Marine Park(55)

            You thinking about finishing at Brooklyn this year? he asks.

            Maybe, I say, maybe.

            I know some kids who took a while there because they were working, he says. He looks at his legs.

            It’s all right, Lorris, I say.

            I think about how infrequently you say someone’s name out loud. I mean someone close to you, like a good friend or a brother. That girl from the Met, I think I might have said her name once. Leila, I said. Why didn’t you call? she said.

            I put a finger diagonal across my mouth and take the four steps left to the door. Lean my shoulder into it hard and the lock just clicks. I pull my cell phone out of my pocket, open it up to use the light.

             • • •

Later, back in the car, we listen to one song before heading home. I don’t even remember what it was. They played a lot of Michael Jackson that summer, it could have been him. Lorris and I had always liked his high voice, his style. Neither of our voices ever dropped much.

            In the alleyway, the red bike was locked up against the fence, telling us that our father was home. He liked to bike to the movies, liked the ride back. It meant longer on his own time. It was only out in Sheepshead Bay, and he rode home along the water. When we closed the gate behind us, I saw the bathroom light go on, our mother doing recon. When we walked in, she’d be quiet as anything, like she’d been asleep since spring.

            When they brought Lorris home from the hospital when he was born they gave me a toy cement mixer truck. I wanted to drive construction back then. I don’t remember but they said they did it so I wouldn’t be upset. I remember that I never used to be that attached to anything. Once we were playing cowboys and Indians and I shot a bow and arrow into his chest and he cried, but I didn’t feel it. Hurts, he said over and over. There was a circle mark in the center from the plastic suction arrow tip. I’d licked it before pulling the string back to see if it would stick.

            There was nothing much in the Lott House. I was expecting a room somewhere, all decorated like the ancestors were about to return. Period pieces of furniture and a table set with wood forks. Some gaping hole in the floor where the tunnels were, tunnels that we could jump into and wander the underground borough by night, dust flecks falling from the side walls where our wide arms trailed for balance. There were just fold-up chairs from Parks Department events. I guess there was nowhere else to put them. I pulled one out and kicked it open, slid it across the tile floor to Lorris, kicked one open for myself. For a minute he let us sit there. You OK? he said. Yeah, I said. Yeah, absolutely. Do you mind if we go now? he asked. He looked like he wasn’t sure. I wanted to say how much I liked this place. I liked the way the wood felt under my feet. While I put the chairs back in the rack Lorris went out and waited for me by the car.





CAR PARKED ON QUENTIN, BEING WASHED





On the morning of the funeral Lorris slept until his father woke him. Mr. Favero had woken earliest, so he went in the shower first. He shaved and came out. Wake up the boys, Mrs. Favero whispered, while she took off her faded T-shirt and bra. Mr. Favero didn’t look at her bare back, although some mornings he did. She stepped into the shower. Mr. Favero walked into Jamison’s room, where they were both sleeping in the air-conditioning, and put a hand on each of their heads.

            Lorris had come home from college the day before. He was only staying for the weekend. Mr. Favero had waited on Thirty-Fourth Street, off Seventh Avenue, watching for the Megabus to come in. Then he and Lorris had left the car parked and walked into a corner coffee shop. Lorris bought his father a cup and a croissant, with a five from his wallet. Lorris drank a cup of tea himself, something Mr. Favero had never seen him do before. It was a dark little room, empty except for people using the bathroom before getting on a bus, or passengers carrying heavy bags looking for a bottle of water or directions afterward. The two of them sat at a window table and watched the charter buses slowly empty and leave. Mr. Favero asked questions, informed by their phone conversations, about school. When the coffee was gone they went outside to drive back to Brooklyn.