Miles (10 page)

Suddenly,
I jolted forward as the wagon skidded to a noisy, barely controlled halt. 
Before I could get my bearings, Dad's hard palms began to rain on me, bouncing
my face from his hands to the car window.  Mom cried out and lunged
sideways at him, but he knocked her out cold with a swing of his arm across her
chin.    

I
flung my door open and scrambled on my hands and knees onto the wet road and up
a small, weed-covered incline that led to the train tracks.  I heard him
coming and panicked, stumbling in some mud as I tried to get up and run. 
Dad pulled me to my feet with his shaking hands, clawing at my ears and mouth
to hold me still only to slap me back down into the muddy snow when he did,
before finally dragging me by my hair back to the car.

"Get
in, you little bastard!"  He slapped me to the pavement again. 
I landed near the belching exhaust pipe.  I could taste blood inside of my
mouth.  I forced myself to stand up and face him directly, even as my legs
seemed weak under my weight as I shivered from the cold and the adrenaline
shooting through me. 

I
didn't see my father anymore.  He was just some strange abstraction, some
idle memory as outdated as the White Sox's red pin-stripe uniforms.  My
facial expression and tone of voice were dull and remote.  I would sooner
die than let go of my feelings in front of this suit impersonating a
father.  "Go to hell," I whispered.

He
drew back his hand to strike me again, and I flinched, bracing myself for the
blow.  He stood there for a few seconds, savoring his little victory,
before he stormed back to the car.  "You can come back in the house
when I'm gone in the morning."  I heard Mom start to scream at Dad
before he closed his door and drove off, just like that.

A
beautiful sight, we're happy tonight, walking...walking... where?

I
sank to my knees with my arms wrapped around myself, trying badly to keep my
breathing level.  I wasn't going back to Aunt Hilly's.  I spat out
some blood and wiped my lips across my sleeve.  I didn't know where Uncle
Alex was staying.  Felix was already in
Florida
.  An Amtrak
passenger train roared past on the tracks above me.  Hanging my head, I noticed
a bent red envelope a few inches away from me in the tall, brittle weeds.

I
had completely forgotten about Nicolasha's Christmas card.

It
was a terrific color lithograph of Prussian nutcrackers, with an inscription in
Cyrillic.  There were also two tickets inside - box seats, for Friday,
January 10th, at
seven o'clock
.  The Chicago Symphony Orchestra was playing
Symphony Number Fifteen by our old comrade Shostakovich.

I
looked up into the clear night sky, and, through my swollen cheek and bleeding
lip, smiled.  The stars glistened down at me as I took a deep breath of
frosty air and headed up to the tracks, hoping I didn't freeze to death before
I got to
Hyde Park
.

* * *

The night is long that never finds the day.

Macbeth

It
was almost
midnight
by the time I reached Roseland, passing the dark
and empty
111th Street
platform and climbing down the corner of the
train line's cement overpass.  I fell down the last few feet, landing on
the sidewalk behind the tiny twenty four-hour diner built into the side of the
overpass.  I used to love their hot dogs when we lived a few blocks away,
and I'd been tempted to stop for one coming back from school, but it looked so
shabby and dangerous, what with the neighborhood's change and intervening years
having had unpleasant visual effects on the place.

(Yes,
the neighborhood
changed
.  We were too sophisticated to say blacks
had moved in, or we had moved out.  We weren't sociological enough to
speak convincingly about natural urban migratory patterns, or clever enough to
see the fast-spreading rot strangling all the nearby heavy industry.  The
neighborhood just...changed.  Attendance at all the Catholic churches
dropped off.  No one wanted to go back.  The surrounding frame houses
and bungalows suddenly seemed more run-down and ill-kept.  The local
Catholic boys' high school quietly grew a fence.  Palmer Park started
looking like an unmade bed, because Roseland
changed
, everyone would
hiss.  Not because the city stopped maintaining it, of course, like the
very white Streets and Sanitation stopped bothering with the alleys and side
streets, which began sporting potholes we could have used for our toy boats on
rainy days.  Not even the cops would go into the Chicken Unlimited on
111th Street
.  My favorite toy store on "the Avenue" (
Michigan
)
went out of business.  My favorite candy store on 115th Street, where I
used to gorge myself on grape-flavored Twizzlers, turned into a Baptist meeting
hall, and the State Theater, where Scott and Roberta took me to see "Dr.
Who and the Daleks" on a bizarre midnight showing with "Night of the
Living Dead", became a Baptist church.  The Normal Theater, on 119th
Street, where me and anyone else I could drag in sat through the grandest
double-feature of my childhood - "Thunderball" and "You Only
Live Twice" - four out of the seven days it played, went on its merry
neighborhood theater way, still dispensing ice cream bars from a cooler tucked
in a corner away from the concession stand, still selling pineapple-orange and
cherry soda (with the choice of carbonated or non-carbonated a matter of
pressing a button), its wide and open lobby still lined with 8x10 glossies of
upcoming features, but no longer thronged with chattering neighborhood kids on
weekends, since the Saturday and Sunday matinees were the first thing to
go.  I guess the only films black kids wanted to see were "The
Klansmen", "Super Fly T.N.T.", and "Mandingo",
right?  I wanted to go back and see "Sounder" one week, but no one
would take me.  I'll bet they didn't stock Black Crows licorice chews by
the time one of the new neighborhood patrons left a smoldering cigar in the
bathroom and set fire to the place one night last year.  Dad had taken me
for a quick recon through the old neighborhood on the way back to Holy Rosary,
for a nearly-deserted Easter Mass given in Polish.  I asked if we could go
past the
Normal
before heading off to our little
Rhodesia
in the suburbs, and it broke my heart.  The burnt-out wreckage was still there,
and the marquee's final feature hung there in some bitter, festal defiance
against the increasingly desolate poverty of
West Pullman
: "
Fort
Apache
- The Bronx".  But what did I expect, Dad had asked?  The
neighborhood had
changed
, for Christ's sake.)

I
was tired and cold and sore.  If the diner was in the middle of darkest
Mozambique
,
I couldn't have cared less.

A
fireplug of a woman with her hair in a bun, the various layers of her in a
tight-fitting blue dress, stained white apron, and a name tag reading
Irma
with an odd sort of dignity, looked at me like I was the Ghost of Christmas
Past.  The white teenaged Ghost of Christmas Past.  Two over-the-hill
truck drivers huddled over coffee at one end of the C-shaped counter eyed me
peculiarly. 

I
felt like a cue ball.

I
sat across from the truckers in the corner, leaning my head against the wall as
Irma placed a coffee cup and saucer in front of me, holding a steaming coffee
pot in her left hand.  "You want some?"  I nodded. 
She filled the cup and returned the pot to the large stainless steel
warmer.  "What about food?"

I
smiled tiredly.  "Is it too late for a hot dog?"

She
laughed.  "Not in here, it ain't."  A small kitchen radio
played below the counter.  Irma turned it up and started singing
Every
Day Will Be Like a Holiday
in charming unison with The Sweet Inspirations
as she began cooking my breakfast.

I
felt the numbness across my face and the cold stuck in the tips of my fingers
and toes.  My mind drifted off to Nicolasha's apartment.  I wanted him
to sing this song to me while we took a Comrade Bubblevitch bubble bath
together.

It
was pretty obvious my visit was a novelty for Irma and the truckers, but they
were too polite to just come right out and ask what the hell I was doing in a
place like theirs on Christmas morning.  And I was too exhausted to think
about it myself.  I was content to keep smelling the meal she was
preparing.  Irma grilled a large hot dog in a mound of onions and peppers,
and scraped them into a wide poppy-seed bun, which was spread out in a red
plastic basket, before showering the entree with freshly-cut fries.  Heart
attack heaven!

I
finished the delicious meal and a fourth cup of heavily sugared and creamed
coffee as a pair of slightly out-of-shape white Chicago Police officers came
into the diner.  Everyone waved at one another.  Regulars, I
thought.  Irma threw a pair of hamburger patties on the grill and made two
coffees to go as I tried to ignore the funny looks from the policemen.  It
seemed like they were talking about me. 

Uneasily,
I dropped my last five dollars on the counter and went to leave.  The
older cop sitting closest to the door smiled as he took my arm in a gentle but
authoritative grip.

"It's
a little late for a walk, isn't it, son?"  I was afraid, and it showed. 
"I know it's too fucking cold for a walk!"  The group laughed in
agreement.  "You want to tell me why you got dried blood on your
face?"  The cop guided me to the stool next to him, but I looked down
at my feet and the slush-stained floors, resigned that my nighttime adventure
was drawing to a close.  The other cop paid Irma and took the food outside
to their grimy squad car. 

With
an impatient sigh, the officer with the red face and silver hair picked up an
aluminum napkin dispenser and held it in front of my face as if it were a
mirror.  I looked like I had been thrown from a moving train,
head-first.  Even though I was full from Irma's delicious cooking, my
stomach began to knot up, and my cut and swollen bottom lip began to move on its
own.

He
lifted my face up with his gloved finger.  "Well?"

My
mind raced with lies to tell.  "I live with my brother in
Hyde Park
,
near the University."  I let my eyes fill.  "We got into a
fight."  I looked away from him and Irma.  One of the truckers
hid a smile.  He knew I was lying like a cheap rug.  "I was
running away."

The
cop wheezed to his feet and patted me on the back.  "Well, I can't
leave you out on the street.  You want to come down to the station and
file a report?"  I hadn't thought of that.  Now there was a gift
idea!  Have the old man's ass thrown into stir on Christmas, some therapy
to soothe his restless nature.  Maybe it would make up for that last slap
that never arrived.  Why did that one hurt more than the others?  But
no, I reflected, he'll be gone soon enough.  I shook my head. 
"Then we're gonna bring you home, son."

I
played the reluctant passenger and nodded sadly, opening the door for the
officer.  Irma put her hand on her hip with righteous indignation. 
"Hell, I don't see no meter in that broken down squad of yours,
Captain!"

"Come
on, Irma.  You see the decal - 'We Serve and Protect'.  The punk gets
a ride home, we threaten his brother, and we all get some rest before we open
our presents in the morning.  See how simple law enforcement can be?"

"Well,
God damn, I ain't ever got no taxi rides from your ass."  She picked
up the money I had left on the counter.  "No tips, either, you shanty
Irish pig.  'Least the kid leaves a tip!"  She winked at
me.  "Must not be Irish."

"Irma,
you can ride my ass anytime."

"Get
the fuck out of my restaurant, both of you!"  I gave her a little
Felix wave as I left, and Irma waved me off with a little Felix smile.  I
decided to take Felix here for lunch when we got back from
Florida
.

*

The
police Captain knocked on Nicolasha's door with controlled anger.  The
officers stood on each side of the doorway - did they think my fictional
brother was going to fire a shotgun at us?  I stood behind the
Captain.  Our ride into
Hyde
Park
was uneventful and quick. 
Traffic wasn't very heavy at
two a.m.
on Christmas morning.  They asked me to
elaborate on the fight I supposedly had with my supposed brother, so I spun
another yarn, one that made it seem like I, as the bratty little sibling,
deserved a few of the slaps they could see I got.

There
was no answer.  The Captain glared at me.  "Are you sure he
didn't go out?"

"His
car is still outside," thank God.

"Maybe
he went looking for you."  I could only dream of such an event. 
I shrugged.  "Don't you have a key to your own apartment?"

"We
were screaming and hitting each other."  What do you mean I only got
an
A-
?!  "I wasn't thinking about my keys."

The
Captain shook his head and pounded on the door.  "This is the
police," he yelled, "open up!"  He pounded again, so hard
the middle wooden frame of the door gave a little with a sharp squeak.  We
heard movement inside the apartment.  The Captain nodded and pulled me in
back of him, in case my brother wouldn't come quietly. 

I
hoped Nicolasha was good at lying on the fly.

The
door opened a crack.  Nicolasha peered out.  The other officer, a
young, weak-kneed Pillsbury Dough Boy stuffed into an ill-fitting police
uniform, stepped forward in case Nicolasha didn't have a good view of his
badge, or his revolver.  I peeked around the Captain, and our eyes met.
The door opened at once. 

Nicolasha
looked pretty funny, wearing a bed sheet wrapped around his waist like a giant
towel.

The
Captain spoke up.  "Are you Nick Brazier?"  Nicolasha
glanced at me.  I tipped my head discreetly.  My teacher
nodded.  "Is this your brother, Mike?"  Nicolasha nodded
again quickly.  "Good.  Now, I'm going to make this short and
sweet.  Number one, it's too late for him to be running around the city
alone."  The Captain almost stepped on Nicolasha's bare feet as he
moved closer to him, jabbing my disoriented teacher in the shoulder with a
thick forefinger.  "You guys want to fight and yell?  Go right
ahead, but don't hit him in the face like that again, period.  No punches,
that's number two."

He
pulled his baton from his equipment belt and shook the end of it under
Nicolasha's sincerely terrified face.  "You do, and you'll look
pretty funny walking around with this night stick shoved up your ass
sideways."  Not as funny as you'll look
putting
it there,
Captain, I privately mocked.  "Merry Christmas."  He put
the baton away and cocked his thumb for his partner to follow.  "Come
on, let's go eat."

And,
with that, the policemen went off, to serve and protect somebody else.

*

Nicolasha
closed and locked his apartment door and brought me into his bedroom, the only
room with a light on.  He sat me down at the edge of his disheveled bed
and knelt in front of me, turning my bruised face from side to side to have a
better look.  I tried pretending nothing hurt, until Nicolasha touched my
lower lip and made me flinch.  "Stay here.  Let me get some
medicine."

"I'll
be fine, Nicolasha."  I stood up, but his hands ushered me back to
the bed.

"Just
sit still, little friend."  He headed for the bathroom with a sad
smile on his face and the bottom half of his bed sheet trailing along behind
him.

The
bedroom was dreadfully plain - pale blue walls, white ceiling, unpolished
hardwood floor, no pictures or anything, and a fresh Persian throw rug between
the bed and a long, bare dresser.  A reading lamp and an alarm radio were
placed on a short bed stand, and an affably careworn brown leather chair sat in
the far corner of the room, next to the closet door, which was closed. 
Nicolasha's cello sat in its case beside the chair, where his clothes were
tossed.