A Stone of Hope by Jim St. Germain

Author:Jim St. Germain
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2017-05-26T04:00:00+00:00

Soon after my interview with Paula at Dean Street, a bed opened up at the Boys Town residence. Marty emphasized how fortunate I was to land a bed in the home on Brooklyn’s Sixth Avenue—he knew how bleak the other options were. Relieved I wasn’t in something resembling jail, I was still so bottled up that I ignored my good fortune, blind to the path that God had unfurled before me.

Dean Street had been more of a way station, a purgatory where kids passed through while awaiting their fate. The Park Slope residence was something else: for one thing, Damon and Iza lived there with their two daughters. There were only six residents—all long-term—and no rotating staff. But there was something more there: the walls and roof held something intangible together.

Shuffling up the blue-carpeted stairs, I ran my hand along the polished wood railing. At the top I found the first door, the Daily Room, the bedroom where every resident started. My roommate, a compact and wiry dude whose limbs seemed to operate on their own, hopped off his bed. He was dark-skinned—darker than me—and wore oversize jeans and had waves in his hair. The thick bass line from Cam’ron’s “Oh Boy” filled the space, almost shaking the walls.

“What’s up?” He came in for a dap, smiling big. “You’re Jim, right? Renaldo.” He took my hand tight and then brought me in to his body, knocking his closed fist twice on my back.

“That’s you,” he said, pointing to the twin bed at the far wall. “Laundry is right here”—a white door beside the closet—“and the rec room is through there. Damon sets up his PlayStation in there sometimes. No Grand Theft Auto but he’s got Madden.”

“Cool. Thanks.” I dropped my bag and sat on my bed, already feeling that it had more give, its mattress thicker. The closet had space to hang my few nice outfits. Though I didn’t have a lot of clothes—all my nice items came from Charles—I was fastidious, took extra care of my things, and took pride in how I dressed. Since I had so little, each item held more concentrated worth.

“Yo,” he said, peeking at the doorway and dropping his voice a bit. “What gang you rep?”

“None. I mean, my friends are all Crip. Not me.”

“Yeah, me neither. The gang thing don’t fly in here anyway. What you listen to?”

“Jay. 50. Nas.”

“I feel that. I got Illmatic right here,” he said, pointing to his head.

I smiled. Renaldo was funny and quick, reminding me of Kevin Hart.

He gestured to the CD player. “I been using this but we can share it now.” It was a smooth black setup with a ten-part EQ and a five-disc changer, legit speakers, even a subwoofer.

“Thanks.”

Renaldo couldn’t have been there that long—he was in the Daily Room too—but he had a relaxed air in that space. Like it was his. At Dean, just about everyone but LaDanian acted like a visitor. I didn’t know if it was Renaldo or the house itself that accounted for his air.

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