and took his cut. Baby liked eating good meals and getting her hair done at a salon. She also liked having a man in the house. A big strong man with a confident walk. If it had been up to her, Mico would have stayed a lot longer than the six months. Even if he did punch her in the mouth once when she’d talked back. Even if when he got super-high he sometimes thought it was funny to toss empty beer cans at her sleeping boy.
But Mico ran off with a girl even younger and prettier than Baby. Took off in the middle of the night and left half his stuff.
Back before Mico showed up it was just Baby and Sticky living together. Eating tuna out of a can or noodles with butter. Cold hot dogs. Both walking around the dim, run-down apartment with bare feet. Plates of ceiling paint would flake off at night, float to the ground like little flying saucers. There were trails of ants. Roaches. Daddy longlegs sleeping in every corner. Dust balls spinning across the dull kitchen tile when a gust of wind came through the rusty screen.
Baby didn’t work, and Sticky didn’t go to school.
They slept together on a broken futon bed in the middle of the room. Their apartment in a shady part of Long Beach. Rumbling trains would wake them throughout the night. A loud earthquake of power rattling their thin windows.
During the day, Baby was either dancing around the place on her toes or sobbing under the covers. There was nothing in between. She either rolled up a magazine like a mike and sang with her favorite radio songs, or she sat in the open window with tears streaming down her face, saying:
I
swear um gonna do it this time. I swear to God um gonna
jump
. She’d look down at the sidewalk with both hands white-knuckled against the window frame.
You’ll be better off
without your crazy mom.
Before falling asleep each night, Baby would tell Sticky stories about his dad. And every night he was a different person. An actor. A construction worker. The head of some prestigious company overseas. Sticky would snuggle in close to Baby, shut his eyes and try to picture it all in his head.
Some nights his dad loved sports. Lettered in everything back in high school. During big games on TV, he would sit Baby down and explain all the rules. Other nights he hated the violence of football, preferred sinking into a comfortable chair with a thick Russian novel. Sipping gin and puffing a cigar.
Sometimes he’d sailed across the Pacific in record time. Battled high winds and monster whitecaps. No lifejacket. Then she’d turn it all around a week later, say the man’s only real fear in the world was the Lord’s dark oceans.
A lot of times she told Sticky his dad was dead. Shot down in a foreign country. The medals still in a box back in Virginia. Or he was taken out during a big-time drug bust while working for the FBI. One time he’d died when his car spun out of control and launched off the Golden Gate Bridge. Sticky would picture the car flipping over, again and again, then the giant splash.
But other nights Baby would claim his dad had placed a call that very day. That he was thinking about swinging by for a quick visit.
The story Sticky really believed, though, was the one Baby told most often. His dad was a country-western singer she’d met only once.
He had the voice of an angel,
she’d say all dramatic, staring into the flickering light hanging from the ceiling.
And those boots, little boy. When you get old enough
you have to buy yourself a pair of boots
.
Sticky had this story memorized. How when his dad came out to L.A. from Virginia, to try to make the jump into movies, Baby packed Sticky up and followed her singer out by bus. How she and Sticky stayed six months at a YMCA in East L.A., shared a bathroom with the entire third floor. How at night she would put him in an old TV box so he wouldn’t crawl away. Cover him with two or three pillowcases from the Salvation Army. All that effort and her singer didn’t return even one of her
But Mico ran off with a girl even younger and prettier than Baby. Took off in the middle of the night and left half his stuff.
Back before Mico showed up it was just Baby and Sticky living together. Eating tuna out of a can or noodles with butter. Cold hot dogs. Both walking around the dim, run-down apartment with bare feet. Plates of ceiling paint would flake off at night, float to the ground like little flying saucers. There were trails of ants. Roaches. Daddy longlegs sleeping in every corner. Dust balls spinning across the dull kitchen tile when a gust of wind came through the rusty screen.
Baby didn’t work, and Sticky didn’t go to school.
They slept together on a broken futon bed in the middle of the room. Their apartment in a shady part of Long Beach. Rumbling trains would wake them throughout the night. A loud earthquake of power rattling their thin windows.
During the day, Baby was either dancing around the place on her toes or sobbing under the covers. There was nothing in between. She either rolled up a magazine like a mike and sang with her favorite radio songs, or she sat in the open window with tears streaming down her face, saying:
I
swear um gonna do it this time. I swear to God um gonna
jump
. She’d look down at the sidewalk with both hands white-knuckled against the window frame.
You’ll be better off
without your crazy mom.
Before falling asleep each night, Baby would tell Sticky stories about his dad. And every night he was a different person. An actor. A construction worker. The head of some prestigious company overseas. Sticky would snuggle in close to Baby, shut his eyes and try to picture it all in his head.
Some nights his dad loved sports. Lettered in everything back in high school. During big games on TV, he would sit Baby down and explain all the rules. Other nights he hated the violence of football, preferred sinking into a comfortable chair with a thick Russian novel. Sipping gin and puffing a cigar.
Sometimes he’d sailed across the Pacific in record time. Battled high winds and monster whitecaps. No lifejacket. Then she’d turn it all around a week later, say the man’s only real fear in the world was the Lord’s dark oceans.
A lot of times she told Sticky his dad was dead. Shot down in a foreign country. The medals still in a box back in Virginia. Or he was taken out during a big-time drug bust while working for the FBI. One time he’d died when his car spun out of control and launched off the Golden Gate Bridge. Sticky would picture the car flipping over, again and again, then the giant splash.
But other nights Baby would claim his dad had placed a call that very day. That he was thinking about swinging by for a quick visit.
The story Sticky really believed, though, was the one Baby told most often. His dad was a country-western singer she’d met only once.
He had the voice of an angel,
she’d say all dramatic, staring into the flickering light hanging from the ceiling.
And those boots, little boy. When you get old enough
you have to buy yourself a pair of boots
.
Sticky had this story memorized. How when his dad came out to L.A. from Virginia, to try to make the jump into movies, Baby packed Sticky up and followed her singer out by bus. How she and Sticky stayed six months at a YMCA in East L.A., shared a bathroom with the entire third floor. How at night she would put him in an old TV box so he wouldn’t crawl away. Cover him with two or three pillowcases from the Salvation Army. All that effort and her singer didn’t return even one of her
Similar Books
