Bronx Requiem(131)

Amelia told Demarco, “I won’t be long. Can you stay and watch the stuff?”

Demarco tilted his seat back and said, “Sure.”

Demarco didn’t think about why Amelia chose to go in the back way, and Amelia didn’t explain why she didn’t want anybody to see her entering the building. She quickly made her way through the courtyard, found the hidden key she always used to sneak into her grandmother’s apartment, and let herself in. She ascended to the second floor and knocked on Lorena’s door.

After a few moments, she heard Lorena shuffle toward the door and yell, “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Amelia.”

“What do you want?”

“Let me in.”

Lorena opened the door. At first she didn’t recognize Amelia dressed in her new clothes, wearing glasses. Amelia stepped past Lorena into the stuffy, dark apartment, the air heavy with the cooking smells and the general odor of the old woman. For a moment, the aromas brought back the stifling memories of her previous life, which added to the anger roiling inside her.

Lorena turned away from Amelia, ignoring her, oblivious to how dangerous it was now to stoke Amelia’s anger by once again making her feel rejected.

The old lady sat by herself on her plastic-covered couch, but Amelia refused to let Lorena rebuff her. She sat next to her, turning sideways to face her grandmother.

“I’m leaving the Bronx,” Amelia said.

“So?”

“So I wanted to say good-bye. And ask you something.”

Lorena looked down, a sour expression twisting her face.

“Why you leaving?”

“I have to.”

“Because of him.”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

“My father?”

Lorena looked up and sneered at Amelia. “Father? What father? Paco never see you. What he ever do for you? You leaving because he come here and ruin everything.”

“He ruined everything?”

“Yes.”

“How? He tried to help me. What did you ever do for me except make me feel like I was worthless?”

“I give you a place to stay. Food. Clothes. I give you everything.”

Amelia stared at the Lorena’s sneering, angry face and had to stifle the urge to slap her.

“Yeah, well, now I need something else from you.”

“What?”

“A gun.”

Lorena looked at her for a moment.

“Why you come to me?”

“Cuz you got one.”

Lorena grew quiet. She glared at Amelia.

Amelia raised her voice. “Get it.”

Lorena stood up and walked to the bedroom. She returned holding the old .38 Colt revolver she’d tried to shoot Beck with. She sat on the couch, the gun in her right hand.

Amelia asked, “Where’s the other one? The Phoenix twenty-two.”

Lorena’s expression hardened. “I no have the other gun.”

“Where is it?”

Lorena turned the Colt toward her granddaughter. “I lose it.”

“Why you pointing that at me?”

“You should go. I don’t want you here. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

“What happened to the twenty-two? Where is it? What did you do?”

No response.

Amelia shouted, “What did you do, you goddam, crazy, useless, murdering bitch?”

Lorena screamed, “You don’t talk to me like that!”

Amelia yelled, “Why did you shoot him? Why? Why goddammit?!”

Lorena shouted back, “Because he come here after seventeen years thinking he can push me around. Shouts at me—‘Where’s Amelia? Where’s Amelia?’ Like what you do is my fault. He goes out to do what? Be the big tipo duro. Show everybody. Get you killed.” Lorena leaned toward Amelia, shouting, shaking, still holding the revolver. “He was crazy. I go after him. I see what he does. Starts a fight. They beat him. Tan estupido. So now what he gonna do? Get a gun? Go back and shoot them? Because of you? Kill them, and then what? You think they let you live after he does that?”

Amelia watched her grandmother leaning toward her, her face twisted in rage rooted in decades of anger and pain and loss, still holding the revolver.

Amelia demanded through clenched teeth, “Tell me what you did.”

“All he knows is killing. Killing for what? He couldn’t hardly walk after they beat him, but I know he was coming back to my house. I know he would take a gun. I run ahead of him. Waited in the little park. He come up the street. Passes me. No, I tell myself. No. He can’t come here and do this.”

Amelia felt her throat tightening. She blinked, pushing down the pain and rage until she finally heard the truth.

“What did you do?”

“I come behind him, I point my gun to his head, and I shoot him.”

Amelia’s face twisted in anger. How? How could this pathetic, hateful, wasted old woman have caused so much pain and death and sorrow? Amelia shook her head from side to side, consumed by the horrible revelation, ready now to see it through.

“And then what did you do?”

Lorena pointed the old revolver at Amelia as if to keep her away.

“I drop the gun, and I ran.”