Shepherd Avenue. Charlie Carillo

      “Well, come on.” He leaned on the doorknob as if it were a cane. He wore a sleeveless undershirt and polka-dot shorts and open-toed sandals.

      “You make me open up, now you ain’t comin’ in?” he said. “Man, that’s some balls.”

      I entered. Beer cans littered the floor. It was the same cruddy linoleum as in the hallway, just slightly less worn. There was a small TV in the middle of the room, set upon a cardboard box. Wide-open windows fronted the elevated train tracks. It looked as if you could reach out and touch them.

      The paint-starved walls were the color of raw leather. Had they been painted since my mother lived here, if indeed this had been her flat? I moved to the windows, needing the air. I could smell grease from the tracks.

      The man openly scratched his balls. “What business you got here, kid?” I saw bits and pieces of a uniform draped over a wooden chair — blue pants, a shirt with a badge on it, a cap with the same kind of badge.

      “Are you a policeman?”

      He shook his head as if it pained him. “Night watchman. You woke me up.”

      “I’m sorry.” I hesitated. “My mother used to live here.”

      He looked at me with sudden interest. “You Puerto Rican?”

      “Italian. And Irish. My mother was Irish.”

      “She died?”

      “Yeah.”

      “That’s tough, man.” He yawned, then flopped onto an unmade bed with sheets that looked gray. Or maybe it was just the light in the apartment, the lack of it — the el blocked most sunlight.

      “Where you livin’ now, kid?”

      “Shepherd Avenue. Is this the place where my mother lived?” I was suddenly bold. “I know she lived on this floor. Her name was McCullough —”

      “I don’t know who lived here last. I only been here six months.”

      “Oh. I’m sorry I woke you,” I said. I moved to the door, but he held a hand up.

      “Wait, wait around. Stick around a few more minutes, man.”

      “What for?”

      “Just wait.” He’d cocked his head toward the window, seeming to be listening for some distant sound. “Few minutes, that’s all. Go by the window.”

      “Why?”

      “Just do it …”

      I obeyed him. Now I could hear what his ears had detected — a train was coming from deep in Brooklyn, bound for Manhattan.

      The floor started to tremble. The man chuckled. It sounded as if the train would come crashing through the wall but instead it roared past the windows, casting the room into darkness.

      Cheap curtains flapped like dove wings. The gust hit me and I backpedaled toward the door as if someone were shoving me.

      The man was hysterical on the bed. He kicked his skinny legs in the air. I glimpsed his dick.

      “Fuckin’ A, man, fuckin’ A,” he roared. I groped for the door. There were four locks on it and three chains, not just one. They dangled like earrings.

      The knob felt greasy. I tried turning it a few times before getting the door open, and I could hear the guy laughing all the way down the stairs.

      I ran back to Shepherd Avenue, my heart hammering. It was impossible to imagine my mother in a place like that. Maybe it had been nicer, back then — fresh paint, plants, clean sheets — but how much nicer could it have been? I couldn’t get that horrible man out of my mind, either. His sick laugh lingered in my ears.

      I slowed to a walk a block from home, knowing Connie’s hatred for human sweat. I was going to get yelled at for destroying Grace’s groceries but I didn’t care. Nothing could be worse than what had just happened.

      In the basement, noodles filled the table. When I came in, the breeze I brought caused them to wave like fingers. Angie was there, reading the Journal-American.

      “You look like you just saw a ghost,” Connie said.

      “I did,” I murmured.

      “What?”

      “Nothing.”

      “Well, you sure stayed late at the park.”

      I was shocked. Grace had made up a lie for me, told them I’d gone to Highland Park to play.

      “I forgot what time it was,” I said. I was allowed to help take the noodles off the table after I’d washed my hands and Connie had scrutinized them. She saw the scabs Grace’s nails had left.

      “What happened to your arm?”

      “Nothing.”

      “Eh. What am I, blind?”

      “Scraped it on the swings.”

      “Clumsy … you shaking?” she asked, still clasping my hands in search of dirt. “I feel you shaking.”

      “It got cold out,” I lied.