Visitation Street (30 page)

Gloria, Celia, Grandma Lucy, and Monique are gathered in the living room. The older women are lined up on the couch while Monique sits off to the side in the room’s single armchair.

Cree closes the door. The women remind him of the female hosts of one of those midday talk shows—young, fiery, and feisty alongside old, wise, and maternal.

“What?” Cree says.

He knows them well enough to recognize that each of them is sequestered in her own style of anger. Monique is sulky and pissed. Her arms are crossed over her chest, her body angled away from the group. The lower half of her face is clenched, like she’s biting down hard on a word she doesn’t dare say. Celia is simmering with the animated anger she brings to her arguments with Ray. She is unable to sit still. Gloria’s face conveys disappointment and deep sadness. Grandma Lucy is alert and intense, her fury honed to a fine point.

“Darnell Renton Davis,” Celia says, standing up. Her hands are on her waist, her amber eyes glitter, and the gold highlights in her hair seem to have caught fire.

“Celia,” Gloria says, reaching for her sister’s arm with her good hand. “Celia, sit.”

Celia allows herself to be pulled down to the couch.

“What about Ren?” Cree says.

“So you know him?” Celia says. “You admit you know him.”

“We hang sometimes. Why? Why’s it matter?” Cree says.

The women look at one another. Celia raises her eyebrows and nods at Gloria. Gloria opens her mouth. Her lips tremble, but the words don’t come out. She shuts her mouth and tries again. “Baby,” Gloria says, “Darnell Renton Davis is the boy who shot Marcus.”

Cree becomes aware of every detail in the room: the teacups on the coffee table, the remote control forgotten on the windowsill, a towel hanging on the door to his bedroom. “What? No, Renton’s cool,” Cree says. “We’re, you know … he’s my … Friends and whatever.”

“Nevertheless,” Gloria says, “he’s the one who did it.”

“He did,” Celia says. “He certainly did.”

Grandma Lucy dangles her pendulum, watches it spin, and says nothing.

“No,” Cree says. “You’re wrong. You’re all wrong. He’s a strange boy. But not that. No.”

“He wasn’t much older than you were,” Lucy says. “A baby himself.”

“I’ve seen him in lockup when I worked the juvee wards. I’ve seen him. I know,” Celia says. “That’s the boy. Plain and simple.”

The nerves in Cree’s hands tingle. His chest tightens and his breath catches. “You never told me his name.”

“You were twelve,” Gloria says. “His name didn’t matter to you.”

“How long’s this boy been messing with you?” Celia says, looking from Cree to Monique. “With both of you?”

“What’s Mo got to do with this?” Cree says.

“Nothing,” Monique says, drawing farther away from the circle, so she’s looking out the window.

“Boys like that don’t change,” Celia says. “I see it every day. Turn them loose and they’re back where it started. Boost a car, get a gun. Murder’s no thing after that.”

“What are you going to do?” Grandma Lucy says. She folds her brittle arms over her chest and stares at Cree until he looks away.

“Do?” Celia says, standing up from the couch and spinning around to look at everyone at once. “What he’s going to do is to stay the hell away from that boy, and tomorrow I’m going to search out his parole officer and let him know that Renton’s been harassing our family.” She falls back on the couch and fixes her gaze on Cree.

“No one’s harassing no one,” Monique says.

Gloria pulls her cardigan tight. “If Marcus only knew,” she says, with a look at Monique.

“Well, he doesn’t,” Monique says. “And he’s not going to.” She stands up, stomps to the bathroom, and slams the door.

“Don’t start with Marcus, Gloria,” Lucy says. “This is a question for the living, not the dead. Cree has business with this Renton. He just needs to figure out what it is.”

“Cree’s got no business with him,” Celia says. “None.”

“You’d think Marcus would have something to say about this,” Gloria says, sinking back on the couch, retreating into herself.

“Well, if he does, he’s not saying it to you,” Grandma Lucy says. She sits up straighter, her composed posture a rebuke to her daughters.

“This isn’t about Marcus,” Celia says. “This is about Cree. You need to tell us what you’ve been doing with this boy. What has he gotten you into?”

“Nothing.”

“Does this nothing have anything to do with that lineup I hauled you out of?” Celia asks.

“No.”

“He’s a gangbanger, baby. Don’t you know how your daddy got killed?” Celia says.

“Of course I know.” Cree stares at the women, wondering what they want him to say. Should he apologize for his stupidity, plead ignorance, swear vengeance? Should he make a case for Ren?

They are waiting. Cree wants to kick something and kick it hard. He wants to splinter the coffee table, splatter whatever tea Grandma Lucy has brought over on the walls and carpets, stain the room with that brew of sticks and twigs and moss.

He wants to yank down the curtains, break the TV. And he wants to curse his father for dying in the first place and then coming back to steal the only friend he’s got.

“Fuck this,” Cree says. “Fuck all of this.” He dashes into the hall before the women can see him cry.

For once he’s thankful for the dim hallway, the dark staircases, the broken streetlights in the courtyard and along Lorraine Street. He’s thankful for the projects’ residents who turn a blind eye to other people’s suffering so they can get on with their own.

Shit
. He’d known something was up with Ren all along, but he couldn’t figure what it was because, Cree realizes now—too fucking late of course—he doesn’t know a thing about the kid. He doesn’t know about his parents, his past. He doesn’t know where he came from and why. He’s never seen where he lives and has no idea how he makes bank. The only fact he had about Ren was that the kid had done a stint in jail. But in Red Hook that doesn’t raise too many eyebrows.

He hadn’t wondered why the kid turned up one day, why he knew so much about Cree, why he seemed to care so much. Ren had invaded Cree’s hideouts, laying his RunDown tag on the small corners of the Hook Cree had carved out for himself. He’d deputized those shitty little hoods to care for Marcus’s memorial, but worst of all, he’d reclaimed the boat. He’d polished it and sanitized it, colonizing the place where Cree had felt closest to his father. It wasn’t enough for Ren to have fucked up Cree’s life in the past, he was fucking with it now. That’s what this was—a complete and total mind-fuck. He either pitied Cree or wanted to torment him. And Cree had been too fucking blind—too flattered by the attention—to notice.

Cree’s pretty certain he’s the only boy in the Houses who never got into a schoolyard fight. After his dad was shot, kids had left him alone. Teachers let him window-gaze in the back of their classrooms. Bullies knew better than to get caught picking on him. For years, it was as if a cloak of invincibility (or was it invisibility?) had been dropped around his shoulders. He could pass through the projects’ more disreputable corners and run the gauntlets of gangs, crews, and posses and attract no more attention than a “What up, kid?”

But Cree’s ready for it now. He’s ready for the fight he wasn’t allowed to have. The fury and rage is pressing into his hands, curling them into fists, driving them to pound his thighs.

Marcus’s death had become a symbol of the senseless violence of Red Hook. To engage it directly—to talk to Cree, to comfort Gloria, to smile at Celia without leering—was to admit how fucked up the place was, how far they’d all fallen. For years, Gloria had diverted Cree’s grief with her belief in Marcus’s ghost, making the boy disappointed rather than angry. But now his anger has a face.

Cree reaches the lot where the boat is moored. He sees Ren crouching near the stern, fiddling with something in the motor. He’s focused on his task, tuned into whatever nut or bolt needs attention. Cree approaches as quietly as he can. Then he says Ren’s name. Ren stands and Cree lands a square sucker punch on the kid’s jaw. One on the jaw, one on the right eye. Ren stumbles back. Cree gets in another punch to the stomach. He grasps Ren by the shoulders and feels him go limp as if he’s not going to resist the next hit. And the one after that and the one after that.

Cree lets go. There’s no satisfaction in a one-sided fight. Ren struggles to catch his breath.

“I was in juvee for seven years. I can take my hits,” he says. “So bring it. I’m not going to fight you.”

Cree is panting. His fists are sore. “You killed my dad.”

Ren slides to the ground and leans back against the boat. “I killed your dad.”

“You’ve been lying to me this whole time, pretending we were friends or whatever?” Cree says.

“No,” Ren says. “I never lied to you. I just didn’t tell you the whole story. You think you would have talked to me if I told you the truth?”

“Why do you care if I talk to you in the first place? I should be the last person you’d want to talk to.”

Ren dabs blood from his lip with the cuff of his sweatshirt. “No, you’re the only person I want to talk to.”

“That’s fucked up,” Cree says. “You’re fucked up.”

“What do you know?” Ren says. “You don’t know a thing about me. You don’t know how I tick.”

“And I don’t care,” Cree says. “All I need to know is that you shot my dad.” He turns and starts to walk out of the lot.

“What?” Ren says. “That’s it? You’re leaving? You don’t even want to hear my side?”

Cree stops walking and kicks the ground. “Shit.”

Ren doesn’t wait for Cree to turn around before beginning his story. “It’s a fucked-up story,” he says. “The first thing I remember after I dropped the gun was watching this little kid walk across the courtyard. A small boy, a couple of years younger than me. I didn’t know you or know your dad. But I knew I’d fucked up. You looked lost even before you saw your father’d been dropped.”

Cree had been crying when he reached the courtyard. Marcus’s death hadn’t been the source of that day’s grief, but it had immediately taken over, made the other thing seem inconsequential.

It had started when Rita Marino had decided to steal one of her mother’s cigarettes. She had already downed two wine coolers and was looking for some new diversion. She’d spent an hour worrying about where she was going to smoke the slim 120. Eventually she decided on the upstairs bathroom in her house. There was a small vent that opened onto the roof where she could exhale smoke. She brought Cree in after her and locked the door.

The smoke made Rita choke. She said it made her head spin. Cree tried to quiet her. But it was too late. Mr. Marino was pounding on the door. The Marinos didn’t allow them to play with the door closed and here they were in a locked bathroom that reeked of smoke. Mr. Marino dragged Cree down the stairs. He shoved him out the door, then thought better of it and reached for Cree’s collar. He held him tight and berated him until people came to their windows to watch.

“I couldn’t shake the memory of your face,” Ren says. “I thought I’d do you a solid when I got out. Help you out and such. I wasn’t wrong in thinking you needed someone on your side.”

“Fuck you,” Cree says.

“Here’s what’s messed up. It could have been anyone who got into the trouble I did. It could have been you.”

“No. Not me.”

“Why? Because you had a lot of friends growing up? You were the popular kid? I didn’t think so,” Ren says. “All it takes is for the right guys to pay you mind. Call your name across the courtyards, allow you to hang on their benches, chill in their corner. You never wanted to belong? You never wanted a crew?”

“Not when I was twelve.”

“Bullshit. Fuck, man, I didn’t even know that I was being sized up until it was too late. The attention was addictive. Suddenly all these older dudes—these cool dudes—wanted me to hang with them. I saw that they were getting into some rough shit. But that was better than sitting at home alone with a busted TV. I became habituated to their lifestyle.” Ren finds a crumpled cigarette in the pouch of his sweatshirt. “One day we were chilling in an apartment on the second floor of one of the towers. A guy from my crew had a gun. Someone always had a gun, but this time I was allowed to hold it. I felt like a real sophisticated baller. Apparently there was another crew hanging in an apartment across the courtyard who my boys wanted to put a scare into. The guys told me I’d be the real deal—a hard-core banger—if I sent out a warning to their rivals. I didn’t even think about it. I just pointed the gun out the window.”

Cree puts a knuckle into his mouth and bites down, hoping the pain will distract him from the threat of tears.

“Remember how often you heard gunfire back then?” Ren says. “It was nothing. I heard it all the time. It was part of the everyday every day. But I never saw anyone brought down. I figured I was just adding to the background noise, the atmospherics. It took us a beat to figure out that the screaming outside the window meant someone’d been hit. My boys told me to wait in the apartment. I was still waiting there when the cops rolled in. I watched the whole thing unfold like it had nothing to do with me. Like I was watching TV. I was lucky to have been tried as a juvenile, otherwise I’d still be inside.” Ren tugs some dried grass out of the earth and tosses it away.

“So you’re lucky,” Cree says. “So what?”

“I’m sorry,” Ren says. “I’m real sorry.”

“Whatever that means.”

“My parents didn’t visit me more than a couple times a year. Then they moved upstate to Troy. I didn’t even know until one of my letters got sent back. They don’t even know I’m out.”

“I’m supposed to feel bad
your
family’s not together?”

“I’m explaining something to you,” Ren says. “I’m a fuckup. I got no one on my side. And that’s my fault. But what about you?”

“What about me?” Cree says. “What’s your business with me?”

“You’ve got a whole neighborhood full of people, but you’re lonely by choice. That’s what I can’t figure.”

“I don’t know what your game is, but it’s better you don’t think about me at all.”

“Too bad,” Ren says. “It’s a habit. In juvee, I used to think about you a lot. In my eye you were still that little kid crossing the courtyard. When the weather was nice, I’d try to guess what you were up to. Because whatever it was, was better than the nothing I was doing.”