21

Montclair Mercedes sits on Prospect Avenue, which separates the lush greens of the Montclair Golf Club from the rustic beauty of the Eagle Rock Reservation Conservancy. Dewey Horton built this dealership from scratch, and in the thirty years he’s been in business, he’s had the pleasure of serving one president, three governors, countless freeholders, several New York Giants, two Grammy Award–winning rappers, and Bruce Springsteen. Mr. Horton wisely leveraged the dealership’s prime location and high-end clientele to open six other dealerships in northern New Jersey.

Despite his success, Mr. Horton dabbles in insecurity when he attends Wharton alumni events. After all, who gets an Ivy League MBA to sell cars?

Mr. Horton was pleased when Sandra decided to follow in her father’s footsteps and choose St. Peter’s for her undergraduate studies. He fully expected Sandra to go to graduate school, and she didn’t have to go to Penn or major in business—she could choose any discipline that would give her a leg up to accomplish more than he did.

Mr. Horton removes his black square glasses, rubs his eyes, and winces at the thought of his Baby Love as a single mother in one of the worst neighborhoods in New Jersey. It tears him up in ways that are beyond the bounds of explanation. There’s not a day that goes by that he doesn’t wonder if pulling the plug on Sandra’s tuition was the best way to handle her indiscretion.

He looks out onto the lot stocked with the finest automobiles that money can buy and replaces thoughts of Sandra with more comfortable ruminations on sales. No ups in two hours. But it’ll pick up. It always does.

Mr. Horton’s secretary Myrna peeks into the office. “There’s a gentleman here to see you named Andre Bolden.”

Mr. Horton furrows his brow. “Andre Bolden?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Give me a minute.”

Myrna leaves and Mr. Horton peers out of the window he had built to allow him to monitor activity on the sales floor. From this perch he’s seen everything from marital slugfests to a push-up contest between James Gandolfini and Rex Ryan. Today, however, it’s the characterless father of his grandson in a funereal Brooks Brothers suit.

He straightens his tie and buzzes Myrna. “Send him in.”

Andre paces in, looking sheepish, and extends his hand across the desk. Mr. Horton can’t bring himself to stand and makes no effort to smile or retrieve Andre’s hand.

“Sit down,” Mr. Horton says, more poisonous than he intended.

Andre smiles uncomfortably. “Thank you.”

Mr. Horton gives Andre a long, thorny stare, but Andre seems determined to meet his gaze no matter how hot his displeasure.

“What are you doing here?” Mr. Horton asks finally, removing his glasses and leaning across the desk. He sees a touch of fear in Andre’s eyes.

“Were you struggling to come up with words when you were tricking the wits of my daughter?”

Andre swallows. “Mr. Horton, I’m really sorry about everything that’s happened up until this point.”

“And what is an apology supposed to do?”

“Hopefully? Start a conversation.”

Mr. Horton sits back in his chair, puzzled. “So what do you have to say for yourself?”

Andre takes a moment to answer. “First I’d like to say that I really do love your daughter—”

Mr. Horton springs up with finger extended and mouth agape before he catches himself. He clasps his fingers together, lowers his chin, and covers his mouth with the locked knuckles of both fists.

“And I want to get back together with her,” Andre continues.

Mr. Horton’s eyes poof like a mushroom cloud. “You mean marry her?”

“Yes, sir. That’s what I mean.”

An excruciatingly long beat punctuated by a torturous silence.

“Andre, what are your spiritual underpinnings?”

“Spiritual underpinnings?”

“What God do you serve? Do you serve God at all?”

“With all due respect, Mr. Horton, I don’t see what that has to do with Sandra and me getting back together.”

This young man doesn’t have a clue.

Nevertheless, Mr. Horton is intentional in his calm. “Being a husband is about more than paychecks and chest hair. A man is supposed to be the spiritual head of his household. That means you’re the leader when it comes to matters of God and the spirit. And if you forsake that responsibility, it’s impossible for you to adequately lead your wife and children.”

Andre seems to be listening, but he looks lost.

“You’ve never heard any of this before, have you?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“So what does marriage mean to you?”

“Basically, a man and a woman committing themselves to each other for life, and in me and Sandra’s case, raising Little Dre and, hopefully, having a couple more Little Dres.”

“And in your world, God has no part in that?”

“Sandra is getting back into the God thing and that’s cool, but for me, God is more a concept than anything.”

Mr. Horton goes silent.

“You’re into God, Mr. Horton, but look at you. You have reasons to believe. But God ain’t concerned about me. My life is messed up right now.”

Andre shakes his head and appears to be scuffling with his emotions. “I didn’t come here to talk about this, Mr. Horton. I came to apologize, and to let you know that I want to do right by your daughter . . . and to ask you for a job.”

Okay, now I get it.

“Andre, I’m going to be straight with you. I don’t like you very much. And after all that you’ve done, I can’t believe that you have the brass to come in here and ask me for a job.”

Andre parks his eyes on the floor. “So no matter what I do, the relationship between us won’t change?” He looks up.

Mr. Horton is flush with frustration. On the one hand, he thinks it best if Sandra, Andre, and Little Dre work it out, but on the other hand, a spiritless man is a recipe for disaster in any marriage to his daughter.

Andre stands. “Take care, Mr. Horton.” He jets out of the office without attempting to shake.

Mr. Horton picks up the phone and watches Andre scurry across the lot.

Sandra is surprised to see her father’s number blink on her cell phone. She steps away from the maître d’ desk and answers quickly. “Daddy, are you okay?”

“I’m okay, I’m just wondering what’s not working in the head of your ex . . . boyfriend, or whatever you call the father of my grandson.”

“What are you talking about, Daddy?”

“He just came here in a suit and asked me for a job. Cloaking the whole mess in an apology and some business about wanting to get married.”

“To who?”

“Aretha Franklin, Sandra. Who do you think?”

Sandra shakes her head. I know it must’ve killed Andre to do that.

“I’m telling you, I was mad enough to curse!” Mr. Horton says.

Sandra chuckles. When she was growing up, Mr. Horton would sometimes tell her what he was like before he got “saved,” but those stories clashed with the only version of her father that she ever knew—Dr. Hardness, tough, clean.

“You’re laughing?”

“I’m sorry, Daddy. The idea of you cursing someone out, especially Andre, is funny to me.”

“Baby Love, I don’t think this is funny, particularly since Andre wants to marry you. Did you know that he’s a borderline atheist?”

“Daddy, you’re overreacting. And Andre and I aren’t even together, so you don’t have to worry about me marrying him.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“About what?”

“Your situation. Your life. Something’s got to give, Baby Love. And I’m here to help you. So if you want to go back to school, I’ll cover it. I’ll even pay your rent while you go.”

Sandra twists one of her braids and looks across the empty restaurant. “It’s getting busy here, Daddy. I’m going to have to talk to you later.”

It’s 11:27 p.m. and Andre has been tucked away in the Pavonia/Newport train station for the last two hours. He found a New York Times on a bench and read through every story in just under an hour. Not willing to be alone with his thoughts, Andre starts through the Times a second time.

After every other sentence, he looks up to see if anyone is watching him. Thus far he’s invisible, yet he feels as if everyone knows that he’s been in the same spot while no less than fifteen trains rumbled by.

His stomach loudly grouses about its hollow state, and he remembers the bowl of cereal that he had at Rock’s this morning. The thought of magically delicious frosted oats and sweet, colorful marshmallows casts a spell on Andre that dazzles his digestive juices.

He flips open his phone and dials Sandra, only to realize that he’s underground without a signal.

A homeless man trudges over and parks next to him.

Four empty benches and he chooses this one.

A wild odor whiffs from the homeless man’s filthy body He looks at his watch. “The sun comes up in another eight hours. How many more times in that time are you going to read that same Times?”

Andre eyes the man. He is white with a fantastically wrinkled face, a messy red beard, and matching, bushy eyebrows that he raises when Andre’s gaze doesn’t abate. He extends his hand and Andre reluctantly shakes.

“When I first came underground, I wore a suit too. I was vice president of global transaction services at Investment Banking Systems. You heard of them?”

Andre nods his head as the man hastily rubs his.

“In 2005 I’m in Frankfurt Airport, and . . . somehow my thoughts start going faster than I could manage. One thing led to another . . . and that’s basically how I wound up down here. But it’s not as bad as you think. Responsibility’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

He looks at Andre. “You’re wondering how I knew you were homeless? It’s pretty obvious.” He points to a woman in a business suit on the opposite platform. “She’s homeless too. Know how I know? She had on the same suit yesterday and she hung out down here for three hours before she finally got on a train. I’m sure she slept in a car because it’s safer than sleeping in the station, especially for a pretty woman like her. Probably still has a job but can’t make her mortgage. What’s your story?”

Andre stands as the next train pulls into the station. “I don’t have a story and I’m not homeless.” Andre steps onto the train, and when the doors close the old man jams his thumbs in his ears, wiggles his fingers, and wags his tongue. Then he points at Andre and snickers. He’s missing the same three teeth that Auntie Cheeks was without.

Andre stands in front of 64 Martin Luther King Drive. It’s 3:47 a.m. He pushes open the door on rusty hinges and climbs the rickety stairs to the second floor. Bobby “Blue” Bland’s “I’ve Been Wrong So Long” wails through the crack under Mr. Burrell’s door.

Andre does his signature knock. Sandra doesn’t answer so he whips out his cell phone. A text message buzzes through. Your bill is 60 days past due. To avoid an interruption in your service—

Andre deletes it.

The sound of four locks being released fills the dark hallway. Sandra opens the door. Her hair is disheveled and she appears to be absorbed in fatigue.

“What are you doing here, Andre?”

“I woke up on the train so I decided to come over here. I’d like to come in.”

Sandra closes her eyes and pushes open the door.

Andre lowers his hackles because he expected a fight. He had rehearsed every point and rebuttal on his walk from the train station. He sits on the couch, removes his shoes, and loosens his tie.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Sandra asks.

“I told you I was sleeping on the train. Why should I do that when you have a place?”

“I’ve already told you that we’re not married, so we’re not going to act like a married couple.”

“Married couples aren’t the only people who spend the night together, Sandra! Stop killing me with the morality play.”

Sandra reopens the front door and leans against it. “Good night, Andre.”

“So what happens if I refuse to leave?”

Sandra yawns and covers her mouth, looking too tired to fight.

“Sandra, please.”

“Andre, please. Respect my house and what I’m trying to do here.”

Sandra leaves the door ajar and drags herself to the bedroom. She returns with her purse. “Here’s fifty dollars. It’s all I have. That should get you a few nights at one of the SROs around here.”

Andre takes the money. “So you’d rather me shack with dope fiends and hookers instead of here with you?”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“What do I have to do to make things right between us?”

She sighs.

“I don’t have anything, Sandra. And what I want more than anything is you.”

“I’m not having this conversation at four o’clock in the morning.”

Andre starts to leave but turns. “I don’t care if you want to hear it or not, but I love you, Sandra. And I’m not afraid to say it anymore.”

“Stop doing this to yourself, Andre.”

“I’m only acknowledging the truth.”