Tweed Coat

The One in Brown Harlem

            

The streets in brown Harlem are usually awake and lively, no matter what hour it happens to be. At this time of night, there would be kids, no older than 14, who snuck out of their window to stand on street corners because some older kids said they could make some quick cash. At this time of night, police cars would be patrolling the area and their sirens would fill the cool autumn air as they chase those kids standing on the street corner. Alley ways are homes to groups of young men huddling together, speaking in whispers next to dumpsters as they discuss the trade on the street and smoked whatever they had on them.

However, this night, in particular, is silent. The wail of police sirens still rang in the distance and some streets down, a dog barked and howled, trying to be heard in the darkness New York illuminated. The street lights shone brightly as a young woman staggered underneath, her heels clicking and clacking against the cold cement, almost disturbing the peaceful night. She held onto the tweed coat draped over her shoulder with tight fists, her knuckles white from her tight grip. It smelled of soap and men's cologne.

It disgusted her and made her want to vomit.

She searched frantically, turning her head left and right, for the door some of her roommates had told her about. "If you ever need a safe place, Corazon, go to the red door. You'll find sanctuary there." The soft words spoke to her when she first came to New York from the South, from her new family she had gathered while here. Not believing she'd ever need this information, she shuffled it to the back of her mind and never thought of it again. Not until recently at least, when things started to get rough at the house and a questionable man started to take a special interest in her.

She continued down the dark street, her feet and body aching from her trek, but she knew she had to keep going. Perhaps the story she had been told was just some fairy tale girls who walked the street clung to when times got hard. Even so, she kept on moving, because that's what she believed she needed: hope to hold her sanity together. Her breath was visible in the air. She watched as it formed and disappeared in a matter of seconds and, suddenly, she wanted to be in bed and disappear in a matter of seconds.

But, as the white air dispersed, she saw a bright red door across the street, underneath a street light as if it was the door into heaven.

She hurriedly walked, ran across the street, looking over her shoulder. Checking if no cars were coming, she told herself. The steps to the door were especially tall, she felt, but it could've been her aching calves telling her that she'd walked a long journey tonight and that it was time to rest. As she got closer, the jovial sound of el grito sang through the door and people's feet were dancing. She raised her fist to the door, and before she could talk herself out of it, knocked, disturbing the people who lived there.

At first there was no indication that anyone on the other side heard her. She stood still for the first time that night and she could feel the adrenaline leaving her body, leaving her a cold mess on whoever lives here's front porch. She could almost hear her teeth clattering in her skull, starting a mild headache before the door began to open.

A small brown girl peeked behind the acute opening she made as she starred up to the taller woman, her big brown eyes searching for something. The woman tried to covered up more, suddenly very embarrassed looking the way she did in front of someone so young. She couldn't have been more than eight years-old.

But suddenly, the girl gave a small smile and ducked her head inside the house.

"Oi, Mamí, some woman is here for you!" Her shrill yell scared said woman as she made eye contact with the small girl again, the same kind smile on her face as she opened the door a bit more. The smell of fresh caldo filled the home and wafted into the night, bringing a new warmth into the woman's face.