(3 of 26)
Michael enters with Eileen. This is Veterans Day: no school. Ordinarily Michael would be in a therapy session at the Center for Family Life, an institution run by Sisters Geraldine and Mary Paul for the welfare of Sunset Park. Michael half skips, half struts into the kitchen where, the afternoon ^ gone, Mallory has finally turned on the fluorescent bulb, filling the room with fierce pink light. Eileen follows, wearing jeans and a denim jacket. She is slim and pretty, with the raw look of a teenage boy.
"You can tell that's Michael's mother," says Mallory.
"Everyone says that Michael looks like me," says Eileen.
"No. He looks like me." Mallory is amused at his joke.
"He has your nose," Eileen laughs. "That's all he has."
"He has my intelligence," says Mallory.
"I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about features. He has my feet, my hands, the color of my skin when I was a kid."
"All ugly," Mallory chuckles.
"All ugly? I'll punch you one, all ugly. Then why is he so beautiful?"
Mallory places a book in Michael's hands. "Read for the man, Michael." The boy rests the book on the kitchen table and stands before it, pronouncing each word as if it existed alone.
"Sam the Slug had eaten a pink petunia leaf. Night was almost over. He had time for one last bit."
"Bite." Mallory corrects his son.
"He had time for one last bite," says Michael. He continues: "Sam yawned and chewed happily. How wonderful to be a slug."
"Do you know what a petunia is, Michael?" Michael eyes the stranger.
"No." He is shown a picture of the flower next to the story.
"Do you know what a slug is?"
Again he says, "No."
"Read the page over," says Mallory. Michael starts to read more rapidly this time. His arms flap at his side like a panicked bird. But he reads the page without a hitch and looks up for approval.
"See?" says Mallory. "What did I tell you? Smart."
II GERALDINE AND SUNSET
PARK
"First, let's see the awning." Sister Geraldine squirms with anticipation in the seat beside the driver. "They just put up a new awning on the thrift shop. There. There it is." She points to a skirt-shaped burgundy awning over a doorway on Sunset Park's Fifth Avenue, the neighborhood's main shopping area. On the awning in white lettering is inscribed CENTER FOR FAMILY LIFE THRIFT SHOP. "Doesn't it look great?"
"Just like a cute boutique on Madison Avenue."
"Oh no! Do you think so? Do you think it looks too fancy for a thrift shop?" She pouts, considers, concludes that she is being teased. "It doesn't. It looks absolutely perfect."
On a bright blue afternoon the shops along Fifth Avenue spill their goods on racks onto the sidewalk, as if the shops' interiors had burst open, overstuffed. In front of a hardware store, toilet seats hang displayed like tropical leaves: lavender, pink, green, purple, yellow. A yellow seat shows a painting of a naked couple kissing in silhouette. In front of another store are racks of sweatshirts, slacks, bright-colored T shirts. Another presents bins of Christmas lights, sandals, bogus Cabbage Patch dolls, a heap of green plastic ice buckets made in the shape of apples.