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Sometimes life gives you a few gifts. The passing of
Finkelstein's parents, first Harry the CPA from a weak
heart, and years later Ida from a stroke in Florida,
resulted in their son inheriting the apartment on
Bronxdale Avenue with the sunken living room and the
parquet floors. The rent was ridiculous, frozen in
time at ninety-six dollars a month, much to the
landlord's chagrin. The building was constructed in
the Art Deco era with marble, high ceilings,
gargoyles, frou-frou, brick, mortar, and schvitz. Half
the day, the building was darkened by the shadow of
the high rise that was built in the seventies on the
site of the former Bronx Beach Club, a haven for
yentas, their schmendrick husbands, and loud,
obnoxious, Bronx street urchins.
Myron Finkelstein, pronounced "stine," was a loyal
employee of the City of New York. Like his father, a
man of numbers. His parents' departures left a void in
Myron's life. His years alone had been long and slow.
He went to work, read voraciously, watched TV, slept.
In his twenties, he started weight lifting
religiously, but even his big biceps couldn't cure the
pain of loneliness.
Myron was an extremely hairy man, a Russian-Jewish
grizzly. Myron's "disease" also seemed to worsen each
season. As his anxiety levels heightened, he would
suffer tics and twitching, topped off by a "hooping"
sound. He had started in public school, and was teased
mercilessly until Mr. Bernstein, pronounced "steen,"
dragged him to the basement of the Roosevelt Synagogue
and spent six months teaching Myron to box.
Ernie Bernstein, a retired post office worker and
part-time band leader, had been a top-notch boxing
instructor. Myron now had a "powerhouse left zetz," as
Bernstein put it. Bullies now tiptoed home with
shiners, fat lips, and a strong desire to keep their
distance from "that meshuganah Finkelstein."
Descending the staircase from the elevated station one
dismal Friday, Myron noticed a Santini Brothers moving
van in front of his building. Two moving men were
wrestling a couch out of the back door of the vehicle.
A shapely woman in a nurse's uniform was talking to
them. She had long brown hair, olive skin, and an
eye-pleasing figure. Myron was checking out her very
round behind when he heard a little voice chirp, "I
can do twenty."
Myron turned around and out of the shadow of the
building stepped a little girl holding a hula-hoop.
She also had long brown hair and big brown eyes. Myron
guessed she might be the nurse's daughter. Without a
stammer or any hesitation, Myron answered, "Really?
Twenty -- wow!"
"Yes," said the girl proudly, "you count." She
commenced whipping the hoop around as Myron obliged
with the count. After all, he was a man of numbers.
"Twenty," Myron announced, then put down his briefcase
and applauded. The girl curtsied.
Myron asked, "Do you know how to make it come back to
you?"
She shook her head.
"Can I show you?" Myron asked tentatively. She nodded
her head. Myron folded his sport jacket over his
briefcase and put the hula-hoop in his left hand. With
the expertise of a veteran of Bronx schoolyard
athletics, he whipped the hoop with a backward wrist
motion that sent it rolling away on the sidewalk and
return quickly.
The girl smiled and asked, "Can I try?"
"Sure," said Myron.
She mimicked Myron's movement, and the hoop walked
away and came back right into her hand. "I did it,"
she cried gleefully.
"Outstanding," Myron concluded and again applauded. "I
think that might be a Zhoop-Zhoop Hula-Hoop," he
commented.
"What's that?" the girl asked.
"When the hula-hoop was losing its popularity, the
manufacturers were desperate to keep their product
active with kids. So, they put ball bearings inside to
make that cool sound. It was named the Zhoop-Zhoop
Hula-Hoop. I believe yours is rare and, most likely, a
collector's item," Myron concluded.
"Wow," the girl exclaimed.
"Adrianna," a Nuyorican-accented voice called. Myron
turned as the attractive woman in the nurse's uniform
approached with a concerned expression. She looked at
Myron, saw his briefcase and business attire, and her
face relaxed a trifle.
"You're moving in?" Myron inquired, fighting a stammer
and a small tic.
"We're trying," she answered with a laugh.
Myron remembered manners from his mother's tutorials,
stuck out his hand, and said, "Myron Finkelstein, 3F."
The nurse grinned and said, "Rosa Rodriguez, 3G! We're
neighbors." She shook his hand with both of hers.
Myron felt warmth and electricity for a fraction of a
second.
"You already met Adrianna -- who is not supposed to
talk to strangers, " she scolded.
"Sorry, Mami," Adrianna pouted, "but he knows about
hula-hoops, and he's our neighbor. Hello, neighbor,"
Adrianna said and offered her hand like a politician.
Rosa and Myron laughed.
"Now we've been properly introduced," Myron announced,
as he shook the delicate little hand.
"We've got unpacking to do, baby. Upstairs. Let's go,"
Rosa commanded.
"If you need anything, please, just knock," Myron
offered.
"Thank you, Myron," Rosa said, and gently rolled the
'r' in his name. Rosa took Adrianna by the hand and as
they walked to the building entrance, Adrianna turned
and said, "See ya later, alligator."
"In a while, crocodile," Myron responded
automatically.
Myron grabbed his jacket and briefcase and instead of
going upstairs, he hotfooted it over to the Snowflake
Bakery. New neighbors needed to be welcomed.
Esther Gorenstein, pronounced "stain," was about to
lock the front door of the Snowflake Bakery when she
saw a determined figure heading towards her. Her pulse
slowed as she recognized the son of her favorite
customer, Ida Finkelstein.
"Myron, it's almost shabbos!"
"Sorry, Mrs. Gorenstein," he apologized.
"Esther. You call me Esther, Myron. We're practically
mishpukhah. You know how many Wednesdays I spent with
your sweet mama and her crummy yenta friends playing
Mah-Jong?"
"A lot?" Myron guessed.
"Plenty. Plenty," she declared. "I miss my sweetie.
That Idaleh was a gem." She punctuated her last remark
with a grab into her sweater pocket, producing a
thrice-used tissue, and blew her nose.
"Nu, tataleh?" Esther inquired. "What do you need?"
"A box of black and whites, Mrs. Goren -- I mean,
Esther," Myron corrected.
"You got it, boychick," she responded as she hustled
around the back of the counter. Esther filled a small,
square cake box with so many black and whites, it
looked like rush hour for pastries, all jammed in.
"You making a party, Myron?" Esther asked.
"Yeah," Myron lied.
"You got a girlfriend?"
"Just you," Myron flirted, sounding like his father.
"Oy, Myron. I miss him, too, the schmendrick."
"How much?" Myron asked.
"Your money's no good here," Esther stated, sounding
regal.
"No, really. How much?" Myron squeaked.
With precision, Esther tied the box with string, then
shimmied around the counter and put the box firmly in
Myron's chest.
"Take. Enjoy. And, visit more often, you chuchem,
you," she complained. Esther reached up and pinched
Myron's cheek with the grip of a lobster.
"Why don't you give my Natalie a call? " Esther
suggested hopefully. Myron remembered Natalie
Gorenstein. The last time he saw her, she was
fourteen, very round, with a retainer, and eyes that
pointed in two directions.
"I will," Myron lied again.
"When?" Esther pleaded.
"Soon," Myron lied for the third time.
"Go, go, sweetie. Make a nice party. I gotta close
before the Chasids give me dirty looks." She shooed
him out the door.
"Thank you," Myron bleated over his shoulder.
"You're welcome, cookie," Esther chirped.
"Myron," Esther yelled, "don't forget about Natalie.
And, Myron, swing your arms when you walk. Otherwise,
you look like a mental patient."
Forehead glistening from the walk home, Myron pushed
open the glass door of his building, marched across
the marble floor of the lobby, and pounded the service
button for the elevator. The whining, moaning, choking
of the ancient elevator cables sounded. He stepped
into the elevator car and pressed "3" enough times to
enter the Type A Personality Hall of Fame.
The elevator lurched and moaned its way up to the
third floor and abruptly stopped. Myron pushed open
the door and stepped into the third floor hallway.
Myron walked down the hall, then stopped in front of
3G. But he was unable to lift his hand to ring the
bell. He shook off a twitch, swallowed a "hoop," and
summoned his courage.
The zhoop-zhoop sound emanating from 3G ceased, and
thumping shoes echoed as Adrianna ran to the
apartment's front door. "Who's there?" a melodic voice
sing-songed.
"Myron Finkelstein, 3F," Myron answered officially.
The sound of a chair scraping was followed by the
opening of the peephole. "Helloooo, Myron," Adrianna
trumpeted through the door.
"Helloooo, Adrianna," Myron responded.
"Baby, get down from that chair. You'll get hurt.
Who's at the door?" Rosa demanded.
"Myron Finkelstein, 3F!" Adrianna reported in clipped
military fashion. Rosa and Myron both laughed
simultaneously from each side of the door.
The door opened and Myron held out the pink,
string-tied Snowflake Bakery box and announced,
"Welcome to Bronxdale Avenue." Rosa grinned warmly.
"You are so sweet," Rosa said, looking at the box,
then right into Myron's eyes. "This was not necessary,
Myron," Rosa commented.
"Welcoming neighbors is always necessary," Myron
responded, sounding like Ida Finkelstein.
"What's in the box?" Adrianna inquired.
"Open it and see," said Myron.
"Can I, Mami?" Adrianna asked.
"Maybe after dinner, baby," Rosa responded.
"Now, please? Pulleeez, Mami?" Adrianna pleaded.
"Come on in, Mister 3F," Rosa invited. "Your
neighborly assistance may be required," Rosa giggled.
"I don't want to intrude, " Myron lied for the fourth
time that day.
Adrianna pulled Myron by the hand into the foyer,
which was piled up with boxes and announced, "Welcome
to Casa Rodriguez."
"Let's open the present, Mami," Adrianna suggested.
Rosa sat on a moving carton, wrestled open Esther's
knot and lifted the cake box's lid. Adrianna exclaimed
loudly, "Cookies, in two flavors."
"Black and whites," Myron explained, "a neighborhood
delicacy."
"I unpacked some glasses, and I think there's leche in
the fridge," Rosa grinned at her daughter. Adrianna
ran to the kitchen and opened the reconditioned
Kelvinator.
Myron raised his glass and, like a toastmaster,
regally stated: "Welcome to the building." The three
clinked glasses, and began the delightful task of
making three large cookies disappear.
Johnny Castro hustled to the Atlantic City Greyhound
Station in his stolen bellhop's uniform. He tossed the
jacket into a trash barrel as he ran up the stairs to
catch the 3:30 express to New York City. Johnny's
pockets were stuffed with jewelry and cash he had
stolen from room 127 at Bally's. He quickly ripped
off his black bow tie and stuffed it between the seat
of the bus he had boarded just as the driver was about
to shut the air-lock door. Grinding his teeth from the
two lines he had just snorted off the Visa card
belonging to one Anil Gupta, Johnny slowly broke into
a wide grin. Rikers Island would have one less guest.
He planned to celebrate with a car service up to
Arthur Avenue. He might need to eat, have a shower,
and get some new threads, then head on over to the
Bronx River projects to find Rosa. Johnny charmed and
bullied women, depending on his mood. He was good with
a knife, fast with his hands, and could easily get
hold of a .22 caliber throwaway when necessary.
Johnny closed his eyes, exhausted from seventy-two
hours of coke, theft, and poker. The Greyhound picked
up speed on the turnpike, heading for the Big Apple.
Myron descended the steps of the elevated station at
White Plains Road one marvelous Friday with a grin
pasted across his mug. He had missed his station at
Bronx Park East. Myron Finkelstein, daydreaming about
his new life, missed his stop and wasn't upset.
Unbelievable.
The last six weeks had been a dream come true. Myron
Finkelstein was dating Rosa, as in going to movies and
concerts, holding hands, and make-out sessions that
rivaled anything he had ever experienced. They had not
become lovers yet, but Myron was a patient man and was
enjoying the process. He had not "hooped," ticked or
trembled in six weeks.
He had been taking Mondays off from work to walk Rosa
and Adrianna to kindergarten at P.S. 105. Then he
walked Rosa to Pelham Parkway, where they waited for
the number 12 bus that took Rosa to a new job at
Jacobi Hospital.
At night, he got on his knees and thanked whatever
higher power had bestowed such good fortune on him.
Myron recalled all the nicknames Adrianna had created
for him: Mister Bear; Doctor Bear; Bearzy; Hairy-Bear;
Mister Fuzzy-Wuzzy; World's Best Teddy Bear; on and
on. He counted them like sheep at night.
Tomorrow was Saturday. He couldn't wait. The three of
them were going to a movie Saturday night, then on
Sunday to the Orchard Beach picnic grounds to hook up
with Rosa's sisters and their families. Myron had
seemed apprehensive about meeting family. Rosa calmed
him with a hug and whispered, "Don't worry, Myron.
They gonna love you."
Drifting off to sleep, a changed man went to the Land
of Nod in apartment 3F.
The word of Johnny's return spread like wildfire on
Arthur Avenue. The stories of his exploits surfaced
like oil on a Bronx street after a light rain. Some
feared the "little prick psycho." Others swore they'd
kill him on sight. He owed everybody money and favors.
Most of the talk was schoolyard bravado. Deep down
everyone knew how lethal the little pretty boy was.
The best course of action with the half-pint whackadoo
was to steer clear.
Johnny Castro found his mamma coming out of bingo and
quickly ushered her home. After twenty minutes of
slapping her around, he held her as she cried, cajoled
her to cook him a pasta dinner and arrange some clean
clothes for him on the foldout couch. He treated her
like his poppa had -- like shit. She filled the bath
with warm water, born to bear a cross.
Johnny stood up and caught his reflection in a
full-length mirror on the closet door. "Hey, ma," he
growled, "you gotta go to a museum to see somethin'
this gorgeous. Hah?" Mrs. Castro allowed a small smile
to appear across her leathery face. She was
embarrassed by his nakedness, a little proud of her
pretty son.
Johnny crashed on the foldout as his mamma washed the
dishes and bolted a shot of Chivas. She stared at the
angel-faced demon asleep like an infant. With
tear-stained cheeks, she got on her knees in the
kitchenette and prayed to the saints with all her
might.
The air was filled with the aroma of sausages and
charcoal. The Rodriguez family had Willy Bobo on their
boom box, and the whole familia was talking and
laughing and dancing. The Orchard Beach picnic grounds
vibrated with conga drums and urban cacophony. Rosa's
sisters, Teresa, Lourdes, and Michelle, instantly
adored Myron. They made Myron dance with them, to
Adrianna's delight. Rosa's brothers-in-law, all small
business owners, asked a zillion tax questions, which
Myron answered patiently. The biggest brother-in-law,
Junior, put a massive arm around Myron and whispered
in his ear, "Bro, you got to marry my sis-in-law. We
need a guy like you around. And, besides, Rosa loves
you."
Myron's heart almost stopped beating. He saw Rosa
looking at him from thirty yards away. They smiled at
each other. Sitting off to the side was Rosa's Aunt
Carmen. She had long silver braided hair,
reddish-brown leathery skin, and one brown eye and one
blue eye. Junior pointed out her out to Myron. "That's
Tia Carmen. She's a bruja."
"What's a bruja?" Myron asked.
"A witch," Junior answered solemnly.
Myron felt Tia Carmen's gaze shooting at him across
the picnic area. Maybe this fuzzy boy with the big
arms might be what her Rosa needed. She had summoned
protection for Rosa and Adrianna, even spoken to
Chango. The familia didn't notice Tia Carmen slyly
snip a lock of Rosa's hair. She floated through the
crowd like a ghost. Then she snipped the back of
Myron's head with the tiny scissors she palmed. Myron
thought a hungry fly had buzzed him and he waved his
hand around. The ancient woman floated over to an
empty barbecue grill that still had glowing embers.
She mixed Rosa's and Myron's hair in her hand. Tia
Carmen uttered an incantation and dropped the hair on
the dying embers. The fire swelled for a second, then
died. She rejoined the familia, and wrapped her arms
around Adrianna for a cuddle. A flock of pelicans flew
above the picnic grounds, heading to the jetty.
It had been a wonderful day. Myron tucked Adrianna
into bed, gave her a kiss on the forehead. Rosa and
Myron made out like teenagers in the foyer of Rosa's
apartment for an hour. As he was about to leave, he
shocked himself as he said, "I love you, Rosa."
She looked deep into his eyes, and replied, "I love
you, too, Myron."
Walking down the hall to apartment 3F, Myron felt
high. Myron decided he would give his cousin Harvey a
call. Harvey worked in the jewelry district and could
hook Myron up with an engagement ring, especially if
there was a commission involved. Cousin Harvey lived
to close deals.
Afterwards, he put on his light blue pajamas and went
to sleep.
The lights were on in the Snowflake Bakery. Johnny
peered through the window. A heavy-set woman was
cleaning the display cases. Trying to act casual, he
opened the door and entered the bakery. The woman
froze. "We're closed, sweetie," she sang.
"Could you tell me how to get to Bronxdale and
Cruger?" Johnny asked.
"Of course, darling," she chortled, "out the door, a
right, go two blocks, a left, go two blocks. Simple."
"Can I buy some cookies?" he asked, trying to be
sweet.
"Well, let's see. I have a couple of Linzer tarts
left." She grabbed the last four tarts, wrapped them
in wax paper, boxed and tied them. "That'll be four
fifty, honey."
Johnny reached in his pocket and the blood drained
from his face. His money clip was gone.
"You dropped your wallet, maybe?" the old lady
inquired.
"The c-c-c-cab," Johnny stammered, "oh, sh-sh-shit!"
"I got a flashlight. You wanna look outside?"
"Yeah," Johnny answered.
Esther handed Johnny a flashlight and he bounced
outside. Nothing, from the bakery to the corner and
back except an old Bazooka Joe wrapper. Johnny
re-entered the store.
"Any luck?" Esther asked. Johnny shook his head.
"Well, boychick, have the Linzer tarts on the house,"
she announced.
Johnny motioned towards the back of the store. "Who's
back there?"
"Nobody," Esther blurted and was immediately sorry she
opened her mouth. With the speed and dexterity of a
panther, Johnny Castro leaped up and over the counter
and was desperately prying open the cash register with
his switchblade.
"No, no, no," Esther bleated like a frustrated sheep,
and pounded Johnny's back with her little balled-up
fists. Johnny's arm flew out of the register, the
stiletto knife lashing forward like an attacking
serpent and plunged into Esther's chest. Esther's legs
sagged as she slid down the counter. As her blue eyes
fluttered, she uttered "Natalie" and left the world.
The old cash register rang as it was pried open.
Johnny grabbed the wad of bills, bolted over the
counter, flew out the door, and disappeared into the
night. A right and a left, a hundred-yard dash. In a
crouch, he went into the shadows of the P.S. 105
schoolyard to catch his breath.
Sleeping on a cot in Junior's living room, Tia Carmen
went into a convulsion. Her whimpering was almost
silent.
Johnny hugged his knees, trying to slow his breathing.
Shivering, Johnny left the schoolyard descending the
Cruger Avenue steps and making a left turn towards
Brady Avenue. Johnny loped towards Bronxdale Avenue,
grinding his teeth with each step.
Johnny saw an old man entering through the outer lobby
door and slipped in behind him, just in time to get
buzzed in. By the time he got to the third floor,
Johnny had a stitch in his side. He leaned against the
wall outside apartment 3G, panting.
Rosa's eyes widened as she recognized the face staring
through the peephole. Johnny was charming. He
flattered Rosa with compliments on how fine she
looked, what a beautiful crib she was renting, on her
new job. Adrianna stood behind the railing of the
sunken living room, in her robe and Indian princess
moccasins, with a tight expression on her face.
Johnny apologized for not calling, and teasingly
blamed Rosa for not staying in touch with him. He was
insistent that they go out and celebrate Rosa's new
life. Rosa's face hardened as she realized Johnny was
high. She gently asked him to leave, explaining that
she had work the next morning and Adrianna had school.
The backhanded slap sent Rosa reeling. She bounced off
the wall and landed on the floor.
"Puta! Who the fuck you think you're pushing? I bust
my ass to visit you, and you treat me like a dog."
Adrianna opened her mouth, swallowed, and tried to
make a sound. She gripped the railing, looked at the
wall where her friend lived, and screamed as loud as
she could, "Bear! I want the bear."
Myron awoke suddenly and bolted upright in bed.
Across the Bronx, Tia Carmen woke up screaming.
As Myron staggered out of bed, he looked in his
dresser mirror and froze. His body pulsated. His head,
arms, torso, and legs expanded. Muscle and sinew
bulged. Through his skin, shafts of fur pushed their
way out of every follicle until he was completely
covered in a thick brown coat. Myron's pajamas burst
into shreds, the buttons popping off like rockets. His
ears shifted from the side of his head to the top,
where they sat like two enormous sound-catching flaps.
Myron's face elongated into a huge muzzle filled with
yellow spikes of teeth. Myron saw a nine-foot Kodiak
bear staring back at him in the dresser mirror. Myron
opened his mouth to say "Oh, my God," but what emerged
was a deep rumbling "ahhhroooooo."
Across the street, the high rise had vanished.
Replacing it, the Bronx Beach Club stood gleaming,
teeming with the ghosts of sunbathers, tailors,
elderly picnickers, paperboys, bakers, cabbies, postal
workers, and horse-players. Every resident that had
ever trod the local cobblestoned streets was back.
They were all translucent, talking and arguing until
Adrianna screamed again. The ghosts formed a posse and
headed across the street, leaving to help the maideleh
in the other world.
In apartment 3F, Myron tried to open his apartment
door with his huge paw. Fumbling, he ripped the door
off it hinges. He lumbered down the hall to 3G. Trying
to be a mensch, he rang the doorbell with one gentle
motion of a eight-inch claw.
One of his neighbors, Mrs. Plotnick, looked out from
her apartment. Myron turned to apologize. He opened
his snout to say "Sorry about the noise, Mrs.
Plotnick" but what came out of his mouth was "Rag raga
roooooo." Plotnick fainted.
Adrianna screeched, "Stop that. Leave her alone."
Myron yelled, but what he heard was, "Rop-rap ree-ree
ahroooooo." Myron ripped the door of 3G out of its
frame, and charged to Rosa's rescue. Johnny's eyes
bugged out, cartoon-like, and Adrianna looked straight
into the bear's eyes. Her expression turned to joyous
recognition.
"Ah-roooooo," Adrianna called in bear-speak, and at
once, Myron swatted Johnny Castro out the door. Johnny
slammed into the hallway wall. Myron leaned over and
licked Rosa's face. She began to stir, throwing wild
schoolyard punches into the air.
Johnny pushed himself up from the floor and stumbled
to the staircase. Adrianna cradled Rosa's head in her
lap, stroked her mother's face. "Stop that mean boy
before he hurts someone else," Adrianna pleaded. Myron
nodded his huge head. He turned and lumbered
downstairs in hot pursuit of the fleeing Johnny
Castro.
Johnny careened his way to the lobby door. He ran
blindly out into the middle of Bronxdale Avenue, the
sound of the bear's grunting breath behind him. A
crowd of strangely dressed humans surrounded Johnny,
looking like extras in a faded old silent film. The
ghost of Esther Gorenstein floated in, a bloodstain on
her apron. Her expression hardened when she recognized
Johnny Castro. Esther's ghost pointed at Johnny. "He
did it," she wailed, "he made my Natalie an orphan."
The crowd raised their fists and yelled, "Bum!" and
"Shtinker!"
Johnny turned and ran full speed toward White Plains
Road, with Myron hot on his heels. The darkening sky
flashed and, within seconds, the rumble of thunder
echoed. Big raindrops fell, thudding on car hoods,
sounding like thousands of conga drums. Johnny caught
his reflection in a store window on White Plains Road,
and stifled a scream. His hair had turned white.
Faces from the past appeared in the store windows. A
gallery of his victims stared out at him: boys from
Spofford, girls from the projects. Slowing down at the
corner, his heart sank to discover an empty cab stand.
Thunder exploded above, releasing a torrential
downpour. Nearby, the wail of sirens pierced the
storm. The bus was his only hope.
Johnny ran across the parkway, soaked to his skin,
trying to recall where the bus stop was. The pounding
rain dislodged a piece of pavement on Pelham Parkway.
A newly opened crevice swallowed Johnny's right foot.
He thought he heard a shriek, and turned his head to
the right. Two large, burning devil eyes bore down on
him like the weight of the world. Johnny was thrown
into the night like an old bottle cap, into darkness
and silence. Mrs. Castro had nothing left to pray for.
Tim Duffy was a veteran of two wars and two marriages,
and had lost two brothers in the Towers. He
white-knuckled the steering wheel of his westbound
number 12 bus and squinted into the rainstorm when he
heard a thud on the grill. He caught a glimpse of
white hair deflected into the black wet storm. He
pulled the bus over and set his hazard lights. Wiping
his mouth with a bandanna, Tim dialed 911 on his cell
phone, then radioed his dispatcher.
Across the Bronx in the Edenwald projects, Tia Carmen
was lifted back on her cot by her familia. She fell
fast asleep.
The foggy atmosphere was beginning to lift. Myron
turned his huge yawning, furry bulk and staggered back
to apartment 3G, barely able to stay awake. Tufts of
fur began to fall off his body as he climbed the
stairs. As Myron collapsed onto his bed, his body
shrank back to human form.
Then Myron heard voices calling his name. He felt a
strong hand on his shoulder. "Finkelsteen, wake up."
Myron opened his eyes and saw two tough male faces in
shirts and ties staring down at him. "Finkelstine,"
Myron corrected.
"Whatever," the man said flatly, flashing a gold
badge. "I'm Detective Beale; this is my partner,
Detective Lanzano. We're from the Four-Three and we
wanna ask you a few questions."
Myron accompanied the two detectives to the sunken
living room. Mr. Garcas, the building's super, was
re-attaching his apartment door to its hinges.
"Listen up, Fink. I'm gonna cut to the chase. Where's
the bear?"
"Excuse me?" Myron managed to squeak.
"We questioned the lady across the hall. She says she
saw a bear. The kid next door says the bear belonged
to one Johnny Castro. You acquainted with this
Castro?"
Myron shook his head, and furrowed his brow even more
deeply. "What would I be doing with a bear?"
Beale and Lanzano crossed their arms and waited. Their
attention was drawn to the apartment door opening,
followed by half the neighbors in the building filing
into Myron's apartment. "He's a lovely person,"
Plotnick sang, feeling guilty.
"This kid's got no bear," Bernstein bellowed. All the
neighbors started kvetching in different languages,
scaring Lanzano. Beale resumed command: "People,
please! We have to follow up on every call these
days."
"He could be a terrorist," Lanzano added.
"Terrorist, schmerrorist," Bernstein barked and
pounded his walker on the floor. Adrianna ran in and
sat protectively on Myron's lap. Beale's pager went
off in the midst of the debate. "Let's go. We got a
call." Beale yanked him out the door.
Plotnick ran to her apartment and returned with
rugaleh, making everyone ecstatic, especially
Adrianna. Rosa held an icepack to the side of her
head.
Myron, Rosa and Adrianna held each other tightly. Rosa
felt compelled to kiss Myron, and did.
The following weeks were difficult. Esther's funeral
upset everyone who attended, especially Myron. He made
a pledge to keep an eye on Natalie, which he did with
a daily phone call. Johnny Castro's funeral was poorly
attended.
Autumn passed into an extremely harsh winter. Tia
Carmen waved away Junior and Lourdes one evening as
they pleaded with her to go to a doctor. The
leather-faced women with the two-color eyes and long
indio braids lay back on her cot in the living room,
thought of her sweet Adrianna, smiled, and her eyes
went still. She was cremated, and insisted on no
funeral, but instead encouraged her familia to have a
party in her memory.
New Year's Eve, Rosa Rodriguez became Rosa
Rodriguez-Finkelstein. Adrianna was thrilled to have
three names, like a movie star.
On the first day of Spring, Ernie Bernstein pointed
his walker towards Trojan Field in Bronx Park East. As
Ernie entered the park, he stopped focus on the
activity on the grassy triangle down the hill. In
the middle of the triangle Myron, Rosa, and Adrianna
stood, giggling and whipping their brand-new
hula-hoops around and around. He closed his eyes for a
few seconds, feeling the warm sunshine, and inhaled
the crisp, cool air as his heart beat to the sound of
the revolving hula-hoops: zhoop -- zhoop --
zhoop -- zhoop -- .zhoop.
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