Free Painted Cities by Alexai Galaviz-Budziszewski

Pedro, who lived in the other downstairs apartment, just home from his third shift at Ryerson steel, his brown skin coated with a white powder that made you wonder exactly what he did. Bernardo Ruiz, in a metallic-blue housecoat, who lived the next building over and danced evocatively during all the block parties, who everyone knew was gaybut who never found trouble for it because he was ours, a member of our block, our gang, was there as well. And some of the more astute procession ladies had arrived also, their pink and green hair curlers seeming to have picked up the potential for controversy like radar. The Gonzalez daughters began calling up the stairwell to Rowdy.
    “Rowdy,” Vilma said. “Is Ms. Ramirez up there?”
    “ Tenemos un emergency,” Louísa added.
    I looked for Rogelio again. I figured he would be able to calm everybody down, convince Mrs. Gonzalez that the Virgin hadn’t actually flown away, that someone had simply stolen her, and that, besides, the Virgin was only a statue anyway, and another could be bought at Opal’s Ocultos on Eighteenth Street. But I also knew Rogelio’s mother would be coming down the stairs any minute, that Rogelio would see her and realize we had been up there spying.
    By now Sergio, Jorge, and their parents were downstairs, their father with his cap on. Sergio’s face was flush, his eyes glazed over. Jorge, on the other hand, seemed content, as if things, at least for him, could’ve gone worse.
    “What’s going on?” Sergio asked softly.
    I told him about the Virgin. I told him how Mrs. Gonzalez was trying to find Rogelio’s mother. He looked up the stairs and whispered, “El trutho comes outo.” He rubbed his hands together and smiled. For Rogelio, I nearly punched him.
    Mrs. Gonzalez finally came waddling back up Throop Street. The procession regulars from Rogelio’s building followed. She came to us, her lips trembling. She held her fingers to her mouth. Just as she took a breath to speak, a step sounded, and we all turned to lookup the apartment building’s stairs, to where Ms. Ramirez in her red pumps had appeared.
    She came down slowly, each step accompanied by the sharp clap of a heel on the hollow wood stairs. She held onto the doorjamb as she stepped over the threshold. She stood on the building’s concrete stoop and scanned the small crowd.
    “Don’t look at me like that,” she said to everyone. Her voice was crisp and sharp. She had no makeup on. Her skin was darker than usual, her lips pale. She was pretty. She turned to the procession ladies. “I’m sorry, all right,” she said, leaning forward. “But I’m not like you. I don’t want to be lonely.” On the first-floor landing Rowdy was standing, only his hairy legs and white boxers visible.
    Ms. Ramirez stepped from the stoop and walked through the crowd. She looked to me. I could tell she was upset but I knew she wasn’t upset with me. I looked into her eyes and knew she had no idea I’d been up there listening to her make love to Rowdy.
    “Where’s Rogelio?” I asked her.
    “Rogelio?” she said. “He left. He didn’t tell you?”
    “No,” I said.
    “He went to stay with his aunt, yesterday. He didn’t tell you?”
    “No,” I said.
    “Sorry,” his mother answered. “I’ll tell him you asked.” She turned up Throop Street and began walking toward Eighteenth Street. The seam of her tan skirt was just off-center, making it seem like there was a limp in her step. The crowd turned to look up the stairs, but Rowdy was gone. Within the building a door slammed. The sound echoed through the halls and exited the open windows. The old ladies started in.
    “ Sin vergüenza! What are we going to do now? Where’s the Virgin?”
    No one knew what to do about the Virgin. Mrs. Gonzalez was assured by Sergio and Jorge’s parents that it hadn’t flown away, although Tony, the Morgan-Boy, kept saying that it had. That maybe the sin of the Gonzalez household had been too much for the