Coyote (10 page)

“You Mr. Binkleman?” I asked. There was a Binkleman on the mailbox at Marta's. It was the only name I could remember.

“No. There's no Mr. Binkleman, only Mrs. Binkleman. On the first floor in the back.” His voice pleaded with me to go away. He was walking all the time he spoke, his legs moving fast but his stride so restricted by the lack of swing in his joints that he had no chance of escaping me.

“Look, I'm not going to rob you. I'm a friend of the lady on two with the five kids.”

“They make a racket, those kids.”

“Have you seen Marta today, the mother?”

“Why?”

“I was supposed to have lunch with her. She must have forgotten,” I said.

“Must have,” he said. “She went to work this morning.”

“Work?”

“You're not from the Welfare, are you?” He stopped trying to walk and risked a glance at my face. I think he was surprised that he had to look up so far.

“No.”

“Good. I wouldn't talk to nobody from the Welfare. It's no sin being poor, you know. It's no sin being old. I deserve what I get from Social Security. It's no handout. It's just what I paid in, is all.”

I decided not to tell him that what he'd paid in had been inflation-eaten to the point it probably wouldn't have bought a round-trip ticket to Miami Beach. He'd probably worked hard all his life, and he wasn't lounging in any lap of luxury now.

I asked, “How do you know Marta went to work?”

“Her cousin, Lilian or something, picks her up in the car sometimes and then she goes to work, I think. She's got more money then, anyway. Pizzas get delivered. Rent checks get mailed. You know.”

“You're observant,” I said.

“Those kids make a lot of noise. I'm not deaf. God's saving that for later, maybe.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Well, how's your eyesight? Was she using her cane this morning?”

“No. But she looked like she should have been using it. Thank God I don't need a cane yet. It's a pity to see it in a young woman. Thank God old age didn't hit me till I was old.”

We'd made it halfway to the dusty playground in the center of the housing project. The old man's breathing was audible, his face redder than when we'd started our walk.

“You need a ride somewhere?” I asked.

“You're from the Welfare, aren't you, and I'm shooting off my mouth. I didn't mean anything I said. I'm old, I run on at the mouth. I live alone. Sometimes I have long conversations with my dog.”

“I'm not from Welfare, honest, and I'd be glad to drive you where you need to go.”

“Need,” he said, making a noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh. “That's a good one. Look, I don't need much these days. And the reason I'm out here putting my feet down is because some kid doctor tells me I need the exercise. I used to like to walk, but I liked to walk at night in the glow from the street lamps, when it's nice and cool. You walk now under the street lamps, you better keep your will in your pocket. So I go out in the daytime, but I don't like it so much. You can see all the dog turds on the street.”

“At night you just step on them,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, “but I liked it better that way.”

“Thanks for the chat,” I said. “Nice meeting you.”

“We didn't meet,” he said, sticking out a bony hand. “I'm Hank Binkleman.”

“You said there wasn't any Mr. Binkleman—”

“Yeah, I didn't know what you wanted, right? I don't tell people who I am anymore.”

“And is there a Mrs. Binkleman, or did you make that up too?”

“She's dead fifteen years.”

“I'm sorry.”

“But about your friend I didn't lie. She left early this morning, right after the kids went to school.”

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

He inched on, scuffing up small clouds of playground dust. I walked over to Paolina's school.

One of the few things I like about the Cambridge public schools is that they don't have middle schools or junior high schools or whatever the hell you call them, where they segregate the seventh-, eighth-, and ninth-graders from the rest and put all the truly unmanageable, hormones-out-of-control kids in one building and write it off. Paolina will go to her grade school until it's time to hit Cambridge Rindge and Latin, a building big enough to remind me of my own Detroit high school.

Paolina's school is on Cambridge Street. Her teacher is Mrs. Keegan, a sweet Quaker lady I've met when accompanying Marta to parent-teacher conferences. Marta doesn't like to go alone because of her English and because of her arthritis. She says I make a better impression with the teachers, being American-born, and I hope she's wrong, but Marta's pretty sharp. I like Mrs. Keegan because Mrs. Keegan likes Paolina.

There was a second teacher in the room, a younger woman, maybe a student teacher. She gave me a dour look. In low tones Mrs. Keegan explained that the students were in the middle of their art lesson. I assured her my visit would take no time at all and really was urgent. She called Paolina's name.

I could hear a snort and some laughter and a few quick words of Spanish from a cracking adolescent male voice. Seemed like the visiting art teacher wasn't totally in control.

When Paolina appeared, her cheeks looked hot.

“What did that kid say?” I asked. “I couldn't understand it. You're not teaching me the right slang.”

“
Nada
,” she said. “He's a goon. Most of the kids here are real space cadets.”

Maybe the red cheeks had nothing to do with the boy's words, the answering giggles. Maybe she was just embarrassed at being singled out. She's shy in class. I keep trying to encourage her to open up and ask more questions, but Marta tells her the opposite, so she's a little confused.

Marta doesn't really believe in school. Not for girls. It makes me grind my teeth at night.

“How are you, sweetie?” Paolina winced and turned to make sure the door was shut.

“Sorry,” I amended. “How are you, kiddo?”

She was wearing a checked shirt and a denim blue-jean skirt with a lot of showy gold seam-stitching, the kind that looks like it was made by some trendy designer. Marta made it for her last birthday. Give Marta some fabric and a break from the arthritis and you've got a new outfit.

Paolina said, “You checking to see if I'm in school?”

“I wouldn't have to haul you out of class for that, would I?”

She was twisting a piece of gold wire in her hands.

“What's that?” I asked, stalling for time. She seemed angry and annoyed. I needed a chance to figure out this new moody sister of mine.

She held it out on the palm of her hand. At first I thought it was some kind of fancy paper clip.

“It's like a stick man,” I said. “Nice. For a pin?”

She turned it sideways. “It's a fish,” she said. “For a pendant.”

Batting a thousand, I thought.

“Are you taking me out?” she asked.

“No.”

“Too bad.”

“Why?”

“I'm bored,” she said.

“Let me see the fish.” When you looked at it from the right angle, it was an elegant design. Simple. The basic shape depended on only one twist of the fine wire, but Paotina had spiraled the entire span before starting, so the fish seemed more complex than it was.

“I can't go to your game tomorrow,” Paolina said.

“I'm sorry. I need my cheering section. But I can pick you up afterward.”

“Not afterward, either. I can't see you tomorrow. Probably I'm not supposed to talk to you at all.”

“Why?”

“I dunno,” she said, staring at the floor tile as if the checkerboard pattern were about to rearrange itself. “Look, I better get back in before Miss Lenox blows her top.”

I put my hand on her shoulder. “Sweetie, I need to find your mother, and I'm not sure where she's working today.”

“Don't call me ‘sweetie,' okay?”

“Old habits die hard.”

“And my mom doesn't work, you know that.” Paolina's voice gets higher when she's angry. Two disks of color appeared on her cheeks.

“Paolina, I'm not trying to catch her—”

“I'm not supposed to talk about it. Marta said I'm not.”

“Like you're not supposed to know any Manuela Estefan?”

“I don't know her. I don't.” Her gaze moved a little higher, maybe to the tops of her shoes.

“Paolina, this business about Manuela Estefan is important. If you know her, if you've ever heard the name—”

“I said I don't know her.”

“I don't want to scare you—” I began slowly.

“Then don't,” she cut in. “Everybody's always saying tell me this or tell me that. And don't tell this and don't tell that. I can't even keep it straight anymore. I can't—”

Her lower lip wobbled, but she gulped down a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. I haven't seen her cry in maybe a year. She used to cry a lot when she was seven. I wondered when it was she'd quit, and I hoped I didn't have anything to do with her switch to stoicism.

Before I could say another word, she was gone, inside the classroom, slamming the door behind her. I stood in the doorway and watched her take her seat, head held high, blinking back tears.

Talk to me, I wanted to shout. Talk to me.

15

The Huntington Avenue Y is not in the best part of town, but neither is it in the worst. It has plenty of prestigious neighbors, like Symphony Hall, the Mother Church, the New England Conservatory, and Northeastern University, so the area is dense with music lovers, followers of Christian Science, music students, and students in general. I did myself a favor and left the car home. Instead I caught the Dudley bus from Harvard Square. It came within five minutes of my arrival at the stop, miracle of miracles, and I climbed aboard, trailing my gym bag. I didn't nab a seat, but I hadn't expected to.

Kristy, our captain, best setter, and coach, was already dressed and warming up. The others were straggling in. I joined the stragglers in the locker room to change to crotch-cutter shorts, long-sleeved top, knee pads, socks, and sneakers. The locker room boasted cement walls painted a pale green, matching battered lockers, mirrors plenty high enough for midgets, and that comforting high school sweat-sock-and-mold aroma.

I changed quickly and went out to join Kristy. After I stretched my muscles out, we went to work on a spike-and-dig drill. The gym filled slowly. I was concentrating on the drill, but I could tell by the increasing volume.

A whistle sounded. Five minutes to game. My team huddled on the far side of the gym, and Kristy gave us a brief lecture on the perils of overconfidence. Our opponent today was from the western suburbs, and we'd decided long ago that they were the patsies of the finals, a team that would run screaming if their fingernail polish got chipped. An unfair assessment, maybe, but the 'burbs have that reputation in tough old Central Square, Cambridge. Their team was called the Butterflies. Hardly awe-inspiring. We're the Y-Birds, which I always think sounds like jailbirds. Far as I know, we have no ex-cons among us.

Kristy tried to give them a buildup, but the truth of the matter was they were a one-woman team. She was supposed to be quite something and I'd given her more than a passing glance when she came into the gym. She was a Boston College player, banned from their team for flunking grades. A former National Team player, six-four if she was an inch, blond, agile, and aggressive by repute.

Our basic game plan was to keep the ball out of her hands.

The whistle blew; we all slapped hands and ran out onto the court. There was a smattering of applause. I didn't even look over at the bleachers. Paolina wasn't there.

“Who's the hunk?” Samantha, a middle blocker, murmured in my ear. She's some kind of computer programmer. She has count-the-house eyes and rarely misses a setup shot.

I'm an outside hitter. I sent my eyes along the stands in the direction of her nod and found the guy she had to mean, sitting alone three rows behind our team bench. Hunk didn't do him justice.

I shrugged, reached down, and touched the floor with my palms. My back felt a little tight.

The ref tossed the coin and it went our way. Kristy stood in to serve and the ref did a quick check to make sure we were all in position.

The first game went as expected. When someone made the mistake of serving near Miss Boston College, we lost the point. But there were five other players on the court, and while B.C. tried to cover as much ground as possible, the others weren't helping her. There was one small brunette who practically stood there imitating a fireplug. B.C. was starting to steam when we took the first game 15–6.

Between games, Edna informed us that the hunk was an Olympic scout sent to check out B.C., the Olympics having lower academic standards than Boston College. Edna's friend, Joy, maintained the hunk was the fireplug's fiancé, but nobody believed her. Conjure up faces to go with those names: Edna and Joy. Then I'll tell you that Edna, who has a wicked serve, is our team beauty, and Joy is as plain and dour as they come.

“So if he's here to scout B.C., how come he's watching Carlyle's every move?” Kristy asked.

I glanced at her, surprised. And I admit, I gave the hunk another once-over as well.

He had sandy hair, longish but well cut and gleaming clean. Late twenties, early thirties. An athlete's thick neck and wide, sloping shoulders. A broad face, maybe a little chin-heavy. Couldn't tell the color of the eyes, but for some reason I assumed they'd be blue.

We took the second game. This one was tougher because B.C. was roaming at will, and one of her teammates had caught fire and was setting the ball up for her taller friend. I'd rarely blocked against anyone who had the kind of height advantage B.C. had over me. And it wasn't just her height. It was her quickness and her misdirection. She'd go up facing one way and then swivel midway through her arm swing and angle the spike. I've been known to grunt when I smash the ball, but this woman's noises were incredible. And she kept up a steady stream of abuse at the ball, at her teammates, and at me whenever I faced her across the net.