I carried the groceries up the stairs—four bags, five flights. At the landing, I put the bags down and fished the key from my pocket. Inside, the television droned. I jiggled the lock and then forced the door open with a push of my hip. East Village postwar construction, not to be confused with prewar. These were the buildings that were put up slapdash after World War II to house the burgeoning immigrant population. These days, a lot of them are sagging—doorframes crooked, floors dipping, fa?ades crumbling. Uncle Paul has lived in this apartment for thirty years, since he was a New York City beat cop in Midtown North. I lived here, too, for a while. It’s as much a home as I have.
He was waiting for me—sitting at the small kitchen table with a cup of coffee, his cane resting against the back of his chair, a newspaper folded open in front of him.
I didn’t say anything as I carried the groceries to the counter and started unpacking. Neither of us is big on talking. Coffee and hummus from Sahadi’s out in Brooklyn Heights, handmade mozzarella from Russo’s on Eleventh Street, fresh fruit and vegetables from the farmers’ market on Union Square. Shopping for my uncle was an adventure, a trek through the city to purveyors of fresh foods. He has always been a foodie, but after twenty-five years of eating pizza and donuts and hot dogs and gyros on the beat, he had chosen to go fresh and organic in his retirement.
“When did you find him?” he asked by way of greeting. “How?”
I just kept putting the groceries away. I didn’t want to talk about it; there wasn’t anything to say. I shelved three cans of San Marzano tomatoes, closed the cabinet door.
“I can’t condone this,” he said. There was a wheeze to his breathing that I didn’t like.
Silence—other than the low chatter of the television, which was really just white noise for him, I think, a reminder that the world continued on even though most of his days passed in this small apartment. He drew in and released a jagged, labored breath.
“They wouldn’t want this for you.”
I was not so sure about that.
“And now what?” Another rasping breath. “Have you thought about that?”
He had smoked a pack a day for almost forty years. Now, he suffered with emphysema, had a hard time with those stairs. He could still make it, but it took ages, and he has to rest on every floor. Lately, though, he was short of breath even when he was just sitting. I was trying not to think about it. He was all I had.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.
I ground some beans, put the grinds in the French press, and put on the water for coffee. I sat across from him, and he rested his ghostly blue eyes on me, ran a hand over the white cap of his shorn hair. His face was a filigree of tiny lines around his eyes and mouth. It was hard, with mountain ridges for cheekbones and a boulder for a chin.
“I think about it,” he said. “They’d hate me for how I’ve failed you.”
“Stop it.”
I looked down at the article in front of him. MAN MURDERED IN HOME INVASION. He caught me looking.
“Says here he was sixty-five years old. He had cancer, a bad leg, couldn’t walk without a cane.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “Quiet. Kept to himself. Just a nice old guy who fed the pigeons in the park. Who would do such a thing?”
I’d seen the article, too. But that’s what they always say, isn’t it? About victims and perpetrators alike? What would people say about me? I wondered. My McJob du Jour was as a waitress at a place called the Sidewalk Café on Avenue A. I showed up on time, didn’t make mistakes, and left when my shift was over. I smiled blandly at anyone who caught my eye, was polite-almost-friendly to my coworkers (not one of whom I could name). If someone needed to change a shift, I always said yes. It was a busy place and the tips were good, especially on the weekend late nights when people were out partying. I never tried to hold on to the cash that came my way (these days most people tipped with credit cards), always put any money in the jar to share with the busboys and dishwashers. I’d seen a couple of the other girls pocket the random cash tips they received. Of course, I never said a word.
What would they, my coworkers, say if they knew what I was? All the same things they said about him. That I was quiet. Kept to myself. They would have a hard time reconciling the pale, silent, nondescript girl who worked beside them.
I usually call him Paul, not Uncle Paul. Technically, he’s not my uncle. He is my father’s stepbrother. They were raised together and were lifelong best friends. I don’t know much about their childhood in New Jersey; neither of them talked about it much. My grandfather was a city bus driver. My grandmother was a teacher who died of pancreatic cancer when my dad was small. My grandfather married Paul’s mother, Sherry, who was a 911 dispatcher. Their life was simple and uneventful, according to Paul. Both Paul and my father, Chad, wound up as police officers. Paul moved to New York City and stayed a beat cop by choice. My dad was a homicide detective in New Jersey. My mom was “justamom,” as she jokingly referred to herself, the rare stay-at-home mom in a world of two-career families. She made cookies and did laundry, paid the bills, cooked the dinner.
“We’re not going to talk about this,” I said.
“We are,” he said, tapping his finger, one hard knock, on the page. “This is wrong.”
“Is it?” A lash of anger caused me to rise. Then I sat again, leaned into him. “How? How is it wrong? In what just universe is it wrong?”
“When we hurt other people, we hurt ourselves, Zoey. You must know that by now.”
He bowed his head and struggled to breathe. I put my hand on his. I slowed my breathing, hoping it would signal him to slow his. It did.
“What do you want me to make for your dinner?” I asked. “I’m working tonight, so I’ll make it now and Betsy can heat it up when you’re hungry.”
He didn’t answer me. So I moved over to the cabinets and removed those cans of tomatoes. “I was thinking I’d make a marinara with meatballs and sausage. I’ll make a lot so we can freeze it.”
“Zoey.”