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Siri parked in the lot near the ATM. As she walked back to the car, Bobby Benardeau came across the street from Taco Bell: "Ms. Rosen! Ms. Rosen!" His huge smile transformed his face from sullen to radiant. He'd strapped his baggy pants below his butt and his bright red jockeys puffed to his waist. He'd been chubby last year when he came to the art center with his sixth grade class every Friday, but since then he'd inflated to close to 200 pounds. He looked like a street kid, she thought, but a sweet one, enthusiastic, an open-faced sandwich.

"Wazzup, Ms. Rosen?"

"Hey! Bobby! What're you doing up here?"

"Robbing old ladies. I gotta get me some clothes."

He pulled out a handgun. But he didn't point it at her.

Bobby's fat hands almost swallowed the gun. He looked at Siri's face, "Ah, I'm not going to hurt you, Ms. Rosen. I borrowed it from my cousin. Just, my momma got shot, and I need some good clothes for her funeral."

"What are you…?"

"I'm going to rob me some old ladies. Get me a black suit, shiny shoes."

She tried to ignore the gun; he was joking. It was a toy, and he was a thirteen-year-old boy and they were in the parking lot on Chert Canyon Road where it felt like suburbs, not down near the bay.

"For my momma's funeral," he said.

"Your mother? Bobby, I'm so sorry. What happened?"

"She got shot in the head." He looked directly at her, no smile now.

She didn't say anything.

His hands still held the gun. It was a real gun. He held it with the muzzle facing down to the ground. Around them, the last gasps of dusk settled into night. Even the cars passing on Chert Canyon Road wouldn't see them; the parking lot was almost empty. Here, in the upper reaches of the city, she expected silent burglaries at night, domestic violence hiding behind placid walls. Not kids with guns in the street.

"Oh no," she said. "I'm so sorry." She wanted to touch his face. She was afraid to move.

"I need money, Ms. Rosen."

"Don't rob anybody, Bobby," she said. "Just put away the gun, get rid of it, please, Bobby. It's trouble. You know it's trouble."

"I'm okay, Ms. Rosen."

"Don't rob anybody. Here, if you need money." She handed him her shoulder bag, her hands shook.

"Okay." He put the gun in his jockey shorts and took her bag. He took out her wallet and fanned out the flat twenty dollar bills she'd just gotten from the bank machine, then stuffed them into the pocket of his pants, somewhere down near his knees. It took him a moment to find the pocket in all the loose folds. He handed her back her wallet and shoulder bag.

"Wow. Thank you, Ms. Rosen. I'm going to get me a business suit." And he grinned his big sloppy grin and galumphed away down the hill, yelling, "Thank you!"

~

Siri wasn't sure if it was a mugging or not. She spent a restless night, waking with the three A.M.sies. She pulled herself out of her bed nest and made a list of things to do the next day: revisit her resumé, shop for groceries. She fretted about Bobby Benardeau. His mother dead. She was petty to think about the money. Was she? At three a.m., the body's biorhythms are at their lowest and you feel your most vulnerable. The super ego power hour. The hour of worry, when most people die.

A yell of drunken laughter from the hillside: the street dead ended but a city trail ran along the ridge behind her block, built in the late forties after the war. Teens partied on the concrete structures up there, huge odd remnants from an old sulfuric acid mine from 100 years ago. Not far away, several houses had slid down a hill during the previous winter's rainstorms, victims of collapsing mine tunnels.

She didn't hear anything more from the ridge. She slept from four-thirty or so to nine-ish, then had a slow, anxious morning despite chamomile tea. She wasn't scheduled at the art center that day. She planned to work, instead, on the elephant.

In Siri's sculpture-in-progress, "Elephant Party," (plaster and gauze on chicken wire frames, three-quarter scale), a group of six figures: an elephant, standing upright and wearing clothes, surrounded by elongated figures of ladies and gentlemen. The society people would ignore the fact that he's an elephant; their faces pained but proper. They were coming along well, but the elephant was still only a wire hump.

Mid-morning, the doorbell rang. She answered it with plaster compound on her arms and face. It was Bobby, so big he filled her doorway, wearing a man's business suit and shiny black leather shoes. She stepped backwards, and he moved forward. He was almost in her house. Siri held her ground, filled the space with herself, grew to expand the hallway. She tasted acid in her mouth--he knew where she lived.

"Hey! You like my suit, Ms. Rosen? I went to Men's Wearhouse."

"Hi Bobby." She didn't see a gun.

"Thank you for my clothes, Ms. Rosen. Remember we had that art party here?"

Her heart caught up. She'd had his class over last year. He'd remembered her address. "You look good, Bobby. When's your mother's funeral?"

"Tomorrow. I got my picture took." He showed her a strip of pictures from an auto photo machine. "I look good." His voice sounded pleased and relieved.

"Yes, you do."

"Hey, Ms. Rosen, you got anything to eat?"

She took a step backwards and he took a step forwards. "I can make you a quick bite," she said, "but then it's not a good time to visit. I'm in the middle of working on something."

"Okay. Whatcha working on?"

"A sculpture. An elephant at a party."

"Why's he at a party?"

Now he was in the house.

She sat him at the kitchen table and he watched her cook for him. His suit fit him well, and he sat up straight and solid.
Over soup and sandwiches, he told her that the man who shot his mother was his uncle on his dad's side. That his dad was incarcerated in San Quentin and his best grandma lived in Texas. That he wanted to be a business man. His goal was to have new clothes and a nice house to live in. That he was good at math, even if he sucked at art.

"You don't suck at art. And if you're going to be a businessman you have to keep your nose clean." She wondered where he was hiding his gun, but it was an idle thought. She was aware of leaning across the table towards him.

"I don't do no cocaine, Ms. Rosen. Excuse me anyway, Ms. Rosen, but what's this shit we're eating?"

"This 'shit' is a tofu burger, Bobby. I'm a vegan. Vegans don't eat anything that comes from animals."

"Oh, man. That must make it hard to eat food. Everything comes from animals."

"Not everything. But yes, it's hard."

"Doesn't taste too bad, though. I don't know, Ms. Rosen. I like to eat food too much to skip eating so much food." He sat back in his chair and rubbed his big belly. It welled over his suit pants like middle-aged spread.

She felt her shoulders relax. He hadn't mugged her, he had just said he was planning to rob people. Old ladies. And he had thanked her. His mother was dead; nobody to cook for him anymore.

Bobby's eyes looked old, the skin around them wrinkled. "Can I just take a nap here, Ms. Rosen? Then I'll go to my cousin's. I walked all the way to the store and all the way back. Can I just rest here? It's so pretty."

"All right," Siri said. "But then it's time to go home."

While Bobby slept on the futon in the sun room, Siri moved around her house, quietly straightening things. She peeked in on him. He was out cold on his back, no blanket, arms wide, his head arched back, and he snored loudly.

She sat in the living room on the floor in half-lotus and shut her eyes. It took ten minutes to quiet the zipping energy that moved from her stomach to her head. She wasn't used to guests in the house. Teenaged boys with guns and business suits. Her breasts and belly ached with a frisson of electricity, expansion, dread, as if a door into another world was opening. She felt full of him. His big smile, bigger than his big body.

She called Cesar Chavez Elementary asked Katie to pull Bobby Benardeau's files from last year.

"No offense, Siri, but are you insane? He's in your house? He held you up. He's not a baby, in middle school now. Get him out."

"Yeah, I know."

"No, you have to get him out of there. Out of your house. That kid knows where you live, then you've got trouble."

"Yes. But he's a kid. Something in him touches me."

"Please. He's a criminal. Please tell me you'll tell him to leave."

"He's only taking a nap. Then I'm going to drive him home."

Bobby was up from the nap now, she heard him moving around the house, in the kitchen--so big he couldn't move quietly if he tried. She heard the bang of cupboard doors.

"I'm checking on you later," Katie said.

"I'm counting on it," she said.

"Siri, this isn't funny. Get him out. Change your number. Get a dog. Do you want me to call the police?"

"No, Katie. I'm dealing with it."

She heard the water in the bathroom running.

~

When Bobby came out to the living room, she was on the couch with her keys in her hand. "Let's go," she herded him out the door. He didn't protest. She drove him home, immediately, to his aunt's house down near the water, a small stucco bungalow with bars on the side windows and a cast iron gate that slammed behind him seconds before a woman's voice yelled, "Where the fuck you been?" and his voice, "My teacher bought me some clothes."

Siri drove home. In the kitchen, the garbage pail had been tipped over and coffee grounds and paper towels and carrot scrapings spilled onto the tiles. Every cabinet flared wide open; the cashews and tortilla chips had been polished off, the bags torn and scattered on the cutting board. The lid from the sugar bowl was on the floor, and sugar crystals sprayed across the counter. Her box of Shredded Wheat stood gaping. When she looked inside, only a few shreds. Inside the refrigerator, the mayonnaise jar was open, lid gone. Ketchup cascaded down the sides of the ketchup squeeze bottle. How had he done so much damage so fast?

She backed away. In the sunroom, only scattered newspapers and a huge sag in the futon. She opened the bathroom door and the smell of feces and shampoo walloped her. The mat in front of the shower was twisted and soaked; the shower door stood open. Shampoo bottles on their sides on the shower floor. Strange dark hairs. The toilet had a large turd in it. She entered on her toes; she held her breath and flushed--the water swirled and rose threateningly almost to the brim, turning brown, before giving up and taking the mess away. She flushed again, the excitement she'd felt earlier twisted to sickness. This boy trashed as he went, leaving with a smile. He'd taken her for everything, she'd handed him everything.

She opened the door to the backyard. The sculptures stood untouched. She closed the door, opened a bottle of wine, and sat on the couch in the living room to drink it all.

~

Bobby knocked three weeks later on a Sunday afternoon, holding a giant Slurpee and a bag from McDonald's that smelled like French fries. "Hey, Ms. Rosen!"

"Bobby!" Her heart pounded, she felt a zing and a wave of relief. She'd expected Jehovah's Witnesses to scare away.

"Can I sleep at your house today? My cousins are so noisy. I share the baby room." He wore his funeral suit. It bagged at the knees. She noticed the cheap sheen of his belt and shoes.

"Bobby, this house is not a crash pad." Crash and trash, she thought, remembering the kitchen, the turd in the toilet. You crash, you trash. She hated him, smelly and large, greasy and gobbling, self-important and self-righteous and insecure.

"I'm not crashing, I told you I don't do no drugs."

"You owe me an apology," she said. "I know you're grieving your mom, of course you are. But that's no reason to dump on me. You're out of control. If you come in here, no guns. You have any guns?"

He shook his head.

They stood in the doorway. He was so big; she was less than half his size.

"Ah, Ms. Rosen, that's not my gun. I just had it that one day."

She could not frisk him.

"I'm working out in the yard today. I don't want you to disturb me."

"On that elephant? Can I please take a nap."

"No messes. Don't raid my food. If you want a shower, you ask me first. You don't eat mayonnaise out of the jar. It's not polite to go in my refrigerator without asking."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Rosen.

He was barely standing. She imagined him falling, a dead weight thump crashing through the floor.

"Come in." She showed him to the sunroom, confiscating his junk food on the way, and bringing him a glass of water. "Take a nap."

Even the thin sun in the back yard dried the plaster compound too fast; she still couldn't get the elephant's face right; what would it show? Elephant masquerading as a human; elephant feeling invisible? She needed to go to the zoo for clarity.

From the open sunroom window, she heard Bobby moan. She moved closer wondering if he was crying but heard only snores. Then she hammered herself against the sculptures again--the tall gentleman, the society lady--giving up on the elephant until another day.

An hour later, she heard the radio in the sunroom. PitBull's hip hop anthem; she'd heard the pounding beat all Spring from boom boxes and through the open windows of battered old American cars when she stopped at a light downtown, by the bay.

STOMP shake your ass off
STOMP STOMP shake your ass off

She peeked through the window and saw Bobby in a solo dance, shaking his big body and stomping. His wide grin, his large grace. Dancing alone in the middle of the floor. She went inside, washed her hands and straightened up the kitchen.

After a while, the radio snapped off, he came out hungry, looking for his fries. She'd stuffed them in the kitchen garbage while he slept so she made him a avocado-soy cheese and mustard sandwich to take with him. His auntie had bought him a bus pass this month so he didn't have to walk, he told her. It was only five blocks to the bus stop. She had a hard time imagining him walking at all in his suit and tight leather shoes.

"Bye," she said, from the doorway.

"Thank you, Ms. Rosen."

She would never see him again, she thought, not sure whether she believed herself, or what she thought about this statement.

~

When Siri woke up in the night, the face of the elephant was Bobby's face, his nose a trunk past his chin. His small eyes understood her, eyes the color of the ocean on an overcast day. She sat up in bed. He was the answer, a left turn. She imagined him opening the door to his aunt's house, smiling his open-face sandwich smile at her. She settled back against her pillow.

That afternoon, she drove to his aunt's house, cruising down the canyon. The rains were late, the hillside grasses a dull gray. She sang along with the radio, heart open, ready to work… smooth the goopy strips of gauze, shape the details, push and pull, dance the trance. She'd seen a time release film of Picasso in his studio, all day working one changing canvas: the satyr-man developed horns and then a landscape appeared and women cavorted, and then the horns disappeared, the women disappeared, and here came a flower, a garden, a forest. She knew what Picasso was doing--following the energy, turning corners, scanning the horizon until the right path appeared. And if you told it "no" and insisted on proceeding the way you'd originally planned, you risked losing the soul of the piece and you might never get it back.

A short, wide woman with hair tied in a ponytail answered the door, holding the iron gate halfway open.

"Hi, I'm Siri Rosen," she said. "I was Bobby's art teacher in sixth grade." Her smile felt eager, she pulled it down to polite.

"Umm hmm," the woman said. "I'm Candy Benardeau. Bobby's mom. Bobby!" she yelled into the house, still holding the heavy gate a third of the way open.

He already stood behind her.

Siri looked at Bobby. His lips were closed and his eyes squinted towards the horizon. Her stomach turned but she kept her face neutral and friendly; not going to show the hurt. She focused her eyes on the mother. "Pleased to meet you, Candy. Bobby's a terrific boy, I'm sure you're very proud."

The mother looked at Siri.

"Listen," Siri said. "I'm here because I'd like for Bobby to pose for me for a sculpture I'm doing. Clothed, of course. I'll pay him ten dollars an hour."

"Fifteen," the mom said. Something was wrong with her mouth. The left side of her face barely moved when she talked, like Joey Buttafuoco's wife after she was shot by Amy Fisher. So maybe it wasn't a total lie, Siri thought, taking a breath. He'd probably thought she was dying.

"It's up to Bobby," the mom said.

"It's that elephant sculpture," Bobby said from behind his mother.

"Yes." She looked at him. Oh please.

"No, thank you, Ms. Rosen."

"Let me explain what it's for, Bobby, let me explain what you would have to do. Don't say no yet, let me explain. It's for a sculpture. I'm an artist, Mrs. Benardeau."

"He said no." the mom's face was set.

"Bye, Old Lady." Bobby wasn't smiling.

The gate closed.

She couldn't feel her legs as she walked back to the car, she couldn't hear anything as she drove home.

~

Siri junked the plaster and chicken wire sculptures during the annual bulk garbage pick-up. The next month, she rented a studio down at QuakeArts Center. It was out of the house; she gained more sense of community. She began working smaller. She thought of Bobby when she read the new youth murder statistics, the city's annual rate topped only by Gary, Indiana. She looked for him in groups of young men standing on street corners. She avoided the blocks where he lived. It wasn't hard, nothing there but old houses and liquor stores.

In early summer, QuakeArts opened its studios to the public for the weekend, and one Sunday afternoon local dance troupes performed in the downstairs theater. From her stool beside her sculptures, Siri heard PitBull pounding.

STOMP shake your ass off
STOMP STOMP shake your ass off

Her heart surged. Bobby dancing alone in her sunroom. He would be there--on the stage, in the center of a half circle of neighborhood kids, the star, shaking his ass off, bigger than ever.

"Watch my stuff," she said to one of the other artists, and walked down the hallway, down the stairs, to the theater. She pulled open the door and slid into the dark to stand and watch.

On stage, five teenagers stomped and shook. He wasn't one of them.

A month ago, she'd watched the lone trash collector hoist her "Elephant Party" sculptures into the compressor. Then he ran to the driver's seat and backed the truck down the block. She'd watched the elephant's head disappear into the grinding gears. Her belly, a low throb of missing.

You must be somewhere, she thought now. She turned and left the theater.

-END-