“What is his middle name?”
“No one in our family has middle names.”
“Why doesn’t he have ID?”
“He doesn’t have a license and, anyway, he lost his wallet.”
Eric and Thomas had worked out all of the lies on the train ride before they got to Denver. Later on, after they had reached New York, Clea had told Thomas it was all right to use her last name. She hadn’t really believed that Thomas was 2 5 5
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in such deep trouble, or that the police would just grab him off the street for no reason.
Eric posed as Clea’s boyfriend from NYU.
“Your brother should really have identification,” the policeman said.
“I’ll get him to do it, officer,” she said, relieved.
The three caught a cab a few blocks away. Eric gave the driver an address on the West Side Highway near 12th Street.
There they entered a twelve-story glass apartment building.
The doorman seemed leery at first, but when Eric gave him his name he handed over the key and allowed them entrance.
As he worked a key on the door of the penthouse, Clea asked, “Why are they letting us in here?”
“Connie said that I could stay here on the weekends if I wanted. She said that she’d leave my name at the desk.”
“But shouldn’t you knock?” Clea asked.
“She spends every weekend with her boyfriend in Brooklyn,” Eric answered. “I thought we could go out in the Village this weekend. Connie said that it’s a pretty big place.”
The transparent walls allowed a nearly unobstructed view up and down the Hudson River. They could see the Statue of Liberty and across to Hoboken.
“ I was sup p o se d to go away with some kids to Martha’s Vineyard this weekend,” Clea was saying that evening after they had eaten take-out Chinese. “But I’d rather be here with you guys.”
Thomas had been quiet since getting out of jail. He sat close to the future linguist and ate hardly at all.
“What’s wrong, Lucky?” she asked.
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“I don’t like bein’ in jail. But I think that’s where I’m gonna end up.”
“No,” Eric said. “I won’t let that happen.”
“I didn’t do nuthin’ today, man. I was just walkin’ in the park thinkin’ about you guys an’ the pictures. But those cops just grabbed me, and even though they knew I didn’t do nuthin’, they took me to jail. One suckah in there started beatin’ on me the minute he saw me. I didn’t even look at him.”
There was a pronounced lump over Thomas’s left eye.
“I’m sorry,” Eric said.
“They just see a black man,” Clea said, “and they think he did something wrong. It happens all the time.”
“I never had such a good life as I do right now,” Thomas said, unaffected by apologies or explanations. “I got friends and places t’sleep an’ that museum. You know, I could spend every day for a year lookin’ in there. I could live there. I asked them about bein’ a guard, but you know you need a real social security numbah and a phone and a high school degree at least to work there. And even if you walk in the park, you could get grabbed up an’ put in the Tombs.”
They were sitting on a leather couch in front of a low glass coffee table. The sunset lit a fire behind New Jersey.
Without warning, the door to the hall came open and a woman walked in.
Eric jumped to his feet.
“Connie,” he said.
“Hello, Eric.” She had short red hair and an aggressive, angular face.
When Thomas met her eye, he thought he saw disappointment, but then she put on a bright smile.
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After a moment he remembered that it was something Ahn used to say.
“I’m sorry,” Eric was saying, “but I thought you said you were away on weekends.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I just came back for a few things.
Who are your friends?”
Eric introduced Thomas as his brother and Clea as his brother’s friend. Connie smiled and asked, “Does anybody want a drink?”
Clea joined their hostess for a glass of white wine. Eric had a Coke, and Thomas took tap water without
