“This is the wrong formula,” says my mother, her nine-month belly bowling out in front of her. “This is the wrong damn formula.”
“You sure?” I say.
“I told you ten times get the green box, for newborns. See what color this is? It’s purple. I can’t use this. You know Sean, sometimes I can’t believe how stupid you are.”
“It’s no big deal,” I say, “I’ll take it back.”
“Well hurry up. It’s almost eight, they’re gonna close.”
“What?! Oh no, not tonight. I just walked ten blocks with that thing—it’s heavy! I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“No Sean, you’re gonna do it tonight. I’m goin’ to the hospital any day now and everything’s gotta be ready when I get back.”
“Aw, come on! One day ain’t gonna make a difference!”
“You do what I tell you!”
“Aw, shit!”
That’s when mom’s boyfriend comes marching into the kitchen. He’s a squat, swarthy guy, a contractor. Jimmy is his name. It’s his baby she got there in her belly. Jimmy’s a Greek, right off the boat, I hardly understand a word he says. He’s not too fond of me though. That I understand perfectly.
“What happen?” Jimmy is already giving me the eye.
“Genius bought the wrong formula and now he won’t bring it back.”
“Bring it back!” grunts Jimmy.
“Tomorrow,” I say.
The veins jump out of his forehead. His meaty, paint-flecked hands clench into fists. “YOU BRING IT BACK NOW!”
“You can’t tell me what to do—”
Mom senses what’s coming next and throws herself in front of him. Once again, it’s just her and that big belly standing between me and a whole world of hurt. For some reason, ever since he knocked mom up, Jimmy’s had it in for me. I know he’s dying to throw me that first good beating, just to show me who’s the man of the house. Oh well, not tonight Jimmy boy! I grin, turn around, head on out. Boom! I slam the door hard behind me.
Chan has a burger and some onions on the grill, and the whole candy store is smokey and sweet-smelling. Sitting at the counter, a Con-Ed guy reads a newspaper and waits for his meal. My mouth waters as I walk to the back. None of my boys are around, just some little kid spinning the wheel on the racecar game. He’s too short to even see the screen. Then I notice there’s a credit in the machine. I push the kid aside, pretend to drop in a coin, play his credit. I’m crashing every three seconds, I stink. He would’ve given the quarter better mileage.
A boney hand rests on my shoulder. “Well, well, look who it is.”
I recognize the nasal voice; it’s Shari, from school.
“What’s up,” I mutter, still staring at the screen.
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” she says. “Where you been hidin’?”
My little yellow racecar trails far behind as it nears the final lap. “I’m around,” I say nonchalantly.
“You still with Connie?”
I crash, spin, start racing in the wrong direction. “We broke up.”
“Aaww, that’s too bad!” she says half-mockingly. “You two were so cute together!”
“Yeah,” I say.
The game ends.
Then the boy whines, “You owe me a quarter!”
“Pickin’ on little kids again?” goes Shari. “You big bully!”
I glance over at her: skinny, bucktoothed, lusty-eyed, her long pale painted grill sucking on a Marlboro. “I don’t know what he’s talkin’ about,” I say.
The kid leaves and comes back with Mr. Chan. Old man Chan, he doesn’t particularly care for me and my boys. Especially since the time Dominick dropped his pants and did a little dance on the counter for Mrs. Chan. She chased him out of there with a broom that afternoon. The rest of us were laughing so hard, she turned around and started swinging on us too. I caught a sharp one, kung-fu style, right between the shoulder blades. I was cracking up and at the same time yelling that I was going to sue. “You boys are no good!” she kept screaming as we hauled ass out of there. “You are bad, bad boys!” But no matter what happens, Chan and his wife always lets us back in their store. They may not like us, but they love our money.
“Give his quarter back,” says Chan.
“But I don’t have it.”
“Yes, you played my game,” goes the kid.
I try to look baffled.
“OK, go home now,” Chan tells me, “time for you to go home.”
Me and Shari exit the store as Chan begrudgingly hands the kid another quarter.
“You haven’t been in school,” she says as we walk.
“So what,” I reply.
“So, you’re not gonna graduate.”
“Sure I will. You really think they want me there another year?”
“I really don’t think they give a shit.”
“All I have to do is write a paper on the crusaders. Then I’m outta there. Genovese told me.”
“Where you goin’ to high school?”
“Probably F.D.R. You?”
“Lincoln,” she says. “There’s a lotta cute boys in Lincoln.”
The apartment is small and dark and smells like an ashtray. We pass through the livingroom and a wedge of light falls through the curtains. I glimpse a cat gliding across the carpet. There are framed photos on the walls and the TV but I can’t make out the subjects. All is quiet but for the steady ticking of an unseen clock. I try to walk stealthily, even though she’s already told me nobody is home.
She takes my hand, leads me into the bedroom and flicks on the light. There is a bunkbed and an old wooden desk with names scratched into its surface. Shari + ? 4ever, it says. With a sigh she plops down onto the bottom bunk. I lean up against the steel-barred window. Outside is faded red brick and gray courtyard. Four stories down a chained-up mutt barks for food.
“Why don’t you sit with me?” she says.
I do.
“Don’t be nervous. My mom won’t be home till the morning. She’s a cop.”
I’m not sure how to respond to that, so I don’t. Then she suddenly starts to tickle me. Or rather tries to tickle me. Her boney fingers feel like chopsticks prodding between my ribs. I restrain her by the wrists. She closes her eyes and leans toward me, expectant.
“Can I use your bathroom?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says, a little baffled. “Down the hall.”
I go into the bathroom, find the light, turn it on. There are pink and black tiles on the walls and the floors. The shower curtain, the small rug and the toilet seat are also pink. On the window ledge, along with some bottles of shampoo, is a small plastic duck. The duck is not pink. I pick it up, stare at it for a bit, stuff it in my pocket. Then I flush the toilet, turn off the light and return to the bedroom.
Shari is still on the bed. I sit down next to her.
“I always liked you,” she says. “Even when you were with Connie.”
The name stings. Casually I say, “Oh yeah?”
“I wanna be your mommy,” she whispers, “I wanna take care of you.”
We start kissing. Shari’s tongue shoots around my mouth like a garden hose gone haywire. We don’t waste any time. Our shirts come off and I fumble with her bra. She’s helping me along when the phone begins to ring. Soon we’re both naked and I’m poised over her. Shari’s eyes are closed and her mouth slightly opened, the big buck-teeth peeking out. She waits for me to take the big plunge into her. The phone rings and rings. I climb off and get dressed. Shari stares blankly at me. I leave her there, skinny and naked in the cold light of her room.
When I get home there’s a note on the kitchen table:
Taken mother to hopspitil. Water broked.
First thing, I fix myself a screwdriver. I make a mental mark on the Beefeater label and then replace the missing vodka with water. I sit down at the table and sip it slowly, wincing as I stare at the box of baby formula I brought home earlier. Then I get up and head into my mother’s bedroom.
For kicks I start going through her dresser drawers. I find the bowie knife she confiscated from me last year. I pull the knife out of its tan leather sheath and inspect the blade before slipping it in my back pocket. Then I stumble upon mom’s diaphragm. I pick up the box, read the instructions, and carefully replace it in the drawer. I don’t feel like snooping anymore.
I lie down on the king-size bed and flip on the TV. The Honeymooners is on. I prop myself up on the pillows and try to get comfortable. Once again, Ralph Cramden is pissed at his wife. He yells and yells, his eyes bugging out of his head. To the moon, Alice! She is unphased.
Then, as I’m laughing, it hits me—I’m a big brother now.
Alice calmly says something that reveals Ralph has been an idiot all along. They kiss and make up.
Big brother....
The episode ends. That old familiar music kicks in.
Ralph’s big face lights up the moon. The credits appear.
I take the little duck out of my pocket and place it on top of the TV.
