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I love sleeping over Noreen’s house. Mom’s only ever let me go a handful of times, but it’s always my favorite thing to do.
Noreen is my best friend. She and I met in kindergarten. We’ve had the same teacher every year since then. High school starts in less than a month. I’m excited, but also nervous. I don’t want us to get separated, but I realize it has to happen because we’re taking a couple of different classes.
I’ve tried begging Mom to let Noreen stay the night with us, since I always get invited over there. She says there’s no room on the floor upstairs, but I know that’s just an excuse. At Noreen’s, we sleep on the pull-out couch in the middle of the living room. The real reason is because Mom can’t trust that Daddy won’t come home drunk and embarrass everybody. She’s afraid Noreen will see what really goes on at our house, that she’ll go home and tell her mother.
I can share bits and pieces with Noreen, but not the really ugly stuff. It’s too hard to explain. There’s no way she’d understand. Besides, I don’t want her to think we’re animals. So mostly, I make like I’m happy and pretend everything is fine.
Noreen’s parents are nice. They’re both from Ireland, with thick brogues that take a little getting used to. Her mother is gentle and soft spoken. I’ve never heard her raise her voice at any of her daughters. There are four all together, and Noreen is the youngest.
Mrs. Harrington thinks the world of me and my sister, how we’re both so smart and well-behaved. Judy was picked for the principal’s pin every year in grammar school, and we both got straight A’s. “Your mother is fortunate to have such good girls,” she says. I wish Mom could see me the way this woman does.
This summer, I slept over Noreen’s twice. Once in July for her birthday, and again, last week, just because. This visit was more fun because Noreen’s other two friends from the neighborhood weren’t there. Marie and Susan are okay, I guess, but I like it better when it’s just the two of us.
Fine, I’ll admit it. I’m jealous of the time they spend together and the stuff they get to do. These girls have a lot of freedom. They pretty much come and go as they please. They never have to ask permission to use the phone, cook food on the stove or watch TV. They get to wear as much makeup as they like.
I find their fearless application of jet black eyeliner to be especially fascinating. This procedure involves the careful use of a cigarette lighter which heats the tip of a narrow pencil to near melting. When gently dragged along the rim of one’s exposed lower eyelids, the effect creates dramatic allure and instant maturity.
What’s gross about this amazing beauty technique is the wet goop that collects in the inside corners of their eyes. I can’t stop staring whenever I see it. I want to dab my finger into these angry booger globs, but I can’t. It’d be like trying to pick someone else’s nose.
The rest of their faces get the once over, as well. Blue and green eye shadow is popular. Lips coated with roll-on gloss, sweet smelling and so shiny, they look as if they might shatter into pieces. Brightly colored plastic combs with fat handles protrude from back pockets, ready to feather hair in a moment’s notice.
I felt like I was dropped into a lot of action I knew nothing about and could barely keep up with. I measured myself against these two girls I didn’t know and wasn’t sure I even liked. So what if I don’t know all the words to “Paradise By The Dashboard Light.” It doesn’t make me a bad person.
On the way back from eating pepperoni slices at the pizzeria on East Tremont Avenue, men in cars yelled and honked their horns. I wasn’t sure who they were beeping at. It definitely wasn’t me. I’m the fat one. Probably Noreen, she’s the tallest and looks older.
Even though it was a little creepy, all that attention was exciting. We eyeballed every vehicle that cruised along the street, searching its contents for cute guys. How else are girls supposed to get boyfriends, anyway? This must be how.
When it’s just me and Noreen, it’s easier to concentrate. I don’t have to compete with anybody else or worry about being left out. A bigger group has too many moving parts. I wanted my best friend all to myself.
This last visit, my father was supposed to take me to Noreen’s house after he got home from work. When he was two hours late. I knew why, and I started getting worried I wouldn’t be able to go. He did have liquor on his breath when he eventually showed up, but Mom made him eat a plate of spaghetti and decided he was okay to drive. She also made me call as soon as I arrived to let her know I made it in one piece.
Noreen and I wore apricot scrub face masks and did makeovers on one another. We used a mirror that lit up when plugged into the wall and magnified every detail. We poured over the racy sections of a paperback novel belonging to one of her sisters, Rich Man, Poor Man, and read the sex scenes out loud. We ate ice cream and bakery cookies in front of the television and watched “Night of the Living Dead” after midnight with all the lights off. Even though I don’t believe in zombies, it was still the scariest movie I’ve ever seen.
Noreen explained what to expect when my period finally came. I wouldn’t have been surprised if I was the only girl in the ninth grade who hadn’t gotten it yet. Everybody I knew had menstrual cramps, especially on days there was gym.
“Has Judy gotten hers?” she asked.
“No idea. If she has, she won’t tell me.” My sister is private about everything. She doesn’t trust anybody. Besides, she knows I’ll blab stuff to the whole world, especially if it’s a secret.
The next morning when I woke up and went to use the bathroom, there was blood in my underwear. Not a lot, but enough for me to realize what it was. As much as I loved being with Noreen, I wanted to go home.
She suggested I rinse my briefs with a little soap and water in the sink to get the stain out, handing me a plastic bag to put them in. I wasn’t sure if I understood how to use a tampon, but the maxi pad was easy to figure out, fastening to the crotch of my underwear with an adhesive strip. I positioned it right in the middle and waited for something to happen.
After breakfast, I called my mother and told her the news. “Mom, I got my period,” I said, crying into the telephone.
“Oh, Jesus Christ, Mary, pull yourself together. So you’re a woman now, big fucking deal.”
Today is Mother’s Day, so we’re in Edgewater for a barbecue. All the cousins are here, the whole family. Yesterday, we picked up hotdogs and chop meat for hamburgers at the A&P. Mommy let us get Cheez Doodles and ice cream sandwiches for dessert. She was up late last night, making macaroni salad to bring with us this afternoon. I like macaroni when it’s plain, but this kind has onions and green things in it. So, no thanks.
There’s a box of chocolate covered cherries on top of the refrigerator in the kitchen here at Uncle Mike’s. Aunt Margaret said we could have some if we’re good. Already, I helped Daddy load beers into the big cooler and covered them with ice. After that, I got to put Squeeze Cheese on stuff – crackers, celery, but mostly, my fingers.
I love chocolate covered cherries. I’ve had them once before, on Valentine’s Day. There were two in a box Mommy got for herself at Simelson’s because she knew Daddy wouldn’t remember. She opened them up right outside the drug store. I took a little nibble first, so I could see the insides. I wasn’t sure if I was gonna like it or not. The syrup leakdc down my hand and it was messy, but the cherry was so good. Mommy ate hers in one bite. I wanted to go slow and make mine last.
I keep trying to think of things I can do to get attention in a good way, so I can have my candy sooner. Everybody’s bed is already made. Aunt Margaret lets me tidy up her jewelry box. I untangle the necklaces and put them in the two bottom drawers, bracelets in the middle section and earrings on top.
There’s an ashtray filled with change in one of the bedrooms with so many quarters. There’s gotta be at least, I don’t know, a lot of money in it. Quarters are the best kind of change. With a quarter, you can buy two things of gum and a Charleston Chew. With a bunch of quarters, you can get even more.
I linger near the bureau where the ashtray’s at. I steal three quarters and stir the coins that are left. No one will notice anything’s missing, and even if they do, they won’t think I did it. They’ll blame Donald or Joseph before they blame me. Those boys are always getting into trouble. I go ahead and take some dimes and a few nickels. I’m hardly ever in places where I get to spend money, but I feel better just having it. I could buy a lead pencil and a big pink eraser from the supply closet at school, chocolate milk with my lunch. The bulge in my pocket makes a jingling sound when I walk, so I transfer all the change into a piece of paper towel and tuck it behind some shampoo bottles on the window ledge in the bathroom. I’ll come back and get it later, when it’s time to leave.
I get excited when we come to Edgewater. I wish I could run wild like my cousins. They get to do things my mother won’t allow. When I ask, she says “No,” and “Don’t ask me again.” My sister and I have to sit around with the boring adults. Judy brought her book with her, so at least she has something to do. I have nothing. Mommy says I should play with Christine, but she’s kinda still a baby.
After the boys return from wherever they went, probably buying candy up at the stores, we sit on beach chairs out back and play cards. War and Go Fish are the only games I know. Now that Michael Kevin is home, it feels more like a party. He’s fifteen and so much fun to be around. He puts the big stereo speaker in the window and blasts “Honky Tonk Woman,” over and over. Nobody makes him turn it down.
I don’t know how it happened, but all of a sudden, Michael is cooler than anyone I know. He wears dungarees with boots and no shirt. He has hair under his armpits. When some kid rides up on a minibike asking for a cigarette, Michael gives him one. That’s how I know he smokes.
I take a black cherry soda out of the cooler and start shaking it to the music. When I pop the top, the contents go everywhere. My clothes are drenched, and the patio is dripping in red liquid. My cousins laugh, so I grab another can, kicking this one across the porch and down the stairs before opening it in between two parked cars. A volcano of orange erupts and fills the street, spraying both vehicles and the sidewalk in front of the house. Everybody cheers.
I move in for a third try. Donald says I shouldn’t, that I’m gonna get in trouble, but I don’t care. I fish through the ice for a ginger ale. That’s when Uncle Mike comes charging out the back door. He grabs a hold of Dennis and Joseph, picking them up off the ground by their shirts. The rest of us scatter.
Uncle Mike punches Dennis in the arm, so hard it makes him cry. When he kicks Joseph in the behind, he loses his balance and they both fall over. I’ve never seen him so mad. “Get the hose and clean this shit up,” he says, gritting his teeth. Neither boy tells on me. I feel bad but say nothing. I’m too afraid. I go back inside, past the kitchen where the grown-ups are laughing and being all loud, into the bathroom. I lock the door and check on my money. I sit on the toilet for a little while and think about more stuff I can buy.
It feels like we’ve been here forever. I wish we could just eat and go home. Daddy went with Uncle Mike to Joe Maloney’s house, and they’ve been gone almost three hours. My mother sent the boys up the block to check on things. They came back saying Daddy’s drunk, that he took his pants off and can’t put them back on. Now, he’s standing in the middle of the street in his boxer shorts. Somebody needs to go get him. Mommy won’t do it, she’s too embarrassed.
Neighbors steer my father this way, while us kids watch from the porch. Some of my cousins’ friends imitate him, staggering around in circles. They think it’s funny. Daddy has a big knot on his forehead, and the front of his underwear is soaking wet. Two men guide him up the stairs and inside, where no one else can see.
Once Daddy is cleaned up and fed, he falls asleep on the bottom bunk in the boys’ room. Us kids take turns watching the doorway in case he wakes up to pee and doesn’t remember where he is. Everybody else eats, and the grown-ups keep drinking.
Even though Mother’s Day is pretty much ruined, I remind Aunt Margaret about the chocolate covered cherries. She opens the box and lets us each have one. I want to save mine for as long as i can, but the chocolate starts to melt in my hand as I carry it from room to room. Somebody yells that I’m stupid if I don’t eat it. They’re just jealous because theirs is gone already.
The sound of the Mister Softee truck two streets over gets everyone excited. Mommy reaches for her pocketbook, slung over the back of the chair. She gives Judy money for our ice cream. As we charge out of the house and down the steps, I eat my candy and start to run. When I trip on a piece of broken sidewalk, it flies out of my mouth and tumbles across the pavement. I land on one knee and both hands.
Christine catches up to me. She is pushing a baby stroller. Her doll is naked and has green magic marker all over her eyelids and one cheek. “I saw you fall. Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I tell her, but I am crying, because there is blood. We both stare at my chocolate, caked in crud on the filthy ground.
“Don’t be sad,” she says. “We can see if there’s any left.”
“There are no more,” I sob. I was sure of it. I saw the empty box in the garbage. I cry even harder.
She looks up at the ice cream truck and back toward the house. “I’ll get you a rag.”
As soon as she leaves, I pick my candy out of the dirt and put it back in my mouth. It makes a crunching sound inside my head when I bite down, but it still tastes like chocolate.
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“Judy,” I whispered. “Are you still up?” I stood in the doorway that separated our bedrooms. Of course, I knew she was reading. That’s all she ever did. Being smart was so boring.
“Maybe. What do you want?” She turned the flashlight off and slid her book underneath the pillow.
“Do you think Daddy’s okay?” I asked.
“How should I know?”
“I don’t want him to die.”
“Don’t be stupid, my sister replied. “He’s not gonna die.”
It was a bunch of hours since the last time Daddy called, around dinnertime. Mommy couldn’t even understand what he was saying. She screamed into the phone, trying to get him to tell her where he was, who he was with, but he couldn’t answer any of her questions. Somehow, he’d gotten lost, somewhere between downtown and the Bronx.
“I can hear you breathing. Gene,” she said. No response from his end of the receiver. “Honey, are you hurt? Gene.” She was angry, but at least she called him ‘Honey.’
Mommy made us girls go to bed when the 11 o’clock news ended. I wasn’t even tired. I could stay awake alot longer. I paid attention to the whole program too, just in case there was a story about a man who was drunk and forgot where he lived.
“We want to wait for Daddy,” Judy said.
“Get upstairs.” Mommy’s rosary beads were in her lap. She cleared the phlegm from her throat and lit another cigarette. “You’ll be dragging your butts in the morning.”
I laid in bed for nearly an hour, trying to make the phone ring with my mind. Wishing Daddy could find his way back to our house. Praying God would keep him safe.
“Judy, can I sleep with you?”
“Please,” I begged.
“Fine. But just for a little while. And keep your big leg away from mine. You make everything all sweaty.”
“I promise I won’t move or sweat.”
I woke up when the doorbell rang. It was still dark outside.
It’s him,” Judy said. “I told you he’d be all right.”
At first, I was glad Daddy was okay and not dead. But things always turned into a different kind of scary once he resurfaced. He’d deny he was drinking, but it was obvious. He thought it was funny, staggering around while Mommy yelled. If he wasn’t so bad off, Mommy would try and sit him down at the table where he ate like an animal, spilling food all over whatever he was wearing.
She tried keeping him away from the second floor so he wouldn’t get hurt, but he needed to use the toilet, and he couldn’t understand why she wanted him to pee in a big pot. We all climbed the stairs all together, in case he lost his balance. Me and Judy waited outside the bathroom door while Mommy helped him with his pants.
This time, when he finally made it home, we creeped into the hallway and peered down the stairs into the foyer. Mommy unlocked the door, and Daddy bounced from one wall to the other as she tried to get him out of his coat.
“Why are you all wet? Did you?” She leaned in to smell his clothes. “You did, you dirty bastard. You pissed yourself. I’ve had it with this shit. I mean it this time.” Daddy just stood there, like a dummy. “What is it that you want from me?” Mommy pounded a weak fist into his chest. She made like she was gonna cry. Her voice got wobbly, but she never gave in all the way. She wouldn’t let herself be sad.
Me? I cried at everything, including right then. Judy ran and got me some toilet paper from the bathroom, but she only brought back two measly sheets. So when I blew my nose, it went all over my hand and face. I wiped it on my nightgown and the rug. “Mommy,” I sobbed loud enough so she could hear me.
“Get your asses into bed, girls. “Father of the Year” is home!” She said it in an ugly voice. “I hope you’re proud of yourself, Gene. I sure married a winner.”
Judy stood up and climbed onto her mattress. She arranged her blanket and stuffed animals for sleep. When I tried crawling in next to her, she stretched her arms out at her sides. “No more, Mary,” she said. “Go back to your own room. It’s too crowded with you here.”
I stood there, waiting for her to change her mind, but she wouldn’t.
“You don’t love me.” I said, even though I knew she did.
“That’s not true. You just want your way.”
“It doesn’t matter. I never get my way.” I started crying again.
“Well, neither do I.”
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I sit on the landing at the top of the stairs. Mommy said you’ll be home soon. She called your job when we got back from school, and they told her you already left. That was three hours ago. I’ll stay right here and wait for you.
Today is my birthday, and you said you’d bring that little radio for me to have. I’m not thinking about anything else right now except you walking through the front door with the present you promised.
I’ve seen transistor radios before. Some of my cousins have them. I really want one of my own. Then I can listen to music whenever I like. Finally, I’ll know all the words to “Spirit in the Sky.” It feels like my whole life’s about to change.
I imagine this big party. Our whole family is there – aunts, uncles, all of us kids. Somebody whistles, and the room goes quiet. One of the grown-ups lifts me up onto a table littered with ashtrays, half-empty bottles and glasses of beer. I take requests and sing my heart out all night long. It’s a dream of mine to be everyone’s favorite.
But right now, I really have to pee. Mommy let me have some ginger ale a little while ago, and I drank the whole can. I go back inside. Judy’s in the bathroom with the door locked again. She likes to read books while she’s on the toilet.
“Open up. I need to make.”
“You have to wait your turn,” my sister says.
“I’m telling Mommy you won’t let me in.”
I return to my perch on the steps, cupping myself with both hands when I sit down. The lady from downstairs must be making supper. Whatever it is smells really good, like Italian food, but I don’t think they’re Italian. My mother can’t stand Eleanor or her cooking. She hates Eleanor’s whole family. She says they’re two-faced and can’t be trusted.
I think they’re nice. Eleanor and her husband hold hands in church. They’re quiet and keep to themselves, except when they complain to the landlord about stuff, like whenever we have company. Because there’s almost always fights, big ones. Daddy fell down the stairs at Easter.
Somebody’s shadow fills the front hallway. It’s just Eleanor’s husband. He comes home the same time every night. Last week, he taught their youngest kid how to ride a bicycle. Gregory’s about my age, I guess. I watched them from my bedroom window. His dad ran alongside the two-wheeler, holding onto the back of the seat. After a few tries, when he let go, Gregory was doing it all by himself. “Good job, son!” the man cheered. “So good!”
We don’t have a bicycle. It doesn’t matter. No one’s gonna teach us anyway. I bet Eleanor’s husband doesn’t drink.
I ran and told Mommy what I saw, Gregory riding without training wheels. She was in the kitchen, stabbing tuna fish to death with a fork. A cigarette dangled from her mouth, and one of her eyes was shut to keep out the smoke.
“You steer clear of that kid,” she warned. “There’s something really wrong with him.”
Back in the summer, Mommy caught Gregory scratching his bare hiney across the bricks on the side of the house. He talked back when she scolded him.
“Mind your own business,’ he said. “You ain’t my mother.”
She picked him up by the back of his shirt and dragged him along the sidewalk with his pants around his ankles. She rang the doorbell and banged on the window. He screamed bloody murder the whole time, but Mommy held on tight.
“You’re not perfect,” she told Eleanor when she came to the door, dumping Gregory at her feet.
Sometimes, I can’t decide if Mommy is a hero or a monster. Maybe she’s both. Now, I have to pee really bad. I try for the bathroom a second time and jiggle the knob.
“Judy, open the door. I’m gonna have an accident.”
“No, you’re not,” she says.
“Then, can’t I please just go in the tub?”
“It isn’t, and I’m telling.”
I try to get Mommy’s attention, but she’s on the phone, deep in a conversation that could last for the rest of my life. “Judy hates me,” I sob. “She wants I should pee my pants.”
“Not now,” my mother says and keeps talking to whoever’s on the other end of the line.
I go back to the foyer. I reach inside my bloomers and try to pinch my pee pee hole shut so everything will stay in, but it’s no use. I pee all over my hand. It soaks through my shorts and spreads to the carpet on the top step. And even though my socks and slippers are soaked, I am relieved, but only for a minute. Then, I’m just scared. I sit there in the growing darkness. I know I’m gonna get hit.
The front door opens, and there you are. It takes you forever to find your key and figure out what to do with it. I can tell you’re not right. Holding onto the walls as you climb the stairs, you lose your balance and lurch forward, catching the bannister with your elbow and sliding to your knees. I’m afraid to say anything, in case you fall backwards and crack your head open.
“Daddy, I’m here,” I whisper like I would to a stray cat in the street that I wish would come to me. Your head tilts toward my voice. You manage a smile, and now, I know you’re drunk. You never smile otherwise. Mommy’s gonna be so mad.
“Do you have the radio?” I ask.
You stare at me like a dummy, like you can’t understand what I’m saying. I move closer to the wall so you can pass. You lean on my shoulder and guide yourself through the doorway. The rug makes a squishing sound under your feet. Mommy starts hollering as soon as you’re inside.
I cover my ears and start singing. I make up my own words to “Spirit in the Sky.”
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Charlie’s moustache smelled like bug spray when he kissed me. Of course, he was fucked up. He’d been in the Bronx all day, doing what he always did whenever he had money. Spent it on dope.
Charlie had tons of reasons for going back to his old neighborhood. This guy he knew had a job for him, somebody else needed a favor. He had to check on his mother. He made like he was this good son who took care of business, but he wasn’t. Mabel couldn’t really depend on her children.
It was the drugs that pulled Charlie toward Harding Park – every time. They sucked me in too. I hated being down there, but I made excuses, same as him.
“Whaddya mean, ‘What is it?'” Charlie asked. “It’s a duck. I think.” But neither of us knew for sure.
“Why is it here?”
“I thought you might want it,” he said.
“Want it for what?”
“I don’t know. Just to have.”
I had no interest in whatever this was standing in my kitchen, with its bulging eyeballs and beak hanging wide open. It took a few steps backward and slid across the linoleum in its own shit.
Charlie’s thing was angel dust. He’d been smoking it since he was a teenager. He dabbled in coke and weed over the years, but he always came back to his beloved zootie. I never understood why he loved the shit so much. It took him on the most disturbing trips in his mind and turned him into a violent monster that terrified everyone. Charlie’s drug of choice never looked like it was any fun.
He tried to explain what happened that afternoon and how he came upon this strange creature. He’d wandered onto the jetty after he got high, like he usually did. He stood there for a long while, just staring at the river. He described how this time, when the waves rolled toward the edge of the sky, they burst into flames. And how a demon emerged from the fire, chasing an angel that carried something in her wings.
When she flew past the clouds and tumbled to the ground, Charlie ran to where she had collapsed in the snow. As he reached out to help, she reeled back with such force, he was knocked off his feet. That’s when he saw the bird, struggling in the icy water just beyond the pier. He scooped him up by his neck, wrapped him in a dirty blanket he found in somebody’s boat and returned to Queens on the subway.
“What’s the matter with him?” I asked. “He looks sick.” With big, red welts all over his face, some of which dangled from his forehead and drooped across the bridge of his nose, I wondered out loud if he had cancer.
“He ain’t sick,” Charlie insisted. “He’s just ugly. Help me figure out a place for him to sleep.”
Between the two of us, we understood very little about living things and their requirements. I suppose I should have known better, being a mother, but I couldn’t take care of my child. I wanted to. I barely made the rent every month on our basement shit hole. Charlie kept breaking stuff neither of us knew how to fix. We both had drug problems that governed our decisions. I hated admitting that my son was better off with his dad. So instead, I resented everyone who hassled me about my behavior. I disappeared whenever things got heavy.
Reluctantly, I emptied out the bottom drawer of a bureau and lined it with old shirts. This was a stupid idea. “He can’t live in the furniture forever, you know.”
“My cousin, Harry’s got a doghouse he ain’t using. That’ll work.”
I wished Cancer Duck looked more like a normal, healthy bird. The rest of his body was okay, but that face. Plus he had these thin, red ribbons with tiny bells tied to each of his ankles. They were all caught up in knots, and he could barely walk. Charlie explained what he knew about Santeria, which was big in the Caribbean communities around where he grew up. Animal sacrifice was part of certain religious rituals.
“I need something to cut these with,” Charlie said. I brought him the sharpest knife I could find.
“Maybe he was in a duck fight, like what they do with roosters,” I suggested.
“Ducks ain’t like that. They’re gentle.” Like Charlie would know. “Let’s name him ‘Romeo,'” he said. “He’s a lover, not a fighter.”
Our houseguest seemed quite content swaddled in his makeshift bed of stale laundry.
“Goodnight, Romeo,” I whispered as I eased the drawer closed a little bit. I guess I was glad that one of us could sleep.
I returned to the kitchen and the baggie full of cross tops I kept in my bra. I licked my finger and pressed it into the sack, so that seven or eight pills stuck to my skin. I scraped them onto my tongue. I poured another tumbler of wine and got back to what had become my life’s work.
The next day at lunchtime, I went to the bookstore near my job and read everything I could find on ducks. I found out that Romeo was a for real breed called a Muscovy. Muscovies are born resembling most other ducklings, but they get more banged-up looking as life goes on. I understood what that was like.
Relieved by the news that he wasn’t dying after all, I stopped at the Petland Discount on my way home from work. I approached a teenager dangling from a step ladder, his arm submerged up to his elbow in murky fish tank water. I tried not to stare at the boxer shorts that held up his pants.
“Excuse me. Can you tell me what ducks eat?”
At first, I thought maybe I’d made a mistake, that this young man wasn’t an employee. But then, I realized he just didn’t want to deal with me. I stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. I glanced around the store for clues. I drifted toward the birdseed display and examined a few bags, hoping to find a picture of a duck, smiling and eating his favorite meal.
“There’s a feed store up on Metropolitan,” he said as he dried his hands on his saggy jeans. “They probably have what you need.”
“Is it far?” I asked. “I’m on foot.”
“Don’t know.” That was the end of our conversation. Positioning himself on a stool by the window, he reached under the counter for a bag of Skittles, signifying that he was officially on his break.
I went home and wheeled my shopping wagon all the way to the place he’d mentioned and back, about seventy five blocks. When I got back to the basement, I showed Charlie the fifty pound bag of duck chow that I’d bought. He wasn’t happy, probably because he wasn’t high.
“We don’t need that expensive shit. The swans down Harding Park eat garbage, and they do just fine.”
“But this is really good for him. It has a lot of vitamins in it. Plus, corn and stuff.”
“I’m gonna need twenty dollars,” Charlie said. He had to go see somebody about a job.
Romeo loved his new diet, and he seemed to enjoy living in the fenced in area behind our house. He was a pleasant companion. Muscovies do not quack, but he communicated in other ways. He wagged his tail whenever he saw me. He made good-natured huffing and puffing sounds. He pecked at my shoes to get attention.
It was no surprise that Romeo did not care for Charlie. As soon as the bird saw him, he disappeared inside his plastic Igloo. I could not let on that Romeo brought me so much joy, or Charlie would surely get rid of him. Some nights, I wished there was enough room in the doghouse for me.
A few weeks later, the man who owned the feed store asked how my duck was doing.
“He couldn’t be better,” I said.
“Glad to hear that, young lady.” Mr. Lee smiled as he rang up my order. “You’re over there by Flushing Meadow, aren’t you?”
“I’m off Yellowstone Boulevard, by the Roy Rogers.”
“For some reason, I thought you were on the pond. Let me ask you, then. Where’s your water source?” He sounded concerned.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, ducks need to be near water, you see, so they can wash their heads and faces. It prevents infection and cataracts and such. My dear, your duck’s gotta exercise so he can thrive.”
I ran all the way back to the house, clutching my bag of hay. Actually, I stopped at the liquor store to buy wine, and the bodega for beer. But then, I walked really fast the rest of the way. Charlie was shaving his head in the bathroom when I got there.
“Romeo needs water or he’s gonna die!” I repeated what Mr. Lee had told me.
“He gets wet when it rains. That’s good enough.”
“Mr. Lee said ducks have to swim and moisturize so they can stay healthy.”
“I’m sick of hearing about this fucking bird. And who the fuck is this guy?” Charlie got himself so worked up, he cut the tIp of his ear with the straight razor. When he pounded on the sink, the corner snapped off and broke into several pieces. Great, something else that was my fault.
I went outside and dragged my next door neighbor’s hose across the yard, Romeo waddled from his enclosure and stepped into the metal lasagna pan I began filling with cool water. His mouth was open, and I could see his tongue. I swear, it looked like he was saying, “Aaaah.”
A few days later, Charlie approached me with a proposition. So many of Charlie’s best ideas began with me handing over money and ended with him needing an ambulance.
“So, I could use about thirty dollars,” he said.
“Alls I have is enough to get me back and forth to work,” I told him, which wasn’t true. I also had my liquor and drug money. Let him get his own.
“C’mon, please.” I hated when he begged. It made him sound like such a baby. “I’ll have a surprise by the time you come home.”
I worried when i didn’t hear from him all day and grew increasingly nervous when I got off the train later that evening. I could hear music as I turned the corner onto our street – Guns N Roses, Appetite for Destruction – one of the only two cassette tapes Charlie owned. The other was Metallica.
When I reached the driveway, I saw Charlie’s brother, Ned and his best pal, Stevie. They were super stoned and covered in mud, surrounded by empty beer cans. Charlie emerged from the basement, holding a set of pliers and what was left of the tooth he’d just yanked out of his own mouth. Blood dripped from his chin when he smiled.
“I knew I could do it. I told you I didn’t need a dentist.”
I stepped over the shovels that littered the sidewalk. I ran to the fence to check on my duck. And there was Romeo, peacefully paddling back and forth in an old porcelain bathtub the boys had confiscated from a junkyard earlier in the day. They’d strapped it into the back of Stevie’s Datsun pick-up, drove it quietly over the bridge and sunk it in a large hole they dug in the rocky ground near the doghouse. They ran a trench out the bottom so it could be drained and refilled as necessary. As crazy as it looked and as dangerously high as these guys were, they did a really fine job. Romeo was thrilled.
Stevie got to his feet and gave me a sweaty hug. “That bird is lonely, Mare. He needs a girlfriend.”
“I need a girlfriend.” Ned said, as he wiped the dirt from his face with the front of his shirt. “And a wife.”
“I’m glad I got a wife. I love my Rose,” There was pride in Stevie’s voice.
“I love Rose, too,” Ned added, throwing a playful arm over his friend’s shoulder.
“Keep your fucking hands off my wife, Ned. I mean it.” And Stevie was serious. “I’ll slit your throat.”
“I’m going in,” I told them both. I needed a drink. Charlie had thrown up at the bottom of the basement stairs. He wasn’t grinning anymore, but at least the color had returned to his cheeks.
“They’re gonna need money for gas,” he said. Stevie was in no condition to drive and I knew they weren’t gonna buy gas. I just wanted them to leave, so I could get my load on in peace.
In a month, it was my birthday and Mabel called, all excited. She had a special gift. Charlie’s brother, Rob drove her out to Queens to come and see us. She stood at my screen door, clutching a similar looking Muscovy as Romeo, only smaller, bundled up in a beach towel.
“This one’s a girl,” she said. “Call her Juliet.”
“Where’d you get her, Mom?”
“Hunts Point Market. She was gonna be somebody’s dinner.”
I was so moved by Mabel’s thoughtful gesture and glad for Romeo to have company.
Romeo and Juliet really hit it off. I loved that they got along so well. Most evenings, they were waiting for me at the gate. I brought my wine and pills out back while I changed their bedding and water. They nibbled raisins and Cheerios from the palm of my hand. I stayed with them until it got dark and the mosquitoes started biting.
Everybody needs somebody. And I had Charlie, but it was a terrible thought. I wondered if I could ever get away. He would never let me leave, and I had nowhere to go. I was so stuck. Some nights when he was sleeping, I let myself consider what might happen if I took a hammer to the back of his head. It wasn’t a real plan or anything, just a drunken, desperate idea. But I knew I’d never be able to do it, to keep hammering until he was dead. Charlie was too strong. He’d get up and finish me off, for sure.
The lovebirds continued to thrive. They took turns swimming in their bathtub and sitting on the eggs that came as a result of their coupling. We ate omelets with cheese until the weather got cold.
During this time, Charlie was in and out of jail. Mostly, I was the one who called the police. When he punched me in the face as we walked along Ascan Avenue, I crossed the street with a hand cupped over my eye and told two cops on bicycles. They rode around and found him. The night he broke my nose and knocked my tooth out, back in, he went. The ducks and I were always grateful to see him go and anxious when he returned.
Life was peaceful whenever Charlie got locked up, but having him gone seemed to underscore my own drinking and drug use. I hated thinking about it, so I dropped the charges, and the chaos continued.
“Charlie, wake up! The ducks are gone!”
I was scared to go back outside. I’d been awake all night, as usual, drinking and snorting and pilling myself into a frenzy. I waited until the sky started to brighten before I transferred my empty bottles to the outside garbage cans. That’s when I noticed both gates were pushed open the wrong way. There were footprints of varying shapes and sizes, heading in different directions.
“Get up, Charlie. Something bad happened.”
“I don’t care,” he said, rolling over on the mattress and facing the wall.
“Please come. Somebody stole my ducks.” I tugged at his arm like a child.
“I hate you. I hate this shit,” he muttered under his breath.
I believed him, but I needed his help. I stood over the bed, pleading until he sat up and reached for his boots. I clung to the back of his sweatshirt as we followed the tracks over to the far side of the property where nobody ever went. Clumps of bloody feathers were strewn everywhere, so many that it seemed unlikely there’d be anything left worth saving.
I was right. Jammed into a break in the fence was what remained of Romeo’s body. Something had tried to pull hi,. through the chain link, tearing his head clean off in the process.
“Find the other one,” Charlie called over his shoulder. I just stood there in the snow, in my dirty clothes from the night before, unable to think or move. The sound of the phone ringing pulled me back inside the house where none of this horror existed. Whoever was calling kept hanging up when the machine came on.
“Hello,” I sobbed into the receiver when it rang the next time, my hands still trembling from the cold and carnage.
“Mary, it’s Artie from next door. I don’t know how to say this, but there’s been an accident.”
“Yeah. I know.” At least I thought I knew.
“So you’ve already seen her? I’m sorry. It must have been a truck.”
“Her? Wait. What do you mean?”
“Out front,” Artie said. “Tell Charlie to bring a shovel.”
Nothing good could ever have come from my time with the ducks. My actions only led to their suffering. Besides, Charlie was gonna kill them eventually, anyway.
A glooming peace this morning with it brings;
The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head.
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;
Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished.
For never was a story of more woe,
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
– William Shakespeare