Brooklyn Story by Suzanne Corso Page B

with a guy once who rented a limo to take her to a very expensive restaurant in Manhattan. When the check came, he asked her to wait in the car while he took care of it. It was not until they’d sped down the street and across the bridge that the guy told her he had cut out without paying. She never dated him again, and he couldn’t understand why she had been so pissed off.
    â€œSam?” my mother called from the hall outside her bedroom door. A private talk with Grandma would have to bepostponed, I thought, and I slipped Tony’s number into a drawer in my bedside table, threw on a nylon robe, and went to hug Mom. Her familiar scent of jasmine bath salts made me feel cozy.
    â€œDid you sleep okay, Mom?”
    â€œNot really. My pressure was acting up. I heard ya come in late last night.”
    â€œNot very,” I said.
    â€œNo matter. Ya know the rules.”
    I nodded and we went into the kitchen. I put my arms around Grandma’s waist and squeezed. She was a lot heavier than she used to be and her flat breasts sagged against her body. “Morning, Grandma,” I said. Mom and I sat as Grandma handed me a glass of generic orange juice. I was accustomed to the no-name stuff in my household.
    â€œI heard ya talkin’ on the phone,” Mom said.
    â€œI met a guy last night, Mom,” I said, wide-eyed. “At the feast. He told me to call when I woke up.”
    Mom pursed her lips and shook her head from side to side. “He did, did he? And ya just did it?” She lit a cigarette, pulled her thick auburn hair back, and tied a rubber band around it before eating or drinking a thing—her morning ritual. Puffs of smoke circled that once-lustrous hair I had loved and the breakfast table as it always had, that was when she wasn’t off dyeing it every different color under the sun. I swear one day it would be jet black and one day it would be platinum blond. When she got really bored she would hit the box of dye, hard, her modest splurge besides drugs here and there. The blond-in-front-and-black-in-back look took the cake. I preferred the auburn strains. They were safe and that’s what I wanted so badly for her.
    Grandma and I said nothing. Mom had grown deaf to our protests and concern for her health long before. “I told ya that boys are supposeta pursue girls. They won’ respect ya otherwise.”
    â€œIt was just a phone call, Mom.” I looked to my grandmother for support but she kept her eyes glued to the frying pan.
    â€œSo what did he have to say?” Mom asked. “Did he remember ya name?”
    â€œHe wasn’t awake yet.”
    â€œIt’s ten thirty in the morning!” Mom shouted. “What the hell is he doin’, sleepin’ his life away?”
    â€œMom, it’s Sunday. Everybody sleeps in on Sundays.”
    â€œUnless they’re God-fearing people that goes ta church,” Mom said.
    â€œYou don’t go, so who are you to preach?”
    Mom’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t crack wise with me, Sam.”
    Grandma turned her head and her eyes met mine for an instant before she resumed cooking. “Sorry, Mom,” I said. “I don’t know about church, but he does wear a cross.”
    â€œThat doesn’t prove anything,” Mom said. “Plenty of creeps, your father included, wear medals.”
    I lowered my head. Grandma changed the subject while she stirred the eggs. “What does he do, Samelah?”
    â€œWell, I can’t say exactly, but it’s important. Everbody’s real respectful of him.”
    â€œRespect him?” Mom asked. “How old is he?”
    â€œAround twenty.”
    â€œChrissakes, Sam! He should be wid someone his own age.”
    I didn’t answer. It was no use arguing with my mother. She was bitter about her life and that she had gotten sick, and sometimes directed her resentment toward me and Grandma. Mom battled with her mother over not