Stateway's Garden Read online

  “Don’t worry,” Mr. L. D. Sutton said. “I’ll make you another one.”

  “Isaac, get some work done,” Ms. Rose then said. Her tone matched the one my mother used when talking to Jacob and me.

  “I just wanted to make sure that the li’l man was doing all right,” he replied.

  My mother came into the room and everyone grew silent, even Ms. Rose, who gave the impression she wouldn’t stop yapping for anyone. “I left you where I wanted you to stay,” Mother said. She looked at Mr. Isaac the entire time. Mother pushed him from in front of me, grabbed a napkin to clean B.B. sauce from my mouth, and motioned me to stand by the entrance.

  “The boy was hungry, Joanne,” Ms. Rose said. “You can’t have him sitting around all this food with an empty stomach. Especially with that big observant brain of his.” Mother paid her no attention and pulled me from the room.

  We walked briskly past the freezer that my bottom was meant to be pasted to and I noticed she stared like she wanted to plant me there again. Her face wasn’t shining, and when we passed a window she spent no time adjusting herself.

  “Stay right here,” she said firmly and let my hand go. I looked up and saw a long, red-painted counter. “Stay where I can see you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She worked behind that red counter, which was directly opposite the meat room. There, she handled the lottery cash register that opened and closed more times than a CTA bus door. There were stacks of candy bars under the counter: Snickers, Mr. Goodbars, Paydays—all of which I pulled and snuck pieces of when she wasn’t looking.

  “Use the big brain everyone says you have to count each box of candy,” she said. “Today is inventory, so make yourself useful for once. If you count the stuff fast enough, maybe I can get off early.”

  It was the most boring job I had been given at work. Everyone else taught me these fantastic things: slicing meat, making sauce, ringing the register, bagging orders. But with my mother, who exchanged money with the nimble hands of a bank teller, I merely counted candy bars.

  “You looking good back there, Joanne,” I heard a voice say from the other side of the counter. “Yeah, baby, you look real good.”

  My head lifted from the candy quickly. I didn’t even bother to wipe the guilt-revealing peanuts from my mouth. Mother wasn’t paying any attention to me anyway because Mr. Mason began pushing customers aside who were waiting to play the numbers they believed would change their West Side misfortunes. He leaned over the counter—glistening black hair frozen above his ears—and spoke directly into her face.

  “The lottery line will be closed for about ten minutes,” he announced.

  You would have thought he owned the corner store, considering how fast the line disappeared.

  “Fifteen minutes,” my mother corrected.

  “How you feeling, baby?” he asked. His breath must have smelled like fresh peaches because Mother’s forehead began shining again when she moved closer. Their mouths were probably no more than an inch or two apart. I’d never seen her smile that way at anyone but my brother, Jacob.

  Mr. Mason’s hand caressed her shoulders delicately; he pulled her to him across the counter, and the closer they became, the more he lowered those hands. He began groping her breasts like they were the peaches used to freshen his breath.

  “Oh, hey, li’l smart man,” he said, after noticing I was staring. “You enjoying your first day at work?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, and looked down at the candy. I began counting aloud, pretending that I was paying them no mind. I made sure to peek here and there.

  Mr. Mason started rubbing my mother’s face like she was an obedient puppy at the pound, glancing over at me in the way kids do when they have a better school lunch than you. I made it a point not to smile at him, although he looked just like my brother. And his fancy hat moved little while on his head. The material must have been sewn into his scalp.

  “I like you, li’l smart man,” he said, continuing to squeeze my mother’s breast. “You’re quiet. You mind your business and ask no questions. What’s your name again?”

  “Tracy, sir.”

  Each time I peeked up at my mother then back at the floor, at the hard concrete floors I spilled crumbs of chocolate and peanuts on consistently, I noticed roach boxes in corners. With the blink of an eye they seemed to fill farther and farther, roaches just wrestling for release. Mr. Mason’s actions reflected from a few shiny spots along the floor. No matter where I turned I saw the movements of his hands while they fondled my mother under her shirt, making slow circular motions. He sucked his teeth and never once looked her in the eye.

  “Bring li’l smart man around more often, babe,” he said.

  I tried to continue chewing and counting candy bars. Mr. Mason removed his hands from my mother, rubbing them together like he was applying lotion. He then reached inside his suit jacket pocket and pulled a wad of money thicker than my burger with B.B. sauce. He peeled a twenty-dollar bill and rolled it around his index finger.

  “Take this, li’l smart man,” he said while grinning. I looked at my mother before reaching for the money. She smiled at him, then nodded in my direction. “I’m going to teach you about some things when you come back next time,” he continued. “I’ll show you how to never be broke. No woman will want a man who is broke.”

  Mr. Mason kicked the roach box that was on his side of the counter farther into the corner and walked away.

  “You finished counting yet?” Mother asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. It’s time for me to get off.”

  She adjusted herself in the reflection Mr. Mason occupied just a moment previous, spending considerable time maneuvering her bra. She opened the lottery register, pulled some money, shoved it in her blouse. We didn’t say goodbye to anyone when leaving the building.

  Even though my shoulder was sore from Mother tugging and dragging me down the trash-filled West Side streets, I didn’t feel so bad when I got home that afternoon. Jacob was there, skin a likable yellow and glowing like Mr. Mason’s. He wouldn’t stop laughing loudly at how bad he assumed my first day of work was.

  Funny thing is, it was my only day working at Ms. Rose’s B.B. sauce corner store. From what I learned from Mother’s phone gossip, inspectors came in just days after I was there and declared them no longer able to do business because a customer complained after finding a roach in her sauce. This same customer sued Ms. Rose and Mr. L. D. Sutton for a lot of money. More than they probably ever made.

  * * *

  “SO, HOW WAS it being with Mom at work, you think it’s still so fun?” Jacob asked. He was laughing.

  “I thought it was okay.”

  “Told you it would be boring, it’s always boring there, told you, told you, you didn’t listen.”

  “I did learn some stuff.”

  “Yeah, li’l brother, I’m sure you did. I bet ugly-ass Isaac tried to teach you to slice that nasty meat, old-ass L.D. taught you to flip burgers, bet he even showed you how to mix that funky-smelling sauce too?”

  “He did.”

  “How stupid. He probably kept saying he wanted to teach you ’cause you so smart.”

  “I didn’t think it was so bad.”

  “Yep, yep, yep. Ha-ha-ha, you thought you was doing something, thought you was going somewhere, ended up having to waste your whole Saturday at work with Mom.”

  “I don’t know. But I hope I get to go back tomorrow.”

  QUESTIONS BY THE STOVE

  But Mother said, whenever she would talk about it, that we didn’t always live in Stateway. After listening to her stories on the random times I could get her to tell them, I believed her. She said we used to live right there on the West Side of Chicago, the same area where the store she once worked was. I’d ask her to tell me those West Side stories only when things li
ned up on the nose. First of all, Jacob would have to be gone. Long gone by the time I started the questions. His fast talking and doubting would stop Mother in her tracks. I’d wait until he was visiting our uncle in Englewood for the weekend or something. And she would have to be in a somewhat good mood, too. That would definitely be when she was cooking. She cooked for us sometimes, but certainly not every day, so it was a telltale sign that she was feeling okay if she was standing by the stove with any pot being warmed.

  The last time I got her to talk about it was midmorning and I remember walking slowly into her bedroom. Jacob’s and my bedroom was right next door. The creaky door had to have alerted her to my presence. My coming into her bedroom was definitely a no-no if she wasn’t awake and going already. It was cold in her room and I stood there shivering.

  “I’m hungry, Mother,” I whispered, moving closer. Her eyes were closed and she didn’t reply. I spoke softly again, “Mother, I’m hungry.” By this time, my face was right by hers. I moved away quickly after she stirred.

  “Tell your brother to make you something.” Her reply was mumbled. She rolled over from her right side and was now facing the ceiling. I continued standing by her bed, tugging at her long left leg like a puppy using teeth, enough distance between us that she couldn’t pop me on the neck. I waited a few seconds to see if she’d move again. She didn’t. I tugged some more. “Go. Tell. Your. Brother.” She mouthed it like the convo was with the ceiling.

  “Jacob’s gone, Mother.” I released the grip on her leg. “Remember he’s at Uncle’s?”

  “Go and tell your brother I said to make you something to eat.” Maybe she just forgot Jacob was at our uncle’s. I wasn’t gonna push it, though. No way. I just stood there, my small and dark brown hand still resting against her ankle. She let out about four coughs and didn’t cover her mouth for even one, wiped it with the back of her hand, and sat up in the bed. She used the tips of her pointing fingers to clear the corners of her eyes. At the time, I didn’t know you could use your fingers for that. Her hair was all over the place and she didn’t look at me once. “Yeah, I remember,” she said, finally looking at me, holding the m sound longer than usual. She smiled at me, keeping her lips together. Mother then stood slowly and put both hands to her knees to help guide her legs straight. She released a groan while standing, then walked into the hall, past my bedroom, and made the left turn to the bathroom. She didn’t shut the door. She hardly ever shut the door when in there.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  I hadn’t moved from the middle of her bedroom floor. “I don’t know.”

  “Go in the living room. Look at the clock. Tell me what time it is.”

  I grew nervous. My short legs moved even slower than usual. “Ten.” I paused. “Twenty.” Another pause. “One.”

  “What do you want to eat?” It came almost as a whisper from the bathroom.

  “Noodles.”

  “It’s still breakfast time, Tracy.” The water turned on in the bathroom and I heard her splashing it about like she was playing in the free swimming pool on Thirty-ninth Street. “I’m not letting you eat ramen noodles for breakfast, even if it’s Saturday.”

  I didn’t say anything because at the time I still didn’t know her mood. Mother wasn’t the person to debate if she wasn’t feeling well. Besides, sometimes my not debating her about the menu worked out for me. Sometimes, she made those noodles using the expensive Lawry’s salt instead of the seasoning packet included; a couple of times, she boiled, then fried hot dogs and split them down the center and another time scrambled eggs with pepper and olive oil and even made French toast using wheat bread. With French toast, I was allowed all the syrup I wanted. So, yeah, at that moment, I was quiet. She stopped the water and came out of the bathroom. Mother used her hands to wipe traces of water from her face. She wore white socks with puffy pink balls at the ankles and walked down the hall toward me. Her feet seemed to barely touch the concrete of the floor. I watched her while standing in the living room. Once she arrived, I looked back to the clock, which was above the dark blue couch we had, wondering if I’d gotten the time correct. She exhaled loudly, which made me turn around. Mother was already standing in the kitchen by then, right by the stove. She was in her fake pajamas: a pair of orange short-shorts with yellow stripes down the sides, and a medium-size black-and-gray T-shirt that hung just below her waist. She reached above the stove and began pushing items around in the cabinet noisily.

  “You remind me of my mother, boy,” she said into the cabinet. “She used to make me cook her breakfast early in the morning when we still lived on the West Side. Would have me cooking by seven-thirty.”

  I didn’t waste any time. “Was it warmer over there in the winter, Mother?” It was November, and the wind was blowing into the living-room window Jacob left open. He always complained about being hot.

  “Shush asking so many silly questions, li’l boy.” She looked at me, giggled, rolled her eyes a bit, and then turned back to the cabinet. “And close that window.” She walked to the table and began organizing utensils she’d pulled from the drawer. “They’ll turn the heat back on soon. Just wait.” She bent down on her knees, which let out a loud snapping sound each time she did so, and pulled a pot from the cabinet underneath the sink. She then stepped to her right, back to the stove. The pot was placed on the stove—handle outside—but she didn’t turn the burner on. I moved closer. Was trying to warm her up. Mother didn’t do anything for a few moments, though. She stood there, rubbing her chin. “The weather in all of the city is the same, Tracy. But rain and snow and stuff like that travel across the city. Could be raining over here and nothing at all west. But eventually it hits everywhere. You know that. Don’t be silly.”

  “Oh,” I replied. I moved a bit closer to her. We were probably five feet apart.

  “But, I don’t know,” she started again. “I guess it does feel a li’l bit different when you’re over there. Even in colder months. We’re high up in the air, too, so we get the real cold. Nothing to stop the wind.” My eyes had to have expanded to the sizes of quarters as she spoke. Even though I had no socks on, I didn’t notice that cold floor any longer. I wasn’t totally certain of her mood yet, didn’t know if she was annoyed, so I took my chances and cut the distance by a foot. Seemed okay at the time. When Mother grew annoyed with my question-asking, she’d hit me on the side or back of the neck using just two fingers. A pop. She always landed it in that space where the shirt opened to let the head through. So I stood by the brown sofa kitty-corner from the other in the living room. It slightly protruded into the kitchen. “The West Side is just not like how it is over here,” she said. “Especially where the store was. Nothing like it.”

  I only went to the store where Mother worked once, got so many pops on the neck from asking questions while heading home on the Western Avenue bus that she removed all sensation from the area. That’s actually what I remember most.

  * * *

  “GRAND AVENUE!” THE bus driver yelled from the front. I don’t remember anything of what he looked like when we passed him during boarding, only that he sounded like he talked into a microphone when announcing stops.

  “I’m hungry, Mother.”

  “No, you’re not.” She looked at me in the seat to her left. “Sit there quietly.”

  “I like Ms. Rose and Mr. L. D. Sutton. They say I look like them. Do I look like them?”

  “Shush, Tracy. Enjoy the ride.” Mother grabbed my arm, pursed her mouth, and sat me upright in the seat. The seats on the bus were this super-hard plastic, and they were in different colors: orange, green, and yellow. There was a metal bar behind every seat that was shaped almost like a steering wheel. A large muscular man with yellow skin and a big-faced watch was standing above us and whistling loudly. He smiled at me whenever I looked up at him. As we rode, the bus grew crowded with tall people. I could no longer see the driver in f
ront when I would use my hands to push up and make my neck longer. “Face forward, Tracy,” she said. “We got a long way to go.”

  I turned to her. “Mr. Isaac said he has a brother. I told him I had a brother, too.”

  “Stop talking so much.”

  “He said I look like his brother.”

  Pop.

  The first one on the neck wasn’t the hardest, but it was the most accurate. I didn’t cry because it didn’t hurt much. It just got my attention. Felt like green alcohol being poured on an old and almost healed cut. The driver then yelled out a street called Lake. The bus abruptly came to a stop at the light and more people got on. Most of the people on the bus looked like they were coming from work. They had big black leather bags on their shoulders that I thought were stuffed with a hundred pillows, or their clothes were dirtied with paint. Some just looked really tired in the face. When I looked out the window, I could see the construction workers who appeared to be on a lunch break. They were building a McDonald’s. I saw a few of them sitting on a faraway curb with their boxes of food and chewing sandwiches I knew they bought from Ms. Rose’s store. They must’ve ordered theirs without sauce ’cause none of it was dripping onto their hands.

  Some time had passed, so I thought it safe to ask my mother another question. “Can we go to McDonald’s? I want some.”

  “You already had burgers and fries and everything. You are not hungry.”

  “I didn’t eat all of it.”

  Pop. She re-alcoholed that spot on my neck. Yeah, I’m sure it felt more like the green kind. Everybody knows that the green alcohol burns way less than the clear.

  “Don’t think I didn’t see you taking those candy bars when I asked you to count them.” I turned my head away when she said that, expecting another one on the neck. I was worried that I’d finally cry. At least by turning, she’d have to target a fresh spot. She didn’t move after saying that, though. Maybe she was tired after working, like others on the bus. I scooted my body closer to the window as the bus pulled off. Must’ve missed a lot of stops while Mother was scolding me because it seemed the bus had traveled much farther. “You just sit yourself there,” she said again. “Quietly.”