Butchers Hill (15 page)

An old toothless man, who wore a wool hat
and heavy coat despite the warm day, sidled up to the doorman and
whispered shyly in his ear. He had been on the streets so long that it
looked as if dirt and grime had been baked into his skin and clothes.
When Esskay tried to sniff the hem of his navy pea coat, the man shrank
back in fear and scurried halfway up the block.

"What was that about?"

"Guy says he heard Bea Gaddy is
giving away food today, says this kid was headed up there when he left.
You know her place, over on Collington?"

The old man had creeped back toward them,
rummaging in his pockets even as he kept his eyes on Esskay. Again, he
whispered to the doorman, his voice so soft that Tess
couldn't make out a word of what he was saying.

"Your dog bite?" the
doorman asked.

"Only if you're a hot
dog or a rodent."

"See, Howard? Her dog
don't bite, and I don't think she does either. Go
ahead, ask the sister what you want to ask."

The old man shook his head bashfully, then
pulled a can of orange soda from his pocket and held it out to her. The
back of his hands were filthy, but the palms looked recently scrubbed.

"A guy from the Superfresh donated
a couple of cases of sodas today, and we're giving each diner
a can as they leave," the doorman said. "Howard
wants you to take his. Says it's a long walk over to Bea
Gaddy's place, and you'll get thirsty on a hot day
like this."

Tess looked at the soda can in the gnarled
hand, the yellowed, ridged fingernails rimmed with dirt. The bright
orange can—America's Choice, the
Superfresh's generic brand—was still beaded with
condensation. It couldn't have rested in that pea coat pocket
for long. She felt the doorman's eyes on her.
America's Choice, her choice. She took the can, trying not to
flinch when her fingers brushed against his, popped the top and took a
long drink.

"Thank you, Howard," she
told the man, who began walking away from her backward, then turned and
ran up the block.

"You made his day," the
doorman said.

"By taking his soda and scaring
him with my dog?"

"By letting him do something for
someone else. Nobody wants to be on the receiving end all the time, you
know. Howard smuggles bread out of here every day, just so he can feed
the birds, just so somebody will need him."

Sure enough, Tess saw him standing in the
middle of a flock of birds as she turned east on Bank Street. The
pigeons and seagulls circled close to him, but he wasn't
scared, she could tell. He cooed at them in their own language,
crumbling the slices of bread and tossing them into the air like bright
white pieces of confetti.

Although summers were a slow time for Bea
Gaddy, who put most of her energy into putting on—and
promoting—a Thanksgiving dinner for thousands, she kept a
table outside her rowhouse for the donations that trickled in every
day. Today, the table held only some sweaters and a box of used
videotapes. Amazing the kind of junk people sloughed off on the local
charities, Tess thought, as if they were tax-deductible dumps.

A young man was examining the videotapes
with great care, as if he were at his neighborhood Blockbuster Video
and choosing his night-time entertainment. Maybe he had even had a VCR
once, but his wasted frame told the story of many pawnshop tickets, of
a life plundered of anything that could yield a dollar or two.

"‘Dorf on
Golf,'" he said, putting the tape down.
"Aw, there ain't nothing here. I heard you had
TastyKakes today."

"We did," said a woman
watching over the table, making sure people didn't carry off
armloads to sell, not that these clothes would fetch much.
"You're about ten minutes too late. You know sweets
go fast."

"Aw, man." He drew the
syllables out in the fretful whine of a disappointed child, stomped his
feet a bit. "Did they have Butterscotch Krimpets?
Don't tell me they had Butterscotch Krimpets."

"Why do you care?
They're gone. You're not getting any."

"A man likes to know what
he's missing. You get me? Now did they have any Butterscotch
Krimpets or not?"

"I don't
know," the woman said sullenly. "It was mostly
Juniors and fried pies."

Tess had hung back politely, waiting for the
man to wind up his snack cake inquiry. When he started sifting through
the used sweaters, she asked the woman, "Do you know Treasure
Teeter?".

"Huh."

The one syllable, although not particularly
friendly, was more or less affirmative. "Has he been here
today?"

The woman said nothing, just turned her back
on Tess and began folding up several brown grocery bags. The man was
still picking through the clothes, but he was studying Tess from
beneath his heavy-lidded eyes. She took a five-dollar bill out of her
jeans pocket and fluttered it ostentatiously in her hand, then began
walking away with Esskay. She turned the corner off Collington and
waited, out of sight. Soon enough, the man came around the corner,
jogging to catch up with her.

"I know that guy," he
gasped out when he caught up with her, his breathing ragged from
running even that short distance. "Treasure Teeter. He calls
himself Trey, though, but there's this girl who comes around
sometimes, calls him that. A good-lookin' girl. I
don't know what she's doing with him."

"You show me where to find him,
I'll give you this five-dollar bill and you can buy all the
Butterscotch Krimpets you want." Tess knew he
wouldn't, though. With cash in hand, he would forget his
sugar craving and start thinking about the junk that made him want
sweets in the first place.

"I'll take you right to
him for ten."

"Right to him? Deal."

He put his hand out—not to shake
and seal the deal, but to take the bills.

"
After
I see Treasure," Tess said.

He took off almost at a trot, heading west,
then south onto Chester Street, stopping about midway down the block.

"Here," he said, holding
out his palm insistently.

"This is a boarded-up
rowhouse," Tess said. "How can I know if Treasure
hangs out here?"

"He's here right
now." He pounded on one of the windows so the plywood shook
and rattled. "Trey, man. It's Bobby. Got something
for you. Something good."

The window board swung slowly to one side.
The boy whose head poked out looked much younger than seventeen, with a
sleep-filled cherub's face like a small child awakened in the
middle of the night. There was crust in the corner of his eyes and his
hair was flatter on one side than the other. A yellow smear ran down
one side of his mouth, lemon filling from his fried pie.

"What you want, man?"

But Bobby had already gone, sprinting away
with Tess's five-dollar bills tight in his fist.

"Hi, Treasure. I'm Tess
Monaghan. I've been looking for you."

"My name's
Trey."

"I'm still looking for
you."

"I know you?"

"No."

"I didn't do
nothin'," he said automatically.

"I didn't say you
did."

"What you want with me,
then?"

"Someone asked me to check up on
you, see how you're doing."

He was too affectless to evince true
skepticism, but she could tell he didn't believe her.
"My aunt hired some white woman to come ask me
how'm doing? She
knows
how'm doing. I asked her for money last Wednesday, the day
Beans and Bread was closed and I couldn't get me no hot meal.
Man, she was cold. Said if I was hungry, she would make cornbread for
me. That woman can't cook for shit, though. What I want to
eat her cooking for?"

"You live with her,
don't you?"

"When I wanna. When I have to. Her
place is nice in the winter. Other times, I'd rather be on my
own."

"What about your sister, Destiny?
Does she live there, or here with you?"

"Destiny's
gone."

"Gone where?"

"I ain't seen her, but
she'll be back soon, and then everything will be all right.
That's what she told me, everything going to be cool. We
gonna get our own place as soon as she gets back."

"Where'd she
go?"

"Dunno." A giggle.
"I think she went to Burma."

"Burma?"

"Or maybe she dug all the way to
China this time. Yeah, maybe that's it." More
giggles.

Junkie humor. An acquired taste. Then again,
Tess had always found herself hilarious when stoned.

"When is she coming
back?"

"When she done."

"How long has it been since
you've seen her?"

Treasure held up his hands, as if to count
the days off on his splayed fingers. Instead, he began to laugh again,
as if he had glimpsed something hilarious in the palms of his hands.
Maybe it was his lifeline. Then he held up his palm, flat, like a
traffic cop, and looked over his shoulder, holding the pose for quite
some time.

"Treasure?"

"I'm doin' the
Heisman."

"What?"

"Doin' the Heisman. You
know, like in football." He repeated the movement, and Tess
understood then that he was suppose to be the trophy, straight-arming
his way through life. "I could run. Man, I could run. I could
have had me a scholarship if I wanted one."

"I was asking you about Destiny. I
thought twins were close, closer than ordinary siblings."

Treasure just stared at her blankly.
"We're close. We're real close. Destiny
'n' me, we always stick together. Look, you want
me, or you want my sister? What you doing here, anyway?"

A good question. What could Luther Beale do
for Treasure Teeter, besides buy him more crack, perhaps set him up in
a nicer place to smoke it?

"You interested in kicking your
habit, maybe getting your GED? I know someone who will help you if you
are."

"Man, I knew you were full of
shit. You're from that clinic, ain't you? The one
that sends those social workers out on the street to bring people in.
Everybody knows there's no slots for detox now, even if you
want to get clean. The state waiting list just goes on forever.
'Less you're a vet. Then the VA has to take you.
But I'm no vet. Not officially, anyway." He
giggled. Yes, Treasure Teeter sure could crack himself up.
"I'd go to war, if they wanted me to. It
can't be any tougher than where I been. Yes, ma'am,
I'd go to war any time they want me to."

"I could get you in a private
hospital. I know a…program that will pay the full freight.
If you're interested. Private room, good food. Not a state
hospital."

Treasure propped his chin on the windowsill.
He actually seemed to be thinking about her suggestion. Then he was
distracted by a centipede inching its way along the flaking paint. He
held out his finger and let it crawl onto his nail, pulled his finger
close to his face, staring at the centipede until he was almost
cross-eyed. Then he shook his finger, flinging the bug to the ground.

"Naw, that's not for
me."

Tess handed him a business card.
"If you change your mind, call me. The offer will stand, at
least for a while."

Treasure took her card and began picking his
teeth with it. "That pie sure was good," he said.
"I wish I had taken me two."

Kitty was preparing to open the store when
Tess and Esskay arrived home. The dog, who hadn't had the
benefit of a homeless man's orange soda, slurped ravenously
from the bowl Kitty kept behind the counter, displacing more water than
she actually consumed.

"Do you ever feel like there are
two Baltimores out there?" Tess asked her aunt, trying to mop
up after Esskay's sloppy drinking.

As usual, Kitty understood what Tess meant,
even if Tess wasn't quite sure. "More like three or
four, maybe five. But it's always been that way, Tesser. Rich
Baltimore, poor Baltimore. Black and white Baltimore. Old Baltimore,
those folks who can trace their blue blood all the way back to the Ark
and the Dove, and immigrant Baltimore."

"I just never thought
I'd feel like I was in a foreign land less than a mile from
my own apartment. I was scared today, Kitty. Scared of an old man who
wanted to do nothing more than give me a soda. Scared to stand in front
of a vacant house on Chester Street and talk to some stoned kid inside.
The city's dying. It's not going to exist a hundred
years from now."

"You're too young to be
so disillusioned, Tess. Once you start to think like that,
there's no turning back. Remember, in last year's
nests, there are no birds this year."

"Say what?"

"You still haven't
finished
Don Quixote
, have
you?"

Reminded of her literary
bête
noire
, Tess scrubbed harder at the floor,
although she had soaked up most of the water spilled there.
"I finished the first part. It took Cervantes another decade
to write the second, so I thought I might take a ten-year break before
I read it."

"It's the second part
that really matters, more than all that tilting at windmills stuff in
the first." Kitty unlocked the store's double
doors, where some of the Sunday regulars were already lined up, cups of
coffee in hand. These were her devoted customers, the ones who waited
until noon each Sunday to buy the out-of-town papers here and then
settle into her faded armchairs to read them. Few of them managed to
leave without picking up a new book that Kitty had pressed into their
hands. Kitty Monaghan, queen of the hand-sale.

"You know, I'm
wrong," she said suddenly, straightening a pile of Anne Tyler
paperbacks on permanent display by the cash register. It was
Kitty's quixotic quest to lure the reclusive local writer to
a signing at the store. It hadn't happened yet, but
Kitty's hopes never flagged.

"You were wrong about something?
Alert the media, I don't recall ever hearing that particular
statement come out of your mouth before."