Sometimes life gives you a few gifts. The passing of Finkelstein's
parents, first Harry the CPA from a weak heart, and years later Ida from a stroke
in Florida, resulted in their son inheriting the apartment on Bronxdale Avenue
with the sunken living room and the parquet floors. The rent was ridiculous,
frozen in time at ninety-six dollars a month, much to the landlord's chagrin.
The building was constructed in the Art Deco era with marble, high ceilings,
gargoyles, frou-frou, brick, mortar, and schvitz. Half the day, the building
was darkened by the shadow of the high rise that was built in the seventies
on the site of the former Bronx Beach Club, a haven for yentas, their schmendrick
husbands, and loud, obnoxious, Bronx street urchins.
Myron Finkelstein, pronounced "stine," was a loyal employee of the
City of New York. Like his father, a man of numbers. His parents' departures
left a void in Myron's life. His years alone had been long and slow. He went
to work, read voraciously, watched TV, slept. In his twenties, he started weight
lifting religiously, but even his big biceps couldn't cure the pain of loneliness.
Myron was an extremely hairy man, a Russian-Jewish grizzly. Myron's "disease"
also seemed to worsen each season. As his anxiety levels heightened, he would
suffer tics and twitching, topped off by a "hooping" sound. He had
started in public school, and was teased mercilessly until Mr. Bernstein, pronounced
"steen," dragged him to the basement of the Roosevelt Synagogue and
spent six months teaching Myron to box. Ernie Bernstein, a retired post office
worker and part-time band leader, had been a top-notch boxing instructor. Myron
now had a "powerhouse left zetz," as Bernstein put it. Bullies now
tiptoed home with shiners, fat lips, and a strong desire to keep their distance
from "that meshuganah Finkelstein."
Descending the staircase from the elevated station one dismal Friday, Myron
noticed a Santini Brothers moving van in front of his building. Two moving men
were wrestling a couch out of the back door of the vehicle. A shapely woman
in a nurse's uniform was talking to them. She had long brown hair, olive skin,
and an eye-pleasing figure. Myron was checking out her very round behind when
he heard a little voice chirp, "I can do twenty."
Myron turned around and out of the shadow of the building stepped a little girl
holding a hula-hoop. She also had long brown hair and big brown eyes. Myron
guessed she might be the nurse's daughter. Without a stammer or any hesitation,
Myron answered, "Really? Twenty -- wow!"
"Yes," said the girl proudly, "you count." She commenced
whipping the hoop around as Myron obliged with the count. After all, he was
a man of numbers. "Twenty," Myron announced, then put down his briefcase
and applauded. The girl curtsied.
Myron asked, "Do you know how to make it come back to you?"
She shook her head.
"Can I show you?" Myron asked tentatively. She nodded her head. Myron
folded his sport jacket over his briefcase and put the hula-hoop in his left
hand. With the expertise of a veteran of Bronx schoolyard athletics, he whipped
the hoop with a backward wrist motion that sent it rolling away on the sidewalk
and return quickly.
The girl smiled and asked, "Can I try?"
"Sure," said Myron.
She mimicked Myron's movement, and the hoop walked away and came back right
into her hand. "I did it," she cried gleefully.
"Outstanding," Myron concluded and again applauded. "I think
that might be a Zhoop-Zhoop Hula-Hoop," he commented.
"What's that?" the girl asked.
"When the hula-hoop was losing its popularity, the manufacturers were desperate
to keep their product active with kids. So, they put ball bearings inside to
make that cool sound. It was named the Zhoop-Zhoop Hula-Hoop. I believe yours
is rare and, most likely, a collector's item," Myron concluded.
"Wow," the girl exclaimed.
"Adrianna," a Nuyorican-accented voice called. Myron turned as the
attractive woman in the nurse's uniform approached with a concerned expression.
She looked at Myron, saw his briefcase and business attire, and her face relaxed
a trifle.
"You're moving in?" Myron inquired, fighting a stammer and a small
tic.
"We're trying," she answered with a laugh.
Myron remembered manners from his mother's tutorials, stuck out his hand, and
said, "Myron Finkelstein, 3F." The nurse grinned and said, "Rosa
Rodriguez, 3G! We're neighbors." She shook his hand with both of hers.
Myron felt warmth and electricity for a fraction of a second.
"You already met Adrianna -- who is not supposed to talk to strangers,
" she scolded.
"Sorry, Mami," Adrianna pouted, "but he knows about hula-hoops,
and he's our neighbor. Hello, neighbor," Adrianna said and offered her
hand like a politician. Rosa and Myron laughed.
"Now we've been properly introduced," Myron announced, as he shook
the delicate little hand.
"We've got unpacking to do, baby. Upstairs. Let's go," Rosa commanded.
"If you need anything, please, just knock," Myron offered.
"Thank you, Myron," Rosa said, and gently rolled the 'r' in his name.
Rosa took Adrianna by the hand and as they walked to the building entrance,
Adrianna turned and said, "See ya later, alligator."
"In a while, crocodile," Myron responded automatically.
Myron grabbed his jacket and briefcase and instead of going upstairs, he hotfooted
it over to the Snowflake Bakery. New neighbors needed to be welcomed. Esther
Gorenstein, pronounced "stain," was about to lock the front door of
the Snowflake Bakery when she saw a determined figure heading towards her. Her
pulse slowed as she recognized the son of her favorite customer, Ida Finkelstein.
"Myron, it's almost shabbos!" "Sorry, Mrs. Gorenstein,"
he apologized.
"Esther. You call me Esther, Myron. We're practically mishpukhah. You know
how many Wednesdays I spent with your sweet mama and her crummy yenta friends
playing Mah-Jong?"
"A lot?" Myron guessed.
"Plenty. Plenty," she declared. "I miss my sweetie. That Idaleh
was a gem." She punctuated her last remark with a grab into her sweater
pocket, producing a thrice-used tissue, and blew her nose.
"Nu, tataleh?" Esther inquired. "What do you need?"
"A box of black and whites, Mrs. Goren -- I mean, Esther," Myron corrected.
"You got it, boychick," she responded as she hustled around the back
of the counter. Esther filled a small, square cake box with so many black and
whites, it looked like rush hour for pastries, all jammed in.
"You making a party, Myron?" Esther asked.
"Yeah," Myron lied.
"You got a girlfriend?"
"Just you," Myron flirted, sounding like his father.
"Oy, Myron. I miss him, too, the schmendrick."
"How much?" Myron asked.
"Your money's no good here," Esther stated, sounding regal.
"No, really. How much?" Myron squeaked.
With precision, Esther tied the box with string, then shimmied around the counter
and put the box firmly in Myron's chest.
"Take. Enjoy. And, visit more often, you chuchem, you," she complained.
Esther reached up and pinched Myron's cheek with the grip of a lobster.
"Why don't you give my Natalie a call? " Esther suggested hopefully.
Myron remembered Natalie Gorenstein. The last time he saw her, she was fourteen,
very round, with a retainer, and eyes that pointed in two directions.
"I will," Myron lied again.
"When?" Esther pleaded.
"Soon," Myron lied for the third time.
"Go, go, sweetie. Make a nice party. I gotta close before the Chasids give
me dirty looks." She shooed him out the door.
"Thank you," Myron bleated over his shoulder.
"You're welcome, cookie," Esther chirped.
"Myron," Esther yelled, "don't forget about Natalie. And, Myron,
swing your arms when you walk. Otherwise, you look like a mental patient."
Forehead glistening from the walk home, Myron pushed open the glass door of
his building, marched across the marble floor of the lobby, and pounded the
service button for the elevator. The whining, moaning, choking of the ancient
elevator cables sounded. He stepped into the elevator car and pressed "3"
enough times to enter the Type A Personality Hall of Fame.
The elevator lurched and moaned its way up to the third floor and abruptly stopped.
Myron pushed open the door and stepped into the third floor hallway. Myron walked
down the hall, then stopped in front of 3G. But he was unable to lift his hand
to ring the bell. He shook off a twitch, swallowed a "hoop," and summoned
his courage.
The zhoop-zhoop sound emanating from 3G ceased, and thumping shoes echoed as
Adrianna ran to the apartment's front door. "Who's there?" a melodic
voice sing-songed.
"Myron Finkelstein, 3F," Myron answered officially. The sound of a
chair scraping was followed by the opening of the peephole. "Helloooo,
Myron," Adrianna trumpeted through the door.
"Helloooo, Adrianna," Myron responded.
"Baby, get down from that chair. You'll get hurt. Who's at the door?"
Rosa demanded.
"Myron Finkelstein, 3F!" Adrianna reported in clipped military fashion.
Rosa and Myron both laughed simultaneously from each side of the door.
The door opened and Myron held out the pink, string-tied Snowflake Bakery box
and announced, "Welcome to Bronxdale Avenue." Rosa grinned warmly.
"You are so sweet," Rosa said, looking at the box, then right into
Myron's eyes. "This was not necessary, Myron," Rosa commented.
"Welcoming neighbors is always necessary," Myron responded, sounding
like Ida Finkelstein.
"What's in the box?" Adrianna inquired.
"Open it and see," said Myron.
"Can I, Mami?" Adrianna asked.
"Maybe after dinner, baby," Rosa responded.
"Now, please? Pulleeez, Mami?" Adrianna pleaded.
"Come on in, Mister 3F," Rosa invited. "Your neighborly assistance
may be required," Rosa giggled.
"I don't want to intrude, " Myron lied for the fourth time that day.
Adrianna pulled Myron by the hand into the foyer, which was piled up with boxes
and announced, "Welcome to Casa Rodriguez."
"Let's open the present, Mami," Adrianna suggested.
Rosa sat on a moving carton, wrestled open Esther's knot and lifted the cake
box's lid. Adrianna exclaimed loudly, "Cookies, in two flavors."
"Black and whites," Myron explained, "a neighborhood delicacy."
"I unpacked some glasses, and I think there's leche in the fridge,"
Rosa grinned at her daughter. Adrianna ran to the kitchen and opened the reconditioned
Kelvinator.
Myron raised his glass and, like a toastmaster, regally stated: "Welcome
to the building." The three clinked glasses, and began the delightful task
of making three large cookies disappear.
Johnny Castro hustled to the Atlantic City Greyhound Station in his stolen bellhop's
uniform. He tossed the jacket into a trash barrel as he ran up the stairs to
catch the 3:30 express to New York City. Johnny's pockets were stuffed with
jewelry and cash he had stolen from room 127 at Bally's. He quickly
ripped off his black bow tie and stuffed it between the seat of the bus he had
boarded just as the driver was about to shut the air-lock door. Grinding his
teeth from the two lines he had just snorted off the Visa card belonging to
one Anil Gupta, Johnny slowly broke into a wide grin. Rikers Island would have
one less guest. He planned to celebrate with a car service up to Arthur Avenue.
He might need to eat, have a shower, and get some new threads, then head on
over to the Bronx River projects to find Rosa. Johnny charmed and bullied women,
depending on his mood. He was good with a knife, fast with his hands, and could
easily get hold of a .22 caliber throwaway when necessary. Johnny closed his
eyes, exhausted from seventy-two hours of coke, theft, and poker. The Greyhound
picked up speed on the turnpike, heading for the Big Apple.
Myron descended the steps of the elevated station at White Plains Road one marvelous
Friday with a grin pasted across his mug. He had missed his station at Bronx
Park East. Myron Finkelstein, daydreaming about his new life, missed his stop
and wasn't upset.
Unbelievable.
The last six weeks had been a dream come true. Myron Finkelstein was dating
Rosa, as in going to movies and concerts, holding hands, and make-out sessions
that rivaled anything he had ever experienced. They had not become lovers yet,
but Myron was a patient man and was enjoying the process. He had not "hooped,"
ticked or trembled in six weeks.
He had been taking Mondays off from work to walk Rosa and Adrianna to kindergarten
at P.S. 105. Then he walked Rosa to Pelham Parkway, where they waited for the
number 12 bus that took Rosa to a new job at Jacobi Hospital.
At night, he got on his knees and thanked whatever higher power had bestowed
such good fortune on him. Myron recalled all the nicknames Adrianna had created
for him: Mister Bear; Doctor Bear; Bearzy; Hairy-Bear; Mister Fuzzy-Wuzzy; World's
Best Teddy Bear; on and on. He counted them like sheep at night.
Tomorrow was Saturday. He couldn't wait. The three of them were going to a movie
Saturday night, then on Sunday to the Orchard Beach picnic grounds to hook up
with Rosa's sisters and their families. Myron had seemed apprehensive about
meeting family. Rosa calmed him with a hug and whispered, "Don't worry,
Myron. They gonna love you."
Drifting off to sleep, a changed man went to the Land of Nod in apartment 3F.
The word of Johnny's return spread like wildfire on Arthur Avenue. The stories
of his exploits surfaced like oil on a Bronx street after a light rain. Some
feared the "little prick psycho." Others swore they'd kill him on
sight. He owed everybody money and favors. Most of the talk was schoolyard bravado.
Deep down everyone knew how lethal the little pretty boy was. The best course
of action with the half-pint whackadoo was to steer clear.
Johnny Castro found his mamma coming out of bingo and quickly ushered her home.
After twenty minutes of slapping her around, he held her as she cried, cajoled
her to cook him a pasta dinner and arrange some clean clothes for him on the
foldout couch. He treated her like his poppa had -- like shit. She filled the
bath with warm water, born to bear a cross. Johnny stood up and caught his reflection
in a full-length mirror on the closet door. "Hey, ma," he growled,
"you gotta go to a museum to see somethin' this gorgeous. Hah?" Mrs.
Castro allowed a small smile to appear across her leathery face. She was embarrassed
by his nakedness, a little proud of her pretty son.
Johnny crashed on the foldout as his mamma washed the dishes and bolted a shot
of Chivas. She stared at the angel-faced demon asleep like an infant. With tear-stained
cheeks, she got on her knees in the kitchenette and prayed to the saints with
all her might.
The air was filled with the aroma of sausages and charcoal. The Rodriguez family
had Willy Bobo on their boom box, and the whole familia was talking and laughing
and dancing. The Orchard Beach picnic grounds vibrated with conga drums and
urban cacophony. Rosa's sisters, Teresa, Lourdes, and Michelle, instantly adored
Myron. They made Myron dance with them, to Adrianna's delight. Rosa's brothers-in-law,
all small business owners, asked a zillion tax questions, which Myron answered
patiently. The biggest brother-in-law, Junior, put a massive arm around Myron
and whispered in his ear, "Bro, you got to marry my sis-in-law. We need
a guy like you around. And, besides, Rosa loves you."
Myron's heart almost stopped beating. He saw Rosa looking at him from thirty
yards away. They smiled at each other. Sitting off to the side was Rosa's Aunt
Carmen. She had long silver braided hair, reddish-brown leathery skin, and one
brown eye and one blue eye. Junior pointed out her out to Myron. "That's
Tia Carmen. She's a bruja."
"What's a bruja?" Myron asked.
"A witch," Junior answered solemnly.
Myron felt Tia Carmen's gaze shooting at him across the picnic area. Maybe this
fuzzy boy with the big arms might be what her Rosa needed. She had summoned
protection for Rosa and Adrianna, even spoken to Chango. The familia didn't
notice Tia Carmen slyly snip a lock of Rosa's hair. She floated through the
crowd like a ghost. Then she snipped the back of Myron's head with the tiny
scissors she palmed. Myron thought a hungry fly had buzzed him and he waved
his hand around. The ancient woman floated over to an empty barbecue grill that
still had glowing embers. She mixed Rosa's and Myron's hair in her hand. Tia
Carmen uttered an incantation and dropped the hair on the dying embers. The
fire swelled for a second, then died. She rejoined the familia, and wrapped
her arms around Adrianna for a cuddle. A flock of pelicans flew above the picnic
grounds, heading to the jetty.
It had been a wonderful day. Myron tucked Adrianna into bed, gave her a kiss
on the forehead. Rosa and Myron made out like teenagers in the foyer
of Rosa's apartment for an hour. As he was about to leave, he shocked himself
as he said, "I love you, Rosa." She looked deep into his eyes, and
replied, "I love you, too, Myron."
Walking down the hall to apartment 3F, Myron felt high. Myron decided he would
give his cousin Harvey a call. Harvey worked in the jewelry district and could
hook Myron up with an engagement ring, especially if there was a commission
involved. Cousin Harvey lived to close deals.
Afterwards, he put on his light blue pajamas and went to sleep.
The lights were on in the Snowflake Bakery. Johnny peered through the window.
A heavy-set woman was cleaning the display cases. Trying to act casual, he opened
the door and entered the bakery. The woman froze. "We're closed, sweetie,"
she sang.
"Could you tell me how to get to Bronxdale and Cruger?" Johnny asked.
"Of course, darling," she chortled, "out the door, a right, go
two blocks, a left, go two blocks. Simple."
"Can I buy some cookies?" he asked, trying to be sweet.
"Well, let's see. I have a couple of Linzer tarts left." She grabbed
the last four tarts, wrapped them in wax paper, boxed and tied them. "That'll
be four fifty, honey."
Johnny reached in his pocket and the blood drained from his face. His money
clip was gone.
"You dropped your wallet, maybe?" the old lady inquired.
"The c-c-c-cab," Johnny stammered, "oh, sh-sh-shit!"
"I got a flashlight. You wanna look outside?"
"Yeah," Johnny answered.
Esther handed Johnny a flashlight and he bounced outside. Nothing, from the
bakery to the corner and back except an old Bazooka Joe wrapper. Johnny re-entered
the store.
"Any luck?" Esther asked. Johnny shook his head. "Well, boychick,
have the Linzer tarts on the house," she announced.
Johnny motioned towards the back of the store. "Who's back there?"
"Nobody," Esther blurted and was immediately sorry she opened her
mouth. With the speed and dexterity of a panther, Johnny Castro leaped up and
over the counter and was desperately prying open the cash register with his
switchblade.
"No, no, no," Esther bleated like a frustrated sheep, and pounded
Johnny's back with her little balled-up fists. Johnny's arm flew out of the
register, the stiletto knife lashing forward like an attacking serpent and plunged
into Esther's chest. Esther's legs sagged as she slid down the counter. As
her blue eyes fluttered, she uttered "Natalie" and left the world.
The old cash register rang as it was pried open.
Johnny grabbed the wad of bills, bolted over the counter, flew out the door,
and disappeared into the night. A right and a left, a hundred-yard dash. In
a crouch, he went into the shadows of the P.S. 105 schoolyard to catch his breath.
Sleeping on a cot in Junior's living room, Tia Carmen went into a convulsion.
Her whimpering was almost silent.
Johnny hugged his knees, trying to slow his breathing. Shivering, Johnny left
the schoolyard descending the Cruger Avenue steps and making a left turn towards
Brady Avenue. Johnny loped towards Bronxdale Avenue, grinding his teeth with
each step.
Johnny saw an old man entering through the outer lobby door and slipped in behind
him, just in time to get buzzed in. By the time he got to the third floor, Johnny
had a stitch in his side. He leaned against the wall outside apartment 3G, panting.
Rosa's eyes widened as she recognized the face staring through the peephole.
Johnny was charming. He flattered Rosa with compliments on how fine she looked,
what a beautiful crib she was renting, on her new job. Adrianna stood behind
the railing of the sunken living room, in her robe and Indian princess moccasins,
with a tight expression on her face. Johnny apologized for not calling, and
teasingly blamed Rosa for not staying in touch with him. He was insistent that
they go out and celebrate Rosa's new life. Rosa's face hardened as she realized
Johnny was high. She gently asked him to leave, explaining that she had work
the next morning and Adrianna had school. The backhanded slap sent Rosa reeling.
She bounced off the wall and landed on the floor.
"Puta! Who the fuck you think you're pushing? I bust my ass to visit you,
and you treat me like a dog." Adrianna opened her mouth, swallowed, and
tried to make a sound. She gripped the railing, looked at the wall where her
friend lived, and screamed as loud as she could, "Bear! I want the bear."
Myron awoke suddenly and bolted upright in bed. Across the Bronx, Tia Carmen
woke up screaming. As Myron staggered out of bed, he looked in his dresser mirror
and froze. His body pulsated. His head, arms, torso, and legs expanded. Muscle
and sinew bulged. Through his skin, shafts of fur pushed their way out of every
follicle until he was completely covered in a thick brown coat. Myron's pajamas
burst into shreds, the buttons popping off like rockets. His ears shifted from
the side of his head to the top, where they sat like two enormous sound-catching
flaps. Myron's face elongated into a huge muzzle filled with yellow spikes of
teeth. Myron saw a nine-foot Kodiak bear staring back at him in the dresser
mirror. Myron opened his mouth to say "Oh, my God," but what emerged
was a deep rumbling "ahhhroooooo."
Across the street, the high rise had vanished. Replacing it, the Bronx Beach
Club stood gleaming, teeming with the ghosts of sunbathers, tailors, elderly
picnickers, paperboys, bakers, cabbies, postal workers, and horse-players. Every
resident that had ever trod the local cobblestoned streets was back. They were
all translucent, talking and arguing until Adrianna screamed again. The ghosts
formed a posse and headed across the street, leaving to help the maideleh in
the other world.
In apartment 3F, Myron tried to open his apartment door with his huge paw. Fumbling,
he ripped the door off it hinges. He lumbered down the hall to 3G. Trying to
be a mensch, he rang the doorbell with one gentle motion of a eight-inch claw.
One of his neighbors, Mrs. Plotnick, looked out from her apartment. Myron turned
to apologize. He opened his snout to say "Sorry about the noise, Mrs. Plotnick"
but what came out of his mouth was "Rag raga roooooo." Plotnick
fainted.
Adrianna screeched, "Stop that. Leave her alone." Myron yelled, but
what he heard was, "Rop-rap ree-ree ahroooooo." Myron ripped the door
of 3G out of its frame, and charged to Rosa's rescue. Johnny's eyes bugged out,
cartoon-like, and Adrianna looked straight into the bear's eyes. Her expression
turned to joyous recognition.
"Ah-roooooo," Adrianna called in bear-speak, and at once, Myron swatted
Johnny Castro out the door. Johnny slammed into the hallway wall. Myron leaned
over and licked Rosa's face. She began to stir, throwing wild schoolyard punches
into the air.
Johnny pushed himself up from the floor and stumbled to the staircase. Adrianna
cradled Rosa's head in her lap, stroked her mother's face. "Stop
that mean boy before he hurts someone else," Adrianna pleaded. Myron nodded
his huge head. He turned and lumbered downstairs in hot pursuit of the fleeing
Johnny Castro.
Johnny careened his way to the lobby door. He ran blindly out into the middle
of Bronxdale Avenue, the sound of the bear's grunting breath behind him. A crowd
of strangely dressed humans surrounded Johnny, looking like extras in a faded
old silent film. The ghost of Esther Gorenstein floated in, a bloodstain on
her apron. Her expression hardened when she recognized Johnny Castro. Esther's
ghost pointed at Johnny. "He did it," she wailed, "he made my
Natalie an orphan." The crowd raised their fists and yelled, "Bum!"
and "Shtinker!"
Johnny turned and ran full speed toward White Plains Road, with Myron hot on
his heels. The darkening sky flashed and, within seconds, the rumble of thunder
echoed. Big raindrops fell, thudding on car hoods, sounding like thousands of
conga drums. Johnny caught his reflection in a store window on White
Plains Road, and stifled a scream. His hair had turned white. Faces from the
past appeared in the store windows. A gallery of his victims stared out at him:
boys from Spofford, girls from the projects. Slowing down at the corner, his
heart sank to discover an empty cab stand. Thunder exploded above, releasing
a torrential downpour. Nearby, the wail of sirens pierced the storm. The bus
was his only hope.
Johnny ran across the parkway, soaked to his skin, trying to recall where the
bus stop was. The pounding rain dislodged a piece of pavement on Pelham Parkway.
A newly opened crevice swallowed Johnny's right foot. He thought he heard a
shriek, and turned his head to the right. Two large, burning devil eyes bore
down on him like the weight of the world. Johnny was thrown into the night like
an old bottle cap, into darkness and silence. Mrs. Castro had nothing left to
pray for.
Tim Duffy was a veteran of two wars and two marriages, and had lost two brothers
in the Towers. He white-knuckled the steering wheel of his westbound number
12 bus and squinted into the rainstorm when he heard a thud on the grill. He
caught a glimpse of white hair deflected into the black wet storm. He pulled
the bus over and set his hazard lights. Wiping his mouth with a bandanna, Tim
dialed 911 on his cell phone, then radioed his dispatcher.
Across the Bronx in the Edenwald projects, Tia Carmen was lifted back on her
cot by her familia. She fell fast asleep.
The foggy atmosphere was beginning to lift. Myron turned his huge yawning, furry
bulk and staggered back to apartment 3G, barely able to stay awake. Tufts of
fur began to fall off his body as he climbed the stairs. As Myron collapsed
onto his bed, his body shrank back to human form.
Then Myron heard voices calling his name. He felt a strong hand on his shoulder.
"Finkelsteen, wake up." Myron opened his eyes and saw two tough male
faces in shirts and ties staring down at him. "Finkelstine,"
Myron corrected.
"Whatever," the man said flatly, flashing a gold badge. "I'm
Detective Beale; this is my partner, Detective Lanzano. We're from the Four-Three
and we wanna ask you a few questions."
Myron accompanied the two detectives to the sunken living room. Mr. Garcas,
the building's super, was re-attaching his apartment door to its hinges. "Listen
up, Fink. I'm gonna cut to the chase. Where's the bear?"
"Excuse me?" Myron managed to squeak.
"We questioned the lady across the hall. She says she saw a bear. The kid
next door says the bear belonged to one Johnny Castro. You acquainted with this
Castro?"
Myron shook his head, and furrowed his brow even more deeply. "What
would I be doing with a bear?" Beale and Lanzano crossed their arms and
waited. Their attention was drawn to the apartment door opening, followed by
half the neighbors in the building filing into Myron's apartment. "He's
a lovely person," Plotnick sang, feeling guilty.
"This kid's got no bear," Bernstein bellowed. All the neighbors started
kvetching in different languages, scaring Lanzano. Beale resumed
command: "People, please! We have to follow up on every call these days."
"He could be a terrorist," Lanzano added. "Terrorist, schmerrorist,"
Bernstein barked and pounded his walker on the floor. Adrianna ran in and sat
protectively on Myron's lap. Beale's pager went off in the midst of the debate.
"Let's go. We got a call." Beale yanked him out the door.
Plotnick ran to her apartment and returned with rugaleh, making everyone ecstatic,
especially Adrianna. Rosa held an icepack to the side of her head.
Myron, Rosa and Adrianna held each other tightly. Rosa felt compelled to kiss
Myron, and did.
The following weeks were difficult. Esther's funeral upset everyone who attended,
especially Myron. He made a pledge to keep an eye on Natalie, which he did with
a daily phone call. Johnny Castro's funeral was poorly attended.
Autumn passed into an extremely harsh winter. Tia Carmen waved away Junior and
Lourdes one evening as they pleaded with her to go to a doctor. The leather-faced
women with the two-color eyes and long indio braids lay back on her cot in the
living room, thought of her sweet Adrianna, smiled, and her eyes went still.
She was cremated, and insisted on no funeral, but instead encouraged her familia
to have a party in her memory.
New Year's Eve, Rosa Rodriguez became Rosa Rodriguez-Finkelstein. Adrianna was
thrilled to have three names, like a movie star.
On the first day of Spring, Ernie Bernstein pointed his walker towards Trojan
Field in Bronx Park East. As Ernie entered the park, he stopped focus on the
activity on the grassy triangle down the hill. In the middle of
the triangle Myron, Rosa, and Adrianna stood, giggling and whipping their brand-new
hula-hoops around and around. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, feeling
the warm sunshine, and inhaled the crisp, cool air as his heart beat to the
sound of the revolving hula-hoops: zhoop -- zhoop -- zhoop -- zhoop -- .zhoop.
1996 © 2004