Two Marriages Left in Brooklyn

A bouquet of blue roses sits on the gray steps of 505 Park Avenue. On this silent spring afternoon, one can hear only the soft breeze and the occasional town car drive across the perfectly-paved road. In a moment, a girl is heard humming a simple but sweet tune, approaching the door of her apartment. A click is heard, then the lock of the latch as she closes the door behind her. This is when she notices the flowers.
They are her favorite shade of blue, soft and egg-smooth bordering on lavender purple. She knows that he has left them on her doorstep, but she only steps carefully over the bouquet and descends the steps of the patio. They sit in silence, further silence still.
Across the road, a town car awaits her, black and burnished. The driver already knows her destination, so she need only sit and observe the scenery passing through the window on the way to Brooklyn. She sets her small briefcase across her lap, then undoes the latches and lifts the cover.
Within lies a single page of paper, crisp and newly-printed. There is print, then more fine print, and beneath that a dashed line and a woman’s cursive signature. Another line rests below it, room reserved for another to sign.
She peruses the document, then secures the cover and places her folded hands on top of it. Then, in one single, silent movement, she removes her heels from her feet and lets them drop onto the car mat as she flexes her tiny toes.
Don’t you think this city is beautiful, she addresses the driver. This is the first she has spoken to him since Sunday, but she expects silence, says nothing more.
The town car pulls across a bridge and two parks, into borough after borough, until all that is left is Brooklyn. Its happiness is less beautiful than Park Avenue’s, but its sorrow is lovelier. No roses lie on doorsteps here, though flowers can be seen peeking up through cracks in the sidewalk, even from as far as the car window seating a girl who does not possess twenty-twenty sight.
The first thing she notices as she steps out of the car is the unpaved road. Her heels shudder atop the rocky asphalt, but she manages to tiptoe across the driveway and to the dirt-coated front door of the house. As she raises a hand to knock, the door creaks open and a little dark-skinned girl peeks through the crack at the visitor.
Um, hello. Is your mother home? she bends down to the girl as she says this, mustering a child-friendly tone.
My mum been dead years, the girl replies as she steps a bit closer to the door, revealing a tiny pink bow-tie perched at the peak of her big ball of curls. Her tone is neither hostile nor friendly, though with children the woman can never tell.
Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.
The girl then glances up, and another dark-skinned woman, very young, joins their presence. She does not acknowledge the child, but smiles wanly at the visitor.
You the agent?
She nods, and the woman bids her to enter. As the woman pulls up a chair for her at a large oak table in the center of the room, an olive-skinned man enters. He acknowledges neither of them and simply takes his seat at the head of the table. The woman joins him on the adjacent side, and the agent directly across from her.
The agent sets her briefcase on the table then slowly unlatches the cover. She is aware of the little girl watching the procedure from behind, but she dares not turn around.
Without fully uncovering the case, the agent draws out the page of paper and lays it down on the oak table in front of the black-skinned woman and the olive-skinned man.
Neither of them glances at it. From his leather jacket pocket, the man draws out a ballpoint pen, then scribbles a first name on the second line. The woman only says that was easier than I thought, then utters a silent thank you as the agent takes the paper and slides it back into her briefcase. The man exits to another room as the woman shows the agent to the front door, but halfway down the driveway, the agent halts.
You were the third married couple in Brooklyn. Now there are only two marriages left.
The little girl clutches the woman’s dress, staring back at the agent with big, brown eyes. The woman nods once quietly, then closes the door to the world.


As the town car pulls into Park Avenue, her eyes glimpse a man sitting on her doorstep beside the roses. In hushed tones, she tells the driver to pull into the shade under the pine grove so that they are hidden from the man's line of sight.
She watches the man, observes a once perfectly-built body that has shriveled up into something sad. He sits alone beside the roses blue with his head down and hands folded on his lap, as if in prayer.
Uninvited, the driver mutters: You should go down, talk to him.
The agent only nods and lets the briefcase slide to the floor. She edges open the car door and steps out onto the road.
She approaches him, and he does not lift his head until she is standing just a foot’s length from him. He looks at her, then smiles dimly.
She settles down on the empty space beside him. The roses are wedged between them, and the three sit in tandem �" the man, the woman and the bouquet of flowers. The man speaks first.
Hello, Trinity.
Trinity looks down at her palms, observing a dark pink line on her pale skin that she has never seen before.
Sam, I don’t think you should be here.
He is silent, staring at the roses.
I know, he musters. But it’s Anderson. He wants the last of them gone.
She nods and is silent.
How many are left?
Trinity continues to stare at the line on her palms, trying to store its pattern to memory.
Two since this morning.
He nods without emotion.
Will you be able to do it?
Trinity nods, looking away.
I’ll do it. I just need time.
I’ll try to get you all the time you need, Sam replies. But you know our line of work. If you don't get the job done, then Anderson will just find someone else.
Trinity stares out across the road to the town car parked in the shade, and she does not speak. Sam rises from the steps. Bending down, he picks up the bouquet and offers it to Trinity.
She wants to take it, to say thank you, but no words come from her mouth. Instead, she looks up at him and shakes her head.
Sam stares back at her with vacant eyes, then returns the roses to the steps.
This will all be over soon, T. We just have to make it through this one.


It is against her will to be here, and yet it is the right thing to do.
No one answers the door. Trinity stares at the turquoise trapezoid in front of her until it becomes just that: a shape and nothing more. As she turns to leave, she hears a click coming from the neighboring apartment door.
Lookin’ for the Garcías? You won't find'em ’ere. But I can show you where dey are, if ya want.
The neighbor is a woman with hair bordering white, and the first of wrinkles on her forehead tell Trinity that old age has begun to take its toll on the woman.
They are one of the last two, yes?
The neighbor stares at her with a furrowed brow.
Well, what else could dey be?
Trinity nods.
Are they in hiding?
The woman scoffs.
Pretty much. Spics, though �" what d’you expect? Dey always hidin’, in one way or the other. She pauses. The name's Liz, if you were wonderin’. Short for ‘lizabeth, like the Brit queen. I ain't interested in any form o’ compensation, I just don't want'em spics in my neighborhood no mo’.
Trinity descends the steps and avoids glancing at the town car.
Where do we begin?
Liz beckons for her to follow, and Trinity tries to keep up with the woman as she rounds the block and into a pitch-black alley.
I saw a guy get shot in 'ere once. One of 'em spics shot'im. Those spics �" they're no good, the lot of'm.
They cross another street, then enter a liquor store. The store is empty, save for a clerk at the counter engrossed in his crumpled issue of Brooklyn Best. Liz approaches this man, and leaning against the counter, she asks: Hey, boss. You seen any spics walk in'ere lately?
The clerk finishes reading before putting down the paper and looking up at her. Liz smells his beer-scented breath as he tells her that he mighta.
I don't know, says the clerk as he crosses his chest and stares up blankly towards the ceiling. What's in it for me, huh?
Liz has anticipated this, and she crosses her fingers beneath the counter as she speaks to him.
You and me, boss, we live in the same neighborhood over ‘cross the block. Tell me, you like seein'm spics takin’ over our block?
He scratches his beard.
No. But what dya need’em for?
Liz gestures at Trinity.
Divorce agent, y’know the type.
The clerk nods quickly.
Shoulda said so sooner.
Pointing a finger towards a closet door, he says: in dere. Dey always in dere, doin' God knows what.
Trinity mouths her appreciation and walks toward the closet door as Liz trails behind her.
Hello? She places a gentle hand on the door handle, ice cold. Please come out, I'm not here to hurt you.
You aren't, Liz says. But I am.
Slowly but surely, she raises two fists in the air, leaving Trinity in confusion. The agent turns back towards the door.
Listen, I don't know why you're in there, but I won't let any harm come between the two of you. Please come out before it's too late.
A weak female voice speaks.
Too late for what?
There is the tinge of an accent, its trace so slight that under other circumstances, a listener would not suspect her of a single fault.
I promise full immunity if you tell me how to find the last couple. But it has to be done soon, before the others find out.
What's that? Says a man's voice. Imm-un-i�"?
Trinity explains: Full immunity. That means nothing happens to you that you don't want happening to you. You won't be convicted.
Con�"
Nevermind, she waves a hand through the air. Just �" you won't go to jail is all.
But why would we go to jail? The man erupts. We've never broken any laws, never did anything we weren't supposed�"
Well, you 'migrated here, didn'tya?
Trinity flashes Liz a look of contempt as the man cries out: What is that supposed to mean?
Stop, Tomás! The woman cries back. She flings open the door, and they now stand before the three agents.
In an instant, Liz grabs hold of the woman and the clerk takes the man, and together they carry them to the town car, to be newly unwed.


What have I done?
She is sitting on the steps of 505 Park Avenue the second time in a day. The roses have begun to wither.
He is there at her side now, consoling her, comforting her, erasing her conscience beside a bouquet of roses blue, above a road paved perfect.
Breathe, inhale, release, exhale. She is exhausted, too tired, too fragile, too impure.
You did the right thing, Sam assures her. The right thing. Let's go inside, get you some rest.
She nods, and he leads her into the house.


She awakes the next morning on the bed beside him, her body aching with a beautiful pain that comes only after he has been inside of her. Staring up at the vast white ceiling, she draws a long, slow breath then releases it through her lips. The man beside her stirs to life, stroking her hair and brushing his lips against her neck for the first time in months.
Trinity rises from the bed with a new and lovely energy. Sam smiles at her, and they lock eyes, ready to carpe diem, seize the day.
He treats her to breakfast a few blocks away. As they enter, two guards in black approach them, asking for their names and typing them into handheld devices. Once they pass security, Trinity observes the tables upon tables of divorce agents, prison guards and street soldiers �" all in black government-issued suits, socks, shoes �" all one and the same.
After breakfast, the couple roams the streets of the city. They taste-test wine at dive bars, dance salsa in the Club Chicano, and give their souls to jazz at the end of the night.
As the jazz quartet plays in the Blue Bar, Trinity gazes at the piano, wishing she were sitting in that bench, playing those keys. When Trinity does not applaud after the encore, Sam turns to her. He understands.
Sir, Sam says, raising a hand towards the pianist. Please allow my friend here a performance.
The pianist notes their government-issued suits and nods. He leaves the bench, and Sam leads Trinity to the piano. She pulls up the piano bench behind her, closes her eyes, and breathes.
I am underwater, she tells herself. I am home.
She plays, escaping into the ivories, lost in her own beauty. When she closes her performance, the rest of the bar applauds politely as Sam stares into her eyes knowingly.
As they exchange a toast, Sam tells her how beautiful she is. She blushes and lets him kiss her on the cheek. This is when he whispers into her ear: T, baby, let's run away. Quit our jobs. You have so much beauty in you �" why must you hide it within you when you could share it with the world?
Her smile slowly fades. For a moment, she is silent.
You're such a dreamer, Sam. You've always been. That's why I left you. You haven't learned much, have you?
Sam sits in stunned silence.
So I'm the dreamer, huh? What �" you really think that this is going to go down the right way? That somehow you are doing the “right thing”? Well, let me break some news to you. Anderson’s never going to stop. He feeds on fear, and you, Trinity, are that fear. And you're only making it easier for him by giving in.
A pause. Trinity rises out of her chair and leaves the room. Sam trails after her, catching her arm as she rounds the corner of the block and pulling her towards him. She dares not look into his eyes, for fear that she will see his anger, his sorrow.
Don't you understand, Sam? This is life. There's no room for beauty. Survival, Sam �" that's we live for. We live to see another day.
Just so we can live to see the next, and the one after that �" all in fear? Tell me, Trinity �" is that how you want to live the rest of your life?
Silence.
I love you, T. I just wish you could say the same about me.
He gives her one last sad smile.
Goodbye, Trinity. I wish you luck with love.


Like I said, Miss García, Trinity addresses the woman sitting across from her. I promise full immunity only if you will help me with this case.
She shakes her head.
I would rather die.
Trinity sighs and leans forward on the table. The bags under her eyes become more visible, more empurpled under the harsh white light above them.
Miss García �" or Esther, isn't it? This isn't up to you, Esther. You know what happens to people like you and me when we don't play by the rules? She pauses. We lose the game.
Esther glowers at her, daggers still in her eyes.
I knew we shouldn't have trusted you, she utters with a bitter taste in her mouth. You're a liar is all you are!
Esther, I already told you, people like us don't get to deci�"
In a sudden movement, Esther leans forward in her chair and spits into Trinity's face, feeling the shackles dig into her wrists and feet.
As she sits, stunned, Esther says bitterly: You should be ashamed.
The agent reveals no emotion and sits simply in silence.
What was I supposed to do? Trinity mutters, looking down at her palms. Sam came to me �" he told me that if I didn't do it, Anderson would find someone else to �" and I knew that I couldn't let someone else get to you because they'd be worse �" but how was I supposed to know that Anderson had set me up to make sure that that I'd get the job done? What was I supposed to do?
Esther sighs.
Forgive me, she tells Trinity. I overreacted. Mija, I will tell you where the last marriage lives, but I’m afraid we'll both have to bear the guilt of it for the rest of our lives.
In Brooklyn, you see the flowers peer up from the cracks on every street. Well, on this particular street where the last marriage lives, the flowers in the cracks grow terribly high, and there are no street signs or turquoise trapezoids. You must understand, Mija, that if you do this �" if you destroy this last marriage in Brooklyn �" that never again will there be such a thing as love.
Still, Trinity does not move.
If you understand this, then there is only one place to go. You'll find, on this street with no name and no symbols, a home with no windows or doors, the last marriage in the world.
Trinity, she says, looking into her eyes. Nothing in this world will prepare you for what you will find.


The roses are half-dead now. Trinity sits down beside the bouquet and, for the first time, picks it up. She wraps a shaking hand around the stems, then lifts it to her face �" blue tears on blue flowers �" blue flowers on blue tears �" and this is when she notices it: a folded slip wedged between two roses.
She pries the note from the flowers and sets the bouquet in her laps as she unfolds it. It is still crisp but gives off the odor of withered flowers and feels too fragile under her trembling fingers.
After one last fold, Trinity reads: What's in a marriage that frightens her so?
No one is there to console her, no one there to comfort her now, save for the roses, half-dead, half-pure.


It is not in a town car that she arrives on the street with no name and no signs, but in an unlicensed vehicle she is driving for the first time in years. Here, the roads are imperfectly paved, but perfectly blossom with flowers from every crack. Here, there is love, and there is life.
You again.
Trinity looks around her, searching for the speaker. Then, she locates her: a black girl in a pink bow-tie.
Why are you here, child?
The girl shrugs.
To help you with your mission, I guess.
Where's your mother?
I told you already�"Aunt Linda isn't my mum.
Trinity sits quietly.
Well, are you gonna come down or not?
Trinity takes her hands off the steering wheel, then pushes the car door open and steps out. The girl stands motionless, observing Trinity. She lifts a hand to adjust her pink bow-tie, then beckons for the woman to follow her.
What happened to your mother? Trinity asks as they walk the block.
Silence.
They reach the end of the road and are met with a patch of red roses.
I have these roses at home, Trinity remarks. Blue roses, not red.
The girl walks over to the flowers and crouches down to observes them. She moves her hand over the petals, searching for something.
A red rose, she explains, is happy and passionate, but too desperate for love. A blue rose, on the other hand, is loved by all but loves only to dream.
As she says this, a blue rose emerges from the center of the patch. She draws the bow-tie from her head, revealing a tiny silver blade between the pink lace. The blade cuts into the stem, and as the stem is severed from the flower, the blue rose begins to bleed its love, coloring the road blue.
Trinity runs. In what direction she does not know �" she simply runs as quickly as she can out of the pool of blood forming at her feet. Reaching a house, she flings the door open and shuts it behind her with a gasp of fear.
Now safely inside, she leans back against the door and slows her breathing, slows it until it has reached an ebb and flow. She stares up at the ceiling as she inhales, exhales, and waits for her breathing to return.
Nothing in this world…
She looks down from the ceiling and observes her surroundings. She is in a room without windows or doors. Trinity moves away from the door, but in all too sudden a movement sparks shoot through the floor, and she catches herself before she falls. Her ankles, sprained, cannot move, and she is trapped between the blood seeping through the crack of the door and the barbed wire eating away at the floor.
Nothing in this world will prepare you for the marriage of blood and barbed wire.
Trinity struggles to move away, but there is nowhere for her to hide.
I shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have come�"
She looks up to the ceiling and cries out: I’m sorry!
Suddenly, the blood and wire begin to retreat their separate ways �" retreat, retreat �" until all that is left is a girl in an empty room. A mirror appears at the wall opposite, and as Trinity stares into it, she sees not a grown woman stained by bad blood, but a little girl that is innocent, pure. She remembers this child, the flower of her childhood.
Trinity?
Yes, it’s me.
What are you doing here?
Don’t you remember me?
It’s been a while. I’ve been on a journey.
A journey, you say?
Yes. A journey. I was bloodied and bruised and am sad and confused.
I’m sorry to hear that, Trinity. I’m here to help you now, to help you escape and make you happy again.
You are?
Yes. I love you, Trinity.
The mirror slowly fades away and whispers are heard through the walls �" a man and a woman.
I love you, I love you.
I love you too.
I miss her, I miss Trinity.
I miss her too.
Shhh…she is here now…I hear it�"
Mom?
I don’t hear her.
You hear her?
Dad?
No, it was just a thought.
How sad.
Mom! Dad!
She pounds her fists against the walls, is desperate to see them, desperate to be in their love again.
Mom, she sobs, sinking to the floor.
Dad.
I hear she became an agent.
An agent?
Yes, a divorce agent. You know the type.
Ah, always out there conquering the world, ey?
She always was a bright girl.
Mom…
Have you seen her around?
No, I haven’t; it’s sad.
Dad…
Where do you suppose she’s gone?
Far, far away, I suppose.
Do you think she still loves us?
Silence.
Do you think she wants us to stay together?
Yes! Yes, I do! Yes, yes, yes! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I love you!
Shhh…did you hear that?
Hear what?
It was her. It really was her.
What did she say?
She said, “I’m sorry.”
Is that all?
She said “I love you.”


The roses have gone. No longer do they sit lonely on the gray doorsteps, reminding her to remember, reminding her to forgive.
The town car has gone. No longer does it send her on errands, carry her to carry out bad deeds, staining her heart with bad blood.
The last marriage lives. No longer must the daughter despair, for she is innocent again…reborn.

Author's Note

Is my theme cohesive? What context am I missing? Are my descriptions strong enough?

The voices of Sam, Esther, the little girl, her aunt and the parents are italicized.