“Hardly.” Bernice finished her wine and held her glass out for a refill.
“Celeste, let’s serve the appetizers.” We met in the kitchen and arranged an assortment of crackers, olives, meats, and cheeses on a tray. “Your Mom is completely freaked out.”
“Well, I’m disappointed, but not surprised. We’ll give her a nice dinner and send her home before dark.” Celeste peered into the frig. “Ben, where’s the heavy cream? And the string beans. I looked everywhere.”
“Jeez! I’m sorry, I forgot. I’ll run and get them now.”
Joe wandered into the kitchen. “How far away is the grocery store?”
“About a mile. A fifteen-minute walk.”
“I’ll drive you, Ben. I’d like a little tour of the neighborhood.”
Celeste kissed my cheek. “I’ll turn off the oven. But hurry back.”
We left in Joe’s car with me in the passenger seat. “Point the way,” he said.
“Just drive straight until we’re under the bridge.”
He nodded and drove slowly over the jaw-cracking cobblestones. The factories in the area were closed for the weekend, so the usual obstacle course of tractor-trailers and box trucks was missing. The neighborhood was starkly industrial; the only green elements were the weeds growing between the cracks in the sidewalk.
“Not exactly bucolic, is it?” When we arrived at the intersection under the bridge, Joe rolled to a stop.
A large obstruction blocked our way. This no man’s land between Water and Front Street under the Manhattan Bridge was notorious for attracting people wishing to dispose of unwanted items. I’d already scored a working deli meat slicer and two airline beverage carts, minus the tiny liquor bottles in this spot over the last couple of years.
“My God! You certainly don’t see that every day,” Joe said, in his flat Ohio accent.
It appeared to be a male mannequin face up on the cobblestones dressed in a tuxedo, and patent leather shoes. His footwear gleamed in the sunlight filtering through the Manhattan Bridge trestles looming above us. His face had a yellowish-gray tinge to it, like spoiled chicken.
It was no mannequin; it was a dead man. My breathing became labored. I’d seen bloody accident victims on the Autobahn years ago when I was a military policeman. This guy was unblemished, lying flat, as if positioned carefully for public display in death. I frantically scanned the area to see if whoever abandoned him was still around. The area was deserted.
“What kind of neighborhood is this, Ben? I’m scared for Celeste and you.”
“Nothing like this ever happened before,” I said, almost positive it was the truth. “It’s New York. Crazy stuff comes here to happen.”
“The city’s changed so much since I was a young man. It’s falling apart. Are you comfortable living here?”
“It’s getting better, since Koch became the mayor.”
Joe fingered his door latch. “We should do something, Ben.”
Blaring sirens approached.
“Hear that? Somebody’s already called the cops,” I said. “Take this left, Joe.” I quickly switched on the radio to find a baseball game in progress. Joe loved the Yankees.
“We should stay, Ben.”
“If we do, won’t get back for dinner. Bernice will want to know what happened.”
“It took me weeks to convince her to come to Brooklyn.”
“I’m not surprised. She’s pretty high-strung.”
“What do you suppose happened to the poor guy?” Joe peered over his shoulder as he pulled away, a little too slowly for me.
When we leased our loft in 1979, it was very cheap and raw with a capital R. There was no bathroom, kitchen, interior walls, or heat, as we discovered the first winter. We’d put off this first family visit until we’d installed some basic human comforts so her family wouldn’t be completely traumatized by their daughter’s home. Unfortunately, we couldn’t control what happened on the street.
“I’m sure it’ll be on the news tonight.”
“Ben, let’s not mention it. It might open…” Joe trailed off.
“Fine with me.”
***
When we returned, everyone was seated at the table, chatty and slightly tipsy, as Celeste had been topping off everyone’s glass. Neither Joe nor I mentioned the dead body, though I’m pretty sure we were both thinking about him.
Suzanne C Martinez 