City Light Page 13

  “I thought you thought your father was so great.”

  “He’s a great person. That doesn’t make him a great father. A great father is there for his kids. Right? Your father sounds like a great father.”

  “He is.” We were looking at each other across the couch, and I thought about kissing her. What were we talking about our parents for? “Rosemary.…” I leaned toward her.

  “Let me see, you’re going to need clean sheets,” she said, and she went to get them.

  I followed her. “Rosemary.…” She took sheets and a blanket out of a closet. It was a narrow space and I was standing in her way. I was close. “Rosemary …” I said again.

  “Please. A little space.”

  I followed her back into the living room and we made up the couch together. “I never thought this was the way things would end tonight,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, here I am. In your house. Going to sleep on your couch. Where were we this morning?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “That’s the point. I just called you this evening. You didn’t even want to talk to me.”

  “I talked to you.”

  “Don’t forget, the last time I saw you, you punched me in the eye.”

  She tucked a sheet under the couch pillows and pulled it tight. “Don’t get any ideas. You helped me out tonight—I wasn’t going to let you sleep in the bus station.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “Look, it’s late and I’m tired. It’s obviously not the only reason. I don’t let just anybody come in the house. My father’s going to be home soon. And no matter what you think, I’m still not used to you. I haven’t forgotten Georgie.”

  “Okay, understood.”

  “And I don’t make friends easily.”

  “Understood.”

  “But if I do, it’s a friend for life.”

  “Well, that makes me hopeful.”

  “Right,” she said and went off to the bathroom.

  So where did I stand with her? I’d seen two Rosemarys, or maybe three or four, this evening. There was that pleading Rosemary (Don’t leave me alone with him!), and Queen Rosemary with her crown of snow-flakes, marching down the street with her attendants running behind her, and now this Rosemary, cautious and reserved and sincere and protecting herself. And I liked all of them.

  I was half asleep when I heard her father come in. I kept my eyes closed. I felt him standing near me. I smelled cigarettes and the outdoors. He went past and I heard a door open, then a moment later, Rosemary’s voice.

  I drifted off to sleep again. The next time I woke up, it was nearly morning. There was a pale light in the room. I got off the couch and got dressed. Then I went in the kitchen and drank a glass of water. It was six-thirty when I left the apartment.

  Chapter 25

  “George, wait a minute,” Rosemary called, coming after me. “Where’re you going?”

  The elevator doors slid open. “I have to go to work.”

  “I’ll go down with you.”

  We went down in the elevator together, not talking. “I don’t talk a lot in the morning,” she said.

  “Me, either,” I said.

  But then, when we went out, she gave me a really nice smile, and I felt that she had come out because of me.

  It was cold and gray out. I walked to the bakery with her. She bought rolls for her father’s breakfast. “Do you want some coffee?” she asked.

  “What are you having?”

  “Cocoa.”

  We got two cocoas and a couple of donuts and sat down at a little table against the wall. Rosemary didn’t look so much like an actress this morning. She looked plainer. “You look different,” I said.

  “My morning face. No mascara.”

  I glanced at my watch.

  “Do you have to go right away?” she asked.

  “My boss is tough,” I said. “I can’t be late.” And I told her how Lydia had chewed me out the first day I came to work.

  “Lydia? Oh, I remember. That was the job Georgie was trying to get.”

  Every time she said “Georgie,” I looked at her to see how she meant it. I wanted to forget Georgie, and I wanted Rosemary to forget “her,” too.

  That afternoon I went over to Leonard’s after work. “Hello, George,” the woman in my father’s chair said.

  “Oh, hello, Mrs. Bucci.” I admired the haircut my father had given her. “Very becoming.”

  “Don’t go away,” my father said. “I want to talk to you.” He lit a cigarette and drew me aside. “Well, what’s the story?”

  “What story?”

  “Last night.”

  “I missed the last bus, so I slept over in New York.”

  “This girl is from New York City? The girls around here aren’t exciting enough for you?”

  “Dad, cut it out.”

  He gave me a going-over about Rosemary. Who was she? What was her family like? She left her home? “Why does a girl leave home at fifteen?”

  “Sixteen, Dad.”

  “I’m just curious. First, things are off with Julie, which I still don’t understand, and now, this girl in New York.” More questions. Where had I met Rosemary? Through the computer? What kind of way was that to meet a person? Where did she go to school? Was her family Italian?

  I finally escaped. My mother was on the phone but motioned me to wait. When she hung up, she said, “That girl you stayed with—who is she? I don’t want to be nosy, I just want to get the facts straight.”

  “Her name’s Rosemary. I stayed in her apartment. Not in her bed. On the couch. Do you catch the distinction, Mom? Her father was there the whole time.”

  “He wasn’t there when you called me.”

  I leaned on the counter. Had my parents always been this way? Had I been taking it all this time and not knowing it? I used to go around bragging, saying I could say anything to my parents, they were my friends. “Rosemary’s father came home, Mom. If you want to know, did I sleep alone—”

  “Yes?”

  “Mom! I always thought you were so cool.”

  “Not with all this AIDS talk. Not when it has to do with my child.”

  “Child, Mom? Joanne, yes. But me? You think I would do something dumb?”

  “George.” She took my chin. “Why did you stay at her house last night?”

  “Mom, as I told you and Dad, I missed the last bus. Did you want me to sleep in the Port Authority?”

  “You could have called us. We would have come over.”

  “Mom, I’m almost eighteen,” I said, and I got out of there.

  Rosemary and I talked on the phone almost every night that week. We got to know each other again. I thought we’d dropped Georgie, but Rosemary didn’t forget. Every once in a while, she’d remind me. “Come on, talk to me, Georgie. Are we girlfriends or not?”

  Friday night she called and said, “Checking up on you, Farina. Want to come over and have breakfast Sunday morning?”

  “What’s it going to be?”

  “Rat poison sprinkled on broken glass.”

  “Oh, so you do like me a little?” I said.

  “You’re growing on me.”

  “Like a fungus.”

  “Enough small talk, Farina. Are you coming or not?”

  “No. You come here this time.” I said it just like that, but when she said yes, I let out a yell.

  Rosemary came over Saturday, and I quit work early so I could meet her bus. I had to promise Lydia two extra hours next week.

  “Snow!” Rosemary said when she got off the bus. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen real snow?” She had to make a snowball right away and throw it at a sign. She was wearing her long coat and jeans and the red beret. I hugged her, and she let me keep my arm around her.

  This was only the third time I’d seen her, but each time was like the first time. There was something surprising about her. She was always more vivid than what I imagined. I suppose I
still wasn’t used to her. Maybe it was the effect of having been on the computer with her so long. There was so much color and energy and warmth in the real Rosemary.

  “Well, here it is,” I said. “Historic Clifton Heights.” I was a little nervous. Rosemary was New York City. Men like Jasper, who talked about art, chased after her. Even if he was a jerk, it was unnerving. What did Clifton Heights have to offer her? Looked at from the point of view of a smart New Yorker, it was just a place to sleep at night.

  “Oh, it’s really a small town,” Rosemary said.

  “Sickening, right?”

  “I can’t believe New York’s just across the river. Look at those empty side streets! Look at all the dogs running around loose.”

  “Dog mecca of the world,” I said. “Pay attention, please. We’re now passing through downtown. Over there is the store where my father had his first business. Now a travel agency. Notice the village post office. And the village constabulary. And over here, we have the Sweetheart Shopping Mall, where everyone who’s anyone shops.”

  “I love it,” she said. “It’s just like home.”

  I looked at her but she was serious.

  “I never thought I’d hear myself saying that,” she admitted. “I’m a real cornflake, and I don’t even know it.”

  We walked over to my parents’ place. “Do they know we’re coming?” Rosemary asked. “Are we being watched? Are the neighbors telephoning ahead? If it was Champion, you can bet they would be.”

  The purple awnings and the flag outside Leonard’s impressed Rosemary. “This is classy. This is your parents’ place? They own it?”

  “Just your typical little beauty parlor,” I said.

  We went in. “Mom,” I said, “it’s my pleasure to introduce you to”—Rosemary gave me a nudge—“Mom, this is my friend, Rosemary Swift.” Then I brought Rosemary over to my father. He stopped work, shook hands with her, and started interrogating her.

  “Do you live around here?” He knew where she lived. “How long have you lived in New York?” He probably knew that, too.

  “We’ve got to move along, Dad.” I pulled Rosemary over to show her the photographs on the wall. “Here, we have all the famous people my father has shaken hands with. You recognize this guy?”

  “Of course. The Boss.”

  I took her around and introduced her to everyone. Before we left, I asked my father for the car to bring Rosemary home, but he refused. He didn’t want me driving into the city. “I’ll be careful,” I said, but it was still no.

  Rosemary and I stopped for a pizza. “Now I know your parents,” she said, folding her pizza. “I’m filling in the gaps. Who’s next? Your sister?”

  “Joanne’s away on a science trip with her friend Ernie Paik and some other kids. You could meet Troy, though.”

  “Great! And Julie? No, no, no.” She laughed, and wiped her mouth. “Forget that. I don’t really want to meet her. I’d just like to see her. I’m curious about her.”

  “Okay, let’s go over to her house,” I said.

  It was an impulse. I didn’t know if it was a good idea. Did I really want the two of them to meet? Maybe I wanted Julie to see that I was all right. More than all right. Did I want to make her jealous? Did I even care? I didn’t know the answer to any of those questions.

  And I didn’t find out, either, because Julie wasn’t around. We looked out over the cliff to New York City, then we walked over to Troy’s house and spoke to his mother. Troy wasn’t home.

  That was the day. Nothing exciting, but I was excited. Just being with Rosemary was exciting. When it was time for her to go, we were still talking. She said another audition was coming up. “I’m going to do better. I know what I have to work on.”

  “Here comes the bus,” I said, but we let it go by.

  I wanted to kiss her, but I still wasn’t completely sure how we stood with each other. I knew we were friends.

  “I should catch the next one,” she said, and then she let that one go by, too. “The next one for sure.” She was laughing. “Yes or no?”

  I kept thinking about that kiss. Too many people around. Too many distractions. Across the street, a parking lot. Down the block, a Dumpster. There was a tree nearby—that looked good—but there were kids playing there. No privacy. Not very romantic. This is a hell of a place for a kiss, I thought, and I kissed her.

  Chapter 26

  I worked the whole winter vacation. I was saving money with the vague thought of buying myself a car. I didn’t want to keep asking my parents every time I wanted wheels and either be refused or have to worry about my father inspecting the car for scratches. The cars were theirs. My mother’s car. My father’s car. And the place we lived—it was theirs, too. It was my parents’ house.

  I heard myself saying it. My parents’ house? Where did that come from? It had always been our car and our house. My room, my refrigerator, where I lived. I remembered the night I stayed over at Rosemary’s and being aware of her standing there, listening, while I explained myself to my parents. She wasn’t making those kinds of explanations for every little move she made. I never resented my parents before. Maybe it was just that I was getting older—I was almost eighteen. When do you stop needing your parents’ permission?

  On New Year’s Day, when nobody was at the store, Lydia’s place was broken into. I was the first one there the next morning. There was a police car in the parking lot. The door to the shop was open and the big plate glass window in front was smashed. A policeman came out from the back. “Who are you?” he said.

  “George Farina. I work here.”

  “Don’t move.” He had a flashlight in one hand and a nightstick in the other. “Let me see your ID.”

  He looked at my driver’s license and my school cafeteria card. “When was the last time you were here?”

  “Day before yesterday.”

  “Stand over there. Put that bike down. Drop it. Where were you last night?”

  “Me? Home.” Was he going to believe that? “You can check with my parents.” Then I remembered I’d gone over to Troy’s and we’d talked till after midnight.

  “Who else was with you?”

  “My sister. Then I visited my friend.”

  “What time?”

  “Around nine o’clock.”

  He had me bend over the car. “Get your hands up. Over the top of the hood. Spread your legs.”

  Here it comes, I thought. George, your life is not dull anymore. Now you’re going to get frisked. I laughed. I didn’t mean to. It was a nervous laugh, but it irritated him and he put the cuffs on me.

  Oh, this is great, I thought. Wait till I tell Rosemary. Then Lydia drove up in her Blazer. Her tires crunched over the broken glass. “Lydia!” I held up my cuffed hands.

  She got out of the car. It still took a few minutes of talking before the cuffs came off. “You’ve got a problem with your attitude,” the cop said to me.

  We went inside. The break-in was vandalism. Brainless stuff. Some idiots celebrating New Year’s had pushed bookcases over, smashed one of the antique glassfronts, and hacked apart a set of ladderback chairs.

  “Did you lock up when you left the other night?” the cop asked Lydia.

  “Of course I locked up.”

  “No alarm system here.”

  “I haven’t had the money to install one. I can never understand why anyone would want to rob a place like this.” She looked suddenly exhausted.

  The cop toed a beer can under his foot. “Is this yours?”

  “I don’t drink when I work and I don’t drink that cheap sludge. What are you going to do about this?”

  “I’ll make out a report. We’ll be talking to people, see if anybody saw anything.”

  “What if these bums come back?”

  “Usually they don’t hit the same place twice.”

  “But what if they do?” she insisted.

  “We’ll do the best we can for you. You better get yourself a burglar alarm and a guard dog.
”

  “I’m allergic to dogs.”

  After the cop left, Lydia was really steaming. “Did you see him writing things down? A report! That’s all they’re going to do, make a report. They’ll never catch anyone.” We made an inventory of the damage. Lydia picked up a drawer. It came from a Stickley piece. “George, see if you can find the desk.” She sat down on the floor. “I feel sick.”

  It took us all day to clean up, put aside things that could be repaired, and junk the rest. Later, I took the Blazer and drove to Paramus to buy half-inch plywood to board up the windows. That was tomorrow’s job. Temporarily we hung sheets of plastic. Then Lydia had to go home to take care of her baby. But she was worried because the store was essentially wide open.

  “If you want me to, I could stay here tonight,” I said.

  “Would you? I was thinking of coming back, but I don’t know if I can get a baby-sitter. Dan—my husband—works nights.”

  “No, I’ll stay.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and the way she said it made me feel really good.

  I called my mother to tell her, and I got an argument. “Why?” she said. “You don’t have to do it. It’s not your place, and if Lydia needs a watchman, she can hire someone.”

  “She’s hired me.”

  “You’re not a guard. What if they come back? It could be dangerous.”

  “Come on, Mom, it was just a bunch of drunken jerks.”

  “You don’t know that, George. Don’t act like it’s a lark.”

  “Mom, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “George, call me tonight before you go to sleep.”

  “Good-bye, Mom.”

  I didn’t sleep a lot that night. In the back there was a windowless storeroom with a door to the outside and another door that opened to the workroom. With the inside door open, it was warm enough, and I could see into the store. I slept on a folding cot.

  All night long, the plastic over the broken window rustled. I kept waking up and flashing my light around. I had a baseball bat under the cot. Sometimes cars went speeding by, and a couple of times sirens brought me awake, and I lay there, listening.