Visitation Street (11 page)

“The boat’s mine,” Cree says.

“So how come you just let it sit here? What’s the use of a boat without water?”

“I’m fixing it up.”

“I could help you with that.”

“No need.”

“Well, if you change your mind, find me at the Manor. Ask for Ren.”

“We’ll see,” Cree says.

“In the meantime, she could use a little freshening up.” Ren scrapes his nails along the hull. “Sorry ass paint flaking like snow.” He pulls something out of his pocket. Cree hears the metallic rattle of a spray paint can being shaken.

Cree dashes to the boat and grabs Ren’s arm. He tries to jerk the can out of Ren’s hand. But Ren’s got him by the wrist, turning Cree’s arm, burning the skin.

“You should be thanking me for taking the time to ornament her.”

“Fuck no,” Cree says.

“I’ll just come back another time. Make my mark.”

“No, you won’t,” Cree says. “This boat belonged to my pops and he’s dead. Everyone knows that a captain comes back to haunt his ship. So I’m hoping you won’t dare tagging here.”

Ren lets go and steps back. “Your daddy’s boat?” he says.

“It’s mine now,” Cree says. “I explained that.”

“Sure,” Ren says. “Sure. It’s cool.”

Cree hops on the boat and looks down at Ren. “You been following me of late?”

“Why would I do something like that?” Ren says. Then he climbs through the fence and exits the lot. Cree glances over to the alley, trying to follow Ren’s path down the street. But the kid vanishes, like he’d never been there at all.

T
his is how you get ready for the vigil. These are the socks you choose—good luck green, the ones you wore when you were chosen for the lead in the school play in eighth grade. Then you remember the last time you wore them you had a fight with June. You wear red socks. This is the necklace you choose, the St. Christopher medallion instead of the gold cross from your confirmation because St. Christopher is the patron saint of travelers and will bring June home.

The toilet paper tears jaggedly, so you tear it again until you are left with a straight line. You make sure the hand towels are hung symmetrically on the rack—something you’ve never done before. You’ve never even thought about the hand towels in the bathroom. The bathmat is flush to the tub. You place an even number of guest soaps in the soap dish. You turn them right side up.

You watch yourself getting ready, calculating the orchestra of small events that will set in motion the larger event. Everything is loaded with significance—the first song on the radio in the morning, June’s celebrity crush on the cover of a weekly magazine, the music blaring from a passing car. You are conscious of each of your actions, how you place books on your desk, the way you close the curtains, the arrangement of pillows on your bed, how your shoes line up in your closet. Nothing is left to chance. Details are magic.

Suddenly you do everything in order—size order, numerical order, alphabetical order. You dress from left to right, left shoe first, watch before rings, left arm in left sleeve. If you make a mistake you do it again. All your actions have a consequence, an equal and opposite reaction. If you exercise control, if you organize the world, things will fall into place, June will return.

Choose magic symbols that you write in the steam in mirrors, on the tile in the shower, on the varnish on the kitchen table. Choose sacred objects—ones that meant something to both you and June—that you carry everywhere, that you place next to your bed at night, even under the pillow. Pick secret words you chant under your breath, that you incant until you fall asleep.

Val checks her appearance in the mirror, then leans forward and kisses the glass, leaving a ChapStick smudge. This is June’s good luck gesture, her ritual before leaving any room on the way to an important event.

The city has shaken off the heat wave by the time the vigil for June takes place at the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary a week after Val’s rescue. It’s a Sunday and the congregation has decided to devote their traditional service to June. Across the street from the park, the people from the Houses are holding their summer reunion—a daylong festival of music and barbecue.

Coffey Park is buzzing—every square of grass claimed by a different family. Old-school hip-hop is being pumped from two stacks of speakers. Girls in short denim shorts with rhinestone accents and bright tank tops travel as a team, dancing in time to the music as they check out the offerings on the various grills. Before Val can absorb any of the excitement, her mother ushers her into the church. The heavy door slams behind her and the party is shut out.

The interior of the church is dim. Its walls are the color of putty and the gaudy stained-glass windows forbid daylight. It smells of old clothes and bedding from the basement rummage sales.

The church is too large for the parish. In winter it’s drafty and in summer, dank and airless. Today, even at a fraction of its capacity, the building feels stuffy. There are too many pews for the small congregation, and the empty spaces are filled with shadows that stretch from the dusty niches and dark rafters. Near the entrance, Val’s mother pauses to light a devotional candle in a red glass holder.

Paulie Marino walks down the aisle first, clearing a path for his wife and daughter. He checks both sides of the aisle, silencing gossip and whispers with his stare. Jo drapes an arm around Val’s shoulder. A few of Jo’s friends stand up and take Val from her mother, pressing her into their bosoms, filling her nose with their sweet, floral perfumes. June’s grandmother sits by herself in the front row, a small woman in a simple dark dress with her dyed black hair wound into a wispy bun.

Jo rubs a hand on Val’s shoulders, soothing her. She wipes Val’s dry cheeks. Val has yet to cry over June. If she cries, it will mean June isn’t coming home. The tears hide behind her eyes, sharp, stinging nettles she blinks away.

Girls from Val’s class at St. Bernardette’s are sobbing, their faces puffy and blotched. The upperclassmen dab their eyes with handkerchiefs, expertly wiping away streaks of mascara. These girls have rolled the waistbands of their skirts to lift their hemlines. In the back row are the boys who struggle to keep their eyes downcast, longing to stare at the girls in the front rows, hoping that they can get them alone later. Val suspects her schoolmates’ grief is all show—especially that of the older girls.

Val’s presence in the church is a reminder to everyone of June’s absence. She has no friend to beckon her over, no one to hold her hand, fill the space at her side. She knows that when the congregation looks at her, they are thinking of June, that she will always remind them of her missing friend. If June does not return, her absence will deform Val, make it impossible for others to see what is there, not what is gone.

An easel with a large photo of June mounted on poster board stands next to the pulpit. It’s a bad picture—the same one that has been circulating since she disappeared. For her school photo June popped several buttons on her blouse so her cleavage is suggested by deep shadow. She wears too much makeup, and her face shines unnaturally.

Expecting a bigger crowd, the priest has brought a microphone to the altar. His voice booms through the church urging the group to pray. His “amen” is drowned in feedback. Val resists the urge to cover her ears. The congregation struggles through a couple of hymns that are supposed to be uplifting but sound like dirges.

Val keeps her eyes on the ceiling. If she ignores the proceedings in the pulpit, if she tunes out the words of the priest, the sniffles of the congregation, if she can will her mind to stay blank until the hymns are over, June will come home. If she can predict the precise moment, by counting to ten, when the priest will close his hymnal, June will walk into the church and all this will be over. While the congregation is singing, Val organizes all the hymnals in her row, making sure they are right side up and evenly spaced. If the hymnals are evenly spaced, June will come home.

A group of Val’s classmates approach the microphone. They hold hands and warble the ballad from
Titanic
. The singers trill nervously and breathe heavily, their voices tangling with the scratchy PA system. One of them puts a hand over her heart, steps forward, and tries a vibrato solo.

No one bothered to consult Val. No one asked her what June would have liked. By surviving she has forfeited any claim to June’s friendship. She grips the pew until her hands cramp.

This is your fault
. June’s voice rises above the roar of blood in Val’s head. Val cries out. She opens her eyes. The girls from the next pew are looking at her.

This is your fault
, June says again.

Val clenches her jaw. She squeezes her eyes shut. She will not cry. She cannot cry or June won’t come home.

This is your fault
.

“No,” Val blurts. The word is thrown back at her from the arched ceiling. The girls up front stop singing.

Jo widens her eyes at Val. She puts a finger over her lips. The congregation shifts in their seats, resettling after Val’s outburst. Whispers whip from row to row. Val swipes the back of her neck, brushing away the stares that are boring into her nape.

This is your fault
, June says.

Val is on her feet. Her leather-soled loafers hammer the aisles as she runs for the exit and bursts into the daylight. If she keeps moving, she won’t be able to hear June. If she keeps moving, she won’t have time to cry.

The crowd in the park has thickened. The air is rich with the sweet smell of caramelizing meat. The music from the sound system is louder, drowning out June’s reprimand.

Val dashes toward the park, hoping to escape from anyone who might pursue her, hoping to hide in the crowd where June’s absence will be less obvious.

There’s a man standing directly in front of her calling her name. It takes her a moment to recognize Mr. Sprouse, the music teacher who found her under the pier. She slows to a halt a few feet in front of him. Their eyes meet.

“Valerie,” Mr. Sprouse says.

He will take her back inside. He will remind everyone that she is safe while June is gone.

Val turns and rushes into the crowd. A group of girls are doing a dance routine in front of a small stage where a DJ is spinning. Old men whistle and clap from a nearby bench. Boys Val’s age move in a pack, assessing groups of girls in skimpy summer clothes. The girls tease them in a rich singsong chorus.

It’s strange to Val to see so many kids her age in the park at the end of her street yet know so few of them. Her parents have their church, their VFW clubhouse, their own block parties. They act as if the Houses are in a different neighborhood with a different set of problems. Even when she and June attended the local elementary, she barely saw her classmates from the projects outside of school. It was known from as early as kindergarten that the white girls were just marking time until fourth grade when they’d head to Catholic schools on the other side of the expressway. Only headstrong Rita had crossed the divide between front and back, bringing Cree to the Marinos’ house. His cousin Monique tagged along as an afterthought.

Among these kids Val feels anonymous, which is what she wants. In the projects, no one will look for her. She passes the small playground, skirts the basketball courts, avoids the kids who are skipping through a fountain, sending prisms of water toward the sky. Then she’s out of the park and into the first courtyard in the Red Hook Houses.

“Valerie!” Her name ricochets off the projects’ walls. She refuses to look back.

The courtyards are filled with people on their way to the park carrying coolers and bags of buns.

She emerges onto a small side street. The doors of the Red Hook Gospel Tabernacle are wide open. Val has never been inside before. The interior is bright. The linoleum floor shines. The walls are hung with airbrushed paintings of Jesus and Mary in ornate plastic frames. The church smells of sweat and fresh air.

Val stays next to the open door. The congregation is seated. The women wear sateen dresses in pastel shades. Some wear hats with netting and fake flowers. The elderly men stick to drab jackets and blazers, while the younger ones wear suits in bright colors—green or deep purple, even bright orange. Several have matched their ties and vest to their suits.

A large man in a white robe is bellowing into a microphone. His bible is balanced on a wobbly stand. Perspiration wreathes his forehead. Next to him, Monique sits on a folding chair. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and her head is turned away. She casts a lazy glance over the congregation, then fixes her eyes on Val. The folding chairs scrape as the congregation rises. Monique takes the microphone. Her white dress is wet at the bodice and under the arms.

She sings with her eyes closed. Her voice is confident, full of knowledge and secrets. She sings over the congregation and they lift their voices to meet hers. As they do, she sings louder, dominating the small room with her song, remaining just beyond the congregation’s reach. It seems to Val that Monique is taunting them, making them eager to follow her and cling to her words. The congregation sways. They strain toward Monique, rising and falling—clapping and stomping.

If Monique sings for June, June will come back
.

Her song ends. Her eyes remain closed as her breathing slows. The congregation exhales and sits. Monique opens her eyes and steps away from the microphone. Ignoring the women who shake their heads in awe and pleasure and try to squeeze her arm, she walks up an aisle between the chairs and catches sight of Val.

“Got tired of your own church?” she whispers as she passes.

Val looks at the congregation. Four young men in suits the color of Orange Crush are getting ready to sing.

“Came all this way and nothing to say?” Monique says. She pushes past Val onto the street.

Monique looks older than fifteen. She has golden-flecked hair and amber eyes that startle from her dark skin like bright pennies. She’s Val’s height but with a softer shape—round, polished cheekbones and generous adult curves.