Shepherd Avenue. Charlie Carillo

nearly all the way when it opened again, suddenly.

      “You ain’t foolin’ me,” she said to both of us. “I find the candy wrappers in the morning.”

      The door closed for good. Vic’s breathing became rhythmic with sleep. I ran my tongue over my teeth to get rid of the last traces of chocolate and caramel.

      The night that had given Connie “knots” was still a mystery, but that was all right. I could wait. I certainly wasn’t going anywhere.

      “Nowhere to go.”

      I hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Vic rolled over.

      “What’d you say?”

      “Nothing.”

      He pushed a thick knuckle against one eye. “Aw, c’mon, kid, get used to this place and sleep, already.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      WHEN I awoke the next morning I was alone. “Dad?” I said, then I remembered.

      Sheets, blanket, and pillow lay in a thick tangle at the head of Vic’s bed, and clothes were scattered on the floor. It didn’t seem late. I finally found a clock under one of Vic’s undershirts. It was a little after eight.

      I tugged on yesterday’s shirt and pants and walked into the hallway. The window at the end of the hall faced the backyard. It was a plot of black dirt about ten feet wide and fifteen feet long, next to the garage. A wild, snaggled, fruitless vine grew up the side of the wall. A few weeds speckled the dirt, and a thin beard of moss. Connie threw her decomposable garbage out there — melon rinds, coffee grounds, orange peels. The sweet smell of decay rose to the window.

      I could hear water running and smelled coffee from downstairs. Still half asleep I went to the bathroom.

      The door was open. I let out a yelp upon finding my grandfather, Angelo, shaving at the sink.

      The whole room smelled of Rise. Angelo wore gray work pants and a sleeveless undershirt, and he was putting the final touches of lather on his face with a brush, even though the cream came from a can. He spotted me in the mirror.

      “Hey.” He smiled, teeth bright yellow against the snowy lather. He took a bent cigarette from the edge of the sink and puffed on it, rinsed his razor, and pinched my cheek.

      “Boy, did you grow.” He turned to the mirror and began scraping his cheek. “If you want to use the toilet I won’t look,” he promised.

      “I don’t have to go,” I lied. My bladder was bursting.

      “Didn’t you just get up?”

      “Yeah.”

      “So use it, use it,” he urged. “Everybody’s gotta go when they get up.” He banged the razor on the edge of the sink.

      I stood before the head. My cock was tinier than I’d ever seen it — I imagined a cork inside it, blocking the flow. Diplomatically, Angie started to whistle. I moaned with relief as the urine started to flow, aiming for a rust streak at the back of the bowl.

      “So,” he said. “You’re staying here.”

      As if I had a choice. “Uh-huh,” I said.

      “Good, I’m glad.”

      “Where were you last night?”

      He turned around to look at me. I was through pissing and shook myself, tugged the zipper. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business,” I said meekly, but Angie just laughed.

      “I got home three hours ago. Don’t tell your grandmother.”

      “Didn’t she wake up when you got home?”

      “Nah. I’m always quiet.” He finished shaving, filled the sink with cold water, and splashed his face. He rubbed it with a towel, and I noticed the furrow of eyebrow across his forehead. It was one thick line of hair, unbroken over the bridge of his nose. The hair on his head was silver but the brows were jet black. Looking him in the eye was like looking at a cobra.

      With wet hands he rubbed his scalp and began combing his thick hair straight back. A grin tugged a corner of his mouth. He knew how good he looked.

      I asked, “How can you get into bed with her and not wake her up?”

      He shut the water off. “My room’s at the other end of the hall.” He flicked the comb through his hair once more and put on a plaid sport shirt. He rubbed my hair and turned to leave the bathroom, buttoning his shirt.

      “Did you have a fight with her?” I asked.

      “What?” His voice was shrill.

      “I mean, how come you have different rooms?”

      He tilted back his head and let out a howl. “The questions you ask!” he said. “I say she snores. She says I snore. That’s how come.” He reached into his shirt pocket and gave me a pack of Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum with three sticks left. “See you later,” he said as he left, laughing.

      When I was through washing my face and brushing my teeth I went downstairs, where Connie sat with another woman.

      “He finally got up,” the woman announced, as if I’d kept her waiting.

      Connie said, “This is my friend Grace Rothstein from next door.” We exchanged stares. I even sniffed the air, sensing an enemy. She lowered her head and bared large, rodentlike teeth. She was ten years younger than Connie, tall and whipcord lean. Her hair was bleached an outrageous blond.

      “Coffee,” Connie said to me, moving to pour it. I’d hardly ever drunk it — my mother used to say it was bad for me. I felt flattered and doused it with sugar, pouring from a glass cylinder that obviously had been swiped from a diner.

      “Where’s Vic?” I asked.

      “At graduation practice,” Connie said.

      “Where’s Angie?”

      “He has a plumbing job today, with Freddie Gallo. You didn’t meet Freddie yet.”

      “Eh, I don’t know how they work when they stay out late like that,” Grace said.

      “My husband never needed a lot of sleep.”

      “Thank God for that, Con, he never got any. My Rudy, he’s always there, even when I don’t want him.”

      They cackled. I sucked down the last of my coffee. There was a thick, sluggish trail of sugar at the bottom of the cup. I stuck my finger in it.

      “How come you and Angie have your own rooms?”

      Grace cackled with renewed vigor but Connie fell silent. She hissed something at Grace before turning to me.

      “That don’t concern you,” she said.

      My ears grew hot. “I’m sorry. My mother and father had the same room,” I explained lamely, sucking my finger.

      “Ahh!” Grace exclaimed, prodding Connie’s side, “The Irish, they like that!”

      Grace got up from the table and reached for an upright rolling cart that had been leaning against the table. “What else besides the spinach?”

      “Nothing. My husband will get the bread.”

      “Eh. He’s good for something.”

      Grace grunted her good-bye and left. We heard the cart wheels bang as she dragged the thing up the cellar steps. Connie moved to the stove.

      “She’s Italian,” Connie said. “She married a Jew.”

      I didn’t even know what a Jew was, but I knew what “Irish” meant and asked what Grace’s crack about them had meant.

      Without turning to face me Connie said, “My friend’s a little crazy.”

      “She was talking about