him, the hand so quick to hold an automatic or a straight razor—"for her, mahn. For the money. She is gone now. Every year, on the day of her birth, I honor her."
I sat quietly in the car seat, waiting for the rest The bitch who raised me had no honor. But she had plenty of hotel rooms. Attica, Auburn, Dannemora…
"What would make a woman do that, mahn? Let a man kill her baby in front of her eyes?"
"The answers don't change things."
"What would be justice, then, mahn? So the baby may sleep in peace?"
I shrugged. He was such a young man.
32
I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge into my home country. A small truck rumbled ahead of me, the early sun orange against its quilted aluminum sides. When it parked, the sides would open into a portable coffee shop, serving the mass of humans who work the courthouse district. Morning brings citizens to the street, nervously plucking at the daylight like a protective coat, safe from the vampires for another day. Their city, they tell themselves. Night comes, and they give it back.
I live under the darkness, where it's safe. Safe from things so secret that they have no name. Under the darkness—it's not territory you occupy—you take it with you. It goes where I go—where I've been. The orphanage. Reform school. Prison. Even now.
There's others like me. Children of the Secret. Raised by so many different humans. Those who ignored us, those who tortured us. No place to run, so survival becomes all. For us, a religion. Nourished on lies so that we alone know the truth. An army of us. You can't see us, but we find each other. Like a special breed of damaged dog, responding only to the silent whistle.
All things come to those who wait.
Some of us wait in ambush.
Burke isn't my name. It was my mother's, I think. Baby Boy Burke it said on my birth certificate. Weighed 7 pounds 9 ounces, born 3:03a.m. Mother's age at birth: 16. Father: Unknown. Number of children born alive prior to this birth: None.
I never looked for her, my mother. Never wondered if she believed she was doing the right thing by giving me up.
I have plenty of birth certificates now—you need one to get a passport.
Juan Rodriguez is the name on my driver's license. Juan's a citizen: pays his taxes, contributes to Social Security. He gets a parking ticket, he takes care of it.
Juan owns property too, but nobody knows. A piece of a junkyard in the Bronx—not the Mole's joint, a little slab of dirt not far from Yankee Stadium. The deal is this: The guy who runs it pays me a salary. I endorse the checks and he turns them into cash. Keeps a piece of each check himself for his trouble. Kicks out a W–2 form for me every year, pays the Workmen's Comp, the Unemployment, all that. You can hide your sins, but the IRS will find the paper.
Mama is my bank account. She doesn't pay interest, but she doesn't make bad loans to politically protected looters either, so my money is safe. Most of the cash gets converted into hard currency: gold, diamonds, like that.
In case I have to use one of my passports someday.
33
P ansy's ice–water eyes flickered disappointment as I let myself in. She always looks like that when I'm alone—she was born to war.
The phone on my desk never rings, at least not for me. It's not mine—the Mole wired it up from the loft downstairs. I can call out, as long as I do it early in the morning when the delicate souls who live below me are still sleeping off last night's chemicals. They can sleep easy, subsidized by their parents, immune to the NEA jihad.
I made Pansy and me some breakfast from the scraps in the tiny refrigerator. Drank a little ginger ale to settle my stomach. Smoked a cigarette while Pansy went up to her roof.
Slept through the day.
34
M y sleep was full of refracted dreams. Like trying to read through a diamond.
Belle's red Camaro flying at a wedge of police cars. Gunfire. The Camaro pulled to the side of the road. The big girl got out, hands held high. Prison wouldn't hold
I sat quietly in the car seat, waiting for the rest The bitch who raised me had no honor. But she had plenty of hotel rooms. Attica, Auburn, Dannemora…
"What would make a woman do that, mahn? Let a man kill her baby in front of her eyes?"
"The answers don't change things."
"What would be justice, then, mahn? So the baby may sleep in peace?"
I shrugged. He was such a young man.
32
I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge into my home country. A small truck rumbled ahead of me, the early sun orange against its quilted aluminum sides. When it parked, the sides would open into a portable coffee shop, serving the mass of humans who work the courthouse district. Morning brings citizens to the street, nervously plucking at the daylight like a protective coat, safe from the vampires for another day. Their city, they tell themselves. Night comes, and they give it back.
I live under the darkness, where it's safe. Safe from things so secret that they have no name. Under the darkness—it's not territory you occupy—you take it with you. It goes where I go—where I've been. The orphanage. Reform school. Prison. Even now.
There's others like me. Children of the Secret. Raised by so many different humans. Those who ignored us, those who tortured us. No place to run, so survival becomes all. For us, a religion. Nourished on lies so that we alone know the truth. An army of us. You can't see us, but we find each other. Like a special breed of damaged dog, responding only to the silent whistle.
All things come to those who wait.
Some of us wait in ambush.
Burke isn't my name. It was my mother's, I think. Baby Boy Burke it said on my birth certificate. Weighed 7 pounds 9 ounces, born 3:03a.m. Mother's age at birth: 16. Father: Unknown. Number of children born alive prior to this birth: None.
I never looked for her, my mother. Never wondered if she believed she was doing the right thing by giving me up.
I have plenty of birth certificates now—you need one to get a passport.
Juan Rodriguez is the name on my driver's license. Juan's a citizen: pays his taxes, contributes to Social Security. He gets a parking ticket, he takes care of it.
Juan owns property too, but nobody knows. A piece of a junkyard in the Bronx—not the Mole's joint, a little slab of dirt not far from Yankee Stadium. The deal is this: The guy who runs it pays me a salary. I endorse the checks and he turns them into cash. Keeps a piece of each check himself for his trouble. Kicks out a W–2 form for me every year, pays the Workmen's Comp, the Unemployment, all that. You can hide your sins, but the IRS will find the paper.
Mama is my bank account. She doesn't pay interest, but she doesn't make bad loans to politically protected looters either, so my money is safe. Most of the cash gets converted into hard currency: gold, diamonds, like that.
In case I have to use one of my passports someday.
33
P ansy's ice–water eyes flickered disappointment as I let myself in. She always looks like that when I'm alone—she was born to war.
The phone on my desk never rings, at least not for me. It's not mine—the Mole wired it up from the loft downstairs. I can call out, as long as I do it early in the morning when the delicate souls who live below me are still sleeping off last night's chemicals. They can sleep easy, subsidized by their parents, immune to the NEA jihad.
I made Pansy and me some breakfast from the scraps in the tiny refrigerator. Drank a little ginger ale to settle my stomach. Smoked a cigarette while Pansy went up to her roof.
Slept through the day.
34
M y sleep was full of refracted dreams. Like trying to read through a diamond.
Belle's red Camaro flying at a wedge of police cars. Gunfire. The Camaro pulled to the side of the road. The big girl got out, hands held high. Prison wouldn't hold
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