you cringe when I say you are beautiful.
yeah sure, you mumble, eyes downturned,
rolling, like it pains you to look at me
looking at you.

even in the afterglow of lovemaking,
in the dark no less!
you swiftly pull the sheet to your chin
to step back inside yourself, like a thick, down coat.

but each morning, with the merciful whisper of dawn,
I am finally free to look at you unchallenged,
your familiar, naked body unfolded, like a map,
and what I see are

not the scars of your childhood and childbearing,
not the birthmarks and blemishes of your skin,
not the graying of your hair,
not even the weight of all my burdens upon you,

but the ornate topography of our lives,
stamps on our passport that say marriage, mortgage, minivan,
postcards filling the naked scrapbook of our adolescence,
souvenirs that will connect us when nothing else can

like the drowsy ringlets on your forehead,
your lips blowing a dandelion,
your arms in sleepy self-embrace,
or prayer.

as I creep toward the shower, leaving you
to your dreams of a leaner, younger, more fashionable you,
I pray you will one day see the beauty in your patina,
one day appreciate, as I do,

that great renaissance mapmakers cannot compete
with the simple shadows of the window blinds
tattooed in my memory
by the orange ink of dawn.

…To fear and love,
To love as prime and chief, for there fear ends,
Be this ascribed; 
  –William Wordsworth, “The Prelude,” Book 14, 162-165.

First, you get up in the morning, and although they tell you not to drink coffee, you do it anyway, because you know it will be the best moment of the day. Try to do few things around the house before they come to pick you up and bring you to the doctor’s office. Later on you will just want to nap and watch TV until morning, probably horse racing, because it’s the only thing on late that you don’t already know the outcome of.

Don’t forget some fruit, the poetry book, and the headphones, because you’ll want to tune out the other people in the room, the cancer clutch. The center is nothing fancy, not a suite of private treatment rooms like at some centers, just a large room with some office dividers acting as a lame attempt to screen you off from each other. The reclining medical chairs are dated, vinyl and not particularly ergonomic. Considering what it costs for this stuff, $7500 each visit, you’ll wonder why they can’t splurge on nicer lounges and maybe some privacy curtains.

For the next five hours you will be hooked up to an IV drip containing the medicines that are supposed to save your life, if they don’t kill you first. Don’t worry, you’ll fall asleep through part of it, and by judiciously using your headphones and your book, you will be able to ignore the cancer clutch. There are two kinds of patients in the room, those who talk and those who don’t.  You make it very clear early-on that you are a non-talker, aside from the occasional pleasantries, of course. It’s not that you’re antisocial; it’s just that most of the clutch, seeing their own life fade before them, feel compelled to talk about their disease at great length. They are old and ready to die; you are young and not ready. Don’t fall victim to that complacency. Fight the disease quietly, alone.

The nurses are compassionate and will ask many questions: How are you feeling? Have you eaten today? First, they do a finger-stick blood test to make sure your cell counts are OK before they start poisoning you, unleashing cell killers that don’t differentiate good cells from the cancer cells; the drugs attack with equanimity. Next, they’ll put a long flexible needle into a vein on the top of your hand. It’s best not to watch this; if the nurse is good, you won’t even feel it. Take the blanket the nurses offer you because the liquids are at room temperature and they will chill you off from the inside, something you’ll think must feel like the onset of death. Your cocktail drip-they call it that-consists of four ingredients, starting with Compazine, to prevent stomach upset, and Benadryl, to ward off allergic reactions to the chemo drugs. If you’re lucky, the Benadryl will put you right to sleep for an hour. Then they’ll follow with the big guns: Taxol, a lung cancer drug made from the Yew Tree of all things, and Carboplatin, a basic do-all cancer drug that will burn slightly on the way in.  If it gets too hot, call the nurse, and they’ll rinse the vein with some saline.

When you wake up, eat some fruit and read Wordsworth for a little while, then close your eyes and try to nap again. Follow your breaths, like in meditation, until you begin to visualize Wordsworth’s landscape–the fells, slate-capped and oddly treeless, dotted with sheep, quilted by stone walls that stretch for miles. When the discomfort starts, promise yourself that if you get better, you will go back there as originally scheduled, visit your mates, get your families together and go walking. Convince yourself that planning this trip while healing will cure your melancholy, much the same way that living there cured Wordsworth’s. At the church in Grasmere, above his grave, Wordsworth planted Yew trees. You find this ironic.

***************

In the churchyard at Grasmere, among the Yew Trees and just off the path that bears thousands of summer tourists through the streets of the small village, lies the tomb of English poet William Wordsworth. Standing there under the trees, trying to make out the writings on the stones faded from 150 years of English precipitation, it occurs to me that it would be OK to die here. There are few, if any, similarities between William and me. I am neither a scholar of romantic poetry nor a poet, but this small piece of the world has held special significance for me for over twenty years. What began as a random stop on a semester abroad has become a place of almost tantric focus, a mental image to tranquilize the fear of my impending death. Now in remission, I have come here to pay homage, as the bard himself once did:

At sight of this seclusion, he forgot
His haste, for hasty had his footsteps been
As boyish his pursuits; and sighing said,
“What happy fortune were it here to live!
And, if a thought of dying, if a thought
Of mortal separation, could intrude
With paradise before him, here to die!” 
  –William Wordsworth, “Home at Grasmere,” 8-14.

Young William first saw the beauty of this place as a child. Much of the region’s popularity derives from the treatment of this landscape in Wordsworth’s poetry. Twenty years ago, two dear friends, my roommates at England’s University of Worcester, borrowed a car and took me here for a long weekend of camping and walking, which is what most people come here to do. My roommates had heard that all Americans want to visit the Lake District, like Buckingham Palace, but the truth is, I had never heard of it. Wordsworth was a walking poet, and he composed most of his work while walking the fells and vales of this most beautiful of landscapes. As a student, I was just barely acquainted with his poetry, but my amazement at the place made me explore his verse and come to enjoy it even more. In this landscape, and in the language William uses to evoke it, there exists an indescribable power to sooth and reassure, as if to say, within nature lies the capacity to survive.

Throughout the months of cancer treatment, I used Wordsworth and Grasmere as my crutch. At my times of deepest anxiety, when most would focus on their families for comfort, I could not bear to conjure them, the possibility of losing them as real as the possibility of survival. But I could recall the incredible sense of peace I felt in these hills, the completeness. Trying to avert long nights of anxious dreaming, I often pictured myself walking here, healed, restored. That college trip to Europe changed my life, and the brief time I spent walking these hills and pastures were more transformative for me than I ever could have known. For twenty years I dreamt of coming back here, bringing my family and gathering my roommates and their families for a week together in these hills. We had begun to make plans before the tumor was discovered. The reunion was postponed so I could receive treatment. Fate intervened, and on the other side of the battle for my life, this trip shined like a trophy. All I could do was follow.

Such pleasure now is mine, albeit forced,
Herein less happy than the Traveller,
To cast from time to time a painful look
Upon unwelcome things which unawares
Reveal themselves, not therefore is my heart
Depressed, nor does it fear what is to come;
But confident, enriched at every glance,
The more I see the more delight my mind
Receives, or by reflection can create:
Truth justifies herself, and as she dwells
With Hope, who would not follow where she leads?
  –William Wordsworth, “Home at Grasmere,” 491-501.

Now in the churchyard the sky threatens showers and we start the day late, delayed by trying to get six adults and nine children under fourteen dressed and fed, so that the day’s excursions could begin. My roommates and their families headed off in another direction, leaving us to take this one journey alone. Though we planned the walk for months, arriving at the parking lot and preparing to begin stirs my anxiety. What if it rains? What if we get halfway and I can’t make it any more? Surely the kids are not as interested in this as me. They are enjoying the trip, but I think they look upon this walk with their parents as a bit of an annoyance, like having to go to church. Still, they know this walk is important to me and are supportive even though they cannot understand the deeper significance of it all. I’m not sure I understand it myself. They were so strong and grown-up through my illness that I feel almost ungrateful for making them take this trek.

In another bit of irony, this walk is called the Coffin Path. The brochure tells us to begin at Dove Cottage, where Wordsworth moved at the age of 30 to live in relative obscurity with his sister Dorothy and to compose his life’s work, “The Prelude,” a long poem discussing the growth of a poet’s mind. The walking path is circular, beginning at Dove Cottage where it climbs to a level of 1800 feet at a moderate incline, running parallel to Grasmere Lake and Rydal Water until it reaches Wordsworth’s later home at Rydal Mount, some three miles away. We are then to descend to the water’s edge and begin a slow climb along the other side of the lakes, returning to Grasmere. Total distance: 5.4 miles. The tourist information center lists the difficulty as easy; suitable for children and the elderly, it says. Allow three hours.

When William moved into Dove Cottage in December 1799, his first book of poems had just been released to a mix of controversy and acclaim. For the next 50 years, he walked these hills and immortalized this landscape and its inhabitants. The Cottage was once a small inn for passing traders, and William and Dorothy lived here simply, if not comfortably. The home has all the charm of an old cottage: whitewashed walls, plated glass windows, small sparsely furnished rooms, and an unpretentious English garden planted with common domestic plants like London Pride, Orchisis, Celadine, Laurels, and Thyme. While living here, the Wordsworths entertained other poets of the period, most notably Samuel Taylor Coleridge, with whom Wordsworth would have a deep personal friendship spanning many years. The cottage, and the small group of buildings that surround it, have all been purchased by the Wordsworth Trust and are well maintained. There is a new museum as well, which holds many artifacts from the Wordsworths, as well as illustrations of Lakeland life in the early 19^th century. The food in the nearby café is remarkably good; we eat heartily and watch the skies threaten more showers. My wife and kids seem to be waiting for me to decide when to leave. I’m having second thoughts again. My wife takes my hand. “You came this far,” she says. She’s right, of course, and strong.

The road begins its ascent from the valley just beyond Dove Cottage, and at first, though it is paved and slightly steep, I feel encouraged. Part way up I feel the strain in my legs and chest. I hoped the incline was more gradual, but then again, perhaps it is better to put my lungs to the test now. I lost half my left lung to the cancer, removed surgically in a four- hour operation in New York City just over a year before this trip. I was not in the greatest shape before the surgery, and certainly had not prepared in any way for this walk, so I’m not sure how my breathing will be and if I will be able to complete the walk before the dark of night or chill of rain. As I climb, stepping smaller and smaller, I sometimes turn around and walk backward to shift the pain to other muscles in my legs. I later learned that Wordsworth sometimes did this as well. I breathe steady and rhythmically, like a determined marathon runner, thinking at each step that if my kids can do this, then so can I. At first the paved road is easy on the ankles, but as we reach a leveling out point, the pavement veers left and the trail, pointed right by a wooden signpost that says “Path to Rydal,” becomes damp soil littered with stones. The first ascent complete, I am out of breath but still breathing.

***************

You’ll observe in the hospital that no one wants to be the one to deliver the diagnosis. The attending doctors actually flip coins to decide. They’ll kind of skirt the issue and avert their eyes when speaking to you, because they can’t hide their sympathy for what you are about to go through, for the degree to which your life is about to change. What they will eventually say is “There is a large mass, seven centimeters, at the top of your lung. We have to do more tests. It could just be pneumonia.” You’re smart, though-you know it’s lung cancer-but you’ll stay strong for the wife who is sobbing next to you. You’ll say something pathetically brave, like “It’s OK. We can beat this.” Bravo.

From this point on, under no circumstances are you to read information on the five-year survival rates, which hover around ten percent. Lung cancer victims are mostly old people; you are young and can handle everything the medical community can throw at you. You will get sick, lose your hair, grow more exhausted and disheartened than you ever thought possible. Radiation treatments will burn your esophagus, and chemotherapy will make you vomit. You won’t shit for days. After that, if you’re lucky, you will only lose half your lung, rather than the whole one. You have two, but every piece counts. You will survive this though. Even when you don’t believe this, you must believe this.

***************

Walking now, I am starting to heat up. My teenage son has taken to glancing at me, looking to catch me if I faint. He coaches me the way I coached him in Little League. “Move your arms more,” he says. “Lift your knees.” I remove my coat and stuff it in my backpack. It’s a black Swiss Army bag, not one of the shiny high-tech looking ones, but a more basic daypack that actually zips on to the outside of the larger, more high-tech bag that carried my belongings here. I haven’t overpacked: there’s my lined windbreaker and a compact Totes umbrella; some sunglasses, a small LED penlight and a set of binoculars; basic first aid items, of course, Barbie band-aids, Advil, and cortisone cream. Hidden deep-down, a few Vicodin. Water.

On the straps, I’ve attached pins that promote my alma mater, favorite sports teams, and other quirks about me–an American flag, a drum. The one that says “Cancer Sucks” I left at home. I’ve also brought Wordsworth’s selected poems (the Dove Cottage edition), a topographic map of the Lakes, and the brochure containing the directions for the hike.

On my back, I carry the joy of having survived, of being in a place with such enormous spiritual power, of connecting the past to the present with the ones I love most in the world. Before me lie the hills and valleys on which I relied for support when my soul was at its most afraid. From such fear, such joy! For all cancer survivors, my continued existence, like my ability to complete this trek, is tenuous, and so I also carry the heaviest item of all…the fear of failure. But I keep walking anyway.

In my head I can still hear the lines of poetry, the iambic pentameter that now seems so quaint to our ears. Wordsworth’s language became my lexicon of hope, and even though I often read it halfheartedly, only skimming the text without taking from it any real meaning, it gave me great comfort just to have it there, like a Bible, as if reading it could bring my mind and spirit back to this place in which I am now walking, as if I could calm myself enough to do some good.

The trail winds gently up and through a forest between stone walls that must have taken years to build. In some areas sheep graze in between the trees and ferns. In other areas, small rivulets of clear mountain water flow down to the lakes, which have now disappeared from view. I stop at some of these rivulets to baptize myself in its coolness. My daughter laughs when I shake my head at her, like a wet dog. Eventually we come to a small clearing where the lakes can be seen once again. According to my watch I assume we must be almost there, but according to the view, we are not yet one-fourth of the way to our stopping point at Rydal. I have to stop more often to catch my breath, pretending that I need water when what I really need is air.

The Coffin Path gets its name from its important role in connecting the once-churchless village of Rydal to the church at Grasmere. When a Rydal resident died, mourners and pallbearers would have to carry the deceased in his leaden box over this three-mile route. Scattered along it are stone seats, where they could place the coffin and rest their shoulders. The one before me is a simple slab of limestone, nothing noted on or near it, but well worn from years of service. Wordsworth walked this path often, composing poetry aloud as he wandered. Nab Scar, a foreboding piece of rock where falcons and buzzards nest, looms high above us. Darker clouds roll in, the same way they did when Wordsworth wrote his poem about this eerie spot in 1808:

A humble walk
Here is my body doomed to tread, this path,
A little hoary line and faintly traced,
Work, shall we call it, of the shepherd’s foot
Or of his flock?–joint vestige of them both.
  –William Wordsworth, “To a Cloud,” 54-58.

The rain begins to fall at last, but we are protected by the overhanging forests through which we climb. The sounds of running water grow as the rains increase and then subside, and moments later the sun breaks out, raising the humidity and making it even harder to breathe. We pass a small ruined cabin, gated off, in which Wordsworth composed poetry in his later years, and from which passers-by often heard him talking to himself. Just beyond we can see the main house, Rydal Mount, where William moved in 1813 having outgrown the more meager spaces of Dove Cottage. He had a wife now, and children. This home and the lush landscaped gardens that surround it are quite different and reflect Wordsworth’s new status in his career. I am eager to see inside, but I am more thrilled because I know there is another tea shop where we can revive ourselves and take in the surroundings. After two grueling hours, we are halfway home.

Rydal vastly differs from Dove Cottage, featuring acres of formally landscaped gardens designed by Wordsworth himself. In contrast to the other gardens simplicity, these include plants quite exotic for the time, large plantings like Japanese Maple, Rhododendron, and Italian Cypress. Though partially still in use by his descendants, most of the home is open as a museum, featuring copies of letters and artworks that belonged to William. We are the only visitors, and the woman who walks us through the house is excited to see us. “Sit a spell,” she tells me. “You look half dead.”

Though William composed most of his best poetry in Grasmere, this new home bespeaks of reinvention and revision. At Rydal, while continuing to write new poems, he also spent vast amounts of time revising “The Prelude,” the final revision of which would not appear until after his death in 1850, 45 years after he completed his earlier draft. His life’s work was truly that-life-long.

While browsing the gift shop, the clerk asks if we’ve taken the trail here. I joke about being exhausted and yet only half finished. He says, “If you’re really knackered, there is a bus that runs from the bottom of this hill right back to Grasmere every 30 minutes.” My wife looks at me, relieved that, with both houses now visited, we can enjoy a more sedentary afternoon. But I’m not so sure.

Over tea we discuss the options. The day has warmed but I feel restored, invincible, and I want to keep going. None of the brochures mentioned a bus return, so I always assumed the only way to get back would be to complete the walk. Taking the bus back now would be anticlimactic, though my legs, lungs and children would thank me. I pretend that I am debating the issue as we descended from Rydal Mount, past the waterfalls on which Wordsworth based one poem, and past the Rydal Church, where in his late 70s, he and his wife bent on hands and knees and planted thousands of daffodils to honor the memory of their daughter Catherine, who died at the age of 42, nearly my age now. It being August, the daffodils are not in bloom, but we decide to walk through the cemetery gate and see the inside of the church.

Alone in the cool sanctuary I listen to the slow scrape of a branch against a stained glass window. My daughter signs the visitors’ book as I sit in the first pew, right where Wordsworth himself sat (and allegedly slept) through many services in his later years. Here I feel the connection to William more strongly than ever. On this very bench, might he have prayed for strength? For health? Frail and 70, his planting daffodils seems more effort than my finishing the last three miles of this pilgrimage. This church was not completed until eleven years after Wordsworth moved to Rydal, so until then, he continued to attend regular services in Grasmere by walking the exact path we had just completed, back and forth on a Sunday morning. One of the things you learn when facing cancer is to do nothing half-way. The kids, bless them, say nothing, as we walk right past the bus stop at the bottom of the hill and begin the second half of our journey.

***************

You’ll feel surprisingly good when you come out of surgery. You won’t remember anything, just saying to yourself, “Done.” Gradually you will begin to assess your situation, location, sensations. Before you get too far along, the nurse sees you are awake and comes to your side. “Are you comfortable?” she’ll say. Yes. “Do you know your birthday?” Yes, April 22. She’ll tell you everything went fine and will leave to get your wife. Your wife will look more beautiful than ever before.

Try to enjoy this moment of self-congratulation. You survived major surgery, feel pretty good, and with any luck, are now completely free from the tumor and any cancer cells waiting in the minefields of your chest. The way you feel at that moment will be the best you feel for days, anesthesia still in force, relieved, grateful. The months ahead will hold rehabilitation, discomfort, drug addiction, depression, anxiety, hate, pain, guilt. This will be tempered by the support of friends you have never met, the prayers and offerings of dear ones, and the joy of seeing your children waiting on the porch as you pull up the drive, their tears finally flowing. You realize that when you last left them, they were not sure they would see you alive again. It amazes you that, somehow, you never saw them cry.

***************

The walk on the west side of the valley is every bit as beautiful as the east, but instead of being shaded and cooled by the canopy, it is wide open, the forest having long ago been cleared to make room for pasture land. With no shade and the clouds fleeing, beautiful sunshine warms the earth but continues to increase the humidity. This path’s long, slow climb goes on for ages, and the sign posts and the directions in the brochure do not always agree. Time grows late. We stop for a drink and realize that we have left our last full bottle of water in the tea shop at Rydal. We have just a few ounces left in the bottle in my backpack. Growing weary, there remains much more walking to be done. Tempers, while still good, are fragile. Five hours have passed, and we expected to be finished by now.

After the surgery, days of laying about in the hospital, the return home, and subsequent follow up visits, we had time to celebrate the surgeon’s declaration that all the cancer had been removed. Happy to be finished, and comfortably numb from the Vicodin, the news that I would have another four doses of full-strength chemotherapy, just to kill any rogue cells that might be circulating in my body, did not sit well. Like this walk, I just wanted my illness to be completely over. In hindsight, it seems as if this entire episode of my life-this battle temporarily won, this disease tenuously in remission-is a sign of some kind, sent by something greater than life, with a message equal to the severity of the continuing challenge before me. It is never completely over. We keep walking.

Thanks to the means which Nature deigned to employ;
Whether her fearless visitings, or those
That came with soft alarm, like hurtless light
Opening the peaceful clouds; or she would use
Severer interventions, ministry
More palpable, as best might suit her aim.
  –William Wordsworth, “The Prelude,” Book 1, 351-356.

I suddenly realize we took a wrong turn at the last signpost, and have started to ascend the mountain again. Clearly it will end at the same road, but rather than hugging the shorelines of the lake, our path meanders across slightly wooded pasture. We learned later that the trail had been altered to improve drainage and that new brochures had not yet been printed. I start to get tense. My whole body aches. I long ago stopped hearing William’s encouraging words in my ear. I just want to get to the pub at the end, and from there, return to our rented cottage where there is, of all things, a large Jacuzzi tub.

The brochure said the walk would take about three hours, and now, approaching the seven-hour mark we finally see the village in the distance, almost touchable. I am not thinking about William or about poetry anymore, as up ahead of me I watch my 10-year old daughter set the pace. She has complained a little, but is now excited about the nearing of the village and getting to rejoin her new friends at the cottage. It occurs to me that for each of my steps, she takes two. That’s 30,000 steps over the course of this walk to my 15,000. She has not reached for the Barbie band-aids, nor I for the Vicodin. Discomfort is temporary, and relative. It occurs to me that this is yet another transformational moment in Grasmere, a reminder that there is more to life even than death, if you simply slow down and take the time to see it.

***************

For awhile you will dislike being called a survivor. It seems so trite and almost gloats in the faces of those who were not as fortunate as you. Though it may sound strange, you are not grateful for your second chance at life, delighting only superficially in your past, and dwelling not on your fragile future. You are grateful solely for this very moment, to just exist, right now, because like discomfort, pleasure, too, is temporary and relative.

You will no longer waste a single minute. You will do only what you care most deeply about. You’ll focus your interests and take on less responsibility, not as a sign of surrender, but as a commitment to live life to its fullest, which entails giving it everything you have. You will never do anything halfway.

***************

Leaving the path at last we follow the paved roadway into the village of Grasmere. The narrow road, bordered on both sides by ragged stone walk barely fits two cars passing side by side, so we walk single file, as close to one wall as possible. I lead, my senses on heightened alert for speeding vehicles, the kids follow close behind me, and my wife brings up the rear, keeping us in line. We have come full circle in more ways than one– completing the circuitous path, returning after 20 years to this land of special significance, and coming once again to this plot of Yew Trees, which saved my life literally and figuratively. But at the end of every circle lies its beginning, and I remember that the battle is never really over, but a new one begins. But my soldiers and I, with our poet lieutenant, are ready.

let me tell you somethin

Runnin as quick as these stupid high heels will carry me, and over my shoulder I see Amahl comin up behind me. Ain’t runnin, but walkin real fast so he don’t attract no attention. The street crowded from all the people walkin to Rockefeller Center to see the tree light up, all lookin at me like I some kind of thief or somethin.

Quick turn up Fifth Avenue to Forty-Eighth Street where I cross into the plaza. Jammed with people, but I turn the corner and throw myself into the doorway of some office buildin. The door locked so I just sit there, real quiet, breathin fast, out of sight. Some of the Yuppies stare at me.

glare back at them

Feet screamin, I take my heels off, leave them in the doorway and start windin through the crowd. Think I lost him, but no harm in workin a little deeper into hidin. After a few blocks an alley where no one is hangin, and I squat behind a dumpster to catch my breath.

Amahl used to be my boyfriend, but he been pimpin me for a couple years now. Last week I told him we was through. He went crazy and started chasin after me with this pipe. Savin my ass I lie to him, tell him I just wanna reduce my work load. Believes me for awhile, till he hear I was doin some of the regular johns on the side. Not givin him his cut.

This afternoon, just as I gettin down to business on old Mr. Happy, Amahl jump out from under the bed. Throwin me outta the way, he beat on the john for awhile and start swingin at me with that piece of pipe. Started runnin. Good thing he all strung-out and crack-blind or I’d be a bloody mess by now.

Peek out from behind the dumpster and look down the corner. Don’t see him nowhere, so I rest a few more minutes before sneakin towards Penn Station.

Plan to run to New Jersey like Margerie did. Course, the stupid bitch run out of money and come back to the city soon after. Amahl take her back and let her work for a few weeks or so till he figure she ain’t got it no more. Then he crack her head with that pipe and dump her in the alley near Park-Fast. Dead as a body gonna get.

footsteps

A hand on my shoulder and a piece of metal pipe come hissin at my face. Amahl yellin at me as I lie on the ground, tastin the blood runnin out my nose and into my mouth. He lean over me and crack me in the ribs. Gettin tough to breathe. Can’t scream.

Yo bitch, he yell. Don’t wanna work no more, huh? Thass cool. I fix it.

Grabbin my legs and spreadin them wide, he roll me over the way he like it. Tell myself to breathe. Know I should kick him or roll back, but my brain ain’t movin, legs can’t think. Dress all up over my head and now he standin on my thighs, pinnin skin to the ground, spreadin me apart even wider. A cool draft between my legs. Nostrils flarin, he pull the pipe back like a sledgehammer, aim it at my crotch and

he’s gone

Look up, seein this huge brother poundin Amahl on the head with the pipe. Amahl tryin to get up, screamin innocence, but the brother keep on poundin him. Bam Bam, Amahl bleedin. Falls to the ground like he dead, only I still hear him moanin.

Brother come over to me and roll me on my back. Big man, deep brown eyes, rolls of fat. Huge torn-up hands movin towards my neck.

Legs spread apart, and I can’t fight back, can’t even move. Know what’s comin.

No, I say. Please no. Not now. Later. Please.

Brother lift up my head and cradle it in his arms, wipin the blood off my face.

He say, Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna hurt you. You gonna be fine baby, just fine. You mind if I call you that, he say. Baby?

The little concrete bumps on the sidewalk before I pass out.

______________________________

Thirty-Third Street, just off Seventh Avenue. A sheltered spot between a bakery and a clothes store, and just inside, the stairs lead to the subway. Brother call this place the Cave, and I been here since I got beat up two weeks ago. Some warmth rises up from the subway below, no wind, tan painted concrete walls.

No sign here for the subway, so we’re pretty much left alone-just The Commuters passin by and they don’t care bout you one way or the other. Some-times pick up a little cash from the tourists as they come out of Macy’s, but not from The Commuters though. They don’t give you shit.

The man who save me named Butterball, president of what he call the Thirty-Third Street Club. To sleep here you gotta be a member, and considerin there’s only four of us, Butterball don’t take just anybody. A big man, built all heavy on top with short, barrel-lookin legs. Must weigh near on 300 pounds, but I can’t figure out why. Don’t seem to eat no more than the rest of us.

Butterball’s Basic Rules: do what you can to earn your keep, don’t shoot up or drink too much, don’t do your whorin in the Cave, and keep yourself clean. Butterball say as long as you clean you still got your dignity.

Two other people live in the Cave with us. Plato been around the longest, way back when there was another Butterball to keep everything cool. A skinny white boy with long straggly hair and wire-rimmed glasses like that Beatle guy used to wear. A head case with an education. Story goes, Plato was a Yale philosophy professor in the sixties. Said he got fired for smokin dope with some of his students and then couldn’t get a teachin job anywhere else. I guess it could happen.

Then there’s Mother Theresa. Plato call her that because for every dollar she get, she end up givin away fifty cent to any old fool who ask her for it. Looks about seventy years old, face all crooked and witch-nosed, walkin humped over to one side. Ain’t got a whole lotta teeth left either. Give the bitch a broom.

Ten years ago she and her man come to the city from Puerto Rico for a better life. Bad idea. One year later, he go out to buy beans and never come back. No money, no job and no beans, so out to the street she come. Maybe that’s why she so damn suspicious bout everythin. When I first meet her, she accuse me of bein Buterball’s whore. Told me I just like the one who took her husband away while he was out shoppin for beans.

Worst thing is I gotta stay with her while Butterball out lookin for food and money and such. He say I ain’t strong enough to leave the Cave yet, so I gotta sit here all damn day, listenin to the bitch whine and hack-up snots and lung cookies.

First thing every morning, I make sure I ain’t dead. What I do, is reach out from under the blanket and rub my hands on the concrete bumps of the sidewalk, eyes still shut. When I know I’m alive and breathin, look over and make sure Butterball still there. He never leave till he see I’m awake. Scared that Amahl might come and get me again.

Under the blanket changin my underwear. Last night I wash them in the bathroom of Penn Station just usin hand soap and warm water. Underwear still cold and damp, so I wrap my hands around them to make them warm. Wrap the old ones in a bag so I can wash them tomorrow. Been in the city three years, but never had to sleep on the streets before.

takes some gettin used to

Butterball wakin up now, reaches for the stash which he keep in a bag tied to his waist and strapped to his leg. Stash is all the club’s money and valuables. All he got of mine is a gold bracelet my gramma give me when she die. When he wanted to take it from me, I told him I’d rather starve than sell that bracelet. Says he ain’t gonna sell it, just hold it so no one would mug me for it. Pretty smart, which is why he the Butterball.

______________________________

One morning Butterball wake me up real early, long before the sun even up. Takin me for a walk to show me my new neighborhood.

You well enough to get around now, he say, and I don’t think Amahl comin back for awhile.

Steps of Madison Square Garden, sittin there watchin traffic, no words. Butterball next to me, lookin like he waitin for somethin.

So, he say, what you doin in the city?

I say, Is that your business?

It is if you wanna stay in the club, sorta like checkin your references. You been here for two weeks and I still don’t know your real name.

I truly don’t remember, I say.

Fine, he say, tell me what you want, but tell me somethin.

tell him

I’m from Hogback Mountain, South Carolina. Fifteen years old, drop out of school cause I get pregnant and can’t afford no abortion. Daddy kick me out of the house, but it didn’t bug me because I wanted to be with the baby’s father and live happy ever after, you know? So I move in with Old Man and have the baby, and it ain’t long till he start drinkin all day and beatin on me till I can’t stand it no more.

One day I come home from the store. Open the door, bed squeakin and yes yes yes, Old Man doin his thing on the woman from downstairs. The baby cryin and screamin in the other room, and Old Man just tell me to get out, like I had no business even bein there. I leave, try to talk to my mama, to tell her what goin on, but she say Daddy don’t want me around no more. Mama say she come check on the baby tomorrow.

Next day Old Man go out to buy his bottle in the morning, so I sneak back in his house and gather up everythin worth stealin. Take the bus to Columbia, sell the Old Man’s stuff and use the money to get to New York.

Soon I run out of money, but Amahl take me in and give me all the booze and dope I want. Next thing I know, I’m suckin down salesmen so we can pay the rent.

Butterball say, Wait. What about your baby? You just left him there?

Yup, I say. Didn’t know what else to do. Thought maybe without me, Daddy would take the baby in, give him a better life. I know Mama took him straight away from Old Man, brought him home. Strange, but sometimes I can feel him and I know he alright. Someday I see him again. If mama still alive, I’ll find him.

______________________________

Snowin out, sittin in the Cave talkin to this street shrink named Dave. He and Butterball know each other from way back. Can’t see how they’d get along. Dave’s a musician, ain’t got no real job. Velvet beard and beautiful long, blonde hair. Volunteers for some Help the Homeless crusade.

When Butterball introduce us, Dave hand me a card with his address and phone number on it, says to call him if there’s trouble or if I need help.

And Baby, he say, give my number to anyone who needs to reach you. I’ll pass messages along without tellin where you are or what you’re doin.

Later on I ask Butterball why he like Dave so much.

He say, Dave ain’t the normal street shrink. He ain’t never tried to force us to no shelter, never pushed religion or rehab. He knows we all got our reasons for being here, knows there’s more to everybody’s story than what we let on. Mostly, you can trust him, and Baby, there ain’t much out here you can trust.

______________________________

Sunny mornin. Butterball takin me to the Battery to teach me the right way to work. Tell him I survive for three years, but he say whorin don’t count. Says I need clean work, too much shit goin around for whorin.

The park. Sittin on a bench, watch him take off his shirt and shoes and toss the woolen hat. Six-inch scar on his forehead, calls it his street life merit badge.

In his hand a piece of cardboard say: I’m homeless and I don’t drink. He take it over to the sidewalk and sit there with the sign in front of him, singin to himself and rockin back and forth like Buddah or Stevie Wonder. Folks pass by and everyone look at him, read his little sign. But nobody give him nothin. After awhile he come back to where I’m sittin.

You see, he say, this ain’t workin. Trick is, you gotta be current.

Reaches into his bag. Pulls out an old red suit and the black rubber boots the sewer guys wear. Jacket got cotton balls glued to the buttons and all around the hem. Pulls out a white beard, hat, silver bell and a little black pail.

I say, Where you find all this shit?

He say, When you been on the street as long as I have you know where to find anythin. Now shut up and watch.

Back to his spot, ringin his bell and singin Christmas songs loud as he can. Singin and singin about bells and snow and Jesus, and pretty soon people start to notice. Tourists eatin him up cause he’s probably the only black Santa they ever seen. They all want pictures with him and bring their kids over to shake his hand. Meanwhile, they throwin all this damn money in the box.

After awhile he come back, take the suit off and stuff it in the bag. Countin the money, and there maybe thirty dollar there.

That’s pretty good, I say, but you oughta work near Macy’s or somethin where there’s more people.

He say, Now see, that’s why you ain’t the Butterball. Think about it. Them midtown Salvation people got good costumes. Folks walk by, and who you think they gonna give the money to? The white fella with the real costume, or the old black bum who made his outfit from stuff he find in the garbage. Better to work down here where there ain’t so much competition.

Girl, he say, you gotta get some business sense if you gonna survive on the street.

______________________________

Cold day. Feel the bumps on the sidewalk and reach over to wake Butterball, but he ain’t there. Never wake up before and not see him there. He don’t like to leave me alone.

Everyone else still sleepin. Realize the sun just comin up, so I bundle my stuff, walk out of the Cave to Seventh Avenue and look downtown. Silent city, and I remember that it’s Christmas and all the regulars are inside with their families. Remember home, eatin till we couldn’t walk, gifts under the tree spillin out into the middle of the room. Thinkin about my son, hopin he enjoyin his day, wherever he is. Wonder what he’s doin.

don’t think about it, hurts

Down Seventh Avenue to pick up some coffee, and gettin to Twenty-Eighth Street, make a left and walk over to Fifth Avenue. Big stone church there where I like to sit, and when the church comes into my sight, think I see Butterball standin on the steps. In a suit and tie.

He don’t see me, so I walk a little closer to make sure my eyes ain’t pullin any funny shit. Believe it’s Butterball alright. Still ain’t shaved, but his hair all neat and slicked back. Decide to just sit and watch him.

Half an hour he just standin there, playin with the knot in his tie and lookin around all suspicious. Expensive cars pullin up, and one by one he open the car doors and escort the ladies up the steps. Beamin from ear to ear, wavin his arms like a traffic cop, directin drivers where to park. Everyone make it a point to shake his hand and talk to him. When the bells ring, Butterball look around one last time, go inside and shut the door.

I guess he got some scam goin on, but I never seen a suit in his bag of tricks. Nice fuckin suit too. The kind The Commuters wear when they got a deal goin on.

A little pissed off because I thought maybe we could go out scroungin for cash to buy ourselves a little Christmas feast, hit up the churches as the people leave. Hell with him so I go back to the cave. In about an hour he come around the corner whistlin “Hark the Herald Angles Sing” and walkin with a bounce in his step. No suit on. Hair all mussed up again.

I say, So where your suit?

What suit? he say.

The suit that you wore to that rich white man’s church. You know, I probably did the lollipop with half the men in there.

He say, What you doin leavin the Cave without me?

I was lookin for you while you in there lookin for God.

I was busy.

Shit, you oughta be busy findin food instead of findin the baby Jesus.

Listen, he say, why I gotta explain myself to you? I been goin there for twelve years now, and I ain’t never had to explain it to nobody. Why you?

waits for a minute, thinkin it over

He say, My first Christmas on the street I decide to sleep on the church steps, to keep outta the wind. Early next morning, this old man pats me on the back, askin me if I wanna clean up and eat a little somethin. I’m hungry, cold and broke, so I goes along. I don’t care what I have to do.

He unlock the door and take me inside the church. We go upstairs to this little bathroom where he leave me alone to wash up. When I finish, the old man come back with coffee and breakfast and that nice blue suit. He say all I gotta do is open car doors for people and escort them up the steps.

So every year since, every Christmas and Easter for twelve years I been goin there. Folks expect to see me, and every year I get cleaned up and my blue suit is hangin on the rack waitin. And I ain’t never had to explain it to nobody.

I say, So now your belly’s full, you done your good deed and it’s too late for the rest of us. All the churches empty, and we gonna eat the same old shit today. I just wanted today to be special, you know, Christmas and all.

He say, Don’t you worry, we gonna eat alright. The preacher give me fifty dollars from the collection plate, five dollars more than last year. We eat alright every other year, and I never had to explain it to nobody.

Later, Butterball come back to the Cave with a box full of food. Hot turkey sandwiches and french fries and some little apple pies, all fresh from the Korean deli. Plato and Mother Theresa ask him where he get the money for this every year, and he says it none of their business, says they should thank God for it directly. Butterball truly believe God gave it to him.

______________________________

Times Square this mornin, ball hangin up on the wire waitin to drop. Theresa say it do more good if it come crashin to the ground, knocking out a whole bunch of Commuters and such.

Butterball makin plans for us to work the streets tonight. He pick up a hundred bucks last year, so this year we all gonna do it. Good night to work because people come into the city just to wander around, the city bulgin up like it gonna explode. Everybody get real happy with all the drinkin goin on, and when folks get happy they start givin out money.

Every now and then somebody give you a bottle too. Butterball say we can drink one bottle we get, but not till after we done workin. Supposed to bring the others back to the Cave. Butterball know a store that will buy them all back.

Walkin back from Times Square, and when Theresa and Plato walk off in the other direction, Butterball pull me into this phone booth. Standin there, lookin at me with this stupid grin on his fat little face.

What we doin? I ask.

Gonna give you a little treat, he say.

What kinda treat?

Call your mama, he say.

I can’t, I say. Too expensive.

He give me a quarter and say, I’m the Butterball, and I say it ain’t too expensive. Dial the number.

Pick up the receiver and put the quarter in the slot, thinkin real hard about the number I have in my head, hopin that it right. Forgot alot of stuff since I been in the city.

Stupid recordin tells me to please deposit three dollar and fifty-five cent for the first three minutes. Hangin it up when Butterball grab the receiver and ask me how much.

I say, It three fifty-five! Shit, we can eat for two days on three fifty-five.

True, he say, but I’ll feel better if you make the call, so here the money.

I put the money in. Long silence till another recordin tell me that the number is disconnected. Butterball hear it and tell me to try again. I try it, get the same message. Butterball look away from me and I take the money and try it again.

and I try it again after that

I call the information in South Carolina and give my mama’s name. Operator say that number’s unlisted.

Screamin into the phone, But operator, this is an emergency!

Sorry, she say.

Try the old number again, tears wellin up in my eyes and hands shakin so as I can’t push the right buttons. Butterball stop me and hang up the phone.

You bastard, I say. Why you make me do this? Why the hell didn’t you just leave it alone?

He say, I’m sorry, Baby. Truly, truly sorry.

It too late for that now. It too late for everything, I say.

start to cry

Butterball take me in his arms and hold me there. It feel good when he hold me. Butterball say, It ain’t too late for everything. You got me now, Baby. I belongs to you now.

______________________________

Afternoon. People start pourin out of Penn Station. A parade of tuxedos and gowns, jeans and sweatshirts, heavy coats-all rushin uptown, eyes big and expecting. Butterball send Plato and Mother Theresa to their spots where they supposed to stay till three in the mornin. He tell Theresa she better not give no money away.

When they gone, Butterball say, Come with me, Baby. Got somethin to show ya.

Bringin me way downtown, keep askin him where we goin but he don’t say nothin, not even shut-up

An old squatters buildin. Butterball lookin both ways before liftin me through a busted window, crawlin through this mess of glass and shit. Inside, he take out some matches and light a candle. Far corner of the room, a little broken table and two chairs ready. Old mattress under newspapers and rat turds. Walkin closer, champagne on the table. Nothin too fancy I reckon, but champagne all the same.

Butterball say, Hope you don’t mind. I thought it might be nice to celebrate before we get to workin.

Think maybe he tryin to get in my pants or somethin. We never touch each other, though there been sometimes I want to. Don’t imagine he want anythin that been where I been. I owes him though, so I figure to shut my mouth and take what he decide to give me.

Chair pulled out, I sit down. Bottle ain’t even got a cork in it, so he twist off the top and pour into paper cups from Dunkin Donuts. Lookin at me pretty weird though, so I ask him, What’s wrong?

Nothin, he say. Just thinkin about home is all.

Now I been thinkin about it too, ever since this mornin’s phone call. Afraid to tell anybody, don’t want them to think they ain’t appreciated.

Butterball say, You know, it always this time of year that you start thinkin about home, wonderin bout what coulda been and tryin to forget what is. I wonder bout my mama all the time. Shit, she may not even be alive.

I say, Well, why don’t you call her? You seem to have enough money for this bottle of wine, you seem to have enough money to throw away on my life. Seems like you oughta have enough money to call your own mama.

He say, Course I do.

I say, So what’s the problem? You scared? Scared of your own mama?

He say, What if I am? Why shouldn’t I be? She’ll just hang up on me and make all the hurt come back. She don’t like me much now, don’t even care. Besides, she got Dave’s number. She know how to get hold of me if she want me. Course, she can’t call me if she dead.

Decide to let it rest for now. I get him to call her though. Soon.

Drinkin champagne, he talkin away bout growin up and playin around his mama’s general store. Like a little kid when he gets goin, talkin and grinnin and laughin at each little memory, face all lit up.

Sometimes I miss it, he say and he look right through my eyes and into my head. Starin at each other, not sayin nothin, not doin nothin. Just lookin into each other’s eyes for what seem like minutes, hours. Finally he move his head just a little bit to the right, and I take it to mean that he want me.

Move towards him, shut my eyes and give him what he want.

______________________________

Sky gettin lighter, crowds thinnin. Leave my spot at Penn Station eighty dollars richer and walk past the Cave where Plato and Mother Theresa are sleepin like children who been up too late. Sprawled everywhere, feet stickin out from blankets, arms overhead. Butterball ain’t back yet so I walk up Thirty-Third Street to see if the New Year has changed anythin.

All the way to the East River. Helicopters takin off, carryin the rich old men back home, mistresses arm-in-arm. Sun comin up as I watch the waves ripple against the pier. Wonder to myself if yesterday’s thing with Butterball was a one-timer or if there’s something more comin. Decide not to think about it too much, just let life lead me on. For now I got a nice place to sleep and people who care about me. Seems like enough. Layin down on a bench, fall asleep to helicopters whirlin, people laughin, waves splashin Happy New Year.

Later on when I walk in the Cave, Mother Theresa jump up at me with those wild eyes of hers, lookin like she ready to blame me for all the world’s problems.

Theresa say, Where Butterball at?

I say, I don’t know. He was workin near Times Square last thing I know.

Well, then we got a problem cause it almost sundown and he ain’t back yet.

Maybe he fell asleep someplace, I say.

Baby, it ain’t like that. That bastard took off with all the money he made, I can feel it. He did have the best spot, know what I’m sayin.

Hush up, girl. He ain’t never done nothin like that has he?

No, she say, lookin at the ground like a child that been yelled at. I guess I just worried, she say. He oughta be back by now.

Triggers a memory: stories bout gangs of kids waitin for street people to pass out and then bustin them up for a couple of dollars. Wonderin if Amahl find him.

hear that pipe hissin like a snake

Well, I say, What you wanna do? Wanna start lookin for him?

No, guess not. If he don’t come home, we go lookin tomorrow. He probably just with some woman, she say.

He ain’t with no woman, I whisper when she start walkin down into the subway. Stomach start turnin, go out to look for him.

______________________________

Ten days now and still no sign of Butterball. Every day we split up and walk around, checkin with Butterball’s friends and lookin in all the usual spots.

Temperature droppin quick since sun went down. Walkin home cross Thirty-Third Street, wind whippin off the river almost blows me off my feet. Pretend that if I just let myself go, the wind will blow me right to Butterball, all bundled up in someone’s doorway, waitin for me, singin Auld Lang Syne.

Now Theresa insist he gone for good, but I don’t believe it yet. Can’t believe it yet. Don’t wanna believe that I been tricked, that he’d run off with the stash, rippin off three people’s lives. Theresa never believe her man would do it either, but he did. Got no beans.

Back in the Cave, Theresa and Plato huddled under a stained blanket we stole from the laundry of the Penta Hotel. Theresa sleepin, and Plato sittin there singin to himself. He done askin me if I found Butterball. Knows just by lookin at me.

Plato stop singin. Sorry ass look on his face.

I say, Just shut up. I ain’t quittin yet.

He say, Come under the blanket, Baby. Gotta warm Theresa up. She ain’t so good tonight.

What wrong with her?

Mostly she’s old and tired, but right now she’s delirious and runnin a fever and talkin about dyin.

I climb in on the other side of Theresa. Sure look ugly, drool drippin down her mouth, freezin to the blanket under her chin. Soon they both snorin.

Lookin out at the snow, cause for me, it too damn cold to sleep.

______________________________

Feelin the concrete bumps this mornin, my hand touch someone’s head. Thinkin it might be Butterball, eyes pop open, disappointed. A new person sleepin next to me I never seen before. Wrong kind to have around, needle tracks up and down his arms and neck. Butterball would wake this dude up and beat the hell out of him. Ain’t worried about him stealin nothin though. Nothin left to steal.

Walk over and wake up Plato. Sees the dude sleepin there, and points me outside. Mother Theresa sittin on the curb drinkin someone’s left over Coke she found lyin in the gutter.

Theresa point towards the Cave and say, What you think about that? Butterball only been gone three weeks and we got roaches already.

Plato say, Maybe it’s time I found us a new Butterball. The old one’s gone for sure. Maybe Amahl caught up with him and left him dead on the street somewhere.

I say, He ain’t dead. He comin back soon. I know it.

Theresa say, Look Baby, you better face it now girl. He been gone far too long. We looked everywhere. He ain’t comin back.

Theresa, I say, you don’t know that. You don’t know nothin.

______________________________

Dave came round tonight because Plato tell him I’m losin my mind over Butterball bein gone. Plato say Dave a good man to talk to, so I listen.

Standin outside the Cave and Dave say, I hear you’re feelin pretty bad, huh? Butterball really liked you.

I say, I know. I had men leave me before, but they always say goodbye. I just wish he said goodbye. I ain’t used to street life. Don’t know if I can make it without Butterball showin me how.

Let’s take a walk, he say.

Down Thirty-Third Street to Fifth Avenue and over to the church steps. For awhile just sittin. Watchin traffic and listenin to the conversations people have as they walk by.

Dave look at me kind of funny and say, Baby, I know where Butterball is.

What? I yell, jumpin up, screamin. Where the hell he at?

Shhh, now hold on, Dave say, you gotta keep quiet about this.

Where the hell he at? I yell again. Tell me fore I bust you up.

Just listen, he say. Early in the mornin on New Year’s Eve, I got a call tellin me that Butterball’s mother is dyin of cancer. Evidently she didn’t have long to live and wanted to clear things up with Butterball before she died. I gave Butterball the message and he left a couple hours before the ball dropped.

Dave still talkin, but I’m thinkin that Butterball knowd all this when I let him have me in that old buildin. Screw me and leave me was the plan, I reckon.

I shout, So why didn’t he say somethin to me?

Dave say, This was somethin he had to do himself. He said you’d understand, said it was you who told him there was nothin to be afraid of.

starin across the street, our reflection in the store windows

I say, So why tell me at all?

Dave say, They buried his mother yesterday. Good news is, she owned a small general store up in New Hampshire and now it all belongs to Butterball. He called me this morning, he wants to come and get you, to bring you up there and help him run it. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. He said he’d understand.

Standin up, walkin around a bit, tryin to take it all in. Feels great that Butterball thinkin bout me, but I feel bad for the others.

Baby, says Dave, I know it’s a big decision, Think about it, OK? But don’t tell the others. I’ll do it when the time is right.

Dave, I say, Why is this happenin to me?

______________________________

Feel the bumps on the sidewalk and hop out of my blanket pretty quick, surprised how warm it is for a January mornin. Just excitement.

Theresa still sleepin, but Plato standin outside smokin some weed he found. Asks me what I’m doin, and I tell him I’m goin for a walk.

He say, I’m bringin a new Butterball around to meet you this afternoon. Just make sure you stop by.

I’ll try to remember, I say.

He say, Baby, I’m sorry. I know you liked Butterball, but we gotta get on with our lives. We have to accept that he’s gone.

I say, A person’s gotta do what he gotta do.

Crossin the street, walk inside Penn Station to the subway platform where Dave is waitin. Take the A-train to Canal Street where we get off and walk up West Broadway. At the Good Food Deli, Dave lead me up a stairway and into his apartment. Inside, all these instruments and microphones and stuff. Posters of Elvis.

Dave hand me a towel and say, Ready for a shower?

Hot water pours over me, black city tar rollin off my body and down the drain. Hear Dave playin this sad soundin song on the guitar and hummin to himself. Step out of the bathroom in my towel and ask where my clothes are.

Handin me this Macy’s bag. Dave say, Here, Butterball sent me some money to buy this stuff for you. He wants you to look nice when he sees you.

Open the bag. Sunshine. Bright yellow dress, new underwear, stockins and a pair of lemon yellow shoes. Go over and give Dave a hug. Good taste, I say. These are beautiful. Thank you.

After I get dressed Dave give me some of his girlfriend’s make-up to put on. Lookin in the mirror, scared of the woman I see starin back at me, the one who look like my Mama. Ain’t seen myself in awhile. Surprised. Still a woman after all.

Arm-in-arm we walk out to catch the subway.

______________________________

The bus terminal. Walk up one flight of stairs to the main level and into a little coffee shop. Dave say, Butterball is gonna stay out of sight because Plato likes to work the buses. Here’s your ticket, he’ll be waitin at the gate.

Dave come to me and wrap his arms around me. Looks uncomfortable.

He say, You keep in touch, OK? I wanna know how the two of you are doin.

scared

Inside my sunshine dress I’m burstin, explodin with guilt and sadness. Finally I say what’s on my mind.

I say, Dave, what about Theresa and Plato? Who gonna take care of them?

Dave laugh. Don’t worry about that, he say. They were here before you, and they’ll be here long after you’re gone. They love that life, it’s total freedom.

Pissed off at him. No, I say, that ain’t how it is.

No, say Dave, that ain’t how it is with you, and so you’re moving on. They’ve had their chances and decided to stay where they are. So let them live their lives and go live yours, OK? Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on them. That’s what I’m here for.

He reach over, wipe a tear from my cheek.

Take care, Baby. Smile, he say, and he walk off into the crowd, hands in pockets, not lookin back.

______________________________

time to go

Start to move, just like I practiced it. Walk quick, almost runnin, but still touchin heel and toe to the ground. Eyes don’t shift, starin at the floor and lookin up only to get a sense of direction.

The ticket booths. Two little girls come at me and ask me for money. Just look past them with that hard Commuter stare and keep goin. Seen it so many times I got real good at it, chin up, eyes locked straight ahead. Glance at the TV to see what gate the bus is on. Walk quickly to the escalators, tryin to blend in with all The Commuters who rush there with me. Lookin at my watch. Forgot I don’t have one.

Upstairs. Turn the corner that lead down the hall to the gates, and there sits Plato, cross-legged on the floor with his little cardboard sign, coffee cup for collectin change.

Rush to the other side and blend into a small crowd of people. Plato look over, feel his eyes on my legs. Wanna look at him, to let him know I’m sorry, but I know I can’t meet his eyes. If he know it’s me, he don’t say nothin and I keep goin.

Gate 14. The bus with the Boston sign on it, and as I’m about to get on, see Butterball smokin a cigarette waitin for me. Dressed all nice in a new black suit and a bright white shirt. Holdin his arms open as I run towards him, as quick as these stupid high heels will carry me.

Baby, he say, you lookin fine. Where you get all the fancy threads? Shit, and make-up too!

I say, Dave bought them with the money you sent.

I didn’t send him no money. I just called him to give you a message.

Butterball stops for a second. Cracks a little smile and says, Oh my, that boy better be careful. The city eat up the nice ones and spit them out.

On the bus. Butterball tellin me bout all the things he done since he been gone, talkin like a child that had too much sugar before bedtime. Says he been fixin up the house for me and buyin new things for the store.

He say, We gonna have a great time, I know it. And Baby, he say, grabbin my hands and lookin into my head, I’m glad you come along.

I smile. A few more hours of listenin to him ramble on, talks me right to sleep, cradlin me in his arms.

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Reach for the bumps on the sidewalk and feel the plastic armrest instead. Somewhere in Massachusetts, thinkin bout the others as the bus floats across the snowy hills and valleys, drivin me through postcards I’d never thought I’d see. Plato and Theresa. Never even said goodbye to them, know that right now they’re combin through every rotten street and subway station in the city, freezin their asses off lookin for me. Feel awful about this, so I ask Butterball what he think.

Dave will take care of them, he say. They survived before me, and they’ll survive after me. They’ll live forever, don’t you worry bout that.

Feel a little better, but I can’t help but wonder. It’ll be ten years from now and I’ll still wonder.

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New Hampshire, three weeks. Looks like business is just enough to keep us warm and fed. Whatever money Butterball’s mama left him is dwindlin, but the house and business are paid for and that’s enough. We’re still better off.

Butterball gave me grandma’s bracelet back, and I wear it all the time. Two weeks ago we sent Dave a letter and included the stash for Mother Theresa, Plato and the new Butterball. Stuffed an extra hundred dollars into it. Lord knows we could use it, but they’ll do more with it than we will.

Sent a few letters to South Carolina but never hear nothin back. Tryin to save enough money to go there, to find my mama and my little boy. Mama may not want much to do with me, and it’s fine if she don’t, but one day I hope I can take my boy back. Every night I dream of bringin him up here to live with us, but that’s just a dream. For now, I just need to know he’s alright. Need to know he’s growin up OK.

Local folks are pretty good people. They know us as Mr. and Mrs. Dexter Robinson. Can you believe that’s his real name? Dexter?

We’ve made some friends here too, but haven’t said anythin about our past. They all laugh when he calls me Baby or I call him Butterball. They think it’s cute, but we know it’s much more than that.