When Tito Loved Clara (26 page)

There were still a couple of hours before the high school let out, and Clara wouldn't be home until even later, so he decided to go back to the house on the hill for a little sales call. Start at the edge of this thing and work his way in.

He did a slow cruise through the downtown. It was an odd mix of high-end eateries and places that catered to college kids, with a handful of older establishments that clearly were aimed at a black customer base: a beauty supply shop that sold wigs and extensions, a religious bookstore, and a gallery of African statues and artifacts. There was no Spanish presence in the town at all. He wondered, briefly, if he could live there. If he and Clara had stayed together, would they have ended up here?

Up on the hill, on the street of mansions, he parked in the spot where the silver Odyssey had stood an hour before. He took one of the leaflets out of the box in the backseat as well as his clipboard full of estimate forms and walked up the path to the front door. The house had those old leaded-glass windows that were smoky and warped. Made the place look haunted, he thought. He pushed the bell and waited. The inside of the house was dark and he could see nothing moving in the blurry glass.

“Yes?”

She had come around the side of the house and was standing there in shorts and Crocs and gardening gloves, holding a little shovel. He was not prepared for just how good-looking she was. Her shorts were bunched from squatting in the flowerbed, exposing
a length of muscled white thigh. Tito sensed immediately that the distance between them was unbridgable. Sometimes you could just tell. There was no common ground, no way for him to engage her. No matter what he did she was going to treat him like he was from another planet.

“Ah. Good afternoon,” Tito said. “I couldn't help noticing the sign in front of your house as I was driving by. I work for Cruz Brothers Moving and Storage. We offer the best rates in the tristate area along with twenty years of experience in relocation services.” He realized that he was quoting the flyer in his hand. Relocation services was the new catchphrase he was supposed to use in his sales pitches. “I was in town on another call but I'd be happy to give you a free estimate. May I ask when you're moving?”

“Soon.”

And where are you moving to?”

“I'm moving into the city, but I already have a mover, thanks.”

“I'm sure we could beat their price.”

“I'm sure you could, too, but I'm not interested, thank you.”

“If you're moving to the city, perhaps you will need to put some things in storage.”

“I've already taken care of that.”

“Very good,” said Tito. “Let me leave this brochure and my business card. You can look us up on the Web, too, cruzmoves.com. Perhaps you could show it to your husband.”

“I'm not married,” she said, flatly, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Feel free to call me if you change your mind.”

“OK, thanks.” She accepted the brochure and the card with her gloved hand. They would be in her garbage can within moments, he knew, or even—what was it called, a compost pile? But he was glad he'd come. It wasn't hard to figure out what was going on between this woman and Clara's husband. And what was going on between them might be good news for him.

T
HE HIGH SCHOOL
reminded Tito of the Cloisters, a big stone building that looked like it had been brought from another country and another time. You could withstand a siege in that place, he thought. Battering rams and boiling oil. At two-thirty, when he coasted past, a police cruiser was parked outside the main entrance. Already, the side streets were filled with idling cars—parents waiting for their children to be released, though they could have passed for a massing invasion force. The school was huge—bigger even than Kennedy, where he and Clara had gone. There would be hundreds of kids spewing out of the place. He parked at the end of the line of parental vehicles and walked the three blocks back to stand across the street from the main entrance, posing as just another father there to pick up his kid. The bell rang at two-forty-five. At first there was nothing—like a remote-controlled bomb that had failed to go off. A minute later, however, the double doors swung open and out they came, slouching, self-aware, laughing, and grimacing, punching one another or walking alone, dressed badly, listening to music, looking shiftily around, fearful of being ridiculed. It reminded him of that Good Friday when he'd waited for Clara outside the U-Haul lot in the Bronx, the hordes passing him.

On the street, traffic was backed up as the police officer stopped the cars to let the kids flood the pedestrian crossing. He was glad he'd parked and walked. He would have been trapped in it, unable to move, unable to see anything. For a good five minutes, he stood there looking at the kids as they emerged and walked into the town. There was a back entrance he'd discovered on his pass through the area, but if she was going to walk home after school, this is the door she would most likely take.

When she finally appeared, he almost did not recognize her because her hood was pulled over her head. It was the way she walked that gave her away, the slow, heavy tread. She was coming in his direction, upstream from the crosswalk, where the police officer was drawing horn blasts from impatient motorists. A moment later, he
heard the diesel roar of school bus engines, and a line of the yellow behemoths pulled out of the drive on the side of the school, further congesting matters on the street. It was like a fucking
evacuation,
Tito thought. Like they're fleeing a natural disaster.

Walking by herself, the girl reached the sidewalk across the street from him and turned right, heading downhill, toward the center of town, away from Clara's house. He followed at a distance, hoping the police officer, who was arguing, conveniently, with a guy in a white electricians' van, would not notice that he was unaccompanied by a child. The girl turned left on Valley Street, where the traffic jam had begun to ease. There were still dozens of kids on the sidewalk in little groups of three and four so he could follow her easily and unobtrusively. A couple of blocks down Valley, she went into a pizza place that was already jammed with teenagers. Tito stopped in front of the place and gazed in through the window, trying to look casual—trying to look like a hungry Millwood resident surprised to find his local joint overrun by adolescents, trying, in short, not to look like a stalker.

The girl was waiting in line at the counter. Behind the counter, two unshaven young men in sauce-stained aprons were straining to keep pace with the demand. The girl was last in a line of seven. If he went in now, he could stand right next to her. He reminded himself that he was supposed to be taking things slowly, but he entertained this reminder only long enough to dismiss it. In he went, walking circuitously through the rearranged tables and chairs, navigating the groups of teens huddled around their grease-stained plates and paper cups of soda. The rolled-up sleeves of drinking straws were being propelled from one side of the room to another in the form of spitballs; somewhere a girl screamed as a boy wrestled with her. The girl yelled: “All y'all are hurting me. You need to 'pologize! All y'all are hurting me. Stop it.”

He stopped right behind the young woman who was wearing Ms. Almonte's bangle and stared at the rough gray material of her
sweatshirt. He could just hear the
tss-tss-tssss
of a high hat in her earphones.
Cuidado,
he thought to himself, as they moved closer to the counter.

Cuidado.

When her turn came she asked for a pepperoni with extra cheese. She was reaching into her pouch when Tito spoke up. “I'll take care of that. And a plain slice for me, too.”

The guy behind the counter glanced quickly from the girl to Tito and then shrugged, as if to say,
whatever,
and took the bill Tito proffered. Meanwhile, the girl turned to look at him, pulling her hoodie back from her head and removing the white buds from her ears.

Tito returned her gaze, examining her wide face and large eyes, her dark brown skin, and the ragged cornrows that were begging to be redone. She did not look much like Clara, he decided in that brief instant, though the coloring was right and there was something reminiscent of Clara in her eyes. Besides, who knew what Clara looked like up close now?

“I don't need nobody buying me pizza,” the girl said, finally, but Tito noticed that she wasn't taking her money out of her pouch.

“Do you know Raúl Herrera?” he asked, receiving his change from the guy behind the counter.

“Are you the police or something?” the girl asked.

“Why, have the police been looking for Raúl?”

“I don't know.” Then, very suspiciously: “Who
are
you?”

“I'm not the police,” said Tito. “I used to work with Raúl. I'm looking for him.”

They picked up their plates and moved away from the counter. Along the wall of the restaurant was a chest-high shelf with shakers of pepper flakes, oregano, and Parmesan cheese. This is where they set their plates.

“Where'd you work with Raúl?” she asked.

“Cruz Brothers. In the city,” said Tito. “Look.” He took out his wallet and withdrew one of his business cards.

She looked at the card and handed it back to him. “If you're looking for Raúl, why you talking to
me,
then?”

“Because I think Raúl gave you something that wasn't his to give.”

Her hand went to her wrist. “No,” she said.

“Yes,” said Tito. “The bangle. He stole it.”

“Fuck,” said the girl. “Fucking shit.”

“Dude, hit on someone your own age,” barked a kid from a nearby table who was getting up to leave. He wasn't protecting the girl—just trying to make his friends laugh, which he did.

“What's your name?” Tito asked her, ignoring the taunt.

“I'm not telling you my name.”

“My name's Tito. I know your mother.”

“How do you know my mami?”

“We grew up together. In the Heights.”

“My mami grew up in Queens.”

Tito gathered himself for a moment. “Are you sure your mother didn't grow up on Payson Street in Inwood?”

“That's where she lives now—or lived, I mean. But Mami grew up in Queens.”

“Where in Inwood did she she live?”

“I'm not telling you. I don't even know who you are.”

“I told you, my name is Tito Moreno. I'm trying to find Raúl Herrera. I used to work with him at Cruz Brothers. Have you seen him recently?”

“No. I ain't seen him. You want this fucking bracelet? Take it.” She pulled the bangle off her wrist and set it down on the shelf next to her plate. “I can't believe he stole that shit.”

“Have you heard from Raúl recently? Since you moved out here?”

She shook her head. Her eyes were squinting against tears.

“Keep my card,” said Tito, setting it between the bangle and her plate. “If you hear from Raúl, I would like to know, OK?”
She'd never tell him, but she would probably show the card to Raúl. Maybe to Clara. Tito picked up the bangle and put it in the pocket of his jeans. “Thank you for returning this. It means a lot to the woman it was taken from.”

A tear escaped the girl's eye and dropped onto her cheek. “This is bullshit,” she said.

“Yo, Mister. Don't make her cry.” This was said by one of the young men at the next table who'd laughed a few moments earlier.

“Let's get out of here,” said Tito. He took her gently by the elbow and led her toward the door. He had the two paper plates with their uneaten slices in his other hand. The girl was wiping her eyes.

“Can I give you a ride home?”

“Are you crazy? I'm not getting in a car with you.”

“Look, can I talk to you again after school tomorrow? I would really like to talk to you about your mother.”

She looked at him as if he'd started speaking in Russian.

“I thought you were looking for Raúl. Why you talking about my mother all of a sudden?” She shook her head and took the plate with the pepperoni slice from his hand. “Listen, mister, I gave you back the bracelet. Just leave me alone.”

“I'll see you tomorrow, then,” he said.

She walked turgidly away from him, inserting her headphones with one hand and eating her pizza with the other. Tito watched her go. Had he fucked everything up? He wasn't sure. If nothing else, he'd gotten the bangle back.

T
HE YEARS APPEARED
to be catching up with Ms. Almonte. When he'd first seen her at her house in Oradell, she seemed to have changed hardly at all in the decade and a half since he graduated from Kennedy. She was elegant, ageless, her hair still black and her attire always carefully put together. Now, when she answered the door, she looked worn down, new lines in her face
and seams of silver in her hair, which she was no longer taking the trouble to straighten.

“Mr. Moreno. I apologize for not returning your call. It has been a busy time for me. My mother died yesterday and I have been making arrangements for the funeral.”

“I'm very sorry,” said Tito. He wanted to hug her, this fearsome figure from his youth who had been rendered mortal and vulnerable just like everyone else. Separated from her husband and now orphaned. He wanted to hug her but knew she would not welcome the gesture.

“Thank you for your condolences. I knew it was coming; I just didn't think it would come so fast. I thought I would have at least one more year with her.”

“Are you going to go back to work, then?” This was the first thing that came to mind.

“I don't know. I haven't thought about that yet.”

“It's good that you moved when you did,” he said, wondering if she was going to move back out to Oradell now—if she was going to need a mover again. This was probably not the right time to ask.

She nodded but did not speak. She looked dazed.

“Like I said in my message, I have something for you.” He pulled the bangle out of the front pocket of his jeans, realizing, too late, that he should have brought it in a bag or a box. The metal was still warm from his body heat. He held it up. “This is yours, isn't it?”