Bed-Stuy Is Burning Read online

  Amelia wasn’t being fair. Simon was a baby. He loved whoever spent the most time with him and gave him food and held him. On Sunday evening at the end of a weekend, he loved Amelia. On Friday afternoon, he loved Antoinette. Antoinette wasn’t to blame. But guests? And Jupiter of all people—one of the few neighbors who still hadn’t asked them over.

  When Aaron had originally suggested the move, Bed-Stuy seemed too much like something Kevin would propose. An adventure, more than real life. But once she’d met her neighbors and they’d invited her to see their homes, to compare interior details, to eat (the couple next door prepared the most delicious fish tagine and laughingly referred to her and Aaron as “the diversity” on the block), for the first time in her life, Amelia felt part of a neighborhood. She’d grown up in the suburbs, where the other houses were spaced far apart and without children her age. After college, she’d lived in big cities where everyone was anonymous, and then she’d married Kevin, with whom she moved around too often to get to know people. But Bed-Stuy was a fixed community where everyone welcomed her as someone they’d known forever. One of the few owners on the block, however, whom Amelia didn’t have a personal connection with was Jupiter. He seemed more interested in Antoinette and fixing fuse boxes than getting to know her family.

  Amelia ran her hands down the wooden banister and crossed the front of the parlor. But then she stopped. She saw her baby at the dining room table with this other couple.

  “You know Mr. Jupiter from the block,” Antoinette said.

  “Of course she does,” Jupiter said, smiling.

  That the couple was black and her baby was white was what first struck Amelia. The racial incongruity of the little white baby with the two dark-skinned adults. She’d dated a black guy in college and liked the way her fingers looked intertwined with his. She liked the way his legs looked intertwined with hers. But now Amelia felt she couldn’t let on that she was thinking about race. She looked at her baby, only at her baby, but her mind went back to how she didn’t know Jupiter beyond the ridiculous stories Aaron told about him, and there he was in her home two feet from her son. That wonderful smell was chocolate cake. It struck her that Antoinette wasn’t wearing a scarf, after all. It was a Muslim scarf. Not a burka. A hijab. A sign of masculine hegemony over the rights of oppressed women all over the world. But she hadn’t always worn one. Had she?

  “Is everything all right?” Amelia said, getting as close as she could without disturbing the little family they made at the table. That morning she had dressed her boy in a plain white onesie and striped blue-and-white pants. Now he sat with this fake mother and father at his real dining room table.

  “Simon can’t eat that,” Amelia said.

  “Of course not,” Antoinette said. “He’s only got three teeth! I hope it’s okay I’m using your plates. I’ll clean up after. Mr. Jupiter baked a flourless chocolate cake.”

  “Aren’t you hot in here? If you’re going to wear that in the house, don’t you want me to turn up the air-conditioning?”

  “No. I’m comfortable,” Antoinette said.

  “I mean. It’s just us in here,” Amelia said, pointing out herself, the baby, Jupiter. “You don’t need to wear that for us.”

  “It’s to show you respect. And modesty. To respect you,” Antoinette said. “I want to.”

  “The cake smells great,” Amelia said.

  “Have a slice,” Jupiter said.

  “It’s too early,” Amelia said.

  Simon looked over, but he didn’t reach out to her.

  Amelia stifled a rising sob. Her body heaved to be closer to her son.

  “We were just talking about the weather,” Jupiter said. “About how warm it’s been. Hot. About how hot it’s been for September. It’s been the hottest September we can remember.”

  “It looks nice out today,” Amelia said, thinking that she couldn’t think of a kind way to make this man leave her home. So as an attempt at useless reverse psychology, “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked Jupiter. “A glass of water or a cup of coffee to wash down the cake?”

  “I’d love a cup, if you’re pouring. Would you like a cup?” Jupiter asked Antoinette.

  “It’s okay,” Antoinette said, unsure if Jupiter was purposely badgering Amelia or if he didn’t understand that she wanted him to leave. Antoinette was worried that the longer Jupiter stayed, the angrier Amelia would be with her. But then there was the problem of the cake. The cake was delicious and they had only each eaten half of a slice, so there was no way he could leave until he had at least finished his slice and wrapped the rest of the cake to take home or she told him to take it home and he insisted that she give the rest to Teddy. Teddy would love this cake.

  Amelia didn’t know whether to stand or sit or take her son or return to work. Jupiter’s T-shirt looked ironed. Was it possible that he ironed his white T-shirts? Or maybe he had a cleaning lady to do that for him. He was a good-looking man. Amelia had interviewed Ben Affleck at a charity golf tournament, and Jupiter looked like an older, overweight, black Ben Affleck. It was in the eyes.

  Simon looked up at Antoinette like she was everything in the world to him. He cocked his neck, which a couple of hours earlier had been in Amelia’s hands, the two of them alone together. He screwed up his face and then relaxed into a smile. He looked up at Antoinette and smiled. He didn’t want anything. Amelia wanted to get him formula, but Simon didn’t want formula.

  “You were just saying,” tired, black Ben Affleck said. Amelia tried to laugh. He was talking to Antoinette, talking past Amelia. “You were just saying that you were going to make yourself a cup. How it was funny what air-conditioning did to your throat. We’d both like a cup, if you don’t mind. Antoinette was saying something warm on a warm day sounded good because of the air-conditioning and I was saying that in India, in warm cultures, they drank a lot of tea, because the warm beverage helped them sweat, which cooled them down.”

  “No problem at all,” Amelia said. “But I really should be working, so I hope you won’t think me rude if I serve you guys then head on back upstairs.” Hope you won’t think me rude and head on back upstairs were both expressions she’d never used before.

  She was furious at these people for acting as though her house were their house and her child their child. She turned off the air-conditioning to punish them but quickly turned it on again for Simon. She ate a big scoop of vanilla gelato from the freezer. She poured three stale coffees and put a big scoop of vanilla gelato into hers. She brought theirs out first so they wouldn’t see her gelato coffee. They were laughing, pretending Jupiter’s finger was a mustache over little baby Simon’s upper lip.

  Chapter 17

  Amelia called Aaron.

  “Jupiter is here again, and he won’t leave,” she said.

  “What?” he said. “I’m in a meeting.”

  “Jupiter is here and he won’t leave,” she said.

  “Did you ask him to leave?” he said.

  “No.”

  “Good,” Aaron said. “He’s our neighbor. He’s a nice guy. And—”

  “Now Simon is crying. Do you hear that?”

  “Through the phone? I’m in a meeting. Hang on one sec. I’ll step outside. Sorry. It’s my . . . It’s about my son. It’ll only be a moment. Okay. I’m here. Ames? I’m here. What can I do?”

  Amelia started to cry.

  “Ames? Ames? Are you okay?”

  “My God. No. I don’t know. Yes.”

  “Do you want me to call Jupiter? Tell him you’re not feeling well? That you’re not up to company?”

  “It’s not just him. I don’t know.” Amelia took a breath. “My Bed-Stuy article came out today and there were all these nasty comments and I don’t want to write about Jonah fucking Hill and Simon loves Antoinette more than me even though it’s only Monday and he was just with me all weekend, and this man I don’t know is in our house, and my friends suck, and I don’t know. I miss you.”

  “I love you,
sugar. Simon is a baby. He likes whoever is holding him. You know that. And we can fire Antoinette tonight. Tomorrow. You’ll always be his mom. Antoinette is just our employee. I can ask Jupiter to leave. He is just our neighbor. You don’t need to write about Jonah fucking Hill. These are all temporary things. What matters is that we have each other and we have Simon and he has us. Antoinette doesn’t matter. Neither does Jupiter. Commenters online don’t matter. You’ll never meet them. They are pretend people. We’re the only people who matter. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “I love you. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I love you.”

  “Okay.”

  Chapter 18

  Aaron put his phone on vibrate and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  Belmont Park was perfect. A breeze cut into the heat. There were a few seats between him and the next guy, a weightlifter in his forties wearing basketball shorts, a white T-shirt, and a backward Yankees cap. The guy sat with a newspaper alongside a plastic bag overflowing with oranges.

  “Apologies, boss,” the guy said. “I got in trouble once for not offering, so I’m just going to say it from the get-go: I’ll talk if you want, but I’m not going to share my oranges. Sorry to be rude, but that’s that.”

  “No problem,” Aaron said. “Not an oranges guy.”

  “You missed a helluva first race,” the guy said.

  Third-generation Polish, was Aaron’s guess. Or Czech? Maybe Jewish even and eccentric? But strong. Or Italian? He seemed like a nice guy. A guy who wouldn’t ruin the day for Aaron. Might even add to the thrill.

  “Yeah?” Aaron said.

  “Eighteen-to-one wire-to-wire, stumbled down the stretch for no reason.”

  “Claiming race,” Aaron guessed.

  “But still.”

  “You bet it?” Aaron asked. Aaron didn’t like to talk previous bets with strangers, but this guy seemed harmless, and Aaron wanted to know how the track had been racing.

  “No.”

  Starting to flip through the Daily Racing Form, Aaron didn’t like any horses in the second race. He was focusing on the third. It would be the first decent race that day. Aaron was familiar with some of the trainers and owners at least. He scanned the practice times.

  “Fine, fine. My apologies. Have an orange,” the guy said, peeling one indelicately. Ripping off small pieces with all his fingers. “Have an orange. My apologies. That’s a nice suit. I don’t need to be like that. My apologies about before. It’s just that some guys come in, and the first thing they say is, ‘Can I have an orange?’ They even specify. ‘Not too many seeds.’ Like I don’t have a system? Like I just go to the store and buy whatever the fuck oranges my hands go to first? I don’t want the ones with too many seeds, either. Seriously, my apologies. My deepest apologies: it would be my pleasure for you eat one of my oranges. I’ve got extra napkins, if you’re worried about your suit. I’ve got like fifteen oranges here. Good brain food.”

  “Stop apologizing,” Aaron said. “I’m good.” Aaron liked this. It felt right. In the mood Aaron was in, this guy was adding to, rather than ruining, the day. There was only one thing that could take him out of the feeling now, and he still had a full race he wasn’t going to bet before getting to the race he was.

  “Okay, okay,” Mr. Oranges said. “My apologies. I won’t be pushy.” He sat four seats over from Aaron, and the other nearest seat taken was a couple of rows back. Belmont was dead. Citrus wafted over the stands. There was an even-money favorite in the third, but Aaron couldn’t figure out why. No reason to overthink it. Aaron liked a race where there was a favorite he could confidently bet against.

  The sky was blue, like from a watercolor painting made for a kid’s bedroom. Aaron felt like a kid. His knees were jumping. There were a couple of clouds in the sky, as if just to show how blue the sky was. His heart was pumping, but it wasn’t nervous energy. It was good energy.

  “How’s the track running lately?” Aaron said.

  “Like a dream.”

  The two men sat there as though they were best friends. The guy ate four oranges in ten minutes. They smelled clean. Seeds and peels were everywhere.

  Aaron narrowed down that third race while the second race ran. He looked up to watch the finish. To listen to the track announcer. To watch the horses pump their muscles. This was one of the reasons the track was so great. On a day like this. To get outside. Be around other people. See strong, beautiful animals. And play. It wasn’t like the computer. Or inside watching TV. There was nothing shameful about this.

  Some women and a few men were up front cheering, but most of the people there were like Aaron, watching as though casually.

  At the very end of the race, he heard, “Come on!” and, “That’s it!” scattered throughout, but it was nothing like Saratoga or even the weekends at Belmont with everyone in the stands cheering. Weekday mornings were different. The stands were mostly empty, and among the people there, there was restraint, resignation, camaraderie. Elegance.

  Aaron loved it. His knees were bouncing and he didn’t even have a horse in the race.

  The stands lifted and settled into the time between races.

  Aaron had fifteen minutes to place his bet and get back to his seat. Alabaster Arrow, a filly paying seven to one, had never won anything before, but she seemed to have a better pedigree than her competitors, her practice times were improving, the jockey was trustworthy and new to the horse. Aaron just liked what he saw. It felt right. And mostly, Aaron felt right thinking about it. Aaron felt great. He felt better than great. He felt whole. He remembered this morning and seeing Simon laughing at Antoinette’s laugh. It didn’t bother him that he wasn’t getting married. The last time Aaron had been at a track, he didn’t have a son, and now he did! He wasn’t breaking any oath, really, or even if he was, this was his celebratory trip. His cigar. He hadn’t lit a fatherhood cigar. He had a perfect woman and a perfect son. It didn’t bother him now that the cops were too aggressive with kids in the subway station or that the kids were too aggressive with him. He had to let all that go. He had to do his job and be a father and put all that behind him. Savor the moment.

  “Ten minutes to post,” the track announcer said.

  “Where you from?” Oranges said when Aaron was back from the betting window, a five-thousand-dollar ticket in hand.

  “Brooklyn, you?”

  “Rochester,” Oranges said. “I couldn’t find anyone to like in this one, either. How about you?”

  “Alabaster Arrow,” Aaron said.

  “Really? She’s never won anything. Why would she start here? You seeing something I’m not?”

  A hot weight flooded Aaron’s body, and he couldn’t get his breath. He had a sudden vision of himself years earlier, of sprinting down Second Avenue in the high seventies. He had just won five grand after a long losing streak. After losing more than fifty grand in less than a month, he had won five, and he was sprinting down Second Avenue to find his bookie so he could put that five grand down on a basketball game before the second half started. He was on the verge of tears that it would be too late to place what turned out to be a losing over bet on the second half of whatever game that had been. It had been a West Coast game, so this must have been past midnight, and Aaron wouldn’t sleep that night before heading, sick, to work in the morning.

  Aaron turned away from the guy and his oranges. It doesn’t matter what he thinks. He doesn’t know any better than I do. Aaron forced himself to smile.

  “Probably just hope,” Aaron said, “We’ll see.” Everything was darker now. Aaron was going to lose again. He knew it. His phone buzzed inside his jacket pocket.

  “You’re okay?” his father said when Aaron answered. “You’re okay? I was worried.” His father’s voice strained with false calm.

  “I’m fine,” Aaron said, shielding himself from Oranges.

  “T
oday is Rosh Hashanah. You know that, sorry,” his father said. “I thought it might bother you, but you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine,” Aaron said. “I can’t talk now, but—”

  “I hadn’t heard from you today is all,” his father said.

  A woman down below bought ice cream from a track-side cart.

  “I’m going to try to take a walk in the park,” his father said, “and I was thinking I could bring Simon if you were comfortable with that?”

  “Simon’s with his nanny,” Aaron said. “An hour commute from you. We’ll see you on Sunday.”

  “Sunday, right, and you are okay today?” his father said.

  “Dad,” Aaron said. “I’m fine. I love you.”

  “I love you,” his father said. And after a breath, “Sometimes it hurts so much. I love you so much, it hurts.”

  “Love you, too, Dad,” Aaron said.

  “I know,” his father said. “I know you do. You’ll pick up when I call tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” Aaron said.

  “Or if I call back today? It’s just we hadn’t spoken yet today,” his father said.

  “I know. And you’ll see us on Sunday.”

  “I love you,” his father said. Aaron ended the call, silenced his phone, and slid it back into his pocket.

  “Where in Brooklyn you from?” Oranges said.

  It took Aaron a moment to answer. “Bed-Stuy,” he said.

  “No, seriously.”

  “I was being serious,” Aaron said.

  “You buying to flip?”

  “It’s a beautiful house,” Aaron said, telling himself to be calm. He was okay. His father was okay. They would see him on Sunday. “Eighteen nineties. Original stained-glass and wood and everything.”

  “It’s safe around there? For your wife? You’ve got a wife and kids?”