Part 7 (1/2)

”Old. Older than you.”

One day when I was in his house, I sneaked a peek at his driver's license and saw the year that he was born. He was my mother's age, maybe a month or two younger.

”They say men look distinguished when they get old,” I said.

”Easy for you to say.”

”I believe in the young at heart.”

”That's a very mature thing to say.”

It was always sad to leave him at night. I wanted to go to hear him play with his band, but I was afraid of what my mother would think.

He knocked on my door very late one night. My mother was away, working the whole night. I came out and found him sitting on the steps out front. He still had on his black tuxedo, which he had worn to work. He brought me some posters of the legends who were his idols: Charlie Bird Parker and Miles Davis.

”Sophie, you should have heard me tonight,” he said. ”I was so hot you could have fried a plantain on my face.”

We both laughed loudly, drawing glares from people pa.s.sing by.

”Can you go out to eat?” he asked. ”Somewhere, anywhere. I'm so high from the way I played, don't let me down.”

I called my mother at the old lady's house, on the pretense that I was wis.h.i.+ng her a good night. Then we drove to the Cafe des Arts on Long Island, which was always open late, Joseph said.

I drank my first cappuccino with a drop of rum. We shared a tiny cup; he was worried about driving back and finding my mother at home, waiting for me. He told me to raise my head through the roof of his convertible, as we sped on the freeway, hurrying to make it home before sunrise. I felt like I was high enough to wash my hair in a cloud and have a star in my mouth.

”I am being irresponsible,” he said. ”Your mother will have me arrested. Thank G.o.d you are over eighteen.”

He held my hand on the doorstep, swaying my pinky back and forth.

”You do wonders for my English,” I said, hoping it wasn't too forward.

”You're such a beautiful woman,” he said.

”You think I am a woman? You're the first person who has called me that.”

”In that sad case, everyone else is blind.”

I leaned my head on his shoulder as we watched the morning sky lighten.

”Can you tell I like you?” he asked.

”I can tell.”

”Do you like me?”

”You will not respect me if I say yes,” I said.

He threw his head back and laughed.

”Where do you get such notions?”

”How do I know you're not just saying these things so you can get what you want.”

”What do you think I want?” he asked.

”What all men want.”

”Which is?”

”I don't want to say it.”

”You will have to say it,” he said. ”What is it? Life? Liberty? The pursuit of happiness?” He quickly let go of my hand. ”I'm not about that. I am older than that. I am not going to say I am better than that because I am not a priest, but I'm not about that.”

”Then what do you want with me?” I asked.

”The pursuit of happiness.”

”Are you asking me to be with you?”

”Yes. No. It's not the way you think. Let's just go to sleep, solitaire, separately. Fare thee well. Good night.”

He waited for me to go inside. I locked the door behind me. I heard him playing his keyboard as I lay awake in bed. The notes and scales were like raindrops, teardrops, torrents. I felt the music rise and surge, tightening every muscle in my body. Then I relaxed, letting it go, feeling a rush that I knew I wasn't supposed to feel.

Chapter 10.

My mother came home early the next night. ”We're going out,” she said. ”We have not done anything, the two of us, in too long.”

A musty heat surrounded us as we stood on the platform waiting for a subway train to come.

Inside the train, there were listless faces, people clutching the straps, hanging on. In Haiti, there were only sugar cane railroads that ran from the sugar mill in Port-au-Prince to plantation towns all over the countryside. Sometimes on the way home, some kids and I would chase the train and try to yank sugar cane sticks from between the wired bars.

As the D train sped over the Brooklyn Bridge, its lights swaying on the water below, my mother kept her eyes on the river, her face beaming as if she was a guest on the moon.

”Ah, if Manman would agree to come to America, then Atie would see this,” she said.

”Do you think you'll ever go back to Haiti?” I asked.

”I have to go back to make final arrangements for your grandmother's resting place. I want to see her before she dies, but I don't want to stay there for more than three or four days. I know that sounds bad, but that is the only way I can do it. There are ghosts there that I can't face, things that are still very painful for me.”

I waited for the train to sink below the city so I could have her full attention.

”I am past eighteen now,” I said. ”Is it okay if I like someone?”

”Do you like someone?” she asked.