Pathways

By Steven McCann

When my novel, ‘Pathways’ begins, we find our heroine, Angie Turner, employed full-time at a Bargain Store in her hometown of Paterson, New Jersey and attending the local community college. Angie is the best employee at work, the best student at her college and the stalwart support to her friends and wayward parents, a White mother and a Black father, although she rarely departs from her modest demeanor, despite her obvious exceptional abilities. Angie meets a recent Pakistani immigrant, falls in love, becomes pregnant and loses the father of her child when immigration officers remove him from the country, because of a flaw in his visa application. The daughter Angie gives birth to is stricken with a rare congenital neurological disorder, but neither this devastating setback, nor the difficulty of raising and supporting a disabled child as a single parent can prevent Angie from succeeding brilliantly through college, law school, and eventually, a career as a New York attorney.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781543497946

Steven McCann

Steven McCann is the author of novels, novellas, stories, plays and poems, and a 2021 recipient of a City Artist Corps Grant. He was born in 1948, graduated from Spring Valley High School in New York where he excelled in three sports. He enrolled at the University of Kansas, and later at NYU, majored in English and received a BA. His work experience is varied; nightwatchman at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, hotel detective at the Plaza, home renovator and shipping manager. In 2005 he was stricken with paraplegia and has been wheelchair bound since. He lives in New York City and remains passionate about Central Park, the Shakespeare festival, the Met Museum, Lincoln Center, the opera, and the people of New York.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Bargain Store building at the center of town was old, but solidly constructed. All three floors, its staircases and walls, were perfectly level and true, not likely to ever be torn down in favor of something more modern. It stood on the middle of the block among an assortment of other structures that were also destined to survive, like the city itself. They complimented the Bargain Store; a small bank, a drug store advertising medical supplies in its window, a jeweler where folks could buy an engagement ring for under $500 and Timex watches for $10, and an audio store supplying radios, handheld devices, and CD’s for the wide range of musical tastes of the citizenry; the Colonial Cousins and Carnatic classical veena from India, the reggaeton of Don Omar, Elvis Crespo’s merengue and hip-hop, Pakistani Tera Woh Pyar, Persian Afreen, Afreen, and the rap music that Angie heard along the street coming to and leaving work. It should be noted that in a city known by outsiders as having more than its share of crime, no one stole from any of these stores, or ever molested its employees. They came and went peacefully, without verbal displays of any kind, rarely exchanging even a nod to the familiar young men on the sidewalks. Like the items in these stores, these employees were an essential part of the community.

The merchandise sold in the Bargain Store was as varied as a bowl of paella and as unpredictable as the weather. One could find almost anything there, from snow shovels to wheelchairs, to bridal gowns and tuxedos, to pressure cookers, to artwork. The only unifying characteristics from these items were their very low prices; snow boots for $5, a winter coat for $10, socks for 50 cents a pair, a plate service for 6 people, including cups, saucers, dessert plates, dinner plates, two serving bowls, all for under $18. One never knew what he or she might find in the Bargain Store, nor how its manager, Mr Corey, a small effervescent Black man with the physique of a gymnast, impeccably dressed in a suit and bowtie, one never knew how Mr Corey brought so many new and varied items into his store, since delivery vans were rarely seen. But entering the Bargain Store always excited people with its trove of new treasures, all of it second hand, each and every item miraculously saved by someone, somewhere, to be used, perhaps even loved by someone, somewhere.

Angie didn’t simply work in one department. She moved about from day to day. You might find her buried in the tall racks of men’s winter coats, or behind a counter selling women’s pocket books, or bent over a foot rest helping an elderly woman try on a pair of shoes. She was Mr Corey’s favorite employee and Angie obviously loved her job. Anyone could see that in the enthusiasm she demonstrated at every new assignment. Where do you want me today, Sir? she’d asked, leaning forward eagerly on her toes, before hurrying off to her post. She came at 8AM and left at 4PM on the days she had no classes, and started at 3PM on the days she did, working until 10PM, except during dinner breaks. Sundays were her only days off. Mr Corey was careful never to josh with her as he did with some of the others, for although Angie moved about as energetically as a ten-year old on Christmas morning, she never broke into playful laughter or joking in the store, never departed from her mature and professional demeanor.

Had she worked in a suburban mall in another town, Angie’s looks would have quickly garnered speculation, but inside the Bargain Store she seemed just another unique item among thousands. She had similar coloring to a light-skinned Mulatto woman, hair a strange mix of brown, blonde and gold that no hair dye could have duplicated, and some features reminiscent of her Black American father; delicate feminine versions of his wide flat nose, heavy lips and broad forehead. Her light-boned blonde mother appeared somewhere in her high cheekbones and fine chin. But Angie’s eyes were her own great rarity; very large, very bright dark brown eyes that held people’s undivided attention when they spoke to her, eyes that never frowned and seldom smiled, eyes that were at once intelligent and mysterious. Angie stood five-feet eight inches tall. It was difficult for anyone to judge her figure, because in addition to flat shoes, Angie always wore loose clothes in neutral colors; slacks with a roomy blouse or sweatshirt to cover the waistline.

There were so many wonderful things about Angie that people seemed to learn almost instantly. She knew the Bargain Store and nearly everything sold in it as well as Mr Corey. She knew her assignments at the community college better than anyone in class, although hardly ever did she volunteer an answer. If no one else knew it, the professor usually called on Angie. Her friends fell back on her like they might have a loving, omniscient grandparent. Can you help me with my math, Angie? Did you do the assignment in Spanish class, Angie? Can I borrow it? My brother took my last dollar this morning, but I’ll pay you back on Friday. Can you lend me a five spot?

Even the young men at the community college, like the boys in her high school earlier, thought of her as someone to depend on for an answer, or a loan, or to share their problems about other girls; as a sign post to whatever feminine treasures, they might discover elsewhere. No one thought of Angie as that treasure. Not until late one Saturday night in October at ten minutes before closing time, while Angie worked in the men’s clothing section of the near empty Bargain Store and a stranger appeared.

She busied herself behind a counter putting leather gloves back into boxes and stacking the boxes onto a shelf, when out of the corner of her eye, she noticed someone hurrying briskly away from a long table where shirts were displayed, his arms full, and stopping to look through winter coats. She finally looked up, at the head and shoulders of a young man about her age, South Asian in appearance. Not wanting to prevent the young man from finding a winter coat with cold weather near at hand, she maneuvered around the counter and hastened across the large room between aisles of winter jackets and coats.

Do you work here, Miss? he asked in his clipped British accent. Everything about him struck her as refined and intelligent; his clean shaven light brown face, neatly parted black hair, deep set eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses, a protruding masculine jaw with healthy good teeth and a welcoming smile.

Yes, I do, Sir. But the store is about to close. If you’d like, I can ring up those other items and perhaps you can come back for a coat another time.

Oh, I know what I want, Miss! It’s right here! This one!

Are you sure? Wouldn’t you like to have more time to look over all these other coats?

No, Miss. I like this one.

Then let me hold those shirts, so you can quickly try it on.

Angie took the armful of shirts from him. With movements that were incredibly quick and agile, he pulled a camel colored wool pea coat off its hanger, dislodging another coat onto the floor, exclaimed, I’m so sorry! several times, replaced the fallen coat back on the rack, then slipped his very slender six-foot frame into the pea coat. A long wall mirror stood at the end of the aisle, but the young man showed no interest in looking at himself.

I like it! I know already that it’s warm. Do you like it?

Yes, it’s a fine coat.

I want to look American! Do I look American in this coat?

As much as any of us. Where are you from?

From Pakistan.

How long have you been in America?

A closing bell sounded through the store.

I have to ring these things up for you, Sir, if you’re sure you want to buy everything.

Yes! Most certainly! Can I wear my new coat?

I don’t see why not. After you pay, I’ll give you a receipt to show our store manager, if he asks while you’re leaving.

Angie led the way down the aisle of coats to her counter. She opened the register and began to ring up the sale just as Mr Corey looked into her department from the end of the room.

Just one sale, Sir! Finished in a minute!

No problem, Angie! Show the gentleman downstairs when you’re finished.

Will do, Sir.

You asked me how long I’ve been in America, Miss. And I didn’t have time to give you a proper answer. It has been only two days.

From Pakistan?

From Islamabad, Pakistan. From my father’s front doorstep to a friend’s doorstep in your city.

Where does he live, your friend?

One-twenty-one, Governor’s Avenue, Miss, he announced proudly as if he’d bought a new home there.

Has your friend told you that our city can be dangerous? That you must be careful where you’re going?

I am not worried, Miss. This is America, is it not? In Islamabad, our great new city, we have occasional murders. I understand some murders exist everywhere. But I haven’t seen any dangers thus far. Most of your dangerous criminals are mafia people, are they not?

No, we don’t have mafia in our city.

Then there is nothing to worry about, is there?

Our city has good and bad like Islamabad. But you must be careful. Walk fast going home and don’t stop to talk with strangers at night.

She finished ringing up the sale and the young man reached into his front pocket under the heavy wool coat and pulled out a roll of cash that Angie estimated to be a few hundred dollars. He began counting the tens and twenties on the counter with his long, tapered fingers.

The total is fifty-four dollars. I think you need a wallet, Sir. Come back to us soon and I’ll help you pick one out.

She took three twenties, rang up the sale, gave him change, his receipt and the shirts stacked neatly in a large shopping bag. But before he took them, he reached his fine boned elegant hand across the counter.

My name is Fareed, Miss. And I am very grateful to you. I want to come again. You are the first American I’ve spoken to, besides airport attendants and bus drivers. America must be a good country with people like you. That has always been my belief as a boy growing up and it is why I came.

Thank you, Fareed. My name is Angie.

Angie! Angie from the name Angela, is it not?

It is, Fareed, she replied with a smile of surprise at his quick intellect.

Thank you once again, Angie!

Please come back again, Fareed, when I have more time to help you, Angie added, amazing herself with this last utterance. Never in her life had she been so bold with the opposite sex.

Can you find your way out of the store, Fareed?

That will be no problem. Goodnight, Angie.

Goodnight, Fareed.

She watched him leave the department on his long slender legs with his shiny black hair above the very broad-shouldered pea coat. Then she rapidly closed down her register.

During the next day and a half, she often thought about Fareed and even fantasized about him. He was obviously very intelligent, perhaps an engineering or medical student. Angie could not resist visions of herself as the wife of a doctor or professor. He must be Muslim, she concluded, and in her fantasies, she pictured herself becoming a Muslim convert and wearing a Hijab. There had been almost no eligible young men in her life thus far. The youths she knew from high school and the community college, the young men she passed on the sidewalks for the two block walk from her apartment where she lived with her mother, her mother’s boyfriend, even her father whom she loved, were all Black men leading aimless lives, caught up in the street culture of rap music, gambling, basketball and even drugs, while circumventing the perils of prison life. Many were good men, but even the best of them had only a slim chance to emerge from their surroundings to a good job, a good home and a stable life.

The remainder of her student male peers were foreigners, mostly Bangladeshi, some Hispanic, a handful of Russians and Orientals; young men seeking romantic partners within their own ethnicity. They entered her school life bringing the sights and sounds of foreign lands that made them no closer to her private life than their relatives thousands of miles away.

Angie had begun to experience another problem. Rumors had circulated saying she was a lesbian. She’d first caught a snippet of such talk during high school prom week. No one had asked her to go and she overheard a voice in the girl’s locker room laughing about her.

Angie’s gay as a bagful of pink pili nuts.

Nah! Angie? another girl protested.

Sure. Why’s she always dressed like a man in those baggy clothes? No doubt about it. Angie’s gay.

The remarks didn’t change her style of dress. If she wore tighter clothes, it would only awaken the interests of men roaming the streets and playgrounds of her city. Some would begin to pursue her, and if she didn’t hook up with a boyfriend, she might incur hostility, even rape.

No one had dissuaded her from a relationship with these men more than her blonde, slim, ageing forty-year-old mother who worked at the beauty products store up the street from the Bargain Store. Violet dressed in tight clothes, wore the latest lipstick and make-up, and had gone through a steady stream of boyfriends since she broke up with Angie’s father, before Angie entered high school. On more than one occasion, Angie saw her mother emerge from her bedroom on Sunday morning with a black eye, or a swollen lip. On more than one occasion Angie had cringed against her pillow at night, hearing violent arguments in Violet’s bedroom across from the kitchen. For all of these reasons she had kept to her baggy clothes, until the Monday morning following Fareed’s visit when she appeared at the Bargain Store wearing a trim dark slack suit and white blouse with an amber brooch fastened at her collar.

Good morning, Angie! exclaimed Mr Corey, his eyes opening in a wide smile.

You’re all dolled up, Angie! I hope it’s for a good occasion and not something sad.

Not in the least, Mister Corey. I just felt like putting on this slack suit that I bought here six months ago and have never worn.

Well, you look splendid, Angie! It becomes you. I hope the merchandise I sell here does right by others the same way.

People rely on you, Sir. Most of us don’t have the money to buy online, or in these expensive clothing outlets. Can I ask a favor, Sir?

Why certainly. Go ahead, Angie. What is it?

Can you place me in the men’s clothing department again? A customer might stop by that I promised to help.

Sure! I can do that. Go right on up and open the register. And while you’re on your break, Angie, check out the ladies clothing department. I have some new dresses and suits just like the one you’re wearing.

I will, Sir. Thanks so much.

Angie hurried off to her post, catching an admiring eyeful from Mr Corey who like everyone else seeing her that day was amazed that Angie had such a slim youthful figure with enough curves to do justice to an entire new wardrobe.

Belinda and Stella, her two closest friends, stopped by at 11AM. Both were classmates of Angie’s from as far back as eighth grade, both healthy looking women with glowing dark skin, bright eyes and teeth. Belinda was the taller of the two, Stella the more buxom. Neither had a steady boyfriend, although both had frequent dates with boys at the college. They came from large families with several brothers each that they worried about constantly and encouraged to enlist in the service. The three friends all had Monday off from classes at the community college and usually met around the corner from the Bargain Store for lunch. When Belinda and Stella entered the men’s department that morning, Angie was busy ringing up a sale for a grandfather and grandson.

Angie! Gal, what’s happenin, Doll? Belinda burst out after the customers took their packages and walked off.

Tell us where you found prince charming, Angie. We need another two, one for her and one for me.

Angie couldn’t resist a laugh.

"I bought this slack suit on sale here some