Tag: Caribbean Fiction

  

                     
               Radix had some difficulty getting away for Xavier's funeral the next day.
               His supervisor was in a disgruntled mood. For long moments he appeared
               to ignore Radix, rubbing his temples and complaining to his secretary
               about his sinuses acting up. He indicated he had too much on his plate
               that morning and suggested Radix take his problem to Bob Darling (A.P. 
               Admin). 

               Bob Darling asked Radix questions: did he know the student? was he
               staying out all day? did he have lesson plans for the teachers covering his 
               classes? 

               Then there were forms to fill out, some running back and forth for
               signatures of approval. His supervisor, still unhappy with the short notice
               given, said he wasn't sure he'd find teachers to cover the classes. 

               Finally, with a gesture of impatience, he got Bob Darling on the phone,
               and must have been persuaded it would be good for community relations
               to have teacher representation at the funeral of a John Wayne Cotter
               student. 

               When that point got through to him, his manner became less irritable. Still
               complaining of his sinuses, as if that was the reason for his irritability, he
               asked friendly questions about the dead student. But by then Radix had 
               had just about enough of him. 

               He'd arranged to meet Judy Wiener in the lobby at the end of period 3, but
               he had to go looking for her. She was still at her desk in her classroom,
               giving last minute instructions to the covering teacher; and not in any
               great hurry to get moving. She wore a black dress, black stockings and
               shoes, and she had touched up her cheeks and eyelids. Radix for his part,
               in his workday long sleeves and skinny tie, hadn't thought of wearing
               something different for the funeral. 

               Later when he remarked on how attractive she looked in black, Judy
               Wiener threw him an anxious look and asked if he thought her wardrobe
               had gone a bit too far for the occasion. They decided to use his car.

               When they emerged from the building on the sidewalk they were seen, 
               recognized and hailed by students on the third floor who shouted Radix'
               name and wanted to know why he was cutting class; and where was he
               taking Miss Wiener? 

               "So where are we going?" he asked. 

               Judy Wiener took a piece of paper from her bag. Xavier's mother had
               called the night before, apologizing for not contacting her earlier; she was
               having a "hectic" time with the police, her lawyer, the funeral arrange-
               ments. 

               "I wrote it down here…The Seraphim and Cherubim House of the 
               Redeemer." Radix gave her an incredulous look. "That's what his mother
               told me. It's on Third Avenue." 

               "I know where Third Avenue is. Never heard of the church." 

               "It doesn't sound like a church. In the conventional sense, I mean." 

                He eased into the mid-morning traffic; they' would avoid the expressway,
                taking the route through the Bronx streets choked with pedestrians and
                stop lights. 

                He told her how difficult and begrudging his supervisor seemed in letting
                him go. "Oh, they do that all the time. They monitor every step we take
                inside the building, outside the building." 

               "I don't understand why we must account for every word, every minute we
                use. The punch-in clock, the lesson plan. The other day I heard someone
                suggesting they mount video cameras in the hallways….he was serious…
                mounted video cameras would help cut down on the hallway walkers, the
                perps banging on the doors."

                             (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

 

  

                       
               At some point, his curiosity sufficiently piqued, Radix asked other 
               teachers about her. What was their opinion of the lady in the library?
               Which lady?  they usually responded, You mean, Val? They offered
               unflattering profiles.

               Dr. Balleret was into her 27th year at John Wayne Cotter. She showed no
               readiness to retire. She ran the library like a colonial outpost. The books
               on the shelves were old and outdated; they left dust on your fingers. You
               could read the names of the students (some of whom Dr. Balleret
               remembered fondly) who had taken them out in the 70s. She asked me to
               pay for returning a book late! can you believe that?

               Everything else, like the librarian, was slowly and neatly decomposing on
               the library shelves.

               Only Tom Maypole (Biology) had good things to say about her. (He wore a
               jacket with a patch at the elbow and a tie, and he smoked a pipe; and
               everyone called him the Professor.)

               "A wonderful….truly generous person…much misunderstood," he said.

               "Tell me about it, Tom."

               "No seriously, you have to understand the world she lives in."

               "And what world is that? I thought we all lived more or less on the same 
               planet."

               "Don't forget, she's been here longer than most of you can recall."

               "I remember how excited she got about organizing student trips to the 
               Museum of Modern Art," someone conceded.

               "Did you hear.. about the reunion of teachers and graduates she's 
                organizing…? from as far back as 1971? It's for a big send-off party, since 
                they're closing the school. Didn't you get a notice in your box?"

               Dr. Balleret was, indeed, a wonderful organizer of friendly school 
               events, which was the reason the school administration valued her. 

               Despite her prim, good-old-days rigidity, the principals who had passed 
               through the school knew they could turn to her for events that required a 
               small intimate  gathering and light refreshments; like conferences, 
               seminars or ceremonies of one kind or another. The library was the 
               perfect setting, and Dr. Balleret, once she was given timely notice, the 
               ideal organizer.

               It was Dr. Balleret who organized the special tribute for Travis Willosong
               when he died. Colleagues were invited to the library during periods 5 and
               6 to share their fond memories with Mr. Willosong's mother, who had flown
               all the way to New York to attend. Dr. Balleret stood at the door, chasing 
               away curious students, and directing teachers to the arranged chairs. She
               had asked Pete Plimpler (A.P. English) to preside over the event.

               Radix was chilled at the announcement of Mr. Willosong's death. Dr.
               Balleret read it over the school's p.a. system in  a heartfelt, dignified way.
               She made a short speech about the great loss to the John Wayne Cotter
               family. Someone else might have ruined the moment, causing discomfort
               and restlessness by going on too long.

               In her measured tone Dr. Balleret asked for a moment of silence. No one
               else could have mastered that instant of public sadness with such control 
               and dignity.

               Her voice was the last closing bell in the school's fading tradition; not
               heard too often, but reminding everyone there were standards, a higher 
               purpose of decency and achievement, to live up to.
                
                     (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fide!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2014)

                               

 

   

                          
                 If anyone seemed to invite confrontation, that loud back-in-your-face
                 behaviour so common in classroom, it was Dr. Balleret.  Yet here in the
                 library the students were thrown back on their heels, conceding her right
                 to be brash, to rap their knuckles, smack them on the side of her head 
                 with her well-spoken words. Not a whimper of protest slipped from
                 their lips.

                 "They're basically nice decent kids, notwithstanding the terrible 
                 circumstances they live in," she was saying to Radix, her eyes darting
                 from table to table. "I had these three kids…I'll always remember
                 this…these three kids were kicking up a squall in the hallway one 
                 morning…you could hear them through the library doors. I stuck my head
                 out and looked at them. They sort of froze, waiting to see what I'd do
                 next. I invited them to come inside. One of them ran off. The others
                 looked at me as if I were crazy. Come, come inside, I want to talk to
                 you, I said." 

                 She took a deep breath, and adjusted her clothes.

                 "So they came in, and I sat them down at a table and I said, Okay, I want
                 to talk to you, one by one in my office. Naturally they were mystified.
                 What do you want to talk about?  So I said, Well, why don't you come 
                 into my office. One by one, and find out? And they came…one by one 
                 they came into my office. I sat them down and gave them the lecture." 

                 "The lecture?"  Radix shifted his feet and looked sufficiently curious.

                 "I call it "The Seven Pillars of Achievement and Success". I explained to
                 them what "responsibility" means, why it's important to get things done,
                 especially things they regard as boring."

                 "They hear a lot of that in the classroom," Radix said, more than a little
                 irritated now by her air of self-importance.

                 "You see, I've discovered what is sadly lacking in these kids. Lessons in 
                  moral standards, appropriate behaviour. Nobody talks to them about
                  these things."

                 "They get that from their parents, and when they go to church on 
                  Sundays."

                  "No, I don't mean all that motivating…I am somebody!…stuff. They're 
                  tired of hearing that. They get bullied every day with that. No, I mean
                  mean ideas for successful living… your basic bootstrap ideas… that 
                  would lift them out of the awful situations they find themselves in. 
                  And I'll tell you this: those kids sat and listened to me as if they were 
                  hearing everything I said for the first time. And the following day one of 
                  them came up to me and said, "I've come for my lecture." Your lecture, 
                  I said. "Yes, my lecture. The other kids got theirs; I wasn't there; so I 
                  want my lecture." She laughed in a curt, amused way. "That's how much 
                  it meant to them."

                  That day Radix left the library thinking: how pontifical, how ancient this
                  woman is, for all her sensitivity to student issues.

                  And for awhile he couldn't get rid of her. She'd come over to where he
                  sat with the New York Times. She'd smile, remove her glasses and say,
                  Good morning, Michael…and how are we today? She'd look into his eyes
                  with what seemed an offer, a promise of eternal friendship. He'd stop
                  reading, lift his head and listen as she relayed in a voice just above a
                  whisper something of human interest she'd observed; something amusing
                  or sad.

                  He remembered only words and phrases he'd heard no one else in the
                  building deliver with unfailing civility and dedication  ̶  Michael, I kid
                  you not; and Notwithstanding.

                  (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

 

 

 

  

                      
               In those last gloomy days, as the school cruised towards final exams, the
               prom, graduation exercises and other farewell routines that still had to be
               organized and gone through, Radix found a place of sanctuary, so to speak,
               in the school library; in the east wing on the third floor. 

               He'd drifted in there one morning and found it empty and quiet. It was the
               7th period, his "prep" period, so he decided to return the next day and the
               day after. There was the New York Times on its polished sticks. A few
               students, heads bowed, were reading and working with purpose. And there
               was Dr. Valery Balleret, the librarian, who ran the library like a castle of
               of discipline and enlightenment. 

               His first encounter with her back in the Fall was unsettling. He'd been
               asked by his supervisor to cover a class that normally met in the computer
               room; but since the supervisor wasn't prepared to let a bunch of kids sit
               idle in the computer, it was off to the library with Radix in charge.

               He had a difficult time marshalling everyone up to the third floor. Some
               students straggled; some sneaked off and were stopped in the hallway and
               asked to explain their unattended behavior, prompting the security officer
               to look at Radix as if he ought to be doing a better job controlling his
               class.

               When he got to the library Dr. Balleret refused to let them in. She asked
               Radix if he worked here  ̶  was he a substitute teacher? She insisted that
               everyone line up quietly and take out their identity cards.

               This had been her routine over the years: waiting at the door as library
               visitors came tumbling up the stairs; her hands folded, her chin raised in
               proprietary displeasure as everyone got their cards out for inspection. 

               To Radix that morning, his patience already tested and frayed, this was a
               silly time-wasting procedure.

               He stood aside, stiff and unhelpful, an offended look on his brow.  
               Eventually she let them in, told them where to sit; then she got on the 
               phone to enquire what this was all about since no one had told her about a
               class coming to the library.

               She spoke in a cultivated English accent he came to associate with
               librarians, and people whose lives and work seem connected with
               literature and the Arts.                                      

               Then as if to make amends for the offhand way she'd treated him, she 
               sidled over to Radix, introduced herself and  ̶  with arms folded, her eyes
               narrowed and steeled in case of trouble  ̶  she struck up friendly conver- 
               sation during which they appeared to be jointly watching over their
               charges. 

               She wanted to know where he came from. She quickly announced how
               pleasing his accent was. Part of the problem here at John Wayne Cotter,
               she whispered with some urgency, was the failure of communication
               between teachers and students whose origins were oceans apart. Radix
               felt some discomfort with this opinion, and wished she would wander back
               to her library duties.

               A student came in. Dr. Balleret stopped him in his tracks and asked what 
               he wanted. He seemed surprised anyone would want to stop him from
               using the school library. He explained he simply wanted to stay here.
               She asked if he had a room pass; he didn't have one. "Well, in that case
               you can't stay here."  Not willing to challenge her he walked away, looking
               back, puzzled and resentful.

               Only then did it strike Radix how unusually compliant the kids were in this
               part of the building; how controlled and responsive to request. Was it the
               library with its library rules? Was it the stern overarching presence of Dr.
               Balleret? There was more than a hint of uncompromising will in her narrow
               white face, her straight arrow posture.
 
               Above all, she told Radix, she was concerned with "setting a good example
               for these kids"; establishing "a positive tone in the school"; encouraging
               "civility in the way we conduct ourselves."

               And as if to demonstrate what she meant, she walked over to a table
               where the decibel level had risen to unacceptable levels. She spoke to the
               miscreants in her slow refined way (which seconds ago had Radix wishing
               she'd hurry and get to the end of the sentence, or finish the thought.) It 
               compelled the students to listen, to follow syllable after syllable her
               admonitions. Then she returned to Radix's side, shaking her head sadly,
               eager to pick up the thread of their conversation.

 

                       (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" by N.D.Williams, 2001)

   

 

 

 

   

                  
              All of a sudden, like a circus caravan that had arrived and was setting up
              camp overnight, spring came into the city. Radix stepped outside one
              morning and noticed early bodies of leaves on the trees, as if they weren't
              there when last he looked. The fullness of green was everywhere, and just
              as overnight snow fall blankets and hides everything, the tree branches
              masked the ugliness of the walls and gave apartment dwellers a sense of
              occupying a pleasant new habitat.

              Blossoms and pollen fell and blew about; allergies rose and spread. There
              was much to complain about but in a palpably different way, and with 
              fresh launchings of hope from every shut in heart.

              The street-cleaning vehicle rumbled through leaving a visible brush trail
              around cars, and for one day at least the street kerbs were free of litter.

              Driving home one afternoon he missed his turn off corner, so slow were his
              reflexes to his markers, the trees in bloom. Still he was glad for the
              warming temperatures. 

              Feeling the need to do something spring-like he renewed his Sunday
              morning rides around the city.

              Cycling at an early morning hour turned out to be more dangerous than 
              he'd imagined. Released from winter caution motorists seemed to move 
              faster; they often swished past him very close, uncomfortable close. He'd
              pass a dead squirrel that didn't scamper fast enough from the wheels
              of cars. It lay just off the middle of the road, its coiled innards squashed
              and exposed.

              Sometimes on deserted littered streets he'd pedal fast past two cars, a
              police cruiser, its flashers going, the white officer scribbling the ticket;
              while in the other car the black driver sat stiff, looking patient or bored.

              At John Wayne Cotter, spring season behavior, as far as such a thing
              existed, heated up with the understanding the school was in its last
              days, its death throes. 

              Memos from Phil Quackenbush, the Chapter chairman, were strident but
              not very encouraging. The Board was making arrangements to interview
              teachers who wished to remain and work at John Wayne Cotter under the
              new dispensation. Everyone else would be transferred to schools else-
              where. Not to schools of their choice. It was a straight case of take it or
              leave it. 

              This caused howls of anxiety and outrage that threw Quackenbush on the
              defensive. Yes, It seemed the Board was treating teachers like garbage, but
              he was protesting the situation in the strongest terms. In the meantime, he
              wanted everyone to inform him of their reassignments, their new schools,
              just in case things worked out in the union's favour and he needed to get in
              touch with them. 

              Come what may, however farflung their eventual dispersal, the John
              Wayne Cotter family would remain united in spirit.   

              As the temperature warmed up, student absenteeism rose. Everyone
              agreed these were good days for truancy at the beach. On hot days
              students threw the windows open and teachers fought to have them pulled
              down to one-inch slits "as per Board of Education regulations".

              On one particularly bad day a substitute teacher got his finger caught in a
              door. Someone shut the door with such severe force it made a clean slice
              of the finger. His howl of pain was heard on the third and first floors, a
              long drawn out, heart-chilling unnatural sound, then a whimpering of
              disbelief. Someone picked up the severed finger and both were rushed by
              ambulance to the hospital. 

              Jack Barquist came back. He'd been away for two years, "languishing in 
              the Superintendent's office," he said, "along with all the alleged perverts 
              …racial slurrists ..and child fondlers."

              He strolled into the cafeteria during the fifth period, his briefcase slung
              from his shoulder, as if he'd just left a classroom. Someone looked up and 
              said, "Look who's here!" There was a ripple of surprise, heads turning,
              and an eruption of cheers  ̶  "Jack! Welcome back, Jack. There's a brand 
              new tire round your middle "  ̶  everyone smiling except Radix who didn't
              know Jack. He watched as this burly, bearish-looking man with bottle-
              bottom glasses smiled back, and let himself be drenched in a shower
              of goodwill.

              Two years back he'd been removed from the classroom for grabbing a
              student by his jacket collar, shaking him and screaming, "You rotten punk!
              You scumbag!" He claimed the kid had keyed the side of his car. The kid 
              waited outside for him to leave the building, joking around with his
              friends; waiting to witness the shock and horror on Jack's face; pretending
              not to notice as Jack approached, gasped when he saw the wriggly scratch
              line on the car's paintwork, from front to rear. 

              Jack didn't have to ask; he knew who'd done it. He walked right back to the
              group and grabbed the kid. The next day the Superintendent's office
              received a complaint from a parent about "a teacher assaulting my son".
              This was considered a serious offence. 

              So what happened? "Nothing. They told me they couldn't conclude the
              investigation. Apparently the kid moved to Florida… so here I am. Back 
              with all you masochists." 

              And wasn't that just like the Board of Ed?  Two years of investigation, two
              years spent sitting in the Superintendent's office; reporting every day, 
              reading the New York Times, doing the crossword puzzle  ̶  "I'm really
              good at it now!" he said, smiling his lovable bear smile. 

              Everyone laughed. Another hug, another kiss on the cheek. Then Jack
              pulled out a chair and the excitement died down.

            (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

 

 

  

 

                   But a change was coming. Changes were on the way for John Wayne
                   Cotter H.S. Change had already begun with her good news. Dr.
                   Haliburton  wasn't going to let Anemona Snow spoil her day with a file
                   and this "whole village" thing.

 

 

                                                           ≈ ≈       

                                                                                                       Investigation
                                                                                                          Page 1a
                                                  Written Statement Form
                                                  John Wayne Cotter H.S.

                    Name Of Witness: Shanikqua Ledbetter

                    Location Of Incident: Homeroom

                    Student's Name: Milagros de los Angeles Cohuate

                    Description Of Incident:  

                    The homeroom teacher moved Milagros behind Marvin,
                    and Marvin said no, no. The Marvin pulled his pennis
                    out. Then he walked around and was telling people what
                    happened. The he came around and put his pennis in
                    her face. After that he put it back, he pulled her hair and
                    said, "I want to fuck you."

                                                                    Shanikqua Ledbetter
                                                                    (Author's Signature)

 

                   ≈  ≈                                

 

                                                                                                   Investigation
                                                                                                   Page 1a
                                               Written statement Form
                                              John Wayne Cotter H.S.

 

                   Name Of Witness:

                   Location Of Incident: 115H

                   Student's Name: Milagros de los Angeles Cohuate

                   Description Of Incident:

                   This teacher ask me to sit behind Marvin and Marvin was
                   like he aint want me to sit behind him so I was like I
                   aint want to sit behind you either, and he grab my hair,
                   and he was like how he want me to suck his dick and
                   I said hell no niger and he told me he's gonna whip out
                   his dick and I covered my face and I don't know when
                   he went around the back and I heard someone talking
                   behind me and when I turned around Marvin was
                   there and he stained me with his dick and I felt stupid
                   cause everyone was laughing and teasing me and Marvin
                   was like it's big! I said shut up – and that was when the
                   bell rung.

                                                   Milagros de los Angeles Cohuate
                                                          (Author's Signature)

 

                   Mrs. Haliburton's racing heart felt driven. Anemona Snow was at her 
                   ears cracking a whip; meaning to get her all upset over…this unsavory
                   business… horse manure, as her husband would say. But not to
                   worry. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh. 

                   Superfluous people! Come next September, they'll all be gone. In the
                   meantime, there was this… mess…that required attention and
                   paperwork.

                   Maybe she should send the whole file untouched right back to Guidance.
                   This was a matter for the Dean of Discipline. Let Snow and company
                   direct the file to Guidance. She had a nerve sending it here in the first
                   place. But that was Guidance for you. They were supposed to be
                   guiding, but it was more like the blind leading the blind down there on
                   the first floor. 

                   The audacity of Anemona Snow…letting her goats roam free in every-
                   body's garden…chomping and wandering and leaving goat droppings
                   everywhere. Which was exactly what this was all about… goat
                   droppings …in her flower beds, on her spring dew; spoiling her good
                   news, "Dr. Viola Haliburton". Not this time… hair sprayed old Snow
                   crone, not in my garden!

                   She reached for the phone. She had to get in touch with Darlene. She
                   had to tell her the good news. She couldn't let anyone in this building
                   ruin her day. 

                   The phone rang and rang. Where on earth was that good woman? A
                   feeling of plain happiness spread through her.

                   The wall posters in her office would go with her wherever she located
                   next. She'd need new leather chairs… though staying here in this room
                   with the street view would not be all that bad. The street view… after 
                   all these years fighting off the dogs of envy, could she give up the
                   street view?

                   No, success required change. It was time to front step up, move on. 

                   On the sidewalk at that moment, looking flustered and hurried – and
                   late again! – there was Miss Wiener.  From Special Ed. Dressed in beige
                   with some sort of maroon scarf tossed round her neck. Not exactly
                   spring colors. Our Jewish American princess. If she'd just straighten
                   those shoulders and put a little…funk… in that body, her prince might
                   one day come. Time was running out on her, too. In more ways than
                   one. 

                   The phone was still ringing. Pick up. Pick up the phone Darlene. Got to 
                   talk to you. Darleeeene, pick up!

 

                     (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel, by N.D. Williams, 2001)

 

 

 

   

                     
               Yep, spring was here, and not a day too soon; and just in time for Mrs.
               Haliburton to celebrate her good fortune, the fruits of hard labour over 
               many years. She was now Dr. Haliburton. A university in Florida had
               granted her a doctorate. 

               People were sure to ask, how long has this been going on? why had she
               kept it close to her bosom? a university in Florida? 

               For the moment her star was rising. Flowers were in bloom, leaves were 
               returning to the trees. She was ready to enjoy the days ahead when the
               city of New York would learn of her accomplishment, and would view her
               quite differently. As well they should. 

               She'd have to break the good news to the John Wayne Cotter family. She
               didn't think they'd be in the mood for this kind of good news but, hey, that
               was their problem. 

               Timing was of the essence. An announcement at the next faculty meeting
                would spare her the arduous task of informing individual staff members.
                Let the principal break the news! Let her wave a hand in her direction,
                make every head turn, everybody applauding. Even those who hated her
                would feel compelled, would feel swept up, to put their hands together
                and acknowledge her achievement. Timing was so important. 

                In fact, timing was on her mind right at that moment. She'd received a
                memo from Anemona Snow in the Guidance office. There had been an
                incident. A serious incident. Please see file enclosed. This calls for "the
                whole village" approach. 

                The more she thought about it, she was convinced Snow had slipped the
                "whole village" comment in there as a snide reference to the inspirational 
                poster on the wall outside her office. She'd overheard one of her Guidance
                cronies snickering, as they came off the elevator, and saying (seconds
                before they saw her): These are her people. This is her village. Let her 
                handle it. It didn't need a rocket scientist to figure out what that was all
                about. 

                As for the incident? Unsavoury business. Puberty fears, that's what it was.
                Girl accuses boy of sexual harassment. More precisely, Hispanic girl
                accuses black boy of sexual harassment. That was what they wanted her
                to handle. With "the whole village approach". Knowing full well it was the
                kind of incident most people in the village would want to hush before it
                got around. 

                No doubt about it, this "whole village" thing was a sly… no, this was a 
                sneaky attempt by that crinkly white bitch Anemona Snow to disrespect
                her. And ruin her good news day. 

                These old white women, heaven help us! with their hair spray and their
                peeling tenured bodies. Certified and paid to be "counselors" for poor
                black kids.

                Just the other day on the first floor there was Anemona Snow speaking to
                a dark-skinned chubby boy, the kind of baby-faced mischief maker who  
                liked fast food and rhyming with his boys in homeroom. She had him
                cornered, his back was to the wall, his head lowered; and as Mrs.
                Haliburton passed there was this silence  ̶  she might have been waiting
                for the boy to digest a piece of advice she'd just dispensed. Then she
                heard Anemona Snow whisper fiercely, How dare you speak to me that
                way?

                Something in that whisper, a hard fury, a deep personal resentment,
                made even Mrs. Haliburton wince. What had this poor boy done to deserve
                this… this knee to the groin, this attempt to snap his upstart will? 

                Mrs. Haliburton thought of turning back to spare him further humiliation.
                But the boy took the matter into his own hands, answering  in a fierce 
                whiny voice, thefuckyoutalkin'bout? And now he was really in trouble,
                speaking to her like that.

                It didn't matter. This boy knew what to do; knew what to say when these
                old white women who couldn't stand coarse words, loud behavior, loud
                anything from students, crossed a line and messed with his young
                manhood. 

                Good for you, young man! Time to hold your ground. Mrs. Haliburton kept
                walking.

                                    (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

 

 

 

 

  

 

                    It turned out she'd parked on the same block on a narrow side street; 
                    close to black garbage bags piled up for the sanitation truck, and
                    pigeons pecking at scraps of food. Not many people about. Doors and
                    windows locked tight, though from an attic window nearby a face
                    peered down at them. 

                    Her car keys out, Judy Wiener stood frozen and unsure, staring at her
                    car. "Why does it look so different?" 

                    Radix looked at the car. He couldn't see anything odd about it, until
                    she drew his attention to the wheels. Where the silver hubcaps should
                    have been, there was just the rusted metal plates and the exposed lug
                    knots. Everything else looked intact. 

                    He threw a quick nervous glance up the road at his car.  From a 
                    distance it looked untouched but he couldn't be sure. 

                    "Well, I suppose I ought to be thankful they left the wheels. At least I
                    can drive home," Judy Wiener sighed. 

                    She didn't want to be angry at the Bronx, not at that moment. Lost
                    hubcaps were a small price to pay for trying to see Xavier. And in any
                    event she felt certain once he was well again, once he'd found out
                    what had happened to her car, one way or another he'd get her new
                    set of hubcaps, no problem. 

                    Still, a wariness crept over her face, knitting her brow. A white 
                    woman had casually parked her car on a Bronx street; and now this! 

                    Radix shook his head, sharing her irritation that this sort of thing
                    happened. Two blocks away, the main street was active: people
                    streaming on sidewalks, the subway stop, commerce and buses. He
                    could sense her distaste for this narrow street, with its dark hints 
                    anything could happen once your back was turned. 

                    The face at the attic window across the street looked down at them. 

                    "You sure you know your way out?" Radix asked. "The expressway is 
                    back that way?"  

                    She managed a game smile. "I'll probably take a left at the end of the 
                    block…and go back that way."

                    "Well, I'd better get going. See if the wheels are still on my car. Talk to
                    you later."

                    That night minutes after ten o'clock Judy Wiener called. How did she
                    get his number? "Don't you remember, we exchanged numbers last
                    semester…? the new Department procedure, just in case one of us
                    wasn't coming in?"  He didn't remember. "It's just that I've never used 
                    yours before."

                    In any event, she was calling because when she got home she'd 
                    discovered her licence plates had been stolen.  Stolen? "Well, removed,
                    along with the hubcaps." She paused. He waited, wondering, Why
                    couldn't this news wait until they saw each other the following day? "I
                    mean, why would anyone want to steal my license plates?" she went
                    on. "They took the back plate, they left the front plate; or maybe
                    they'd planned to take that one too, I don't understand. What could 
                    anyone do with just one licence plate?" 

                    What she wanted at that hour, it seemed, was someone in the Bronx to
                    understand what had happened to her; someone who could explain why
                    these things happened. There was too, Radix thought, just a hint of
                    accusation in her voice. It sounded far off, solitary, as if she was
                    standing in an empty room.

                    "It doesn't make sense," he'd say whenever she paused in her 
                     bewilderment.

                     The whole day was already unreal, as if the hands of the clock had
                     played with time, speeding things up, slowing things down. Soon he'd
                     go to bed.

                     Maybe the following day things would be rearranged; the licence plate
                     found, the neighbourhood thief arrested; and  ̶  who knows?  ̶  he might
                     have better luck, or no luck at all when he stepped outside, for that
                     was how time passed him in the Bronx these days.

                      (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)