Hand Me Downs

By Michele E. Carter

Circa 1950-60's fictional tale spun around the true-life memoir of the author's moving and cathartic journey as she chronicles her mother Cynthia's illicit affair with Laurence, her best friend Anna's husband. In painful, but sometimes humorous recollection, she gives an account of the lover's 3000-mile desper

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Nov 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885904971

Michele E. Carter

Michele E. Carter lives in Los Angeles, California, with her husband of forty-six years. After three decades in both the corporate world and the nonprofit arena, Michele retired to do what she was meant to do-write. Hand Me Downs is her debut novel.

Book preview

Chapter One

Mickey

Writer/Narrator

The Road to Damascus

1960

WE START THIS LIFE with someone else holding the reins to our destiny, and our only option is to piggyback whatever direction they’re headed. That’s how my brother Jesse and I ended up in California with our mother and her lover, the Reverend Laurence Greene. On arrival to the Golden State of sunshine and picket fence dreams, Laurence was not yet the reverend he would later purport himself to be. When this epiphany occurred for him, it would not include the notion of divorcing his spouse and marrying my mother. No, for the remainder of his lifetime he remained married to Anna Vass Greene—my mother’s best friend.

In 1960, I was all of nine years old, and I had no idea that this trip from New York to California was a desperate escape—in effect, a lover’s run. What I wanted to think was all fun and games, but my childlike sixth sense told me something was not quite right. However, even if I had known what that something was, what could I have done? Nothing. I was just piggybacking then. My options were zero.

Riding shotgun in the gray-and-white 1957 DeSoto turned sardine can was two-year-old Rolynda, the love child of Laurence Greene and my mother, Cynthia Harrison-Lovett. Those days the front seat of an automobile was sofa style, and you could sit three across nicely. I guess it helped that Rolynda weighed only twenty-eight pounds, and car seats, middle consoles, and seat belt laws were nonexistent at the time. I was in the back seat—a wary passenger squished between my brother Jesse and Laurence’s abducted twin sons, Mason and Robert.

My mother, Cynthia, a true New Yorker who had just recently turned thirty, had never learned to drive. Cynthia relied on Laurence to man the helm of our sardine missile the whole way. Laurence was getting pissed off at the endless pits stops for all the little bladders in tow. We were continuously delaying his timeline to our fated destiny, and he was gruff and short-tempered the entire run. Though Laurence had weighed the pros and cons of making this run and the advantages seemed to come out on top, there was something in the back of his mind that made him keep second-guessing his full-throttle decision westward. He would remain anxious until enough dust and tenure settled on our post in California. My mother, on the other hand, seemed quite composed. She truly believed that once the New York skyline disappeared in the rearview mirror, all the cadavers of her past were ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

Left behind like the heavenly rapture’s forsaken were a host of relatives. Nothing had been spared to ensure even the best of bloodhounds would be unable to sniff us out, and the one bloodhound that could trace a strand of hair down any trail was Grandma Flo, my father’s mother. While my father, Airman Jesse Bernard Lovett Sr., whom we hadn’t seen in years, remained overseas bound by military duty and his womanizing attraction to the temptresses of Ching Ming village, Grandma Flo made sure Jesse Junior and I had whatever we needed. Though she came from money and spared no expense in indulging our every whim, her stern and stoic demeanor made it appear she found little joy in sharing her fortune.

When my mother decided that lust and passion outweighed love and loyalty, Miss Florence Meyers-Lovett commanded my mother’s attention by withholding money and the custody of her children. However, in some crimes of passion, accessories play their part, and when it came to Cynthia and Laurence, there were more than a few willing accomplices, including Nana Myrtle, my mother’s mother, and my mother’s siblings, Auntie Barb and Uncle Harry—each of them stalwart in their defensive positions. The well-endowed Miss Florence Meyers-Lovett was unprepared for this particular custody battle. It was well known that she despised the Harrison clan and, in particular, Nana Myrtle.

She’s no shame, that woman. A sordid lot…all of them. That’s what she said openly to Jesse and me but always behind the backs of our grown-up relatives.

Indeed, Nana Myrtle was the antithesis of Grandma Flo—stiletto stepping, multi-bangle wearing, weed toking, cigarette smoking, bourbon drinking, sailor cursing broad that she was, and Flo thought her despicable.

I loved Nana Myrtle past the moon and back, but love them or not, the Harrisons didn’t play fair. If you threw the first punch, you asked for it; hitting below the belt, left hooks, uppercuts, or sucker punches were just part of the arsenal. The Harrisons fought and worked hard for everything they needed and wanted in life. Unfortunately, behind the hard, antiquated buttoned-up shoe and collar façade of Miss Florence Meyers-Lovett lay the soft, unworked muscle of fight and fortitude.

So, on the evening of February 17, 1958, our Nana Myrtle came to retrieve us and take us home. It was part of the routine; Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday were Nana’s days, and Thursdays and Fridays were Auntie Barb’s days. Sure, it was at first a routine set in place to hide my mother’s pregnancy and ultimately the birth of Rolynda. But in time, the rumors started flying, and the truth landed on Grandma Flo’s doorstep at about the same time Nana Myrtle showed up, casually knocking on her door to pick us up.

Grandma Flo opened the door just a bit. Then all high saditty with her nose in the air, she said, Pray tell, what do you want?

Nana Myrtle first exhaled cigarette smoke in her direction, flicked a little ash on the front step, and looked at her with amusement and annoyance; then she placed her hand on her hip and said, Well, Flo, unless you are suddenly stupid, we both know why I’m here. So just get the kids so I can be on my way. I really don’t have time for whatever this is.

I think not, Grandma Flo replied. No lowdown ho is going to have a hand in raising my grandchildren. Did you all really think I wouldn’t find out?

Let me get this straight. By lowdown ho, I take it you mean my daughter. And as for you finding out, well, let’s see—it took you exactly a year and one month. So you’re not just stupid. You’re also slow.

You listen to me, Myrtle. I refuse to sink to your level and trade insults with you. You are as common as I’ve always thought you were, and those two children will not be leaving here with the likes of you except over my dead body!

And with that, she slammed the door in my Nana’s face. Nana didn’t flinch. She took another puff of her cigarette, stomped the butt out on Flo’s front steps, turned on her stiletto heels, and said aloud, Oh yeah, we’ll just see about that, Miss Flo, ‘cause apparently you don’t know who you’re fooling with.

Nana had an ace in her deck of cards that Miss Florence Meyers-Lovett didn’t factor in, and Myrtle Matilda Floyd-Harrison would waste no time dealing her hand. The next day, Nana returned with the lowdown ho—my mother, Cynthia—along with her three-month-old bundle of joy and the one person they both trusted with their lives—Uncle Harry, known to everyone else as Officer Edward Lewis Harrison. He was one of fifty-four Negro cops in New York’s Port Authority Police Department. The three of them stood like a force to be reckoned with at the door of Miss Florence Meyers-Lovett. Uniformed Uncle Harry knocked on her door like it was official business.

He announced himself as Officer Edward Harrison, and again she opened the door just a bit. However, Uncle Harry’s hand insisted on space and opportunity. Grandma Flo had never been shaken up by much of anything, and although Uncle Harry’s gun never left his holster, his stance made her think it would.

Get her kids and get ’em now. Make it the last time you dare to threaten my sister, my mother, or any member of my family. And take a good look at those kids because it’s the last time you’ll ever see them.

Grandma Flo, a woman who’d rather swallow her tongue than her pride—turned to us, and in her usual stern and haughty manner, she said, You must go with your mother.

Grandma Flo stepped aside and waved us out in some grand indignant gesture. She didn’t hug us, kiss us, or say goodbye. Jesse and I followed the wave of her hand ushering us out to Nana, Mom, and Uncle Harry. I remember, just before getting into Uncle Harry’s car, I turned around to say bye, but Grandma Flo had already closed the door. I never saw her again in my life. From about age two to seven years old, I spent a fair amount of time with Grandma Flo. However, her piety and cold veneer made the cutting of ties a painless disconnection. I think of her every now and again, like when I smell hot Farina—the breakfast we had most days in her care—or if perchance I glimpse an old lady with a tight gray bun and an unsmiling face…aww, Grandma Flo. I guess time doesn’t necessarily tie your heart up to love.

Yet there is a peculiar void in my heart. It’s that dense space a delinquent parent leaves behind, full of their absence but empty of their presence. I was very young when my father, Jesse Bernard Lovett Sr., left, so I’ve no solid memory of him. He was mere bits and pieces of information, fragments like a bizarre abstract work of art. I would spend the better part of my life torturing my mother to solve the puzzle pieces of him in my head. She spent the better part of her life avoiding, evading, and deliberately sidestepping facts about his existence. I would learn ages from now that the leftover image of Jesse Bernard Sr. was better than the reality. But at the age of nine, I wished with all my heart that he was here.

Jesse Junior was sad, but not for anyone or anything left behind. Jay, as we called him, was a mama’s boy, loyal to a tee—not the type tied to the apron string or tethered to tit for life. His love for our mother never diminished who Jay was or who he became as a man. He was always wise beyond his years. Though we both witnessed our mother devoured in the shadow of Laurence Greene, Jay was more accepting of whatever small remnant of Cynthia Harrison remained. I was resentful of her mutated version of motherhood.

I WAS MISSING A father I didn’t know, which paled in comparison to the twins longing for their mother. I had no familiar feelings to hold on to. But the touch of their mother could still be felt on their skin; her scent still permeated their clothing. Robert cried off and on for at least 2,950 miles. When we hit the Arizona border, Laurence had had enough. He pulled the car over on a strip of desert in Tucson and got out, then opened the back door, jerked Jesse out, then me, then Robert. He took off his belt and whipped Robert within an inch of his life. Robert fell to the ground and folded in a fetal position. He kept crying out, I w-want my m-mom, I want my mom!

Laurence whipped him till he stopped saying it. Then he pointed to the car and said, That’s your mother sitting in the car. She’s right there, and don’t you ever forget it! While Robert still lay on the hot desert ground balled up like a hedgehog, Laurence walked back to the car and started it up. Mason, who had never turned around to watch his twin get whipped, got out of the vehicle and walked over to Robert. He stood over him for a minute, then crouched down next to him and said, Get up, just get up.

Patiently, Mason waited while Robert sat up, hugged his knees for a moment, retrieved his glasses that had fallen off, and tried to compose himself. Robert returned to the car still visibly shaken up; snot and tears mingled on his upper lip. He got in, wiped his nose with his sleeve, put his head back, and closed his eyes. Mason hopped in next to him like this was routine for them, and he had just done his job. Nothing more, nothing less. Jay and I looked at both of them for some other reaction, but Robert remained quiet the rest of the way, and Mason sat stone-faced as though nothing fazed him. However, it was later in life when I came to know this was just the face Mason presented to the world. The incubation of abandonment in Mason would manifest in anger. He would grow into a man with terminally clenched fists, always ready to fight, bent on proving vengeance was his…not God’s.

The car pulled back onto the road, and already I knew there would be more trouble. I waited thirty minutes before I would open my mouth, and I was still fearful of saying it, petrified even. But I had no choice. I couldn’t hold it any longer.

I need to go to the bathroom.

Well, hold it. We have a few more miles before another rest stop, Mr. Laurence barked.

I guess I had a look of distress on my face as my mother attempted to plead my case. Maybe we can pull over and let her go in the bushes or something. It looks like she really has to go.

Mr. Laurence looked at my mom like defending me was a challenge to him. She had an odd look on her face like maybe he didn’t hear her clearly. She squinted and said, Did you hear me? Just pull over and let her go on the side of the road. I don’t think she can hold it.

I heard you, he said and pulled over. Hurry up and make it snappy. On the double!

I ran to the nearest bush, squatted, and was relieved. Back in the car, the first thing I noticed was my mother still looked a little pensive. Mr. Laurence was smiling, holding Rolynda, and trying to lighten my mother’s mood.

Look at her. Isn’t she pretty? Just like her mommy!

My mother didn’t verbally respond, but her face relaxed a little. It was enough to suffice. He handed over Rolynda and started up the DeSoto again.

I was hoping she had finally seen the real booger that he was—the man I already knew. Mom, meet Frankenstein. Frankenstein, Mom. However, in just a matter of two to three miles, she had that look again—love. Her face said it all: So, he had a moment. Who doesn’t? After all, he’s the only one driving, and I can just imagine how tired he must be. It didn’t help that in just another thirty miles, I had to go again. He glared at me this time like I was really trying his patience. We pulled over again so I could go in the wild outdoors. This time, my mother came with me and said, Listen, I want you to try and hold it next time until we get to a rest stop. Also, Mickey, I want you to try your best to get along with Mr. Greene. He’s your father now.

I didn’t respond to her. I was silent. Maybe I was in shock. I don’t know. What I did know is that Mr. Laurence didn’t like me, and I didn’t like him.

TIME TICKS LIKE MOLASSES when you’ve no concept of when a three-thousand-mile journey will end. The panorama of America slowly drifted by as the car radio emitted the sounds of Doris Day singing Que Será, Será—how befitting. My mother started singing along and looked back at the four of us, hoping we’d join in. Of course, Jay piped up all too gladly, singing loudly. I looked at him, annoyed, and he sang louder. Robert, who was usually quiet as a mouse unless he was crying, sang in a whisper. Mason and I remained silent as did Mr. Daddy, though Mom kept trying to get him to sing. I looked out the window at the world passing by as I wondered what would be.

Chapter Two

Mickey

Writer/Narrator

Preamble

Summer 1957

THREE YEARS BEFORE THE planned escape, the road to our exodus began to take shape. Choices were made that forced our lives and paths to twist and turn. These moments in time can be recalled but never reversed. In 1957, my childhood was connected to the cityscape of New York—where our home was anchored by the father figures of my Uncle Harry and my grandfather, whom everyone just called Harrison. My mother, being a pianist and a music enthusiast, woke my brother and I every morning to a variety of artists from Mahalia Jackson, Thelonious Monk, Perry Como, Nat Cole, or herself. Mom would sit at the upright playing Bach, Chopin, or Beethoven. That was our signal to rise and shine, followed by a hot bowl of Malt-O-Meal before we washed up, brushed our teeth, and got dressed for school. There was a particular order to life that I had grown accustomed to.

On weekdays my mother worked for a local five-and-dime store in Harlem, and some weekend nights she sang at Club Baby Blues. Needless to say, neither of Mom’s paychecks sufficiently covered the cost of living or provided all the basics for running a household alone with two children. She counted on Grandma Flo’s open pocketbook and of course, whenever he’d think about it (which wasn’t often), money in the mail from Airman Jesse B. Lovett. Our little ship was sailing peacefully over the ocean of life, and then it happened—the paradigm shift.

To be exact, it was Saturday, June 22, 1957, the second day of summer. There wasn’t the usual reveille that morning—no music playing, no Mom at the piano. With school having ended a week ago, I turned over to go back to sleep. But my bedroom door was open, and the window in the adjacent living room was up. I could hear people talking, kids mostly, but I recognized Jay’s voice. So curiosity got me up, and I went to look out the living room window, and there he was…Mr. Laurence Greene. At the time, mind you, all I knew was his name. I’d seen him maybe a handful of times, and on those occasions, he’d pull up in a big delivery type truck, ring our bell, and talk to Mom outside.

This time he showed up in a car—an old 1949 Hudson with rust on the hood and trunk. He was smoking a cigarette and leaning against the car like he was cool. Two boys who looked to be around nine, the same age as Jay, were with him. One of them was shooting marbles with Jay, and the other skinny boy just stood with his hands shoved in his pockets. He looked as though he were about to burst into tears. Mom was talking to the sad-looking one, probably to make him feel better for whatever he was unhappy about. I assumed the boys were Mr. Greene’s kids, and nothing about the scene looked to be extraordinary. Aside from that, it didn’t look like he had a daughter, so I detached pretty quickly from the whole thing and went back to bed.

Over two-and-a-half centuries ago, a poet by the name of Thomas Gray coined the phrase ignorance is bliss in one of his poems. Just before I closed my eyes to enjoy the elixir of indulgent sleep, a thought popped in my head. I remembered a few times walking home from school I’d seen his truck leaving our residence. I was annoyed—irritated the thought has invaded my quest to sleep. Why did he keep coming around? Who were those boys? Who cares? I should have, but in the moment, ignorance was bliss.

I lulled myself back to sleep with the thought of my upcoming July birthday and imagined all the fun celebrating with my cousins from Far-Rockaway. Dreamland, however, was short-lived, as moments later the rambunctious noise of my brother Jay and his new posse echoed throughout the house. Jay had on his cowboy gear and was chasing one of the boys, pretending to shoot him while the other skinny one hopped around on the pogo stick. I noted, as only a little sister would, that both running and hopping on the pogo stick were not permitted in the house.

Where’s Mom? I asked.

Bathroom, Jay said. Then he pointed his plastic metal-looking gun at me and said, Drop dead, Injun!

No, I’m telling Mom you’re running and playing on that pogo stick in the house—

She said we could play.

Yeah, so tell, the other boy said.

Who are you? I asked.

My name is Mason, and I run this town, so put your hands up!

Jay started laughing; as it appeared, he and Mason had become fast friends. The boy on the pogo stick, still hopping around, said, Better do w-what he says or he’ll shoot!

Drop dead! Mason says.

No, stupid…whoever you are!

Mason then dropped his toy gun and pushed me down.

Hey, you jerk! Don’t do that, Jay said.

Mason then proceeded to push Jay down, and the fight was on. Neither of them ever landed a punch, but they rolled, tussled, and wrestled all over the living room floor. I got up and ran to the bathroom door.

Mom, Jay and this boy are out here fighting!

She didn’t answer me, but I could hear her kind of coughing or something, so I just said it again.

Mom! Jay’s fighting with this boy! Then I heard her throwing up. Mom, you okay?

She didn’t answer but gagged and vomited again. It was quiet for about a second till there was a crash in the living room, then silence. My mother slowly opened the door to find her lamp broken and me pointing to the culprit—Mason.

What’s going on here, Jay? I know you know better.

He started it. He pushed Mickey down.

Mason, first of all, we don’t push or hit girls around here. Do you understand?

Mason shrugged.

That’s not an answer, Mason.

I understand, he said, glaring at my mother.

And Robert, stop hopping on that pogo stick in the house. It’s only to be played with outside.

Robert stopped and got off the pogo stick and looked like he was about to cry.

There’s nothing to be upset about, Robert. You can take the toy outside and play. But before any of you go anywhere, I want that lampshade on the table and the pieces cleaned up now.

Mom, it’s his fault, though, Jay complained. I didn’t do anything.

He wasn’t shadowboxing, Jay. So no back talk. Get it cleaned up and then go outside. And since Mason and Robert’s father will be back for them soon, stay on the block. Don’t go any further.

The boys did a lousy job of cleaning up. There were obvious pieces of the lamp still scattered on the floor. I stayed with Mom and helped her clean up the rest while they made a riot of noise just making their way outside.

You look funny, Mom.

Well, I feel funny, and I’d like to sit down for a minute. So, get out of those pajamas, put on some playclothes, and go outside with the boys.

I don’t wanna play with them.

Then go see if your friend Renee next door can play with you.

I don’t like her anymore.

Mickey, just go outside, for heaven’s sake.

I stomped all the way to my bedroom and slammed the door. As I was getting out of my pajamas and putting on my playclothes, I could hear my mother in the bathroom throwing up again. I stopped momentarily wondering if I should go see about her, but the bathroom door opened, and I could hear her in the kitchen. I left my room, but not before I grabbed my jacks and decided I would see if Renee was home even though she was lousy at jacks and never got past her fives.

Mom, I’m going outside!

Okay, but stay on the block, and I mean it!

When I stepped out the door, it occurred to me that the boys were nowhere in sight. So I went down to the last step, and I looked left and right. No Jay, no Mason, and no crybaby Robert, but I did see my Nana Myrtle. As she got closer, I could hear her high heels click the pavement. She was the best thing to walk down Quincy Street. That’s how Nana carried herself—like she was queen of planet Earth. I got excited every time I saw her, and she knew it. I started jumping up and down and waving.

Nobody, I mean nobody, had a grandmother like Nana Myrtle. She was wearing a red spaghetti-strap sundress with a wide black patent leather belt and matching black stiletto ankle-strap sandals. Nana didn’t carry herself like an older woman. She had a smaller waistline than my twenty-eight-year-old mother. Nana was the color of caramel candy with a streak of gray running through her sandy brown hair. Nana’s hips swayed when she walked, and she never went anywhere without smoking a Lucky Strike cigarette.

When she finally reached me, I was beside myself, still jumping up and down with my arms outstretched. But Nana Myrtle just patted the top of my head.

Hi, Mickey baby, she said.

Then she bent down and lifted my chin and kissed me on the cheek.

I was delighted of course because, for me, that’s Nana Myrtle’s hug. Her kiss left the print of her deep crimson red lipstick, the scent of her cigarette, and Chantilly perfume on my small brown face. Nana flicked her cigarette away, and then she reached into her black patent leather pocketbook dangling from the crook of her elbow and pulled out a Bazooka bubble gum.

Here you go, sweetie, she said in her deep, raspy voice. Your mother in the house?

Yeah, she was sick earlier.

"What’d you mean sick?

Throwing up sick.

Umm, well, let me see what’s going on with her, and where’s your brother?

I’m not sure, but Mom told him and those two boys to stay on the block. They ain’t here, though.

What two boys?

I know for sure one of them is named Mason, and I think the other one is Robert.

Oh, Laurence’s boys—the twins.

They’re twins? Well, they don’t look like matching socks.

That’s funny, Nana said. Where’d you hear that, young lady?

On television or something.

Well, let me get in here and see about your mom.

I watched as Nana walked up the steps. It was funny how she knocked on the door but then just let herself in. This annoyed Mom to no end.

I heard her ask Nana once, Why do you knock if you insist on just walking in? Nana would put on airs and respond by saying, Well, sista, one must always be polite. In hindsight, I always noticed the tightrope between them—taut as a plank of wood with absolutely no give. My mom never hid her acute irritation for Nana Myrtle’s gauche or sometimes coquettish behavior. Equally, Nana remained unmoved, to the point of insensitivity. There were times they were allies, thick as thieves, but those were few and far between. Most of the time, it was the two of them tempting each other to body bag their frail relationship rather than nourish it to health.

I had decided I’d go back in and ask my mom about looking for Jay and the two boys. When I walked in, the tension was already activated, so much so they didn’t notice me right away. I didn’t dare interrupt, and from what I could tell, Mom looked furious, and Nana looked as smug as a billionaire in a bank vault.

Well, look at you, Nana was saying, Green around the gills and thick as a June bug round the waist.

I’m not showing like that, my mom replied.

The hell you ain’t, sista! You not fooling nobody but yourself. Better find a full-length mirror and take a second look.

I’ve looked, and it’s not that noticeable yet, Mom replied.

Suit yourself. Must’ve been awful good, though. Ain’t Anna your best friend in the world? I mean, that’s how you said it to me.

What’s this have to do—?

Oh please. Look, you can lie to the pastor of Greater Grace Temple, the queen of England, your daddy, God, and whoever else except Myrtle Matilda Floyd-Harrison. Nana paused, slapped the table, and added, Knows the twisted truth!

You’re one to talk!

And that’s why I’m talking. Nana stood up, lit a cigarette, and put one hand on her hip and proceeded, You forget, I came by here a few months ago, and I saw Laurence’s truck leaving when I was walking up the street. When I got here and walked in, you were still in the room putting your—

Mickey! My mother yelled my name like the house was on fire. I thought I told you to go outside?

I was outside. I just—

Well, go back outside right now, and I mean it! she said, pointing to the door like I might not find it.

But—

No if, ands, or buts. Go now!

Well, hell, Cynthia, you intend to hide your belly and the baby—

Mom, stop! Stay out of this!

Nana guffawed and grabbed a shot glass and scotch from Mom’s Friday night card game stash. She poured herself a drink, lifted the shot glass, and said, Lehayim!

You are so ridiculous, Mother! And, Mickey, I said go outside. Now!

I’m going.

I could still kind of hear them when I stepped outside. I’d seen them in heated conversations before, but this discussion had a different feel and look to it. Mom wasn’t just furious; she looked like a cornered cat. She couldn’t go left, right, up, or down. Nana had her dead to rights, and Mom felt defenseless. Yet my mother was insulted by the judgment of Nana as she thought herself a more sophisticated brand of Harrison than Nana Myrtle could ever be. No doubt there was a time when Nana Myrtle thought the same of her own mother. My great-grandmother Mary Floyd ran a sporting house, also known as a brothel—the home where Nana grew up. Nana Myrtle fancied herself a success, as would anyone from such sordid beginnings. She was nicknamed Buster in her heyday as a numbers’ runner in Harlem. Now, she co-owned a nightclub called the Cat About. Later in life, she would be the owner and proprietor of a dry-cleaning establishment. You couldn’t tell Nana Myrtle who she was or wasn’t. She had taken hold on the reins of her life without looking back with an ounce of regret. At least, that’s how she made it appear.

TROUBLE SEEMED TO ALREADY be brewing, and at least this time it had nothing to do with me. I had made up my mind. With or without my mother’s permission, I went to look for Jay and the boys. My best guess, they were at Quincy Street Park. But when I was just steps away from the next-door neighbors’ building, I saw the Hudson bend around the corner. He was back! I ducked down the steps to the basement apartment and hid. Then I watched him pull up, park, and climb the steps to our brownstone, and when it was clear, I took off.

Quincy Street Park left a lot to be desired. However, it was the only park in the neighborhood and was mostly cement without a blade of grass anywhere. There were, nevertheless, a few trees strategically planted by the park benches for shade. Most of the play equipment had seen better days; metal swings hung like hapless monkeys from tangled chains, and there were a couple of graffiti-covered handball walls, a few seesaws, a basketball hoop without a net, and a set of monkey bars. Despite its neglected condition, the park buzzed like a beehive—it was summer, and kids were everywhere. Yet among the milieu of unbridled fun, the boys were nowhere to be found. I finally caught sight of one of Jay’s friends.

Hi, Gary. Have you seen my brother?

Yeah, pipsqueak, what’s it to ya?

I just need to know where he is.

Gimme a nickel, and I’ll tell ya.

I don’t have a nickel. I got a penny, though. I dug around in my pocket and held out the copper coin.

I guess that’ll do, he said.

He snatched the penny from my hand and quickly shoved it in his pocket like I might take it back.

Street side, Gary said, the Johnny pump is blasting.

Street side was where the park ended; down a few steps was Chauncey Street. This street was supposed to be