The Bronx, New York
On his way home from work, Oran stops at John’s Bargain Store to pick up a heart-shaped box of Brach’s chocolates for the only woman in his life. Then he swings by the White Castle on Bruckner Boulevard to get a sack of her favorite little hamburgers. To his dismay, the price has gone up from twelve cents each to fourteen since his last visit months ago. Worth it, though, because they’ll make Gypsy happy. And tonight, he needs her to be happy.
He unlocks the door and steps from a dingy hall to a dingier apartment—two small rooms plus a smaller kitchen. The tub is there; the toilet is in an adjacent cubicle.
Gypsy is sprawled on the mattress that serves as her bed and the sofa, doing her homework.
He holds out the box of chocolates.
“Valentine’s Day isn’t until tomorrow,” she tells him.
“So? I’m giving it to you early.”
“Why?” She peers up at him like someone trying to pinpoint a stranger’s face, and for a moment, he thinks she knows what’s going on. Everything.
Then she looks down at the grease-splotched paper bag in his hand. “What’s that?”
“Sliders.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s dinnertime, man, and we have to eat!”
“I know, but why are you buying White Castle and candy when we don’t have any money? That’s what you’re always saying, isn’t it? That’s why we have to live in this disgusting dump instead of—”
He hurtles the bag and box at her. That shuts her up, but she glares at him.
He turns away from the intense violet eyes that can reach right into his soul like predator talons clawing for a kill. He’s been preaching his own omniscience all her life, but his daughter’s is becoming impossible to ignore.
Storming into the bedroom, he slams the door, breathing hard, and stares into the mirror hanging on the back. A wild-eyed demon meets his gaze.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, how Oran is supposed to be. He’s savior, not destructor. But sometimes, people get under his skin, man. Even his daughter, whenever he looks at her and catches a hint of Linda.
It’s not often. Gypsy, unlike her mother, unlike womankind, is strong.
She knocks on the bedroom door. “Hey, come and eat dinner with me.”
The man in the mirror raises his eyebrows. “What for?”
“It’s dinnertime, man, and we have to eat.”
Her echo of his own words is such a perfect imitation that he sees his scowl give way to—not a grin, exactly. But the creases at the bridge of his nose smooth out, and his jaw unclenches.
He opens the door. There’s his girl, the only one he’s ever loved.
She holds up the sack of sliders. “I already ate one. And two pieces of candy.”
“Two?”
“Sorry. I can save the rest for tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to. Did you stick your finger in ’em already?”
Of course she did. She always does.
“Yeah. I like to see what the fillings are before I choose.”
“And you like to make sure your old man doesn’t eat any.”
“You can have the maple.”
“I hate maple.”
He makes a face, and she laughs.
“I’ll take the cherry, though,” he adds, picking up the box and opening it.
“Sorry. That’s my favorite.”
Yeah, no kidding.
He tells her to clear the clutter from the small table so that they can sit down.
The dome-shaped cherry one is right in the center, surrounded by nine other chocolates and two empty black fluted wrappers.
When she turns her back, he slips a tiny packet out of his pocket. It holds one small pill.
He lifts the cherry. Viscous pink filling oozes from the hole she’d poked in its underside. He pushes the white tablet into it, puts the candy back into the box, and is closing the lid when Gypsy turns back. Her eyes narrow.
“Hey! Did you steal one?”
“Nope.”
“Give it here.” She holds out her hand, and he puts the box into it, pulse racing.
Gypsy lifts the lid and takes inventory. She plucks the cherry from the box and pops it into her mouth. “I don’t trust you,” she says, and he sees the slick of goo on her tongue.
They sit and gobble down the food. He keeps an eye on her, waiting for the yawning to begin. As expected, it doesn’t take long.
Powerful stuff. It won’t hurt her—he’d never hurt his beautiful girl—but she’ll sleep soon, and soundly.
Ain’t safe anywhere these days, what with all the hippies and Negroes runnin’ amuck . . .
Rodney Lee’s comment is nothing Melody hasn’t heard before, from just about everyone in these parts. She assures herself that she shouldn’t be feeling so uneasy, looking over her shoulder, making sure Rodney Lee didn’t come back around again to trail her up the street, on foot or in his car.
When she replays the conversation, trying to put her finger on what else is bothering her, she settles on his comments about LBJ and MLK, and being “unpatriotic.”
Plenty of Americans aren’t fans of Dr. King, she reminds herself, and not all are members of the so-called Invisible Empire.
Forget about it, she thinks as her parents’ house draws her like a beacon, windows aglow with lamplight and vintage gas fixtures flickering on the upper and lower verandahs. Both porch ceilings are painted haint blue, a fact she never noticed before she met Cyril.
Honeybee, gracious Southern hostess that she is, seems to have invited last-minute supper guests. An unfamiliar gold Cadillac DeVille sits parked at the curb.
Melody mounts the wide, curved brick steps and opens the front door. Ah, home. The front hall is warmly lit by a graceful nineteenth-century pendant light, and a Johnny Mercer instrumental plays on the parlor hi-fi. The air is fragranced with Raelene’s pineapple upside-down cake, a sure sign that the visitors aren’t close friends. Her mother only serves it for company or celebrations.
Melody hangs her jacket on the carved antique coat tree beside a man’s topcoat and hat and a woman’s double-breasted jacket, familiar perfume wafting from the nubby pear-colored fabric. She can’t place the scent, but it triggers something unpleasant. One of her mother’s bridge club friends? A disapproving maiden aunt?
“Someone’s been putting crazy ideas into that pretty little head of yours.”
Have people been talking behind her back? Could someone have seen her with Cyril last summer, and come here to confront her and her parents about it?
But where? Certainly not in American Beach, or on Barrow. The locals would have no more business out there than . . .
Than you do?
She turns and catches sight of herself in the full-length mirror. Oh, dear. She’s wearing dungarees, a wrinkled white blouse, and scuffed flats. No lipstick or powder. Her blond hair is parted in the middle, flipped above her shoulders and caught in a black headband. She hasn’t brushed it since this morning.
Honeybee’s voice sails in from the dining room, beyond French doors. “Is that you, poppet?”
It’s what her parents have called her ever since her sister’s death, because there can be no “Melly” without Ellie.