Halsey Street

by Naima Coster

“These people are cold, Penelope. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. They think a neighborhood is only about what you can buy—fancy coffee, flowers on the table, a big old house. It’s all just stuff to them, stuff they want, stuff they think they deserve because they can afford it. A neighborhood means more than that. It’s about the people.”

Mirella would have asked, but she couldn’t think of an adequate translation in English.

He was no different than Mirella, only willing to make as much room for her as he wanted, when and if he wanted.

It was someone else’s vision of a good life. Even the oil paintings Mirella had framed in the living room were forgettable still lifes of flowers in vases, fruits spilling onto a sunlit table.

Every block in Bed-Stuy was its own universe, the changes coming at a distinct pace on every street, but Ralph didn’t see the difference. Everyone was leaving. Everyone was gone. Nothing was the same. For him, if the shop was over, the neighborhood was, too.

“You’re much less selfish than I am then. More than anything, I felt bad for myself when my mother died. I still do. Losing a mother is like losing the most primal part of yourself—the most fixed thing you know about life on this planet.”

Penelope had long tolerated the idea of Mirella no longer being her mother, but she couldn’t comprehend Mirella no longer being Mirella. She had always been herself, her own woman in her bedroom, in her yard, on her island. Her body had always been somewhere.