I weave through the house and I swear it has only gotten more crowded and loud as we edge closer to two a.m. The eyes are a ravenous wanting now, like the night has swallowed them and spit out only desire. Out the door and down the steps, someone shouts something, but I don’t really hear it through the buzz and the relief of breathable air.
I look around for some sirens, flashes of color, a car. Across the street, a deep blue Prius rolls down the window and there he is, just like I remember: ginger hair and splotches of red on his cheeks. I cross the street toward him and the passenger-side door swings open for me. I climb in.
“This your car?”
He chuckles, no uniform, no badge, just jeans. “You know we have lives outside the station, right?”
I try to laugh with him, but no sound comes out, kind of like how Mama opened her mouth and let her jaw move, detached from the noise erupting from it.
He pulls away from the house and I take one last look at it, think of Lexi with her purse strap, Camila turning her body into a spiral.
“Where we going?” I ask 612, staring out the window. He’s one of the ones who’s hard to look at because part of me wishes this wasn’t him, that he was at home somewhere, reading a book to some redheaded child and not out here, with me. The way he grips the steering wheel makes me nervous, like he can’t hold it tight enough, like he’s about to rip it open.
He coughs. “It’s late, I’m taking you back to my place.”
I used to have these dreams about Mama leaving me in the grocery store. Whenever we went shopping, she’d have to go figure out how much money she had left on our EBT card, receding to a corner to call customer service, because she inevitably lost the last receipt. I’d go wandering around the store, sometimes with Marcus and sometimes on my own. I’d pick up everything I wanted: boxes and boxes of that fancy cereal and the pizzas that TV families throw in the oven and then eat around their oak dining room tables. Then I’d walk a few aisles and leave them somewhere they didn’t belong, hoping they’d still be waiting there when I got back a couple weeks later. They never were.
In the dreams, I am sitting in the middle of an aisle, looking around, waiting for the aisle walls to morph and reveal my mama. I don’t think you can feel more trapped than in the center of food you’re not allowed to eat, waiting to go home, and not knowing if anyone will remember your existence.
I feel that kind of confined now, sitting in the car, watching 612’s fingernails rip slowly into the steering wheel. I wonder how long it will take Marcus to forget about me, if the only time he’ll think about me is when he looks in the mirror and sees my fingerprint.
When you don’t got much, a fingerprint is everything.
I don’t think 612 is gonna murder me or nothing. Actually, as far as they go, he is kind, has this nervous lather that makes the whole thing feel sticky. He is nothing to fear, everything to pity.
Nobody’s ever taken me home before. Not the street men, who ain’t rich enough to have places of their own worth taking me to and prefer to drag me to their cars or motel rooms. Not the cops, who got women at home and like to keep me separate, like to take me in groups. Not the boyfriend I had when I was fourteen and still trying to live out childhood: clean sneakers and basketball practice. Alé don’t even take me to her place. It’s really just been my apartment, Cole’s basement studio, and the streets. Haven’t even thought much about how the world extends beyond that, how they all go home and pull their sheets up, dream a little.
“Don’t worry, it’s empty, just a little dirty.”
I nod, turn back to the window, and smile. He’s concerned about how dirty his bedroom is. Us, in this car, two a.m., and he don’t want me to judge his dirty-ass apartment.
I expect to drive for longer, but it isn’t more than ten minutes before he pulls into a driveway. I thought he’d bring me to some little apartment, bigger than mine, but fit for him and his loneliness. Enough room for him and his badge. Instead, a house stares down at us: gray and freshly painted, with a porch swing. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to sit on a porch swing before, but it almost invites me into it and I have to shake off the urge to just start swinging like I am back in the park with Alé.
He fumbles for his keys in the dark, even though his whole street is lit up in streetlamps. Perks of living rich, I guess. Didn’t realize cops made this much until 612 and 220 and 48 pulled out their wallets. This big gray house trumps it all, though.