Cape Day

It was a Cape day. Marissa had decided only hours before that she would leave. She had suffered through enough of the misery, despair, and hopelessness of Washington Heights. Fil's death put her over the edge.

She didn't know why, exactly, but the death of Fil cast the final break in the chain binding her to the neighborhood. His ridiculous demeanor perfectly encapsulated the Washington Heights attitude -- its quirks, its awkwardnesses, its foolishness. All of it had fallen from a poorly constructed treehouse, blasted by the Chesapeake winds.

She breezed out of the basement door, onto the street. Everything and everyone was bustling from the energy of death -- a part of life was missing. For Marissa, it was the last relic of her apartment experience.

First person she saw, cursing at a waiting taxi, was Manuel. She overheard his murmurings, that no one could escape Washington Heights. And she laughed. Today she was gone. And she would leave in fashion, with the best friend she'd had in this place.

Oscar strolled casually to Marissa from the other side of the street. She packed several suticases -- he, a duffle bag.

"Ready to roll, girl?"

"Never been more ready. Let's go."

And together they drove, in Oscar's fresh Caddilac, up 95 through the heart of the Northeast. Through Delaware and Maryland and Philadelphia, they cruised. Through the serene woods of New Jersey, up to the city beyond comparison. It was a surreal journey for a girl who hadn't left Baltimore in years.

It was the return. The more they drove, the more Marissa blended it with her surroundings. And the more Oscar stood out. Final, past the Big Apple and Connecticut and Rhode Island, the motley pair reached Massachusetts.

Into the cul-de-sac they drove, right along the most expensive beach in New England. Out of the car they stood, totally out of place. Even Marissa, from her years of Washington Heights, could not fit in with the prim and proper neighborhood.

This would be her revenge. With a massive Latino, a dog fighter at that, standing by her side, Marissa could not be rejected. Her family would find the image too strange, too absurd, too frightening.

"It can't be."

"Hi mom."

"Who's the, uh, man?"

"My lover, Oscar." She muttered to her friend, "just go along with it."

"Hello Mrs. Bancroft. Nice to meet you."

The mother didn't even look at Oscar. "Marissa, what are you doing here?"

"Just dropping by."

"Ok. You can come in. But you can only sleep in the servant's quarters."

And that was that. Marissa and Oscar settled in to their indefinite invitation. They were treated not as relatives or friends but as regular house servants. They were expected to join the chorus of chores and duties.

So this is what the good life is like, Marissa thought to herself. After years of indoctrination, she had thought the New England aristocratic life the only one worth living. Her tenure, her sentence, at Washington Heights was meant only to position an eventual return to Hyannis.

Now she was here, for as long as she wanted, with her cold and unforgiving parents. Their hospitality came more from etiquette than any personal sympathy.

After a week of unsucessful trips to find Marissa an apartment, she told Oscar -- still reeling from the culture shock -- that she wanted to go home. He obliged.

The trip back to Washington Heights, from suburb to slum, brought Marissa to the home in her heart. Yes, she admitted to herself, I don't look it or dress it or even act it. But I think and feel the rhythm of this place. It's misery manifested, true, but it is human. And unlike Massachusetts, it doesn't deny it.

It was a Cape day. Not the Cod one. But the one jutting out into the Chesapeake. Fil had resurrected in her mind -- his memory, the homeless guy living life for all the right reasons, had rolled away the down shutting her perspective. This was home.