Russell Banks - A Permanent Member of the Family

“Don’t.”

“Okay, I won’t. Too bad you not a cat in a tree. Fire department be over here in a minute, no questions asked.” He leans down and looks the dog in its small eyes, and the dog stares back and growls from somewhere deep in his chest.

She says, “Whyn’t you go way over to the other side of the lot on Ninety-eighth? Make a bunch of noise by the fence, like you trying to get in. When the dog runs over to stop you, I’ll try to climb over the fence. Let’s try that.”

“Okay. But I could get busted, y’ know, if it look like I’m trying to rob from these cars or break into the building. Which it would. They prob’ly have surveillance cameras. They everywhere, you know.”

She agrees. She tells him to forget it, she’ll just have to spend the night up here on top of this SUV, hope it doesn’t rain, and wait till they open the door of the dealership in the morning.

Reynaldo has his phone out again, has looked up a number and is tapping it in.

“Who you calling now?”

“If you see something, say something, yo. That’s what they always telling us, right?”

“Who?”

“The television people. Channel Five News,” he says. “I be seeing something, so now I be saying something.” And before she has a chance to tell him to stop, he is talking to a producer, telling her there is a lady held prisoner by a vicious mean pit bull inside a locked used-car lot on Northwest Seventh and Ninety-seventh Street. “That’s right,” he says, “Sunshine Cars USA. And 911, I called them for her myself, and they refused to help her. Re-fused! You should send a camera crew out here right now and put it on the eleven o’clock news, so this lady can get help. Maybe the people who own the used-car dealership will see it on TV and will come unlock the fence and call off their disgusting dog.”

The producer asks him who he is, and he gives her his name and says he’s a passerby. The woman tells him to wait there for the crew to arrive, because they’d like to tape him too. She says they’ll be there in a matter of minutes.

He says he’ll wait for them and clicks off. Grinning, he says to Ventana, “We gonna be famous, yo.”

“I don’t want to be famous. I just want to get free of this dog and his fence and his cars and go home.”

“Sometimes being famous the only way to get free,” the boy says. “What about Muhammad Ali? Famous. Or O.J.? Remember him? Famous. What about Jay-Z? Famous and free. I could name lots of people.”

“Reynaldo, stop,” Ventana says. “You’re only a child.”

“That’s okay,” he says and laughs. “I still know stuff.”

For the next fifteen minutes Ventana and Reynaldo chat as if they are sitting across a table at Esther’s Diner, and indeed it turns out that the very large waitress at Esther’s whose name tag says Esmeralda Rodriquez is his mother. Reynaldo says he visits his moms once a week but lives with his father and his father’s new wife over in Miami Gardens, because supposedly the schools are better there, though he is not all that cool about his father’s new wife. Ventana asks why not, and he shrugs and says she is real young and disses his mother to him, which is definitely not cool. Ventana asks why he doesn’t talk to his father about it, ask him to make her stop talking bad about his mother. He says they don’t have that kind of relationship.

She says, “Oh.” Then they go silent for a few moments. She likes the boy, but is not happy that he called the television station. Too late now. And maybe the boy is right, that somehow getting on television will set her free.

A white van with the CBS eye and a large blue 5 painted on the side turns off Seventh Avenue onto Ninety-seventh Street and parks close to where Reynaldo stands on the sidewalk. The driver, a cameraman, and a sound man get out of the van and start removing lights, sound boom, cables, battery, camera and tripod from the back. Behind the van comes a pale green Ford Taurus, a lot like the one Ventana planned to test-drive, driven by a black woman with straightened hair. The tall young woman gets out of the car. She’s wearing a leather miniskirt and lavender silk blouse and looks like an actress or a model. Her face shines. She speaks with the cameraman and his crew for a moment, then walks over to Reynaldo. She asks if he is the person who called “See Something Say Something” at Channel 5.

He says yes and points up at Ventana atop the silver Ford Escape. “She the one trapped inside the car lot, though. That dog there, he the one won’t let her get down off the car and climb over the fence.”

While the reporter touches up her makeup she asks him if it is true that he called 911 and they refused to help, and he says yes. They just told him to call the police in case it was a break-in.

The reporter says, “Was it a break-in?”

He laughs. “A little early in the night for robbing. Whyn’t you ask her? Get it on camera,” Reynaldo suggests. “You can get me on camera too, y’ know. I recognize you from the TV,” he says. “Forgot your name, though.”

“Autumn Fowler,” she says. When the cameraman has his camera set up with the high spiked fence, silver Ford Escape and Ventana clustered in the central background, the reporter steps directly into the central foreground. The soundman swings his boom over her head just out of camera range. The driver, their lighting man, has arranged his lights so he can illuminate Autumn Fowler, Ventana and Reynaldo in turn simply by swinging the reflector disk. By now the dog has moved into the bright circle of light and is bouncing up and down, growling and scowling like a boxer stepping into the ring, demonstrating to the crowd that he will explode with fury against anyone foolish enough to enter the ring with him.

Several people have been hesitantly approaching along the sidewalk and edging up to the van. Others are emerging from nearby houses, and soon a crowd has gathered, drawn like moths to the lights, the camera, the tall, glamorous woman clipping a mic onto her blouse. One by one they realize why the camera, lights and mic and the famous TV reporter have come to their neighborhood — it is the frightened middle-aged woman atop a silver SUV, one of their neighbors, a friend to some of them, and she’s trapped inside a chained and locked used-car lot by a pit bull guard dog. Several of them say her name to one another and wonder how on earth Ventana Robertson got herself into this situation. A couple of them speculate that because Ventana’s so smart and resourceful it might be she’s doing it for a reality TV program.

Autumn Fowler says to the cameraman, “Let me do the intro, then when I point to it pan down to the dog and up to the woman when I point to her. After I ask her a couple questions, come back to me, and then I’ll talk to the kid for a minute.”

“Gotcha.”

“How long will I be on TV?” Reynaldo asks.

Autumn Fowler smiles at him. “Long enough for all your friends to recognize you.”

“Awesome.”

The reporter calls up to Ventana and asks her name.

Ventana says, “I don’t want you to say my name on TV. I just want to get the people who own the dog to come put him on a leash so I can get down from here and go home.”

“I understand. I may have to ask you to sign a release. Can you do that? You, too,” she says to Reynaldo.

“If you can get me out of here, I’ll sign anything,” Ventana says.

“Me, too. But you can say my name on TV. It’s Reynaldo Rodriquez,” he says and spells Reynaldo for her.

“Thank you, Reynaldo.”

“No problem, Autumn.”

Autumn speaks to the camera for a few seconds, telling the viewers at home who she is and where she’s reporting from. She briefly describes Ventana’s plight, turns to Ventana and calls out to her, “Can you tell us how you got locked behind the fence, ma’am?”