BIG RIGS SWOONED DOWN FROM concrete cloverleafs onto multilaned highways and filed past. Mom dozed off on my shoulder. I couldn’t sleep. I cracked open Sea Devils, only to find myself continuously rereading page thirty-seven. It was Dad. I was unable to get out of my mind the image of him standing in front of those rusty shell-backed chairs we’d sat on together all those years. I must have eventually passed out. Next thing I knew, Mom was shoving me, whispering in my ear for me to wake up. It was time to get off.
I was squinting and my neck hurt. Sea Devils was crumpled up beside me, and my lap was covered in peanut shells. I flicked them off and followed clumsily after Mom with my suitcase in hand. I stepped out of the dank, airless cabin and down onto a curb that stank of piss and garbage. A black lab was dragging his butt across the sidewalk, streaking it brown. A woman dressed in two pairs of trousers and drinking from a bag walked up and asked me for spare change. Mom was standing by the shiny metal keel of the bus, putting her hair back together as she waited for the driver to open the hatch. I ran over to her. Where are we?
I was surprised to discover that school in New York didn’t start until after Labor Day. Which I guess, in a way, was a boon. I’d just assumed that every place started when we did back home. School wasn’t exactly my top priority just then, but getting a little extra summer was always a good thing. It helped knowing that I wouldn’t be joining a class of complete strangers a month into the school year. I didn’t want to be that oddball kid standing in the open doorway beside his teacher that everybody’s staring at. I’d had that feeling once and didn’t want it again.
Mom had counted on being able to get a job as a bookkeeper, but something about her not having her papers in order was holding things up. She’d found the brochure for the employment agency sitting atop the end table in our rooming house. No matter her explanations and demonstrations of all she knew about broker statements and tax returns and accounts receivable and payroll or her facility with ledgers and financial reports, everyone just shrugged and claimed that it was out of their hands without a previous employer who would vouch for her.
It’s called a work history, ma’am. Certainly you must have at least one? I mean, it’s obvious that you know how to use a ten-key. We just need a piece of paper corroborating the professional experience from which your skills came. It’s standard procedure. It protects us in the event that you royally screw up down the road—basically saying to our clients that we weren’t complete imbeciles for handing over their books to you. Surely you can understand that?
When Mom explained why she was unable to provide such a thing, the lady suggested she enroll in a class or get a certificate or some other form of accreditation. Sure, it would take her a little time, but on the other hand, she could do it with her eyes closed. When Mom explained that she didn’t have money for that, her voice started to crack. She looked like she was about to start crying when the lady offered her a job cleaning office buildings instead. Her first paycheck didn’t come for a whole month, at which point she discovered that the Imperial Employment Agency had deducted a quarter of her wages. Mom had never heard of such a thing. She couldn’t believe that was legal. The woman from the agency said, It’s all detailed in the contract you signed, ma’am. When Mom asked to see it, the woman got up and retrieved it from a file drawer. She smiled primly and showed Mom. Mom said yes, but it was way down toward the very bottom of a page busy with very small print. Mom had to hold the page up close to her reading glasses to be able to make out the words.
On the train ride home, Mom said that would be the last time she made that mistake. What struck me was the amount of times I heard Mom utter those very words, time and again, that first year in New York. Huey, it’ll be the last time I make that mistake. Come to find out, there are a lot of rookie mistakes you have to make in a town like this before you’ve exhausted them all.
For all the ease with which Mom had landed that cleaning job, it took another year before she finally landed at the Blumenthals’. When the lady from the agency called, she rattled on for a whole five minutes about how it was a plum assignment, and all the stuff that Mom would be expected to do, how she’d have to dress, and things to avoid saying in front of her new boss. Mom put her hand over the mouthpiece and asked if I thought she was good enough to cook for other people. I just looked at her. She took her hand from the phone and accepted the job.
For all the hoops that Mom had to jump through before the Blumenthals finally hired her, it only took a year for the Blumenthal twins to declare their undying love for her and for Mister Blumenthal to fall in love with her cooking and for Missus Blumenthal to fall in love with her cleaning and to ask what on earth she’d have to do to keep her for life. That was around the time Missus Blumenthal decided to pull some strings and get me into Claremont Prep.
Mom came home that night and poured herself a glass of vino—she’d started calling it that shortly after having started at the Blumenthals’—plopped herself down on the sofa, and made it sound like it’d been her plan all along. When I came to find out that Claremont was interested in me primarily because I was colored, I worried that maybe I wasn’t dark enough, only to learn from Missus Blumenthal, on the taxi ride back from the guided tour, that they loved boys like me. She patted my knee and assured me that I was different, but not too different.
It didn’t hurt that Mom had talked me up. She called me the next Ignatius Sancho, Satchel Paige, and Booker T. Washington all rolled up in one. If you have no idea who they are, don’t feel bad; neither did I. I think they were famous accountants or bookkeepers or something. I’d never heard of any of them. I didn’t realize until much later the full extent to which she’d talked me up. Which, now that I think about it, is probably why she freaked when Mister McGovern, having gotten hold of her at the Blumenthals’, informed her that I’d been taken into police custody.
Mister McGovern went to great lengths to convince me that despite my standing out like a chimp in a china shop, everyone’s heart was in the right place at Claremont. Which I knew in my heart to be true. Which is why I could have sworn that I was only going to get a slap on the wrist and maybe lectured about the risks of becoming just another colored boy with a criminal record.
Then an actual officer of the law arrived, with handcuffs and everything. After a couple of minutes conferring privately with Mister McGovern, the police officer escorted me downstairs. He opened the back door of his patrol car, then told me to watch my head and closed it gently behind me, kind of like Froeger’s chauffeur does. So that was nice. When he got in, I told him the quickest way to my place, then explained that my mom was still at work and wouldn’t be home for another three hours. He asked if I was a latchkey kid. Then he shook his head, sighed, and said he saw this sort of stuff all the time.
His name was Officer Pavlicek. I remember because I’d stared at his name tag in disbelief while he’d slapped the handcuffs over my wrists. I shouted out that I was going to sue the pants off Mister McGovern, Claremont, Officer Pavlicek, and the New York City Police Department for wrongful arrest and unlawful custody of a minor, not to mention public humiliation, slander, defamation of character, and probably fifty other things. I figured knowing the arresting officer’s name would likely come in handy every bit as much as the pictures I planned on getting of my bruised and chafed wrists.
Officer Pavlicek headed north on Fifth Avenue, turned right on 125th Street, driving past all the storefront churches, juke joints, smoke shops, five and dimes, barbershops, billiard halls, and discount grocery stores they’ve got up there, and headed straight across the Triborough Bridge, all the while talking into his rearview mirror about how us mouthy rich kids think it’s all a big joke and how we think that we have it all figured out, not realizing that the world’s been handed to us on a silver platter. I couldn’t help but grin. I was about to lean forward and set him straight, but then decided that I kind of liked being mistook for a Bilmore or a Hamilton. So I sat back in the thick, textured vinyl seat and kept my mouth shut and took in all the tugboats and garbage barges clogging up the East River as we blew through the tollbooth.
We pulled up to the front door of one of those special sanatoriums they have clustered together out there on Randall’s Island to keep all the loonies away from the rest of us. The clean-cut colored man sitting at a desk stationed just inside the heavy front door asked if I was violent. Officer Pavlicek shook his head no and proceeded to remove my handcuffs. When he had them off, the colored man, who was dressed in all white, asked to see the underside of my forearms. He assured Officer Pavlicek that it was SOP. Officer Pavlicek obliged, then hesitated with both of my wrists in hand at the sight of my right arm. He said, Jesus Christ, kid, your arm is bent to shit. Who do you go to for repairs, Dr. Strangelove? He chuckled before remembering what he was looking for.
He’s clean.
The colored man behind the desk nodded.
Officer Pavlicek said sayonara and left. The colored man handed me a plastic tub and instructed me to change into the clothes inside it. I looked at him, confused, and asked what I was supposed to do if they didn’t fit.
I hesitate to talk about the time I spent in that facility because I’d like to someday manage to forget about it. Naturally, I was shaken. I’d just been dropped off at a fortified cement vault of a building with no way out. I wasn’t entirely sure what it was exactly, although, to be sure, I was starting to have a few guesses. I was standing inside a yellow circle painted on the concrete floor. The changing area was wide open and freezing cold. Something about it made me feel like I was standing in the middle of an empty stadium. As I stood there, taking in all the steel and concrete and thick wired glass and Plexiglas and closed doors, it dawned on me what I was in store for. It was just like Mom had said: the colored man behind the desk was going to try and make me forget who I was. Which, however tenuous, was all that I had. Aside from Mom, it seemed to be the one constant in my life: I was a Claremont boy. I decided that I wasn’t going to let the colored man behind the desk take that away from me. When he asked me a second time to kindly change into the clothes in the tub, I politely refused. I said that if it was all the same to him, I would prefer not to. The orderly sighed, nonchalantly picked up a black telephone, and made a very short call. I don’t think he said more than two or three words into the handset. In short order, two white men, also dressed in white, were standing on the perimeter of the yellow circle painted on the floor, looking at me. They asked the colored man at the desk where my restraints were. The orderly explained that I’d been compliant until he’d requested for me to change out of my blazer, at which point, I became belligerent. One of the men issued me a warning. He explained what would happen if he had to enter the circle. He gave me one last opportunity. I took a reflexive step back, away from him. He stepped into the circle and hurled me to the floor, pressing the side of my face against the cold cement while the other man forcibly undressed me, one clothing item at a time. When they at last had all my clothes off, including my underwear, they kicked them from the circle, wiped the sweat from their temples, and gave me the option to either go naked or put on the clothes in the plastic tub.
I changed. The two men shepherded me down a narrow hall and up several flights of stairs. They tossed me into the back of a single-file line composed of other kids my age, dressed in the same avocado color I was. The man told me to go with them. Two other men accompanied the line, one at either end of it, and they were also dressed in white. Neither took notice of me as they barked out a series of names—told this person to slow down, that person to speed up, this person to stop talking, that person to stay in line. We passed through a series of heavy steel doors and bare hallways and entered a long corridor that dead-ended at a set of double doors, where we were told to stop. I recognized the sound coming from behind the doors. It was a squeaking sound. Balls were being bounced. The guard opened one of the doors, and we plodded into a small gymnasium, single file.
• • •
THE COMMON AREA was essentially a bus terminal, repurposed. Steel-legged plastic chairs were stationed around the concrete wall on the periphery. Instead of waiting six hours for a connecting bus, I sat, alternately glancing up at the wall-mounted TV and over to the pay phone, desperate for one of the other kids to get off it. I called Mom at the first opportunity. She asked if I was okay and told me that she’d spoken with the authorities and assured me that she was doing everything she could to get me out, but that it wasn’t as straightforward as one might hope, and in the meantime to be cooperative—that was the main thing.
I was in the middle of saying Okay, okay, okay, okay when I had to cut our conversation short. I was being summoned out into the hallway to speak with some guy dressed in slacks and a button-down who was waiting for me there. He was a small man with wispy hair and a gawky way of talking. He informed me that his name was Dr. Elias and asked me if I was aware of where I was and why I’d been taken into custody. Then he asked if I was aware of the gravity of the situation.
I nodded yes.
He asked me if now was a good time to talk.
I nodded yes.
He said, Good. He told the guard that I wouldn’t require restraints, and the two of them escorted me through the maze of narrow concrete passageways and reinforced doors into a small, cramped office on a different floor. The guard left us alone. The doctor asked that I kindly make myself comfortable. He glanced over the contents of the manila folder in his hand and raised his eyebrows with a glance up.
Claremont Prep, eh? Not bad.
He turned back to the folder, glanced over it quickly, then put it aside. He looked at me squarely and said that on the surface, my case suggested a deep, highly suppressed underlying pathology, and that it was his job to discover the nature of those problems, which he was going to do by means of an evaluation. When I told him that I felt fine, he said that whether a single evaluation would be sufficient or more would be needed, he couldn’t say as yet. In any case, I was not to worry. Although it was true that the state of New York paid his salary, he was basically working for me. He was merely to be the conduit to the state court’s juvenile penal system of the important information I was to provide him and which he would evaluate so that the courts could determine the best possible course forward.
As in, what to do with me?
Correct—Hubert, is it? Yes. Correct, Hubert. An appropriate course of action, you might say. If that helps you understand it better.
Dr. Elias said that he needed specific information and insight to best serve me. He really wanted to make sure that I got it right the first time. There would be no second time. He took great pains to make that clear. He kept coming back to it—that if I wasn’t careful, I would only end up hurting myself; that the only person who had anything to lose here was me. He took a tape recorder from his drawer and set it atop his desk and asked if his recording our conversation made me feel anxious. I shook my head no.
There was no need for me to worry, I was assured. He wasn’t trying to make me anxious. He merely needed to record our conversation so as to accurately document my responses for the state. They would be submitted as evidence. Then he said that he wanted to talk to me a little about that, too. He would be asking me some difficult questions, but it was very important that I open up to him—that I not hold anything back. Concealing information from him would only risk hurting things for me down the road. I was to take the time that I needed with every question and answer as honestly and frankly as possible. And under no circumstances was I to fear that there might be negative repercussions to any of my answers. That was the best way that he could help me. If I didn’t, well, that invited unnecessary risks.
I sat up.
Unnecessary risks? Before you go turning that thing on, mister—what’s the worst that can happen? I mean, what are we talking here, exactly?
Well, Dr. Elias equivocated. That’s a tough question, honestly. And not really for me to say. But speaking to you as one human being to another, in the worst case, that could mean being taken away from your mother.
Wha—?
Yes. Unfortunately or fortunately, whatever your opinion, the court retains the legal right to do so. If they determine that course of action appropriate, it is not only their prerogative but their obligation to do so—for example, if they thought that doing so would protect you.
When I asked Dr. Elias where they would put me, he said that he didn’t know. Could be anywhere.
You mean, like another family?
Literally anywhere, Hubert. A family, a facility, an institution—impossible to say. Could be anywhere. A place like this. Even jail. Impossible to say.
Dr. Elias assured me that if I were cooperative, it didn’t have to be that way. But first, he needed to talk to me about a few things. He looked at his watch and said that we should get on with it because the sooner he could turn his evaluation over to the juvenile court the better. The family of the boy I’d poisoned would no doubt have the option to press charges, and stalling wouldn’t help me any. The sooner we got down to brass tacks, the sooner he could provide useful information to the courts and the sooner we could be on our way to resolving this matter. Ideally, soon enough to potentially sway them from pressing charges.
Charges?
Dr. Elias nodded yes. But this information will only help your case. Which is what I’m trying to impart to you. It’s very unusual that something gets discovered in cases like this that can hurt the defendant. I simply can’t imagine what that would be. That’s why you need to be open with me. If nothing else, it demonstrates that you’re being cooperative. And that’s a good thing, right? So this is our first order of business. Are you ready?
When I said, Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Hold on with the tape recorder and asked what the charges were, Dr. Elias hesitated. He wasn’t sure.
It really hinges on whether that boy survives or not. Now, as I understand it, he’s still in critical condition. But my information is several hours old already. He might be changing by the minute, for all we know. I am not receiving updates as to his condition. That is not for me to do. That is for someone else to do. Right now my job is to help you—which is why this is an extremely delicate situation. So we’re going to just have to wait and see. Right now no one can really say. But if he dies, it could very well end up being aggravated manslaughter.
I was sure I hadn’t heard right. Manslaugh—?
He nodded, gravely.
For God’s sake! I was just trying to teach him a lesson!
The door opened. The doctor tried to wave the orderly off, but he remained by the door.
It’s not my job to get into legal matters with you, Hubert. All I can tell you is that the prosecutor will decide what charges to seek, and a judge will decide the case, Hubert, based on evidence provided by the prosecution, the defense, and me. Now, I can tell you procedural information and am perfectly happy to do so, but none of that is going to help you right now. Right now, we have got to focus on the nuts and bolts. Our interview will be given to the prosecution at the point of arraignment to help them determine if they desire to seek charges. If they do, it will be used by the judge and jury in the prosecution of the case. That is all I can say right now.
But if he’s okay—then it’s all okay, right?
Possibly. But it’s entirely possible, on the other hand—well, it’s conceivable that they could pursue attempted manslaughter.
I wasn’t trying to kill him! I just wanted him to know what it fuckin’ felt like! Why can’t anyone understand that?
Calm down, son. Listen, Hubert. Now we’re getting way off track. I know that this is a lot to have to take in. You have no criminal record. And that’s good—very good—in a case like this. I’ve spoken with your mother, and she sounds like a decent woman. And she’s assured me that I will have your full cooperation. So I think this is going to all get straightened out. That’s my honest-to-God prognosis at this point. That’s what I told her. But it is in no way guaranteed. And you would be in gross misapprehension of the situation to think that it was. And I would be in gross dereliction of my professional responsibilities to lead you to believe that it was. Things can and do go wrong. The unexpected does happen. Happens all the time, in fact. Now, I think you’ll agree that what you did was not normal. Can we agree that that’s not who you want to be? Am I right? Because otherwise they’re going to think you’ve gone off the deep end. And trust me, you don’t want some overcaffeinated prosecutor thinking that you’re in some kind of tailspin. Because he will lock you up and throw away the key because you are evidently a threat to everyone around you. Am I making myself clear? At the end of the day, if they are not confident that you are redeemable, this is where you will end up. Capisce? Okay. C’mon. You look like a good Italian boy. We’ll get this all sorted out, eh? So let’s get to work. I’m sure your mother’s worried sick about you. And we can’t have any more of that. Agreed? Good. In the meantime, let’s just pray for that boy. What’s his name?
Because I understand that he is not doing so hot right now. And if he dies—and even if he lives—they may just try to take you away from your mother.
• • •
ONE DAY THE world seemed to be my oyster, and the next I was in a cold cell, listening to a man farther down the corridor shout out that it was lights out. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Yet, even if I hadn’t been able to see it, there had to have been some sort of a progression. I kept telling myself that. I just had to be able to see it—but all I could make out was the dark outline of the ceiling. It was the great irony of my life that the things that I knew least of all were the things that were closest to me. After that first evaluation, Dr. Elias concluded that I would likely require others, because, as he put it, some of my problems were like a basketball that was pressed so close to my face that I couldn’t even tell that it was a ball. So yes, I guess you could say that Dr. Elias helped me see that all this time, my deepest problems were akin to a basketball that was being shoved in my face.
Then one day, a pudgy administrator with a stud in his right ear came into the lounge and announced that patient number 67184-Y had been cleared for release. I looked down on my shirt. That was me. My mother had completed my discharge papers and was waiting for me downstairs. I was free to go. He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. As if the past several days had been a cruel joke, like I could have walked out of there at any time.
Mom was waiting for me outside. I expected her to go ballistic, I really did. But she just undid her scarf and hugged me tight, like she did the day she finally got around to telling me the truth about Toby.