the local bars every night, where she drank to make herself feel better. Sometimes, that “feeling better” took days, and Paris and Malcolm would be left home alone. Malcolm did his best to take care of himself and his little sister.

One day, their grandmother dropped by during one of Viola’s absences and discovered the truth. She called Child Welfare immediately, and Paris and Malcolm had been in foster care ever since. Grandma was the one family they had left.

One bus and two subway train rides after leaving Queens, Paris climbed the stairs of her grandmother’s brownstone and rang the bell. A voice crackled from the intercom.

“Who is it?”

“Hi, Grandma,” said Paris.

The intercom popped and sputtered.

“Paris?”

“Yes, Grandma. And Malcolm, too.”

“Good Lord!” said Grandma. “What on God’s earth has happened now?”

P
aris stepped inside her grandmother’s apartment, the sweat of her brow quickly drying in the fan-cooled living room.

“All right,” their grandmother said. “What are you two doing here?”

Paris pushed past the question, leaving Malcolm to explain. “Grandma, can I have a glass of water?” she asked. Her grandmother nodded and waved her off to the kitchen. Paris ambled through the apartment with more than water on her mind.

Her kitchen table’s big enough for three people
, thought Paris.
It’s got two chairs now, but we could add one. The cabinet’s full of dishes. I could help her wash them. I could even help cook, sometimes.

Water in hand, she went to the bedroom next.

That’s a nice-size desk. I bet Malcolm and I could take turns doing our homework on it. When Grandma isn’t using it herself, that is. The bed’s not so big, but the couch opens up. I’m pretty sure it’s big enough for two. We could—

“Paris!” her grandmother called. “Get in here.”

Paris hurried into the living room, slopping water as she went. She joined Malcolm on the sofa.
Yup, I was right
, thought Paris.
This is plenty big enough for the two of us to sleep on.

“Malcolm told me what happened,” said her grandmother. “But what he didn’t say was why you didn’t call your mother.”

“Mother?” said Malcolm. “What mother?”

Paris gave Malcolm a look. “She hasn’t called us for a while,” said Paris. “And we don’t know where she is, now.”

“Good God,” said her grandmother.

“Yeah, well. You know how she likes to move around,” said Malcolm. “The longest the three of us ever stayed in one place was maybe six months.”

Paris waited for her grandmother to say something, but at first, all she did was shake her head. Then she said, “Well, I guess you can stay here—for a few days. But that’s it. I’ve already raised my kids. I’m too old to start that all over again.”

“No sweat,” said Malcolm, shrugging.

Paris studied her grandmother’s face, though.
What’s the matter with Malcolm and me? Did we do something wrong? Is that why no one wants us?
The words never left Paris’ lips, yet somehow her grandmother seemed to hear them, and she looked away.

Malcolm and Paris swallowed up the first day running errands for their grandmother, watching television, and wondering what terrible place they’d end up in next.

The caseworker from the Administration for Children’s Services had told the brother and sister they were lucky to be picked at all when they were placed with the Boones. There were few foster homes to go around, and fewer still willing to accept siblings. Paris did not feel especially lucky, but at least she and Malcolm had each other. That much she had learned to count on.

When night fell, Paris’ grandmother made up the couch for Malcolm and said Paris could sleep with her. Boys and girls should sleep separately, she said.
That’s silly
, thought Paris.
Malcolm’s not a boy. He’s my brother.
Still, she went along with it.

Paris was more tired than she knew. For two nights in a row, sleep rocked her like a baby, and carried her to a place of dreamless rest. When she woke up the morning
of the third day, it was to the sound of her brother screaming, “No!”

Paris rubbed her eyes, and climbed out of bed to find her brother. Near the doorway, she found a tall, black stranger pulling Malcolm by the arm, while her grandmother just stood there, watching.

Paris looked from Malcolm, to the stranger, to her grandmother.

“What’s going on?” asked Paris.

“Go back to bed,” said her grandmother.

“Don’t do this!” said Malcolm, trying to pull away from the stranger.

“Who’s that man, and where is he taking my brother?” demanded Paris.

“Calm down,” said her grandmother. “He’s from Children’s Services. He knows what he’s doing.”

Paris looked at her grandmother as if she were crazy, then darted for the door. Her grandmother caught her mid-flight and held her firmly.

“You let my brother go!” Paris yelled.

Malcolm struggled to free himself, but the caseworker held him fast, dragging him toward the elevator.

“Malcolm!” cried Paris. “Don’t leave me!”

The elevator doors opened.

“Don’t worry!” said Malcolm, tears streaming down his face. “I’ll be back for you, Sis! I promise!”

The elevator doors closed while Paris screamed her brother’s name one last time. Then he was gone.

Paris felt her grandmother’s grip loosen, and then, suddenly weak-kneed, Paris collapsed in the doorway, sobbing.

Her grandmother sighed. “I’m sorry, child,” she said. “But the caseworker said they had to separate you two. There was nothing I could do about it.”

Her grandmother explained that Malcolm had been labeled “incorrigible,” whatever that meant. From what Paris could make out, it had something to do with the money he’d stolen from the Boones. Paris tried to explain what had happened, that Malcolm was trying to protect her, that he’d stolen the money so they could run away, but all her grandmother said was, “Your brother’s gone, and that’s the end of it.”

Paris wiped her tears away and balled up her fists. She found her grandmother in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee, and stared her down.

“I hate you,” Paris told her. “You hear me?
I hate you.
”

Her grandmother said nothing. Paris stomped to her grandmother’s room and threw herself across the bed. Anger was her partner for the rest of the day.

The next morning, Paris was on a platform at Penn Station, waiting for the train that would take her to her new foster home.

Paris’ heart beat so loudly, the noise filled her ears. For the first time, Malcolm’s hand was not at her elbow to steady her. His arm was not across her shoulders to calm her. His smile was not there to tell her everything would be all right.

The caseworker tried to hold her hand, but Paris snatched it back. She needed her hand to wipe away her tears. She’d never felt so alone in all her life.

Sometimes I wish I was like my name
, thought Paris,
somewhere far away, out of reach. Somewhere safe down south or on the other side of the ocean.
Instead, she was neither Paris nor Richmond. She felt like a nobody caught in the dark spaces in between. A nobody on her way to nowhere.

The train rolled into the station, and she took one last look around before boarding, hoping to see her brother running to catch up.

Malcolm
, Paris asked the wind,
where are you?

P
aris ignored the caseworker seated next to her and pressed her brown face against the cool window of the train, staring wide-eyed at the Hudson River as the train raced across the rails, heading north.

Riverdale, Greystone, Hastings, Dobbs Ferry, Ardsley-on-Hudson, Tarrytown, Philipse Manor, Scarborough. Slowly, the cityscape gave way to the chiseled rock coast of the Hudson. The Hudson seemed one wide, wet boulevard separating the train and Paris from the other side of—what?

There was more open sky than Paris had ever seen from the streets of New York City. It was a view she would have loved to share with her brother.

Was Malcolm on a train going far away, too? Or was he still somewhere in the city? No one would tell her.

Paris fell back in her seat and wiped away a tear. Except for a sniffle or two, she rode to Ossining in silence. She wished the noise in her head would die down, though. Thoughts and questions were banging against each other like tin pans inside her skull.

What if they hate me? What if they beat me? Who will protect me? I could run away, but where would I go? I won’t know anyone there. What if they lock me up like Mrs. Boone did? No, I won’t think about that. Malcolm told me never to think about that again. Oh, Malcolm! I need you.

But there was no Malcolm.

Paris balled her fists, stuck them in her pockets, and closed her eyes. If she concentrated really hard, she could hear her brother’s voice. Except now, that voice sounded a lot like her own.

Everythingwillbeallright. Everythingwillbeallright. Everything will be all right.

“Ossining! Next stop Ossining.”

P
aris sat scrunched up against one door of the taxi while the caseworker chattered the length of the drive.

“You’ll like the Lincolns,” she said. “They’re good people.”

How would you know?
thought Paris.
You never had to live with them.
But she said nothing. Instead, she stared out the window. The driver seemed in no particular hurry, cruising slowly through the small town. Even the people on the street seemed to move more slowly than folks did in the city. Paris couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or not.

They passed through a small square of shops and restaurants, then started down a steep hill. The sign read
“Spring Street,” and near the beginning of it was a redbrick building with a cross on top. Star of Bethlehem Baptist Church. Paris liked the solid look of the place. It reminded her of churches she’d seen in Brooklyn.