Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Stepping inside, I exhale, tired and yet strangely energized. A strange night indeed.
It’s almost four a.m. when I step inside my two-family house on Staten Island. I toe off my kicks by the door and drop my messenger bag on the oak floor I installed three years ago when I bought this place. Pulling the dessert out of my messenger bag, I place it on the counter in the kitchen and quietly make my way upstairs.
“Rie…that you?” comes weakly down the hallway as I’m tiptoeing to my bedroom. Pausing, I head to my mother’s bedroom, push the door open, and find her curled up in bed, her dark wavy hair hiding half her face. She’s in a fetal position which does not bode well for anyone. Also––she’s got that look to her.
Bonnie James has suffered from depression for as long as I can remember. The bad news for me is that it went untreated for more than a decade––my childhood was plagued by it. The good news for her is that she’s managed to get it somewhat under control in the last few years––when she remembers to see a doctor. The when is still a problem, though.
“What are you still doing awake?”
“Can’t sleep…,” she mumbles. “I had a dream about your dad.”
My father died when I was six––a part of him did anyway. It took six more years to kill him off completely.
On September 11, 2001 Riley James Sr. was a fireman. But unlike many of the first responders from station houses across Staten Island and the rest of the four boroughs, my father didn’t die that day. He died much later. The towers didn’t take him down, but the aftermath of that tragic day did. He died from the weeks he spent at the World Trade Center site in search and rescue.
Dad worked tirelessly, even when the smell of fuel and burning flesh and chemicals was so thick in the air you could see it, even when it was impossible to breathe. He worked in spite of the risk. Lieutenant Riley James Sr. was going to save lives regardless whether his own was in jeopardy because saving lives is what he was born to do. What 9/11 started, lung cancer finished off years later.
Crawling onto the bed, I curl up behind her. “Did you take something?”
“Yeah, lasted a few hours. Why are you home so late?”
I think of my crazy night and a reluctant smile tugs at my lips. “I had to rescue a rude prince from a band of robbers.”
“You always did have a colorful imagination. It’s fine if you don’t wanna tell me.”
There’s no use explaining. As much as I love my mother, even on her good days she always sees the negative in everything. You know the type: you comment on what a beautiful sunny day it is, and they immediately volunteer that a hurricane is rolling in tomorrow.
“I brought you something sweet.” The Paris-Brest sits on the kitchen counter untouched. Now I’m glad I didn’t scarf it down on the ride home. “You want me to get it?”
“Now?”
“Why not?” I reply. It’s moments like this one that dessert is most needed. A little sweetness to take the sting out of life. “You think you can get back to sleep?”
There’s a heavy pause, followed by a long sigh. “No.”
“You want me to go get it?”
“Why not,” she tells me.
Bonnie is a glass half-empty kind of person while I’m a glass half-full. But we always agree on dessert.
Chapter Three
Riley
“Did you talk to Veronica about me?” Tommy calls out from down below.
He drops the tray of tiles on the ground next to where I’m working on the roof of the back porch of Mr. Donnelly’s house. We’re installing a new roof today––me, Tommy, and Fat Jesus. Frankie was supposed to work as well, but his PTSD kept him home today. He’s a really good carpenter which is why I cut him a lot of slack. Plus, he’s just a really good guy.
Fat Jesus’s real name is Ray, but Fat Jesus or Fats is all I’ve ever heard anyone call him. The long hair, beard, limitless patience and kindness explain the Jesus part. The potbelly explains the rest. No judgement on potbellies. I’m in no position to throw shade. Last time I checked, I inherited my mother’s thighs and a gap was not included with the set.
Squinting into the sunlight, Tommy plants his hands on his hips and stares up at me like he needs to rest after hauling a single stack of roofing tiles. I love him like a brother––he’s the closest to family I have outside of my mother––but he’s a lazy one. Getting Tommy Marsden to do any actual work is nearly impossible.
Staten Island is mostly standalone row houses or small saltbox, Cape Cod style homes closely built together. None of our jobs are ever large scale, but time is always precious when you’re trying to book as many jobs as possible during the season. From spring to fall you want to be working back to back to survive the lean winter months.