The Best American Short Stories 2013 (14 page)

You certainly never talk about it. Until senior year, when you meet the mujerón of your dreams, the one who leaves her moreno boyfriend to date you, who drives all your little chickies out of the coop. She’s the one you finally trust. The one you finally tell.

They should arrest that crazy bitch.

It wasn’t like that.

They should arrest her ass today.

Still, it is good to tell someone. In your heart you thought she would hate you—that they would all hate you.

I don’t hate you. Tú eres mi hombre, she says proudly.

When you two visit your mother, she brings it up. Doña, es verdad que tu hijo taba rapando una vieja?

Your mother shakes her head in disgust. He’s just like his father and his brother.

Dominican men, right, doña?

These three are worse than the rest.

Afterward, she makes you walk past Miss Lora’s building. There is a light on.

I’m going to go have a word with her, the mujerón says.

Don’t. Please.

I’m going to go.

She bangs on the door.

Negra, please don’t.

Answer the door! she yells.

No one does.

You don’t speak to the mujerón for a few weeks after that. It’s one of your big breakups. But finally you’re both at a Tribe Called Quest show and she sees you dancing with another girl and she waves at you and that does it. You go up to where she’s seated with all her evil sorority sisters. She has shaved her head again.

Negra, you say.

She pulls you over to a corner. I’m sorry I got carried away. I just wanted to protect you.

You shake your head. She steps into your arms.

Graduation: it’s not a surprise to see her there. What surprises you is that you didn’t predict it. The instant before you and the mujerón join the procession, you see Miss Lora standing alone in a red dress. She is finally starting to put on weight; it looks good on her. Afterward, you spot her walking alone across the lawn of Old Queens, carrying a mortarboard she picked up. Your mother grabbed one too. Hung it up on her wall.

What happens is that in the end she moves away from London Terrace. Prices are going up. The Banglas and the Pakistanis are moving in. In a few years, your mother moves too, up to the Bergenline.

Later, after you and the mujerón are over, you will type her name into the computer, but she never turns up. On one D.R. trip you drive up to La Vega and put her name out there. You show a picture too, like a private eye. It is of the two of you, the one time you went to the beach. Both of you are smiling. Both of you blinked.

KARL TARO GREENFELD

FROM
ZYZZYVA

B
OB WAS IN THE DARK
. He was looking down at his new home through the gap in the ceiling near the edge of the crawlspace, seeking where he could drop a coaxial line into his living room. His jeans and T-shirt were caked in dust, his Nikes were discolored, and he realized, as he squirmed between beams closer to the corner, that he had misjudged the location of the living room wall and was now above his thirteen-year-old daughter’s bedroom. He could make out a sliver of her stuff—a red plastic lampshade, a pair of old Converses—through the loose seals around an HVAC duct. There was also a sixteenth-inch hole he found drilled near the smoke alarm. From here, through an imperfect semicircle, as if he were staring through pinpricked cardboard at a solar eclipse, he could discern the area above his daughter’s bed where he had put up a wall-mount Ikea shelf. He had imagined that Becca would set out her crystals or KidRobots or some other colorful, youthful collectibles. But Becca hadn’t even bothered to unpack her boxes; his wife, Minnie, had been in several arguments with Becca over that subject. If he cocked his head, he could just make out the base of the monolithic pile of books and linen boxes with the moving company’s red-and-white logo on them. They stood in the center of her room, a monument to family discord.

What he had initially chosen to interpret as a sign of Becca’s inner strength—her indifference to moving to a new city and school even though she was in a phase of early adolescence her pediatrician labeled “the first change o’ life”—was actually confirmation of what Bob had silently suspected all along: Becca didn’t have any friends. Bob, who didn’t have many friends himself but tried to be an optimist, told her she would make plenty of friends at her new school. Becca just nodded and said, “Really? REALLY? That school, just a hundred miles away from my old school, will be so completely and totally different, in terms of people, personalities, demographics, THE WHOLE ECOSYSTEM, that my whole, entire life will be
MAGICALLY
transformed?”

Bob had smiled and done an exaggerated shrug. Like, who knows? Like this was one of those crazy adventures that will be fun for the whole family.

Now, gazing again through the gap around the
HVAC
, he saw a flash of movement, the faded brown-blue of old, dirty denim, as Becca entered her room, her recently more protuberant rear end framed perfectly in the gap for an instant. He froze, suddenly ashamed. But this wasn’t spying, he assured himself. He tried to silently wiggle back through the attic, his thighs pressing down into old coaxial lines, perhaps staying too low in order to overcompensate for the occasional roofing nails that protruded down from the sloped ceiling, and then he felt something bite into his arm. Dropping his flashlight, he turned his elbow up, craned his neck, and saw two little pinpricks, as if he had backed his arm into the exposed prongs of a staple. Then he noticed, passing through the beam of the fallen light, scurrying away, a brown and orange, half-dollar-sized spider.

He crawled backward, not worrying as much about keeping his butt down, and swung out of the attic, down the ladder, and into the bathroom, where he checked his arm in the mirror to see if it was already swelling.

It was.

Bob would do it himself, goddammit, yes, he would. Prove that the years spent behind a desk, selling Alt-As, 7+1s, 5+1s, 3+1s, liar loans, subprimes, and refis, hadn’t rendered him soft and incapable. He may have been a desk jockey, a mortgage broker, but that career had evaporated and now he was going to make the best of what he had left, in terms of money and time.

In the past, he would have hired guys to do all this, the installations and the wiring, the climbing and crawling and drilling, but now he had the time, so why pay the hundreds to have guys no more capable than he was—less capable, probably—do shit that he could do himself. So he bought the dish, mounted it on the shingle roof—that was easy, a matter of finding the beams, aiming the dish, and drilling holes for brackets, and then anchoring the gray metal plate, which sat in its brace like an auction paddle in a bidder’s hand—and then ran the coaxial cable down the beam and along the doorframe, and threaded it through a hole he drilled, sleeved, and collared in the
TGB
paneling by the door. He regarded this little bit of handiwork and compared it to the vast yardage of co-ax that he had found strung over his roof, up and down rain gutters, tossed over attic joists, and hung from nails in crawlspaces, carpet tacked and staple-gunned into beams and over doorframes, and marveled at how crappily it had all been done. We are a nation drowning in coaxial cable, Bob decided, each house on this block suffocating in unused vines of dead co-ax. Phone companies, cable companies, Internet companies, broadband companies, all of them unspooling miles of the stuff and leaving it behind them, a fiber-optic breadcrumb trail leading nowhere. A million such houses, ten million, twenty million; every time a house was sold, remodeled, flipped, foreclosed, that meant more co-ax: badly strung, high-speed tumbleweed. Nobody gave a fuck anymore, and he knew that firsthand, having been one of those well paid for not giving a fuck, for not caring about who made how much and was borrowing how much for how much house. Not that anyone ever asked. They all wanted as much house as possible—and all that co-ax—as he had, at one point, before he walked away from his last house.

When the firm went belly-up, causing an entire Orange County business park to go vacant in just sixty days and stranding Bob in too much house with too much debt, he didn’t hesitate to drive away, his wife and daughter in the Caravan and Bob in his Explorer. That’s what all the TV news segments vilifying mortgage brokers never mentioned: that the brokers had drunk the Kool-Aid as well, most of them, and were leveraged and
ARMED
to the teeth, so when the bubble burst, Bob and his fellow brokers had been among the first to bust. He would have been a gentleman and dropped the keys off with whomever held his note, but he couldn’t figure out who had taken that over, so he just left the keys inside the front door. He was lucky, he knew, that he had somewhere to go. Left all that damn cable behind.

But here he was, stringing more of it. He would need to drill a hole through part of the chimney brickwork. He set off for the hardware store, thinking a half-inch bit would do it. On the way, he stopped at the post office to inquire about his mail. Since moving in, there’d been nothing addressed to his family, just unforwarded mail for the previous tenant and the sort of shopping fliers and local retail coupons that every house gets. At the post office, the Asian lady who worked there told him that he’d asked for his mail to be forwarded to an address in Montana.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Someone filled in and signed a change of address for you,” she said, looking at a monitor. “Your mail has been going to Jericho, Montana.”

She slid him a new form.

When his mother died of emphysema six years earlier, he did a quick and cheap remodel of Gam’s old house and rented it out, starting with a one-year lease but after that letting the Wagonsellers go month to month. He should have sold the old place years ago, but he held on, despite his wife’s urging, and by the time he was committed to selling there were open houses on either side and across the street, so he figured he would keep the Wagonsellers, who seemed happy in the old place and anyway never bothered him, even with a plumbing system that Bob knew required regular rooting and a kitchen range with old valves that had to be wired shut manually or they’d leak gas. For five years the Wagonsellers had stayed on, the heavyset father with a broad forehead and his plain-looking wife with bangs. They had two homeschooled children, twin boys.

When Bob called them up to tell them he would be needing the place back, the father, Matthew Wagonseller, reacted angrily.

“Just like that?” he had asked. “No notice? Nothing?”

“This is the notice,” Bob explained. “I’m giving you ninety days.”

“But after all these years?” Wagonseller said. “We had an arrangement.”

Bob tried to be patient. “We didn’t have a lease. I haven’t raised your rent in six years. You never asked for a lease.”

Wagonseller didn’t believe he needed one. “My wife is going be very upset.”

“You can find a house,” Bob reasoned. “There must be plenty of houses for rent now.”

“We feel at home here,” Wagonseller said. “Our church is here. And now we’ve been betrayed.”

Bob felt that was too strong a word for the situation but wasn’t interested in any further debate on the subject. “I’m sorry, Matthew, but I need the place for my family.”

“What about my family?”

“Well, you’re the renter and I’m the owner, so I guess that’s that.”

“We’ll see,” said Wagonseller. “Meanwhile, I’ll be praying for you.”

But in the end, Wagonseller hadn’t put up much of a fight. Bob drove up to take possession, finding Mrs. Wagonseller and the twins on their knees in the front yard, eyes closed in a final prayer before they moved on. He waited on the sidewalk until they stood up, dusted off their khakis, and filed past him in silence.

The place was left a shambles, the walls marked up with crayon, the carpets stained, the linoleum buckling, the already-mentioned surplus of co-ax, but that was to be expected from six years of occupancy, and Bob didn’t mind all the little projects. While his wife put away the dishes, slid the DVDs into the bookcases, and piled towels into their dressers, Bob found his tools, augmented the modest selection with a few trips to the hardware store and expeditions to Home Depot, and began to get his house in order.

First in the establishment of the American hearth, of course, was the stringing of cable, for that holy consumer trinity of telephone, Internet, and television, and so Bob found himself back in the attic, swollen arm and all, wearing kneepads this time, flashlight in hand, poking around the chimney to see how far out the chimney bricks extended and if he could drill through that to get into the built-in bookcases in the living room. It was no problem running the cable from the dish, into the attic through another collared sleeve, and then along the joists, but how to drop it down? He had purchased a telescoping guide from Home Depot, a nifty device like a car antenna that could lock into place to push cable through a tight fit, but first he needed to find the right place to drill.

He shone the light around him, the yellow beam catching the constellations of motes he’d roused, the darkened space smelling like the hot dust.

He told himself he was going to check whether there was space to slide a cable through. But now Bob crawled back over Becca’s room and gazed through the sliver next to the
HVAC
duct, peeking through the slot into his daughter’s room. She was lying on her bed, listening to music through earphones. He could see the top of her, as if she’d been sliced in half horizontally: Becca’s blank, round face that was hard to call beautiful—her neck wasn’t visible—her chest in a blue T-shirt with some sort of red logo on it, her flabby belly hanging a little to her left. Her legs were just below his sightline. Next to her was the pile of unpacked boxes.

He found his daughter unfathomable. And he hated to admit it, but she had become disappointing to him. Not in a way he could verbalize or explain; it had to do with her getting older, bigger, thicker, less attractive. She wasn’t a pretty girl, and he knew it was wrong for a father to hold that against his daughter, so he never mentioned it, never discussed it with Minnie. And he treated Becca, he believed, exactly as he had before, back when he found her to be as cute as a button. He’d never had any sisters, just a brother a decade older and about as mysterious as a picnic bench; Gus had ended up owning a pair of Five Guys franchises in Atlanta before he died of a heart attack at fifty-six. So Bob was left guessing at what Becca might be going through. Minnie seemed to believe that Becca’s struggles had to do with her appearance, and had Becca fitted with contact lenses and a kicky new haircut that did little to alter Becca’s perpetual doleful frown. She always looked mad about something, Bob reflected, disappointed, as if she woke up every morning already let down.