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Rats. I’ve heard the whole city is infested with rats, she said. Big fat furry rodents with sharp teeth; able to chew up anything, she told Jamie as they crossed Pennsylvania, sitting side by side.

That so?

They hide in dumpsters, down alleys, in the walls of tennant buildings, everywhere, everywhere. She turned and looked out the window at passing green hills and old farm houses.

Who told you this? Jamie asked, looking forward at the seat in front of her, which had a small tear in it. She placed her finger in the whole and felt the foam inside.

What’re you going there for? The young lady asked.

Just want to see it. Just to have a look.

You got friends there?

I used to.

Oh. They moved?

He died.

I’m sorry. 

It’s OK.

Was he a close friend?

My ex-husband. I spoke to him on the phone, and then the coroner’s office called me. I should have come then.

Why didn’t you?

Scared. Scared, I guess. Didn’t want to see what happened to him.

That’s a hard story.

Yeah.

Ladies and gentlemen, the next stop is Philadelphia. Philadelphia,  PA. If you’re getting off there, I hope you had a pleasant trip, and thank you for riding Greyhound.

Hello.

Hello. May I ask who is calling? Basima asked. There was no response. Hello. Hello. Who is calling? Please.

My name is Tonya. I’m calling about the man on the posters put up all over town.

Yes. Yes. You have some information?

I knew him.

Oh?

He owned the bodega on Hunts Point. The one that got broken into.

Yes. Yes, we did. Basima’s hands were shaking. Do you know where he is?

He’s gone, Mrs. He’s gone.

Gone where? Where has he gone to? Tell me.

He’s dead.

When?

Happened some time ago.

How do you know?

Well. I have a friend who tricks up here, and he died on top of her while they were doing it. I mean…

I know what you mean, Basima put the phone down. The receiver sat on the wooden table, and the cord stretched across the kitchen.

Hello. Hello. You still there? You hear me? Your man is dead, ma’am. Smoking that crack pipe. It’ll get you every time. Hello.

Yes, she picked up the phone. I heard you. I heard you. What happened to his body?

Cops picked him up in the alley. That’s what she said. Left him there behind a dumpster.

I see. I see.

Do I get any reward money? There was silence. Hello. Hello.

Basima hung up the phone softly and  cried. What she suspected was confirmed by a stranger. A hooker on Hunts Point. She went back to her bed and lay there, curled up like a baby. The phone would not stop ringing.

 

She was a little thing, Ellen said. Tiny. You could blow on her, and she’d disappear like a dandelion in the wind. They grow up quickly,  mom poured another shot of vodka into her coffee cup. And then they’re gone. Taking off somewhere. Leaving all they knew behind, she tapped her fingers on the metal kitchen table and laughed. They leave us behind. That’s what children do. She left me behind.

Her phone rang several times. It would stop and start ringing again. And again. Ellen made it a point to never answer the phone at supper time. She poured another drink and opened the freezer door. The old woman clawed her way through frozen mixed vegetables, out of date pizzas, and freezer burned pieces of fried chicken in a Banquet box. She shook her head. They just leave you.

Meg hung up the phone for the last time. The need to tell her mother she was OK had vanished. She stared down the long hallway and realized where she was.

Am I crazy? She asked a nurse, walking by. Have I lost it? She laughed. 

You’re here to get some help. That’s all. Just to get you back on track. Is there something you want to talk about?

No. Not really. I just needed reassurance.

The nurse placed her hand on Meg’s shoulder. You’ll be alright. You’ll see. Group is getting ready to start.

Coloring more pictures from memories, Meg said. I’d rather forget.

Slow down. Take your time, she said. You don’t have to be in such a rush. Bring me my drink. Frank walked over the red Oriental rug with a gin and tonic. Set it there, she pointed at the end table. When was the last time you were with a woman? I mean, a real woman. Not some kid. Frank smiled. I’m sure you swing both ways.

What do you mean? Frank asked.

Don’t be coy. You’ll fuck anything for money. I know your type. Hand me my purse.

He handed the  broad a Chanel black bag. One hand wiped the gray hair from her face while the other rummaged through brushes, tiny mirrors, lipsticks, Rouge, powder, and folded hundred dollar bills her husband had given her.

Here, she said. Will this do? She waved a hundred in the air while Frank looked at pictures of her in younger days; a blonde on a boat wearing a bikini; an older man’s arms wrapped around her.

Yes. That will do. Who’s the guy?

My husband. Back when he could get it up. Now he just throws money at me. Apologizes and tells me to have a good time. Want some blow? Frank nodded yes. She cut it up on the glass coffee table with her American Express card. Took out a fifty and formed it into a tube.

Lady’s first.

The old woman took her hit like a pro. Wiped her nose and handed the bill to Frank. The white lines were gone rather quickly. And so were their (if any) inhibitions.

Do you have to leave? She asked, lying naked on the bed after their coke induced rumble in the sheets.

Yeah. My old man is waiting for me.

Walking the halls. Pacing a cage.  Dragging feet past doorways to rooms where some are crying, laughing, talking to themselves, and yelling, let me out of here.

The walls are white. Some pictures of sunrises, daffodils, and smiling faces are taped instead of nailed or hanging from a hook. Nobody notices.

Patients are silent. Their heads down, looking at the grayish floor below. Occasionally, they look up and smile or cry. Bottoms of socks grip the tile.

Music plays throughout the 12th floor. Soft soothing songs help ease tensions in the air. Meg hangs out at the desk where doctors and nurses congregate; going over charts, talking about patients before morning rounds. A psych tech offers her a cigarette and walks Meg down to the community room where breakfast trays are being placed on a metal rack; tables wiped down with Comet and paper towels.

Meg sits in the corner and looks out over Manhattan. She feels unsafe here at Bellevue. No johns slapping her, no crack pipes burning her lips, no sleeping under bridges and parks. She misses the high. And she does miss Ben and Frank. But it’s three meals and a bed. Something new to her.

The time is 9:08 here in New York. This is Bird Flight, and I’m your host, Phil Schaap. I’m taking you through Bird’s later years this morning. Just before he passed away. It was the beginning of a whole new jazz; Bop. Or as some say, Beebop. 

I know this radio show, Meg tells a dietary aide. A friend used to listen to it all the time. I love his voice.

Who’s voice?

Phil Schaap. His voice. Pretty soon, he’ll be telling us the time again and saying, this is WKCR 89.9 in New York. It makes me think of him.

Who?

Ben. My pimp. My friend. I hope he’s OK.

Who’s that?

Nevermind.

It’s 9:27 in the morning, and you’re listening to WKCR here at Columbia University in New York. I’m Phil Schaap. And this is Bird Flight.

Meg turned back and looked again at the city below. She was a long way from Iowa. It had been a long time since she’d met Ben at that truck stop. She longed for a cup of coffee and a Western omelet. She wanted white toast with butter dripping off it. She wanted to talk to Ben.

Not knowing. To be completely blinded by life. She saw his demise coming but thought he’d pull through with strength from family and Allah.

Maybe prayers are not listened to, she thought. Maybe they dissolve the minute after leaving your soul, in a pew, kneeling, worshipping on hands, and knees.

Words and thoughts disappear in mid-air, never lifting high enough to God’s ear, Basima whispered, alone to no one.

The mother of two spent her time thinking of Salman. His erratic behavior before leaving each day. His strange smell and appearance when he came home late; disheveled, red eyes, smelling of whores. But, she never confronted him. She just prayed it would stop.

Basima had to find out the truth. Discover what happened to her husband. She decided to follow this trail, leading to him during the rest of her days; making missing person posters, calling police stations throughout the burroughs, asking questions around Hunts Point, unveiling who he was. And, tossing prayer aside. It had done no good.

At first, she felt sorrow followed by grief. Now, she just felt angry. The children always asked when Baba was coming home. Household chores neglected. Smells from the kitchen ceased. Basima was now cold and angry. Her children felt this.

The young wife asked Salman’s parents to watch over the young ones during this time. They, too, were at a loss. However, the older couple agreed. The boy and girl would live with the grandparents for a while until this mystery came to an end; maybe months. Perhaps a year. She would discover the truth.

And maybe that was the will of Allah. Maybe that was his divine plan. Or it could be Salman’s free will.

But why? Why so much suffering? she thought. Our lives and choices turn into children’s prayers.

She sat at the bus terminal in Toledo, Ohio. Tired. She rode all night on a Greyhound, not knowing why she was leaving town, unsure of her actions.

Jamie had dreams about Ben. Thoughts he’d never left town. A sleeping movie where he was standing in front of a chalkboard, pointing at adjectives and participles. Reading The Sun Also Rises out loud to a class of high school students. Teaching.

This dream turned to truth. The days of Ben drinking and using drugs, one day manic, the next deeply depressed. It got to be too much for her. The rumors and stories about him turning out to be true. A man she fell in love with, falling apart.

The coldness of the Greyhound station forced Jamie to rub her hands together while a cigarette dangled from her lips. There was no one else inside. Bums stood on street corners asking for money, cigarettes, and hope. Cold winds blowing off Lake Erie.

I’m going to find him, she whispered. Going to see for myself what became of him. Where do you find a man without a tombstone?

Back on the bus, she went. Back to dreaming.

I had this friend, Frank said. He was a pimp to this girl I knew in the Bronx. Except, he didn’t treat her like a whore. He didn’t act like a pimp. He was more of a guide. Some kind of guru.

Really, the bartender said.

Yeah. He was kind of this spiritual force to both of us. He’d talk, and we’d listen. 

It’s good to have friends like that, he said as he wiped down the bar. Not all of us are so lucky.

He listened to jazz all the time on this tinny sounding radio. WKCR. 

The college station?

Yeah.

We listen to it sometimes. My boyfriend likes it. They play Billy Holiday.

Right. He was a big Charley Parker  fan.

Who?

Saxophone player from way back.

Oh.

He was one of the innovators of bop.

Right.

I don’t expect you to know who he was. Queens don’t listen to bop. They listen to Billy Holiday.  They both laughed.

Right?

True, the bartender laughed. True. Another one? Frank nodded his head and smiled. I see you in here with George. Is that your guy? Your old queen?

Hey. We all gotta make a living.

Cheers to that.

Anyway. I’ve looked all over for him. This friend of mine.

The guru?

Yeah. Hmm. We were tight. We’d talk, drink in silence, get high. All with music playing in the background. I gotta find him.

Sweetheart. Did he move?

He’s always on the move.

Billy Holiday came on singing Stormy Monday.

See. Billy knew.

Yeah. She sure did.

She sat on the edge of the bed; right arm missing, left leg gone. The patient looked at Meg lying there, examining her, wondering what the story was. She just sat there looking at her, eyes darting over Meg’s covered body. Meg could feel her presence. She rolled over to face the amputee. They looked at each other curiously, not knowing what to say. Finally, the silence broke.

Next year, I’m going to try out for the New York Yankees, she said in a Dominican accent. You think I gotta shot.

You got just as good a chance as I got, Meg told her.

Probably won’t make it because I’m a woman, she laughed.

Probably. That would be the case.

I jumped in front of a subway train. That’s my story.

I’m tired of living, Meg said. Tired of being a crack whore.

Ohhhh.  I see.

Yeah. An angel told me to come here. A kind angel. 

Kindness? Strange.

How so?

It doesn’t exist.

Probably not. Maybe I’m just tired of the streets.

You homeless?

Yeah.

What’s your dream? What do you want out of life?

To be a Rockette.

The Yankee and the Rockette. What a match. They both laughed.

Basima sat in the corner, looking out the window at kids playing in the street. A father tossed a softball and laughed. Her tea was growing cold.

It was evening time, and soon supper would be made. A bowl of rice with aromatic yellow curry served over it, cucumber salad with plain yogurt dressing, bread she had made earlier that day. The meal was for her children; she only ate a spoonful of curry, nibbled on pita. Salman’s chair was empty.

Sitting there watching men be clowns for their kids’ entertainment, anger came to her thoughts. Basima was no longer sad. A hate had set in. A hate that prayer would not take away. A type of madness consumed her. This rage, she pondered. Will it ever end?

She sipped cold tea, stood up, and walked over to the clay pot on the stove. Stirring the curry, she remembered her husband’s appetite. He was always ravenous, ate constantly. At nighttime, he would rummage through the refrigerator looking for food, leaving Basima in bed as she heard him move bowls of that night’s meal around; taking out pots of cooked lamb, lentils, dipping bread into the rich spicy foods, eating them cold, smiling the whole time. She quietly laughed; pleased that she had made her husband happy.

Taking a piece of bread, she dipped it into the yellow sauce, slurped it, and waited for her children to come to the table. The meal was ready.

Basima turned off the gas flame and placed the bowls and clay pot on the table. She spooned food onto her children’s plates and called for them. They marched to the table, single file, laughing, mocking soldiers. Prayers were lifted up. God is good. That’s what she was always taught. Basima was beginning to doubt that.