Richard Price - The Whites

“Yeah, so yeah,” Castro began, “I was up that night you said, and I was sitting right here, I like to write poetry here, and I heard like this pop pop pop , which around here don’t mean firecrackers, and I thought it was Timpson GCG throwing down with Betances Crew again. But when I looked out the window all I saw was this guy getting out of his car and walking to the back like he was going to open the trunk, you know, but he was coming up on it sideways, you know, careful, then pop pop pop again, the driver like jumping to the side, but I didn’t see no one shooting at him, I just heard the shots. And then after those shots went off, the driver just shoots his own damned trunk like he was putting down a horse, emptied the whole clip or whatever.”

“Wait, this is after you first heard the pop pop pop ?”

“Yeah.”

“So the pop pop pop was someone else?”

“Which pop pop pop .”

“The first. The one that made you go to the window.”

“Yeah.”

“Then the guy got out of his car and shot his trunk.”

“No, then the second pop pop pop . I didn’t see no one shooting, but the driver like jumped to the side of the trunk when the shots went off, and then the third pop pop pop was the driver shooting back.”

“Into his trunk.”

“Yeah.”

“Like what, returning fire?”

“Returning fire, yeah.”

“So like somebody was shooting at him from inside the trunk?”

“Could be,” offering the blunt across the oilcloth-topped table, Billy demurely passing. “Then he shot back.”

“So the driver came out of the car with a gun.”

“Didn’t I say that?”

“It was already in his hand?”

“I guess so.”

“What did he look like?”

“Who, the driver?”

Billy waited.

“I couldn’t say.”

“First thing that comes to your mind.”

Castro closed his eyes. “He had white hair.”

“An old guy?”

“No, he had white hair, you know, straight hair.”

“So a white guy?”

“Could have been.”

“Not Latino.”

“Could’ve been.”

“Black?”

“I don’t think so, but could’ve been.”

“So you didn’t get a look at his face?”

“Couldn’t see it, because it’s like a straight-down view from up here, that’s how I know about the hair.”

“Clothes?”

“Some kind of coat, I don’t know. Shoes.”

“How about the gun.”

“From the sound of it, I’d say a single-action.38 ’cause of the rhythm of the shots, you know, pop pop pop .”

“You know your firearms?”

Castro inhaled again, blew out enough smoke to announce a pope.

“Not really.”

“Tell me about the car.”

“Had a trunk, that’s all I remember.”

“So…” Billy hesitated, then: “No chance it could have been an SUV?”

“Could have been.”

“You know,” Billy leaned forward across the small table, “I asked you maybe ten questions, all I’m getting back from you is ‘could’ve been’s.”

“Hey, Officer,” Castro leaning forward right back at him, “I’m looking down six stories, three in the morning, high as a fuckin’ kite. I think I did pretty good here, wouldn’t you say?”

Marilys, watch!” Sofia shouted, blow-darting the torn wrapper hanging from her straw across the small table into her father’s chest.

“Don’t call her Marilys anymore,” Milton said.

“Why not?”

Marilys caught his eye: Go slow.

They had never gone out of the house as a threesome before, and this dinner at Applebee’s was something of a test drive. The waitress arrived with their dinner orders, Double Barrel Whisky Sirloin for him, Double Crunch Shrimp for the lady, and a Fiesta-Chopped Chicken and Spinach Salad for Sofia, who immediately went into a jaw-quivering sulk.

“How would you like Marilys to come live with us?” he said.

“Yah! Yah! Yah!” His daughter shouting up a storm again.

“Easy, easy,” he winced, although the din level of the room approached that of a machine shop.

“Can she sleep with me?”

Milton looked at his fiancée, a half-smile threatening to break across his face.

Scraping off the breading, Marilys put one of her deep-fried shrimps on Sofia’s plate. “So this is it, I’m not working for you anymore?” she said.

“Of course not.”

“But we’re not getting married until next month, you said.”

“So?”

“So I can work for you until then.”

“Are you serious? I want you to go home and pack your stuff. I’ll come by tomorrow with a van and move you in.”

“I have a lease.”

“Don’t worry about your lease.”

“So what do I do then?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I do once I move in?”

“Nothing. You know, just be with me, take care of Sofia and the house.”

“Sounds like my job but without pay.”

Milton blushed. “If you want I’ll get you a housekeeper, how’s that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“All I’m trying to say is, you’ll never have to worry about money again.”

“I don’t want anybody working for me,” she said. “That’s crazy.”

“It’s up to you.”

Marilys stopped eating, stared at her plate. “I got a better idea.”

“What’s that.”

“Can I say?”

Milton waited.

“My mother.”

“Your mother.”

“If she comes to live with us, she can help me with Sofia and the baby. And she loves to clean.”

“Your mother…”

“All I have to do is go back and get her.”

“To Guatemala?”

“She’s never been on a plane before.”

Sofia quietly took a shrimp off Marilys’s plate, dipped it in the ketchup atop her father’s fries, neither of them reacting.

“You don’t want her to?” Marilys said. “It’s your house.”

“Our house.”

“Well, you’re the man of it, so whatever you say goes.”

Sofia took another shrimp, a handful of fries.

“Excuse me for a minute,” Milton said, then rose from the table, Marilys tracking him with anxious eyes as he made his way to the front door.

A wife and two kids, OK, Milton mulling it over as he paced the empty parking lot.

But the mother-in-law…

Then: Think of it like this: drop the “in-law” part and that leaves you with “mother.”

Which, given that he had just lost his aunt Pauline, the closest thing he’d had to one, was not so bad.

When he returned to the table, he found Marilys, apparently having lost her appetite, feeding the rest of her breaded dinner to Sofia piece by piece.

“She’s good with kids?” Milton asked.

“She raised me. Raised my sons too.”

“How about otherwise.”

“Not great.”

“Pain in the ass?”

“Kind of.”

Sofia had become way too quiet, Milton wondering if it was ever possible to truly talk over a kid’s head.

To repeat… New mother, new wife, new son, all in one swoop.

Then, studying his already-child, working her way through the rest of his untouched fries: New grandmother, too.

“All right,” he said, lightly slapping the table, “go get her.”

Marilys put a hand to her heart, huffed in relief. “When should I go?”

“How about tomorrow? I’ll cover the airfare.”

“I swear to God”—touching his hand—“if you don’t like her she can go right back, it’s not like she doesn’t have family.”

“Just go get her.”

“I can save you money on the tickets,” she said excitedly, “my cousin’s a travel agent.”