CHAPTER THREE: EVERYTHING CHANGES

CHAPTER THREE: EVERYTHING CHANGES

I don't return that night. I don't return for the next two nights. I wander New York, walking aimlessly until I find myself back in the Bronx, and realize that that was my aim all along. I find myself standing on the street where I used to live, a dirty row of colorless tenement houses, faded and dusty in the light of the overcast afternoon. My old apartment building towers above me, ugly and solid, blocking out what little sunlight there is in this narrow street. I feel driven away from the place, but at the same time my feet are taking me across the cobblestones, up to the steps. I hesitate at the bottom of the steps, not wanting to enter, but unable to leave.

I don't know how long I stand there before a window to the side of the door slides open, and I see the face of a small boy. He's about seven, I'd guess, with dark curly hair and the olive complexion of an Italian. "Hey," he calls to me. "You want in?"

I shake my head, step down a few steps. "Oh, no," I tell him. "Just passing by."

"Wanna see what I can do wif my toof?" he asks me, hanging almost all the way out the window. "I show you what I can do wif my toof for a dollar."

"Antonio!" comes a woman's shout from behind him. The boy laughs as a pretty dark-haired woman swoops down on him from behind, pulls him in from the window and slams it shut. Even through the glass, I can hear her scolding him in Italian. "What I tell you about bothering strangers, 'Tonio?" she finishes in English. The boy just laughs again, so she slaps his rear and sends him on his way, telling him, "Ah, go on and help your sister. Why you can't be a good girl like her, huh? What am I going to do with you…" When she glances toward the street and sees me still standing there, watching this scene, she pushes the window open again.

"I sorry," she calls to me, wiping her hands with a dishcloth. "This boy," she makes a dismissive gesture with her hand, "he can never do what his mama tells him. You need anything? Directions or something?"

Finally the world comes into focus around me, and I can think clearly for the first time in days. "No, no, I'm fine. Thanks," I say, stepping backwards off of the stoop, and she smiles before closing the window again. I stand only a moment longer, looking at the empty window and then, the window above, where I used to hang halfway out and heckle my own strangers in the street. This place has moved on, become home to new families, families with troubles of their own. The shadows of my nightmares have no substance in this place anymore, I realize that now. And as I turn to leave, I know that I'm not ever going to need to come back. It's time for me to move on, too. With a new sense of lightness, I head back to Manhattan, back to the lodging house, my home.

"Skittery, you're back!" Blink says, leaping up from his seat on the stairs as soon as he sees me.

"It's Alice," Mush says, jumping directly to the point. "She got hurt pretty bad."

"What? What happened to 'er? When was it?" I'm gone forty-eight hours and everything falls apart. From reading Mush and Blink's grave expressions, I gather it must really be serious. They both jump in to answer my questions.

"Just an hour ago—"

"She fell down da stairs—"

"It was dat boyfriend of hers—"

"Dey say da baby's prolly okay but she got knocked out and everything—"

"McAllister's left an' she's in da kitchen—"

I push past them and take off down the hallway. When I shove open the door, I see Alice stirring something on the stove. She turns, hearing me enter, and draws her sleeve across her face roughly. She takes a shaky breath, and sets down her spoon.

Alice looks at me for a moment, waiting for me to speak. I'm looking at the bruised gash on her forehead, and don't say a word. "I know what you're thinking," Alice says at last, moving away from the stove and gripping the countertop so hard her knuckles go white, "but it wasn't his fault at all. I mean, we did fight, but he didn't push me, he wouldn't push me. It really was an accident, and—"

"You get dat cut a yours taken care of?" I interrupt her, moving closer for a better look. It's definitely not pretty; deep and ragged-edged, up by her hairline. She must have struck something on her fall.

"Racetrack cleaned it out some," she says, nodding toward a towel and bottle of medicine on the counter.

"Sit down," I direct her, and pour some more of the clear disinfectant on the towel before sitting opposite her, my legs straddling the back of the chair.

"You let me know if it hurts," I say, and sponge carefully at her injury. She inhales sharply when it first touches, and I know it stings a little, but she doesn't complain and I keep dabbing.

We sit in silence a moment before she takes a deep breath and gets ready to start up with the excuses again.

"Shhh," I quiet her before she can even begin. She falls silent, and winces slightly when the towel brushes a bruised spot.

"I hurtin' you?" I ask, concerned. She shakes her head slightly, but I towel more gently as we sit in silence.

Alice looks up at me after a while. "You're my best friend, Skit," she suddenly tells me.

"I know."

She smiles slightly. "I'd like you a lot betta if you didn't nag at me so much, though."

"I know." I stop cleaning the cut, and set the towel down. "So lemme just say one thing, an' I'll nevah say anything more about it. I will forevahmore keep my mouf shut if you'll just listen for a minute heah." She looks at me, wide-eyed and expectant, and I lean forward, my hands on my knees. "I want you to know dat when you're old and married and you've churned out forty kids for dis guy—"

"Skittery!" she protests, laughing.

"No, listen!" I lean in and make her meet my eyes. "When you've got your own family and you've moved on and everything… I just want you ta always know, dat if you evah get any trouble from anybody, if you evah feel like you need somebody on your side—you've got me, Alice. Okay?" I reach out and rest my hand on the side of her face. "You've got me."

Alice's eyes smile at me, but shimmer with unshed tears. "Okay," she whispers, and puts her hand over mine. Then she moves my hand to her mouth and presses her lips against my knuckles. I draw my hand away and reach again for the towel. Behind me, I hear the door swing open, and Alice's eyes widen. I look behind me quick to see John McAllister standing in the doorway.

In a second I'm on my feet, and behind me Alice has stood up too. McAllister's eyes narrow as he looks us over. "What's goin' on in here?" he demands.

"Skittery was just takin' care of da cut, John," Alice speaks up quickly, stepping between us. "So don't try ta make it out ta be something it wasn't."

"Your cut don't need takin' care of," he growls. "Tell 'im ta get outta here."

I'm ready to spring at this jerk, but I feel Alice's restraining hand on my arm. "You go on, Skittery," she says, in a voice that tells me I'd better not resist. She starts guiding me toward the door, and I've got no choice but to comply. One day I'll really give this asshole what's coming to him, I think, clenching my jaw.

The door shuts with a click behind me, and I slouch against the wall, crossing my arms. Ever since I first laid eyes on McAllister, I've wanted to break his face, but I never get the opportunity. I hunch my shoulders and scowl. I should go tell him just what I think of him, and guys like him, thinking they can knock around their girls like that. Maybe what Alice said was true, maybe it really was an accident that she fell down the stairs, but that's not the first time something like this has happened, and if somebody doesn't do something about it it's probably not going to be the last. So what are you waiting for, Skittery? I ask myself, and turn and shove the door open.

What I see makes me stop in my tracks before I even open my mouth. McAllister's got her pinned up against the wall, and tears run down her face as his hand flies into the air. Everything seems to slow down as his fist accelerates toward her face. And then, the impact, the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and she cries out, her head snapping back. Her cry reverberates through my brain and I've heard this before, just like this, and whether I'm there to hear it or not, there's a woman making that sound every night in countless rooms in countless tenement apartments all over New York, all over the world.

Something blazes up hot and angry inside me and I know this time, I'm not going to just hide in the corner and pretend I never saw it. This time I'm going to do something, even if it kills me. His hand flies up to strike her again, and I jump forward like the crazy bastard I am and knock him away. He slams into the countertop, shattering glasses and knocking over bowls. I grab him by his collar before he can react and slam his head forward into a cabinet, hearing his nose crack. He swears and tries to pull away but I slam his face over and over, watching the blood flow over his mouth and chin, watching his nose shatter.

Finally he wrenches himself out of my grasp and takes a wild swing at me, catching the side of my jaw and sending me sprawling against the wall. I hit the handle of the soup pot, and it flies off the stove, landing with a crash and splashing soup all over the place. I don't have a chance to duck away before he pins me in the corner and hits me again and again, battering every inch of my face. I twist away from his next shot and sock him in the stomach as hard as I can. He loses his breath for a second, and one second is all it takes for me to drive him back against the counter, my hands firmly around his throat. He gasps for breath and I squeeze harder, my head throbbing and my knuckles bleeding but my mind only on making him suffer.

His feet scrabble for a hold on the slick floor and his arms flail, but I've got him pinned and he can't wriggle free. Then I hear Alice scream, "Look out!" Automatically I look toward her, and in my peripheral vision I see a flash of silver in John's hand, and before I can react I feel a blade thrust deep into my stomach. I choke and stagger backwards, disoriented with pain. John lurches toward me and rips the knife from my skin. I scream and blood gushes from the wound, and the pain's only just started. He strikes me again and again, driving the metal deep into my abdomen and ripping through my flesh. The pain is incredibly intense; my eyes roll back in my head and I've lost every sense except the feeling of pain. Suddenly it's like I don't know what to do with my body, don't know how I'm supposed to fight back against this.

Then I see Alice over his shoulder, white-faced and wielding a huge black pan, swooping down on him like some angel of death. The pan strikes his head in one heavy blow and John is knocked off balance, slamming into the wall and dropping the knife. At that moment my legs give out and I collapse onto the floor, shaking.

"Meddling bitch!" John roars, pushing off the wall and advancing on Alice with uneven steps. She screams as he grabs her hair, drags her toward the stove. She begins to sob and beg to be let go when she sees what he's doing, holding her face near the red-hot stovetop. "You're sorry now, huh, bitch?" he asks her, pulling her closer though she kicks and fights, crying. "You're sorry now, are you?"

In my condition, I am all set to stay right where I am and die like every law of medicine dictates I should… but then I see the knife a foot away from my hand, shining silver and red with blood—my blood. I reach for it, and my fingers close around the blood-slicked handle. I stagger to my feet, oh God this hurts, holding the counter for support, and reach somewhere deep inside me to find the strength to launch myself at him.

The blade slashes at his arm and he roars, whirling on me. I see Alice released from his grasp and she falls to the floor with a cry. John lunges at me, grabbing for the knife, but I thrust it into his chest. He freezes and I stab him again and again, knocking him onto his back and tumbling on top of him. He keeps grappling for the knife but I slash again and again, blinded by blood and feeling sick and enraged and panicked and overwhelmed and emotions I don't even know the words for. After God knows how long he stops fighting, and I slide off of him, wiping sweat and blood from my eyes. His body lies still on the floor, huge damp dark circles of blood spreading across his shirt. I take a long shaky breath and hot tears stream down my face. The knife slides out of my trembling fingers at last, and I clutch my stomach and fall to my knees, exhausted and emotionally shattered. I gasp, feeling the blood soak my hand, and tumble to the floor. For a moment everything is silent and still and I'm in a place where there's just my breathing and my heartbeat and I don't have to think or feel or move.

I would like to stay there forever, but I feel Alice's hands around my head and I'm startled back into my world of pain. She's screaming for help and trying to pull me up onto her lap and hold me, but she's weak, I'm weak, and everything's so bloody I can't think. I can see the blood pouring out of me and I can't register anything except the pain. Everything's in slow motion, my pulse is pounding in my ears, the blood flows wet over my hand. I press my hand deeper into the hole in my stomach but the blood only spurts out stronger. I stare at this red fountain that has been ripped in my body and I can't move, even as Alice is trying to drag me someplace. Please, Alice, don't move me… I can just barely hear her screaming, though she's right next to me. I look away from the blood and see her face, red and blotchy and soggy with tears, blood trickling from her forehead, her mouth is moving but nothing is coming out as she screams and screams. Then suddenly she is whispering but I hear her loud and clear. "Oh, Skittery, Skittery hang on!" she whimpers, bending her head near mine, her hair sweet and soft against my battered cheek. And she's saying my name over and over and it's the last thing I hear before I'm sinking back into the painless dark.