After about six gin and tonics each, we were past the comforting moments of reminiscing or energetic upswings of brainstorming our commonalities. The fatigue, stress, and strangeness of the day was wearing all of us down. Constancia joined us; she had stuck to her whiskey sours, but was not as far gone as the rest of us. Hell, she had been sleeping for most of the day.
Sandra sat cross-legged on a pillow near the sofa. Pearlie was stretched out on the couch. I was in a rocking chair.
“Suppose I will not be able to dance... suppose they have to amputate my legs?” Sandra said.
“Oh, you’re scaring yourself,” I said. The alcohol was kicking in as I had no idea if this terrible rash would start spreading to other parts of our body.
“Maybe you won’t be able to ski,” Constancia said. “There’s no black people that ski anyway. I never see black people skiing on television and damn sure none of my people ski.” It looked like she was leering at me, but the lights were dim and I was not sober.
Pearlie opened one eye and turned over on the couch and slurred, “Constancia, behave yourself.”
Welcome back, Constancia, I thought blearily. In just a few hours she had morphed back to a sullen, annoying young woman. She did not want to talk about Hector; she was not ready to go home. Maybe she wanted to make us pay with all the pain that festered inside. The sympathy I had for her in the morning began evaporating like water poured on a hot griddle.
“What do you want from me? To stop skiing? There’s always a first someone to do something. I’m not Olympic gold, but I’m damn good and I’m not going to apologize for that. People like you have tried to make me feel guilty for wanting certain things.”
“People like who?” She said a malevolent look crossing her face.
“Like you, Constancia! Like playing mind games and attaching a color to everything… I know what inequality is and I’m not trying to limit myself.”
Part of me wondered what I was saying to Constancia, what any of it meant, why I could feel a wave of anger crashing against my normally solid defenses. I breathed heavy. I got up too quickly and felt the spins coming on.
Sandra’s soft voice said, “Both of you have points, it’s just a shame society has made it such that things that are just human are also seen as white.”
“Here! Here!” Pearlie shouted.
“I don’t need a peacemaker, Sandra. She’s got to stop judging everything by its outside cover.”
“I don’t got to do nothing. You don’t even know me,” Constancia said puffing out her chest.
“Covers are sometimes all that a pair of nineteen year-old’s eyes can see,” Sandra continued getting up from her seat.
“Why you talking about me like I ain’t even in the room,” Constancia said turning to Sandra.
“You’re acting like you shouldn’t be in the room. You’re such an angry young woman,” I snapped. I felt a part of myself cringe, how many times in the last decade has someone thrown that at me. Still, I was coursing down the slope and the alcohol told me I couldn’t turn back now.
“You know, you’re not that much older than her?” Doris sang out.
“This isn’t funny!” I said.
“It’s like Sandra said before, we’re not rich and famous chicks. That’s why we’re sick!” Constancia said.
“Life is more complicated than that. All types of people get sick.” I huffed. I had begun to scratch around my neck and hairline. The purplish skin flaked like eczema.
“Oh really, ski bunny? How complicated is it for you?”
Before I could lunge at Constancia, Sandra leapt up and inserted herself between us. “Kat, why don’t you go in the bedroom? I’m tired of you two bickering. We’ve all had way too much to drink to have a civil conversation. We all need some sleep!”
I turned to Doris and shook my half-filled glass of ice and alcohol, “Doris what does that do for your little theory? We can’t even get along!”
“We will someday,” she said almost dreamily. “This virus has got some purpose for us—we just have to be smart enough to figure it out.”
I left wanting to punch Constancia right in the mouth. I went in the bedroom and lay down. My body shook with fatigue, fear, too much alcohol and anger. I had nothing to go home to and no one to call except Ro, and I didn’t want to call her again because I was so scared she wouldn’t answer because she couldn’t.
I found myself awake again late at night. I had a slight headache but nothing that wasn’t manageable. Constancia lay passed out on the couch snoring, an empty Mr. Wilson’s whiskey bottle on the floor. I assumed that after figuring out she couldn’t torment me, she drank some more.
I made up my mind that I really was leaving tomorrow.
Sandra found me in the kitchen rummaging around for something to drink since Pearlie was out of coffee.
“Want to talk about what happened?”
“Constancia’s a child,” I snorted.
“You got out of a difficult situation and still had your mother’s love. Not everybody does,” Sandra said in a whisper.
“Is that my fault?” I snapped. My tongue felt furry.
“No, but it makes you accountable.”
“No offense, but I sincerely hope this isn’t going to be a long sermon on what I owe to inconsiderate girls who come from the projects,” I started defensively.
She raised a hand, stopping me from continuing
my rant.
“Listen to yourself. I hardly know you, and you are a grown woman, but I work with kids, like Constancia. Kids who struggle to find their worth in a world where because of who they are they aren’t seen as competent or smart. Maybe your mom gave you love at home—that has nothing to do with color, but not everyone got that love, support or even interest.”
I opened my mouth ready to attack again but I stopped and thought for a moment how my mother approved of anything that I did. She was kind, loving and caring. You could be right in the middle of making a mess and she would celebrate it as if it was the best thing she had ever seen. She also sent me away. Was that for the best? My uncle’s family did have more to give materially. I did see her often. I had been the one to close her out, she had always been the same: loving, and honest about what she could and couldn’t give.
“Aha,” I said I grabbing a box of cocoa from back behind an almost empty box of Bisquick and slammed down the box. I poured mugs full of hot water. We sat sipping the tasteless hot chocolate in companionable silence.
“You two want to be alone?” Doris peeked in.
“No,” I said shaking my head. “You want some cocoa?”
“Sure,” Doris said. “God, I haven’t drunk that much since my sister’s wedding a few years ago,” Doris said, easing herself down into a chair.
“Married?” Sandra looked up.
“Separated,” Doris said quickly.
“We’re all unattached, it seems,” I said. Another interesting point for the list you made.
As I got up to make another mug of weak hot chocolate every part of my being registered that the last 48 hours made me feel alive in a way I had never felt before.
There it tapped me again, a feeling of intimacy under all of the hassles, anger, blowups. Despite everything, I had to admit that the last two days were the most interesting I had experienced in a long time.
“Kat, wake up.” Constancia urged.
I rubbed my face, surprised I had fallen asleep at the table. Three of us had talked until it was almost daylight and then Pearlie came to join us. I flinched and she withdrew her hand.
“What time is it?” I said
“About six o’ clock.”
“What do you want?”
“You gotta see this,” Constancia said. She motioned for me to follow her into the living room. Stretching, I shook off the night’s stiffness and followed Constancia.
Doris, Pearlie and Sandra were all sitting in a row across from the front door. I also noticed there was a small pile of brackish colored vomit to the side of each woman.
“Oh God,” Pearlie moaned.
“What’s happened?”
“They can’t go outside,” Constancia said calmly.
“I’m too old for this shit,” Pearlie said. With some effort and the help of Doris’s shoulder, the older woman rose and took a seat on the couch.
“You got to be joking,” I said.
“This is the worst I have felt since we got this thing,” Sandra said.
“Pearlie and I were going to go out for food and other things, and then she just started vomiting… see, Kat, I don’t know…” Constancia said as she rocked back and forth on her heels, hugging herself.
“Go and get some paper towels and clean up the vomit,” I barked. The other women looked incapacitated and I needed a moment to figure out what the hell was going on.
“I just don’t believe it,” Constancia said.
“Stop saying that. I’ll help you, okay, just go and get some cleaning supplies. NOW.” My queasy stomach wasn’t just because of last night’s heavy alcohol indulgence. For a moment, I felt that I might join in the morning purge.
Constancia rolled her eyes at my order, but went into the kitchen.
“I got as far as wanting to open the door,” Sandra said.
“It’s confining us,” Doris said.
I shook my head and I walked up to the ordinary looking buttery colored door. Like most doors in the city it was adorned by a variety of heavy locks and deadbolts on it. The bottom left corner of it housed deep and profuse scratch marks in it, presumably Peggy’s handiwork. Taking my time, I unlocked each lock. I felt nothing strange while doing it and the door opened easily. Behind me, I heard a collective sigh of relief.
Constancia stepped between Doris and Sandra and began cleaning up the slick puddles of puke.
I bent down to help her. She brought a trash bag and I held it open as she deposited wet wads of paper towels in it. We worked in silence. Doris and Sandra were still sitting on the floor opposite the door.
“You feel okay?” Doris asked.
“Given everything else, yeah, I’m fine,” I replied.
“I guess we’re going to the store,” Constancia said.
“Looks that way,” I replied more tersely than I felt.
I washed my face and threw on my shorts. Unfortunately, Constancia and I were the only ones able to withstand even the idea of being outside. Each time Doris or Pearlie opened the door, they’d both start vomiting–either an awful case of the dry heaves or another full-on vomiting round. Sandra got dizzy if she stood for too long. The three of them couldn’t stand going out by themselves, it collectively gave them the heebie-jeebies.
Not wanting to continue to clean up vomit for the whole morning, I volunteered to leave. Although I didn’t really believe in Doris’s whole “the virus makes us one” idea, she seemed to be more and more accurately describing the psychological symptoms of what most of us were going through at any given moment.
Just me and Constancia, what a gift! I thought, as we walked down the stairs. Although the days-long freak storm had finally abated and a crack of sunshine appeared, the sky still looked angry.
I confess to having an ulterior motive for volunteering. Before getting some food and supplies for Pearlie, I wanted to go to my apartment and then Ro’s. I didn’t tell Constancia until we were outside and on the road.
“We’re going to take a slight detour. We’re going to take a cab to my house.”
She nodded.
“We can go by your place, too” I said. “I can drive you over after I get my truck.”
“Not yet.”
I played the answering machine when I got back home.
Ro’s mother’s rich, buttery voice greeted me, “Kat, I hate to impose at a time like this, but I just wanted to know if you’ve heard from Rogaire… she called me three days ago and said she was really sick, and that she was going to get in touch with you. I haven’t heard from her and I keep calling. If I don’t hear from you or her tomorrow, I’m driving up from D.C. tomorrow tonight. Call it mother’s intuition, but I think something’s wrong. Please, call me back.”
Shit. “This is bad,” I said.
“You and Ro are tight?”
“Best friends. She’s my best friend,” I said.
“She used the Reenu-You?
I nodded. “We’ve got to go over to her house,” I said. My instincts told me something wasn’t right. “Maybe she admitted herself to the hospital or something.”
As I searched the kitchen for Ro’s spare keys, Constancia picked up a piece of painted fabric, African mud cloth.
“This was your mom’s—?”
“Yeah, she started working in textiles before she died.” I said, cutting her off.
“I design bags and stuff,” she paused.
“I know. I overheard you telling the others yesterday,” I said distractedly. Goddamn. Where are her keys? I thought.
“Did your mom go to art school?”
“She got into an excellent one and she supported herself for a while but she got pregnant with me and that changed everything. She had me before she could finish.”
“Kids are a drag. Do you have any gum?”
“No,” I said. “Did your mom think you were a drag?” I asked.
“Yeah, she really wanted two boys. Girls were a problem to her.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Are you sure about the gum? I found some wrappers…” Constancia said.
“No,” I said annoyance creeping into my voice. “Never mind.” I continued to dig through the drawers, and then—got ‘em. Holding up the keys, I cried out, “Let’s go.”
Sitting on my black leather seats and adjusting the rearview mirror in my truck made everything feel right. My butt missed this truck. I let the comfort of the truck and driving into Manhattan envelop me. I didn’t care about the traffic, the women, the virus, nothing. I was back where I belonged.
Being outside the apartment again made me feel more generous for some inexplicable reason. I looked at her and saw—a young girl. A nice face, despite the rash, I thought, even better without the makeup. “Constancia, I’m sorry about your boyfriend. I know I said it before, but I really mean it.”
“Everyone at the house has been real nice to me even though I haven’t been acting right.” We rode for a few moments in silence. “You know any Puerto Ricans?” she asked.
“No, Constancia, not off the top of my head.”
“I grew up with a lot of blacks.” She turned her head to look out the window.
I nodded. Good for her, I thought, not wanting to know what she made of the experience. The streets flew by.
Playing with my plush toy skis hanging on the rear view mirror she said, “I want to get out of the Bronx. I want to see other places.” She paused, looking at me. “You’ve seen other places.” she added with finality. “People treat you like shit in New York if you ain’t got no money.”
“Oh, I could tell you stories about Aspen that would make your toes curl.”
Silence.
I looked over at her. Tears flowed down her cheeks.
What else could I say to her? I drove on not knowing how to reach out.
I remembered a face; her face was similar to those girls I had gone to school with but had never quite known. What were their names? Lourdes? Esmeralda? Gladys, Jackie, Frances? These were the people blacks made fun of for wearing colored feathers attached to their hips. The girls poured into two-toned jeans in the eighties, the round ones with heavy blue eyeshadow leaning on a counter. The ones dressing up for Menudo concerts, the ones coming in from a holy roller church on Sundays (usually Pentecostal), the women who staffed the botanicas. I always heard that Puerto Ricans spoke Spanglish, not the real Spanish. Had I ever known any of them at all?
She was a scared, obnoxious kid, probably very talented and feeling very trapped. This girl with her attitude and bravado, I thought, could take over the world. But, something sunk inside, because I knew it equally possible that it would be easy for people to overlook her. For all her force and attitude, she’d never be able to take the world by storm. People just won’t see her.
She didn’t look the part. Neither did I, for that matter. Now with our rashes, would we ever look like ourselves again? I let my fingertips brush the tops of her knees.
We made it past the doorman that I knew without incident and a bit of small talk on my part. The small lobby was tastefully designed in quiet ocean blue tones. I pressed the button for the elevator. I knew my world was only moments from becoming right again. The doors opened and a man with bushy ice white eyebrows shot out and a little pale girl with light blond hair trailed behind him.
“I wasn’t finished with the show!” she loudly reported.
“It’s done, Christina.”
“But I want to see it again! Blue’s Clues, Blues Clues and more Blue’s Clues. I love Blue’s Clues!” she shrieked.
We got in and I pressed the 16th floor.
“What a little brat,” Constancia said with a sneer. “How long you know this Ro?”
“A long time, I already told you that.”
“You’d do anything for her?”
“What kind of question is that?” I shot back. “She’s my closest friend.”
The elevator climbed interminably to Ro’s floor. I started sweating again. The doors opened on the fifth floor and an Asian man stepped on. He wore a black leather collar studded with rhinestones.
“Is this going up? Oh damn?”
“You weren’t paying attention, huh?” Constancia said.
“Apparently not,” he shot back.
The organizing principle in my life up until this point was to have as much fun as I could possibly muster, skiing and partying. I had not really been given or given myself any other foundation. Ro, though, formed a significant part of my life. She was the connection to my past, buried here in New York. She stayed with me through the horrible periods in my life through prep school, through a brief but scary ecstasy habit, through my one-time fear that I was pregnant. She hadn’t abandoned me in all those years even though our lives and interests diverged considerably. I reached for that tendril of being known now more than ever.
I could suffer through the utter randomness of life that brought Constancia, and the rest of the Reenu-You women together, my mother’s death, the loss of Peter—all because I knew that once I got off the elevator and saw Ro, my world would right itself again. I imagined myself in that moment like a small, brown and gray homing pigeon being inexorably drawn back home to the roost of friendship.
“That’s a dope collar.”
“Thanks,” the man replied not looking at Constancia.
The elevator stopped on the sixth floor and with the quiet whoosh it took off again.
“Ro? Hey, Ro?”
All her lights were off. I flipped them on exposing an expansive entryway into a dream condo. Her view out of the living room, painted in dark browns and soft gray tones, extended out over Central Park West. An African stool from Zaire stood in the middle of the living room flanked by a sumptuous black setae and black leather sectional.
“Nice crib,” Constancia was chewing again. She had found a stray piece of gum on the floor in my mother’s bedroom. As it seemed to soothe her I didn’t say anything.
In the oversized room, opposite the furniture, hung framed pictures of her with various personalities, several in the hip hop business, oldies like Run DMC, Easy E. and a few unforgettable Jamaican stars like Bujou Banton.
Constancia scanned the wall of several of Ro’s former and current clients.
“Hey, that’s Run DMC,” Constancia said with awe filling in the edges of her voice.
“Yeah,” I said noticing how still and quiet the house was. Too quiet.
“She’s in public relations.”
“She throws parties for these guys?”
“Not parties. She manages people’s careers, mostly young guys, gets them seen by the right people. That kind of thing.”
“She must know everyone.”
“Yeah, just about. She started young.”
The only mark in the carpet that showed Ro had once been present was a discarded pair of strappy high black heels strewn across the floor like an afterthought.
“Ro?” I whispered.
I felt my head spinning as the many good moments we shared in this space flooded back to me. Her meteoric rise in her work and my joy in watching her work a room.
Venturing further into the too-quiet apartment, I made my way into the master bedroom. I noted the rumpled emerald satin sheets and a pair of black pants thrown across them ready for the enviable size two Ro to occupy.
Constancia made the only sound in the apartment with her occasional gum pops. Pushing open the door to the master bath revealed no new information. It was one of the nicest features of the overpriced condo with a sunken oversize tub, built-in steam room and beautiful cream-colored tile. Breathing hard, I said to myself, three more rooms to go. Each space a minor victory so far.
“She’s probably not here,” I said. “Ro is always spending the weekend somewhere at someone’s home.” I closed the door as we made our way through the long hallway. Three more rooms: an office, a gym and a guest bedroom.
The smell registered first. At that moment I felt lucky I did not have to smell my mother as the cancer took her. I was glad in some ways that she kept me at arms’ distance. I’m not that strong, though I put on a good show. I pushed open the door to the guest bedroom and the smell got stronger. A small porcelain bowl held what looked like the remnants of Chinese broccoli, chicken and noodles. My split second guess was that the food had been reheated because the broccoli was the strongest smell. Rotting left over broccoli has one of the most offensive smells known to humankind. And half of a rotting cantaloupe sat beside it. For a moment, I felt I would buckle. No death is here, the picture seemed to say, just foul food.
I was just about to close the door when I saw two ashen brown feet wearing thick blue-black clogs sticking out from behind the black futon. Clogs I gave for her a birthday, a few years ago. I had teased her that I didn’t want her going all “crunchy granola” on me. She promised me she wouldn’t. I walked around to the side of the bed and just stood and looked.
“Ro, no, oh, please, no!”
My friend lay face up wearing a silk pair of green wide cuffed lounging pants and turquoise cotton T-shirt. In life she was a fair-skinned sister, coloring just shy of baked bread. In death her color had given way to a brackish brown hue on the parts of her body that were still visible. Her physical body was the scaffolding for the thing that had overtaken her. The virus manifested itself with its purple crusts across her body, a soft white fuzz blooming from those hard crusts, reminding me of the fluffy and abstract designs of molding food.
Constancia came up behind me squeezing my shoulder catching me off guard “No, this… this ain’t right.”
I leaned against the wall for support not taking my eyes off of Ro. My eyes would not close. I could not look away. I went to bend over and crouch down beside my friend. Constancia frantically grabbed my arms and jerked me back.
“Don’t touch her! Are you crazy?”
Constancia’s slight body, weak, and in that moment easy to ignore, pulled at me. Pushing her away, I kneeled down to look at Ro. Ro’s eyes were open, in life they slightly protruded, and now in death they almost floated. Crusts covered the rest of her face and made her unrecognizable. I understood what I was seeing—the virus was absorbing her from the inside out, her own body was breaking down and provided the food for this thing.
“Ro,” I said.
“Yo, we need to get out here, no telling what else she was exposed to. This is crazy.” Constancia said.
It was my turn to rock back on my heels and wail. I felt like I was going to faint. How could it be possible to see the only other person besides my mother who I truly loved dead? Alone. I was alone, really alone in this world. There was nothing left for me. Nothing.
“I’m sorry, Kat, but you got to get up.” She pulled gently at my arm. “We gotta go pick up food, and head back to check on the others.”
On wobbly legs, I rose and leaned on Constancia’s thin frame, momentarily glad to have her there with me. I shook my head, trying to fight the impending disorientation in time and space that spun my mind around and slowed the movement of my limbs. I hoped against hope that somehow it would all turn out to be a horrible dream.
She tugged on my arm. “C’mon.”
“Her mother. I’ve got to call Mrs. Jeneu.” I muttered.
“From Pearlie’s house, from Pearlie’s house.” Her voice was soft then and I turned and looked at her. My whole field of vision narrowed to follow Constancia’s small pouty mouth. She had not forgotten to put on makeup. I wondered when she had the time to apply it. The outer edges of the lips were traced with a shade of eggplant-colored lipstick and a soft cherry pink filled the inside. A popular style, I found hideously unbecoming. I focused though on her two lips working together. She led me away from the room, from the last of my hopes, the last of my ties to my former life. I could not help but ask myself the question: Is what consumed Ro the same thing infecting Constancia and me?
My mind raced and I could barely keep my shaking hands steady enough to steer my truck. All I could see was Ro’s body lying there in her bedroom with the same disease on her that marked me now. Flashes of Ro and my lives tumbled together. Telling her about my first wet kiss by Ramirez in the fifth grade, we at sixteen, in an alleyway, pulling off layers of clothes to reveal outrageously skimpy dresses our mothers would never approve of us wearing to a party, her homemade S’mores oozing with chocolate. I needed to call her mother. I needed to get to a doctor. I needed to get out of New York. I needed a strong drink. I needed for this horror to end.
I drove under the 4 train subway, heading back to Pearlie’s place, and had just past the congested traffic of Yankee Stadium at 161st. I barely noticed that the streets were slick with rain. They flew by me as the first hint of night covered the sky. I wondered what my mom would do in this situation. For once in my life, I really needed to talk to someone. Ever since Constancia hustled me out of Ro’s house, she remained quiet except for the periodic pop of her gum. Death made itself a visitor in both of our lives in just a matter of days. She had lost Hector, her boyfriend and I had lost Ro, my one and only true friend. Her silence felt unnatural, suffocating even, as if death were creeping closer to us.
I prodded Constancia, “What would your mom do now?”
“My mother’s insides got eaten out by cancer,” she said and then let out a long sigh. And she then popped her gum.
“Stop snapping that damn gum!” I said, in a flash of frustration. I fought tears ready to spring from my eyes and choked back the wild anger and fear. My throat, raw and swollen felt like it was going to close for good and that I might never speak again. I banged my fist on the dashboard making Constancia jump through I wasn’t angry with her. This is something that’s going to kill us all, I thought. No. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. What were the facts? We had this thing. Hector’s dead, Ro is dead and we’re still alive. Pearlie, Sandra, Constancia, Doris and I somehow seem to fit together and need each other. Correction, according to Doris, the virus needed us—together. Doris’s theory spun around in my head clouding my next logical question—how long does it need to keep us alive? When do we die? My mind was doing a poor job at holding together the polarities and sharp-edged contradictions of the last few days.
The rain evolved from a light drizzle to a heavy pour, and the sky darkened, matching my mood. I adjusted the speed of my wipers and for a moment felt comforted by their steady rhythm. Just as I crossed late and quick through a yellow light, a blur darted out in front of the car. It happened so fast I braked quickly, just missing a white and brown mutt that ran out in front of me. Although I could hear my uncle’s voice time and time again about not slamming on the breaks like an idiot when going into a skid in rain or ice, I broke too hard and too fast, a death grip on the wheel. In my periphery, I noticed the lights of the stores dotting the streets and it took all of my self-control not to close my eyes as we went into a skid and then did a 180 degree turn. In that one prolonged moment, my eyes bulged cartoon-like, and I felt that strange floaty sensation you get right before you take off in an airplane, or at the top of a rollercoaster. Only my feeling wasn’t the excitement of traveling somewhere new or the thrill of coming down a giant hill at break-neck speeds. The moment punched into me the utter inevitability of losing everything—Peter’s love, my mother, Ro, my spinning truck. All out of my control. Constancia was screaming, I distantly registered. We skidded and spun some more, until finally, finally my truck stopped.
The swerve left the front of my Ford Explorer diagonally in the right lane while the back was in the left lane—a perfect target for an accident. I grabbed the clutch but before I could reverse gears and recover, the sound of brakes squealing told me I was too late. Everything sped up, from nothing into the instinctual. I reflexively pressed my right arm against Constancia’s body even though she wore a seat belt. We both lurched forward when a car hit us. The impact felt sharp and hard, but it wasn’t forceful enough to deploy the airbags. We were lucky.
“Oh, shit!” Constancia said.
The engulfing silence came a moment later. “Let me see how bad we’ve been hit.” What has happened to my new beautiful truck? I wondered.
She grabbed my right arm, “Don’t get out. Don’t leave me,” Constancia said.
“What? I have to get out,” I tried to reason with her, even though my hands were shaking. “Don’t freak out.”
With the back of her hand, she wiped away tears and sweat smudging her signature thick black mascara. Placing her hands on the dashboard, she held her arms straight out in front of her, locked. And, she still popped that damn gum. It’s a miracle she didn’t swallow or choke on it during the accident.
“It’ll be all right.” I said. I’ve got to get away from her for a moment, I thought. I could feel myself wanting to lash out at her. Everything in me was topsy-turvy. One minute, I felt connected to Constancia and the next minute, I was repelled.
“No, it won’t,” she said shaking her head and popping her gum even faster. Hunched in her little bolero jacket and swaddled in the scarf from Pearlie’s covering her now scabby and balding head, her breath picked up at a rapid pace as if she was about to have a panic attack.
I wanted to scream, “I just lost my best friend. I can’t take care of you. I should be the one freaking out!” But I said nothing and tried to focus on the finding out what the damage was to my truck and the car that hit us. A quick glance in my side mirror revealed someone struggling to open the other car’s door.
“Maybe you shouldn’t get out,” Constancia said.
“Can you do something useful and reach behind you for the duffel bag? Please?” I said.
With lips pursed and face tight, she did as I asked.
“See if there’s a windbreaker in it,” I said.
She rustled around in the bag, pulling out a yellow windbreaker after a few moments of searching.
I turned my attention back to the side view mirror and noticed a big brunette-haired woman standing hands on hips, a deep scowl on her face.
“You could just drive, right?” Constancia asked.
“What the hell is her problem?” I said ignoring Constancia. Why is she scowling? Without seeing the damage, I already knew I took the worst of it.
I braced myself and opened the door. When I came around the side and gave a quick glance at my truck, I let out a breath and gratitude flooded my body. I had two big dents, but she had taken the worst of it—her Toyota Camry’s bumper hung down, the driver’s side of the car sported a mess of wires and crushed metal, and her airbag had deployed.
“Look, I’m really, really sorry,” I said as I approached her in the near darkness. “A dog ran in front of the car.”
“You saved the damn dog, but look what you did!” she said shaking her head.
The rain’s pace picked up again and big cold drops splashed down on us. I wrapped my arms around myself though my thin windbreaker gave me little comfort against the assault.
“Are you OK?” I said.
She took another look at me, scanning me from head to toe. In her hazel eyes, I registered fear and surprise. I thought she might be in shock. The rain plastered her hair flat to either side of her face.
“I’m really sorry,” I said again.
The woman tightened her mouth and waited as if for inner confirmation before speaking, “I know you,” she said while cradling her left arm with her right hand. I hoped she wasn’t in a lot of pain.
“I don’t think so,” I said shaking my head.
“You’re one of the women from the TV,” she blurted.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“From the TV! The infection!” she repeated.
Just as I was about to reply I heard a thumping Honkkkkkkkkkkkkk, making my eardrum feel like it’s going to be blown out. I turned to see Constancia in the driver’s seat with her hand pressing against my horn as if her life depended on it. I feel a mushroom cloud of a headache bloom over my left eye and I hold my head for a few seconds hoping the nausea would pass. The floating feeling of going into the truck spin reappears inside me for a moment making me wobble.
I heard a car door open and slam. Constancia popped out of the truck and came to stand beside me.
For a moment the woman stood gaped mouth. “You, too! You’re both infected with God knows what,” she said backing away in terror. Her words hung in the air, condemning us.
Great, I thought, out of all the New Yorkers I have to get hit by the one that is delusional. She, however, looked as if she did know us. But how could that be? Why would we be on the news? Ro was dead and nothing was making any sense. The utter fatigue of the day finally hit me.
“Get in the car,” I barked at Constancia.
I gave the woman one last sane piece of advice, “Look, let me take your information. I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I think there’s been a mistake—”
“I’m going to call the police. You’re a health hazard. I shouldn’t even be near you. You need to turn yourselves in NOW, before you infect anyone else and the disease spreads,” she hissed. She then jogged back to her car and looked as if she dove in under the sagging airbag searching for something.
“Wait, it’s not what you think,” I began and then stopped. How was I going to explain it to her? Oh, lady, don’t get upset, we’re just women with strange infections who are on the lamb from the public health dept. I look like a spotted circus performer and so does my friend, but we’re perfectly harmless. I probably would have run from us, too, just by the way we looked. I tried to adjust Pearlie’s soaked scarf on my head.
“You’re not going to do a mother fucking thing,” Constancia screamed.
“Constancia, that’s not—” I said.
“Shut up! She’s looking for her pager or cellphone. Do you want the police to show up? She said she’s seen us on TV!”
A car honked and the driver flipped us off interrupting the scene. Cars had been zigzagging the past few minutes to avoid hitting us.
From behind us, I hear “Hey! Hey you! Whatcha looking for? Want to buy sumptum?” We have attracted the attention of a man and woman, across the street, who on first glance, when I stepped out of the truck, I registered as crackheads and had completely ignored. The woman wore a dirty red mini skirt showing off her skinny bruised legs and bare feet. Her companion looked no better wearing an oversize yellow T-shirt, dirty jeans and black sneakers. They were both soaked. Great, I thought, help has arrived.
Before I can register anything else from the couple, I feel air pass me and the next thing I know Constancia is over by the car and has yanked the scared woman by the hair out of her car. Although the woman was bigger, it was Constancia’s speed and catching her off guard that made the difference. My rail thin companion deftly wrestled the woman down to the ground.
“Help! Help!” the woman bleated. She struggled and tried to kick Constancia, but Constancia sat on her chest, knees on the woman’s arms pinning her to the wet ground. Constancia removed something from her jacket. She pressed a button and a shiny blade appeared, —a very long knife with a black handle; an outlawed switchblade.
“Goddamn bitch! You gonna tell? You gonna tell on us?”
All I can register in this absurd moment is how evenly and methodically Constancia is still popping her gum. Chew, chew, chew, crack. And how Constancia’s craziness has given our two onlookers probably the best free show of the evening. I had seen switchblades before in movies and television, never in real life, despite growing up in New York. Does she always carry that, I wondered, torn between feeling impressed and revolted.
“Oh shit! These some bad bitches!” the man from the street called out. He retreats.
“Constancia! Stop it! I said now trying to pull her off of the woman. I grabbed Constancia’s shoulders and pull, but everything coils and tightens and in her superhuman strength moment, I can’t budge her.
“Give it to me!” Constancia roars.
The helpless woman drops the cellphone from her hand. “Take it! Take it! Please don’t hurt me! I won’t say nothing, I swear! I swear!”
This is not happening.
I watch, unable to move, as Constancia tightens her small hand wrapped around the blade. Then, as she gets off the woman, I watch Constancia plunge the knife deep into the woman’s upper right shoulder. I hear the mean and sharp sound it makes going through the woman’s upper shoulder. With speed and precision, Constancia pulls the knife out.
“No!” I shout, finally able to find my voice.
“Now you have something to scream about,” Constancia hissed, backing away and grabbing the woman’s large black cellphone before darting back to my truck.
“Oooh, look what she’s done,” the crack addict woman cackles from across the road.
The injured woman contracts into herself, fetal position tight. Blood streams from her shoulder. She picks herself up and hobbles to her car, locking the door in a wet, bloody scramble. I want to help her but I’ve also got to get us back to Pearlie’s house.
Rushing car lights, snap me back into the urgency of the moment. We’ve got to get out of here. I run back to the truck and speed away, almost running two red lights to do so.
“Gimme the phone!” I yell at Constancia, once we’ve put a few blocks between us and the scene. Constancia casually tosses it my lap. I pull into an abandoned corner lot that might have once been a gas station, dial 911 to give them an approximate location of where the woman is and then get out of my truck and throw the phone as hard as I can into a pile of trash.
“Why the hell did you do that?” I scream at Constancia, grabbing her roughly by the shoulders. “God, a Puerto Rican with a knife—are you trying to be a fucking stereotype?”
“Stereotype! Look that woman was on our ass, and you needed help.”
“Help?! Fuck you! I can fucking take care of myself! If that’s your idea of help, then boy are you really fucked up! You better hope the ambulance gets there in time before she bleeds out.”
“I didn’t stab to kill her; it was just her shoulder. She’ll be OK,” she says casually as if talking about making a turkey sandwich.
I can barely breathe now and can feel the veins at my temples straining. “I’m sure that woman got my license plate down. So did anyone else that happened to be fucking watching! We could fucking go to prison, because of you!”
“She already knew who we were!”
“You don’t know that! She could have been delusional! She could have had a concussion!” I said.
“Are you awake? You livin’ in dreamland?”
“Shut up,” I scream, spittle flying from my lips. “Right now, I am trying to remember that you are actually a human being and not some wild ghetto animal.” Constancia retreated into her jacket and curled up into the seat and turned as much away from me as was physically possible. After a few moments of silence, I heard the window slide down. Constancia spit out the wad of gum into oncoming traffic.
At least I would have no gum popping on the ride back to Pearlie’s.