He frowns and makes a gesture at the ceiling. Like maybe he’s angry with God for taking the good players out of the Heights.
I ask him again about Isa.
“Claro, conozco a Miss Isabelle, pero she no live here no more. She no tell you she moved?”
She moved? “When?” The word rasps from my throat.
Geraldo presses a gloved fist to his forehead. “Seven month? En mayo fue.”
In May? My hands go cold. Isa and I were together then. She never said anything about moving.
“Ay, y que triste fue todo. Miss Isabelle, I know her since chiquitica. Since she born. The brother too. Then, shwoo.” He waves his hand like a bird’s flying away. “Se fueron.”
They left?
“But why?”
Geraldo opens his hands and looks at the ceiling again.
The elevator dings. Geraldo peeks over his shoulder like a dog who’s been caught eating a steak. He tugs his white gloves as an old woman in a fur comes from behind the wall with the fountain vase.
“Good evening, Mrs. Rosenbaum.” He holds open the plain glass door for her. “Will you be needing a taxi tonight?”
“Hello there, Gerry,” she says back to him. “Yes, I will be.” She glances at me, and then stops. “Gerry? Is this that nephew you were telling me about?”
“No, Mrs. Rosenbaum. This gentleman is here asking about the Warrens.”
“Hmmm, I didn’t think so. He’s too handsome to be from your family.” She lifts her elbow and winks at Gerry. Gerry leans back and pretends to shoot her with two fingers. Mrs. Rosenbaum’s chuckles die down. “It’s so sad what happened to that family. Clifton was such a gentleman and seemed so smart. Well, that’s how those financier jobs are. Easy come, easy go.”
Isa’s father . . . He lost his job?
Mrs. Rosenbaum’s gaze travels down to the old dirt stains on my knees. “You must be a friend of the boy’s, what was his name?”
“Merrit.” Gerry and I answer at the same time.
“Actually, ma’am,” I continue, “I’m a friend of Isabelle’s.”
“Really?” The old woman’s eyes narrow. Her papery lips smile. “Well, that’s nice. But you know they don’t live here anymore.”
“Do you know where they live?” I ask the old woman. If Gerry wouldn’t tell me about Mr. Warren, I doubt he’ll tell me where the family moved.
“I’m afraid I don’t, young man. Even if I did, I don’t think I would share that with you. If you’re Isa’s friend, why didn’t she tell you herself?”
I don’t know. I let myself out the revolving door. Isa didn’t tell me a lot of things. I keep asking myself why the whole way home.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23
ALEX
I stare off at metal spearing the sky. It’s the tallest spire in the western hemisphere, built above ashes of terror and destruction. It’s beautiful, yet seems lonely. None of the other buildings come close to it.
I want to be that spire, rising up, despite the past. Or maybe because of it.
Only two sentences are on the yellow page in my lap. One and a half, really. I hunch forward on the bench. I try not to look at the skyline. It’s hard because going back to my notebook means going back in my head where my thoughts vibrate with Isa.
I’ve tried calling Isa a few times since seeing her on the train. It’s useless, but I can’t stand not knowing if she’s OK. Her Instagram account is gone, either erased or blocked. I still post to mine, every other day. I’ve written and hidden five poems for her on the train. They’re all still there. Unclaimed. Like the child in the subway poem “Hide-and-Seek,” left outside in the dark when the others gave up.
I reread the words I’ve written. I speak them in my head. I speak them to the squirrel looking at me from the small rock four feet away. I fold thoughts of Isa down into a tight pill-shaped packet. I tell the mouth inside my brain to open wide and swallow. My pencil bounces on my finger. I put the tip to the paper and write.
“¿Qué haces aquí?”
I look up from three pages of raw words and feelings into Papi’s outraged face.
“Why your bag is thrown así en la acera? The people they can walk on it, damage your glove.”
Only, it’s winter. There’s hardly anyone in the park. It’s why I came here to write.
Behind Papi, Robi and Yaritza stroll up the sidewalk. They wave. They’re too far away to hear him or see what’s in my lap.
Papi snatches my notebook. “¿Qué es eso? ¿Algo para la escuela?”
I’m not going to lie and tell him it’s homework. It’s not. It’s for me.
Robi’s smile falls when he notices what Papi’s holding. He breaks from Yaritza and comes running. For Christmas, Papi finally agreed to sign Robi up for a winter ball session. His practice started two hours after mine, five blocks from their house. It was the first time Papi’s gone to watch Robi instead of me. Mine was just a practice, so Papi didn’t miss much and Coach O’Neil promised he’d give Papi a full report. But what about Robi? How did he hit in the cage?
I study Robi’s face. He’s looking at Papi who’s turning sheet after sheet in my notebook. Yaritza comes up behind him. Her hand touches the paper. She doesn’t let him turn another page. I sit tall on the bench. My insides are as frozen as my face. I’m tired, too tired to stop them from reading. Why won’t Isa respond to me?
I didn’t want Papi to find out about my writing. Now that he has, I almost feel relief. His dirt-crusted nails smudge the pages. His pinched eyes rise to mine.
“You wrote all this?” His voice is neither loud nor soft.
My breath is crystals in my mouth, too sharp to take into my lungs.
Yaritza’s lips still form the words I wrote. She takes the notebook from Papi’s powerful hands. “Son espectaculares,” she breathes.
I watch the thin line of Papi’s mouth. I listen for what I know is coming.
How could you write this? This is not what a man does.
“Es una distracción,” is all Papi says. “You should be focusing on beisbol. Nada más. ¿Me entiendes?”
I bow my head. It is not a nod.
Papi tries to take the notebook from Yaritza, but she holds on too tight.
Robi is behind the bench. My bag is on his shoulder. His mouth is fighting not to smile too big. “Ále,” he whispers. “I hit well! I was really driving the ball.”
Papi is stalking away. Still he hears him. “It’s not the same as on the field,” Papi shouts back.
I stand like a tower, stiff and alone. “That’s great, Robi. I’m proud of you.” My hand finds his shoulder. I take back my bag. I’d expected yelling and shaming. I’d prepared for the possibility of hitting.
I wasn’t prepared for disinterest.
I should have been. It hurts more.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23
ISA
Merrit meets my train on the platform at Ninety-Sixth Street. Mom and Dad let him take the crosstown bus by himself last week, the same time I came off crutches, as if they needed both their kids to be more independent by the holiday. Merrit lifts a hand when I stick my head out of the car. His Santa hat slides down his forehead as he jogs to my door.