Memory: five years old

1976

It was hot. It was too hot for Roger to sleep. He'd kicked the blankets off his legs and now lay awake. His mother had forgotten to draw the shades again, and the streetlamps were pouring light into the tiny bedroom, splashing onto Roger's face. Sirens were heard in the distance—not horribly unusual in New York City, especially in this particular area in the East Village. The rotating fan set up in the corner of the room was only doing so much to cut through the humidity.

In the double bed beside Roger was his older brother Michael, seven years old. The heat didn't bother Michael; nothing bothered Michael. Mama's nickname for him was the Easy Rider. Her nickname for Roger was the Wild Child, probably due to his mop of blond hair that grew so rapidly, Mama would have to cut it every other week to keep him from looking like a girl. Mama herself had honey-colored hair down passed her waist.

Between the wall and the double bed that Roger and Michael shared, a crib was wedged. Behind its wooden bars, sleeping in only a diaper was the baby. Though at two, Eddie was not considered a baby anymore, but to Mama, he was simply, "the Baby."

Roger lay very still, listening to his brothers' breathing. He could not tell time yet, so he had no indication as to how late it was. He could hear voices, voices from other apartments next door, above and below. If he listened very carefully, he could pick out Mama's voice amongst them,

"…told me it was ten last time," she was saying. Her voice was deep for a woman's, slow and sleepy.

"Things change, Honey Bear," a man's voice responded. "It's fifteen."

"Okay, all right. Don't kill my buzz, man."

Roger was suddenly thirsty. He wanted some milk, some cold milk. He crawled over to the edge of the bed before putting his feet to the floor, the carpet rough under his feet. He wore only a pair of plaid pajama pants.

He carefully padded down the hall and towards the living room. He leaned against the doorway and observed his mother, sitting on the floor, amongst a small gathering of people. Roger recognized Minnie and Trudy, Karen and Dana. There were two other men that Roger did not recognize. One had black hair, long and straight and covered with a bandana. The other had a curly blonde afro and a beard. He was the one who spotted Roger.

"That one of your boys, Honey Bear?" he asked. He had a can of beer in one hand. A thick, bitter smell blanketed the room and there was a thin sheen of smoke.

Roger's mother Carrie had her back to the door. She turned her head over her shoulder. She had cinnamon-colored freckles splashed across her cheeks and nose. Her pupils were dilated to the point where only a thin rim of sky blue remained. Her smile faded. "What are you doing up, baby?" she asked him.

"I'm thirsty," he announced.

"Give 'em a beer," snorted the blond man.

Carrie rolled her eyes and stood. She wore patched bell-bottomed jeans, a green peasant blouse and a leather headband across her forehead. "I'll be right back," she said to her guests. She held her hand out to Roger. "Come on, Wild Child."

Roger took his mother's hand and she led him into the kitchen. She scooped him up and sat him on the counter. Without a word, she went into the refrigerator and got out the milk. She poured some into a glass for Roger and handed it to him.

"Mama," he said warily, "why is everyone here?"

"Never mind about that," she said, running her fingers through his hair. "Come on, take the glass."

Roger took it but didn't put it to his lips right away. He was watching his mother, how she casually flipped her hair over her shoulder and adjusted the sleeves of her blouse. Her earrings were silver peace signs suspended from a leather strap.

Trudy, with her long ruby-red hair, sauntered into the kitchen. The fringes on her leather vest had beads at the ends, and they made a pleasant clacking noise as she moved. Her glasses were round, taking up nearly half her face. "Hey, Roger," she greeted. She tousled his hair. "Man, look at all that hair. It's so hip." Roger crinkled up his nose. What was everyone's fascination with his hair? Trudy then turned to Carrie and pressed a small plastic baggie into her hand. "Here. You can owe me later."

Carrie stared at it for several seconds before putting it her back pocket. "Thanks, Tru." She glanced at Roger. "Drink up." Roger quickly swallowed his milk.

"Bruno and Wyatt want to know if you're coming tonight," Trudy continued.

"Maybe," Carrie leaned against the refrigerator.

"Come on, Carrie."

"I said maybe. Roger, you done yet?" Roger nodded and handed his mother the glass. Carrie put it in the sink and held out her arms, inviting Roger into them. He wrapped his arms around her neck and rested his chin on her shoulder as she lifted him off the counter to carry him back to bed. The heady scent of patchouli arose from her hair. For the rest of his life, Roger would remember the way his mother held him, her arms curled around his back as he straddled her hip.

"Hey Carrie," one of the men called out, the one with the bandana, "can you carry me to bed, too? Read me a bedtime story?"

Roger felt his mother's arms tighten around him. "Save it, Bruno," she snapped.

"Relax," urged Dana. Roger's turned his head so he could see what was going on. Dana was at Carrie's side. "Here. Take a hit." She leaned over and handed Carrie a joint. Sighing, Carrie accepted it and took a deep drag. She blew the smoke away from Roger, covering his mouth and nose so he wouldn't get a second-hand high.

"Thanks," Carrie muttered. "I'll be right back."

She carried Roger back into the bedroom. Michael and Eddie were still asleep. Michael had knocked some pillows to the floor and he had also kicked the blankets off. He slept with his body curled in a ball. Once Carrie set Roger down on the bed, she bent to collect the pillows, throwing them onto the bed; hitting Roger in the face with one. Roger giggled and threw it back at his mother. Carrie smiled and put a finger to her lips as she placed the pillow behind Michael's head.

"Get under the covers, Wild Child," she said.

Roger scampered back to his side of the bed and Carrie pulled the covers up over him and Michael. She pulled the shades down on the window. She leaned over to kiss Michael on the forehead and then leaned over to kiss Roger. The acrid smell of marijuana was strong on her breath and in her hair.

"Mama," Roger whispered, "will you come back?"

Carrie blinked, "What?"

"Will you come back? In the morning?"

"That's a silly question. I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

"Promise."