Park Lane South, Queens



Freddy pedaled his bicycle like mad through the woods at dawn. He liked to pick out certain produce for the restaurant himself and you had to get there good and early. He bumped through the pine forest and whizzed onto Park Lane South. There was no not braking down White Hill. White Hill was steep, and every year or so another kid got killed sledding through the stop sign on the bottom. And the tow truckers. There was great competition among them to be the first at any wreck. The first one there got the job. Like modern-day cowboys they galloped through the rural neighborhoods at heart-thumping speeds. Plenty of them had crashed at the foot of White Hill. Plenty. The street had a veritable glitter from all the ground glass of accidents throughout the years. You always wanted to be careful around there. There was a tree down at the bottom, just a bit off the crux. It was the oldest tree in Richmond Hill, a good thirteen feet around the trunk, and that tree, as noticeable as it was, was made invisible by the devastating white of the hill. Nobody knew who’d originally painted the San Francisco–like slope, but whoever it was had done a good job of it. It was still white and it had been for as long as even old Mr. Lours could remember. Freddy pulled over at the tree and put his feet on the ground. He blew his nose and wiped his face. Geez, this was one hell of a tree. Funny he’d never noticed it. You could see the front porch of the Breslinsky house from here. He got back up on the bike and pedaled down. Oh, for God’s sake! Claire had Michaelaen outside with her again. This was really the limit. Freddy didn’t like Claire. She would get up and leave the room in the middle of one of his stories. And, worse, if she stayed, she rarely bothered to laugh. She wasn’t a nice Queens girl. She was hard. Yes, that was it, she was hard. She had this childlike bashfulness that fooled you, when in reality she was nothing more than a tart. A world-class tart. Taking pictures round the world. If that was what she’d been doing, where was her money?

Freddy wheeled his bike over and looked at them. The Mayor opened one eye then closed it right back up again. Ugly old dog. Ought to be put to sleep. He looked at Michaelaen’s face collapsed in sleep, so beautiful, so infernally a replica of Zinnie’s that if he didn’t know Zinnie’s character so well he’d wonder if Michaelaen were his. The sound of someone skittering about up on the second floor put him back on his bicycle. Probably Mary getting up. He didn’t feel like shooting the breeze with her. Mary did go on and on. Off he went.

It is F?hn, was Claire’s first thought as she opened her eyes. Sirocco. The high-pressure, delicious wind. Weather that bowled you over with its perfection. The only thing was that people didn’t exactly know what they were doing in it and neither did they much care. Michaelaen and the Mayor still slept soundly. Claire remembered Johnny in a rush, before her defenses were up. Maybe he’ll call, she thought. Maybe I’ll get up and go inside and the phone will ring.

A garbage truck lumbered up the street. The compacter roared and overalled men flung the cans through the air. Claire watched them with interest. Years ago, when Michael had died, they’d found a nest of mice in the cellar. They were Michael’s mice, or at least he’d protected them by never telling their parents about them. He’d made Claire swear she’d never tell, either. He didn’t want Pop to go knocking them off, he said. Poor little fellas. The mice, as though in silent contract with Michael and his live-and-let-live policy, had gone about their teeny lives unnoticed. Claire remembered very well. But after the accident, the whole time Michael was laid out in Mullaney’s Funeral Parlor, the mice had raced crazily through the walls at home. With uncanny terror they’d clattered noisily over the rafters. Stan had set his traps with grief-stricken, dedicated preoccupation. They were only little mice. All mixed up. Of course somebody had had to do something, but Claire remembered how she’d hated her father for his industrious and careful murders. One morning, the morning of the funeral, she had watched from the upstairs window as the garbage men had picked out a wrapped up newspaper from one of the cans that had tipped, and a baby mouse had slid out onto the curb. The garbage man had picked up the thing by its tail and flung it into the chopping blades. She had felt such shame at that moment that she’d wanted to hide. She hadn’t wanted anyone to see Michael’s mice. Not ever. She hadn’t wanted anyone to know any more of his soft and tender weaknesses.

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