Kids of Appetite

  She sips her coffee, leans back in her chair. “Sure.”

  “Did you know Matisse and Picasso were friends? Or—not friends, exactly, but . . . they pushed each other to greatness.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Earlier, when you read my file, you mentioned I was obsessed with abstract art. Do you know why?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I love it because it’s the only place where ugly and beautiful can mean the same thing. And if it’s something shocking, something totally different, something people have never seen before”—I pull out my handkerchief, wipe my leaky mug—“all the better.”

  Sometimes you don’t know why you feel something until you’re talking about it. I’ve always known I loved Matisse. And since art does not require a why, I’d never quite nailed it down. Until now.

  “Dad took me to the Museum of Modern Art,” I say. “I saw my first Matisse. It was called Woman on a High Stool. I sat in that room in that museum and stared at it for over two hours.”

  “What’s it look like?”

  “Just a woman sitting on a stool in a gray room. With a table. Matisse started the painting with a bunch of blues and greens but ended up covering most everything in gray. Except her knees. Her knees, he left blue and green. Dad always said, Don’t look at the colors that are there, V. Look at the colors that aren’t. He called it the simmering underneath. Said if you looked close enough, you could see colors in real life that no one else saw, colors that were there but covered up. Which is really something when you consider Matisse was a Fauve.”

  “A Fauve,” says Mendes, though I can’t tell if she’s asking what it is or correcting my pronunciation. I choose to believe it’s the former.

  “Fauvism is a style of painting that finds inherent value in color itself,” I say. “The Fauves believed colors were themselves symbols, rather than just physical descriptors. And see, that’s what makes Woman on a High Stool so great.”

  “How so?”

  “If Matisse believed color was the most important thing in a painting, why cover it all up? I think it means he understood the simmering underneath, probably better than anyone. Matisse knew exactly what he was doing.”

  . . .

  “Vic, it seems we’ve veered somewhat from—”

  “Have you ever been to MoMA?”

  Mendes sighs, checks her watch. “Actually, no. But I’ve been to the Frick a couple of times. And the Met.”

  “So you ever notice how some people can look at a really good painting or sculpture and they stand there with their hands folded across their waist, or one hand under their chin, their eyes all squinty, and then they nod their heads and say, Hmm, like they really get it, like the painting really means something on a deep level, and then—poof—they’ve seen enough? Time to move on to the next piece. They acknowledge the technique, the skill, the creativity, but they miss what’s underneath. I don’t know how people do that. I don’t know how people just nod, and say, Hmm, and move on.”

  “Did your dad sit with you?”

  “What?”

  “You said your dad took you to the museum. Did he look at the painting for two hours too?”

  “He sat for a while. I don’t know. There was a multimedia piece in another room. A cellist or something played in front of a giant photograph. It was nice, but . . .”

  “No Matisse,” finishes Mendes.

  I nod. “No Matisse.”

  . . .

  . . .

  “Dad likes—liked art. But he liked music more. You ever heard ‘The Flower Duet’?”

  Mendes shakes her head.

  “It’s part of an opera.”

  “I didn’t know you liked opera,” she says.

  “I don’t—not really. I just sort of . . .”

  “Nod, and say, Hmm, and move on?”

  I smile on the inside. “The only time I ever saw Dad cry had nothing to do with cancer. It was years ago, long before he got sick. I was in the backseat of the car, just tall enough to see his face in the rearview mirror while he drove. He had ‘The Flower Duet’ on repeat. And he didn’t know I could see him, but I could. And he was crying. I really hated that.” I dig my fingernails into my wrist. I want this to hurt. Dad’s memory has always been close, but there are times I feel it slipping.

  “Victor.” Mendes puts both elbows on the table, folds her hands in front of her face. “When this is over, I’d be happy to refer you to someone. It might . . . help, you know? To talk about these things with a professional.”

  At that moment there’s a knock on the door.

  Mendes sighs, lowers her hands. “Come in!”

  Detective Ronald pokes his head inside the room, motions for Mendes to join him in the doorway. She does, and for a second they whisper. I can’t make out much, but I definitely hear the words still trying. Mendes steps back a little, stares at Ronald like she only now recognizes his presence in the room. “So you basically called me over here to tell me you have nothing. God, Ron—okay. Where’s Lieutenant Bell?”

  “In his office, I think.”

  Mendes instructs Ron to wait in the room with me while she goes to chat with the lieutenant. Alone with Detective Ron, I put my forehead on the table, partly out of exhaustion, but mainly so I don’t have to talk to him. He paces the room for a minute, then stops at the desk and flips through my file.

  “What’d you think of Rockefeller Center?”

  I raise my head from the table. “What?”

  He leans over the open file on the table, picks up Dad’s list. I’d almost forgotten Mendes still had it. “‘Drop me from the top of our rock,’” he reads. “The observation deck on top of Rockefeller Center, right? I took”—his eyes dart to the open door, then back to me—“I went to Top of the Rock last year. Best skyline view in the city, hands down. Especially this time of year.”

  . . .

  Son of a bitch.

  . . .

  Sergeant Mendes reappears, ushers Ron into the hallway, closes the door, and sits. “Okay, sorry about that.” She says something else, but I don’t hear her. I go to my Land of Nothingness, where I’m joined by my young parents, fresh-faced, smitten, standing on the rooftop of a skyscraper, the New York City skyline behind them.

  Rockefeller Center. The Top of the Rock.

  Maybe Detective Ron isn’t a purebred poodle. Maybe he has a little racehorse in him after all.

  (TWO days ago)

  VIC

  “Two days,” I said.

  “Technically, she’s only been gone two nights,” said Coco, scanning the menu as if we wouldn’t just eat whatever Margo brought us. “It’s only been one and half days, which is nothing. Hey, Zuz. D’you think those pepper jack fries contain any beaver’s anal secrets? Tell the truth.”

  Nzuzi snapped once.

  Coco sighed, closed the Napoleon’s menu. “Mad was right, Vic. You broke me.”

  I stared across the table at the Kabongo brothers. Yesterday morning—the morning after I witnessed Self-Portrait Man Terminates Television—Nzuzi had disappeared. He was gone until lunchtime.

  But hey.

  It was no business of mine where Nzuzi went.

  “What the frak is tricalcium phosphate?” said Coco, reading the back of a small bottle. She twisted it around to read the front. “‘Organic Table Seasoning.’ Tricalcium phosphate doesn’t sound very ‘organic’ to me.” Coco moved on to inspect a bottle of ketchup, while we waited patiently in our booth for whatever culinary scheme Margo had for us today.

  All day yesterday, I’d wavered between telling Baz what I’d seen and not telling him. The brain-thinking part of my brain voted yea for the following reasons:

  It could not erase the image of Mad’s uncle, a fierce rendering of Matisse’s Self-Portrait. (Actually this image made me want to tell
Baz to bring his baseball bat.)

  Those bruises on Mad’s wrist—the ones she’d shown me on the roof of my grandparents’ old house—now made a lot more sense. I knew the origins of those bruises. And that knowledge was now my responsibility. Because a person just can’t let shit like that go on.

  While it was true that I harbored meteoric repugnance for Frank the Boyfriend and his bury-your-head-in-the-sand-wear-a-suit-to-bed type mentality (not to mention the spoiled fruits of his loin, Klint and Kory), I never worried that Frank the Boyfriend might hurt Mom or me. But if that had been a concern, and someone else knew about it, I could only hope they would speak up.

  The heart-thinking part of my brain voted nay for a single reason:

  Apparently Mad had not told Baz. Ergo, she wanted it to be a secret. And I wanted her wants intact.

  But: it wasn’t enough.

  So: I would tell him.

  And: if Mad got pissed at me for giving up her secret, I could live with that. Honestly, if her being pissed was the downside to my saying something, I would take it over the downside to my not.

  “Bonjour, mes petits gourmands.” In the time it took Margo to finish her absurd sentence, she had both hands on Baz’s shoulders and a particularly intense gleam in her eye. “I’ll get your sodas out pronto—and your water, Mbemba. And hey, I think you guys are gonna be pleased today.”

  “Why, you got more of those blazing alcoholic bananas?” asked Coco.

  “Afraid the old grease trap is fresh outta rum. Have to wait till the next shipment for more Bananas Foster. No, this time I’ve got something a little healthier. My world-famous lettuce wraps!”

  Margo was greeted with a leafy silence.

  “Sorry,” she said under her breath. “Still have that influx of lettuce.”

  “We will eat and be grateful,” said Baz.

  Margo Bonaparte stared at him for a second and then out of nowhere said, “How’s Rachel?” She must have immediately regretted it—her eyes darted to the floor; she mumbled something about needing to check on the food and disappeared. Coco pulled out a pencil, began scribbling something on a napkin.

  “So she’s an early Chapter, then?” I asked.

  Baz removed his Trenton Thunder baseball cap, set it on the table. “Who?”

  “Margo.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “It was something Mad said just after I met you guys. I asked about money, and she said you guys had early Chapters around town who helped you out. Topher offered free tattoos, Norm seems ready to hand over his entire shop. It seems like each Chapter wants to give you more than a story. Anyway. You never pay Margo. And she never asks for payment. So I just figured—”

  “The produce truck.”

  . . .

  “The what?”

  “A couple of days ago that produce truck almost squished you like a bug. Do you know why I pulled you back?”

  I hadn’t considered that Baz might need a specific reason other than saving my life.

  “It’s because you were not paying attention,” he said. “You did not see what was coming down the road, but I did. I saw the produce truck. So I pulled you back.”

  “Okay.”

  He sipped his water.

  “Baz, I don’t understand.”

  “You do not have to understand.”

  Shit. Walked into that one.

  “Look,” he said. “It’s simple. There are many people in this world—in this town—who are not paying attention. They do not see the oncoming produce truck.”

  “But you do?”

  He nodded. “Usually. So why not do something? People usually sit back, shrug, and watch things happen. Awful things. I know this from experience. But I’m done shrugging. I’m done doing nothing. Anyway, I could use the stories.”

  I couldn’t help hearing my father’s voice in Baz’s words.

  Do something, V.

  . . .

  Just as I opened my mouth to tell him what was going on with Mad, Coco said, “That’s perfect, Zuz. Good call.”

  Next to me, her pencil flew furiously while Nzuzi leaned across the table, nodding in approval. I watched the little girl as she wrote, her face pulled tight in concentration. The poor girl had witnessed more than her share of tragedies. No reason to pile this on top. I sipped my Sprite, decided it could wait until Coco wasn’t in earshot.

  Margo returned, carrying a tray full of iceberg lettuce, individual bowls of steak, rice, fresh green beans, cauliflower, sprouts, and some sort of savory peanut sauce.

  “Frakking A,” said Coco. “I’m gonna have to revise a few of these lyrics.”

  All four of us ate hungrily, and in no time the table was a mess of napkins and wiped-clean plates. Coco went back to her scribbling, pointing to her napkin occasionally and asking Nzuzi questions about which lines he preferred. Whatever she was working on, he took very seriously, always taking time to consider before his nonverbal answer.

  “This is a good one, Baz,” said Coco, head down in concentration. “Might even be a hit.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Baz, winking at me, then looking at Coco very seriously. “What’s it about?”

  “Uh-uh. Not until it’s ready. But I’ll tell you what. You give me a thousand bucks, you can put it in your book.”

  “A thousand bucks, huh?”

  Coco nodded. “And that’s a motherfrakking steal.”

  “How about seven dollars?”

  “Split the difference—let’s say four hundred.”

  Baz laughed, said he’d have to think about it.

  “Where did you get the idea to write a book?” I asked him.

  “My mother.”

  “Was she a writer too?”

  Baz tossed his napkin onto his empty plate, crossed his arms, and smiled a little. “Maybe someday I will tell you about her. For now, let’s just say that my book is sort of her legacy. Like your father’s urn.”

  I’d been so preoccupied with Mad’s situation, for the first time since finding Dad’s note, I hadn’t given a single thought to the list.

  “Maybe it’s time you left,” he said.

  I was right in the middle of prying a sprout from my teeth when he said it. I looked at Coco, then Nzuzi, before I realized he was talking to me.

  “What?” I said, leaving the sprout to fend for itself.

  “Maybe you should leave.”

  It felt like this: Father Raines suggesting I fornicate.

  “‘Drop me from the top of our rock,’” said Baz. “I assume you still don’t know what this means, and that’s fine. What I want to know is, when was the last time you even thought about it?”

  . . .

  No one cut to the chase like Baz Kabongo. Occasionally this bluntness was refreshing, but it also kept me perpetually on edge, knowing he might ask anything at any given time.

  “I think about it a lot,” I said. It was a lie, and we both knew it. Recently my brain had thought nothing but Madmadmadmadmadmadmadmadmadmad. “When was the last time you thought about it?”

  I regretted the question as soon as I asked it, knowing exactly how he would answer. How anyone other than me should answer.

  “He was not my father,” said Baz. “I like you, Vic. You are welcome to stay with us for as long as you like. I’m not telling you to leave, I’m not even saying I want you to leave. But I made a deal to help you do this thing, not to do it for you. And so I will say it again. Maybe you should leave.”

  “And go where?”

  “Home, Vic.”

  * * *

  Before leaving Napoleon’s, Margo passed her number to Baz for the hundredth time, reminded him to call. He stuck the paper in his pocket and said he would try.

  Outside, we started the walk back to New Milford, passing Foodville along the way.
Coco emerged from whatever she’d been working on long enough to beg for ice cream. Baz said there wasn’t enough in the budget, to which Coco responded by accusing him of sounding like a soccer mom.

  “Still don’t know why you won’t just let me take it,” she said.

  “You know my rule,” said Baz.

  “What rule?” I asked.

  Coco’s sigh was bigger than Coco’s self. “Baz has a rule about stealing. Don’t steal if you can afford it, only steal if they can afford it, and what-the-frak else. I can’t remember.”

  Baz said, “Don’t steal if you can afford it, only steal if they can afford it, and never steal what you don’t need.”

  We walked in silence for a few seconds, Foodville passing like a tortoise on our right.

  “I’m sorry,” said Coco, “but it sounds like you want us to steal.”

  Nzuzi snapped once.

  “See?” said Coco. “Your own brother agrees. Why not just say, Only steal what you need?”

  Nzuzi snapped once.

  “Same thing,” said Baz.

  “Well, one of them is confusing as balls, and one of them isn’t. It’s like saying, Don’t not punch Spoils in the nutsack, which, I’m sorry, sounds like you want me to punch Spoils in the nutsack.”

  Everyone else laughed, but I only halfway registered the conversation. I fell into step beside Baz, while behind us Coco went back to her scribbling.

  “Baz, I’d like to address what you said—”

  “Are you in love with Mad?”

  The question should have taken me off guard. Instead I felt relief that someone else had noticed. The snow crunched beneath our feet. I said, “Maybe.”

  “You’ve never been in love before?” asked Baz.

  “I thought so. Lots of times. But Mad is . . . different.”

  An image: two compasses, one pointing east, one pointing west. Mom and Dad’s love was global. It made no difference which way they went. As long as they lived, they always ended up in the same place. For a heart-thinker such as myself, this was a momentous notion. And I realized that even though it felt like I was spinning in different directions, my entire compass pointed toward Mad.