“We can go after school,” Chuey said to us.
By this time the girls behind us had returned to their own conversations.
“Go where?” I asked him.
“To find dead things,” Chuey said. And then he walked away.
After school that day we hit the three places we thought most promising: the alleys behind Martin’s hot-dog stand, Del Rey tortillas, and Slotkowski sausage. Each time there was nothing, not a dead rat, dead bird, or dead cat to be found.
“Just our luck,” Alfonzo said. “When you need a dead animal you can’t fucking find one.”
“No shit,” Marcus said. He tilted back a garbage can. “I thought the city was putting rat poison down. There should be a shitload of dead rats.”
“They’re probably immune,” I said. “Super rats.” I peeked down a long, descending gangway.
“Hey, bro,” Alfonzo said. “Does your magic work on trees?”
“I don’t know,” Chuey said.
“They’re dead, right?” Alfonzo asked. “In the winter.”
“No,” I said. “I think they’re just sleeping.”
“We should try it,” Marcus said. “Maybe it’ll work.”
So we walked back to school, back to Twenty-First Place. After a short search we found the tree that looked the most dead: twisted branches, peeling bark, white streaks down the trunk like the tree had been bleeding. Above us the streetlights were just flickering on. The sky had a dark lavender color.
Chuey took off his jacket.
“Does it hurt?” Alfonzo asked.
“No,” Chuey said. “It’s weird. I don’t even feel anything. But I know it’s coming so it almost hurts.”
Chuey took a deep breath. “Ready?” he asked.
We all nodded.
Chuey reached out and tapped the tree. He did it quickly, as if expecting an electric shock.
We waited.
We waited even longer.
There was nothing. No sudden blossoms, no thick, heavy leaves, no fresh bark climbing up the diseased-looking trunk.
“Touch it again,” Alfonzo said.
“No,” Chuey said. “This is not how it works. This is not what it’s meant for.”
“Well, it’s getting fucking cold out here,” Marcus said. He blew into his hands.
We started to move toward home.
Twenty-First Place was flooded with orange street light now. Tree branches cast long shadows against the two- and three-flats. In the sidewalk, messages etched before the cement had dried stood out like miniature mountain ranges: PARTY BOY LOVE, MARIA-L’S-FRIDO 4-NOW.
We crossed an alley. I took a quick glance down to the other end. There, in the middle of the alley, resting in the shallow drainage canal, was a large black mound.
“Look,” I said.
“Damn,” Alfonzo said.
“If that’s a rat…” Marcus said.
We walked down the alley. As we got closer the mound began to take shape: a fat pink tail, a wide belly, yellow teeth propping up a long, pointy head. It was the biggest rat any of us had ever seen.
“That fucker’s huge,” Alfonzo said.
I picked up a rock and threw it. I hit the rat square in the ribs.
Nothing.
Alfonzo stomped on the ground. He waved his arms over his head.
Still nothing.
It was the size of a small dog. The tail alone was so fat that wrinkles were visible, fingerprints, almost.
“You sure that’s not an o-possum?” Alfonzo asked.
“What the fuck’s an o-possum?” Marcus said.
“Just like a rat, only bigger. They got them in Jew-town, by Maxwell Street.”
“That’s a rat, man,” I said. I looked down to the animal, its stiff, short hair. I gave the body a kick. The entire thing moved, a block of ice. Even the tail held its stiff s shape.
“You’re going to touch that?” Alfonzo asked Chuey.
Chuey didn’t answer. He got down on his knees and started to rub his hands together.
“Those things got diseases,” Marcus said.
“Shhh,” I told Marcus.
“Those things can jump too,” Marcus said. “One time, in my gangway…”
“Shut up, asshole,” Alfonzo said. He yanked back on Marcus’s hoodie. They both fell in behind Chuey.
Chuey pushed the sleeves of his brown jacket up to his elbows.
I scanned the porches of the apartment buildings around us. In some windows Christmas lights had been hung, tight crisscrossing patterns, steep triangles. In a few windows the designs had collapsed, leaving only sagging, drooping strings of lights, barely hanging on, like a wino’s pants. Through some windows blue TV reflections could be seen, brilliant flashes against white plaster ceilings, Christmas specials probably, Miracle on 34th Street, It’s a Wonderful Life. At that moment the whole city seemed asleep.
Chuey blew into his hands. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. After a moment he opened them. Then he reached out and stabbed with his finger at the rat’s hind leg. We waited. I looked to Alfonzo. Beneath the powerful alley lamp his breath was luminescent. I looked to Marcus. He was on his tiptoes, trying to see over Alfonzo’s shoulder. Nothing seemed to be happening.
“There!” Chuey said. “There it is!” Down on the concrete the rat’s large body began to move.
That night, in that alley, we witnessed creation, maybe re-creation. Life came to the rat in a wave that spread from the hind leg, where Chuey had touched it, to the front and rear of the rat’s body. The tail whipped. The front legs jerked and twitched. At the head, the rat’s mouth clapped shut. The rat thawed before our eyes: its belly dropped; its back arched; its hair stood on end. There were no flashes, no sparks, just the rat heaving, then breathing, then darting for the nearest bank of garbage cans. We jumped and screamed. We yelled for Marcus, who had run to the end of the alley. We hugged Chuey. He had the gift of life.
Those months we missed a ton of school. First there were the pigeons kids would shoot from their apartment-building windows. Then there were the stray cats the Ambrose tortured and left hanging from alley light poles. Then there were the puppies left in cardboard boxes, dumped in empty lots. Really, there was so much to do.
At first we experimented. Did the power work best at night or during the day? Did Chuey always have the gift or did it flicker in and out, off and on, like the W in the Woolworth’s sign over on Twenty-Second Street? As it turned out, the power was always on. Chuey could raise the dead whenever he wanted. Only time of day seemed to make a difference, and that affected only speed. Early mornings a cat would come back in a matter a seconds. Later at night it seemed as if the power had drained slightly. Things came back reluctantly. The process even appeared to hurt a little.
Within a couple of weeks we had a set routine. I was security. I made sure there were no witnesses, gave a whistle if someone was coming. Marcus tended to the animal, herding it in the safest direction once it came back. And Alfonzo, who had been an altar boy for two weeks back in the sixth grade, gave the invocation.
“May the holy ghost follow you through your new life. May you hold dear this blessing from God’s Country.”
Chuey did the work.
Besides us, only Chuey’s great-grandfather knew what we were doing. Since the discovery he’d become a coach, instructing us on how to use the power. “Ask him if we can bring back humans,” Marcus once told Chuey. “We could go to Graceland and bring back Elvis.”
The following day Chuey had a response. “My great-grandfather says the power is to be respected. It can be used only for the common good.” His great-grandfather’s answers always begged more questions. Eventually we stopped asking things altogether.