The Orange Houses by Paul Griffin Page B

the TV screen as a senator said: WE OVERRODE THE FIRST VETO, AND WE’LL OVERRIDE THIS ONE TOO. THE PASSAGE OF THE BILL WILL BE A VICTORY FOR THE AMERICAN WORKER, NOT TO MENTION OUR NATIONAL SECURITY. The news anchor said the new law would force local cops to report illegals to Immigration.

    This young, the day had a strange feel. The dealers and gangbangers were done for the night. The early shift zombies yawned as they marched for the train. The overnighters yawned as they limped off it. The rummies were off to the side, sleeping on the heat grates. The light from the street-lamps was intense. With fewer folks’ shadows on them, the sidewalks were both brighter and lonelier. Mik’s want for more people on the street surprised her.
    She turned the alley corner into Fatima’s yard. Fatima was at the doorjamb trying to coax the old cat inside with cheese.
    â€œSister Mik, you bring me the sunrise.”
    Mik wondered if she should tell Fatima about the new immigration bill. What good would knowing about it do? She petted the cat. “Still won’t come in, huh?”
    â€œSoon, when the weather turns colder.”
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    They lugged the leftover Sunday editions uphill to the hospital for next week’s doll-making classes. Few words passed between them, but Mik felt no pressure to fill the quiet. They went to church to help with NaNa’s soup kitchen.
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    A young homeless man said, “Miracle. Hot food. Thank you, darlin’.” He let Mik put just one pancake onto his paper plate. Hunched and head down, he shuffled out the door and into the sun whiting out the sidewalk.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Mom said. She was still in her Dunkin’ uniform.
    â€œWorried about Jimmi,” Mik said.
    Mom frowned.
    The reverend tapped the microphone. “Let’s do the scripture. Who’s got a song?”
    Folks grabbed their books and sang.
    â€œFatima has a lovely singing voice,” Mom said, her eyes darting from Mik’s left ear to her right, the old aids still plugging them up.

chapter 31
    JIMMI
    The park gates, Monday, two days before the hanging, 5:00 a.m. . . .
    He hunted the sky for a patch not milked with streetlamp and found a fading scrap of dark. He wondered if the dim pinpoint in it was a star or a plane. “Or an asteroid come to blow away our troubles.”
    He stepped into the park a wanderer. Since Saturday he was looking for a place to lay Joe Knows’s ashes. Determined to find the most peaceful spot, he would know it when he saw it. He would travel the park’s eleven hundred acres if he had to. He knew many of them. He’d been coming here since he was a kid, whenever he felt lost.
    He watched a girl scream laughter as her mother pushed her swing.
    Jimmi tried not to think how he would feel when night came and everybody disappeared. He scanned the sky. The sun was in the west. He couldn’t recall the hours that had passed as he tramped the trails from one wildwood grove to the next.
    So many folks were in the park this warm fall afternoon—kids running, mothers chasing. Where were all the fathers?
    He headed for the cliffs, remembering from years ago a slant of sunset that lit the fields up there reddish gold.
    Nobody ever came up this way. The climb was steep and the path unmarked as it curved with the ledge. Joe would find peace here.
    No.
    The field wasn’t as he’d remembered. Here were boosted cars now. Stripped and torched they would ugly the meadow for ages. Methamphetamine vials crackled under his soles like bubble pack.
    He figured he should just step off the cliff. He took a last look at the world, his eyes stopping on that abandoned NYPD garage just east of the O Houses. The angels had blessed it with a six-winged Statue of Liberty.
    The girls were doing it, creating the only thing that mattered—not the mural, though that was stunning with its flying Liberty. The only thing that mattered was what had made