Bronx Noir

The tough little man from the back booth came up for a refill. He looked at me. I looked at him, the rough-hewn snake tattoo on his wiry forearm. We knew where we’d been. We were marked, tattooed or not. We nodded barely, and he turned back to his girlfriend, or moll. Nah. That would be me. Top o’ the world, Ma.

“Say hi to Sheila for me. Thanks.” I headed out, and over to the Oxford.

I ambled along University Avenue, and turned left at Webb. They didn’t know I was out, let alone in the neighborhood. I was taking a chance here—they could be away themselves. But Ma never went anywhere, or at least she hadn’t when I’d roamed the neighborhood spreading unhappiness, and Bella wouldn’t be far from her. Apart from a Catskills hiking trip or some such with one of her other chubby spinster girlfriends, she didn’t do much except judge harshly. I had no idea how she spent her time. I did know she was a nurse, and probably had become one so she could talk back to our mother with the impunity of the health care industry and treat her patients with the contempt she always showed me, seeing as I had been unavailable for quite some time.

The building looked the same, a little older, but cared for. Pachysandra thrived on the ground behind the iron fence, and window boxes flourished above. I pushed open the fingerprinted glass door to our old lobby and saw her name there on the buzzer in the vestibule. I hesitated a second, then put my finger on the button and buzzed. There was a crackle on the other end. I buzzed again.

“Who is it?” Creaky and old.

“Davey.”

Crackle again.

“It’s Davey, Ma. I’m home.” I hated using that term, but I had to. The door didn’t click. Was she considering? I pressed the buzzer. “It’s Davey, Ma!” I shouted into the crackling once more. The door clicked, reluctantly it seemed, and I scooted in before she changed her mind.

I pulled open the elevator door and stepped in. This old elevator, from the 1950s, struggling under the weight of years, musty with the aromas of pot roast and futility. I hadn’t been in an elevator since I could remember, since that night, perhaps. I got out on the fourth floor, made the right to our old apartment, and rang the bell there. I heard a fumbling with locks following a long pause, as she probably checked me out in the security peephole. She opened the door.

“Ma. It’s me,” I said, bending to embrace her.

“Oh, Davey, you’re killing me.” She pushed me away. “Why didn’t you let us know?”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, you have. I never knew what to expect. You didn’t write.”

“I couldn’t, Ma. I was too ashamed.” I was lying immediately, back to myself of old. I’d be high as a kite next.

“Come in, come in, let me look at you then.” She took my hand in a Pentecostal grasp of her own and drew me toward our living room. She had withered a bit, and her hair, like mine, had thinned, though hers nestled in soft cirrus clouds above her head. What was left of mine was shaved close.

“Ma, I’m so sorry,” I lied again.

“I can’t get over it,” she said, sitting down in a recliner that still had the same crocheted throw I’d last seen who knows when. She stared at me, as if I were an apparition of the sort she prayed against. “What are you doing here?” Her tone had shifted quickly, as if she realized it was me, and not my brother come back from the dead.

“I’m from here.”

“Not for ages. Not since you left. The only time you came back, there was trouble.”

“I’ve been through a lot. I’ve changed.”

“So have we all.”

“I wanted to see you.”

“What is it you need?” Sharper now, again. I could never fool her. “Is it money? What are you doing? When did you get out?”

“Ma, it’s not money.” Though it was, it always was, in the end. And at the beginning. I noticed on the little table next to her recliner a photograph of Jimmy and me, from our reckless teens—when weren’t we reckless though?—taken at our cousin Patty’s wedding. I had hair, Jimmy life. My mother saw me eyeing it. Tears had begun to shine in her eyes. “Last night. I came right here.”

“We never knew anything about you.”

“I was safe there. As safe as you can be. In there.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She paused. “You were never safe.”

“I was though, on my own.”

“I’d already lost one son.”

“There’s no excuse. I know.”

“And after that night, after you come back for one day, you and Jimmy—”

The phone rang. Mom stopped sniveling and picked up the receiver. “Of course I’m crying. Yes. Yes. No. Not that. Davey’s here. Yes. No, don’t come. I don’t know if he wants to—no. He didn’t. I’m fine. Yes. No. Alone. I will. But…no. I’ll try.” She put the receiver down and kept her eye on it for a second, as if expecting it to spring to life again.

“How’s Bella?”

“Oh, she’s angry she isn’t here.” She turned her face to me.

“That’s nothing new.”

“Don’t start.”

“I haven’t. I just came to see you.” Bella was a necessary by-product of the visit, like gas.

“Do you expect to stay here?” Not unkindly. Not motherly.

“No. Don’t worry. I thought I’d spend a little time with you—”

“Before moving off again.”