Double Singles

Giacomo ‘Jack’ Ortizano

Content Warning: This story includes scenes of violence and abuse that some readers may find disturbing.

She stepped off the bus on the East Side, the better part of the city where the better people lived. An ordinary-looking eleven-year-old girl carrying schoolbooks in an ordinary-looking, oversized tote bag. She appeared as if she belonged there, though she did not feel that way. No, she thought of herself as an outsider entering hostile territory, where people of her ilk are routinely used and then discarded the way some people flush a bloody sanitary pad down the toilet.

On this hot Friday afternoon, Arjuna—more commonly known as Junie—felt drained by five consecutive days of humdrum middle school. Despite minimal effort, at school Junie got straight-As and praise for her work ethic, which was something her teachers perceived as an anomaly among their pupils. Earlier that week, Junie’s guidance counselor had advised her she could become a success in life if she applied herself and resisted the temptations of the inner city. Junie reflected upon how her counselor would be pleased to view her striding miles away from her so-called underprivileged environment, making her way along the avenues of respectability and elite culture.

Junie did not envy East Side residents in the slightest, with one exception. She marveled at the sight of tall, well-dressed women exercising flawlessly coiffured, pedigreed dogs. Junie always longed for a puppy, but pets were not allowed in the Franklin Delano Roosevelt housing projects.

As was her custom, she walked with an air of confidence that let potential abusers know she was not a pushover, and thugs searching for an easy victim had better look elsewhere. The fact was, however, such posturing could not protect her from the pangs of poverty. Economic deprivation, she believed, was an unacceptable condition requiring prompt repair.

Junie arrived at the canopy-covered doorway of an apartment building where one month’s rent cost more money than people in the FDR projects earned in an entire year. She ignored the mildly inquisitive stare of the bored doorman, the city’s equivalent of an upscale suburban community’s gate and high walls. He wore a pseudo-military uniform, a symbolic reminder he was paid to guard the building’s tenants from undesirables. Junie undauntedly slipped past the human scarecrow with ease while he was signing for a delivery package. At four feet eight inches and a wispy ninety-four pounds, Junie moved freely, an inconsequential and minuscule cog in the machinery of a large, dynamic city.

She breathed in cool air conditioning as the ornate elevator doors sealed her in the box that, ever so gently, raised her to the third floor. The elevator doors opened with the splendor of theater curtains at the beginning of a familiar production she had played many times.

Junie sauntered down the carpeted corridor, pausing at the door to run a comb through her hair and straighten her barrette prior to knocking. Her pounding on the hardwood door shook the premises as if to announce something unsettling like the arrival of the police or a debt collector. She had forgotten, again, that these apartments had functioning doorbells that softly announced the presence of company.

Alessandro, a twenty-seven-year-old aspiring corporate executive, heard her knocking while he was preening himself in the bathroom—applying a spritz of expensive cologne to his neck, shoulders, and the base of his armpits. He answered the door wearing a sandy-colored, Egyptian-cotton robe that deliberately matched the dark-brown consistency of his impeccably styled hair.

He waved her inside. “Hi, Princess. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Junie nodded and walked straight to the bedroom, where she detected the fragrance of incense and the faintly audible sound of chamber music. On a bedside table, the restrained brightness of a forty-watt bulb was further muted by a paper-thin, crimson lampshade giving the room an ambience of understated sensuality. At the base of the lamp, barely visible in the subdued light, lay a small stack of currency. Biting her lower lip, Junie placed the cash in her tote bag, tucked between pages of The Old Man and the Sea that was her reading assignment for the weekend. She then set the bag on the floor beside the bed and began to undress. Alessandro, who was already lying on his back, watched intently as she removed her clothing, each piece adding to his anticipation of intimacy and forbiddance.

When Junie removed her underpants, Alessandro stole a quick glance at her crotch to satisfy his curiosity about whether she had started to sprout pubic hair. He felt relieved when he saw she had not, and he unconsciously reached down to verify the abundant curls flourishing about his own groin.

Alessandro closed his eyes and relaxed to the strains of a string quartet while Junie held his swollen manhood in her hands and provocatively caressed its shaft. He fell into a peaceful reverie as she wrapped her lips around him and maneuvered her tongue until he became completely rigid and fully extended. When he heard her breath quicken, he mistakenly assumed his hardness had aroused her bourgeoning adolescence. He uttered a moan of self-congratulatory pleasure without any inkling of Junie’s contorted scowl, accentuated by her gritting incisors, glinting in front of him.

Then, with every ounce of strength Junie could muster, she bit down with her clenched teeth.

Alessandro let out a scream and his body shook like a person going into a grand mal seizure. He gasped, “What the—?”

Junie spoke in a voice almost as loud as Alessandro’s scream. “You son of a bitch. Where’s the rest of my money? The deal is three hundred dollars a visit. And you think I’ll settle for only two hundred?”

Alessandro ever-so-gently rubbed his penis, partly to comfort himself but primarily for reassurance it remained attached to his torso.

Junie seethed, “What the fuck were you thinking? Maybe I wouldn’t notice? Maybe I wouldn’t care?”

Alessandro, through a mixture of pain, anger and penance, replied, “Look, Princess, I ran a little short this week. I didn’t think—”

“Yeah, you didn’t think,” she said. “Well, I don’t need any of this shit.”

“Honest, baby. I’ll give you the money—”

“You’re damn right you will,” she said, leaving the bed and heading for the gray metal desk that supported his computer. The desk had three sliding drawers on the right side, and she moved directly to the middle drawer. Before Alessandro could climb out of bed, Junie opened the drawer and pulled out a handful of video disks. She turned to him and said, “I’m taking these with me. Next time, if you have the full amount on the table, including the extra hundred from today, I might give these back.” When Alessandro raised his arms and rushed at her, she yelled, “Don’t you dare lay a finger on me. Or I’ll go to the police and tell them what you did. I’ll show them some of these disks, including the one you made of us together, and they will put your perverted ass in jail for the rest of your life.”

Alessandro slowly took hold of his senses and perched himself on the side of the bed. Still suffering physical pain, he sat holding his throbbing forehead. Junie, having shoved the disks deep into her tote, was about to close the drawer when something caught her eye. “What’s this?” she asked, reaching into the rear of the drawer and retrieving a clear plastic bag filled with white powder.

Her rage soared even higher than before. “Damn you. You snorted my money up your nose. ‘A little short,’ you say? Well, I’ve seen enough.” She stuffed the drugs into the bottom of her bag along with the disks. “This you are never getting back.”

As Junie pulled up her jeans, Alessandro began to plead. But Junie would not relent. “I don’t want to hear your excuses,” she said. With hangdog eyes, he picked her T-shirt off the floor and handed it to her. “I’m serious,” she said in the tone of a mother scolding her recalcitrant child. “You know better than trying to cheat me.” And with that, she was out the door.

The doorman was once again too distracted to notice her. He was preoccupied with hailing a taxicab, hoping to extract a gratuity from a silver-haired couple who had ridden alongside Junie on the elevator. As Junie left the building, she was struck by the showmanship the doorman employed to stroke the elderly couple’s vanity, exaggerating his every gesture in an ostentatious display of self-degradation.

Moving on, Junie made her way to the bus stop for the return-trip home. Thinking to herself, she sighed at how so many males, the grownup kind, were all about bravado and deceptive appearances. They projected strength and courage to disguise their insecurities and frailties. Alessandro was the youngest of the three men in her stable, down from five only a few weeks ago. Every one of them personified weakness of conscience and social intelligence. Their lack of modesty tried her patience. Their lack of substance turned her stomach. They imagined themselves so benevolent in helping a poor waif in need of economic support. Just the same, they felt no remorse over cheating her whenever possible. The men persevered in acquiring graduate degrees and high-paying jobs, yet they could not overcome their fear of approaching a full-grown woman. There must be something profoundly wrong with people who don’t associate with others their own age, Junie thought.

Junie yearned to be her mother’s daughter. Her mother, Suzanne, could find goodness in every person she met. Moreover, she could forgive endlessly and always give people additional chances. Her mother would say, “Life isn’t fair. When people keep getting hurt again and again, they become discouraged and feel worthless like hopeless losers.” Junie would retort that “hopeless losers” was an apt description. But Suzanne would ignore the criticism and continue, “Sometimes they get so discouraged that they turn mean or self-destructive. They need someone who will remind them—during their darkest night—to stand tall, look up at the stars and smile at the moon. With love and faith you can learn to smile—to laugh—at life’s silly tribulations and carry on.”

On this day, Junie was not smiling. Alessandro’s misdeeds had put Junie in a state of pessimistic agitation. “Some days it doesn’t pay to get out of bed in the morning,” she muttered to herself, quoting a favorite refrain of her Aunt Violet.

On the bus, Junie sat in her preferred seat, just behind the driver. The bus had two rows of long, plastic benches along its sides so passengers faced one another unless the view was obstructed by standees. Junie liked to sit up front, near the door where she could watch the riders as they boarded. Also, she felt protected by her proximity to the bus driver. And as an added benefit, nobody could bother her from the left side.

As the bus proceeded westward, Junie focused her eyes on the bearded young man across from her, seated on the far left. In his early twenties, he was dressed casually in an orange sweatshirt and blue denim slacks. He had an aura of studiousness about him, an effect reinforced by his tortoise-shell eyeglasses. Junie thought highly of men who wore beards and eyeglasses, which to her connoted intellect and personal strength. She was not as impressed by material possessions, like cars or fancy houses, because such things revealed nothing about a person. This lesson had been made clear time and time again by the affluent men in her brief life. And besides, she could acquire those possessions by herself. Her mother, a sagacious authority on the subject of people, had taught her what matters is a person’s character, and to seek out the goodness in every human being. The sad truth, however, was that Junie could not find anything good in some people, no matter how hard she tried.

Junie sensed the young man across the aisle had been giving her an appraising look. More than once his face broke into a subtle, shy grin indicating he was charmed by her preteen femininity. It was the kind of encounter Junie went through frequently when she traveled alone. The sight of an unescorted female seemed to elicit a reflexive hormonal response in the male psyche. For some men, it uncovered an innate masculine need to protect and provide security. In others, it aroused a predatory instinct. On this occasion, his eye contact showed a benign interest and nothing more. This was in contrast to the dreaded Look of the Raptor, a look she first noticed on fearsome creatures that repulsed her during an elementary-school field trip to the museum. It was the same grotesque, raptor-like facial expression she’d seen on the stocky, middle-aged man who she had foolishly accompanied to a hotel room. Though nearly a year had passed, Junie knew she would forever remember his maniacal twisted mouth and, worse still, his fiery eyeballs that rolled aimlessly yet somehow focused on her body and penetrated the terrified soul that lay within. She had been fortunate that day to escape with only a few bruises and a dislocated arm, which surely had been only preliminaries to the fun and games he had planned. But now this young man on the bus, who almost imperceptibly—yet undoubtedly—pursed his lips at her to communicate his delight, presented nothing beyond an innocent flirtation. To be honest, she felt validated and flattered.

When the young man reached his stop, Junie wondered whether he could resist looking back at her as he disembarked, just to savor her one more time before she became a fading memory. She had noticed many men would do this, as if to pay her a final compliment in appreciation for their shared, though unspoken, meeting. The bespectacled young man exited through the front door and, at the last possible moment, he turned his head to view her one last time.

Junie rode contentedly as the bus rolled on, her mind roaming absently from one thought to another until jarred when the vehicle stopped abruptly at a red light. The bench seat formerly occupied by the young man had been taken by an enormously obese woman flanked by her two toddler daughters. The average-sized girls sat obediently as their mother shifted uncomfortably, trying to accommodate her pachydermal girth onto the space usually taken by two passengers. Junie tried to guess the woman’s age. Perhaps twenty-five, perhaps thirty-five. The chubby face with its sagging chunks of flesh made her look older.

Junie’s attention fell upon the woman’s breasts. They were a colossal pair that suggested the woman’s chest had spawned a second set of buttocks. They went beyond voluptuous, reaching a level that Junie suspected even the basest men, with the lowest standards, would consider unacceptable. And yet this woman had two children, so a minimum of one virile male must have found her attractive.

Junie studied the two daughters who sat quietly at peace with themselves, their little legs dangling over the edge of the bench. Would heredity condemn these girls to grow into oversized bodies with mammoth mammary glands? Junie shuddered briefly to herself, then began thinking about how her life might change when she developed breasts of her own. I already have to deal with weird men who want my body. When I fill out, will it get even worse? Or maybe not. Full-breasted women are available everywhere, so maybe they aren’t sought after as much as young girls, like me, who are harder to find. Well, in any case, I’ll get my answers soon enough.

The bus delivered Junie two blocks away from her home in the projects. Despite having lived in the neighborhood since birth, she felt ill at ease in ways not unlike her visits to the East Side. The streets were just as intimidating, the people just as dangerous, and the tension just as combustible beneath the surface.

The block across the street from the FDR projects featured an array of stores that catered to consumers, mostly by offering low-quality products, high prices, and easy credit. Junie stopped at the liquor store to buy a bottle of Four Roses bourbon for her mother and a couple of small fruit pies for herself. As she stood in line waiting for the cashier—a middle-aged foreigner who spoke little English and never asked any questions or demanded proof of age—she overheard a conversation between a pair of older teenage boys.

“You see that bully over there in the gray jacket? Don’t ever mess with him,” said the taller one.

Junie looked through the glass window and spotted fourteen-year-old Durian. He was standing on the sidewalk in the area known as Lee’s Corner, speaking with a boy she recognized as a high-school dropout who lived with his grandparents on the ground floor of her building. Durian gave him a bunch of vials in exchange for some cash. It was Friday, always a busy day for Durian as pleasure seekers made preparations for the coming weekend.

“Why?” the other boy asked.

“He’s mean—and dangerous.”

Junie had heard similar assessments of Durian before. She had to admit it was true enough he’d been an uncontrollable child who resisted discipline—not out of rebellion, but as a result of a disposition marked by belligerence and aggressiveness. School was a bore and the hours he spent there only served to contain his explosive energy until he could attack someone, usually within minutes after the three o’clock bell. Of moderate size, his broad musculature and assertive bearing had commanded respect from boys who were older and taller. At the same time, his surly demeanor ensured his status as a loner.

“My cousin goes to the same school as him,” the tall one said. “And none of the guys will talk to him. The teacher lets him sit in the back of the room and read comic books. Even the teachers won’t mess with him.”

Annoyed by the boy’s insulting tone, Junie shook her head disapprovingly. Maybe if these kids approached Durian, they could learn more about what they needed to know than they would ever get from their teachers.

“They say he killed a whole bunch of people.”

Junie couldn’t say whether that was true. She knew from firsthand observation that in a fight, Durian would attack with unbridled ferocity. His skills were such that he could instinctively find his opponent’s weaknesses and exploit them to the fullest. Unwilling to tolerate losing, he would stay on the offensive—relentless with seemingly unlimited energy—until the other person succumbed or, on rare occasions, managed to render Durian unconscious. The few young toughs who knocked him cold would inevitably pay dearly for such a violation. And if Durian believed his bare fists were insufficient, he never hesitated to use whatever weapons would ensure against him ever suffering a second loss. In some cases, according to people who knew about such matters, Durian arranged those get-even engagements with lethal effectiveness so there would be no possibility of a rubber match to break the tie. Such exploits required stealth, which was another proficiency that distinguished the solitary man-child of the FDR projects.

“Is he an enforcer for one of the gangs?” the smaller boy asked.

“Nah, no way. He can’t get along with people. No gang would have him.”

Maybe so, Junie considered, but Durian despised the gangs.

While Junie continued standing in line, the topic of gangs drew her attention away from the boys chattering and filled her mind with memories of Yvonne. Durian’s younger sister, Yvonne, had been Junie’s best friend since before they entered the first grade together. Inseparable, Yvonne and Junie shared their games, laughter, and secrets. Together they entertained their families and guests with their duet singing of popular songs. But the music stopped the day Yvonne had the misfortune of getting caught in the crossfire of feuding youth gangs. Yvonne caught a stray bullet and was buried four days later. Durian, then ten years old, was devastated from the loss of his only sibling. His lack of interpersonal graces had already established him as a loner who the neighborhood children sensed was someone better left alone.

As a consequence of Junie’s constant presence at Yvonne’s side, Durian felt a bond between himself and his sister’s best pal. When Yvonne died—despite their three-year age difference—he turned to Junie for solace and consolation. Although Junie herself was experiencing intense sorrow, she summoned the strength to help the boy avoid slipping into a deep state of melancholia. Durian had subsequently clung to Junie for emotional support and she, feeling a void in her world as well, assumed the role of his substitute sibling.

And there he was working Lee’s Corner. Junie thought Durian, who had been working the street wearing a polyester jacket under the hot sun all afternoon, could use some refreshment. Relinquishing her place in line, she walked over to the cooler and picked up a bottle of cola.

Durian’s dour expression changed completely when he saw Junie coming toward him. “Hey Junie,” he called out in a voice letting her know he was glad to see her.

“This is for you,” she said, handing him the cold, twelve-ounce bottle.

“Aw, Junie,” he said. “You don’t have to do stuff like that for me.”

“I know that, Durian,” she said. “I do it because I want to.”

Durian twisted the cap and took a long swallow. Lost for words, he repeated the same offer he made whenever he tried to show his appreciation. “You know, Junie, if you ever want me to, uh, well, get rid of somebody, all you got to do is tell me.” Junie just smiled and shook her head. This was Durian’s way of showing his tender side.

“How is your mom?” she asked.

“She’s all right.”

Durian trusted nobody except his mother and Junie. They were the only ones he allowed to see him laugh, the only ones he allowed to see him cry. Realizing he was a person of few talents, it irritated him when Junie steadfastly declined to receive what he perceived as the only gift he could give her that held any substantial value—his offer to commit homicide for her benefit. And though he respected her benevolence and compassion, he maintained that every human soul knew at least one annoying person whose disappearance would be most welcome.

“Some boys across the street were saying you’re a bully,” she informed him.

“A bully, huh? Well, that’s okay. But it’s not true.”

“I know you’re not a bully, Durian.”

“No, see, a bully likes to hurt innocent people. The people I hurt bring it on themselves.

They borrow when there’s no way they can payback. They make big promises knowing that they will never keep them. They lie to others and lie to themselves.” He took a long swallow from the plastic bottle. “And bullies will only go so far when they hurt you. They won’t do permanent harm or leave any marks because they don’t want to leave evidence or take the blame for what they do. Bullies try to inflict pain. And you remember what I told you about pain?”

“You said pain is only temporary. Never be afraid of pain.”

“That’s right,” he said approvingly. “That’s why I don’t do pain. I do damage. If I break somebody’s leg, he’ll walk with a limp or ride a wheelchair till the day he dies. Nothing temporary ‘bout it. He’ll never run track or play football. He’ll never be a good dancer. If I damage his eyes, he won’t be able to see a movie or drive a car. If I do real damage, he may not do anything at all. But pain is nothing to be afraid of. Pain is a part of life—and a blessing when it warns us to take action.”

Junie and Durian watched as a pregnant woman pushing a stroller with a sleeping child passed by.

Durian continued, “Mommy told me that having babies was the most painful experience of her life. Nothing else came close. But know what? Mommy said when she held us babies she forgot about the pain and enjoyed the happiest feelings ever. It was worth every bit of the pain and she would gladly do it over again if she had to.”

“How is business?” Junie asked.

“Business is good,” he replied with a nod.

Regardless of what others might say, Junie was impressed that Durian seemed to discover his vocation at an early age. On the other hand, those who criticized him usually had no money, no job, and no ambition. Nor did they have his courage and loyalty.

“Know what?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye. “Folks now calling this Durian’s Corner.”

“Might as well,” she said. “Lucky won’t be around anymore.”

“I guess he wasn’t really so lucky.”

Durian’s natural skills were recognized and mentored by Lucky Lee, a hustler in his mid-twenties who prospered by selling drugs to frequent users who lacked a reliable source of income. Lee permitted his clientele to buy on credit, thereby justifying his above-market prices. But selling to addicts with questionable credit ratings inevitably created problems when making collections. And so Lee hired Durian, who had just turned thirteen, to deal with customers who fell behind on their payments. Most of the physically depleted addicts were quick to pay up when confronted by the youth’s intimidating presence. Those who refused—or were not able—to settle their accounts gave Durian the opportunity to experience the satisfaction he derived from damaging people.

That arrangement came to an end, however, when Lucky Lee got arrested and received a lengthy prison sentence. Durian responded to the turn of events like anyone else who finds himself suddenly unemployed. He became downcast and lost his feelings of usefulness and self-respect. Upon seeing him in such distress, Junie proposed a solution. She would finance a startup inventory if Durian agreed to take over Lee’s business. From the day of the arrest, Lee’s Corner remained unattended and his customers still needed a supplier. Durian liked the idea, even though the fun of making collections had become a secondary feature of his duties as a salesman. Arjuna and Durian agreed to split the proceeds fifty-fifty and he’d been working Lee’s Corner ever since.

While chatting with Junie, Durian saw a returning customer heading his way. “I have to do some commerce,” he said to her with a hint of sadness. “You better go on home.”

Arriving at her red, brick high-rise, Junie was dismayed upon discovering the building’s sole elevator was out of order. She reluctantly adjusted the shoulder strap of her tote bag and took a firm grip of her package from the liquor store. Then, inhaling a final deep breath of fresh air, she opened the door to the fetid stairwell and commenced the journey to her apartment on the twelfth floor. The stairwell, enclosed without air conditioning or adequate ventilation, reeked of stale marijuana, old garbage, and the urine and feces often left by children who lacked access to their apartments while their families were away at their jobs or tending to other responsibilities. Though the housing development had several playgrounds and basketball courts, it had no public restrooms for fear they might attract muggers and pedophiles. Resignedly, Junie ascended the obstacle course of human waste, empty bottles, candy wrappers, broken toys, cigarette butts, and discarded drug paraphernalia. With each floor her load seemed to grow heavier, and by the eighth floor, she was ready for a break.

Aunt Violet lived in apartment 8D. She was not really Junie’s aunt, but for all practical purposes she may as well have been. Auntie Vi and Junie’s mother, Suzanne, were as close as sisters. In fact, Violet drove Suzanne home from the hospital when she had given birth to Arjuna.

Junie liked the way Auntie Vi complemented her mother. Violet was pragmatic and grounded, whereas her mother was a dreamer. Both women gave Junie an abundance of warmth and love, and Aunt Violet was Junie’s main source of worldly wisdom. Auntie Vi had been a professional singer and had once toured Europe with a jazz band. Her singing career was cut short by chain-smoking, fast living, and an inability to stay on key. But along the way she accumulated a vast repertoire of stories about unconventional people and exotic places that Junie found irresistibly fascinating.

Whereas Violet’s world was notable for its breadth, Suzanne’s world was equally notable for its depth. Suzanne lived her entire life in the same neighborhood. She never left the vicinity for longer than a weekend, and then only to attend an obligatory wedding, funeral, or family affair. And she could describe the neighborhood’s history in elaborate detail. When Junie picked out a storefront at random, Suzanne would explain how it had changed over the years. She also provided particulars about its ownership and the people who had worked there. In fact, Suzanne was a glorious storyteller whose words could weave the most trivial event into a scintillating narrative. And if anything rivaled Junie’s fondness for the animal stories in her collection of picture books, it had to be her mother’s tales of the Roosevelt projects and its environs. Suzanne had a way of helping her daughter understand the local mores, traditions, and motivations behind people’s behavior that made no sense to those from outside the neighborhood.

Violet and Suzanne were acutely aware of their differences. The two women would joke they were the Martha and Mary of the FDR projects. When you were in Violet’s apartment, you were likely to smell the down-to-earth aroma of homemade bread baking in the kitchen; whereas if you were in Suzanne’s apartment, you were likely to smell the ethereal essence of spikenard or patchouli oil.

Junie, worn out from climbing the stairs, gave Auntie Vi a halfhearted hug as she entered the apartment. Violet’s expressive face wore a blissful smile––her eyes half-closed as if she were in some kind of mystical trance––at the sound of Jimmy Scott crooning “Someone To Watch Over Me” emanating from her high-fidelity speakers. Auntie Vi had introduced Junie to the artistry of prominent jazz musicians, poets, and abstract painters. She would encourage Junie by presenting her with a song, a poem or a picture, and ask the girl to interpret its meaning. Junie thought this was the greatest game ever, and she delighted Violet with inspired creations from her prolific imagination.

When the song ended, Violet had a change of mood. “I’m hungry,” she said. “I’ve run out of almost everything and, just when my check arrives and I’m ready to do my grocery shopping, the elevator breaks down. I can’t drag myself up those stairs loaded down with bags of food. Why couldn’t the elevator have waited just one more day?”

“Don’t worry, Auntie Vi,” Junie said. “Make me a list and I’ll go to the market for you. I can handle the stairs.”

“Bless you,” she said. “Give me half an hour and I’ll have the list ready for you.” She found a note pad and ballpoint pen, then sat in an overstuffed, living-room chair.

“Here,” Junie said, fetching two miniature pies from her tote bag. “These will fill you up for now.”

“Give those here,” Violet said, reaching for the pies. “I haven’t had anything to eat all day. I can use some energy.”

“And take this,” Junie said, handing her a plastic bag full of white powder. “This will give you lots of energy.”

“Oh my, you are an angel,” Violet said. She rose and held up the bag in the sunlight of the window as if she expected its contents to sparkle with a divine radiance. “Oh my, oh my!”

Violet broke into a dance, taking Junie in her arms and sweeping her around the room.

She sang a duet with Jimmy Scott. “I’m afraid . . .” Then Junie joined in to form a trio. “The masquerade is over.”

They both laughed, Junie feeling very happy that she could bring gladness to her auntie. Then, after several spins around the room, the exhausted but still exuberant duo flopped on the sofa. “Life is a wonderful gift, my darling,” Violet said. “Celebrate everything. Don’t let any opportunity for happiness pass you by.”

They sat quietly together, each lost in her own thoughts, until Junie finally said, “I have to go see how Momma’s doing. Then I’ll come by for that grocery list.”

“All right Junie,” Violet said, walking her to the door. “Meanwhile, I’ll take care of this,” she chirped, opening the plastic bag.

Junie climbed her way up to the twelfth floor, a task made progressively irritating with every step in the darkness created by the absence of light bulbs, which had been either stolen or smashed by juvenile residents of the building.

At last she stood outside her apartment door, wiggling an arm into the bottom of her tote bag in search of her keys. She could hear two distinct voices speaking inside. One voice she identified right away as her mother’s. The other belonged to either a deep-pitched woman or a shrill-sounding man.

When she entered the apartment, she stole a quick glance at the parlor, where her mother sat in her easy chair. On the couch, at a ninety-degree angle from her mother, sat a sordid-looking, middle-aged man who she had never seen before. He wore an ill-fitting Charlie Chaplin suit, a pair of scuff-marred shoes, and a raggedy, paisley necktie—an ensemble giving the impression he’d come by his clothing at a thrift store. His left arm sported a digital wristwatch made of cheap-looking plastic while his right hand flaunted a golden ring with an ostentatious red jewel—a shining example of where a smaller-but-genuine gemstone would have looked immeasurably better. Her mother was decked out in a dry-cleaned, cotton twill dress with a floral pattern and complementary pearl earrings.

It seemed naive to Junie that her mother had unbounded sympathy for habitual failures, the kind of men whose misguided efforts invariably imploded into self-destruction. Despite much savvy about the opposite sex, Suzanne’s loving and optimistic nature too often superseded her good judgment. In Junie’s opinion, her mother was compulsively drawn to men with tragic life patterns. But whenever Junie spoke harshly about such men, her mother would remind her “blessed” were the poor in spirit. And Junie would respond to herself, I’m sure Momma is right—even if I don’t understand exactly what she means. But one thing I do understand is that the blessed do not include those sleazy connivers who always cause grief for people who are nice to them.

The accumulation of empty beer cans on the coffee table affirmed the visitor had been on the scene for a while. The background music was supplied by a John Coltrane CD, a recent gift from Auntie Vi.

As Junie entered her room, she gave a nod of greeting to Pandu the panda-bear doll, a beloved favorite among her menagerie of stuffed animals. Tossing the tote bag aside, she sat on her bed and clutched the well-worn Sweetie Giggles doll, a gift from her mother on Junie’s fifth birthday. As children’s playthings are seldom built to last, the sound-producing apparatus inside Sweetie Giggles—which provided the doll’s signature giggling—had functioned less than a year. Suzanne had tried cutting a small slit in the doll’s soft-rubber tummy in an unsuccessful attempt to extract and restore the device. Over the years, the slit grew into a Caesarian incision large enough for Junie to insert her hand. Ultimately the doll’s interior space became Junie’s special hiding place, and now Sweetie Giggles was so packed with fifty and one-hundred-dollar bills Junie had to make an effort to push Alessandro’s money through the opening.

Junie lay stretched out on her bed when she heard what sounded like a hard slap. She hoped her mother slapped him a good one. But when she got up to see what was happening, upon entering the parlor she saw her mother cowering on the couch as her visitor stood over her with clenched fists. The two adults looked at Junie with embarrassed expressions but neither said a word.

After an awkward pause, Junie’s mother gestured toward her guest. She said, “Junie, say hello to Mister Reynolds.”

“Hi,” he said, extending his bejeweled right hand. “I’m Sonny Reynolds.”

Junie tried to give his hand a polite shake, but Sonny reached out with his left hand, nimbly sandwiching her between his palms, and gripped her like a hostage until she managed to yank herself free. He did not try to conceal the malicious glee he felt in causing Junie discomfort. Junie’s mother, who had been looking away to hide her own discomfort, did not witness the exchange.

“Mister Reynolds has been giving me advice,” her mother said while he gestured with his hands, encouraging her on. “He has all kinds of ideas about how we can improve things around here.”

Sonny focused his eyes on Junie for a slow and thorough appraisal. “You’re very pretty,” he said in a voice conveying an expectation of gratitude for his approval. “How old are you?”

“Double singles,” she responded in a sarcastic tone.

Junie’s mother, seeing the confused look on his face, explained, “She means that she’s eleven.”

“Oh,” he said, still not making the connection.

Junie, unable to take any more, turned around and retreated to the kitchen. When Sonny followed her, she turned around and hissed, “Please go away.”

Sonny spread his body like an angry animal who tries to appear larger and more intimidating. “You’d better get used to me, little girl,” he said, “because I am not going anywhere.” As he spoke, he edged closer to Junie, backing her up against the refrigerator door.

Junie’s words were both a statement and a question. “Why don’t you just leave us alone?”

For a moment they glared at each other, standing as if frozen in time. In the background, John Coltrane’s arrangement of “My Favorite Things” clashed with the song’s lyrics about confronting life’s trials with cheerful, submissive passivity. In fact, Trane’s mastery of his instrument testified to a belief that certain challenges call for fighting with everything you have. Both Junie and Sonny shared Coltrane’s total-commitment philosophy, and neither would cede a trace of an advantage to the other.

Coltrane’s saxophone took flight mimicking the sound of a bird flapping its wings as it soared from earthly bondage to an infinite sky of freedom. In cadence with the melody, Junie stretched her arms away from her trunk, much like a bird trying to spread its wings, reaching out with open hands for the imaginary handle of a bright copper kettle or a steel-blue cleaver blade she could use to impale Sonny’s skull.

Making the most of his superior height and bulk, Sonny leaned in closer. So close that Junie could taste his breath, a mixture of gum rot and bitter pilsner. He shook his head from side to side. “Why don’t you just accept me as the new man in your life?”

They glowered at each other until Sonny, incapable of staring her down, backed away a step. He relaxed his face into a confident, though cautious, smirk. “You and I are going to know each other really well,” he said. “And in a little while, you and I will become really ... connected.” As he said this, Junie noted the emerging expression on his face. She saw the contorted mouth. She saw the orbs rolling and dilating. She recognized the unmistakable Look of the Raptor. A shudder ran through her as she involuntarily turned away. Sonny, observing Junie’s torment, chortled with satisfied amusement. He turned sideways, allowing the girl to push her way through and flee temporarily into her bedroom.

Junie hugged Pandu the panda bear as her teardrops moistened the fabric of his soft fur. Her pulse beat violently and the doll began trembling to the rhythm of her heartbeat. Through the door, Junie could hear her mother and Sonny talking and laughing in the parlor, the world continuing to turn on its appropriate axis without the slightest concern for her situation.

“Junie, come on out here,” Suzanne called. Junie gave Pandu a kiss before setting him on the shelf with the other stuffed animals. Then she reluctantly went to her mother.

“Listen Junie, Mister Reynolds has offered to visit McD’s and bring us dinner,” she said with a hopeful smile. “Tell him what you want so he can get it for you.”

“He’s buying us dinner?” Junie asked.

“Well, I gave him a few dollars,” she said. “But he is making the trip for us.”

Junie stared with repulsion at Sonny, who stood leaning back with his hands on his hips, thrusting his chest out with the swagger of someone who had just successfully defended the heavyweight title.

“I don’t want anything,” she snapped. “Not from him.”

“Don’t be rude, dear,” Suzanne said. “Mister Reynolds is trying to show you how much he cares about us.”

“Shit,” Junie said. “He doesn’t care about anybody but himself.”

“Arjuna! You’re getting a dirty mouth,” her mother rebuked. “You know, Violet is right when she says that words can heal and words can kill. Maybe you need to wash your mouth out with soap.”

Junie rolled her eyes upon receiving a wink from Sonny. “Oh, come on, Momma. He’ll take your money and never come back—unless he thinks he can con you for more.”

Suzanne overruled Junie’s attempt to change the subject. “I mean it. Wash out your mouth and give yourself ... purification.”

Fuming, Junie stalked behind Sonny as he headed for the door. She groped for the right words to relay her contempt and dissuade him from ever returning, but her brain had stalled in the turmoil and could not respond. As it turned out, words were unnecessary. Her piercing stare was more than sufficient.

Sonny turned around, and gave her his raptor sneer. “You may rest assured—my ornery disrespectful lamb—that I shall be coming back. For your mama—and for you.” Stepping nearer and tilting her chin upward, he added in a tone sweetened with poison-tainted sugar, “And you’ll learn to love me.” He pressed his fingertips along her cheek. “What do you have to say about that?”

Junie stood immobile while her brain tried to keep pace with her emotions. When her mind cleared enough to speak, he was already gone.

“What were you two whispering about?” her mother called out from the parlor.

Junie entered the room. “He was saying how he wouldn’t be back.”

“No, he didn’t say that,” Suzanne said. “You’re lying to me.”

“I’m not lying,” she said.

“Yes, you are,” she insisted. “He is coming back and he’ll take care of everything and—”

Junie shouted, “He’s not coming back, Momma.”

Her mother said softly, “Yes ... he ... is.”

After a minute of silence, Suzanne said to her daughter, “I spoke to Sonny about how it bothers me when you stay out for hours without telling me where you go. He said that what you needed was some strict discipline and not to spare the rod. So I gave him my permission to use his leather belt when you don’t do what you are told. You’ll be getting what you’ve been needing for a long time. He’s going to give you a dose of tough love.”

The daughter felt a tightening in her stomach and the onset of nausea. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

Junie departed the living room and bowed her head in the bathroom sink. She vomited the remains of her fish-fingers school lunch and endured a subsequent series of dry heaves. When the spasms subsided, she washed her face and rinsed out her mouth with the scorching alcohol of Suzanne’s mint-flavored mouthwash. All at once, Junie spat out the residues of her own bile, Sonny’s beer breath and Alessandro’s debauchery. Then, for good measure, she gargled forcefully with the minty antiseptic. In the process, she could not help but think that, as usual, her mother had been right about her needing to wash out her mouth with soap. Then, looking at her reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror, she brushed her teeth with repeated rapid strokes until her gums ached but all the tension had evaporated from her hands.

Thus purged, she locked the bathroom door and scrunched herself atop the lid of the toilet seat. Isolated from outside interference, she sat placidly trying to gather her thoughts. After assessing her options, she reached inside her hip pocket and retrieved her cellphone.

“Uh-huh ... he’s on his way to McD’s ... in a shabby black suit. That’s right. Calls himself Sonny Reynolds. Big red ring on his right hand. Thank you, Durian … I really appreciate this. I’m all right. Yes, I know ... bye.”

Rising up, she evaluated the image she saw in the mirror. Satisfied with the likeness of composure and dignity, she unlocked the door and ventured out.

Suzanne, now supine on the couch, watched her daughter fumble with the buttons on a pink cardigan. “Where are you going?” she wanted to know.

“I promised Auntie Vi that I’d help her with her grocery shopping. I’m going to the store.”

“All right, dear,” she said. “Violet does need help with the elevator out and all.”

“I hope they fixed the elevator by now,” Junie said.

“Ha!” her mother said. “You expect them to do repairs this late on a Friday? They won’t get around to fixing anything until Monday at the earliest.”

“Oh, shit,” Junie said realizing this was true.

“Don’t use words like that,” her mother admonished. “And don’t take too long. Sonny should be getting here soon with the food.”

“I told you, Momma,” Junie said in a strained tone. “He won’t be coming back.”

“Oh yes, he will. And did you get my roses?”

“Yes, Momma. I left you the bottle on the kitchen table.”

“All right, honey. I think I’ll have myself a taste while I wait for Sonny.”

“I told you,” Junie began to say, but then reconsidered. “Oh, Momma, I love you and I want to be like you. But I don’t understand why you—”

“No, of course, you don’t understand. And that’s all right. You’re only eleven years old. You couldn’t possibly understand. Besides, you are a lot like me. You know why? Because you have patience. I’ve seen you handle very tough times without coming apart. Just like me.”

“You keep giving chances and taking chances—”

“With people who have run out of chances or feel too discouraged to use the chances they have.” Then, seeing her daughter’s exasperated expression, she added, “And if I don’t try, then who will?”

Junie slammed her fist on the table. “These people, Momma, they want to drag you down with them. They don’t care about you, they don’t care if they hurt you. They keep letting you down.”

“Oh, Junie, don’t be so hard,” her mother said with a sigh. “I wish that I could persuade you to stop playing down the power of love.”

“I wish,” Junie replied, “that I could persuade you to stop playing down the power of people who won’t love.”

Suzanne dropped her voice to a whisper and took Junie’s hand into her own. “I appreciate your concern for me. And while it might not make any sense to you now, eventually you’ll learn to never allow anything—not even the deepest disappointments—to destroy your faith in people.” Responding to Junie’s quizzical stare, she continued, “Look at it this way, until a doctor loses a patient or two, she is not a real doctor. Nor will she stop trying to help someone suffering from an incurable illness. You’ll understand before long. Some wisdom comes only from experience. Your strength, darling Junie, is, and always will be, your patience.”

The two faced each other, communicating silently through their eyes and body postures. Then Junie leaned over and kissed her mother’s cheek. “I’m leaving now. Auntie Vi is waiting.”

“All right, love. You tell Violet that I said hello.”

“I will Momma,” she said, taking her keychain.

Junie walked past the broken elevator to the stairwell at the end of the hall. Though she had walked the very same hallway hundreds, maybe thousands, of times, she nevertheless felt disoriented. A cascading succession of discordant thoughts raced through Junie’s mind as she began descending the stairs in near darkness—all the lightbulbs from the roof down to the ninth floor were missing. She stepped slowly with a tight grip on the handrail to steady herself as she navigated what felt like a vertical tunnel, moving closer toward the light beckoning below as if she were struggling to escape from the inside of a CAT scanning machine.

Upon reaching the darkened ninth floor, her brittle concentration drifted and she slipped on the wet landing. Supporting herself up on her left arm, Junie caught her breath and settled on the floor. She sniffed the odor on her right hand, which was very wet from having reached out toward the floor during her fall. Sure enough—she was sitting in a pool of urine. Her haunches dampened and her legs splayed on the wet concrete, she sat there unhurt but bewildered.

Eventually the cones of her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she recovered her senses. Her initial impulse was to curse the stupidity of her situation. But then she gave her shoulders a vigorous shake, tossed her head back and gazed up the unlit shaft as if searching for the moon during the darkest hour of a moonless night. The absence of visual or aural stimulation—the only sound Junie heard was her own breathing—had a sedative effect bringing peace and calm.

Junie remained sitting there dissipating all resistance and embracing the moment. “It’s all right,” she whispered up at the missing moon, “because I have patience.”

Her tension continued subsiding and, before long, she found herself breaking into a contented smile. She managed to suppress the urge to chuckle aloud for nearly a whole minute before bursting out with exhilarating, joyous laughter. Still smiling, she said to herself, “Some days it doesn’t pay to get out of bed in the morning.”