Page 9 of On the Ropes
Dean
Ishifted the carton of oranges in my arms and nodded at the group of white-haired veterans sitting in lawn chairs on the sidewalk, telling the same old stories while they sipped coffee from Styrofoam cups. Bells rang out from the nearby Catholic church as I walked past the Cambodian temple, with its Buddhist statues and bright red tiled roof. When I rounded the corner onto Tenth, two little kids with dark hair ran past me, backpacks bouncing.
“Buenos días,Dean,” Marco yelled as he and his little sister, Lía, ran for the 47 bus about to stop at the corner.
“Buenos días,” I said. I spotted their mother, Natalia, leaning outside her storm door with a smile. She and her husband, Martín, had moved here from Mexico City about ten years ago. Marco, Lía, and a big group of other kids played on these streets late on summer nights until various adults called them home. It was what Rowan and I had done—and the kids before us and the kids before them. Of all the neighborhood traditions, it was the strongest one.
“Did they make the bus?” she called out. “They’re late to summer camp every morning.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “Looks like they did.”
“And tell your parents I’m bringing by some of my cherry tomatoes for them.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s appreciated. If you have any extra…”
I trailed off, but Natalia understood. “It’s no problem. I hear Eddie loves tomatoes too.”
“Yeah, he does,” I said, starting to walk again.
She cleared her throat. “I hate to say this, but…it’s, well, it’s starting to smell.”
I paused mid-step, my teeth grinding together. She didn’t need to explain what it was.
“It’s probably the heat,” I said. I shifted the oranges to my other arm and glared at the eyesore I was avoiding.
I’d grown up on a typical South Philly block with connected, two-story brick row homes; front stoops; and a street narrow enough for neighbors to yell out their windows at each other if they wanted to know the score of the ball game.
My house was third from the end. Next to it was Linda Tyler’s place. And next to that was the abandoned lot now knee-high with trash and busted up furniture. Weeds grew ragged around it. A vine covered the rusted metal fence. We could hear raccoons and possums rustling around in there at night.
It had been two days since that call with the city. Since Rowan had hinted at what we could do. It bothered me nonstop, like the constant whine of a mosquito buzzing around my ear.
“It’s only going to get worse,” Natalia said, echoing my thoughts. “I know you told Maria and Midge you were going to handle it. But maybe it’s something we can do together. That’s a lot of pressure on you.”
I rolled my shoulders back. “It’s okay. I’m gonna get the city to fix it.”
If the city fixed it, like they were supposed to, then I could pass the buck to them and avoid the spotlight. I wanted it taken care of yesterday. What I didn’t want was people looking to me to organize a cleanup effort I could only fail at.
“Let the rest of the block know if you need help though,” she said. “I’m serious, Dean.”
“Okay, I will.” I avoided her eyes and kept walking down the cracked, uneven sidewalk. It was barely 9:00 am and the morning was already hot and sticky with humidity. The air smelled like water on asphalt. Folks moved to their stoops and benches to escape the heat inside hundred-year-old houses without central air. Beneath that was the buzz of window units, the roar of the bus, and a neighbor blaring the local classic rock station.
At the end of the block, Alice O’Callaghan, who was eighty years old, hosed down her stoop, the steam rising around her. One of my mothers sat on the bench in front of our house, drinking coffee and listening as Alice recited whatever gossip had cropped up from the night before. My other mother, who I’d called Midge since I first learned to talk, was dancing along to the radio and watering the flowers that grew in large pots lining their sidewalk.
I bent down to kiss Midge on the cheek. “Good morning. Plants look nice today.”
“They better,” she said out the side of her mouth. “Eddie’s been strutting around over there like he knows his petunias will be nicer than mine. But we’ll see about that, won’t we?”
I made a sound of agreement but remained silent. It was the only way to survive the vicious wars that sprung up around front stoop conditions and decor. Midge practically had an urban jungle growing out the front of our house, while Eddie kept two tidy planter boxes he was very proud of.
Alice’s house, however, was still covered top to bottom in her giant, plastic Christmas decorations which she refused to take down or change.
“Natalia’s bringing you tomatoes, by the way,” I said, hefting the carton of oranges down onto the stoop. I grabbed a handful and then kissed Mom on the cheek.
“Hi, Mom,” I said.
“Hello, darling,” she replied. Mom was as short and quiet as Midge was tall and loud, always the life of the party. Both of their families had arrived in the city from small towns in Italy. When I was growing up my parents spoke a rapid blend of Italian and English to each other, and my own Italian was still pretty good.
“Are those oranges from Diego’s stand at the market?” Alice asked.
