When No One Is Watching (Alyssa Cole)

Epigraph
Thepositionofmywhiteneighborismuchmoredifficult….Thegameofkeepingwhatonehasisneversoexcitingasthegameofgetting.
—ZORANEALEHURSTON,FROM“HOWITFEELSTOBECOLOREDME,”WORLDTOMORROW(1928)
Oneisastonishedinthestudyofhistoryattherecurrenceoftheideathatevilmustbeforgotten,distorted,skimmedover….Thedifficulty,ofcourse,withthisphilosophyisthathistorylosesitsvalueasanincentiveandexample;itpaintsperfectmenandnoblenations,butitdoesnottellthetruth.
—WEBDUBOIS,FROMBLACKRECONSTRUCTION(1935)
Contents
Cover
TitlePage
Epigraph
Prologue:Sydney
Chapter1:Sydney
Chapter2:Theo
Chapter3:Sydney
Chapter4:Theo
Chapter5:Sydney
Chapter6:Theo
Chapter7:Sydney
Chapter8:Sydney
Chapter9:Theo
Chapter10:Sydney
Chapter11:Theo
Chapter12:Sydney
Chapter13:Theo
Chapter14:Sydney
Chapter15:Theo
Chapter16:Sydney
Chapter17:Theo
Chapter18:Sydney
Chapter19:Sydney
Chapter20:Theo
Chapter21:Sydney
Chapter22:Theo
Chapter23:Sydney
Chapter24:Sydney
Chapter25:Sydney
Epilogue
AdditionalReadingMaterial
Acknowledgments
AbouttheAuthor
AlsobyAlyssaCole
Copyright
AboutthePublisher
Prologue
Sydney
HISTORYISFUCKINGWILD.
Lastfall,onanightwhenmyasswasgettingwellacquaintedwiththeuncomfortableguestchairinMommy’shospitalroom,I’dnumblytappedandswipedmywaytoanarticleaboutaplacecalledBlackAmerica.Notthelabelpoliticiansusetoplaceourconcernsintoaneatboxfullofworriestheydon’thavetoattendtoimmediatelyorever,butanactual,tangibleplace—aslaverythemeparkthat’dopenedinBrooklynattheendofthenineteenthcentury.
Slavery.Fucking.Themepark
BlackAmerica,thethemepark,wasbilledas“anopportunitytobecomefamiliarwithplantationlifeforthoseoftheNorthwhobelongtoagenerationtowhichthewordslaveryhasbutanindefiniteandhazymeaning.”Thiswas,like,twentyyearsafterslaveryended,mindyou.Imean,Itoogetnostalgicwhenaneightiesjamstartsplayingontheradio,butthesemotherfuckersreallyneededtoreminisceaboutowninghumans?
Itwasthe“thoseoftheNorth”partthatreallyannoyedme.TheNorthdoesnotremember;infact,theNorthhasasuper-selectivefuckingmemory.Asifslaverywassomethingthathappeneddownthere,eventhoughtherewereenslavedAfricansbuilding,planting,andharvestingincolonialBrooklynalongsidetheDutch.
Peopleburythepartsofhistorytheydon’tlike,paveitoverlikeAfricancemeteriesbeneathManhattanskyscrapers.Nothingstaysburiedinthiscity,though
Anyway:BlackAmerica.
WhitepeoplecametoBrooklyntotourthe“faithfullyrecreatedplantation.”TheysangalongtoNegrospiritualsandtookrefreshmentastheywatchedBlackpeople,freeBlackpeople,pretendtobeslaves.
History.
Wild.
AfterIstumbledontothatarticle,Brooklynhistorybecamearefugeforme.Itblottedoutthoughtsofmyfailedmarriageandthepersistentsensememoryofrestraintschafingmywrists.Itwassomethingtofocusonbesidesmymother’sillnessandthewayeverythingwaschanging.Everything,nomatterhowmuchIwantedtheworldtostopspinningforjustonegoddamnminute.
Idecidedtopayforoneofthoseexpensive-ass“HistoricBrooklynBrownstones”tours.I’dlivedinoneofthebeautifuloldbuildingsformostofmylife,apartfromthosefewyearsinSeattle,butIneededadistraction,andmaybeanoutletformyfrustrations.AGroupon-discountedtourwithameetingpointtwoblocksfrommyfrontdoorhadbeencheaperthantherapyandathousandtimeseasiertogetanappointmentfor.
IwantedtoknowwhatthetourguidessaidaboutusastheyledcrowdsoverthecrackedblueslatesidewalksofGiffordPlace.Iwantedtoknowwhatthetouristswereoohingandahhingoverwhentheyclusteredinfrontofourhouses,lookingthroughthepresentinhabitantsinsearchoflong-deadgrandeur.
Itwasadaythatactuallyfeltlikeautumn—theweathercoolenoughtowearacuteblazerandtheoaktreesliningGiffordPlaceablazeingoldandred.Iwasstruckbyhowbeautifulmyneighborhoodwas,bathedinthesewarmhuesthatcontrastedsowellwiththebrickandbrownstoneexteriors,howbeautifulithadalwaysbeendespitedecadesofbeingignored.Neglecthadshieldedus,inaway,andwatchingstrangersstrollthroughintheircomfortablesneakers,withNikonshangingaroundtheirnecks,feltlikeourwallshadbeenbreachedandthehordewasmarchingin.
Thetourguide,Zephyr,waspalewithabrownbobandaBritishaccentthatgaveherasenseofcheeryauthority,thoughitseemedlikeshe’djustmemorizedsomeWikipediafacts.Shedidn’tknowshitaboutmyneighborhood,really,butshedidn’tneedto.Thetouristsweren’ttheretohearaboutMommy’scommunitygarden,orthetimesomeoneleftasnakeandsometarotcardsonMs.Candace’sstoopwhentheythoughtshewastalkingshitaboutthem.Theydidn’twantananthropologicaldeepdiveintotherelationshipbetweenbodegaownerandlottoenthusiast,oranoralhistoryofstoopusage.
Zephyrwasjustfineforthem.
Shepointeddownthetree-linedstreetandaskedustoimaginetheBrooklynofold.IstaredatthespotswhereI’dskinnedmykneesRollerbladingandgottentangledupindouble-Dutchropes,butZephyrhadmeantoldold.Cobblestoneroadsandhorse-drawncarriagesandhomesownedbytheeliteoftheeliteold.Itwasprobablyeasytodoforthepeopleonthetour—thestreetwasquietandalmostempty,asifmyneighborshadsensedtheapproachoftheinterlopersandretreatedintothesafetyoftheirhomes.
Westartedtowalk,theleavescrunchingbeneathourshoesservingasthebeatunderZephyr’ssingsongvoice.
“AndthisistheformerGiffordMedicalCenter,originallytheVriesendaalSanitarium,completedin1830andshutteredin2005,”shesaidaswesteppedintothestreettobypassthechain-linkfencesurroundingthebuildingwhereIwasborn.Thearchitecturewasstillstriking,evenwiththeboarded-upwindows,butI’dknownitas“Murd-icalCenter,”thehospitalwhereeitherincompetenceorghostswouldfuckyouup,soIwasn’timpressed.
“Thisbuildinghasrecentlybeenthecenterofcontroversy,asit’soneoftheproposedsitesforthenextVerenTechPharmaceuticalscampus,”Zephyrsaid.“Therehavebeenprotestsbycommunityactivistswhodon’twantthecompanyhere,despitethepromiseofhundredsofnewjobsandarevitalizationofthearea.Thoseagainstthecampusarealsoupsetthatanopioidresearchcenterisbeingplacedinacommunitythattheyfeelwasoverpolicedduringtheirowndrugepidemic.”
Itwasabitmorecomplicatedthanthat—mybestfriend,Drea,workedforthecityandhadbeenkeepingmeandMommyinformedofwhatwouldhappenifVerenTechchoseourneighborhood,andnoneofitwasgood.Notforus.
“Thesepeopleareneversatisfied,”awhitemanwithgrayinghairgrumbled.
Iglaredathim,andsodidafewotherpeople,buthedidn’tseemtocare.Zephyrignoredhimandushereduson.
Aswestoppedinfrontofeachbrownstone,she’dcarefullydetailthelivesoftherichwhitepeoplewho’dlivedthereahundredyearsago—whatfoodthey’deaten,whatkindofclothingthey’dworn,thepartiesthey’dthrown.Thatwasallwellandgood,butasthetourpressedon,myfrustration—myangeratbeingerasedfrommyownlifeinsomanywaysI’dlostcount—pushedmyhandupintotheairliketheteacher’sbaneI’dbeenlong,longago,beforeI’dlearnedcuriositykilledthecat.Zephyrnarrowedhergazeatmeforjustasecond,perhapssensingmypettyintentions,beforesaying,“Yes?”
“SothestuffabouttheVanderwhositsiscool,butthewomanwholivesherenowwasthefirstBlackfemaleheadofanengineeringfirm,”Isaidpeevishly.
“Oh?Thanksforthattidbit.”ShewavedthetouronwardandIfollowed,smirkingbecauseannoyingpeoplewithhistorytheydidn’twanttoacknowledgewaskindoffun.
WestoppedinfrontofMr.Joe’shouse,andZephyrtalkedaboutsomearchitectnamedFrederickLangston.
“Thecurrentownerisajazzmusicianwhotraveledallovertheworld,playingwithsomeofthegreats,”Icutin.“Hegivesmusiclessonstochildrennow.”
“That’scool.Who’dhetourwith?”Thequestioncamefromatall,solidlybuiltwhiteguywithdirty-blondhair,aheavybrow,andridiculouscheekbones;heaskedquickly,asifpurposelytryingtogetthequestioninbeforeZephyrcouldtalkoverme.Hisgazewasfocused,andsomethingaboutthewayhewaitedintentlyforaresponsethrewmeoff.
Hisgirlfriend,ashort,high-ponytailedLululemontype,nudgedhimwithherelbow.“Theo.Stopdisruptingthetour,”shechided,asifhe’djustdroppedhispantstohisanklesinsteadofaskingaquestion,thenlookedinmydirectionasifherwordsalsoappliedtome.
TheIwishamotherfuckerwouldsimmeredinmyveinsatthefamiliarcondescensioninhereyes.Foramoment,PonytailLululemon’sfacemorphedintothatofthenursewho’dlookedmedeadintheeyeandsaidmymotherdidn’tneedmorepainmeds,evenasMommywrithedandwailedinthebedbesideus.
“Iappreciatethebonusinformation.It’squitehelpful,”Zephyrcutin,hertoneshowingshedidn’tappreciateitatall,“butthistourisabouthistoricallyimportantpeople.”
“ThisisahistoricallyBlackneighborhood,butnoneoftheimportantpeopleyou’vementionedthusfarhavebeen.Whatdoesthatmean?”
Herfaceflushedbutshehitmewithacustomer-servicesmile.
“Look…miss.I’mjustdoingmyjob.Ifyouhaveaproblemwiththistour,youcansendsuggestionstotheorganizers.Ormaybeyoushould,Idon’tknow,startyourown?”shesaidcheerily,thensmoothlyreturnedtoherscript.
Ipursedmylips.Nodded.Turnedandcrossedthestreet,headingtothebodegatogetaneggandcheeseonarollandacoffee,lightandsweet.Comfortfood.Abdulwasonthephonebehindthecounter,arguingwithhislandlordabouthowhecouldn’taffordanotherrenthike,whichdidn’thelpmymood,thoughplayingwithFrito,thestore’sresidentcat,did.
Iwalkedbythegroupafewminuteslaterastheylearnedaboutfiligreeorsomeshit,thenjoggedupthestepstomymother’shouseandturnedthekeyinthelockwithmoreforcethanwasnecessary.Theadvertisingflyersshovedintothecrackbetweenthedoorandthejambflutteredtotheground.
Sellyourhouseforbigmoney!Wepaycash!Quickandeasysales!screamedthecardsscatteredaroundmyfeet.Theoneclosesttothetoeofmyboot,fromacompanycalledGoodNeighborsLLC,hadthetagline,Wecareaboutyourfuture!
Zephyr’svoicefadedintothebackgroundasIsnatchedtheflyersandcrumpledthemup.Iwantedtoturnandthrowthewadatthetourgroup,tochasethemaway.Iwantedtocallthepoliceandreportstrangepeoplewhomightbecasingtheneighborhoodforabreak-in,likesomenewneighborshaddonethepreviousweek—policehadshownupandharassedamanwho’dlivedherefortwentyyears.
Logicprevailed—thatshitwouldn’tflyforme.Ialreadyknewhoweasyitwasforauthoritiestobelievesomeonelikemewasaproblemtobelockedaway;onewrongmoveonmyendandthevulturescirclingMommy’shousecouldgetwhattheywantedallthesooner.
IglancedovermyshoulderasIsteppedintothefoyer,mostlysoZephyrcouldseethatthiswasmyhouse,nomatterwhohadlivedhereinthenineteenthcentury,andcaughttheheavy-browedguywatchingmeintently.
Iclosedthedoorfirmlyinhisface.
WelcometotheOurHoodapp,helpingneighborsstayconnectedandstaysafe.YouhavebeenapprovedasamemberoftheGIFFORDPLACEcommunity.Pleaseusethesiteresponsiblyandrememberthateachoneofuscanmakeourneighborhoodabetterplace!
Chapter1
Sydney
ISPENTDEEPESTWINTERSHUFFLINGBACKANDFORTHBETWEENworkandhospitalvisitsanddoctor’sappointments.Ispentspringhermitingaway,managingmydepressionwiththehelpofaCBDpenandgenerouspoursoftheHennyI’dfoundinMommy’sliquorcabinet.
NowI’msittingonthestooplikeI’vedoneeverymorningsincesummerbreakstarted,watchingmyneighborscomeandgoasIsipcoffee,black,nosugar,gonelukewarm.
WhenImovedbackayearandahalfago,carryingtheashesofmymarriageandmyprideinanurnIcouldn’tstopsiftingthrough,IthoughtI’dbesittingoutherewithMommyandDrea,theholytrinityoffamiliarityrestored—mother,playsister,prodigalchild.Mommywouldtendtohermini-jungleofpottedplantsliningthesteps,andtome,helpingmesproutnewmetaphoricalleaves—tougherones,moreresilient.Dreawouldsitbetweenus,likeshehadsinceshewaselevenandbasicallymovedinwithus,sinceherparentssucked,crackingjokesortalkingaboutherlatestsidehustle.I’ddrawstrengthfromthemandtheneighborhoodthat’dalwayshadmyback.Butithadn’tworkedoutthatway;insteadofplantingmyfeetontosolidBrooklynconcrete,I’dfoundmyselfneck-deepinwetcement.
Lastmonth,ontheFourthofJuly,Ipriedopentheoldskylightonthetopfloorofthebrownstoneandsatuptherealone.WhenIwasateenager,MommyandDreaandIwouldpicnicontheroofeveryFourthofJuly,Brooklynsprawlingaroundusasfireworksburstinthedistance.WhenI’dclamberedupthereasanadult,alone,I’dbeenstruckbyhowclaustrophobictheviewlooked,withnewbuildingsfillingtheneighborhoodsaroundus,wheretherehadoncebeenopenair.Cranesloomedominouslyoverthesurroundingblockslikeinvadersfromanalienmovie,mantis-likeshadowswithredeyesblinkingagainstthenight,theAmericanflagsattachedtothemflappingdarklyinthewind,signalingthattheycameinpeacewhenreallytheywereheretodestroy.
Toremake.
Maybemyimaginationwasrunningawaywithme,butevenatgroundlevelthedifferenceisoverwhelming.Scaffoldsclingtobuildingsallovertheneighborhood,barnaclesofchange,andconstructionworkersguttheinnardsofhouseswhereIplayedwithfriendsasakid.Newcondosthatlooklikestacksofuglyshoeboxespopupinemptylots.
Thelandscapeofmylifeisunrecognizable;GiffordPlacedoesn’tfeellikehome.
Isigh,closemyeyes,andtrytorememberthefreedomIusedtofeel,firstasacarefreechild,thenasaknow-it-allteenager,asIheldcourtfromthistopstep,withtheworldrollingoutbeforeme.Threestoriesofcentury-oldbrickstoodbehindmelikeasolidwallofprotection,imbuedwiththeloveofmymotherandmyneighborsandthetenacityofmyblock.
Backthen,Iusedtogobarefoot,eventhoughMissWanda,who’dwrenchopenthefirehydrantforkidsonswelteringdaysliketheoneswe’vehadthissummer,usedtotellmeIwasgonnagetringworm.Thefeelofthestoop’scoolbrownconcretebeneathmyfeethadbeencalming.
Nowsomeonecallsthefiredepartmenteverytimethehydrantisopened,evenwhenweusethesprinklercapthatreduceswaterwaste.Iwearflip-flopsonmyownstoop,notworriedabouttheinfamousringwormbutsuddenlyself-consciouswhereIshouldbecomfortable.
MissWandaisgone;shesoldherplacewhileIwascocoonedindepressionatsomepointthisspring.Thewomanwho’dbeenmyneighboralmostallmylifeisgone,andIdidn’tevengettosaygoodbye.
AndMissWandaisn’ttheonlyone.
FivefamilieshavemovedfromGiffordPlaceinlessthanayear.Fivedoesn’tseemlikemuch,buteachoftheirbuildingshadthreetofourapartments,andthechangehasbeennoticeable,tosaytheleast.Andthatdoesn’tevencounttherenters.It’sgottentothepointwhereIfeelalittletwingeofdreadeverytimeIseeanewwhitepersonontheblock.Whodidtheyreplace?Therehave,ofcourse,alwaysbeenafewofthem,renterswhomostlycouldn’taffordtoliveanywhereelsebutwerealsocoolanddidn’tfuckwithanybody.Thesenewhomeownersmovedifferent.
There’sanolder,retiredcouplewhomostlyhavedinnerpartiesandmindtheirbusiness,butcall311tomakenoisecomplaints.JennandJen,thenicestofthenewcomers,whosemainissueistheyseemtohavebeentoldallBlackpeoplearehomophobic,sotheygooutoftheirwaytonormalizetheirownpresence,whileneverstoppingtowonderaboutthetwooldBlackwomenwholivenextdoortothemandaredefinitelynotsistersorjustfriends.
Thenthere’retheyoungfamilieslikethepeoplewhomovedintoMissWanda’shouse,orthosereadytostartafamily,likePonytailLululemonandherWanderingEyehusband,whoIfirstencounteredonthehistoricaltour.TheyboughtthePaynehouseacrossthestreet—guesstheyhadbeencasingtheneighborhood.
Theydon’thaveblinds,soIseewhattheydowhenthey’rehome.She’susuallytearingshitapartwhenshe’sthere,renovating,whichIguessissomekindofgeneticinheritancething.Heseemstoworkfromhomeandlikeswalkingaroundshirtlessonthetopfloor.I’veneverseenthemactuallyinteract;ifIhadamanwalkingaroundhalf-nakedinmyhouse,we’dbemorethaninteracting,butthat’snoneofmybusiness.
Theshrill,rapid-firebarkofadoglosingitsshitpullsmefrommythoughts.
“Goddammit,somebodyputhiminhiscagebeforetheguestsarrive!Terry!”awomanyells,followedbyamanshouting,“Christ,calmdown,Josie!Arwin!DidyouletTobyoutofhiscage?”
TerryandJosieandArwinandTobyareMissWanda’sreplacements.They’veneverproperlyintroducedthemselves,butwithalltheyellingtheydo,Ifiguredouttheirnamesquickly.
Tobybarksincessantlywhilethey’reatworkandschoolandwheneverhedamnwellpleasesbecauseheneedsmoreexerciseandbettertraining.Terrywearsill-fittingsuitstowork,leersattheteenagegirlsintheneighborhood,anddoesn’tpickupToby’sshitwhenhethinksnooneiswatching.Josiewearstailoredsuitstowork,spendsherweekendsdividingherbackyardgardenintoexactlysizedplots,andobsessivelypostsintheColumbus-lytitledOurHoodappaboutpeoplewhodon’tpickupdogwaste.
Claude,myfirstpost-divorcefriendwithbenefits,usedtocallmynewneighbors“BeckyandBecky’sHusband.”Welaughedathowthey’dpeeksuspiciouslyathimthroughthecurtainswhenhewaitedformeinhiscaroutfront,orhowthey’dhurrypastwhenhestoodatmyfrontdoorinsaggedjeansandTimbsinsteadofhistailoredworksuitsandloafers.
Claudeisgonenow,too.HetextedrightbeforeValentine’sDay:
Notfeelin’thisanymore.
Maybethere’dbeenanotherwoman.MaybeI’dspenttoomuchtimestressingovermymother.Maybehe’djustsensedwhatI’dtriedtohide:thatmylifewasaspinoutonaslickroadandthesmartthingtodowaspumpthebrakeswhilehecould.
WhenDreahadopenedherapartmentdoorandfoundmesnifflingasIclutchedapintofTalenti,she’dhuggedme,thengivenmyshoulderalittleshake.“Girl.Sydney.I’msorryyou’resad,buthowmanytimesdoIhavetotellyou?Youwon’tfindgoldpanninginFuckboyCreek.”
Shewasright.
It’sbetterthisway;awarmbodyinbedisniceinthewinterbutit’stoodamnhotforcuddlinginthesummerunlessyouwanttoruntheACnonstop,andIdon’thaveAC-nonstopmoneyatthemoment.
Inoticeagroupofpeopleapproachingfromthefarendoftheblock,downbythegarden,andscratchatmyneck,atthepatchofskinwhereafewmonthsagothreeitchybiteshadarisenallinarow.BEDBUGShadbeenthefirstresultofafrantic“whatthefuckarethesebites”internetsearch.Plastic-wrappedmattressesonthecurbareacommonsightnow,thebedbugsapparentlyhitchingridesontheunwashedlegssteadilymarchingintotheneighborhood.Evenafterweeksofsteamingandbleachingandboilingmyclothesandbedding,Ican’tshakethetaintedfeeling.IwakeupinthemiddleofthenightwiththesensationofsomethingIcan’tseefeastingonme—Ihavetofilemynailsdowntokeepfromscratchingmyselfraw.
Maybeit’stoolate;maybeI’malreadysuckeddry.
Sureashellfeelsthatway.
IdropmyheadandletthemorningsunheatmyscalpasIsithunchedandhopeless.
ThegroupI’dspotted,apparentlythisweek’sbatchofbrunchguests,clustersafewfeetawayfrommeonthesidewalkinfrontofTerryandJosie’souterstairs,andIstopslouching:shouldersback,chinup.Iposeasthepictureofunbothered—languorouslysippingmybodegacoffeeandpretendingsweatisn’tbeadingatmyhairlineasIblatantlywatchthem.Noneofthemevenglanceatme.
TerryandJosiecomeoutside—herrockinganangularI’dliketospeaktothemanagerplatinum-dyedbobandhimwithatightfakesmile.Theykeeptheirheadsrigidlystraightandtheirgazesfixedontheirfriendsastheygreetthem,likeI’majunkyarddogwhomightgrowliftheymakeeyecontact.
Idon’tthinktheyevenknowmynameisSydney.
Idon’twanttoknowwhat“funny”nicknametheyhaveforme.
“Theplacelooksgreat,”oneoftheirfriendssaysastheystartupthestairs
“WeusedthesamecompanyasSalandSylvieonFlipYo’Crib,”Josierepliesasshestopsjustinfrontofthedoorwaysotheycanadmirethenewlyinstalledvintagedoorandstainedglassinthetransomwindowaboveit
Theircontractorshadstartedtheirearly-morningrepairsrightafterthenewyear,wakingMommyupeachtimeshefinallymanagedtogetcomfortableenoughtorest.Inthespring,I’dbeenjoltedawakeafullhourearlybeforeIhadtoheadtotheschoolofficeandsmileatannoyingchildrenandtheirannoyingparentsallday—everyonewasannoyingwhenyoujustwantedtosleepandnotwakeupforyears.
Orever.
“Youjustwouldnotbelievehowthesepeopledon’tappreciatethehistoricvalueoftheneighborhood,”Josiesays.“Wehadtocompletelyrenovate.Itwaslikethere’dbeenazooherebefore!”
Iglanceatheroutofthecornerofmyeye.MissWandahadbeenofthe“bleachfumessostrongtheyburnedherneighbors’lungs”schoolofcleaning.Josie’sadamnliar,andIhavethenear-deathexperiencewithaccidentalmustardgastoproveit.
“Theotherhouseslooknicetome,especiallythisone,”saysthelastpersonintheirlineoffriends,awomanofEastAsiandescentwithababystrappedtoherchest.“Itlookslikeatinycastle!”
Ismile,thinkingaboutthedayswhenI’dsitatthewindowsetinthewhimsicalbrickdemi-turret,acapturedprincess,whilemyfriendsscrambledonthesidewalkoutfront,vyingforthechancetorescuemefromtheevilwitchholdingmecaptive.It’scooltosaytheprincessshouldsaveherselfnowadays,butIdon’tthinkI’veexperiencedthatsensationoutsideofchildren’sgames—ofhavingsomeonewillingtorisklifeandlimb,everything,tosaveme.
Mommyprotectedme,ofcourse,butbeingprotectedwasdifferentfrombeingsaved.
Josiewhirlsonthetopstepandfrownsdownatherfriendforapparentlynotbeingdisdainfulenough.“Thehouseslookniceinspiteof.NoamountofuglyHomeDepotplantscanhidetheneglect,either.”
Oooh,thisbitch.
“Right,”herfriendsays,anxiouslystrokingthebaby’sback.
“AllI’msayingisthatIcantracemyancestorsbacktoNewAmsterdam.Iappreciatehistory,”Josiesays,turningtocontinueintothehouse.
“Well,familytreeshavealotofmissingleavesaroundhere,ifyouknowwhatImean,”Terryaddsashefollowsherinside.“Ofcoursetheydon’tappreciatethatkindofthing.”
MaybeIshouldhopoverthebanisterofmystoopandgivethemalessononthehistoryofcurbstompingiftheylikehistorysodamnmuch.
Thechastisedwoman’sgazeflitsovertomineandshegivesmeanapologeticwaveofacknowledgmentasshefilesintothehouse.Thedoorclosesfirmlybehindher.
Iwasalreadytired,buttearsofangerstingmyeyesnow,thoughIshouldbeimmunetothisbullshit.Itisn’tfair.Ican’tsitonmystoopandenjoymyneighborhoodlikeoldtimes.EvenifIretreattomyapartment,itwon’tfeellikehomebecauseMommywon’tbewaitingupstairs.Isittrappedattheedgeofthedisorientingpanicthatstrikestoooftenlately,thegroundundermyassandthesolesofmyflip-flopstheonlythingsconnectingmetothisplace.
Ijustwanteverythingtostop.
“Hey,Sydney!”
Iglanceacrossthestreetandthereliefofseeingafamiliarfacehelpsmegetittogether.Mr.Perkins,myothernext-doorneighbor,andhispittiehound,CountBassie,strollbyononeoftheircountlessdailyroundsoftheneighborhood.MommyhadgonetotheASPCAwithMr.Perkinsafterhiswifehadpassedafewyearsback,andhe’sbeeninseparablefromthebrown-and-whitedogeversincethen.
“Morning,Sydneyhoney!”Mr.Perkinscallsoutinthatscratchyvoiceofhis,hisarmrisingslowlyabovehisbaldheadashewavesatme.Countletsoutoneloud,ridiculouslylow-tonedbark,adoggieheygirl;helovesmebecauseIgivehimcheeseandotherdelicioushumanfoodwhenhesitsclosetome.
“Morning!”Icallout,feelingalittleburstofenergyjustfromseeinghim.He’salwaysbeenhere,lookingoutformeandmymom—foreveryoneintheneighborhood.
He’susuallyupandmakinghisdailyroundsbysix,stoppingbyvariousstoops,makinghousecalls,keepinganeartothegroundandasmileonhisface.It’swhywecallhimtheMayorofGiffordPlace.
Rightnow,he’slikelyonhiswaytoSaturdayservices,judgingfromhiskhakisandpressedshirt.Countusuallysitsathisfeet,andMr.Perkinsjokesthatwhenhehowlsalongwiththechoir,hehitstherightnotemoreoftenthanhalfthehumanssinging.
“Yougonnahavethattourreadyfortheblockpartynextweek?Candaceisonmybehindaboutitsinceyouputitontheofficialschedule.”
Iwanttosayno,it’snotready,eventhoughI’vebeenworkingonitbitbybitformonths.Itwouldbesoeasyto,sinceIhavenoideaifanyonewilltakethistour,evenforfree,muchlesspayforit,but…whenI’dangrilytoldMommywhatZephyrhadsaidtomeaboutstartingmyowntour,herfacehadlitupforthefirsttimeinweeks.
“YoualwaysdidhavetheHistoryChannelon,turningtoSecretsofWorldWarIIorsomemesswhileIwastryingtowatchmystories.Whyshouldn’tyoudoit?”
Itbecameagameforus,findingtopicsthatIcouldworkintothetour—itwassomethingwecoulddowhileshewasinbed,anditkeptbothofusoccupied.
“ThisisthefirsttimeI’veseenthatoldfireinyoureyessinceyougothome.I’mgladyou’recomingbacktoyourself,Syd.Ican’twaittotakeyourtour.”
“How’syourmamadoing?”Mr.Perkinscallsout,thequestioncausingarippleofpainsorealthatIdrawmykneesuptomychest.
“She’sdoinggood,”Isay,hatingthelieandashamedoftheresentmentthatwellsupinmeeverytimeIhavetotellit.“Hatesbeingawayfromhome,butthat’snosurprise.”
Henods.“Notatall.Yolandalovedthisneighborhood.TellherI’mprayingforherwhenyouseeher.”
“Iwill.”
Countlungesafterapizzacrustleftonthesidewalk,suddenlyspry,andMr.Perkinsgiveschase,bringingthepainfulconversationtoablessedend.
“CometotheplanningmeetingonMonday,”hecallsoutwithawaveashewalkson.“I’vegotsomepapersforyou.”
Hecouldjusthandthemtome,butIthinkhe’smakingsureIshowup.Heknowsmewell.
Inodandwave.ThewindowofJosieandTerry’slivingroomslamsshut,punctuatingourconversation.
Itakeasipofmycoffeeandheartheslappingoftwosetsoffeetagainstthesidewalk.
“Goodmorning!”JennandJensay.They’reholdinghandsastheystridedownthestreetinsync,matchingsmilesontheirfaces.Eventheirflourishingplotsinthegardencomplementeachother:Jen’sburstingwithflowersandJenn’swithvegetables.
“Morning!Haveagoodday,youtwo,”Isayastheymarchpast,soundinglikeanauntieeventhoughthey’reprobablyonlyafewyearsyoungerthanme.
I’mnotfakingmypleasantness.Iwantthemtoknowthatiftheirpresencebothersme,it’snotbecausethey’reholdinghands.It’sbecauseofeverythingelse.IwishIdidn’thavetothinkabouteverythingelse,but…MissWandaisgone.TheHancocks.Mr.Joe.
Sometimesitfeelslikeeverythingrock-solidaboutmyworldisslippingaway,likethesandsuckedthroughmyfingerswhenI’dsitinthebreakingwavesatConeyIsland.
Isuddenlyrememberoneofourmother-daughterbeachdays,whenIwasfourorfive.MommyhadtreatedmetoNathan’s,andaseagullswoopeddownandsnatchedacrinkle-cutfrenchfryoutofmyhandrightbeforeIbitintoit.Thebiggestfry.I’dsaveditforlast.Thesuddenshockofthefrytheft,theunfairnessofit,hadmademestartwailing.Mommyshookherheadandlaughedasshewipedmycheekswiththumbsgrittyfromsandandsmellingofketchup.“Baby,ifyouwannakeepwhat’syours,yougottaholdontoitbetterthanthat.Someoneisalwayswaitingtosnatchwhatyougot,eventhesedamnbirds.”
I’mtrying,Mommy.AndIhateit.
Ashiverrunsdownmyspinedespitetheheat,andwhenIlookup,IseeBillBilcoming.HisnameisWilliamBilford,realestateagent,butIcallhimBillBilbecauseitannoyshimandwhyshouldIbetheonlyonesuffering?I’malone,mynewneighborsareassholes,andthisconartistisroamingtheneighborhood,tryingtobringinmoreofthem.
Igrimaceinhisdirection.He’swearingjeansthataretoothickandtootightfortheheatindexandtheamountofwalkinghe’sdoing.TherearesweatstainsaroundthearmpitsofhistightgrayT-shirt,hintingattheswamp-asshorrorshowthatmustbeplayingbelow.Hisfacesportscarefullycontouredstubbleandeyesthatarered-rimmedfromtoomuchboozeorcokeorboth.Hislightbrownhairiscarefullystyled,though,sohe’snotentirelyamess.
“Hey,Ms.Green,”hesayswithawinkandagrinthatprobablygoesoverwellinadivebarinWilliamsburgbuthasnoeffectonmeatall.
“Hey,BillBil,”Ichirp.Hisshark’ssmiledoesn’tfalterbutthebrightnessinhiseyesdims.IpickuptheloosieandlighterIboughtfromthebodegaandmakeabigproductionofholdingtheflametothetipofthecigarette.Thesmokethatfloodsmymouthisdisgusting—Icantastethecancer,andhey,maybethat’swhatmakesitenjoyable—butI’vebeensmokingonewithmymorningcoffeeeverynowandagainanyway.
“That’sbadforyourhealth,”hesays.
Iexhaleacloudofsmoketowardwherehe’sstandingatthebottomofthestairs.“Nothinghaschangedfromthelasttentimesyouwalkedbyhere.We’restillnotsellingthehouse.Haveablessedday.”
Hissharksmilewidens.“Comeon.I’mjustbeingfriendly.”
“You’rejusttryingtocreateafalsesenseofcamaraderiebecauseyouthinkit’llmakemetrustyou.Thenyoucanconvincemetosellsoyoucanpocketthatsweet,sweetcommission.”
“Youreallythinkthat?”Heshakeshishead.“I’moutheretryingtohelp.Alotofpeopledon’tevenknowthattheycouldearnmorethanthey’veeverhadintheirentirelife,justbymoving.”
“Movingwhere?Wherearepeoplesupposedtogoifeventhisneighborhoodbecomestooexpensive?”
Isuckatmycigarette,hard.
Hesighs.“Thestruggleisreal;Ifeelthat.WhydoyouthinkI’moutherehustling?Ihavebillstopay,too,butIdon’thaveahousetosellforahugeprofit.IfIdid,Icouldpayoffschoolloans,medicalbills.”Heshrugs,likehecouldn’thelpbutpointoutthosetwospecificthings.
“Well,thereareplentyofvulturescircling,soifIdogiveupontheneighborhood,Ihavelotsofrealtorstochoosefrom.”MyhandshakesasIliftthecigarettetomylipsagain,andItrynottofumbleit.
Hedropshisaffablesharkmask.
“YouactlikeI’msomescumbag,butyoujustprovedmypoint.Therearelotsofrealtorsinterestedinthisarea,especiallywiththeVerenTechdealasgoodasdone.It’sthehottestemergingcommunityinBrooklynrightnow.”
“Emergingcommunity?”Itiltmyhead.“Emergingfromwhere?Theprimordialooze?”
Hisbrowsliftabit,andIknowit’snotbecausehe’sregisteredmyquestionbutbecausethemotherfuckerissurprisedIcanuseprimordialinasentence.
“Look.”Herunsahandoverhishairbackwardandthenforward,notmessinguphislook.“I’mnotsomevillaintwirlingmymustacheandtryingtopushpeopleoutontothestreet.I’mnotevenoneofthebuyerscarryingaroundbagsofcashandblankcheckstotemptpeopleintotakingbaddeals.I’mjustanormalguydoinganormaljob.”
Justdoingmyjob.HowmanytimeshaveIheardthatwhilearguingwithpeopleovermymother’shealth,money,andfuture?Everyoneisjustdoingtheirjob,especiallywhenthatjobislucrativeandscrewspeopleover.
“AndI’mjustahomeownerwho’stoldyourepeatedlythatIdon’twanttosell,”Isay.
“Youdon’thavetosell,”hesays,walkingoffinsearchofsomeonemorereceptivetohisbullshit.“Butyoucan’tstopchange,youknow.”
Idon’tthinkhe’seventryingtobethreatening,butImashoutthecigaretteagainstthebottomofmyflip-flopandstand,suddenlyfullofnervousenergy.Aftersteppingintothehallwaytograbmygardeningbagandsliponsneakers,IlockthedoorandmakemywaytoMommy’scommunitygarden.IcouldnevermanagetokeepevenaChiaPetalive,butI’mdoingmybest.Igoeveryday;Iputinwork,evenifIdon’thavemuchtoshowforit.
Itkeepsmeclosetoher,andthatdullsawaythesharpedgesoftheguiltthat’salwayspokingatme.Isighdeeply,thenpulloutmyphoneandcallher—itgoestovoicemail.AndwhenIhearhervoicesay,“You’vereachedYolandaGreen.I’mawayfrommycellphoneorotherwiseindisposed.Leaveamessage,unlessyou’reaskingformoney,becauselordknowsIdon’thaveany,”mythroatgoesroughasusual.
“Hi,Mommy,”Isayafterthebeep,eventhoughIusuallydon’tleavemessages.“Thingsarehard,butI’mholdingsteady.Justwantedtohearyourvoice,butI’llseeyousoon.Loveyou.”
GiffordPlaceOurHoodpostbyAshleyJones:
Foranyonewhohasn’tseenit,here’sanarticleaboutVerenTechPharmaceuticalschoosingtheoldmedicalcenterasthelocationfortheirU.S.headquartersandresearchcenter.
AsiaMartin:*sigh*I’msorry.Iknowyou,Jamel,andPrestonwereoutthereprotestingeveryweek.Thedrugresearchcenterisnice,butIwishwecouldhavehadsomethinglikethatinsteadofgettinglockedupandhavingourbabiestakenaway.
CandaceTompkins:Speakonit.
JamelJones:Don’tgetmestarted.Apartfromthat,madshadyshitwentdownatthecommunityboardmeetings.Onerepbasicallytoldus“fuckyocommunity.”ThewildestpartisthecityispayingTHEMtocomehere!To“revitalize”thearea.Meanwhile,theybeenignoringusforyears.
CandaceTompkins:Revitalizetheirpocketsmorelike…eminentdomainsooncome.
KimDeVries:Weshouldallbehappythatthisdrugcrisisisbeingrespondedtowithkindnessandcompassion.Itwillbegreatfortheneighborhood,too.LookathowmuchnicerdowntownBrooklynhasbecomesincetheRatnerdeal.
DreaWilson:
CandaceTompkins:(75additionalcomments…seemore)
Chapter2
Theo
THERE’SANEMPTYBEERCANPOKINGINTOMYRIBCAGEwhenIwakeupandaphotoalbumlaidflatopenacrossmychest.Awarmwetspotundermyarmpitrevealsthebeercanhadn’tbeenemptywhenIpassedoutlastnight.WhenIshift,there’sthecrunchofchipsbreakingandabagcrumpling,andshardsofCoolRanchDoritosstabintomyback.
Reallylivingthedreamhere,bud.
MybodyhurtsasIstretch,theacheoftoomuchbooze,toomuchsalt,andthecrushingstressofmylifefallingapart.Thebeercantumblestothefloor,butIholdthephotoalbumtomychestprotectively.Afterafewsecondsoflettingtheblearinessfade,Ileanitbacktoseewhatpageit’sopento—apictureof“thegrandparents,”anelderlycouplewithdarkskin.He’sbald,andherhairissilver-whiteandclose-cropped.Inthisphoto,developedonheavystockpaperandwithawhiteframearoundit,they’redressedintheirSundayfinestoutsideabigchurchthatlooksliketheoneafewstreetsover.
Thepicturesaremostlyfromthisneighborhood.Myneighborhood,Iguess—mineandKim’s—eventhoughImostlyfeelthewayIdowiththisphotoalbum:likeacreeplookinginatotherpeople’slivesfromtheoutside.
Thepicturesareold—mostspanningtheforties,fifties,sixties,seventies.ThepeopleareBlack,likemostofmyneighbors,andtheywearneatlyhemmeddressesandstylishsuits,withtheirhairflatandshinyinsomephotosandpuffedoutinAfrosinthelaterpages.Aweddingphotoshowingthegrandparentsbeforetheyweregrandparents.Younggrandpagoingofftowar.Laughingwithyounggrandmauponhisreturn.Babiesuponbabies.Friendsandfamily.Beachtrips.
It’skindofweird,howoftenIflipthroughthisalbumofotherpeople’smemoriesIfoundatopapileoftrashwhilewalkingthestreetsinthemiddleofthenight,butthepeopleinthesephotoslookperfect,happy,andfulloflove.It’stheclosestI’vegottentoanyofthosethingsinalongtime,maybeever,butitwassounremarkabletosomeoneonthisstreetthattheyleftitoutongarbagenight.
Thehammeringthatawakenedmestartsupagain—absurdlyrelentless,asifaLooneyTunescharacterbrokeinandisbangingamalletagainstawallforthechaoticjoyofit.It’sahomingbeacongivingthelocationofthepersonIoncethoughtwouldbringmeperfection,happiness,andlove.Ipressmypalmsagainstmyears,tryingtodrownoutwhat’sbecomemymillennialversionof“TheTell-TaleHeart”—“TheRenovation-CrazedGirlfriend.”
Orex-girlfriend?
It’scomplicated.
TheideathatKimandIoncethoughtwelikedeachotherenoughtobuyahometogethermakesmecringe.ThefactthatIthoughtshe’dneverfigureoutIwasthekindofitemtobeleftoutongarbagenight,somethingnooneshouldpickup,bandsshameacrossmyshoulderblades.
Iclimboutofbedandtakeafewheavystepsovertothewindow.Onegoodthingaboutbeingstuckinthisshittyapartment?Itgivesmeagreatviewofhalfthestreet—thewholestreetifIshovemyheadout.Icanseewhocomesandgoes,whatpatternspeoplefallintowithoutrealizingit,andwhenI’mreallybored,whatmyneighborsdointheprivacyoftheirownhomes.
Mr.Perkins,theniceoldguyfromacrossthestreet,shufflespastawindowinhislivingroom.He’soneofmyfavoritepeopleonthestreettowatch:he’soutthereeveryday,reliableandfriendly.Consistent.It’saroundthedog’sfeedingtime,andinafewminutesMr.Perkinswilltakehimoutforthefirstofmanywalks.Iadmirehisabilitytosticktoastrictschedulewhilealsoseemingtobeputteringaroundathisleisure.Healwayschatswhenourpathscross,eveninvitingmetolocaleventsthatIneverattendbecauseitwouldbeawkwardtogowithoutKim.
MygazedropsdowntothewhirofmotionI’vebeensavingforlast—she’ssweepingthesidewalkinfrontofherhouse.Thewomanfromthebrownstonetour.TheInterrupter.
Untilafewweeksago,she’dleaveherhouseinbusinesscasualeverymorning,andthenreturnintheafternoon.Nowshehasacupofcoffeeonherstoopbeforeheadingtothecommunitygardendownthestreetwithgardeningsupplies—maybeshe’soutofajob,too.Becausehercurtainsaresosheerwhensheturnsonherlightsthatthey’rebasicallyuseless,Iknowsheoftenenjoysaglassofwineand,sometimes,twerkinginfrontofthemirrorinherlivingroom.
Afterafewglassesofwine,thetwerkingsometimesdissolvesintotears.Iavertmygazemoreoftenthannotwhenthathappens,butI’veraisedmybeerbottleinsilentsolidarity,too.
I’vemadeupcountlessbackstoriesforher.She’stakingonlineclasses,sinceshe’softentappingawaystudiouslyatherlaptop,andonceshegraduatesshe’llfindajobthatmakesherhappy,ifsuchathingexists.She’sadedicatedgardenerbecauseshe’sthekindofpersonwholovesmakingthingsgrow—anurturer.
Imakeupthingsaboutthefuture,too,likewhatmighthappenifIringherbellthenexttimeshestartstotwerk—ortocry.ConcoctingafantasywhereIsaveabeautifuldamselindistress,orhavesexwithher,iswaymoresatisfyingthandealingwithreality.
Outsidethewindow,threeneighborhoodkidsspeedpastontheirbikesandshecallsoutgreetingstothem,followedbyawarningtowatchoutforcarsintheintersectionastheycontinueon.
Terry,theshitheadwholivesnextdoortotheInterrupter,walksoutofhishousewithhisshitheaddog.ItboundsdownthestairswhilebarkingatthekidsonbikesandgetscaughtshortbyitsleashbecausetheInterrupterisbendingovertopicksomethingupandTerry’sbusyoglingherass.
Thehammeringrestartsinearnestdownstairs.
Sweatbeadsonmytemples,mychest,myback,andwhenitrollsintomyasscrack,Isighdeeplyandpeelmyarmfromthechippedpaintofthewindowframe.I’mprettysurewhoeverownedthishouseinthepastcookedmealsuphereinthesummerbecausethisapartmentalsofunctionsasanoven.
Andyou’retheturkeythatvoluntarilysteppedintoit.
Ileavetheapartmentwithachangeofclothesandthree-in-onebodywash,shampoo,andconditionerrolledupinatowel,thentrudgethroughthewallpaper-strippedhallwaysanddowntwoflightsofyet-to-be-varnishedhardwoodstairs.
Myshowerhasn’tworkedforweeks.MyfirstBrooklynsummerhasmostlybeenspentswelteringinthisatticapartment,marinatinginbeerfumesandhangoverfunkuntilI’mgrodyenoughtoslinkdownstairsforashower.
Icouldtryrepairingit,forthetenthtime,butsomehoweachtimeIdo,anewproblemappears.Iwasthemanofthehousegrowingup,inbetweenMom’sboyfriends,andI’veworkedconstructionjobsbetweenmorelucrativegigs.Andyet.
“Mustbegremlins,”Kimhadshoutedoverhershoulderaweekagoasshetookapowersandertoabrand-newtabletomakeitlookold.“Ormaybeyou’reactuallyfuckingthingsupwhenyouthinkyou’refixingthem?”
Storyofmylife.
ThepathtothebathroomonthemainfloorisclearsinceKimiscurrentlybusywithherdementedhammering,soIslideintotheshowerandwashquickly,efficiently,likeI’minaprisonshowerandcan’tdropmyguard.
Afterward,nolongersmellinglikestaleIPAandflopsweat,Isteelmyselfandwalkintothekitchen.
Halfthecabinetdoorsareofftheirhingesandathinlayerofsawdustcoversthefloorandtheotherflatsurfaces.Kimiswearingarattybutexpensivetanktopandyogapantswithcatpawsalloverthem,eventhoughshethinkscatsareparasites;herhairisupinamessybunontopofherhead,andherexpressionissolemnandfocused.Forasecond,itfeelslikeayearago,beforethingshadgonebad,whenIfoundher“concentration”facesodamnsexyshehadtoshutthedooronmewhilescrollingthroughrealestatelistings.
Alotcanchangeinayear.Notthedoorshuttinginmyface,thoughnowit’smorelikethreedoorsandtwostories.
ShehasheriPadholderwiththeextensibleneckclampedtothecounter,andshe’ssquintingatthescreen,scrubbingherfingerupandupandupoverthesmoothglass,leavingtrailsinthesawdust.
Icanguesswhatshe’slookingat.TwoappswereclockingthemostusageonherdeviceslasttimeIwasprivytothatinfo:OurHood,akindofvirtualneighborhoodwatchthat’sfascinatinginitsabilitytoturnanyactivityintosomethingsinister,andBoomtown,thehomerenovationanddecorationappforpeoplelikeus—orlikeher,rather.WealthymillennialswhobuyandDIYforfunandprofitbecausetheyplantosellthehousestheybuyonthecheapin“emergingcommunities.”
Whenwe’dscoredanadvancedviewingforthisplace,ItoldherIlikedthevintagefeelofthekitchen,withitsdarkwoodcabinetsandstained-glasswindows.Apparently,whatIthoughtwascool,sheconsideredgauche.
Thisisthethirdtimeshe’srepaintedthecabinets,thelastattemptahideouspeachcolorbuffedwithrosegold.Halfthehouseisinvariousstagesof“workinprocess,”andI’mnolongerconsultedonprojects.
Herinterestinmedroppeddrasticallyoverthecourseofthehome-buyingprocess,thoughshekeptinsistingthingswerefine.Melosingmyjobshortlyafterthemovewasthecherryontheshitcakethat’sourrelationshipnow.Thatshedoesn’tknowtherealreasonformyunemployment?Iguessthat’sthedecorativeicing;itspellsoutAtleastyoutried
Ishouldbegladthingsdidn’tturnoutworsethanmyrelationshipfounderingontherocks,butI’veneverbeenonetofocusonthebrighterside.
“Goodmorning.”Itrytosoundpleasant,notlikesomeonewho’sconsideredgatheringupallherexpensivegoldjewelryandtouringpawnshopsinthetri-statearea.
We’relinkedbythehouse,afterall;separatingwouldbeaclusterfuck.I’dlosethousandsofdollarsandhavetoscrambletofigureoutwheretogoandwhattodo.Plus,wedidcareforeachotheronce,noteventhatlongago.
WhenKimdoesn’trespondtomygreetingIsay,“Wow.HGTVcityinhere,huh?”
Sheglancesupfromherscreenandthemildcontemptinhergazeislikeherfancyceramicknifeslashingacrossmygut.Sheperksupamomenttoolateandgesturestothemessscatteredacrossthekitchen.“Sorryaboutthenoise.Icouldn’tsleepandfiguredIshouldbeproductiveinsteadoflazingaround.”
Thewaythecornersofhermouthturnupintosomethinglikeasmilepourssaltalongthegutwound.
Thishousewasabadidea.
EverythingbetweenmeandKimoverthelastyearwasabadidea.
Band-AidsoverBand-AidsoverBand-Aids,sowedidn’tevenknowwhatpus-filledwoundstheycovered,oriftherewasevenanythingleftbeneaththescab.
“Howdidyousleep?”sheasks,herattentionbackonheriPad.Shedoesn’tcarehowIslept.Thequestionisjustnoisetofillthesilencebetweenus,likethedrillingandthehammeringandthepowersanding.
“Okay,”Isaycautiously—herquestionwasbenignbutthatdoesn’tmeanitcan’tleadtoanotherpointlessargument.“It’sgettingwaytoohotuponthetopfloor,though.IneedtoupgradefromtheboxfantoanAC.”
“Summer’salmostover.Youreallycan’trideoutafewmoreweeks?”There’sthatexpressionagain—notsomuchasneerastheabsenceoftheabilitytopretendtocare.“Besides,Isawyouwithanewcamera.Maybeyoushould’vespentthatmoneymorewisely.”
Igrunt,rufflingmyhairwithonehand.
Kimhasatop-of-the-lineACunitinherbedroom,whereshesleepsonthethree-thousand-dollarmattressshepurchasedshortlybeforebanishingmeupstairs.
ShesleepsincomfortonthefirstfloorwhileIsweatintheattic,withallofherreasonsforourseparation-in-deed-but-not-namepopulatingthetwofloorsbetweenus:
ShewasscaredI’dcheatonher,andthathurther.
ShestillhadfeelingsforDavid,whomshe’dactuallyfuckingcheatedonmewith,andthathurther.
Shecouldn’tbesureIwasn’tusingherforhermoney.
Shecouldn’trelyonme.
Sheneededtimetofigurethingsout.
I’dswallowedmyfrustrationasIcarriedmystuffupstairs,almostbreakingmyneckthreetimesandunsureifshe’dcareifIdid.
Ihadn’tpointedoutthatshe’dbeentheonewhopushedforhomeownershiptobeginwith—who’dtalkedaboutthehouseasaninvestmentforbothofus,asawaytoreconnectandreaffirmhercommitmentaftertheDavidsituation.She’dinsistedthatweweregoingtogetmarriedanyway,despiteeverything,andalsopressedthatpriceswouldn’tstaylowinthisneighborhoodforlong.
I’dstayedwithherandgonealongwiththehousepurchaseinpartbecause,hell,noonehadeverpursuedmelikethat,andinpartbecauseshewastheonefromawealthyfamilyandshewasgoingtotakecareofallthehardmoneystuff.
God,itallseemssostupidwhenIlayitoutlikethat.Shedidn’ttrapme;Iwasjustanidiotwithsomethingtoprove.Ihadnofuckingideawhatbuyingahouseentailed—MomandIhadmovedfromapartmenttoapartment,outrunningevictionsandthefistsattachedtoherbaddecisions.
Ihadnoideawhatagoodrelationshipwassupposedtolooklike,either.MineandKim’sseemedsonormal,likeinsitcomswherethewifenitpicksandthehusbandisslightlydismayedwiththestateofhislifeandthat’sfine.That’sjusthowthingsare.
Now,asIlookather,there’sachallengeinhereyes.Onethatsayssheknowsshe’shurtingmewithherlate-nightandearly-morningrenovations,withherjabsaboutmyunemployment,andsheenjoysit.
Maybethisisnormal.
Thereareworsethings.Blackeyesandbruisesandholesinwallsmadebyfistsinsteadofhammers,forinstance.
Iwalkovertothecoffeemakersittingonabarstoolandrestmyknucklesagainstthecarafetoseeifit’sstillwarm.
“Theremightbesomepaintdustinthere,”shesaysinthattonebetweenplayfulnessandcontempt.
“Youdidn’tuseleadpaint,right?”Ijoke.
Sherollshereyesandit’salmostlikeoldtimes,whichmakesmewonderwhethertheoldtimeswereeverreallythatgood.
Ibrewanewpot.
ANHOURLATER,I’vewrangledthekitchenintosomesemblanceoforderwhileshe’spaintedcabinetdoorsinthebackyard.Itfeelsalittlebitlikewhenweusedtodothingsasacouple,withoutthehair-triggercontemptthatledtoourupstairs/downstairslivingarrangement.
Whenshestepsbackinside,herfaceflushedandherexpressionserene,Igethitwiththesudden,naivebeliefthatwecangetbacktohowwewerebefore.
Ithinkwecan.
Maybe?
Idon’tknow.Butsomepartofme,probablytheself-destructivehopefulnessthatIinheritedfrommymother,drivesmetosay,“There’sanewbrunchplacethreeblocksdown,wherethatDominicanrestaurantusedtobe.Iheardtheymakethisamazingvegansteakandeggsscramble.Wannatryit?”
Hershouldersdrawclosertoherearsasshetensesinannoyance.“Look,Theo—”
“It’sjustfood,”Isay,thenwavetowardthespacewheretheovenissupposedtobe.“Youhavetoorderoutanyway.”
“Youneedmetopayorsomething?”sheaskscoolly,asifmedemandingtopayforthingswasn’toneofourlongest-runningpettyfights.
“Mytreat,”Isay,notrisingtothebait.“Orwecanjustgotothecornerstore.Theyhavevegetarianoptions.”
Shenods,butthere’snoexcitementorinterestinhereyes.Shegrabsherphone,unlockingitandscrollingasweheadoutofthehouse.
Weusedtogoforlongwalkstogetherallthetime,justbecause.Kimusedtogoonruns.Now?ShehasatreadmillinwhatwassupposedtobemygameroomandsheUberseverywhere.
Itstartedafewweeksafterwemovedin.Shecamehomewithtearsinhereyes,sayingagroupofteenagershadfollowedheroutofthetrainstation,harassingher,aftershe’dtoldthemtostoplaughingsoloudinthetraincar.I’dwonderedwhyshehadn’tjustputonhersound-cancelingheadphones,butshe’dbeenshakingwhenshewalkedin,soithadn’tbeentherighttimetoask.
“Itwasterrifying!AndIlookedaroundandrealizedeveryonewas…Idon’tknowifanyonewouldhavehelpedme,”shesaid.“There’sjustsofewofushere.”
Iwasconfused.“Us?”
ShepulledherheadbacktolookatmeandIrealizedthatshewasn’tshakingwithfear.Shewasfurious.
“YouknowwhatImean,”shesnapped.“Theneighborhoodbetterchangeasfastastherealtorsaidit’sgoingto,becauseI’mnotgonnaputupwithabunchof—”
Shesuckedinabreath.
“Iwasperfectlywithinmyrights.Andtheirresponseshowedthattheyweredangerous.”
“Yeah.”I’drubbedherback,aweirdfeelinginthepitofmystomach.
She’dstaredintomyeyes,stillangry.“Youwouldhavedonesomething,right?Ifyouwerethereandtheytriedanything?”
“Likewhat?”I’dasked.
She’dpulledawayfrommeandstormedoff.
KimhasaframedportraitofMichelleObamainourlivingroom,soshe’snot…youknow.Shewasshakenup,thatwasall,andatthatpointourrelationshipwasheldtogetherbydollar-storeglue.Ididn’twanttopush.MaybeIdidn’twanttoknowwhatshewould’veanswered.
Now,aswewalktothecornerstore,there’safootofhumidairbetweenus.It’salreadysuperhot,andthesunhasn’tevenreachedthehighestpointinthesky.Airconditionersdroneineverywindowwepassunder,thesoundmockingme,butIfindithardtobeannoyedwhenI’mwalkingdownourstreet.
Maybeit’sbecauseIgrewupinshittysmalltownsfilledwithfallingapartsingle-wides,buttherichpigmentofthebrownstones,theslategrayofthesidewalks,thebrickandconcreteandflorathatthrivesintheminutestspeckofdirt…ofcourseIwentalongwithmovingtothisplace.
Ourhousefeelslikeaprison,butourneighborhoodislikesomethingoutofamovie.WhenIwalkaroundGiffordPlace,orevenjustwatchfrommywindow,Idon’tfeelcrushedbythemulti-carpileupofstupiddecisionsI’vemade.IfeellikemaybethisisaplaceIcanbelong,eventually.IfI’mhonest,that’swhyI’mwalkingwithKimtothestore,whyI’meventrying—Idon’twanttomove.IguessthefactthatIloveourhousemorethanIloveheratthemomentmakesmekindofanasshole.
Ilookoverather;herfingersaretappingatthescreenofherhugesmartphoneasshetextssomeone.Iseethewordsroach-infestedcornerstoreandlookaway,mygazelandingonahigh-endRangeRoverIhaven’tseenintheneighborhoodbefore.
Mr.Perkinsandhisdogstrollinourdirection,bothlookingthiswayandthatforaneighbortogreetorforanythingthat’samiss.
“Heythere,”Mr.Perkinssaysasourpathscross.“Havingagoodweekend?”
“Sofar,sogood.”Ileandowntopattheolddog’sside,suremyhandwillcomeawaysmellingofcornchips.“Who’sagoodboy?”
“Notthisdog,”Mr.Perkinssaysaffectionately,mock-glaringdownatthehound.“CountstoletheporkchopIwasmarinatinglastnightwhenInoddedoffinfrontoftheTV.”
Thedogdropshisgazetotheground,asifheknowswe’rediscussinghismisdeeds,andwebothlaugh.
“Oooh,”Kimcoosatthedogfromnexttome.“You’regoingtogettrichinosisbecauseyourownerwasirresponsible!”
“Kim.”Iknewshewasanassholetome,butthisisdifferent.
“I’mjustjoking,”shesays.
“Right,”Mr.Perkinssays,hisusuallyfriendlygazewary.“Ijustwantedtotellyouincaseyoudidn’tseeonOurHood,we’llbehavingourannualLaborDayblockpartynextSunday.Thefinalplanningcommitteemeetingistomorrownightatmyhouseatsevenorso.”
“Sure,”Isay.“We’llcomearound—”IturnandrealizethatKimhasalreadywalkedaway.Imakeafaceofcontrition,somethingI’vemasteredoverthelastyear.“I’llbethere,”Ifinish,andwhenhenodsandwavesmeoff,Ijogtocatchuptoher.
“Whatwasthatabout?”Itrytokeepmytonelight,butthefactthatwecan’tevenwalkafewyardswithoutdramaispissingmeoff.
“Ithoughtyouwerehungry.”Ifeelanysemblanceofgoodwillshe’dextendedmakeadecisiveretreat.Iimmediatelyregretsayinganything.Nowshe’llicemeoutevenharder,andthetinystepforwardthiswalkwassupposedtosymbolizehastakenustenstepsback.Oneday,oneofthosestepsbackisgoingtoberightovertheedgeofacliff.
“Yerrr,Preston!”ayoungman’svoicecallsout.
Theclickingspokesofbikewheelsbehindusfollowtheshout,andKimturnswithwideeyes,startled.
Iglancebackandseeafamiliarteen—husky,darkskinned,sportingthatGumby-typehaircutthat’spopularagain—pulluponhisbikeinfrontofoneofthehouses.ThedooropensandthekidIusuallyseeathisside,thisonelighterskinnedandskinnier,stepsout.
“Itoldyou,Len,Momsdon’tlikeitwhenyouyellinfrontofthehouse,”theboynamedPrestonsaysinaquellingtone.
“Sorry,Mrs.Jones!”Lencallsoutwithtypicalteenageobnoxiousness,andPrestonletsoutalong-sufferingsigh.
Ilikethisaspectoftheneighborhood:familiesandfriends.Normalfamilieswhoknoweachotherandcatchupatnightafterwork,lookoutforeachother’skids,notjustneighborsyouheararguingthroughyourthincondominiumwalls.
Itremindsmeofoneofmyfavoritepartsofmyownyouth,whenIspentasummerwithmygrandparentsinMichigan.TheyaskedifIwantedtostaywiththemandsignedmeupforthelocalhighschoolinthefall.Therewerekidsmyagewhodidn’thearmymomgettingknockedaroundatnight,whohadn’tseenherbadmakeupandsocouldn’tsinglemeoutaseithertoodifferentortoosimilarandthussomeonetheycouldn’tbefriendswith.Thegroupofboysintheneighborhoodhadloanedmeabikeandwe’driddenaroundbackwoodsroads,laughingandjoking.
Justbeforeschoolstarted,mymomgotdumpedagainanddecidedIneedtocome“home”tobewithher,promisingIcouldgobacktomygrandparentsthefollowingsummer.Ilookedforwardtoitallyear,butMomgotintoanothersituationandmysummerwaslostinthefallout.
Mostofmychildhoodwasspentflounderinginthewakeofmymother’sturbulentdecisions.Theapplereallydoesn’tfallfarfromthetree,Iguess.
Fallsthereandrots
Kimstartswalkingfaster.“They’resofuckingloud.Jesus.”
Shestillhasherphone,cradledinherotherhand,opentotheOurHoodappandbeginstappingawkwardlywithherthumb.
Ipullopenthedoortothecornerstoreandablastofice-coldairslapsintome,andMiddleEasternmusicdriftsout.Theplacewasstillalittleshady,buttheywereslowlytryingtoadaptbygettingabetterbeerselectionandofferingvegansandwichoptionsandstuff.Theydon’thaveabulletproofplasticscreenwithalittlemerry-go-roundforyoutoputyourmoneyonandgetyourfoodfrom,liketheliquorstoreandtheChineserestauranttwoblocksover.
Frito,thespottedwhitestorecat,trotsoverandtwineshisroundbodyaroundKim’sfeet.
“Thishastobeaviolationofthehealthcode,”shemuttersasshetoeshimaway.
Iignorethatandwalkovertothegrillportionofthestore.
“Onetofuscrambleonarollwithvegancheddarandveggiebacon,andoneham,egg,andcheese,American,withsalt,pepper,ketchuponahoagie,”Isaywhentheguyworkingthegrillturnstome.
Hedoesn’tsmile,justnodsandgetstowork.
Thedudebehindtheregisteristhepeopleperson,chattingwithcustomers,wishingpeopleluckastheybuytheirlotteryticketswhilelikelytalkingshitaboutthemtohiscoworkerintheirownlanguage.
Thereareafewpeoplemillingaroundthestore,andImovepastthemasIheadtotherefrigeratorsintheback,grabbingasix-pack.Ineedtocutbackonthebooze,butsometimesit’slikeIcanfeelKim’sdisdainseepingupthroughthefloorboardsofthehouse,eventhoughshespendsmostofhertimeignoringme.WhenI’mnotoutofthehousetryingtomakequickcash,abeerandavideogamehelpcreateaforcefieldofapathy.I’mfocusedonchoosingbetweenanIPAandarefreshingamberale,somethingIusedtomakefunofpeopleforbeforeImetKim,whentheconversationatthefrontofthestoregetslouder.
“Areyoureallygonnapullthetearsout?Overthis?”Awoman’svoice.Irecognizeit—smooth,controlled,eveninherannoyance.
IhustledowntheaisleandfindKimstaringupatthewomanfromacrossthestreet,afamiliarangeretchedintoherexpression.“ItoldyouIdidn’tseeyoustandinginlineand—”
“—andIpointedoutthatIamwearingbrightyellowandI’mprettyhardtomiss.”
IshouldsidewithKim,buttheotherwomanisright.There’snomissingher,evenwithouttheyellowbandannaaroundherhair,yellowT-shirt,anddenimoverallcutoffsthatshouldhavelookedlikearidiculousfarmercostumebutreally,reallydidn’t.
“Whatareyoutryingtosay?”Kim’seyesarewideandherlipsarepressedtogetherandohhell,thatexpressionneverprecedesanythinggood.
“I’msayingthatevenifyoudidn’tseeme,whenyourealizeyou’vemadeamistake,youdon’tignoremeandcontinuemakingyourpurchase.Youmoveawayandletmemakemine.Likeacivilizedperson.”
Kim’sfaceispinknow.“Youneedtostopattackingme.”
Thewomantiltsherheadinconfusion.“Attacking?”
“You’remakingmefeelunsafe,andifyoudon’tstop,I’ll—I’llcallthepolice.”There’samaliciousgleeonherfaceasshesaysit,likewhensheknowsherrenovatingworkhaswokenmeup.Anexpressionthatsays,I’mfuckingwithyoujustbecauseIcan
Everyoneinthebodegahasgonestill,andthere’ssuddentensionintheairthat’sasstiflingasthehumidityoutside.Thepeoplewho’vebeeninmyperipheralvisioncomeintofocus.Anoldermanholdingalotteryticketform,grayhairedandblankfacedashelooksatKim.Awomaninherthirtieswithateenageboyalmosttallerthanher.Herarmhasgonearoundtheboy’sshoulder,andthereisangerinhereyes.AHispanicteencovertlyrecordingtheinteractionwithhiscellphone,hislipstwistedwithamuseddisdain.
Theemployeesarealsostill.Thecheerfulguybehindthecounterhasaneutralexpression,buthiseyessuddenlyflicktomine,pleading.
“Gotthebeer!”IsaywithaggressivecheerinessasIstepforward,thesametonemymomusedtodistractfromthebadconcealerthatcoveredherbruises.
Kim’sheadwhipstowardme,herviciousexpressioncrumplingasshedoes.Tearssuddenlyspilldownhercheeksandsherunsintomyarms.Ifeelbothreliefandconfusionasherwarmbreathbreaksagainstmychestinbursts.Ihaven’theldherinsolongandI’dforgottenthatitmademefeelgood.Needed.
“Theo,shewassayingthemostawfulthingstome!”
Thewomansucksherteethandgrabsherbagfromthecounter.“Bye,Abdul.”
“Ithrewsomethingspecialinyourbag.Haveagoodday,habibi,”Abdulsays,lookingatherregretfully.
“Toolateforthat.”
Kimpeekspastmyarm,eyesnarrowingasthewomanheadsoutofthestore.
“Canyoubelievethat?”Therearenomoretearsinhervoice,justanger.“JustbecauseIdidn’tseeher!Thesepeoplearealwayslookingforareasontobeangry.”
Idisentanglemyselffromher,feelingtheweightoftheothercustomers’gazes
Ipayquickly,myfacehot.IthinkofthelasttimeKimcriedtome,andtheboundaryshelaiddown.
Us.
Them.
GiffordPlaceOurHoodpostbyJohnPerkins:
TheannualLaborDayblockpartyisnextweekend!We’llbehavingourfinalplanningmeetingthisMondayeveningatmyhouseat7:00,orwheneveryoucanmakeitbeforeLawandOrdercomesonat9:00.Refreshmentswillbeserved.??
AmberGriffin:WemightbelatebcwehavedancepracticefortheWestIndianDayparade,butwe’llbethere!
CandaceTompkins:Getit,youngladies!Ifyou’relucky,I’llshowyousomemovesatthemeeting.
LaTashaClifton:X__x
JenPeterson:Yay!LookingforwardtohangingwithCount!
JennLithwick:Superexcitedtohelpplanourfirstblockparty!
KavaughnMurphy:I’llbethereafterthecommunityboardmeeting.Folksareseeingifthere’sanythingwecandoabouttheVerenTechdealbutlookslikeit’stoolate.
Chapter3
Sydney
MYPHONEVIBRATESINMYPOCKETASIWALKTHROUGHTHEfrontdoorofthehouse.
Iswitchtheplasticbagcontainingchipsandsalsatomylefthandandtugtheslimrectangleout.MystomachflipswhenIseethelabelMOMMY’SLAWYERSpopup.IneverupdatedthecontacttoGladstoneandGianetti,whichwouldbeeasieronmynerveseverytimetheycalled.Iconsidersendingthemtovoicemail,butMommyneedsmetohandlethisshitsinceshecan’t.
“Hello,thisisSydneyGreen,”IsayinapleasantvoiceasIturntothemailboxhangingnexttothedoor.Ihaven’tcheckeditfortwoweeks,andaquickflipthroughtheenvelopesshovedintoitmakesmewishIhadn’t.Scammycreditcardoffers;collectionsnoticesfromhospitals,oneshereandinSeattle;thewaterbill;theelectricity.Thelatestbillfromtheretirementhome,too.I’llhavetotrytofigureoutapaymentplannexttimeIforcemyselftogooutthere.
“Hi,Ms.Green.”Thecool,familiarvoiceofthereceptionistatthelawyers’office.“I’msorrythere’sbeensuchadelayingettingbacktoyouaboutyourmother’scase.Ihopeshe’sdoingwell?”
Iflipthemailboxlidshutandstartdownthestairs.
“She’shanginginthere.She’saboutastoughastheycome,”Isay.ApeekovertherailingshowsthatnooneisearlyforthemeetingatMr.Perkins’sandlingeringwithinearshot.“Anynewsaboutthesituation?”
“Asyou’vebeentold,withcaseslikethisthereoftenisn’tanyrecourse.ButMs.Gianettihasfoundsomethingsthatshe’dliketosharewithyouandyourmotherthatmightbehelpfulmovingforward.CanshegiveyouacallonThursdaymorningateightthirty?”
“Yes!Yes,thatwouldbegreat.I’m—I’mreallyhopingwecangetthisfiguredout.It’dmakeMommysohappy,especiallywitheverythingelsegoingon.”
“Willshebeonthecall?”thereceptionistasks.
“We’llseehowshe’sfeeling,”Isay.
“Ofcourse,”thereceptionistsays,followedbyanawkwardpause.“There’sthematterofthepayment…”
Iscoff.Chuckle.Somecombinationofthetwosounds.“Don’tworryaboutthat.Isentthenextpaymentbycheck,soyoushouldbegettingitinthemailsoon.”
“Right,”shesays.“Great.TalktoyouThursdayateightthirty.”
“Thankyou.”
Islipthephonebackintomypocketwithshakinghands.Okay.Thursday.Itrynottogetmyhopesup,butifitwasbadnewstheywould’vetoldme,wouldn’tthey?Thisisn’tamedicaldiagnosis.
Itakeadeepbreathandheadnextdoor.
Thegarden-levelentrancetoMr.Perkins’shouseisshroudedbytheleavesoftheplantsthatfencehiswindows—theystartedasclippingsfrommymom,likesomanyoftheplantsinflowerboxesandpotsliningthisstreet.TheleavesbrushmyfaceasIwalkin,softandsmellinglikeMommy’sgreen-thumbedhands.
Thedoorisunlockedandajar,andIhuffanannoyedsighasIstepinside.“HowmanytimesdoIhavetotellyoutolockthisdoor?”
Noresponse,apartfromthelowmurmuroftelevisionannouncersandthedroneoftheairconditioner.
Morefamiliarscentsgreetme,evenifMr.Perkinsdoesn’t—Folgerscoffeegrounds,newspapersasoldasmeandstackedastall,moldycarpet,thoughtheoldcarpethadbeenpulledupatlastafterHurricaneSandy.
WhenMrs.Perkinswasaround,shecalledthispartofthehouseCityHallbecausepeoplewouldpopintotalkaboutneighborhoodbusinesslikelocalelections,howtodealwithtroublemakersofboththecriminalandpolicevarieties,andwhoneededhelpandwasn’taskingforit.
Itstillservesthatfunction,butwithsomanyoftheoriginalneighborsgoneandthenewonesskittish,it’smoretownhallthancity.
Thewallsarestillcoveredbythedarkwoodpanelingofabygoneera,andtherearestillboxesfullofpapers,books,andlordknowswhatelsestackedalongthewalls.He’snotquiteahoarder,butMarieKondowouldadvisehimtoletsomeofthisstuffgo.
Iknowwhyhedoesn’t.Mommy’sroomisstillhowitwasthedaysheleft,minusherfavoriteblanket.Ithoughtshe’dwanttotakethatwithher,tohavesomethingfamiliar.Whenshe’dbeenatthehospitalthefirsttime—well,thefirsttimeafterIcamebackfromSeattle—she’dcomplainedaboutthecoldandkeptreachingforthecrochetedblanketthatwasusuallyatthefootofherbedathome.
Anodddraftpassesthroughthehallway,coolinawayACcan’treplicate.“Mr.Perkins?Count?”
Iwalkintothedarkenedden,withitshodgepodgeofcouchesandchairspickedupfromtheGoodwillovertheyears.Theblackoutcurtainsaredrawn,andMr.Perkinsisnappingonhistornandduct-tapedLa-Z-Boy.Countsnoresathisfeet,themostuselessguarddogever.Thelightofthetelevision,tunedintotheHomeShoppingNetwork,shiftsshadowsoverbothofthem,butafterasecondIrealizethatwhatI’mseeingisn’tjusttheplayoflightcreatinganillusionofmotionormysleep-deprivedbrainplayingtricksonme.
Mr.Perkinsisjerkinginhissleep—small,isolatedmovementsalloverhisbody.Countisdoingthesameathisfeet.UnnaturaltwitchesandspasmsthatImighthaveconfusedforaseizureifitwasn’tmovingthroughbothofthem.Ifitdidn’tsparkasuddenfistofnauseousworrythatpressesagainstmydiaphragm.
Countwhinesandgrowlsashislegstwitch.
“Mr.Perkins?”Itrytocallout,butmyvoiceisabarelyaudiblewhisper,likeinabaddream.LikewhenIwalkedinandfoundMommy…
No.No.
ClammysweatdampensmyskinandanxietyfizzesthroughmybodylikeanAlka-Seltzertabletmadeoffear.Ifumbleforthelightswitch,forgettingwhereitiseventhoughI’veseenitathousandtimes.Myshakinghandpassesoverdustypanelingforafranticmomentthatgoesonforfartoolong,untilthewebbingbetweenmythumbandindexfingerfinallybumpsupundertheswitch.Islidemypalmuptoflipiton.
Iclearmythroat.“Mr.Perkins?”
Hestartlesawake,finally,eyeswideastheyturntome.Forthebriefestmoment,there’snorecognition,justterror,andthenheplacesahandonhischestandexhales.
“Lord.Youeverhaveoneofthosenightmareswheresomethingisjuststandingoveryou,watching,andyoucan’tmove?”Herubshishandsdownhisarms,smoothingawaygoosebumps.“Likeyourarmsandlegsarejustlockedup?”
Mommyusedtocallthatthedevilatyourelbow,andthatsamedevilhasbeenvisitingmeformonthsnow.Dreasaysit’sanxietyandgavemesomeAmbientomakemesleep,butthatmadeitworse.
“You’reokaynow,though,right?”Iask.
Heglancesatmeandsmilesreassuringly.“I’mfine.Shouldn’thavehadrotifordinner,that’sall.Tooheavyonmystomach.”
“HardtoresistgoodTrinifood,”IsayasIscratchatmyshoulder.Iglancedowntomakesuretherearenonewbites.“Howmanypeopledoyouthinkwillshowuptonight?”
“Maybeten?Notlikeitusedtobe,whenthiswholedenwouldbefullandOdettawouldmakehersweetlemonade…”Hetrailsoff,handgrippingthearmofthechairashestaresatthefloor.Hisshouldersriseandfallandthenhenodsdecisively.“Letmegogettherefreshmentsfromthekitchenupstairs.”
“Icangetit.”
“Sydney,youtrynamakemefeelold?Igotthis.”Hesmiles,seeminglyhavingshakenofftheremnantsofthenightmare.“Count’llhelpmeout.”
Countheftshimselftohisfeetwithawuffandfollowshim,bumpingintoMr.Perkins’slegswhenhestopsshortandturnsbacktome.“Oh,Ifoundsomepapersforyouthatmighthelpwithyourtour,inOdetta’sthings.Inthatfolderoverthere.”
Hiswifehadbeenalibrarianwho’dloveddoingprogramsaboutthehistoryoftheneighborhood.Iknowitmusthavebeenhardforhimtolookthroughherstufftofindthisforme,buthe’ddoneittosupportthisdumbassplanofmine.
“Thanks,”Isay.
HeandCounttrotoff,andIreplacetheaccordionfolderontopoftheTVwiththebagofsnacks,pullopenthecurtainstoletintheeveninglight,andsettleintooneoftheroom’smismatchedarmchairs.
NeighborhoodThingsisscrawledinMrs.Perkins’shandwritingonawhitelabelinthecornerofthefolder.
Iundothestiffstringwrappedtightlyaroundthetabandgentlytugoutthepaperatthetop.It’sareproductionofapamphletthatwasprobablymadeonanoldcrank-stylecopymachine,givenhowyellowedwithageitis.
NewesfromAmerica.1638.ByJohnUnderhill.
IshallaccordingtomyabilitiebeginwithaRelationofourwarre-likeproceedings,andwillinter-weavethespeciallplacesfitforNewPlantations,withtheirdescription,asIshallfindoccasioninthefollowingdiscourse,butIshallaccordingtomypromisebeginwithatruerelationofthenewEnglandwarresagainsttheBlock-Ilanders,andthatinsolentandbarbarousNation,calledthePequeats,whombytheswordoftheLord,andafewfeebleinstruments,souldiersnotaccustomedtowarre,weredroveoutoftheirCountrey,andslainebythesword,tothenumberoffifteenehundredsoulesinthespaceoftwomonethsandlesse:soastheirCountreyisfullysubduedandfallenintothehandsoftheEnglish:AndtotheendthatGodsnamemighthavetheglory,andhispeopleseehispower,andmagnifiehishonourforhisgreatgoodnesseIhaveindevouredaccordingtomyweakeability,tosetforththefullrelationoftheWarrefromthefirstrisetotheendofthevictory…
Ittakesabittomakeoutthewackyspelling,butthisseemstobeastraight-upCheckouthowmanyindigenouspeoplewekilledandstolelandfrombrag,likeanold-schoolversionofaterrifyingonlineconfession.Istarttoputitaway,butasecondunderlinedphrasecatchesmyeye.
Thetruthis,IwanttimetosetforththeexcellencieofthewholeCountrey.
Underhill—itstrikesmethatthisisprobablythemanUnderhillAvenue,astreetI’dmeandereddowncountlesstimesinmylife,isnamedafter—goesontolistalltheattributesofthelandsfromNewEnglanddowntoNewJersey.Thegoodsoil,theperfectplacesfordockingEnglishships,thebeautifullandthatisn’tappreciatedbyitsinhabitants,thoughsometimesasheramblesonabouthowmove-inreadyitis,hespeaksasifitisn’tinhabitedatall.
GoosebumpsspreadinawavedownmyarmandIquicklytuckthebookletbackintotheaccordionfolderandplaceitonmylap.Thisisn’tthekindofthingI’llbetalkingaboutonthetour,buteverybitofhistoryisusefulinsomeway.
ItrytoimaginehowGiffordPlacemusthavelookedtothepeoplewholivedherebackthen.Big-asstreesandthickunderbrush.Darknessunbrokenbystreetlights.Andinthatdarkness,thesuddenarrivalofmenwho’ddecidedthelandwastheirs…
…slainebythesword,tothenumberoffifteenehundredsoulesinthespaceoftwomonethsandlesse…
“Hey.”
Ijolt,shakenfrommythoughtsthathadbeensegueingintoadreambecauseI’msodamntired.
WhenIlookover,PonytailLululemon’smanisstandinginthedoorway,hishairmessy,shortbeardtrimmedneatly,andblueeyesbrightwithaparticularkindofcuriosity.
“Hi.”Iimbuemyvoicewitheveryounceofdon’tevenfuckingthinkaboutitIcanmuster.
Hesitsdownontheoldplastic-coveredcouchacrossfromme,seeminglynotpickingupwhatI’mputtingdownbecausehesmilesatme.He’skindofodd-looking,withseveralprominentfeaturesinsteadofoneortwo,butitworksforhim.“Ugly-fine”iswhatDreamightcallhim.
“Wemeetagain,”hesays.
“We’veneveractuallymetbefore.You’reastrangewhitemanwhowanderedintomyfriend’shouse.”Itapthefolderinmylap.“GivenwhatI’mreadingaboutyourpeople,maybeyou’reheretoclaimitasyourown.”
Heshrugs.“TheonlythingI’mtryingtoclaimisunemployment,andI’mbarelymanagingthat.”
Ipressmylipstogethertoavoidgivinghimthesatisfactionofmysmile.
“Let’sofficiallymeetnow,”hesaysanyway,thenholdsouthishandandleansforward,stretchinghisarmandbodylongsoIdon’thavetomovefrommyseatifIchoosetomeethishand.“I’mTheo.Iliveacrossthestreetfromyou.Ihaven’tbeenveryneighborly,andI’mlookingtochangethat.”
Ireluctantlyreachouttogivehisfingertipsaquickshake,buthecloseshishandovermine,holdingonforabitlongerthanisnecessary.Ialmostlethim,becausetheattention-starvedpartofmehasthenervetoenjoyit,butthenIpullmyhandaway.
NomorepanninginFuckboyCreek,andmostdefinitelynoclimbingCheatingWhiteGuyHill.
“Isyourdelightfulwifecoming?OrisshebusythreateningtocallthecopsonotherinnocentBlackpeople?”
“We’renotmarried.It’s—complicated.”Heleansbackintothecouchandrunshishandoverhisbeard.Whenhespeaksagain,there’swryhumormixedwithfrustrationinhisvoice.“Kimisn’tcoming.Idowanttoapologizeaboutwhathappenedinthestoreyesterday.She’snot…notusuallylikethat.Thingshavebeenweirdsincewemovedhere,Iguess.”
“Mm-hmm”isallIsayinresponse.I’mnothistherapistanddon’tcareabouthisrelationship.
“MaybeIcanmakeituptoyousomehow?”Hiseyesbrighten.“Doyoulikecoffee?There’sanewplaceafewblocksdown.”
Istareathim,tryingtodiscernifthisdudeisreallytryingtoshoothisshotwhilediscussinghiswild-asssignificantotherwhoalreadytriedtocallthepoliceonme.
“Neighborlycoffee,”headds,leaningforwardinawaythat’ssomehownonthreateningeventhoughitbringshimclosertome.“Nothingmore.Whenwedidthattouryou—”
“Um,hi.”IlookuptofindDreaglancingspeculativelybetweenmeandTheo.Herhairisslickedbackintoapuffponytail,andshe’schangedfromherworkclothesintoaT-shirtandshorts.
“Theo,thisismybestfriendandhousemate,Drea.Drea,thisisTheofromacrossthestreet.HelivesinthePaynehouse.”BecauseI’mmeanandwanttodeflect,Iadd,“Hisgirlfriendistheonewhothreatenedmeatthestoreyesterday.”
“Oh.Oh.”SheperchesonthearmofmychairandfixeshergazeonTheo.DreaisalloffivefeettallandcurrentlywearingapurpleT-shirtwithaunicornonit,butherdeathstareisterrifying—itwaswhynoonehadfuckedwithmefromgradesfivethroughtwelve.
“Hello,Brad,”shesays.“Wonderfultomeetyou.”
“Oh,it’sTheo.”Hisflirtatiousnessisgoneandhisbodyistense,asifDreaherselfhasaunicornhornandmightgorehim.
Good.
Dreaclapsherhandstogether,thendropsthembetweenherkneesassheleansforward.“YoudoknowthisistheplanningmeetingfortheannualblockpartyandnotthePoliceBenevolentAssociationfundraiser,right?”
“Drea.”Ilaugh.“Benice.”
“Fine.”ShegivesTheoanevillook.“ButtellyourgirlthatifanythinghappenstomySydney,oroneofmyneighbors,becauseshewantstocall911fornoreason?Thenwe’regonnahaveaproblem.Shedon’twantnoproblemswithme.”
Sheleansbackandspreadsherarms,andwhenshespeaksagain,hervoiceislightandchipper.“Welcometotheneighborhood!”
Theoswallows.“Thanks.”
Theroomhasstartedtofillwithotherneighbors:AsiaMartinandhersonLen,who’safoottallerthanmenow,somehow,eventhoughhewasatmyshoulderwhenImovedaway.JennandJen,whobroughthomemadedogtreatsforCountandhomemadehummusforushumans.Tiffany,LaTasha,andAmber,theheadoftheneighborhood’steendancetroupe.AshleyandJamelJones,withouttheirson,Preston,who’sprobablyatoneofhisfifty-levencollege-prepextracurriculars.Ms.Candace,who’ssteppeduptohelpwiththeorganizingsinceMrs.Perkinspassedaway.Theirchatterfillsthedenastheypoursodaintoplasticcupsandgrabhandfulsofchips;evenwithsomanypeoplehere,therearenoticeablegapswheresomanyoftheoldfamiliarfacesusedtobe.
TheoendsupperchedawkwardlyontheedgeofthecouchnexttoLen,whosebackistoTheobecausehisfocusisonthethreegirlsdemonstratingdancemovesforJennandJen.Theolooksnervous,outofplace,buttryingtobecool.ItwashowIfeltlivinginSeattleandneverquitefittinginatallofMarcus’sworkfunctionsandsportseventsandhappyhours.Ieventuallystoppedtrying.
“Hotdamn,ho,herewegoagain,”Dreamutters,breakingtheunfortunatedirectionofmythoughts.
Iwhipmyheaduptofindherlookingdownatme,judgmentadivotetchedbetweenherbrows.“What?”Iaskinnocently.
“What?”shemimicsinannoyance,thenleansoverandwhispersinmyear,hervoicesharpandsingsong.“WhyareyoustaringatTheodorelikeyou’vespottedfool’sgold,yetagain?”
Iraiseabrow.“DoyouproposeIjustignorethestrangewhitemanatourgathering?Haveyoureadanewspaperlately?Thisissurveillance.I’mtryingtomakesureIdon’tneedtotakehisassout.”
Shestaresatme.
IholdupmyindexandmiddlefingersandcovertlygesturefrommyeyestoTheo’sgeneraldirection.“Sur.Veil.Lance.”
Shejustlooksatme,aglimmeroffrustrationinhereyes,thensheshakesherhead.“Youhavetheeeeeeworsttaste.Theworst.Though…”Sheglancesoverathim.“Hedoeslookalittlespicy,withthemthick-asseyebrows.Heatleastputspaprikaonhischicken,I’mguessing.MaybeevensomeLawry’s.”
“Drea!Ifyoudon’tstop—”
“Stopwhat?Predictingyourdumbassbehaviorbasedonalifetimeofobservation?”Shesaysitjokingly,butshe’sright—she’salwaysbeentheretowarnmewhenIwasabouttoslipup,andtocatchmewhenIignoredherandinevitablyfell.Whenmynightmaresweren’taboutthedevilatmyelbow,theyfeaturedDreawalkingawayfrommeandmyneediness—likeMarcushad.
Shetouchesmyshoulderlightly.“You’reluckyIloveyou.”
“Iam.”Ileanintoherabit,lettingmyselfrestagainstthefamiliarwarmthofasidethathasproppedmeupcountlesstimesovertheyears,throughfailuresandbaddecisions,marriage,divorce,and…everythingsinceIcamebacktoBrooklyn.Dreawoulddoanythingforme—like,that’safactandnotasupposition.
MylipsturnupatthecornersandIsigh,comfortslidingovermelikeaweightedblanket.Thebeginningofabangin’nap,thisonenotmarredbyweirdhalfdreamsofcolonialdestruction,startstopullmeunder.
Dreanudgesmewithherelbow,jostlingmeawayfromtheedgeofsleep.“ItalkedtoworkbaeinthecontractsdepartmentabouttheVerenTechstuffyouwerecomplainingabout.”
“Youdidn’thavetoask,”Isaygrumpily.“Ididn’ttellyouabouttherejectedinformationrequestsoyoucoulddotheworkforme.”
Sherollshereyes.“Well,Idid.Andit’stoolatetotellhimnevermind,becausethenhe’sgonnabemadatmesincehe’salreadygoingoutofhiswayformesincethere’sallthisextrasecurityaroundthisproject.”
ThatwasthethingwithDrea:asimplequestioncanturnintohergoingtenblocksoutofherwaytogetsomethingyoudidn’taskfor,or,inthiscase,havinghercoworkerdopossiblyillegalsearchesforinfothat’llprobablybeuselesstome.
Ifeeltheurgetosnapather,butcatchmyselfbeforesteppingonthatparticularLegoofregret.Drea…hasreallybeenthereforme.Reallyfuckingbeenthere,andheldmedownwhenanyoneelsewould’veletmegotopieces.I’vebeenaskingalotofherwhilebeingtooemptytogiveback,andyethereIamabouttocopanattitudebecauseshe’sbeingtoohelpful.
“Thankyou,DreaBond,”Isay,remindingmyselfhowluckyIam.IknowwhatitfeelsliketonothavethekindofsupportDreaexcelsat,andIneverwanttofeelthatwayagain.
Shestrikesaposewithafingergunandwinksatme.“Igotyou.”
“I’mcallingthismeetingtoorder,”Ms.Candacesaysloudly,hervoicecuttingthroughthenoisetosilenceeveryone.“Now,wehaveaweekuntiltheblockparty.Almosteverythingisset,but…”Shelooksaroundandshakesherheadinannoyance.“Atleastfourpeopleonmylistaren’there.”
“Maybethemolepeoplegotthem!”Tiffanysaysinacreepy,raspyvoicethatimitatesanannounceronakids’Halloweenspecial.
“Iheardtheybeensnatchingpeopleupallsummer!Thenewsisignoringit,though.”LaTashashakesherhead.
“Areyouserious?”Jenasks,eyeswide.“Ithoughttheneighborhoodwassupposedtobesafe.”
“They’rejoking,honey,”Jennsayswithasmittenrollofhereyes.
“See,that’swhytheydon’ttalkaboutit,”LaTashasays,soundingjustlikehermom,whosheprobablyheardthisstoryfrom.“Nisha’sauntwentmissingandsomebodysaidtheysawhergetpulledthroughasubwaygrate.”
Amberlooksbetweenhertwofriendsskeptically.“Idon’tbelievethatstorybecause—deadass?—whowalksonsubwaygrates?Eveniftherearen’tmolepeople,youcan’tbewalkingonnosubwaygrate.”
She’sright.Nobodywithanounceofcommonsenseistryingtofallthroughaweaksubwaygrate,abustedmanhole,orajankymetalcellardooroutsideabodega.
“WhereisKavaughnat?”Ms.Candacecallsout.“HevolunteeredtohelpSydneywiththelastoftheresearchforhertourthatshesnuckontotheagendaatthelastminute.Didthemolepeoplegethim,too?”
Theroomdoesn’tgoquietagain,butvoicesloweraspeoplelookaround,searchingforKavaughn’sfamiliarMetscap.
“Oh.”Lensnapshisfingers.“IthinkmaybehewenttovisithisfamilyinNorthCarolina?Sincehissummersessionended.Hegoesdownthereforafewdayseverysummer,andit’ssocountrytheydon’tevenhaveinternet!”
“Nointernet?”Tiffany,LaTasha,andAmbercryoutinhorror,turningtolookathim.
Lenfreezes,unpreparedtobethecenterofattentionofthethreegirlshe’sbeentryingtoworkupthenervetotalkto.Theonudgeshim—quickly,encouragingly—pushingLenintoaction.Theboythrowshishandsup,grins.“I’msaying!‘Canyouhearmenow?’‘No,bruh,getFios!’”
Tiffany,LaTasha,andAmberburstoutlaughingandLen’spostureslackensinrelief.I,ontheotherhand,amshitoutofluck.
“Somyassistantjustupandleft?Cool.”MaybethisisasignIshouldjustgiveuponthisidea,evenifitwouldfeellikedisappointingMommy.
“Icanhelp,”Lensays.Hisgazeflicksovertothegirlstomakesurethey’relistening,thenbacktome.“I’mtakingAPclassesatLIUandworkingattheYMCAcamp,though,soI’mprettybusy.”
Thegirlsstartwhisperingandhischestpuffsoutabit.
ThenTheoraisesthatbighandofhisandsays,“Icanhelp,too.”
“Don’tyouhavebetterthingstodo?”Iask.
“Absolutelynot.”Herunsahandthroughhishairwiththatlookofpracticedinnocencewhitemenusewhenthey’reonsomebullshit.“Unemployed,remember?AndnoAPclasses,either.Testsaren’tmystrongpoint.Whatdoyouneedhelpwith?”
“I’mplanningahistoricaltouroftheneighborhood,”Isay.TheowastherewhenZephyrtoldmetomakemyown,andIfeellikeI’mrevealingsomedirtysecret,buthisexpressiondoesn’tchange.“Iwanttodoademorunduringtheblockparty.”
“Becauseshe’llhaveacaptiveaudience,”Mr.Perkinscallsout,andeveryonelaughs.
Iignorehim.“Ineedhelpwithsomehistoricalresearchandwiththetouroverview.”
Theo’seyesbrighten.“I’mgoodatresearch.AndIwantedtoexploretheneighborhoodandgettoknowmy—ourneighbors.Icoulddothatandhelpyouatthesametime.”
AndjustlikethateveryonebutDreaislookingatmelikeifIdon’tsayyesI’llbekickingadogintheribs.Theworstpart?Idon’tthinkanyofthemevenrealizeit.
“Ihaveacamera,”headds.
“Everyonehasacamera,man,”Lensays,jokingbecauseheapparentlylikesTheoenoughtodothatnow.“It’scalledacellphone?”
Amberlaughs,andLen’schestpuffsupevenmore.
“AndIbetyourtourwillbewaybetterthanthebrownstoneone.IfIcanhelpwiththat…”Heshrugs.“That’dbecool.”
“Sydney,you’retheonewhoputthisontheschedulelastminute,”Ms.Candacesaysinherno-nonsensetonethatremindsmeshespentyearsmanagingabank.“Youneedhelp.Ourneighborhasofferedtohelp.Whatexactlyistheproblem?”
IcrossmyarmsovermychestandglanceatTheo.
“IwasgonnapayKavaughn,butI’mnotpayingyou,”Isay.“Ifyoureallywanttohelp,youcanthinkofthisworkasreparations.”
There.Alittletwitchatthecornerofhiseye.Butwhenheopenshismouthallhesaysis“Great.Justletmeknowwhenandwhere.”
ThemeetingmovesonandItuneitout,glancingatTheoasheinteractswiththesepeopleI’veknownallmylife.Ihavenoideawhythismanissoinvestedinhelpingme,orissuddenlyallupintheneighborhoodKool-Aid,butIguessI’mabouttofindout.
GiffordPlaceOurHoodpostbyJosieUlnar:
ThiseveningwhenIwaswalkinghomefromwork,Inoticedagroupofmeninhoodiesridingtheirbikesslowlyupanddownthestreet.I’mnotsureiftheywerecasinghousesorifit’spartoftheganginitiationsthatapparentlyhappenatthistimeofyear,butIdidcallitintothepolice.
AshleyJones:ThatwasmysonPreston,whois17,babysittinghiscousins,whoare8and11yearsoldandthusonlyallowedtoridetheirbikesfromcornertocorneronthisstreet,WHERETHEYLIVE.(-__-)
JosieUlnar:Iwasjustbeingvigilant.Crimehasbeenontheriseandit’ssomethingweallneedtokeepaneyeoutfor.
KimDeVries:I’mwithJosie.Therehavealreadybeenseveralbreak-insoverthelastfewweeksandgangsplanrobberiesforthree-dayweekends,whenpeopleareawayandnooneisreallypayingattention.
AshleyJones:www.nyccrime.gov/crimeratesCrimeinourneighborhoodisatthelowestit’sbeenindecades,butgooffsis.
(14additionalcomments…seemore)
Chapter4
Theo
VOLUNTEERINGTOHELPSYDNEYWASADUMBMOVE—I’MsupposedtobeblendinginenoughthatpeoplewillthinkI’mnice.Normal.Notbeingthecenterofattention.Butsomethingaboutmyneighborleadstoill-adviseddecisions.
Beforethisevening,shewas“thewomanfromthetour”andthen“thewomanIwatchfrommywindow.”Myrun-inswithherhadeitherbeenabruptandawkward,orfromadetacheddistance,likewatchingacharacterinaSimsvideogamegoaboutherbusiness.Nowshefeels…real,Iguess.AlloftheneighborsIspoketodo.
Ihadn’tthoughtofthemasrealpeople.EvenwhenI’dchattedwithMr.Perkins,evenwhenI’dwatchedfrommywindoworobservedpeopleduringmywalks,Ihadn’treallybeenseeingthem.It’sastartlingrealization,buttobefair,I’vespentmostofmylifehavingtoquicklycategorizepeopleaseitherthreator…somethingelse.Thatdoesn’tleavemuchroomforhavingtothinkabouttheirpastortheirfeelings,orwhatever.
NowIwanttoknowmore.AndSydney—Imightwantmorethanthat.
Holdyourhorses,buddy.
Volunteeringforherprojectisjustawaytokilltimeuntiltheaxovermyheaddropsormiraculouslydisappears.WhileSydneymakesforanicefantasy,myrealityisbeingstuckinaco-ownedhousewithawomanwhobarelyacknowledgesmyexistence,letaloneourrelationship.
IintendongoingrightuptomycrampedatticstudioandlookingupsomehistorystuffsoSydneydoesn’trealizeIknownothingabouthistory,beforeheadingoutagain.Kimhasbeenstayingoutlaterandlateranyway—whichprobablymeansexactlywhatIthinkitmeans,soI’vebeenspendingmynightsoutandabout—butIhearmusicfloatingthroughtheclosedwindowsofthelivingroomasIjogupthefrontsteps.
Thelow,sorrowfulnotessoundlikeoneofKim’sclassicalmusicalbums,whichIcallher“culturedentertainingsoundtrack”sincesheusuallylistenstoTaylorSwiftwhenshe’salone;shemusthaveguests.
AnxietypunchesmeinthebellyasIimagineherparentsbehindthatdoor,therich,judgmentalpiecesofworkwho’dmadeitclearfromthebeginningthatIwasn’tgoodenough,butthey’dtoleratemetemporarilybecausewhatKimwanted,Kimgot.
OneEasterdinnerattheirplaceintheHamptons,they’dtoldthestoryofhowKimhadalwaysbeggedforanewbunnyeveryEasterandthey’dobligedher,tothepointthatthey’dstartedtorunoutofbunnynames.WhenI’dattemptedajokeaboutthemrecyclingthesamerabbitandrenamingiteveryyear,thetablehadfallensilentandherfatherhadlaughedinthattonesomeoneuseswhenyou’vemispronouncedyourentréeataFrenchrestaurant.
“Youdon’tkeepreplaceableplaythingsforlongerthannecessary,”he’dexplained,andthere’dbeencontemptinhiseyesthathadseemeddisproportionatetoadiscussionaboutEasterrabbits.Atthetime,IthoughthewasmakingaslyjabatKim’saffectionforme,butnowIthinkmaybehe’dreallybeendisgustedthatI’dbeengaucheenoughtosuggesttheycouldn’tsimplybuywhattheywanted,disposeofitwhentheyweretiredofit,andgetanewonewhenthemoodstruckagain.
Deepmalelaughtersoundsthroughthedoortothefirst-floorapartment,followedbyKim’sflirtatiousgiggle.
Maybeitisn’therparents.Maybeit’stheassholewhosatacrossfrommeatbrunchalmostexactlyayearago,talkingtomeabouthis401(k)likehehadn’tfuckedKiminthehottubjusthoursearlier.
IfDavidhadbeensmugorhadseemedlikehewasneedlingme,thatwouldhavegivenmesomethingtoreallyhitchmyragetrailerto.Butno.He’dbeenblandandboringbefore,andhe’dbeenblandandboringafter,andapparentlythatwaswhatKimpreferredoverme.Andinsteadofleaving,I’dstayedandtriedtomakethingsgoodagain,likeitwasanotherchallengeandI’dwinsomekindofprize.
Ireallywasmymother’schild.
ThemusicsuddenlygrowslouderasIstandonthebottomstep,indecisive,andIturntoseeKimstandingintheopendoorwayandlookingatmelikeshe’sgladtoseeme.Theinvisibleanxietyfistgetsinafewmorejabssomewherearoundmychestregion.Ormaybeit’sjustheartburnfromthechipsandsalsaIshoveledintomymouthwhilestandingaroundaftertheblock-partyplanningmeetinghadfinishedbecauseIdidn’twanttogobacktomyswelteringatticroom.
“Theo?”
Kimsaysmynamehowsheusedto.Beforewemoved.Beforeshedetachedsohardshetookachunkofmyfleshwithher.Beforealmostexactlyayearagowhenshe’dwalkeduptothebrunchtablewhereI’dlistenedtoDaviddroneon,sportingalow-cuttopthatnonchalantlydisplayedahickeythatIhadn’tgivenher,likewewereinsomekindofteendrama.
“What’sup?”Itrytosoundcool,butitcomesoutsoundingsurprised,whichisacompletelyhonestreactionforonce.
“Wanttocomehaveanightcapwithus?”sheaskspolitely,incliningherheadtowardthenoiseinherlivingroom.
“Who’s‘us’?”IsteelmyselftojustwalkupthestairsifshesaysDavid’sname,whichseemsintherealmofpossibility,giventhelastfewmonths.
“Theneighborsfromacrossthestreet.TerryandJosie.Remember,theyhadusovertotrysomeofTerry’scraftbeerrightafterwemovedin?”ShepullsthedooropenandIseetheneighborswholiveontheothersideofSydneysmilingatmeexpectantlylikewe’reoldbuddiesabouttocatchup.Terry’sbeerhadtastedlikepiss,andboththeirdogandtheirsonhadbittenme,soofcourseIrememberourvisit.
“Sure,”Isay,tryingtomusterifnotenthusiasmthenhospitality.IshouldbehappyKimseemstobetrying.“I’llhaveaquickdrink.”
“Quick?Youhavesomethingelsetodo?”Kim’snosewrinklesabit,butsheholdsontohersmileandushersmein.
“Hey,”IsayasIwalkinandtakeaseatontheweirdangularcouchKimboughtlastmonth.Theroomsmellslikefancycheese,solikeass,mixedwiththetartscentofwine.
“Theo.Buddy!”Terryreachesoverthecoffeetablelitteredwiththeremainsoftheirappetizersandgivesmyhandahardsqueeze.He’ssportinganexpensiveRolexonhiswrist,andIimaginehowhe’dreactifIslammeditdownontotheedgeofthisuglybutsturdycoffeetable.
“Longtimenosee,”Josiesays,thenholdsupthebottleofwhitewineinherhand.It’ssohugeitlookskindoflikeanovelty,butI’msureit’sexpensiveanddelicious.“Wantsome?”
Kimslidesontothecouchbesideme.“DadbroughtitbackfromhistriptoFrance,”sheexplains,casuallyplacingahandonmyknee.Alittleshiverpassesthroughmeatthefamiliarpressofherfingers.Itfeelsmoreintimatethanifshe’dcalledmeinheretofuck.
“Comeon,lookatthisguy!”Terry’swordsareabitblurryaroundtheedges,butheseemslikeaguywhocomeshomeeverynightandhitsthewetbarbeforetakingoffhisjacket,sohe’spossiblymorethanalittledrunk.Hisfaceiswide,and,rightnow,thecenterthirdofitisflushedredandmottledlikehegothitwiththeproblem-drinkerstick.“Wine?Whatdoeshelooklike?He’sgoingtohavesomebourbon,right?”
“I—”
Terrythumpshischest.“Bourbon.Man’sdrink!Thattaboy.”
Terryismaybetenyearsolderthanme,tops,buthe’sclearlytakenontheroleofpushydrunkuncleatthisgathering.Idecidetorollwithit.Itaketheglassfromhimashehandsitacrossthetable,andfeeltheweightofthreegazessettleonmeasthesmokyheatofthefirstsipwarmsmythroatandchest.
“So,howwasit?”Kimasks,squeezingmyleg.
“Howwaswhat?”
“Themeeting,”Josiesays,leaninginconspiratorially.“Abouttheblockparty.”
“Oh.Itwasfine.”Itakeanothersipandrunmytongueovermyteeth.
“That’sit?Fine?”Kimasks,squeezingmylegabitharder.“What’dtheytalkabout?”
PartofmewondersifsheknowsIspoketo,andmaybeflirtedabitwith,Sydney.IfsheknowsIvolunteeredtohelpwiththetourinsteadofbustingdowndoorslookingforajobopportunitythat’snotgoingtohappen.
Iusemyfreehandtogentlypryherclawlikegripoffme.“Itwasaparty-planningmeeting.Themostexcitingthingwaswhenthesetwowomenstartedtrash-talkingeachother’smacaroniandcheese.”
Ishrugandtakeanothersip,butJosie’sgazenarrows.“Theydidn’ttalkaboutanythingelse?”
There’ssomethingoddinhowhergazehasgonefromdiffusedfriendlinesstosharpenedinterrogation,despitethesamepasted-onsmile.Igulptherestofmydrinkandplonktheglassontothecoffeetable.“Howaboutyoujustaskmewhatitisyouwanttoknow?ClearlyI’mmissingsomething,andIdon’thavetimetoplayguessinggames.”
Kim’sbreathbrushesagainstmyearjustbeforeshewhispers,“Don’tberude.”
“Aren’tyouunemployed?”Terryaskspointedlyasheleansovertopourmemorebourbon.“I’dsayyouhaveplentyoftime.”
Allthreeofthemlaugh,thatrich-fuckgiggle,andIturntoKimwithbothbrowsraised.
“What’supwiththis?”Igritout.
“Don’tbeupset,we’reallfriendshere,”Josiesays.“Wesawtheparty-planningpostonOurHoodandourprivategroupdecidedtohaveameetingofourown.”
“ThereareprivategroupsinOurHood?”Iask.
Josiegivesmealookandcontinues.“Westartedwonderingwhatexactlytheyweregettingupto.Weneedtoknowwhetherthere’sanythingtoworryabout.Safety-wise.”
“Youthinkabunchofpeoplesittingaroundplanningactivitiestoenrichtheirneighbors’livesisasafetythreat.”Ilaughalittlebutnooneelsedoes.IknowIprobablyhaveasomewhatdifferentviewofsafetythanthesethree,givenmybackground,butthisissocomicalIneedtoknowmore.“Areyouactuallyworriedthatourtotallyharmlessneighborsareplottingagainstyou?”
“They’renottotallyharmless,”Kimsays.“Oneofthemtriedtoattackmeatthecornerstore.Yousawthat.Idon’tknowwhatshewould’vedoneifyouhadn’tsteppedin.”
Shesqueezesmyarm.
Idon’tsayanything.
“Comeon,buddy,”Terrysays.“Don’ttellmeyouhaven’tnoticedhowtheylookatus.Feltit.Likewe’retheoneswhodon’tbelonghere.”
“Ifyouwereinourprivategroup,you’dseethatsomeoftheotheremergingneighborhoodsaroundushavebeendealingwith…unpleasantness.”Josiepressesherlipstogetherandletsthewordsettle,asifunpleasantnessistheworstthingever.
Terrymakesaweirdsoundinhisthroat.“Therehavebeenpackagerobberiesfromdoorsteps.Expensiveitems.TwohomesthatwerefeaturedonBoomtownwerebrokenintoandhadjewelrystolen,familyheirloomsthathadbeenpasseddownforgenerations.”
“And?”Iholdhisgaze.“Peoplegetrobbedallthetime.ThisisBrooklyn.”
“Acouplewasmuggedfiveblocksoverbysomethugslastweek,too,”Josiecontinues.“Acouplelikeyoutwo.LikeTerryandme.Theyweretoldthatitwas‘reparations.’”
Sydneyhadsaidsomethingsimilartome,butwe’dlaughedafterwardbecauseitwasajoke.
“Well,I’msurethatwasn’tfunnyforthepeoplebeingrobbed,butitclearlywasn’tamissionstatement.”
Iwaitforthemtoacknowledgehowridiculousthisis,butnoonedoes.
Terryshakeshishead.“TherehavebeenalotofissuespoppingupsincetheVerenTechdealwasfloatedforthisneighborhood.Troublemakershavingmeetings,planningthings,tryingtomakesurethedealdoesn’tgothroughbyanymeansnecessary,astheysay.Nowthatit’sbeenapproved,we’reworriedabout…escalations,especiallybecauseJosieworksthere.”
Kimrestsherhandonmylegagain,andtheweightfeelscloyingnow.“TheyseetheVerenTechdeal,andus,asawayof,Idon’tknow,takingwhat’stheirsorsomething.Sowethought—”
“Wait.Wait,wait.Youguysareserious?”Ilookaroundtheroomandseethattheyare.“Christ,Kim.Itwasliterallyabunchofneighborshangingoutandplanningsomethingfunforeveryone,andyou’reactinglikeit’sleadinguptoHarpersFerry.”Iplacemyglassonthetableandstandup.“AllthreeofyoumightconsiderdeletingtheOurHoodappbecauseit’sclearlymakingyouparanoid.Thisis—”
“Thisiswhat?”Terry’svoiceislowandangry,followingthetypicaldrunk-bastardcycle.“Ridiculous?Youthinkbecauseyouwenttoonemeetingwiththosepeoplethatyou’redownnow?”
“Youkeepsaying‘them’and‘thosepeople’whenyoumeanourneighborswhowerejustnownefariouslychoosingtimeslotsforwhowasgoingtooverseethebouncycastle,”Isayslowly.“So,yes.Itisridiculous.”
Terrysmirksatme,ameanandfamiliarcurveofhismouthupward,andIrealizehedoesn’tmean“ourneighbors.”He’sthinkingsomethingmuchworse.“Calmdown,Theo.We’rejustlookingoutforyou.Kimtoldusyou’vebeenhavingproblemsandwethoughtmaybe—”
“Youtoldthemwe’vebeenhavingproblems?”IaskKim.
“Itoldthemyou’vebeenhavingproblems,”sheclarifies.“Ihaveajobandpullmyweightaroundthehouse.”
Ihaven’tmissedanymortgagepayments,thankstothegigsI’vepickeduphereandthereoverthelastfewmonths,butIwonderwhatshe’stoldthesepeople.
“VerenTechwillbehiringsoon,and—”Jodiesays.
“We’rejusttryingtohelp,”Terrycutsin.“Wehavetolookoutforeachother.We’rejusttryingtofostergoodneighborlyrelationsbecauseweneedtodependoneachother.Toknowwehaveeachother’sbacks.”
IlookdownatKimandthinkofthedayshecamehomeupset.“There’sjustsofewofus.”
“Whenyou’redepressedandjobless,it’seasytofallinwiththewrongkindofpeople—”Josieadds,butthey’realltalkingtomybacknowbecauseI’mheadingoutthelivingroomdoor.
Iconsidergoingupstairs,butthethoughtofbeingboxedinbyKimandthoseweirdoneighborsmakesmepivotoutthefrontdoor.I’magitatedandannoyedandIreallyshouldn’tbe,becauseeverythingtheysaidwasridiculous.Still,whilethey’dbeenworriedIwasattendingsomekindofanarchists’meeting,they’dbeenhavingtheirownkaffeeklatschaboutwhataloserIwas.
Istandoutsideonthestoopforaminute;it’sdarkoutalready,butstillhotandhumid.Kidsareheadinghomeingroupsoftwo,three,andfour.Thewhirofbikewheelsandflashofspokereflectorsspeedby.Sydney’shouseisdark—she’sprobablystillatMr.Perkins’splacewithherfriendwholivesupstairsfromher.
IdowhatIalwaysdowhenI’mfrustrated:Iwalk.Forblocksandblocks,IwanderdownstreetswithnamesIcan’tpronounce,withhousingstylesrangingfromsquattwo-storycolonials,tograndbrownstoneswithallthebellsandwhistles,tooldprewartenementswithdozensofapartments,tohousingprojects.Lotsofnewconstruction,too,inthesamebland“modern”style.I’dworkedonafewsitesforcondoslikethese—andafterdatingKim,hadbeenfriendswithpeoplewhocouldaffordtoliveinthem.Thesewerethekindofpeoplewhocalledpeopletrailertrashinonesentenceandcomplainedaboutleaksandthinwallsinthenext—thesameproblemsthat’dplaguedthetrailersIgrewupin.Mymomnowlivesinabeautifultrailerthatbeatsmostofthesecondos,anditdidn’tcosthalfamillionbucks,either.
I’malwayshyperawareofmysurroundings,buttonightI’monedge,tunedintohowpeopleintheneighborhoodsIwalkthroughlookatme.Agroupofdudesmyage,allBlack,sittingontheirstoop,nudgeeachother,andoneofthemlaughslikejicamagoingoveragrater.Acoupleofstreetsdown,anolderwomaneyesmecautiouslyandgivesmeawideberth,asifshecantellthere’ssomethingdangerousaboutme,thoughshenodsagreetingwhenourgazesmeet.AsIpassanothergroup,boysandgirlsintheirlateteensallsittingonaparkbenchinoneofthosegreenspacesthatpopuprandomlyaroundhere,oneoftheboyscallsout,“Haveagoodnight,bro,haveagoodnight.”Ican’ttellifhe’sbuzzedandfeelingoverlyfriendlyormakingfunofme.Maybeboth.
Ireplywith“Youtoo,man,”andkeepwalking,tryingtoshaketheweirdfeelingI’vehadsinceIleftthehouse.I’dbeeninagoodmoodforonceafterleavingMr.Perkins’s,likeIcouldbepartofthisneighborhoodandcreatesomesnapshotsformyownpersonalphotoalbum,butKim,Terry,andJosiehavegottenintomyheadsoI’mwalkingaroundparanoidandjumpy.
IhavetowonderifthisiswhatKimfeelslikeallthetime.Constantlysuspiciousandthinkingthateveryoneisouttogetherfornoreason.Idohavereason,butnoneofthepeopleI’vepassedareasourceofworryforme.
Idecidetomakemywaytowardthebarafewblocksdownfromourhouse,wheretheysometimeshavejazzonMondaynights,acrossfromoneofthepawnshopsI’vebeentoafewtimes.WhenIarrive,it’squietoutside,soIheadinandtakeaseat.It’sdarkerthanIremember,apolishedandcleanedversionofthedivebarsIusedtofrequent,andinsteadofjazz,anoldRadioheadalbumisplaying.Eachstoolisoccupiedbyawhitedudewithabeard.Theyallturnandlookatmeasthedoorslamsshutbehindme.
Thebartendersauntersovertotheendofthebar,acuteshortgirlwhoIrecognizeasthecollegekidwhorentsfromMr.Perkins.
“Hey,neighbor,”shesays,battingherlashesatme.Sheseemstobegoingforthesmoky-eyedmanicpixiedreamgirllooktonight,andpersonality,too,judgingfromhowsheleansinvitinglyoverthebar.“WhatcanIgetyou?Beer?Bourbon?”
“Iactuallycameforjazz,”Isay.“ButIthinkmaybeIhavethewrongbar?”
There’ssomethingaboutthewaythisplaceseemsmanufactured,likeahipsterHardRockCafe,thatmakesmyskinitch.Eventhecustomersfitamold:everyguyatthebarisdressedinthesamevariationofgraphicteeanddarkdenim,slouchedoverabeerorphonewiththesamecurveofhisback.It’sweird.
“Oh,thatwasthelastplace,”shesays.“Theycloseddownacoupleweeksago.”
“Thatsucks.”
Shequirksabrow.“Doesit?Wedon’thavetogoallthewaytoFortGreenetofindachillplacenow.”
Ithoughttheoldplacewasmorechillthanthisprefabdivebar,butI’mannoyedanddon’tfeelliketalkingtothiskidanymore.
“Right.”Iscrubahandthroughmyhair,nod,thenpointatthedoorbehindme.“I’mgoingtoheadout.”
Sheleansforwardalittlemore,andtheheadsofthedudesliningthebarswiveltocheckoutherass.“Seeyouaround.”
Iheaveasighandwalkback,thehumidairclingingtomealongwithanevencrappiermood.I’mnotdrunk,orevenbuzzed,butthetwoglassesofbourbonpairedwiththedisappointmentofthenightwerejustenoughtoleavemefeelingsullen.IglanceintodarkwindowsasIwalk,noticinghowalmostallthenewlyrenovatedplacesIpasshavecameraspointedattheirfrontdoorsnow.Kimhadwantedtogetoneofthosesystems,too,butI’dtoldherIdidn’twanthertobeabletomonitorwhenIleaveandenterthehousefromthecomfortofherphone—thoughIdoubtshecaresenoughtobother.
I’mpassingbytheoldhospital,andstoptocasuallylookthroughthefencesurroundingthebuilding—there’sallkindsofconstructionequipmentlitteredaroundtheplace,andIwonderwhat’sinside.Hadtheyalreadyclearedeverythingout?Ihearanoiselikescrapingmetalandleancloser.
Thebuildingisdarkandtheweakyellow-orangeglowfilteringfromthestreetlightsbarelyilluminatestheareapastthefence.Thewindowsarenothingbutuniformblack,butthenathinlineoflightflickerssomewhereinthedepthsofthatdarkness,onthefloorthat’sslightlylowerthangroundlevel.Iblinkacoupleoftimesandleancloser,squintingtotrytocatchsightofthatweirdflickeragain…
Ahandclampsdownonmyshoulderand,asecondlater,isfollowedbyaheavyweightslammingmeintothefence.
Abody.
ThechainlinkrattlesasinstinctkicksinandIstruggletopullmyhandsoutofmypocketstofightback,butmyattackerisbigandwrapsmeinabearhug.Thinstripsofwarm,grimymetalpressadiamondshapeintothesideofmyfaceastheweightslumpsagainstme,ahearthammeringagainstmyshoulderbladeandbreathscomingfastandshallow.
Whoeveritissmellslikepissedpantsandbodyodor,andIsuckinbreaththroughmymouthtoavoidgagging.
“M-m-mo—”Adeepvoicestuttersinmyear,buttheendofthewordisclippedasaviolentshudderpassesthroughtheperson,vibratingthroughmeandthechainlink.
Iforcemyselftorelax,saggingintothefence,thenpushbackhardassoonasthegriploosensinresponse,catchingthemoffbalancesotheystumbleawayfromme.
WhenIturnaround,alreadysquaredupandwitharageinmyveinsthatI’veavoidedforyearsnow,IseeaheavysetBlackguyinaT-shirtandjeansreachingformeasheswaysonhisfeet.Hegraspsatmeafewtimes,butcomesawaywithpalmfulsofairasIstepoutofreach.
IimagineKimgivingmeasmuglookandtellingmeshetriedtowarnme.Iknockhishandsawayashereachesformeagain.
“Whatthefuck,man?”Igritout.
Helistssideways,thenstrugglestorighthimself,thestreetlightglintinginhisdulleyes.It’sthenthatInoticehowdelayedhismotionsare,howhisdarkiriseshavebeeneatenbytheblown-outblackofhispupils.
Hesquintsatmeandslurssomethingthatsoundslike“Mummy.”
“What?”
Hethrustshishandtowardme,closingandthenopeningit,andIfinallyunderstand.
“Money?”Isnortalaughoffrustration,andheshakeshishead,thennods.“Sorry,pal.”
Hetalksagain,stillsoundinglikehe’sspeakingaroundamouthfulofmarbles.“Bringmoney.Helpme,man.”
Isighanddropmyguardabit.“Youcan’tjustgrabpeoplelikethat.Andsorry,Ican’thelpyou.”
Hiseyeswideninconfusion,shiningwithtears.“Please.Please.”
Hereallyisn’tingoodshape.
“Doyouwantmetocallanambulance?Getyoutoahospital?”
Hestaresatmeforamoment,hiseyesbrieflyfocusing,andthenhegrabsmebythecollarandslamsmeagainstthefenceagain.
“No!No!No!”heshoutsdirectlyintomyface,soclosethatIcantellhehasn’tbrushedhisteethfordaysjustbeforehisspittlelandsonthecornerofmylip.
I’mabouttolandablowtohiskidneywhenthesuddenhigh-pitchedwarningblipofasirendownthestreetdragshisattentionfromme.Whenredandbluelightswashoverus,heletsmegoandtearsoffrunning,ungainlyandstumbling.
Ablacksedan,anundercovercar,pullsuptomeasI’madjustingmycollar,andthemaninthepassengerside,awhiteguywithabeefyfaceandabuzzcut,rollsdownhiswindow.ThebaresthintofcoldairpassesovermyforearmasIstepclosertothecar.
“Youseeabig,crazycrackheadaroundhere?”heasks.“GiantBlackguy?Wegotsomereportsofamanhasslingpeople.”
Hispartner,anItalian-lookingguywithamustache,leansforwardandfixesmewithhisstare.
Ipointdownthestreetandseethatmyhand’sshakingfromtheadrenalinerush.“Hewentthatway.AttackedmewhenIwouldn’tgivehimmoney.”
“Isthatso?Can’thelpthemselves,Iguess.”Thebuzz-cutcopchucklesmirthlesslyandgiveshisheadashake.“Allright.We’llbringhimin.”
Hereachesforawalkie-talkie.
“Youknowit’sdangerousforyoutobeoutaroundherethislate,right?”themustachecopsays.“Giveitayearorso.”
Theyblipthesirenagainandthentakeofffastdownthestreetinthedirectionofmyattacker.
MyheartisthumpingfuriouslyinmychestandmylegsfeelshakyfromdelayedadrenalineasIwalktowardthehouse,butIkeepthinkingabouttheattacker’seyes.Evenwhenhehadhishandsatmythroat,hedidn’thavethelookofsomeonewhowantedtokillme.Tohurtme.Tobehonest,he’dlooked…scared
Addictionisahellofadisease.Ican’tevenfeelgoodthatthecopsshowedupbecausejailwon’thelpthatguy,either.Iregretlettingthemknowheattackedmeandsendingthemafterhim,thoughmaybeI’vesavedthenextpersontheguymighthaveencountered.
I’mafewyardsawayfromthehousewhenIseeKimsprintdownthestairsintoacarwaitingatthecurb,anovernightbagonhershoulder.
Idon’tcallouthername.Ijusttaketheadditionalgutpunch,thoughitfeelslikealighttapatthispoint.
Afterthecarpullsaway,Iwalkupthesteps.AsIunlockthedoor,Ilookupandtomyleft,intotheblacksquarelensofadoorbellcamera.Whatthehell?Iheadtomyapartment,scrubthehelloutofmyfaceandhandswithhandsanitizer,andstareoutthewindow.
Acrossthestreet,TVsflickerinvariouswindows,acheckerboardofbluelights,andinthedistance,apolicesirenwails.
GiffordPlaceOurHoodpostbyDerekJames:
Anyonebeenfeelingthegroundshakeatnightsometimes?FeelslikewhenIusedtoliveonNostrandovertheAtrainline.Youthinkallthisconstructionismessingwiththealreadyfuckedupinfrastructure?I’mnottrynadiebysinkhole.
AngieC.:Doesitalwayshappenat2am?
DerekJames:Yes!
AngieC.:That’sthewitchinghour,myguy.Getyousomeholywaterandsomesageandyou’llbestraight.
Chapter5
Sydney
ASIBRUSHMYTEETHWITHONEHAND,IHAVEMYPHONEINtheother,webbrowseropen,scrollingthroughsearchresultsfor“whydoesitfeellikemybedisshakingwhenIfallasleep?”
Myothersearchesthismorninghavebeen“earthquake+Brooklyn”and“dodemonsshakeyourbed,”sowhicheverNSABradiscollectingmyGooglesearchesisprobablyhavingagoodlaugh.
I,ontheotherhand,amsotiredIwanttothrowup.
Theonlynonsupernaturalexplanationintheresultsisthathighstresslevelsandoverconsumptionofcaffeinecancreatethesensationthatyourbedisshaking,likehowyousometimesfeellikeyou’refallingeventhoughneitheryourbodynoryourbedhasmoved.
Iplacethephoneontheedgeofthesinkandfinishbrushingmyteeth.
Myphonebuzzesandatextmessagepopsup:HelloMs.Green,we’remessagingyouwithalucrativeofferonyourhouse!Pleasecontactusat212–555-CASH.
Itrashthemessage,minty-hotragezingingthroughmeasIspitandrinsemymouth.
Thesevulturescanevenharassyoubytextnow?It’slikerealestatepsychologicalwarfare—theybombardyouwithflyers,blowupyourphone,havepeopleshowingupatyourdoor,andnowcanshowupinyourtextinbox.Howmanypeopledotheyweardown,orcatchinamomentofweaknessordesperation?
Bastards.
Iapplymyundereyeconcealerwithshakinghands,notwantingtodealwithquestionsatthehairbraidingshop.Fivehoursofsomeonetuggingatyourscalpisbadenoughwithouteveryotherpersonwhocomesincommentingonhowtiredyoulook.
Iheadintomyroomandopenthesealedplasticbagthatcontainsmyclothes—afterthefirstcoupleofbedbugscares,I’mnottakinganychances.Icheckthebaseboardsoftheapartmentandthefurnitureeveryfewdays,too.DreasaysI’mbeingcrazy,whichisn’tmyfavoritedescriptorafterwhathappenedinSeattle,butshe’sseeminglyimmunetothem.Shedoesn’thaveclustersofcocoabutter–resistantscarsmarringherneckandankles.Shedoesn’tstartitchingeverytimesheseesatinydarkmotefromthecornerofhereye.Andshedoesn’tlieinbedatnightwonderingwhythemattressesoutonthecurbarequicklybeingfollowedbymovingtrucks.
Ido.
Ilockupthehouse,cringingasJosieyellsatherkid,orherdog,orherhusband,andheadtothecommunitygardentomakesureeverythingisgood.
BythetimeIgetthere,I’malreadysweatingthroughmyT-shirt.It’shotandhumidandthere’snowayI’mwalkingallthewaytothesaloninthisheat.
Ms.CandaceisintherewithPaulette.She’spickingsometomatoes,lettuce,andpeppersfromherplot,droppingthemintoabasketinPaulette’slap.Paulette’sdarkeyeslockonmeasIstopattheentrance,butshedoesn’tsayanything.Hergazestraystowardthetoolshed,thenshelooksdown.
You’reimaginingit,Itellmyself,thoughmorebeadsofsweatpopupalongmyhairline.Theshadowsofthesunflowersswaybackandforthoverthetwowomen.
“Everythinggood?Youneedanything?”Iask.
Candacelooksupatmeandgivesmeawarmsmile.“Everything’sgood.We’regettingsomesaladmakingsfortheDayClubCrew’slunchlater,isn’tthatright?”SheglancesatPaulette,whodoesn’trespond,thenlooksbackatme.“Whatyouupto?”
“Headingtothebeautysupply,thenthebraidshop,”Isay.“Andthenworkingonthetoursomemore.”
Sherestsherhandsonherknees,examiningme,andIknowtheconcealerisn’tdoingitswork.“Staysafe,okay?”
She’stoldmethiscountlesstimessinceIwaslittle,butthistimeitseemslikeanactualrequest.
“Iwill.”
IlookoverthegardenonemoretimebeforeIturntoleave;alltheplots,excepttheoneI’mtending,arethickwithgreenandredandorangefoliage.Honeysuckleclimbsoverarchways,shadingthegravelpathways.Sunflowers,Mommy’sfavorite,standtallandheavy-headedalongthebackedge.
Thethree-blockwalktothebeautysupplytopickupmyhairfeelslikeI’mmovingunderwater.ItstrikesmewhenI’mwalkingthatseveralofthestoresonjustthisshortstretcharenew.TheWestIndianfruitandveggiestoreisstillhere,asarethepattyshopandthenailsalon,butthepetstorewhereIgotmyfirstgoldfishisgone.Thebarbershopwhereoldermenusedtocongregateandplayjazzrecordsisnowahomegoodsboutique.Andthehalalmarketisathriftshopthathaspricetagsmoreexpensivethanneighboringstoresthatsellbrand-newitems.
Istartwalkingfaster,pushingthroughthefatigueasasingleterrifyingthoughtpossessesme:Whatifthebeautysupplyisgone?Ipassedittwodaysago,but…
IspeedwalkthatfinalhalfablockandfeelasenseofdisproportionatereliefwhenIcatchsightofthepinkawningwithBEAUTYLANDwrittenacrossitinboldwhiteletters.
Istepintotheair-conditioning,outofbreathandoutofit.Iwanderthroughtheaisles,mypulseracingforabsolutelynoreasonandthepanictryingtogetatightholdonmysweat-slickbody,buteventuallyitlosesitsholdonme.
“Hey.Youokay?”theolderwomanbehindthecounterasksassheringsmeup,thengesturestowardthefridgeneartheregister.“WanttoaddaRedBull?”
Thisstorehasbeenhereforyears,andthiswomanhasneveraskedmehowIwasdoing.Imustlookamess,butRedBullisthelastthingmyjackrabbitheartrateneedsrightnow.
“No,thankyou.I’mfine.”
Shenods,thoughherexpressionshowsshedisagrees.
Thesalonisafifteen-minutewalkfromthebeautysupplysincemystylistmovedtoacheaperstorefront,andIdecidetodomyselfafavorandorderanUber.I’llhavetowait…sixminutesforTerrelinhisNissanAltima,butit’shotasballsandIalreadyfeeldizzyfromtheshortwalktothemaindragofstores.
MyphonevibratesandIcheckit.
Terrelhascanceledtheride.
“Okay,fuckyoutoo,Terrel,”Imutter,wonderingifIreallyneedmyhairbraided.Then,inwhatfeelslikeamiraclegiventhegeneralbullshitthathasbeenmylifelately,Iimmediatelygetanewalert.
Yourdriverisarrivingin1min.LookforDrewinablackFordCrownVictoria.
Someonelaysonthehorn,andIjumpandlookuptoseetheCrownVicidlingatthecurbinfrontofme.Hehonksagain,thenagain,andIhurryoverandpullopenthereardoor.
“Drew?”
AnolderwhiteguywearingaRedSoxcapandreflectiveaviatorslooksbackoverhisshoulderatme.“Yup.Sydney?”
Igetinandhejerksintotraffic,makingmealmostfalltomysidebeforeIcanfinishgettingmyseatbelton.
Isnapitintoplaceandshoothimalookintherearviewmirror,buthe’sstaringresolutelyaheadandhisaviatorsrevealnothing.MyannoyancestartstogrowasIrealizetherewasnodamnreasonforhimtobehonkinglikethatwhenhearrived.
Ilookaroundthecar’sinterior.It’sold,withnodecorativeaccents.Insteadoftheusualairfreshenerscent,itsmells…antiseptic.Thehairsonmyarmsrise.WhenIglanceathimagain,Inoticehowthehairatthebackofhisthickneckiscut—shavedclosetotheskinwithbrutalefficiency,likeacrewcut.
“Man,thingshavechangedaroundhere,”hesaysaswerolltoastopataredlight,pointingtoabillboardforanupcomingluxurycondominium.Theadfeaturesawhitewomanwithsleevetattoosrelaxinginaluxuriousbathtub,andtheBVTRealtylogothatcanbeseenonmostnewbuildsaroundhereisstampedinthecorner.
“Yeah,”Isaytersely,wishingI’dhadtimetoputinmyearphones.
“Youdon’tlikethechange?”heasks.
“Igrewuphere.Idon’tlikepeoplegettingpushedoutoftheirhomesbyrisingrentandpropertytax,”Isay,eventhoughIshouldkeepmymouthshut.
“Ohhh,”hesaysasthelightturnsgreenandhestartsdrivingagain.“Wereyouoneofthepeoplewhoprotested?”
“No.”
Helaughs.“Good.Itdidn’tgetthemanywhere,didit?”
Everythingaboutthisconversationismakingmeregretmylifechoices,soIdecidetoburymyselfinmyphone.WhenItrytonavigateawayfromtheappscreenmyphonedoesn’trespond.Istareatthepictureofthemaninthedriverphoto—ifit’smycurrentdriver,he’sputonalotofbulksincethepicturewastaken.There’salicenseplateonthescreen,butIrealizeIdidn’thavetimetocheckifitmatched,sincehe’dhurriedmeintothecar.
“ThewayIseeit,it’sjust…Darwin,”Drewsayseasily.“Survivalofthefittest.Youcan’tprotestthatshit.”
Theclickofthedoorslockingechoesinthecarasapunctuationtohisstatementandmyhandsreflexivelycurlintofists.
“Whydidyoulockthedoors?”Iask.
“Thosearethechildsafetylocks,theykickinautomaticallyafterawhile,”hesays.
Iglancethroughthewindow,willingmyselftocalmdown.Thisfeelswrong,allwrong,butafterwepassthiscornerwe’llbejustafewblocksawayandit’sastraightawayonabusyBrooklynthoroughfare.I’vebeenextrajumpylatelyandIhadanunprovokedpanicattackoverabeautysupplyshop.I’mprobablyjustbeingparanoid.
“Youfindsomethingnefariousineverything,”Marcus’svoiceechoesinmyhead.“ThenyouwonderwhyIcallyoucrazy.”
Drewsuddenlywhipsaleftontoasidestreet.
“Whatareyoudoing?Thebeautyshopisstraightdownthisstreet.”
“MyGPSsaidtherewasanobstacleonFulton,soIdecidedtotakeanotherroute.Don’tworryaboutit.”
There’snodamnGPSinthiscar.Ithasaradiowithacassettedeckandhiscellphoneisfacedowninthecubbyholebelowit.
“Pullover,”IdemandinthesteadiestvoiceIcanmanage.
“We’realmostthere,”hesaysinacalmdowntone.“ButlikeIwassaying,it’ssurvivalofthefittest.ThispartofBrooklynhasbeenriddledwithcrimefordecades:drugs,shooting,theft.Wedon’thavethoseproblemswhereIlivebecauseweunderstandtheorderofthings.Wefollowthelaw.BackwhenIwasacop,Ihatedpatrollingthisneighborhood.”
“Pull.Over.”
Isearchforthelockonthedoornexttome,butthere’saholewhereitshouldbestickingout.SickfearpoolsinmystomachasIjigglethehandle,butDrewkeepstalking.
“Ialwaysthoughtitwouldbeagreatplacetoliveiftherewerejustmore…civilizedpeople.Right?”
Hemakesarightandthecarglidesdownastreetwithbarelyanytrafficthat’slinedwithgarages,industrialbuildings,andhalf-erectedcondos.
Myphone’sscreenisstillfrozenandItrytoforcerestart,buttheappstubbornlyresists.
Wepassacouplewho’vestoppedtokissinthemiddleofthesidewalkandIbangonthewindowasweflypastthem,butwhenIlookbackthey’relaughingandshe’sgivingmethefinger.Theydidn’tseethatIwastryingtogethelp,notjudgingthemfortheirPDA.
“Backinthedaypeopledidn’ttakeromanticwalksoverhere.Itwasagoodplacetochatwithpeoplewhodidn’tunderstandcivility,andmakethemunderstand.”Helaughs,asifhe’sreminiscingaboutsomethingbenign.“ButIguessthat’sthestuffpeoplecallbrutalitythesedays.Peoplewhodon’tknowwhatittakestokeepacommunitysafe.”
I’mdigginginmypurseformykeys.I’mgonnahavetojaboneintohisneckontheright,andthenreachpasthimontheleftforthemasterlock.IamnotdyinginamotherfuckingUber,atthehandsofaSoxfannoless.
Islidethekeysbetweenmyknucklesandflexmyfingersaroundthem,myheartthumpingandmyhandstingling,preparingmyselftostrike,butthenthecarpullstoanabruptstopandIjerkforwardandthenback.
Mykeyspuncturetheleatheratthebackofthedriver’sseat,leavingtwosmallrips.
Drewlooksbackoverhisshoulderatme.“Locationisablockoverbutthisstreetisone-way.Hopeyoudon’tmindwalkingalittle,Ms.Green.”
ThedoorsunlockandIpushoutofthecarandjogoffonwobblylegs,notbotheringtoclosethedoor.
Upahead,IseetheflowofhumantrafficonFultonStreetandjogtowardit.WhenIstumbleoutintothemiddleofthesidewalk,stoppingshortofoneofthesubwaygrates,peoplelookatmefunnybutflowaroundmewithoutsayinganything
Ifumblewithmyphone,tryingtotakeascreenshotofthefrozenpagewithDrew’sinfo,butwhenIlookatthescreen,itshowsthemessagelettingmeknowthatTerrelcanceledtheride.
Shit.Shit.
Ilookbehindmeandthestreetisempty.
DidIimaginethatwholeride?No.Ican’thave.Awispofseatstuffingisstillclingingtomykeys.
IthinkaboutSeattle,andMarcuslookingatmequizzicallywhenIaskedhimaboutthetextsI’dseenpopuponhisphoneandtellingmehehadnoideawhatIwastalkingabout.
IshakemyheadandcomposeatextmessagetosendtoDrea.
JusthadawildassUberride.Ithoughtthemotherfuckerwasgonnakillme.Heknewmylastnamesomehow?
IlookatthelastmessageDreasentme,inthemiddleofthenightwhenI’dtextedtoseeifshewasawakeaftermylatestnightmare.
Iknowyou’renotfeelingtherapyafterwhathappenedinSeattleandeverythingelse,butIcan’tbetheonlyonecarryingthiswithyou.Iloveyou,butI’mstressed,too
IdeletethemessageIwasabouttosendherandpullmyselftogether.Okay.ThecarridewasscarybutIhavenoevidenceandnothinghappenedintheend—Idon’tneedtoworryDrea,andit’snotlikeIcangetthepoliceinvolved.I’llsendareporttoUberandbemorecarefulinthefuture.
I’mokay.
I’mnotokay.
IcallMommyandfeelabitofreliefgothroughmewhenhervoicemailmessageplays.Idon’thangupafterthebeep.
“Somethingscaryjusthappened,”IsayasIbegintowalk.“Iwasreadytousemykeyshowyoutaughtme,though.Hereallyhadthewrongone.I’ll—I’llseeyousoon,okay?”
IgettotheshopandstandinfrontofthewindowcoveredwithglossypostersofBlackwomenofallshadessportingdifferentbraidedstyles,andseemyselfreflected,phonepressedtomychesttostillmyracingheart,expressionwildandunfamiliar.
Breathe,Sydney.Getittogether
AwhitecouplewalkspastbehindmeasItakedeepbreathswhilepretendingtochooseastyle.
“Uhyeah,guesswe’renevergoinginhere,”thedudesaysastheirreflectionspassbehindmine.“Canyouimagine?”
“Whatareyoutalkingabout?MaybeI’llgetsomeofthoseKardashianbraids,”hisgirlfriendsays.Theylaugh,andthentheirreflectionsaregone.
Survivalofthefittest.
Igoinside.
FOURANDAhalfhourslater,Sandrine,myhairbraider,tapsmeontheshoulderforprobablythefifteenthtimeandIjerkawake.
Inthebackground,thelowshoutsofdramaasaRealHousewifeofSomewhereflipsoveratableonthetelevisionfilterthroughthesmall,cleanthree-chairsalon.
“Here.”HerMalianaccentsoftenstherintheword.ShepressesacupofcoffeefromthenearbyDunkin’Donutsintomyhand.“Themailmanwhoalwaysflirtspickeditupforus.Yoursislightandsweetwithhazelnutflavor.”
“Thankyou.”Iliftthecuptomymouthtocovermyyawn,thenworkattheplasticlid.“I’msorryIkeepfallingasleepandmakingitharderforyou.”
Itakeasipandlettheimpendingsugarcrashfloodmytastebuds.I’dvaguelymentionednotsleepingandhavingabadexperiencewithmydriverwhenshe’dnoticedhowshakenIwasearlier.I’dfallenasleepbecauseIwastired,butalsobecauseIhadkindofshutdownaftertheadrenalinerush.
ShelaughssoftlyassheseparatessomestrandsfromthepackofbrightlycoloredhairIpickedup.“Ifyou’resotiredyoucansleepthroughgettingyourscalppulled,thenyoumustneedtherest.I’malmostdone.”
Iraisemybrowsdubiously.“I’mnotfallingforthat.You’llhavemegettingallexcitedtogetoutofthischair,thenstartsplittingthesameone-inchtuftofhairintofiftybraids.”
Shesucksherteethplayfully,whichdoesn’teasethepainasherknucklesdigintomyforeheadasshestartstobraidonebitalongmyhairline.Iwinceandsendupaprayertothegodofedgesthatshedoesn’tfuckmyshitup.
WhenmyteetharenolongergrittedIsay,“Thanksagainforfittingmein.”
“It’sallgood.ButIhavetogiveyoumynewnumberbecausenextweekI’mmovingtoanewshop.”
Iglanceatherreflectioninthemirrortogaugewhetherthisisagoodthingorabadthing.Herfingersmovewitharapidefficiencythat’sitsownartformassheweavestheKanekalonhairwithmyown,formingthickbraidsthatombréfromblackattherootstotealatthetips.Herexpressionistightandherlipsarepoutedoutinafrownthatisn’therusualexpressionofconcentration.
“Isittherent?”Iask,alreadyknowing.
Shenods.“Landlordsuddenlywantsusout.He’ssellingthebuilding,andthenewownersdon’twantanytenantstodealwith.Ibelievethey’llknockitdownandmakeoneofthoseuglycondos.”
“Doesn’thehavetogiveyoutime?”Iaskher.
“Probably.Hetoldmeifwehadaproblemwithit,hecouldcallICEtodothejobforhim.I’mstillwaitingformygreencardandIdon’twantanyproblems.”
Ipassmycoffeecupfromhandtohand.“I’msorry,Sandrine.”
“It’sokay.I’mgoingtorentachairatthebarbershoparoundthecorner.Theyhavealittleroomformetoworkin,sothatwillmeanyoudon’thavefivedudesinyourfacewatchingyougetstyled.”Shetriestolaugh,butitcomesoutmoreofasigh.“How’syourmotherdoing?Didyouevercallmyfriend,thehomehealthaide?”
IregrethowmuchIusedtosharewithSandrineduringthehoursandhoursIpassedinherchair.
“Weactuallydecidedonanassistedlivinghome,”Isay,thewordsheavyinmymouth.“Ithurts,notseeinghereveryday,butit’swhatshewanted.IvisitherasoftenasIcan.”
“Youmadethechoicethatwasrightforyouboth.Don’tfeelguilty.”
Itakeinashakybreathanddabatmyeyes.
“Needatissue?”
“No.YouknowIalwaystearupwhenyoudomyedges.I’mfine.”
Sandrineisquietafterthat,andthere’snothingbutthesoundofrichpeopleactingupfortherealityTVcamerasuntiltheshopdoorbellrings.
Sandrinepausestolookoverhershoulder,sighs,thensays,“Canyoupushthebutton?”
Ipresstheunlockbuttonontheundersideofthecounterinfrontofmeandhearthejinglingbellshangingfromthedoor,followedbythescrapeofflip-flopsassomeoneshufflesintotheroomslowlywithoutliftingtheirfeet.
“Hey,Sandrine.AndisthatMs.Green’sdaughter?”
IseewhySandrinesighed.“Hi,Denise.”
DeniseknowsmynameisSydney.Shejustlikestryingtostartmessandhasforyears.
“Girl,youlooklikeshit.”
“Didyouwashyourhairthistime,Denise?”Sandrineasks,inatonethat’smuchdifferentfromtheonesheusestospeakwithme.
“Myappointmentisinhalfanhour,I’mgoingtowashitnow,”Denisesnaps.“Ipoppedinbecause—”
Sandrinesighs.“I’malmostfinishedwithSydney.HowlongdoyouthinkIwillwait?”
DenisedrawsherheadbacktolookdownhernoseatSandrine.“You’llwaitjustlikeIhavetowaitforyoueveryothertimeIcomehere.”
Ican’targuewiththat,evenifshedoesgetonmynerves.
Theystareateachotherforalongmoment.Sandrinelosesandgoesbacktofocusingonmybraid.
“Anyway,IpoppedinbeforewashingmyhairbecausethepoliceswarmeduponGiffordPlacealittlebitago.”
Myhandsgriptheedgeoftheseat.
“Isthatwhatallthosesirenswere?”Sandrineaskscasually.Shedoesn’tlivethere.Onlyknowsmeandacoupleofpeoplewhoareherclients.
“Yup.TheyrolleduptoJamelandAshleyJones’shouseandstormedin.PulledupthefloorboardsinPreston’sroom.Theboywasmovingweight,apparently.Felonyweight.”
Mystomachturns.“PrestonJones?Thatdoesn’tmakesense.”
I’mnotgonnapretendIknowanyone’ssecrets,buthisfamilyissolid,doesallrightforthemselves,andheseemstohaveaverydefiniteideaofhowhewantshislifetoturnout.
Ican’treconcile“movingfelonyweight”withthenerdyboywhoregularlyshowedupatmydooroverthewintertoseeifIneededhelpshoveling,andwhoalwayshashisfaceinhisbooks.Itisn’tthathe’s“toosmart”toselldrugs,butifheisinvolvedinthat,he’stoosmarttobeholdinganamountthatwouldjeopardizehisfutureorputhisparentsindanger.
Deniseshrugs.“Notabitofsense.Andnoonewasintheroomwhentheyfoundthedrugs,either.Don’tchangethefactthattheyarrestedhimalittlewhileago.Hewascryinglikeababy.Hismamaisamess.”
Partofmewantstogetupandswingonher,goingaroundtellingtheJoneses’businesstoanyonewho’lllisten.ButwhenIglanceatherinthemirrorandseetheredflushunderherlightbrownskinandherwideeyesdartingbackandforth,theurgefadesaway.Whatistheproperresponsetoseeingachildarrested?Anotherchild,theumpteenthchild,whenyou’velivedherelongenough.Andworse,arrestedforsomethingyoucan’tbesuretheyactuallydid,eveniftheygetfoundguilty?
DeniseandSandrinecontinuetalking,buttheirconversationfadesintothebackgroundasmybreathstartstocomefastandshallow.
ThepolicecameforPreston
Theknowledgethatitcanhappenjustlikethat,thattheycanshowupandruinyourlife,feelslikeanitchinthemiddleofmybackthatIcan’treach.
Sandrinerestsahandonmyshoulder,stillingme.Whenshespeaks,hervoiceisgentle.“I’malmostdone.”
Afterwhatseemslikeeternitybutislikelyabouttwentyminutes,I’moutofthechairandmarchingbacktoGiffordPlace.
WhenIgetthere,peoplearecongregatinginfrontofMr.Perkins’shouse.
“DoweknowwherePrestonis?”GracieToddasksinhercrispMasterpieceTheatreaccent.She’spushingeightyandwearingasimpleblouseandslacks,butwithherelegantgraybobandfinebonestructure,shelookslikeanagingBlackstarlet.“There’snomorecashbail,right?Isawthatonthemorningnewsshow.Shouldn’thebehomesoon?”
Mr.Perkinsshakeshishead.“Theycanstilladdbailforwhattheycallmajortraffickers.Andapparentlywhatevertheyfoundmakeshimamajortrafficker,beingheldatmajor-traffickerbondamount.”
Rumblesofangeranddisbeliefrollthroughthesmallcrowd.
“Weretheywearingbodycams?”Iask.
Mr.PerkinssighsheavilyandCountwhinesathisfeet.“Apparently,theyforgottoturnthemon.”
“Prestondidn’tmesswithnodrugs,John,”Ms.Candacesays,furyinhervoice.“Weallknowthat.”
“Yes,weallknowthat.Maybethepoliceknowthat,too.Doesn’tchangeathing.”Mr.Perkins’slipspresstogether.
“Howwilltheypaythebail?”Iask.“Canweraisemoneyorsomething?GoFundMe?”
“WhenIleft,theywereonthephonewithsomeonetalkingabouttheequityoftheirhouse.”
“That’swhy223sold,youknow,”Graciesays.“Thehusbandgotcaughtupinsomecharges,assaultorsomething,beforethebailreform.Hewasexoneratedeventually,buttheyhadtosellthehousetopayforallthelegalfees.”
Goosebumpsriseonmyforearmseventhoughthemiddaysunisscorchingandthehumidityisstrangling.IrubmypalmsovermyarmsasIworrymybottomlip.Somethingaboutthiswholethingnagsatme,butgriefisrunninginterferenceonmythoughtprocesses.Prestonhasn’tdied,andpeoplearealreadycomingtogethertofigureoutwhattodo,butthisverywellcouldbethewakefortheboy’sfuture.
Mychesthurtsandmyheadispoundingfromthetightbraidsandthesadness.Withoutsayinganything,Istepbackfromthecrowdandheadbacktomyapartment,wonderingwhetherit’stooearlytohavesomewine.
Theanswerisno.
GiffordPlaceOurHoodpostbyJosieUlnar:
Iamnotgoingtopostaboutthisagain.Notpickingupyourdogwasteisafineableoffense.I’vefiledreportsandthepolicesaytheywillbepatrollingtheareatokeepaneyeoutforoffenders.
CandaceTompkins:Wehavebiggerissuesintheneighborhoodrightnow,likeyoungmenbeingfalselyarrested.Whydon’tyoutalktoyourhusbandaboutthisathomeandkeepitoffline?
JosieUlnar:Idon’tneedtotalktohim.IknowTerryfeelsthesameway.
CandaceTompkins:smh
AsiaMartin:welp
(17additionalcomments…seemore)
Chapter6
Theo
WHENIWAKEUPINTHEEARLYAFTERNOON,ILIEINBEDONLYslightlyhungoverbutmostlywonderingifthenightbefore,afterthemeeting,wasaweirddream.Kim,Terry,andJosie’sparanoia,theattackoutsidetheoldhospital.
OnethingIdidn’tdreamwasseeingKimgetintoanUberwithanovernightbag.Ishouldcarewhereshewent,butIreallydon’t.Arelationshipontherocksisonething,butparanoiathatMr.Perkinsandtherestofourneighborsareplottingagainstusisentirelyanother.Ican’texactlyusemymom’stechniqueandrunofftoanewtownwiththishousepartlyinmyname,though,sofornowIhavetowaitandhopethatthisisjustsomeweirdphaseKimisgoingthrough,likewhenshebecameobsessedwithhotyoga.
WhenIlookoutthewindow,there’saclusterofpeopleinfrontofMr.Perkins’shouse.Thisisn’tunusual,buttheirsombermoodis.Therearen’tanykidsplayingonthestreet,thoughatthistimetheymightbeatdaycampsordoingwhateverelseitiskidsdoathomeinthesummer.IspentmostsummerswatchingTVandwaitingformymothertogethomefromwork.
Isliponshortsandashirt,grabtheduffelIusuallytakewithmeonmynightwalks,andshovemyshowerstuffintoitwithachangeofclothesafterplacingtheflashlightandglovesundermybed.IbypassKim’sportionofthehousewithoutcheckingtoseeifshe’sinside.
Insteadofparticipatingintheshowerofshame,IdecidetowalkovertothelocalYMCA,wheretheannualmembershipIboughtwhenwefirstmovedinhasbeenlanguishingformonths.
WhenIcrossthestreettosayheytothegroupofneighbors,whichincludesseveralolderpeopleI’veseenaroundtheblockbuthaven’teverspokento,theconversationgoesquiet.Mr.Perkinsgivesmehisusualhello,buthisgazeisn’tasbrightasitusuallyis,andworrybracketshiseyes.
Ileave.
Ispendanhouronthetreadmill,watchingthevariouspeopleinthegym:youngkidsheadingtothepoolforlessons,middle-agedguysliftingweightswithfriends,agroupofolderwomenheadingintoafitnessclass.TheguyonthetreadmillnexttomeforgetshisiPhoneX,andjogsbacktograbitrightasmytreadmillcooldownfinishes.
Ihavetowearflip-flopswhenIheadintotheshower,butIalsodon’tfeelasifthepoundingsprayisremindingmewhataloserIam.IfIneededareasontostarthittingthegymdailyagain,IguessI’vefoundit.
Ormaybeyou’retryingtolosethedadbodforacertainneighbor.
IignoreinconvenientthoughtsofSydneywhileshoweringinpublic,thentoweloffandheadtomylocker.TheelasticofmyboxershasjustsnappedaroundmywaistwhenIwhipmyheadtotheright,mybodyreactingtosomedisturbanceintheforcebeforemyminddoes.There’saguysittingfartherdownonthebenchwhereI’velaidoutmyclothes,lookingupatmewithagoofygrin—hehastrendilymessyhairandthickstubblethatmakesmeitchyjustlookingatit.
Ilookawayfromhimandgrabmygraysweatpants.
“Hey,bro,”hesays.“YouliveonGifford,right?”
IglanceathimoutofthecornerofmyeyeandrealizeI’veseenthisbigheadandsquarejawbefore.“Yeah.Youworkedattherealestateplace,right?”
“Right.”Hissmilegrowswider.“Iwasjustofficestaffbackthen.Madecopiesofyourpapersandstuffwhileyouwereclosingonthehouse.Full-fledgedagentwithallthebenefitsnow,though.”
IsliponmyT-shirt,partlytomaskwhatisprobablyalookofpureWTFonmyface.ThatwasoneofthethingsKimhadlikedaboutmeatfirstthathadlatergrowntoannoyherwhenwewenttoherfancyworkparties.“Can’tyouevenpretendtobeinterested?You’resobadatfaking!Like,god,haveyoueverevenwonapokergame?”
I’dturnedmyfaceawayfromherswithoutanswering,andshe’dassignedherownpersonalmeaningtothat,aspeoplegenerallydo.Whoneedspretendingwhenpeopledoyourworkforyou?
“Um,goodforyou,”Isaytomyweirdlockerroombuddywho’smakingmereassessmynewfoundfitnessgoals.“Congrats.”
“Youlikeyourjob,man?”heasks.
“Ilikeitwellenough,”Ilie.
“Ifyou’relookingforsomethingontheside,Icangetyouinatmyagency.Wehavethelockdownonthisneighborhood,andwithVerenTechmovingin?It’sgonnachangeeverything.”Hemimicsanexplosionwithaloudkaboosh.“Youeverseepicturesofanatomicbombdrop?Notthemushroomcloud,butthatenergyripplingout,completelychangingthelandscape?That’swhatVerenTech’sabouttodohere.”
“Youknowthatisn’tagoodthing,right?”
Hechuckles.“Dependsonwhoyouask.Getinnowifyouwantthatgoodmoney,bro.Icanhookyouup.”
Hehandsmeacard,whichItakewithpinchedthumbandforefingerbecausehe’ssittinghereintightie-whitiesandIdon’tknowwherehepulleditfrom.
Thecardhasaweirdfontthat’ssupposedtobetrendybutjustmakesithardtoread:WilliamBilford,RealEstateMaster,BVTRealty
“Yeah.Thanks.Iappreciateit.”
AcoupleofBlackdudeswalkinfromtheirshowerandWilliamBilfordturnsbacktoputtingonhisclothes,winkingatmeashedoes.Iguessthisiswhathappenswhenyoustopskulkinginyourroomorwalkingthestreetswhennooneisaround—yourunintosomereallyweirdpeople.
Ituckthecardintothepocketonthesideofmygymbag,thenmakemywaybacktowardGiffordPlace,walkingslowandtakingeverythingin.It’sslightlylesshumidthanwhenIwentin—thetelltalepuddlesshowitrainedsometimeduringmyworkout,andthere’salightbreezecomingdownthestreet,coolonmywetscalp.Thesoundsofthislargerstreetamplifywhateverfeel-goodhormonesthetreadmillhaspumpedintome:thesquealofabus’sbrakesasitscreechestoahaltdownthestreet,theflapofapigeon’swingsasittakesoffafterstealingabreadcrustfromasmallbrownbird,therolloftiresonwetasphalt.
Ialmoststopwalkingasitreallyhitsme:I’minagoodmood.DespitetheweirdnightIhadandthefactthatmymaybe-ex-girlfriend/co-homeownerisclearlysteppingoutonme.Thebasicfactsofmylifehaven’tchanged,andevenifIdon’tfeellikeshit,I’mstillapieceofit,butIdon’treallycareaboutthatrightnow.Because—
IspotSydneythroughagapinthefoliagethatclingstothechain-linkfenceinfrontofthecommunitygardenthatI’vepassedcountlesstimes.I’dcheckedoutitsvalue,wonderinghowitstillexistedinanareawherehouseswouldsoonbeonthemarketforamillion-plus,butnowIreallyseeallthebrightbeautyofit.Sydneyisonherhandsandknees,herhairstyledinlong,thinteal-tippedbraidscinchedinatwistatopherheadandherassencased,barely,indenimshorts.
Ishouldkeepwalking,butIturnintotheopengateofthegarden.InsteadofapproachingSydneydirectly,Itakealittleturnaroundtheplace,checkingoutthevariousplotsandwhatpeoplearegrowing.Lotsoftomatoesandleafygreens.Ahalf-builthenhouse.Flowersgalore,androwsofcuttingswaitingtobeplanted.I’mnotsuperinterestedinplants,butitfeelsweirdtowalkuponherfrombehind.Now,asImakemywayaroundaplotthatseemstobegrowingsomekindoffrizzylettuce,sheglancesupatme.
Ithoughtgardeningwassupposedtobearelaxinghobby,buthermouthisturneddowninagrimacesopronouncedthatit’salmostcomical.Hergazeishard,underscoredbydarkcirclesbeneathherbrowneyes,anditdoesn’tsoftenwhensheseesme.Shetakesadeepbreathandstands,revealingthathershortsaretheoverallsshewaswearingatthecornerstore,withbothstrapsbuttonedoverablackT-shirt.Shestripsglovesfromherhandsandthrowsthemontothegroundnexttotheboxshe’sbeenworkingin.
“Yourhairisdifferent,”Isay.
“Isit?”sheasks,thenpatsatherheadandmakesanexpressionofsmugshock.“Wow,Ididn’tnotice.Iguessitjustdidthatbyitself.Magic!”
Shesmirksatme.
Ohboy.
“Didarabbitstealyourcarrotsorsomething?”Iwalkacoupleofstepsclosertoher.“YouhavearealFarmerMcGregorvibegoingrightnow.”
Sherollshereyes,butthehardnesssoftensabitinthemillisecondittakeshertodoit.
“Wehaveraccoonshere,notrabbits.AndtheyhavenothingtostealfrommygardenbecauseI’mkillingeverythingedible.”
There’sstraininhervoiceinthatlastsentence,eventhoughshetriestoplayitoffasajoke.
“Thatsucks.Isittheweatherorjustabadseason?Thosehappensometimes.”
Ihavenoideawhathappenssometimesingardens,butthatsoundsaboutright.
Sheshakesherheadandbendsdowntograboneofthosetravelcoffeemugs—fromtheclinkoficecubesI’mguessingthere’sicedcoffeeinside.
“I’mnotmymom.That’stheproblem.”Shesipsalmostangrily.“ShestartedthisgardenwhenIwasateenager.IwassomadwhenIhadtowasteweekendstotingtrashandhelpingsetupplantboxeswhilemyfriendswereoutsidethegatesridingbikes,oroffatthebeachordoingotherfunshit.Butnow…well,she’snotheretotakecareofthingsnow.SoIhavetodoit.AndI’mtheworst.”
Hermomownsaprimepieceoflandplusthatfantastichouse?Itrynottobeenviousofwhatthatkindofsecuritymustfeellike.
“Iwouldoffermygardeningservicesinadditiontomyresearchservices,butI’mnotreallygoodatstufflikethis.”Iglanceattheplotwhereshe’sbeenworking.Itdoeslookalittlelessvibrantthantheothers,butit’snotatotalloss.“Thatseemstobegrowingwell,whateveritis.”
“It’saweed,”shesaysmiserably,thenlaughsalittlehelplessly.Irecognizethislaugh,theoneyoumakewhenyoufeellikeyou’rejustcaughtupinlife’sgears,slowlygettinggroundtodust.
Myenvyretreats.Mostly.
“Someweedsareedible.Dandelions?Youcanmakesaladwiththat.”
“Areyousomekindofprepperorsomething?”sheasks.
“No.JustsomethingIpickedupasakid.Iwasbrieflyfascinatedwiththingsyoucouldeatforfree.”
Great.Iguessthat’sonewaytorevealyougrewuppoorandhungry.
“Look,”shesaysonasigh.“Youdon’thavetodothisresearchthing,youknow.Igotit.Itwasniceofyoutooffer,but—”
“Areyoufiringme?”Iplacebothhandsovermychest.“Wow,kickmewhenI’mdown.”
“Youhaven’tstartedyet,”sheremindsme.“Alotofthisweek’sresearchisfocusingon…shitthat’sgoingtomakeyouuncomfortable.Forexample.Allthislandoriginallybelongedtoindigenoustribes,right?”
“Andthentheysoldit,”Isayautomatically.Iknowthishistory.“Forsomebeads.”
“Notreally.Landsaledidn’tworkthesameforthem.Mostlycolonizerstookwhattheywanted.Andthat’swhatkeepscomingupasIresearch.”Shebitesherbottomlip,releasesit.Sighs.“Idon’twannahavetoworryaboutyourlittlewhitefeelings,okay?”
“Wait.DoyouthinkI’mracistorsomething?”Mybodytensesandmycheeksgohot,andSydneythrowsahandupintheair.
“See?ThisiswhatI’mtalkingabout.Itdoesn’tmatterifIthinkyouare—evenifyouaren’t,you’regonnaneedmetoreassureyouaboutit.Like,Prestongotarrestedthismorning.Idon’thavetheenergytomakeyoufeelbetter.”
“Okay.Okay,Igetthat.”Idon’tgettheconnectionbetweenateenagergettingarrestedandmehelpingher,butIcandealwiththatlater.Ilookather,trytofigureouthermood.Ismile.“Istillwanttohelp.I’lltrytokeepmywhitefeelings,whicharen’tlittle,incheck.”
Shepursesherlips,andIcantellshe’stryingnottolaugh.“Fine.Whatever.Butweneedasafeword.”
“Dowe?”
Shelooksatmesharply.
“Asafewordforwhenyou’rebeingdangerouslywhite,”sheclarifies.
Igrimace,butsaythefirstthingthatpopsintomyhead.“Hmm…howabout‘HowdyDoody’?”
Herlaughtercomesoutinapealthatmakesherfacescrunchupandhereyesclosetight.Idon’tevencareifshe’slaughingatme.Itsoundssomuchbetterthanthebeing-ground-by-gearssound,andIwanttomakeherlaughlikethatagain.
“Perfect,”shesays.“Iwasgonnagowith‘mayonnaise,’butlet’sbereal,MiracleWhipreallyhitssometimes.‘HowdyDoody’itis.”
Thesoundsofsquealingchildreninterruptusandthensheshrugsandpointsatthegroupofyoungkidsstreaminginthroughthegate,followedbyLen,whowavesatus.“Daycampkids,hereforavisit.Canyoucometomyplaceatlikefiveo’clock?WecangooverwhatIhavesofar.”
“Yourplace?”IfeellikeIjuststeppedoffthetreadmillalloveragain.
Shetiltsherhead.“Yeah.Directlyacrossthestreetfromyou?”
“Soundsgood.Seeyouthen.”
IheadbacktothehouseIlivein,Iguesswhatmostpeoplewouldcallhome.Kimisn’tthere,butIwaveatthenewcameraasIgoinside.Myphonevibratesinmybag,andwhenIpullitoutit’sKim.
Makesureyoulockthefrontdoor.Youdidn’twhenyouleftlastnight.Iknowyouthinkthesepeopleareharmless,butJosie’sfriendafewblocksoversaidsomeonetriedherdoorknobacoupleofdaysago,andhertenantlefthiswindowopenandhadhisphotographybagstolenrightoffofhiswindowsill.
Isighandturnoffthephone.
GiffordPlaceOurHoodpostbyKaneishaBell:
Thevideographicwiththisarticleongentrificationisalarming.LookatthewaythebrowndotsdisappearandgetreplacedwithpinkdotsinhistoricallyBlackandPOCneighborhoods.Harlem,JacksonHeights,Bed-Stuy.
FitzroySweeney:Frightening!
KimDeVries:Gentrificationliterallymeansanareathatwasonceindisrepairbeingimprovedupon.Whydoesitmatterwhetherpinkorbrowndotsaredoingtheimproving?
JennLithwick:Hey,Kim,there’realotofstudiesabouttheharmfuleffectsofgentrificationonneighborhoodslikeours.JenandIreadalotaboutitbeforebuyinghere,andwehavelinksifyouwant.
KimDeVries:Idon’tneedtostudysociologytobeagoodneighbor.AndifIpostedanarticlesayingallthebrowndotsarebadfortheneighborhood,Ibetthatwouldgooverwell!
(30additionalcomments…seemore)
Chapter7
Sydney
THEPAPERSMR.PERKINSGAVEMEARESPREADOUTOVERTHEkitchentable’sscratchedandscuffedsurface.I’mcasuallyleafingthroughthemlikeTheoisn’tsittingthere,waitingformetoexplaintheproject.
Thisallfeelsalittlechildishnow.MommyalwaystreatedmelikeIwassosmartIcouldbeanything.Coulddoanything.Instead,I’mathirty-year-olddivorcéeworkinganadminjobIhateandwastingtimeonabootleghistorytoursparkedbypettiness.
“So,whaddayagot?”Theofinallyasks.Iglanceup,trytoactlikeIhadn’tzonedout.
“Sorry.”
Heshrugs,thoughhisgazeisprobing.
“Areyougoingtotalkaboutthehistoryofthehousesatall,likeonthebrownstonetour?”heprods.“Orareyougoingtotalkaboutpeoplewholiveherenow,likeyoudid?”
“Alittleofboth.”Itugaprintoutfromthepileofpapersandhanditover.AtthetopisanimageshowinganaerialviewofGiffordPlacefromGoogleEarth—ourstreetlooksmostlythesamefornow,thoughtheareaaroundusismissingallthenewcondosandstorefronts.TherearenumberswritteninfivecolorsofSharpielabelingseveralhouses.Beneaththephotoisakey,givingabriefexplanationforeachcolorandnumber.
“Thesearethe‘stops’Ihavesofar,”Isay.“Thegreenoutnumberseverythingbecausethey’retheeasiest—it’swhatIdidbefore,talkingaboutsomeoftheinterestingneighborswehavenow,insteadofonlythewhitepeoplewholivedhereahundredyearsago.
“IwenttotheBrooklynlibraryandfoundspecificinformationonsomeofthewhitepeoplewholivedinthehouses,andiftheyhadanythingtodowithBlackBrooklyn,goodorbad.”ItapapinknumberontheJens’house.“Anabolitionistlivedhereintheolddays.Thingsgotsoheatedthattheyhadtomove,becauseamobofangrymenshowedupandtriedtokillhimandhisfamily.”
“Whoa,”Theosays.“HereinNewYork?InBrooklyn?”
“Yup.HereinBrooklyn.”
“Okay,”hesays.“So…whathappenedtothewhitepeople?Areyougonnatalkaboutthat?I’vebeenwonderingaboutthatsincethetour,actually.Thetourguidetalkedaboutallthesewealthywhitefamilies,buteventuallytheneighborhoodbecame…”
“Black?”Ifillin.
“Poor,”hecorrectsme.“Imean,everyonewasn’tpoor.ButwheneverIusedtohearaboutBrooklynitwaspeoplewarningmenottocomeherebecauseitwasdangerousand—”
“Black?”Icutinagain,andthistimeherunsahandthroughhishair.
“Well,theydidn’tsayBlack.”Heshiftsinhisseat.“Imean,it’srudetojustsayit.Butthat’swhattheymeant,Iguess.”
“Rude.Rude?”Ileanforwardalittleassomethingdawnsonme.“Oh.Ohshit!Isthatwhyyouguysalwayswhisperit?Like,‘Myfriendisdatinga—’”IlookaroundfurtivelyandthenleanclosertoTheoandwhisper,“‘Blackguy’?”
Heshrugs,embarrassedamusementdancinginhiseyes.“Youaren’tsupposedtopointoutstufflikethat.That’swhatmymomtoldme,atleast.”
Ibustoutlaughing,imaginingwhitepeoplechastisingtheirkidsforliterallydescribingaperson’srace.IguessifyouthinkbeingBlackisanunfortunateaffliction,ofcourseitwouldseemrude.Icouldpushandaskwhysomanyofthemareeagertosaythen-wordifBlackmakesthemsquirm,butI’mnottryingtohavetoringtheHowdyDoodyalarmwhilealoneinmyapartmentwithhim.
“Okay,toansweryourquestion.MytourisaboutBlackBrooklyn,butIdogointowhythewhitepeople,”Iwhisperthelasttwowordsandhelaughs,“left.Inmorerecenttimes,itwaswhiteflighttothesuburbs.Butbackintheday,therewasthePanicof1837.Basically,thebottomfelloutoftheslaveandcottonmarket,andthenalltherichpeoplehadtoselltheirlandtorecouptheirlosses.”
“WhywouldslaveryaffectpeopleinBrooklyn?”heasks.Ican’tevenhatebecauseIonlylearnedthisshitrecentlymyself.
“SlaveryendedinNewYorktenyearsbeforethepanic,butnotcompletely.AndNewYorkwasthebankingcapitaloftheU.S.Slaverywasabusiness.Cottonwasabusiness.Rumwasabusiness.Sugarwasabusiness.Bankshandlemoneyforbusinesses.So…boom.That’swhy.”
Hehasthenervetosmile.
“What’sfunny?”Iask,straighteninginmyseat.
“Ithinkyourtourisgoingtodowell.Ineverlearnedanyofthat,anywhere.AndnowIknow,andIwanttoknowmore.Andanyonewhocomesonyourtourwillknowandwanttoknowmore.That’sprettyamazing.”
“Oh.”Igetawarmfeelinginmystomach.Honestly,somuchofthisprojecthasbeenfueledbypettinessandescapism,byaneedtoreclaimwhatshouldhavebeenmine,thatI’dforgottenthere’sajoyfulsidetosharingknowledge,too.
“Thanks.”Iclearmythroatandthentaptheprintout.“Anyway,pinktextrepresentsBlackBrooklynhistorytopics.ThepurplenumbersandtextarethingsspecifictoGiffordPlace.There’sstuffIgotfrommymother,andmyownmemory,butIwanttotalktosomeolderpeopleintheneighborhood.AndGiffordPlaceusedtobepartofahistoricBlackcommunitythatsprangupafterthepanic,soIneedtolookintothattoo.There’saheritagecenternotfarawayI’vebeenmeaningtovisit.”
Henods,andIwonderifhe’sjudgingmefornothavingdoneallthissooner.IthoughtI’dalreadydonesomuchresearch,butitfeelslikethereissomuchtodoinjustaweekifIdon’twanttoembarrassmyself.
“Wanttogotomorrow?”hesays.“Totheheritagecenter?”
Iraisemybrow.“Didyouforgetyou’retheassistantandnottheboss?”
Hegrins.“Sorry.I’mjustexcitednow.Youonlyhaveyourselftoblame.”
Thisflirtatiousmotherfucker.Inarrowmyeyesathim.“We’regoingtotheWeeksvilleheritagecentertomorrow.Bringyourcamera.Ifyouwantsomethingtodointhemeantime,lookintotheDutchWestIndiaCompany.TheyweretheoneswhofundedtheDutchcominghere,andplayedabigpartintheformationofBrooklyn,butIhaven’tdoneadeepdiveonthemyet.Ifyoufindanythingrelevanttothetourletmeknow.”Henodsagain,hiseyesscanningoverthepaperIhandedhim.
“I’llemailthistoyou,too,ifyouwriteyouremailaddressdown,”Iadd.I’mkindofenjoyingthistinybitofauthority—it’sbeensolongsinceanyonelistenedtomewithoutgivingmeanyshitforonethingoranother.“Youcantakethesepapersandseewhatelseyoucomeupwith.Ijustwanttomakeitinterestingforpeople.”
Ileanbackinmychairashejotsdownhisemail.MyfaceisstillkindofwarmdespitethefactthatbynextweekTheowillgobacktobeinganeighborIoccasionallypeepthroughhiswindow—exceptmaybenoteventhat,becauseI’llprobablyrecommendhegetsomeblinds.
“Idoubtyou’llhavetroublewiththat,”hesaysasheslidesoverthepaper.Hisphonenumberisonthere,too,eventhoughIdidn’taskforit,andit’sunderlined.“You’reinterestingevenwhenyou’renotbeingallpassionateabouthistory.”
Hesmilesatmeinthatcuriouswayagain.
Nope.
“Okay,we’reallsethere,”Isay,hoppingupfrommyseatandwalkingtowardtheapartmentdoor.
“Yeah,cool.Cool.”Hegathersthepapersup,butwhenIpullthedooropen,hestopsatthethresholdandlooksdownatme.“Iappreciateyoulettingmehelpwiththis.Ifyouneedanythingelse,justtextme.”
Idon’tthinkhe’sflirtingthistime,buthe’sstaringatmelikeI’mfascinating,andIdon’thavetimeforthewaymybodyrespondstothat.
“I’mnottryingtoair-conditionthehallway,”Isay,usheringhimout.
Aflushspreadsoverhischeekssoquicklythatit’salmoststartling,buthestepsoutintothehumidhallwayanddoesn’tstopuntilhe’soutside.Hejogsdownthestairs,thenturnstowaveandtripsoveraraisedcornerofslatesidewalkandit’scute.
IlookawaysoIdon’twatchhimheadintohishouse.Somewherenearbyajackhammerisbreakingupsolidground,andthewhineofconstructionmachineryfloatsthroughtheair.ABlackwomanwithhighcheekbonesandabrown-skinnedAsianwomanwalkdownthestreet,chattinginaccentedEnglish;eachpushesastrollerwithawhitechildtuckedinside.Theynodatmeingreeting,andTobystartsuphisbarkingastheypassby.
AsIclosethedoor,Ihearthephoneringingupstairs.Allthewayupstairs.InMommy’sapartment.
Itcouldbeatelemarketer—everytimeIbothertoanswer,it’ssomeonewarningaboutautoinsurancedefaultforacarIdon’townortryingtoscammewithquestionsabouttaxevasion.ThosethreatsarenothingcomparedtothecallI’mdreading,andIcan’tkeepavoidingsaidcallsbecausethatcouldleadtoworseconsequences.Iboltupthestairs,pullthekeyfrommypocketasIroundthebanister,andfumblethedooropen.
“Hello?”
Iprayfortheautomatedclickofarecordingtryingtosellmesomethingorscamme,butaman’svoicesays,“Hello,isthisYolandaGreen?”
Alifetimeoflyingtobillcollectorsenablesmetoliesmoothlyandwithouthesitation.“She’soutrightnow.MayItakeamessage?”
“Shegetsoutalotforawomaninhercondition,”themansays.
“CanItakeamessage?”Irepeat,puttingalittlesteelinmytone.Theseweaselshadfoundhernumberatthehospital,tryingtofindouthercondition.Gettingherintotheretirementhomehadfeltlikeaspymission,evenifithadgonetoshitintheend.
“Nomessage.I’llcallbackatabettertime.Whichwouldbe…?”
“Actually,Ihaveyournumberhere,I’llhavehercallyouback.Doesthatwork?”
Hechuckles.“Sure.”
WiththatIhangupandwalkoutoftheapartment,feelinglikeI’mwobblingonstilts,myheadspinninglikeit’sintheclouds.Myheartisstillhammeringfrommydashuptotheapartment,andIsitdowninthemiddleofthestaircaseanddropmyforeheadtomyknees,forcingmyselftobreathedeeply.Theairishumidandthickinthestairwell,andmynoseitchesfromdustbecauseIhaven’tsweptuphereinawhile,butIdon’tgetup.
Icandothis.I’mmymother’sdaughter.Icandothis.
IpullmyphoneoutofmypocketandtextDrea.
Areyoubusy?I’msorrytobotheryoueverytimebuttheycalledagain.I’matwork.Wecantalkaboutthislater.Okay.?3
Iputthephonedownandjustbreathe.Istarttonodoffabit,theheatandthesoul-deepfatiguethreateningtopullmeunder.Ifeeltooheavy,andthethoughtofcarryingthisbodyallthewaydowntomyapartmentisoverwhelming.
MyeyesaredriftingclosedwhenTobystartsbarkingnextdoor.ItrytoignorehimlikeIusuallydo,sincehebarksatdamnneareverything,buthisbarkissoinsistentandalmostdesperatethatIdragmyselftomyfeet.Thisisn’thowhesoundswhendemandingawalkorbarkingatwhoeverwalksbyoutside.Istumbledownthestairs,stillinapre-napfog,cursingJosieandTerryfornotputtinghimintothenewdoggiedaycarethattheycancertainlyafford.
WhenIgettothemainlanding,thefrontdoorofthehouseiswideopen,andIfreezeonthebottomstep.Hadn’tIcloseditafterTheoleft?IwasinarushandIhaven’tbeensupersharplately,butclosingandlockingthedoorisinstinctforme.Secondnature.
Mommydrilledthatshitintome,especiallybecauseI’dsometimesbehomealoneduringthetimebetweenwhenIleftschoolandshegothomefromwork.Itwasmusclememorynow.
Ipeeroverthebanisterintothehallway,whichisdarkeveninmiddaybecauseDreaalwaysturnsoffthelightassheheadsouttowork,anotherhabitinstilledbymymother.
Tobyisstillbarkingwildly,butIstandonthebottomsteplikeakidafraidtohangtheirfootoverthesideofthebedbecausetheyexpectamonstertopullthemdownintothedarkness.Idon’tseeanything,butfeargathersatthenapeofmyneckasIstarebecauseIfeellikesomeone,orsomething,islookingback.
IthinkofDrewtheUberdriver’scalmasheignoredmydemandsthathestop.Howheknewmylastnameandtherewasnotraceofhimonmyphone,andIhaven’teventoldanyonewhathappened.
Theshadowsnearthedoorshiftandmyheartslamsinmychest.Someoneisthere
“Sydney?”
Ijump,anddamnnearpissmyself,butthevoiceiscomingfromoutside.Ms.Candace,grippinghercaneandpeeringin.
“Youokay?”
Inod,eventhoughtremorsoffeararerunningthroughmybody,alightthrumagainstmyconstanttension.
“Iwaslike,‘Didthischildforgettolockthedoor?’andinsteadyoujuststandingtherelookinglikeyousawtheboogeyman.”Shelaughs.
Istepfirmlydownontothehardwoodfloor,forcingmyselfnottolookbehindmeintothedarkendofthehallway.It’sonlyafewwobblystepstothedoorway,andthenIfliponthehalllight.
There’snothingtherebuttheheavywoodenapartmentdoor,closedtightly.DidIcloseitbeforewalkingTheotothedoor?Yes.Theairconditionerison.OfcourseIdid.
“Girl,youneedanap.Youalwaysdidturnintoabobble-headedlittlethingwhenyouwastired,andIseethat’sstillthecase.”
Ishakemyheadandstepoutontothestoop,whereit’sslightlymorehumidthanthehallwayandaboutfifteendegreeshotter.“I’mfine.”
“Here,takethis,”shesays,reachingintotheplasticbaghangingfromherarmtohandmearoundaluminumcontainerwithaplasticlid.AsIreachforit,thesmellofplátanosandriceandbeansfromtheDominicanspotonthecornermakesmymouthwater.ItrytorememberthelastthingIateandcomeupblank.
“No,that’so—”
“Take.It,”shesaysfirmly.“Ihaveenoughheretofeedtenpeopleinsteadoftwo,anyway.GonnatakesomeovertoAshleyandJamel,too.We’reallwegot.”
Thereminderofmyneighbors,whoaredealingwitheveryBlackparent’sworstnightmare,putsmyownproblemsinperspective.Ican’tjustfallbackintotheholeofself-pity.
“You’reright.Thanks.”Iblinkandinhaledeeply.“Areyoudoingokay?”
Sheshrugs.“I’mold,mybodyhurts,butmybrainissharpasever,eventhoughsomepeoplewishthatwasotherwise.”
Myfingerspressintothesidesofthealuminumcontainer.“Who?”
Shesucksherteeth.“Thesefoolsplayingonmyphone,tryingtotrickmeintosellingmyhouselikeIdidn’tspendthirtyyearsprocessingloansatAppleBankandwasn’tblessedwithtwohelpingsofgoodsense.”
SomeofthesaucefromthebeansdribblesoutontomyfingersandIloosenmygrip.“Therealestatepeople?”
Shenods.“Beencomingtomydoor,too.Tellingmeallkindsofbullshit,thinkingiftheytalkfastI’llgoalongwithit.”Shesucksherteethagain,holdingitforlongerthistimetoshowthetruedepthofherdisdain.“Myhairisgray,butmygraymatterisstillfunctional,thankyouverymuch.”
“It’sterrible,”Isaywoodenly.“Buttheycan’tgetanythingoveronyou.”
“Nottoday,nottomorrow,notinthislifetime,baby,”shesayswithalaugh.“Letmegetgoing.I’llseeyoulater.Makesureyougetthattourready.”
Shesaysitthesamewaysheusedtosay,“Makesureyoudoyourhomework”whenIwasakid,exceptwhenIgointothekitchentodomyworknow,therewon’tbeabolognasandwichandacupofSunnyDwaitingforme.
“Yes,Ms.Candace,”Ireply.Ilingerabit,takeadeepbreath,thenheadbackintotheapartment,checkingeverypossiblehidingplacebeforegrabbingafork,pushingastackofpapersaside,andmakingmyselfeat.
GiffordPlaceOurHoodpostbyJamelJones:
Thankyoueveryonewhohasstoppedby,called,prayed,orsentamessage.AshleyandIarehanginginthere,butwetalkedtoPrestononthephoneandhe’snotdoingtoogreat.We’refiguringoutfinancialstuff,andwe’retreadingwaterfornow,butasmuchasIhatethis,IhavetoaskifanyonehasworkedwithBVT.Wehavesomequestions.Whenitcomestoourson,we’rewillingtodoanything.
JosieUlnar:Ihighlyrecommendthem.
KimDeVries:Same.They’reextremelyprofessional.
JamelJones:Thankyouboth.Iamlookingforpeopleintheneighborhoodwho’veusedthemtosellapropertyquicklyorhaveheardfromanyofourneighborswhosold.
(0additionalcomments)
Chapter8
Sydney
“WHYAREYOUDRESSEDUP?”DREAASKS,GIVINGMEELEVATOReyesasIstandupfrombesidemymother’sgardenplot.
I’msweaty,mytomatovinehaswithered,andI’msotiredthatmymindisplayingtricksonme.I’mnotinthemoodtobejudgedformydamnoutfit.
Ipointmytrowelather,andshedodgestheclumpoffertilizerthatfliesinherdirection.
“I’mwearingaT-shirtfromourjunioryearofhighschool,cutoffshorts,andIhavehorsecrapundermynailsfromtryingtosavethistomatoplant,”Isaywithanannoyedshakeofmyhead.“Iamnotdressedup.”
Drealooksmeupanddownagain.“Yes,anoldT-shirtandshorts,butthisT-shirtistheonethatmakesyourtittieslookfantasticandthoseDaisyDukesaretheonesthatshowjusttheperfectsliverofasscheek.Youreallythinkyoucanfoolme?”
“Whatever.”Ichangethesubjectandhopeshegetsthepoint.“DidyougettheVerenTechinfofromworkbae?”
Iprobablydon’tneedit,butthewayTheohadlookedatmeyesterdayisgoingtomyheadalittle.IstartthinkingabouthowIshouldincludesomeofthisnewstuff,too,evenifitisn’thistory;it’simportant,andnowthattheprojecthasbeenapproved,itwillleadtobigchanges.Itwouldn’thurttotakealook.
Shesucksherteeth.“Yes.Igotyou.IslippedtheenvelopeunderyourdoorbeforeIlefttoday.”
“Thankyou.Iloveyouuu,”Icroonintothetrowel.
“Damnrightyoudo.”Hereyescreaseatthecornerswhenshesmilesatme,whichmakesmesmileevenmorewidely.“Ididn’tlookatthefiles,buthesaidVerenTechgotsomekindofspecialdispensationfromthecity.SameoneBVTRealtygetsandprobablygotitthesameway—payingoffthesecommissionerssotheylooktheotherwayasthey’restampingcontracts.MeanwhileIcan’tevengetabusinessloan.”
“Yougotrejectedagain?”Iask.“MaybeyoucandoaGoFundMe,or…”
“Don’tworryaboutit,”shesays.“Herecomesyourlittlefriend.”Shesquintsandtiltsherchinatsomethingovermyshoulder.WhenIturn,IseeTheoapproaching.
Hishairisdampandmessyandhisstrideisconfident;hehasacoffeecupineachhand.Acamerahangsfromastraparoundhisneck,bouncingoverablackT-shirtemblazonedwiththreeboldwordsinwhite:BLACKLIVESMATTER
“Goodmorning,”hesays,holdingoutoneofthebrowncardboardcupstowardme
Isnatchit,thengestureathisshirtwithmyotherhand.“HowdyDoody!HowdyDoody!”
Heplucksattheshirt.“Really?ThisisHowdyDoody?”
Drealooksbackandforthbetweenus,handoverherchestasshelaughs.“Whatishappeningrightnow?”
InarrowmyeyesatTheo.“Whyareyouwearingthis?”
Heblinksafewtimes.“IsawthepostsaboutPrestononOurHood.IwantedtoletpeopleknowthatIsupport—”
“Canyouchangeoutofthat?Please.”Irunmyhandsovermybraids,gentlybecausemyscalpisstilltender.“Idon’twanttobeknownasthewomanwalkingaroundwiththewhitedudewithaBLMshirton,okay?”
Iexpecthimtopushback,butthoseharshfeaturesofhiskindofdroopallatonce,likeadogthat’sbeingyelledatbutdoesn’tknowwhy.
“Iappreciatethesentiment,”Iadd.
Henodsstiffly,placeshiscoffeedownonthechairnexttome,thenthecamera,andyankshisshirtup.It’snothingIhaven’tseenadozentimesthroughhiswindow,butithitsalittledifferentnowthathe’srightinfrontofme.MyneckandchestgohotinaflashandIlookaway.
IshouldjuststartbuildingmycabinalongsideFuckboyCreekbecauseobviouslyit’swhereIintendtospendtherestofmydays.
“Sydney,wasthisalladeviousplantogethimtotakehisshirtoff?”Dreawhispers,andnowit’sTheowho’sgettingherelevator-eyetreatment.“Wellplayed,wellplayed.”
“Dre.”Igiveheraifyoudon’tcutitoutlook,butshe’sbusypretendingtorunherhandoverTheo’schesthairwhiletheshirtisupoverhishead.Shejerksherhandbackwhenhisheadpopsoutoftheshirt’sneck.
Heturnstheshirtinsideoutandpullsitbackon.“I’mjustgonnahidethisimportantsocialjusticemessagethatseemstobeembarrassingSydney.”
Histoneisalittle…persnickety.
“WasIsupposedtothankyou?Appreciateitandgiveyouacookieortwo?”
Helooksdownatme,hisfaceflushedfromembarrassmentandhisgazewoundedashetugstheshirtdownaroundhiswaist.“Iknowyoudon’tneedmyhelp,butdoyouwantit?Ithoughtyouwerejustgivingmeshitforfun,butifyouseriouslydon’twantmearound,letmeknownow.”
“Youknow,that’sverythoughtfulofyoutoask,Brad,”Dreasaysinasurprisinglyfriendlytone,grabbingmycoffeeandtakingasip,thenreturningthecuptomyhand.“Sydneydoesneedthehelp.She’snotasuperdetail-orientedperson.”
“Mydetailsforthetourareoriented,thankyouverymuch,”IsayasIturntoglareather,butshehasherphoneoutandisn’tpayingmeabitofmind.
Itakeadeepbreath,loweringmyhacklesandtryingnottobethepersonMarcusalwaystoldmeIwas.“Yougotadatelineduporsomething?”
“Lineupinprogress.There’sthiscutieworkingatthenewJamaican-Mexicanfusionrestaurantandheslippedmehisphonenumberwithmybeefpattytaco.Mightaswellmakethemostofthechangesgentrificationhaswrought,right?”
Shewigglesherbrows,glancesatTheo,andthenblowsmeakissasshewalksoff,navigatingaroundraisedgardenbedswhilehereyesseemtobegluedtoherscreen.AfterIputmytoolsawayandwashmyhands,TheoandIheadfortheheritagecenter,marinatinginthefull-onAugustheatandhumidity,andtheawkwardnesssharedbyapersonwho’scommittedafauxpasandthepersonwhocorrectedthem.
Heslowsaswepassthemedicalcenter,lookingupatthehugesignonthefencewitha3-DrenderingofwhattheVerenTechcampuswilllooklike.“WhatdoyouthinkoftheVerenTechdeal?Iusedtopassthepeopleprotesting,andtalkedtoafewofthem,butIdidn’treallygetwhypeoplewouldn’twantitinourneighborhoodwhenotherstatesweredyingtohaveVerenTechchoosethem.”
Ibristleathisuseofourbutdon’tsnapathim.
“Well,abigpartofitishowpeopleaddictedtocrackweretreatedbackintheday.”Isniffandstartwalking.“Peopleactedlikethoseaddictsweresoullesszombies,orjokes,orproblemstolockawayandtaketheirbabiesfrom.Nowwhitepeoplegethookedonsomething,andwe’rebuildingfancynewfacilitiestoresearchhowtofixthings.”
Hehasthenervetogivemealook.“DoyouthinkBlackpeopleareimmunetoopioids?I’veseenallkindsofpeoplehookedonthem.Imean,theothernight,inthisveryspotaguywhowashighoutofhismind—”
Irollmyeyes.“Yeah,somedrugged-upBlackdudefromGiffordPlaceisexactlywho’smakingthecoverofmagazinesandnewsreportswhenpeoplediscusstheopioidproblem.”
“Thealternativeisnothelpinganyone,then?”heasks.
“ThealternativeisnotdroppingtheresearchcenterandtheadjoiningheadquartersofamajorcorporationdeadinthemiddleofacommunitythatstillgetsoverpolicedbasedonWaronDrugsbullshit.It’sgonnabelikeseeingamiddlefingereverydayforsomepeople.Ohwait,itwon’tbe,becausenoneofuswillbeabletoaffordlivingherebythetimeit’sdone.”
Hedoesn’tsayanythingforonceandwekeepwalking.
“Itusedtobeanasylum,youknow,”Isayeventually,feelingguiltyforsnapping.“Beforeitbecameahospital.Peoplealwaysusedtosaytheplacewashaunted.Like,badhaunted.Ghosts-tryin’-to-kill-youhaunted.Supposedly,that’stherealreasonforallthemalpracticelawsuitstheygot.”
Theoflashesmeagrin—he’snotmadatme.Good.
“I’msurethedoctorsbackedthattheory.”
“Yup.AndwhenIwasakid,therewasarumorthatifyoustayedouttoolate,themeninthewhitecoatswouldgetyouandyou’dneverbeheardfromagain.”
Theolooksupatthebuilding,oldandwithdeadvinesclingingtothesidesofitbutstillimposing.Herubsathisarms.
“Creepy.Wasthatliketheclown-van-kidnappersurbanlegend?”
“Thewhat?”Icutmyeyesathim.
“WhenIwasgrowingup,theyusedtosayclownsdrovearoundinawhitevanandtriedtolurekidsin.Ihearditin,like,sixdifferentstates.Therehastobesometruthtoit.”
Ilaughandshakemyhead.“ThatistheworstkidnappingplotI’veeverheard.Dresslikesomethingthatwillsendkidsrunningandscreamingfromyouandtrytolurethemintoyourclownvan?Notevenclowncarforconsistency?Comeonnow.”
“Well,itmakesasmuchsenseaskidsgettingkidnappedbyhospitalghosts.”HislipsarealltooteduplikeIdidn’trespecthisclownstoryenough.
“Well.AtleastonepersonwhohadarelativekilledbytheTuskegeeexperimentlivesonourstreet.It’snotthathardtofigureoutwherethefearofhospitalkidnappersmightcomefrom.”
“Yeah.”
AwkwardsilencedescendsuponusagainandIsipmycoffee,tryingtofigureoutwhyIkeepdunkingonhimlikethis.Iwanttohaveaconversation,butI’mannoyedatliterallyeverythingthisperfectlyniceandnormalmanissaying.
Marcus’svoicepopsintomyhead.“You’rejusttoodifficult.Whywouldanyoneputupwithit?”
“So,”Theosays.“Whatdoyoudoforwork?”
“Iworkatanelementaryschool.”There.Iwasabletorespondwithoutsnapping,finally.
“Ateacher?Ishouldhaveknown.”
“Why?”Iask.
“Becauseyoulikesharingknowledgeandyouenjoydiscipliningpeople,”hesays.
“NoIdon’t.I’mactuallyverynicetomostpeople.”
“Okay.Thenyoujustlikediscipliningme.Evenbetter.”Hegrins,thenkeepsitpushingbeforeIcanobject.“Alsoexplainswhyyouhaven’tbeenworkingforthelastcoupleofmonths.Ithoughtmaybeyou’dgottenlaidoff,too.”
Iglanceathimoutofthecornerofmyeye.HowdidheknowIhaven’tbeenworking?ThoughI’vebeenallupinhiswindowlikeitwasprimerealityTV,soIhavenorighttobeweirdedout.
“Iworkinaschooloffice.Adminstuff.Mymomknowsalotofpeoplethere,andshegotmeajobafterImovedbackhere.”
WhatamIgonnasaynextweekwhenschoolstarts?Iwonder.WhatamIgonnasaywhenIgetbackandpeoplestartaskingharderquestionsthan“How’sshedoing?”
“Yourmom?”
WhenIsipmycoffeeandfallbackintosilence,hequicklygetsthepoint.
“Why’dyoumoveback?”Hischoiceofsubjectstartlesme—Ididn’tevenrealizeI’dtoldhimthatbut,yeah,Idid.He’smaybealittletooobservantforhisowngood.Orformine.
Istopandleanbacktolookdownmynoseathim.“Whyareyouallinmybusiness?”
Hebrushessomeofthesweatyhairstickingtohisforeheadaway.
“BecauseI’mcuriousaboutyou.Breakup?”Hebiteshislowerlip,studyingme,thennodsonce.“Breakup.”
“Ilooklikethedumpabletypeorsomething?”Iturnandstartwalkingfaster,likeIcanescapetheshameofhisaccurateguess.ThereminderofwhatI’dputupwithandhowIhadn’tevenbeentheonetoputanendtoit.
Hecatchesuptomeinacoupleoflongstrides.“Youdon’tlookdumpable,whateverthatmeans.Youhavetheeyesofsomeonewho’sbeentreatedworsethantheyshould’vebeen,that’sall.”
Okay,yes.He’swaytooobservant.
“Itwasadivorce,”Isay.
“Divorceisn’ttheendoftheworld,youknow.I’mnotjudgingyou.Infact—”
“Dropit,Theo.”
“Dropped.”
Ilookdownatthecrackedsidewalk,upatthebottomoftheLIRRtracksonthebridgethatrunsalongAtlanticAvenue,attheshortsquathouses,andpostwartenements,andbrown-brickprojectswithinspirationalmuralscurlingalongtheirfoundations.
AnywherebutatthismanwhoapparentlycantellI’mhurtingwithalookintomyeyes.I’mnotintothatshitandIforgottobringsunglasses.
Hestartstalkingaboutpaintingamuralatoneofhishighschools,eventhoughhe’saterribleartist.Howhe’dbeeninchargeofpaintingawolverine,theschool’smascot,andhowit’dcomeoutlookinglikeazombiecatcreature.Inodmyresponse,andheseguesintoastoryabouthowheoncelivedinatownwithacoyoteproblem.He’snottryingtoforceinteraction,Irealize;he’sgivingmebackgroundnoisesoIdon’thavetotalkifIdon’tfeellikeit.
Bythetimewereachthecenter,anincongruousglass-and-metalstructure,we’rebothsoakedinsweat.Theo’sbreathingalittleheavyandtheone-sidedconversationhastaperedoff;wemakeamutualsoundofpleasureasweentertheair-conditionedwelcomearea,thenlaugh.
Iglanceathim,andhe’slookingatmelikehealwaysdoes,withthatwide-eyedinterest.Nopity.Noschemingtousemyobviouslonelinessagainstme.
Itiltmyheadtothereceptiondeskandthenwalktowardthewomansittingatit,whileTheoheadsovertothehugeglasswindowsliningtheothersideofthelobby,lookingoutatanopenfield.
“Hi,howcanIhelpyou?”theyoungwomanatthedesksaysjustasTheocallsout,“Therearetinyhousesoutthere!”
Thewomangrinsinresponsetohisexcitement,hersmilescrunchingupthefrecklesonherlightbrowncheeks.“Thosehouseshavebeenheresincethe1820s.Theywereregular-sizedbackthen.Wegivetoursofthem,butourtourguideisonsummerbreaksothoserestartnextweek.”
Iwiltalittlewithdisappointment.ThisiswhatIgetforputtingthingsoffformonthsinsteadofwalkingafewblockstodomyresearch.“Oh.That’s…fine.”
“Sorry.”Sheactuallylookslikeshemeansit.“Youcanexploreoutsidearoundthehousesifyouwant.Andourexhibitsareopenifyouwanttocheckthoseout.Wehavethreeprettygreatonesrightnow.”
“Thatworksforme,”Theosays,walkingoverwithawadofcash.“I’llpaytheentryfee.AndhowmucharethoseT-shirts?”
HALFANHOURlaterTheoisdeckedoutinanolive-greenT-shirtwiththeoldhousesscreen-printedontoitinblack,courtesyofthegiftshop.We’vegonethroughtheexhibitions,whichactuallywereuseful.
ThefirstexhibitionroomweenteredwasanoverviewofhowWeeksvillehadbeenfounded—byBlackmenbuyingpropertyduringthePanicof1837sothattheycouldbeaffordedtherighttovote.ItalsotalkedaboutlawsthathamperedtheBlackcommunityinBrooklyn,likeaneighteenth-centurylawpreventingBlackpeoplewhomanagedtobuypropertyfrompassingitontotheirdescendants.
I’dtakenpicturesofusefulstuff,likeamapoftheoldneighborhoodandinformationaboutsomeofthehistoricalfigureswhohadbeenpartofit.
ThenextexhibitionwasanoverviewofhistoricraceriotsinNewYork,startingwiththeslaveuprisingsof1712.Apparently,fireskeptbreakingoutinManhattan,andinsteadofdealingwiththerealitythatatownmadeofwoodstructureswasgonnahavesomefires,someonedecidedtheywerebeingsetbyenslavedpeoplefomentingrebellion—leadingtodeathanddismembermentfordozensofBlackNewYorkers,freeandenslaved.I’dimmediatelythoughtofKimthreateningtocallthepoliceonmebecauseIdidn’tlethercutmeinline,andwonderedifallthosepeoplediedbecauseofthehistoricalequivalentofaBodegaBecky.
ThefinalpartoftheexhibitiontalkedabouttheDraftRiotsof1864,wheretheIrishbeganhuntingBlackpeoplethroughthestreetsofNewYork,killingindiscriminatelyandburningdownanorphanage.ThepeopleofWeeksvillehadtakeninandprotectedBlackNewYorkerswho’dmadeitacrosstheEastRiver.
Theo’sfacehadbeenpaleduringthatexhibit,andwehadsplitapartatonepoint,theawkwardhistoricalfactthatwhitepeoplereallyseemedtoenjoyhuntingBlackpeoplewheneverthewhimstruckthemmakingchitchatjustabitstrained
We’dreunitedatthelastexhibition;itfeaturedphotographsofpeoplefromtheWeeksvilleneighborhoodoverthecourseofitshistory.Blackfamiliesposinginfrontoffireplaces.BlackteachersteachingattheAfricanschool.Barbershopsandrestaurantsandawholethrivingnineteenth-centuryneighborhood,andithadjust…disappeared.
NowIsitonabenchwhileTheosnapsphotosoftheoldhousesoutside,andIscrollforanswerstoanaggingquestionthatnoneoftheexhibitionsanswered.
“WheredidthepeopleofWeeksvillego?”Iask.“They’dworkedhardtobuypropertyandgaintherighttovote.They’dspentdecadesbuildingacommunity,onlytopickupandleave?”
“Maybetherewerebetteropportunitiessomeplaceelse?”Theoguesses,turninghiscameraonmeandfiddlingwiththefocusonhislens.
“Somepeoplewouldleavebecauseofthat,butnoteveryone.It’snotlikeitwaseasyforthemtojustmove.Theyweren’twelcomemostplacesandhadahardenoughtimeholdingontowhattheyalreadyhad,”Isay,tryingtokeepthesnapoutofmytone,becauseit’snothimI’mfrustratedwith.“Youdon’tjustgiveawayeverythingyoubustedyourassfor.”
I’mscrollingblindlynow,tryingtomaintainmycool.
“But,lookatourneighborhood—”
“I’mgonnagositintheAC.”Iheadbacktowardthereceptionarea,fightingagainstthesuddenpressureatmytearducts.
Iheadtothebathroom,splashwateronmyface,thengrabacoldwaterfromthevendingmachineandaseatatoneoftheroundtablesscatteredaroundthelobby.Aftertakingafewsips,Iholdthewateragainstmyneckandjustbreathe.Ican’tkeepgoingoffonTheo.It’snotfairtousehimasmyemotionalpunchingbag—Iknowwhatitfeelslike,everythingyousaypushingsomeinvisiblebuttoninapersonyou’rejusttryingtogetalongwith.
Heisn’tevengettingpaidforthisshit.Andevenifheispushingmybuttons,evenifhispresencedoesmakethingsawkwardsometimes,it’snicetohavesomecompany.It’sparticularlynicethatsaidcompanycanaskquestionsaboutmypastbutdoesn’tactuallyknowanythingaboutit.Icanbreathealittlemorefreelywithhim,eventhoughheprobablythinksI’manuptightheifer,mostlybecauseevenwhilefeelingfreerI’mactinglikeone.
ThedoorfromtheoutsideopensandTheostrollsovertothewomanatthedesk.Iwatchashemakesgoofysmalltalk,thewaysheslowlylooksawayfromthecomputerscreenandturnsherattentiontohim.Smiles.Getsdrawnintoconversation.
It’snotflirtatious,exactly,it’sjustTheo.There’ssomethingabouthisopennessthatmakesyouwanttolethimin.
Afterafewminuteshestridesoverandsitsdownnexttome,butIkeepmyeyesavertedsinceIstillfeelfoolishforstormingoff.
“EasternParkway,”hesays.
WhenIglanceathimhisgazebackflipsawayfromwherecondensationisrunningfromthewaterbottledownintothevalleybetweenmybreasts.Ipullthebottlefromagainstmyneck,takeasip,andtrynottolooksmug.Dreawasright—thisshirtdoesmakethemlookgreat.
“TheybuiltEasternParkwaythroughtheWeeksvillecemetery,”hesays,thenmoveshishandinahorizontalmotion.“Justkindofrazedrightthroughit,apparently.Somepeopleleftafterthat.Othersleftaftertheystartedputtingthestreetsontoagridsystem,whichagainmeantmorerazingandchange.”Hesighsandstartsfidgetingwiththecamera.“Andthenwhite—well,whitenow—immigrantsstartedmovingin.SomaybeIwasn’tsowrongaboutitbeinglikeourneighborhood.Butyouwereright,too.Peopledon’tjustleaveenmassefornoreason.”
Hesuddenlyturnsandsnapsapictureofme.
Ilowerthewaterbottlefrommylips.“Whattheeff,Theo?”
“Sorry,”hesays,lookingatthecamera’sdisplayscreen.He’snotsorry.“Couldn’tresist.”
Heturnsandshowsmethephotoofmyselfwiththebottleheldnearmymouth,lipsmoistandslightlyparted.Mybraidsarepulledupfrommyface,showingthesmoothstretchofmydeepsummer-brownskinovermycheekbonesandthedarkercirclesundermyeyes.
Ilook…attractive,Iguess.
Buttired.
Ilooklikemymom.
“Sowhat’stheplan,boss?”heasksashepullsthecamerabackandglancesatthescreenonemoretimebeforeturningitoff.“Howdoesallthisfitintothetour?”
“Well,Idon’tthinkwe’llwalkallthewayoverhereduringtheblockparty,butIwanttomentionthisneighborhood,sinceitoverlappedGiffordPlaceatitspeak.ButI’mprobablygonnastartwaybeforethatwiththeNativeAmericanswholivedinthearea—”
“That’saprettybroadlens.”
“—andthentalkabouttheenslavedAfricanswhohelpedtheDutchbuildtheirinitialfarmholdingsonthelandtheystolefromtheAlgonquin.”
“TheDutch?NottheBritish?”
“Weren’tyousupposedtolookuptheDutchWestIndiaCompany?”Iask,shootinghimanannoyedlook.
Theo’seyesarewarm.“Ididn’tgetaroundtoit.ButI’mkindofgladIdidn’t,becauseIlikewhenyoupulloutyourruler,especiallynowthatIknowyouonlydoitforme.”
Hestandsupandwalksaway,likehe’sjustpulledsomesmoothmoveandI’msupposedtosithereallflustered.Iscoff.Ifthisishisideaofflirtation,hebetterhopeIneveractuallydecidetogiveintomycuriosity,becausehe’snotreadyforthisjelly.TheonlyreasonIfeelthisbuzzysensationisbecauseIneedanap.AndtheflutteringinmystomachisbecauseIneedfood.
Igetupandfollowhim,andasweheadoutthewomanattheentrancecallsusover.“Youknowwhereyoucangoifyou’relookingintothehistoryoftheneighborhood?TheAMEaroundthecorner.Ourarchivistisalwaystappingtheirhistorianontheshoulderforsomethingoranother.KendraHillishername.She’sbasicallyawalkingencyclopediaofthisarea.”
“IknowMs.Hill,”Isaythroughapasted-onsmile.“She’safriendofmymother’s.Icancallherandsetthingsup.”IturntoTheo.“Wannaheadtheretomorrowifshe’sfree?Andifyou’refree.”
Iwinceinternally;justlikethatandI’malreadyassuminghe’llbetheretohelp.Ihaven’tlearnedmylessonatall.
“I’mfree,”hesays.“IsaidI’dhelp.SoI’mgoingtohelp.”
Iscrambleforasnarkyresponse,buttheonlythingIcomeupwithisaquiet“Thanks.”
I’mtired.
Ineedhelp.
I’lltakeit.
GiffordPlaceOurHoodpostbyLaTashaClifton:
OMG,checkoutthisSecretNewYorkarticle!It’sabouthowthereusedtobesecrettunnelsundertheMedicalCenter!
AmberGriffin:Wut?!Themolepeoplearereal??
CandaceTompkins:Nomolepeople.Thehospitalwasafactoryforalittlewhileafterthesanitariumcloseddown,andtherewereundergroundpassageways.Theywereusedtotransportshipmentsbackintheday.
LaTashaClifton:Whatkindofshipmentneedstobecarriedunderground??
CandaceTompkins:Theydidn’twanttobothertherichpeoplewholivedintheneighborhood.
AmberGriffin:Idon’tbuyit.MOLE.PEOPLE.PERIODT.
Chapter9
Theo
WHENIWAKEUPFROMABOREDOM-INDUCEDNAP,THELATE-EVENINGlightisthrowingshadowsthathighlighttheragingbonertentingmyboxers.
Itfeelswronghavingthisthrumofexcitementinmyveinsforthefirsttimeinmonths,andnotforKim,butnotaswrongasitshould.
Ishouldn’tbepoppingwoodoverSydney.She’sjustmyneighbor.Theend.
MydickjumpsandIheaveafrustratedsigh,thenrollgroggilyoutofbedandheadtomybathroomonautopilot.WhenIturnonthetapinmyshoweritmakesasoundlikeasmoker’shackingcoughfollowedbyaclangsomewhere—stillnowater,ofcourse.
IcrackmyfrontdooranddropmyheadasIpokeitout,halffromdefeatandhalflisteningforanyoftheusualsoundsthatbounceupfromdownstairswhenKimishome.
Nothing.
Mybodyunclenchesatwhatthesilencesignals:Notiptoeingaround.NowaitingfortheanvilI’dthoughtIcouldevadetofinallydropoutoftheskylikeintheoldcartoonsMomwouldputon,volumehigh,tokeepmebusywhenherlatestboyfriendcameover.Sometimesinthecartoons,theheavyobjectsfallingoutoftheskywereunavoidableactsofmalice.Moreoften,thecharacterabouttogetwallopedhadsethisownanvil-smashinginmotionthroughsomecombinationofgreed,hubris,andstupidity.
Yeah.IguessIhadn’tpaidenoughattentiontothatpart.
Iwrapatowelaroundmyselfandheaddownstairstoshoweroffmysleepsweat—it’sstillhotasfuckinmyroomandIfeelstickyandsluggish.
I’mrelievedatthethoughtthatKimisgone,again,evenifsheiswithsomeoneelse.MaybeIshouldberagingandtryingtowinherback,butallIcanthinkofishowniceitwillbetocookdinneronthestovetonight,likeagrown-up,insteadofeatingCupNoodlesrehydratedwithwaterheatedonthehotplateinmystudio.MaybeIcanturnonherAC,relax,andfinallylookupthisDutchWestIndiaCompanystuffItoldSydneyIwouldresearch.
WhenIstepintothelivingroom,IrealizeIwaswrong.
Kimisthere,wearingcutelittlekhakishortsandasilkywhiteshirtthatshowsshe’sstillanadherentof“freeingthenipple”andhersarebaskinginsaidfreedom.Herhairisdownaroundhershouldersinloosewaves.
Shelooksgreat,allbeachysummerfun,butwhenhergazepassesovermine,it’scoldestwinter.Theroomisfreezing,too—she’sgottenanadditionalairconditioneraftergivingmeshitforwantingone.
Iwouldlaugh,ifmyballshadn’tdrawnupintomybodyfromthelookshegivesmewhenherheadswivelsinmydirection.
It’sblank;nohappiness,orevendisdain.IfI’dbeenamousethatscamperedin,shewouldhaveshownmorefeelingaboutmypresence.
“Hey,”Isayawkwardly,tighteningthetowelaroundmywaist.Iglanceattherollingsuitcaseshe’scarefullyzippingup.“Goingsomewhere?”
“MyparentssaidIshouldcomeouttotheirplaceintheHamptons,”shesays.ShehastoclarifybecausetheyalsohaveaplaceinMartha’sVineyardandoneontheCarolinacoast.“TheysaiditwouldbesmarttogetthereearlybeforealltheLaborDaytraffic.It’ssuperhotthere,too,butatleastthere’sanoceanbreeze.”
“Oh.That’scool.”Ihadn’tthoughtwe’dspendtheholidaytogether,butI’dassumedwe’dbothbemiserableseparatelybutineachother’sgeneralvicinity,likewe’dspentthelastholiday.Miserableisthelastthingshe’llbe,upinabigfancyhousewithcateredfood,aseabreeze,apool,and—
Ireallyamanasshole.Mygirlfriendisleavingsuddenly,probablycheatingonme,andI’mjealousofthelobsterrollsandamenitiesshe’sgoingtoenjoy.
“Ishegoingtobethere?”Iask.
“David?”Shetiltsherhead.“Thatdoesn’treallymatter,doesit?BecausewhenIgetback,you’llbegone.”
ShesaysthissocasuallyIalmostdon’tcatchwhatshemeans.
I’mgettingkickedout.
Ishoulddosomething.Getangry.Makeascene.Instead,myhandsgripthetowelatmywaistandIkindofjustfreezetherelikearoachwhenyouturnonthekitchenlight.
“Whatthehell,Kim?Justlikethat?”Iask,butit’snotreallyaquestion,andinrealityjustlikethathasbeencomingonformonths.
Shesighs,shakesherhead.“Look,there’snopointtodraggingthisout.Weclearlyhavedifferentvaluesandourrelationshiphasbeenstalledformonths.Frombeforeweevenmovedin.We’rebothrelativelyyoungand—”
“WhereamIsupposedtolive?”Icutheroff.MyfaceishotandIfeelridiculousandexposed:broke,jobless,andhalf-naked,abouttobekickedoutofmyownhouse.“Ithrewmostofmysavingsintomovingintothisplacewithyou,I’monthemortgage,andnowyouthinkyoucan—”
“Icankickyouout?Yes,”shesays,standingherbagup.“Iknowyou’reabouttomentiontenancylawsorequityorsomethingtedious,butonlyoneofushasaparentwho’sahigh-poweredattorneywithdetailedknowledgeonthematter.”
“Youaren’tevengoingtooffertobuymeout?”That’stherealblow.Shecanaffordtodothat.Shecanmorethanaffordit—shedoesn’tevenneedmycontributiontothemortgage,butI’dwantedtoprovetoherthatIwasn’tjustusingherforhermoney.
I’dwantedtoprovide,butI’dbeenthecavemanbringinganemaciatedharetoourcampfirewhenherfamilyhadalreadydownedandpreservedaherdofwoollymammoths.
Shelaughs,onesharpha.“WhyshouldI?Dadneverdidlikeyouanyway.I’msurehe’dloveareasontofuckwithyousomemore.”
“Youlikedmeonce,though,”Isay.
Shelooksatmelikeshe’stheharriedheroineinaromanticcomedyandI’mtheJoeBlowstandingbetweenherandhappiness.
“Thingschange.”Ahornhonksoutsideandsheshrugs.“Look,I’mgivingyouaweek.Itshouldn’tbethathardtofindaroomsomewhere.”
Notwhenyou’rerichandcanpassanybackgroundcheck,Iimagine.
“Thanksforthelastfewyears.Theyweregood,mostly.Butthey’reovernow,andI’mdoingwhat’sbestforme.MytherapisttoldmethatI’llbemuchhappieroncemylivingsituationisfreeoftoxicpeople,sothere’snoreasontoputitoffanylonger.”
Withthat,shestrollsoutofthelivingroomandoutofmylife,too,Iguess.
“Oh!”Hervoiceringsoutinthehallway.“Youcanhavetheleftoverwineinthefridge,butdon’tfuckupanyofmybelongingsorI’llmakeyourlifehell.”
Thenshe’sreallygone.
Iheadintotheshower,ormybodydoeswhilemymindstartsrunningthroughpossibilities.Idon’thaveanyfriendsIcancrashwith—beforeherI’dbeennewtothecityandfriendless,hangingwithmyroommatesoutofconvenience.Otherthanthat,I’dmostlyhadacquaintancesI’dlosttouchwithorwhomayormaynotbeinjailsomewhere.Momhasneverbeenabletohelp,sothat’snotapossibility.
ThechancesofevergettinganotherjobliketheoneIgottomakeKimhappyareslimtonone,andbesides,itwastoomuchwork.Ihaveotherwaysofmakingmoneyfast,whichiswhyI’llbeabletoaffordacouplemonths’rent,butI’dconvincedmyselfIwasjustmakingdowhiletimesweretough.AmIreallyjustgoingtofallbackintothatlifeagain?
WhenIwasyoung,I’dgetsomadatmymomforalwaysmakingthesamestupidmistakes.NowIwonderifthere’sanyavoidingthatpattern.Itriedhardashelltobreakit,andlookwhereit’sgottenme.
Afterafewminutesofstandingunderthelukewarmspray,thepanicandangergetshuntedawayliketheyhaveallmylife—probablycompactingintoatumorinsomedarkcornerofmybody—andIturnoffthewaterandcalmlystepout.
Ihaveaweek.I’llbefine.
WeoftenmovedwithwayshorternoticewhenIwasakid—Iknowforafactthatyoucanpackupeverythingyoureallyneedtogetbyinhalfanhour.Aweekisgolden.
Everythingwillbefine.
She’sprobablygivingDavidahandieontheLIErightnow.
Whatever.
Iheadtoherfridge,pullthefancystopperoutofthewineJosiehadbeentryingtogetmetodrinktheothernight,andtakeahugeswallowofthetoo-sweetliquid.LeftoversfromthefancyItalianrestaurantweusedtogotowhenwewererentinginManhattansitontheshelfbelow,andIgrabtheboxoutofsheerspite.
Giventheshortnotice,I’llprobablyendupinsomeillegallivingroomrentalwithanIKEAcurtainforawall.Ideservethisleftovervegetarianlasagna—that’swhatshealwaysorders.
Iknowthosekindsofthingsabouther,andsheknowsnothingaboutme.Nothing.AndnotjustthestuffIhidfromher.
ItakeanotherswigoftheRiesling—whichhasgonebadbutwillstillgetmebuzzed—thencarrytheboxtothemicrowaveandopenit.
It’sshrimpscampi.
Well,wouldyoulookatthat.
Afterwarmingthefood,Icarrythebottleuptomystudioandsitatmydesktostartsearchingforaplace.Idrink.IsendatextaskinganoldcontactI’dbeentryingtoavoidslinkingbacktoifhehasanyworkforme,hopingthenumberisstillinservice.Idrink.Ilookatmoreplaces,andemailacoupleofthem.
I’mstillinwhatevernumbstateispreventingmefrombeingreallypissedoffatKim—I’mmostlymadatmyself.
I’dknownshewasn’tmytypewhenwefirstmetatthathappyhour—she’dclearlybeenslummingitatdollarshotsnightwhileIwasactuallytryingtosaveabuck.Ourfirstdateshadbeeninthesummer,fulloffreeconcerts,trainridestothebeach,andcheapbeer.Itwasonlywhenshe’dtakenmetoafancyrestauranttomeetherfriendsfourmonthsinthatI’drealizedhowdifferentourbankstatements,andoureverydaylives,reallywere.Butatthatpointithadbeenanegothing—thehotrichgirllikedme
Shewasvibrant,andindependent,andshedidn’tneedme.
Herfamilywasoldmoneyandthey’dbepassingitontoher.
Ihadtokeepher.
Jesus,it’spatheticinretrospect,andreallyfuckeduponmyend.HadIlikedherformorethanthefactthatshelikedmewhensheshouldn’t?Thatshedidn’tmindpickingupthetab,afterall?Thatshelikedputtingmylifeinorderandpushingmetoreachforthingsaguylikemewould’veneverevenknownabout?
Whenshe’dtoldmeIneededtogetabetterjob…I’dreachedabittoohigh.PartofmeresentsthatthatparticularJengablockwastuggedfromthebottomandbroughteverythingcrashingdownonlyaftertheinkhaddriedonthedeedforthisplace.
Thepingofanemailresponsesoundsfromthecomputer—oneoftherentaladshasalreadyrespondedbecauseit’sascam.Ideleteitandthepreviousemailfillsthescreen.
TourBasicOverview
IclickthelinktotheshareddocumentSydneysentearlier,herresearchopeninginanewtabonmybrowser.Acirclefloatsintheright-handcornerofthescreen,apictureofacartoonstringbean.WhenIhoveroverit,sgreenbean@mailmail.compopsup.Itrynottobegoofyaboutthefactthatshe’sontheothersideofmyscreeninaway.Ijustgettowork.
Iscrollpastthepagesshealreadyshowedmeandgotoasectionentitled“Blackhomeownership.”
Owningpropertywasseenaspivotaltoobtainingfullcitizenshipstatus;abolitionistsandactivistsoverthecourseofBrooklyn’shistoryhavesuggestedthateffortstoblockhomeownershipand/ordevaluepropertyinBlackcommunitiescanbeseenasanattackonBlackcitizenshipandgeneralwell-being.
I’mnotsureiftheseareSydney’swordsorsomeoneelse’s,butitoccurstomethatallthosenightsIsawhertakingnotesonhercouch,betweencryingboutsandglassesofwine,thisisprobablywhatshewasworkingon.Eventhoughshe’sbeenactinglikethisissomethingshe’sdoingonawhimandhasn’tgivenenoughattentionto.
Iopenanothertabandtype“DutchWestIndiaCompany+Brooklyn”inthesearchbar,thenskimthroughthepreviewtextthatpopsupforeachhit,seeingifanythingcatchesmyeye.
AftertheestablishmentofNewAmsterdam,theDutchsetaboutwhatwouldbeoneoftheirmostlastingcontributionstothefiveboroughs—theimportationofAfricanstoworkonfarmsandpublicworks.
Thepreviewtextforanothersitereads:…withtheendofslaveryinBrooklyn,manyoftheDutchWestIndiaCompanyslaveownersturnedtheireyetoanewindustry:banking.
Isnort.Yeah,havingjustbeenfiredfromabankjob,Iknowwhysomelazyassholewouldturntothatbusiness.Easymoney,madefromotherpeople’shardwork
Ishouldkeeplookingforaplace,butinstead,Igrabthebottleofwineandstarttoread.
ICOMETOwithhalfmybodyslidoffmyofficechair,thelowgruntandmoanofpornbuzzingfrommyheadphones,whichlieacrossthedesk.SomeweirdshitthatIcanonlyassumeistheresultofautoplayandsomeoneelse’seclecticvideoplaylistishappeningonmyscreen.Idon’trememberpullingupanyporn.Idon’trememberanythingafterstaringatanadforashittybasementapartmentinMillBasin.Thegiantbottleofwineismostlyempty,butmyheadisspinninglikeIdon’tregularlycrushasix-packanightbymyself.
Ireachouttoslamthelaptopscreendown,butmymotionisslowandunsteady,soIjusttappauseandtrytogetmybearings.
Ihittabtochangethescreenandendupinthedocument.IblinkandwatchasagapopensupbetweenSydney’ssingle-spacedparagraphs,whitespaceeatingthescreen.Feartinglesupthebackofmyneckforsomereason,untilIrealizemyownhandisrestingonthespacebar.Iliftitwithsomeeffort…andthewhitespacekeepseatingthepage,thensuddenlystops.Thecursorblinksthereinthewhiteness,thenwordsstarttotype:
Notfeelingtoohot,areyou?
Sydney?
No.WhenIlookintotheright-handcorner,thecartoonbeanisgone,replacedbyablackcircle.Someoneelseisinthedocument.
Toomuchwine’lldothattoyou,whoeveritistypes.
Imanagetogetthescreendowneventhoughmyarmsfeelnumb,butwhenItrytostandup,apainfulretchripplesthroughmystomachanddiaphragm.
“Ugh.”
Iburp,thetasteofbileonmytonguegivinganadditionalwarningthatmovingisn’tagreatidearightnow.Ican’tstandandIalsodon’twanttopukeononeofthefewthingsofvaluethatI’llbeabletotakewithmewhenImoveout,soIusemyfeettopropelmyselfawayfromthedesk,slowlyrollingtothewindowbesideit.Iparkmyselfdirectlyinfrontofthefanshovedintothecasing,thencarefullyleanbackinthechairandsitstillwiththenausea.Verystill.
HowdidIgetthisdrunk?
IspentasignificantportionofmyearlytwentiespoundingvodkainRussiansocialclubsandneversufferedworsethanafewblackouts.
ThelasttimeIthrewupwasinhighschool.I’dgonetoapartywhereI’dunsuccessfullytriedtohitonfivegirlsandendedupnursingabottleof151inacorner.Maybethisishowmybodyrespondstorejection.
Wait.Someonewasinthedocument.SomeonenotSydneywasinthedocument,typingliketheycouldseeme.Whatwasthatabout?
Adeepandmelodioushowlpiercesthenight,raisingthehairsonmyarms.Iknowthissound—oneofmymom’sshittyexeswasahunter,andthisisthesoundofahoundraisingthealarm.
Count.
Inthemonthswe’velivedhere,I’veheardtheoccasionalbarkfromhim—it’susuallyTobythatengagesinbarkapalooza—butnothinglikethis.
There’samovementacrossthestreet,inMr.Perkins’splace,onthefirstfloor.Ifeelwoozyandtheflickeringlightfromthetelevisioninhislivingroomdoesn’thelp,butthere’sdefinitelysomeonemovingaroundinthere.
Shit.
ApostontheOurHoodappsaidthere’sbeenaspateofbreak-ins,butIknowthecauseofthatrumor.Andnoonearoundherewouldchoosehishouseofallplaces,wouldthey?
Maybehe’sgettingalate-nightsnack,butI’veneverseenhimupthislate.He’susuallyawakeandoutsidebysix—he’soneofmyconstants,sometimesdeviatingbutgenerallyalwaysfollowingthesamepattern.Somethingisextremelyoffrightnow,andoutofitasIam,myuneasesolidifiesintoclearforeboding;somethingbadisabouttohappen.Whenyouhavebeenthebadthing,yougetprettygoodatknowingwhatthecalmbeforethestormfeelslike.
Ileanforward,peeringthroughthewhirringbladesofthefan;themotionmakesmewanttohurlsoIreachuptoturnthepowerswitchtozero.
Countbarksagain,andIsquinttoseewhat’shappeningthroughtheslowingblades.Mr.Perkinswalksintothelivingroomslowly,thenisblockedbythefanblade.Helooksleft—fanblade.Nowhisheadisturnedbacksharplyoverhisshoulder—fanblade.WhenIlookattheotherfront-facingwindow,Ispottwobulkyshadowspasstheglowofthetelevision.Anotherrevolutionofthefanbladeandtheshadowsaregone.Iwanttosayitwasmyimagination,butCountisbarkingmoreinsistentlynow.
IseealightturnoninoneofTerryandJosie’swindows—she’slikelyuptopostanoisecomplaintontheOurHoodapp—butit’stakingallofmyconcentrationtofocusonwhat’sgoingonatMr.Perkins’s.
Igriptheedgeofthewindowframeandpullmyselftoastandingposition.Blackspotsappearattheedgesofmyvisionandmybodyisbathedinsweat,butIhaveabetterviewnow.IseeMr.Perkinsturningaround,hiseyesgoingwideashetakesastepback.
Countisbarkingandbarking.
Shit.
Ihavetogohelp,butmybodyissoheavy.Havetocallsomeoneatleast,butwhenIturnmyheadtolookformyphonetheroomripplesandspinsandIdry-heave.
Threethingshappeninquicksuccession:theTVshutsoffinMr.Perkins’slivingroom,leavingthewindowsdark;there’saloudcrash;andCountstopsbarkingabruptly.
Actually,fourthingshappen:Iblackout.
GiffordPlaceOurHood/privateusergroup/Rejuvenation
TheHousingAuthorityhasrelayedsomeinformation:internalfilesregardingtheprojecthavebeenaccessed.Likelynothing,butthemattershouldbelookedintoanddealtwith,alongwiththeFOIArequests.
Chapter10
Sydney
IJERKAWAKEONTHEFLOORBYTHEBACKDOOR,CURLEDUPlikeadogthatneedstogoout.Thehazeofabaddreamreleasesitsstrangleholdonme,butthedirtymoptasteinmymouth,residueofroséandAmbien,persists.
Ishouldn’thavetakenthepills,butalcoholhadn’tknockedmeoutandmymindhadbeenrunninglapsaroundbadmemories,andaroundgoodmemoriesthatnowfeltworsethanthebadones.I’ddrunkenlygrabbedthepillsoutofdesperation;Idon’tevenrememberhowmanyIdowned.
Isitup,winceatthepaininmyneck.AllofmyattemptstoknockoutandhaveafewhoursofpeacewerefornothingbecausethenightmaresweresorealisticthatI’mevenmoreexhausted.
There’dbeendemonsinthewalls,bangingandscratchingastheyburrowedtheirwayintothehousetomakemepayformylies.I’dtriedtorunforhelp,togotoMommy…
IwaitfortheanxietyfromthedreamtoreleaseitsholdonmenowthatI’mawake,butnothingunclenches.Probablybecauserealityisjustasshittyand—ohfuck.It’sThursday.
Ipushmyselfuptomyfeetandjogtomybedroom.Mycellphoneisn’tonthecharger,andIstartpullingpillows,duvet,sheetsontotheflooruntilIhearathudandgrabforit.
Thephoneisdead.ItwascharginglastIremember,soImusthaveuseditduringmyAmbienstupor,asifthingsaren’talreadybadenough.
“Shit,shit,shit.”
Isnatchuptheendofthechargingcordandplugitin,thatannoyingimageofabatterywithaslimredlinesittingonthescreenforever,likeit’spurposelyfuckingwithme.Finally,awhiteappleappears,andthenthesecuritycodeprompt.Withoutthinking,Ientermyoldcode—thedateofthefirstdaymeandMarcushadmet—whichis,ofcourse,wrong.Ichangeditthreeyearsago,whenIstartedtosuspecthewascheckingmyphone.
“You’rebeingparanoid,Sydney.”
Iputinthenewcode,thenumbersMommyalwaysplayedinthelotto.
Thephoneunlocksandafteritconnectstothenetwork,thefirstthingthatcomesthroughisatextfromClaude.
Yo,youneedtochill.Mygirlsawyourwildtextsandnowshe’smadatME.You’regoingthroughsomething,Igetit,butpleasedeletemynumber.
Ouch.
Ican’tbringmyselftolookatwhateverhumiliating,patheticmessageIsenthim,soIjustdeletethewholetextchain.IexpecttoseearesponsefromDrealettingmeknowhowhernightwent,butshe’seitherstillonherdatefromlastnightoristryingtoenforceher“youcan’tusemeasatherapist”boundary.
Noneofthatmatters,though;there’savoicemailfromthelawyers.ThecallI’vebeenwaitingon,andmaybemylasthope,andIsleptthroughit.IballmyfistanddigitintomythighasIreturnthecall.
“GladstoneandGianetti.”
“Hi,thisisSydneyGreen,I—”
“Hello,Ms.Green.Ms.Gianettileftyouamessage,butherscheduleispackedforthenextfewweeks.”
“I’msorryImissedhercall.Istherereallynoway—”
“No.”Thereceptionist’stonesaysthisisfinal.“Unfortunately,itseemsthatthere’snotmuchthatcanbedoneatthispointwithyourmother’scase.She’llbeincontactviaemail.There’salsothematterofoutstandingpayment,whichweunderstandmightbedifficultconsideringthesituation.”
Surprisingly,Idon’tfeelanything.Somewhere,behindthedesperation-fueledattemptatpositivity,I’veknowntheywouldn’tbeabletohelp.“Okay.Iunderstand.”
“Youmightalsolookintooneofthenonprofits.They’dprobablyhavemoreresourcesforyoutoactindependently,too.”
“Okay.”Ilistentoherrattleoffaphonenumber,butit’salreadytoolate.
ThetruththatI’vebeenavoidingatallcostsstartstosinkin:I’mfuckedfromeveryangleandnolawyercanhelpwiththat.
Painbuildsinmychest,andIsinktothefloor,eyessqueezedshutandbarelyabletosipinabreath.
IopenthetextfunctiontomychainwithDreaandtaptheaudionotefeature.“Areyouhome?It’shappeningagain.Mychest.”
Ihitsendandthencurluparoundthephone.
There’snothingIcandoaboutitbutwait.Ican’taffordanothermedicalbill,andevenifIcould,they’dlikelyjusttellmeIneedtoreducemystress,whichisn’texactlyanoptionatthispoint.
Maybeitisaheartattackthistime,though,becauseI’msweatingandshakingandthepaininmychestisintensifying.Hell,Iwouldn’tbemadifthisisthebigone.ThenIcouldgetsomerestandsomeoneelsecoulddealwiththemessI’min.
Ilieonthefloorforalongtime,breathinganddaringmypunk-assbodytoputuporshutup,thenwonderingwhatmymotherwouldsayifshesawmelikethis.IknowwhatMarcuswouldsay.“Youwanttomakeasceneandactcrazy?Fine.I’lltreatyouthatway.”
Thatmemorybeatsatmychest,butIcallMommy’snumberandlistentohervoicemail,andthepanicattackrecedes.
Igetupshakilyandmakemywaytotheshower,whereIsqueezeanalmostcomicalamountofexfoliatingbodyscrubontomywashcloth,runningitovermybodyuntilIfeellikemaybeI’vescouredoffalayer.Afterafacescrubandrinse,Iheadintomybedroomandworkathickbodybutterintomyskin,takingmytime,allowingmyselftozoneoutduringthisfamiliardailyritual.
I’mstaringatthewall,mindblankandgazeunfocused,whenatinyblackspotbeginstoscurry.
Anycalmmylittleself-careroutinehaswonbackislostimmediately.Ichargetowardthecrawlingspeck,scoopingupthewaterglassonmybedsidetableandslammingitontothewall.
Itbetternotbeanothergoddamnbedbug.
Myskinstartstoitchlikethemoisture’sbeensuckedoutofit,butasIpeerthroughthethinglassbottomofthecupIrealizeit’sjustababyroach.Notideal,butpickingupacanofRaidiseasierthansteamingallmybelongings.
I’mabouttomovetheglasswhenaremnantofmynightmarecomesbacktome…wasitaboutsomethingscratchinginthewalls?IslowlylowermyeartotheglasslikeIusedtodowhenIwasakidbecauseI’dseenitinamovie.Icanhearmyownheartbeat,myowninhale…and—
ThedoorbellsuddenlychimesandIjump,droppingtheglass.Itsomehowdoesn’tshatterafterbouncingfourtimesinslo-moandthenrollingunderthebed.
Islapmyhandatthewallassomethingscurriesinmyperipheralvision,buttheroachapparentlyhaswaybetterluckthanmeandskittersofftofreedom.WeneverhadroacheswhenMommywashere,butbackthenMissWandastilllivednextdoor.Shedidn’thaveadirtykid,andshebleacheddownhercountertopseverynight,despitetheliesJosietoldherfriends.Ihurriedlypullonmyunderwear,ashirt,andshortsandracetothedoor,hearthammeringinmychest.
WhenIgettothefrontdoor,there’satallwhitemaninablueshirtstandingoutsideofit.He’swearingabluehatpulledlowonhisbrowandissoclosetothedoor,rightupagainstit,thatIcan’tseethestreetbehindhim.He’sbulkyenoughtodothat.
“IsYolandaGreenhere?”heasks,hisgazeskirtingovermyshoulderanddownthehall.
MywordsgetalljumbledinmythroatandIclearit,andschoolmyexpressiontooneofpoliteannoyance.
“I’mherdaughter.CanIhelpyou?”
“I’mheretoreadthemeter,”hesaysthroughtheglass.“Canyouletmein?”
Theelectricalmetersareinthehallcloset,meaningI’llhavetolethiminsidethehousetocheckthem.ThehairsonmyneckriseinwarningandIdon’tignoremygut,evenifitisstillrunningonAmbienfumes.
Ireachintomypocketformyphoneandrealizeit’sstillonthefloornexttomybed.
“Miss?Ineedtocheckthemeter.”Hisvoiceiskindofamused,likehe’sdaringmetobedumbenoughtobelievehimorparanoidenoughnotto.Hetakesastepclosertothedoorsohischestispressedalmostagainstit.Thenamepatchonhisuniformsendsachillthroughme:DREW
HetapstheglassasifI’mnotstaringrightathim.“We’vebeenbillingyouonestimatesformonthsnow.Ifyoudon’tletmein—”
“Sydney?”
The“ConEd”guylooksbackoverhisshoulderandstepsoutofthewaytorevealTheowaitingatthebottomofthestairs.Hishairiswetandhisexpressionis…off.
“Thoughtweweresupposedtomeetateightthirty,”hesays,whichIhavenorecollectionofagreeingto.I’mwonderingifheevenseestheweirdmanloominginmydoorway,thenhisgazeshiftswithintentionalitybehindit.“Oh,heyman.What’sup?”
Hedoesanotheroneofthosewhite-guymoves,placingahandtohisbrowandscrunchinguphisfaceashegivesthemetermanalingeringlookthatmakeshimawarethathe’sbeenclocked.
“Icancomebackifyou’vegotanappointment,miss,”theguysays.Thenhe’sgone,hustlingdownthestairs,hoppingintothepassengersideofawhitevanthatpullsoff.
Iopenthedoorenoughtoleanoutandwatchasthevandrivesoutofsight.“Thatwasn’taConEdvan.”
“Maybetheclown-vanclanisbackinbusiness.”Theoleansbackfromhiships,thentakesafewstepsback.“Nolicenseplate,frontorback.Shouldwecallthepolice?”
Ishoothimalook.“Yeah,soanotherscarywhitemancanshowupatmydoor,butonewhocandefinitelykillmewithnoworriesinsteadofprobablykillmewithnoworries.”
“Shit,Sydney.”Heexhales.Iwaitforhimtopushback,buthesays,“Igetthat.Just…that’saprettycommoncon.Pretendingtobefromautilityservice.Somanyconsarejustbankingonthefactthatpeoplewilltrustyoubecauseofthesocialcontract.”
Itakeastepbackintothedoorway,readytoclosethedoorontheworldandthisconversation.“Thanksforrunninghimoff,”Isay.
“HaveyouspokentoMr.Perkinsthismorning?”Hescrubshishandsoverhisbeard,andit’sinthatmomentthatIrealizehe’shungover.Hiseyesareredandhe’slookingtheworstI’veeverseenhim;beardunkemptandawaxysheentohisskin.“Igotkindofdrunklastnight,butIswore…Ican’tremembereverything,butIthinkIsawsomethinginhiswindow.”
Mystomachclenches.
“Somethinglikewhat?”
“Likemaybesomethinghappeningtohim?”There’sworryinhiseyes.“IthinkIwastryingtogetuptoseeifhewasokaybutIpassedout.IjustrememberthatCounthowled,andmaybeIsawashadowinhiswindow.Iwasn’ttryingtogetwasted,butKimleftmeandIdranksomeofherexpensivewineoutofspiteand…”Heshrugs.“NooneansweredwhenIknockedonthedoorthismorning.”
“Ofcoursenot,”Isay.“He’susuallyoutdoinghismorningtouroftheneighborhood,hewouldn’tbehome.”
Theoshakeshishead.“I’vebeenkeepinganeyeoutbetweenpukingsessions.Hedidn’ttakeCountforawalkthismorningthatIsaw.”
Icurseandslipmyfeetintotheflip-flopsbythedoorway,feelingtheveininmytemplestarttothrob.“Yousaidyouweredrunk,right?Wasthatallyouweredoing?Drinking?”
“Iatesomeshrimpscampi,too,”hesays,andI’mexpectingthattobesarcasm,butwhenIturntolookathim,hisforeheadiswrinkledandheseemstobetryingtorememberwherethingstookawrongturninhisevening.“I’mneverdrinkingRieslingagain.”
Iheaddownthestairs,passinghimandgoingthroughMr.Perkins’sgate—he’smorelikelytobehangingoutinCityHallwatchingGoodDayNewYorkthanupintheapartment.Iknockonthewindow,waitabeat,andthenknockagain.Afterthreemoreattempts,Iheadupthestairs,ringingthebuzzerforthefirstfloor,pressingmoreinsistentlyasmyworrystartstopummelme.
ScaryUberdriver.Prestoninjail.FakeConEdguythemorningafterTheosawsomethinginthewindow.
IthinkaboutMr.Perkinsjerkinginhissleeptheotherevening.
Ithinkabouthowhe’sbeenaroundformywholelife,andhoweverythingIcareaboutisgettingtornaway.
Isuckinabreath.Hehastobeokay.
Melissa,thecollegestudentwhoseparentspaidayear’srentupfront,accordingtoMr.Perkins,comesdown.Shehasonshortsandatoo-largetee,andhershortdarkhairisartfullydisheveled.Herbikehelmetisinherhand.
ShelooksbackandforthbetweenmeandTheoinsurprise,asifshedidn’texpectustobestandingthere.
“Sydney,right?”ShelooksovermyshouldertoTheo,asuddenplayfulnessinhergaze,thenshelooksbacktome.“What’sup?”
“Hi.WewerelookingforMr.Perkins.Haveyoutalkedtohimtoday?KindofworriedabouthimbecauseIdidn’tseehimtakeCountforhiswalk.”
“Oh,hedidn’ttellyou?”
“Tellmewhat?”Iask,noteventryingtobluntmyannoyance.Ihatewhenpeopleaskaquestioninsteadofjustgivingthedamninformationoffthebat.
“Hisdaughtertookhimtothehospital.Shecamebylastnight.”
“Wait,hisdaughter?ShelivesinDC.Whywouldshebeuphereinthemiddleofthenight?”
Melissa’seyesgowide.“Thewomansaidshewashisdaughter.Doyouthinkshelied?”
“Didyouhearanythingstrangelastnight?”Iask.“Afterhisdaughtercame?”
“No,butIwasatworkafterthat.”Sheshrugs,herdoe-eyedfearfading.“Therewasashowatthebarandweallhungoutafter.Igotbacksuperlate.Orsuperearly,rather.”SheglancesatTheo.“Yousawmecomein,right?Youwerewatchingfromyourwindow.”
Theonodsjerkilyandshesmirks.“Youlooklikeyouhadaroughnight,too.Whatwereyouupto?”
“Ithinkwecancallthehospitalandseewhattheyhavetosay,”Theosays,hisgazereturningtome.
“Okay,”shesays.Shepullsthedoorshutbehindherandjogsdownthestairs.“Keepmeintheloop.Youknowwheretofindme,”shesaystoTheowithawinkasshepasseshim.
ShepopsAirPodsinherearsassheunlocksherbike.I’mstaring,mybraintryingtocatchupwithwhat’sgoingon.
“Where’sCount?”Icalloutasshekicksoff,butshedoesn’thearme.
“Count!”Theocallsoutwhileleaningoverthebanister,butthere’snobarkorevenwhineinresponse.Helooksoveratme.“IfMr.Perkinsisatthehospital,I’mprettysuretheywouldn’tjustletadoghangoutinthewaitingroom.IfCountisinthere,hecouldstarve.Dieofthirst.”
IcareaboutCount,too,andIknowwhitepeoplelovethemsomedogs,butTheo’stalkingprobablecause,notliberatingpaws.Areasontobreakandenter.Awayforustonothavetorelyonthewordofsomegirlwhomayormaynothavebeenupuntilthecrackofdawndoingcoke.
Ilookaround.Abreezeblowsthroughtheleavesofthetreesliningthestreet,butthereisn’tanyoneelseonthisendoftheblock.TheofollowsmeasIwalkslowlyintotheplant-enclosedareathatleadsintothegardenapartment.
“Don’ttellanyone,buthisdoorisalwaysunlocked,”IsayasIturntheknobandpush.“Okay,notalways.”
“Icanpickthelock,”Theosayscasually.“Wait.No,Ican’t.Thatwasn’thereonMonday.”
I’mtryingnottofreakout,butwhenIfollowhisgazeInoticeoneofthedoorbellcamerasystemshasbeeninstalled.Sincewhen?Mr.Perkinsisintogadgets,butnotenoughtoinstallacamera,andespeciallynotnowwhentheneighborhoodissupposedlythesafestit’sbeeninyears.
“Thefuck?Okay.Okay.”Iwalkovertothewindowandpeerintoit—wasthatmovementbackthere?OrjustTheo’sreflectioncomingupbehindme?Theheatofhimradiatesalongtheleftsideofmybodyashemovesinclosertopeerinside,too.
“IreallythoughtIsawsomething,”hesaysquietly.“Ihopeitwasadream.”
HiswordsremindmethatI’ddreamedofdemonsinthewalls,tryingtoscratchthroughtome.Hadthedemonshowledaswell?Haditbeenadreamatall?
“Sydney!”
IturntofindMs.Candacewatchingusfromthesidewalk.Shepusheshersunglassesupontohercapofgraycurls.
“Youtwolooklikecriminalscasingajoint.TryingtogetyourpictureputuponOurHood?‘TheEbonyandIvorycatburglars.’Youjustneedmatchingstripedshirts.”
Shecacklesatherbadjoke.
“HaveyouseenMr.Perkins?”Iwalkovertoher.“Histenantsaidsomethingabouthimbeingtakentothehospital?We’reworried.”
ShelooksbetweenmeandTheoandIcanjustimaginealittlecaptionthatsaysNEWGOSSIPACQUIREDpoppingupoverourheads.TheDayClubCrewaregonnahaveafieldday.ThenhergazesettlesonmeandIseetheconnectionforminherhead.Hersmilefades.
“Don’tworryyourself.He’sfine,”shesaysinthatslightlyraspyvoiceofhers.“Hetextedmesayingoneofthegrandbabieshadtogettheirappendixremoved,sohewentdowntohelpDebbieandRonwiththekids.Maybethatgirlmisunderstood?”
“Maybe,”Isay,thenlookbackthroughthewindow;CityHallisemptyandquiet.Iguessitwasjustareflection.
“Youknowshedrunkhalfthetime,andhightheotherhalf,butherparentspaidherrentandshehasn’tburnedtheplacedown,soitiswhatitis.”Shesighs.“JohnwillbebackbeforetheblockpartythisSunday.How’sthetourresearchcoming?”
Sheperksupatthelastsentence,hergazesharpeningonusandasuggestivesmiletighteninghermouth.
“We’refiguringitout,”Isay.
“Good.MeandtheDayClubCrewarelookingforwardtoit.”
“DayClubCrew?”Theorepeats.
“Ms.Candacetakescareofsomeolderpeoplefromtheneighborhoodinherhouseduringtheday,”Isay,tryingtokeepanyemotionoutofmyvoice.“Noneofthemliketheterm‘eldercare.’”
“Ofcoursewedon’t,’”shesays.“Wearen’telderly.We’refinelyaged,likethatgoodtop-shelfrum.”
Shelaughs.
“Theymighthavesomehelpfulstuffforthetour,”Theosays.“Dowehavetimetotalktothem?”
Iwanttowhirlonhim,askhimifheremembershe’smyreparationsassistant,notthebossofthings,buthe’sright.Icrossmyarmsovermychestinstead,nod,wishingIcouldgetoffthisemotionalSlip’NSlidethathasmecrying,thenpissed,thenparanoid.
“Yeah,comeonby.We’realwayshappytoseeyou,youknowthat.”Hergazelingersonme,alittlesoftandsad.“Butwheneveryoucome,youtwohavetobeoutbeforeGeneralHospitalstartsorPaulettewillnotbepleased.”
Ithrowmyhandsup.“IknowbetterthantocomebetweenPauletteandSonnyCorinthos.”
“Seeyoulater,”shesays,leavingmeandTheoalone.
“Sorrytomakeyouworry.”HestaresatMr.Perkins’swindow.“It’sweirdhowadreamcanfeelsoreal.Iswore—”Heshakeshishead.“I’llmeetyoubackhereinhalfanhour?Wecangetbreakfastbeforeheadingtothechurch.”
“Okay.There’sagoodCaribbeandineracrossthestreet.”
Iheadbacktomyapartment,wonderingwhatitmeansthatTheoandIarejustgonnaspendthewholedamndaytogetheragaininthenameofresearch,andthencheckmytexts.Drea’slistenedtotheaudioofmypanickedfreak-out,accordingtothelittlecheckmarksthatshowthemessagewasreceived,andhasn’tbotheredtorespond.She’sonlinenow,andIstopinthehallway,type,andhitsendbeforeIcanthinkbetterofit.
Btw,Idiedofaheartattackwaitingforyoutorespond,avengeme.xoxo
Themessageissent.Markedasread.
Noresponse.
Sorryforbeingasmartass,Itypeout.ButstopleavingmeonreadandrespondsoIknowyou’reokay,*okay*?
Dreaistyping…popsupinthedisplayatthetopofourconversationandrelieffloodsme.
She’sokay.
Shedoesn’thateme.
WhenIleavetogomeetTheo,shestillhasn’thitsend.
GiffordPlaceOurHoodpostbyJosieUlnar:
Thisisanaccountabilitypost.IwanttoapologizetoeveryonefortheracketTobymadelastnight.Terriersareratcatchersatheartand,well,Idon’tknowwhereitcamefrom,butaratgotintoourhouseinthemiddleofthenight.Tobywasbarkingbloodymurderashechaseditdown,andI’msurehewokesomeofyouup.Sorryaboutthat!
Btw,ifanyonewants,IhaveacoupleofvouchersforthemaidserviceIuse.Theydoanexcellentjobandreallydeepcleanyourkitchentopreventinfestationofvermin.
(2additionalcomments…seemore)
Chapter11
Theo
I’MEATINGSOMETHINGCALLEDACKEEANDSALTFISH,AKINDofbutteryfruitcookedwithsaltedfishandspices.It’sheavierthanmynormalbreakfast,butreallygood.
Sydneyisworkingonabasicplateofscrambledeggs,roastedpotatoes,andryetoast.Maybeit’sbecauseherbraidsarepulledupintoabunatopherheadnowandIcanseeherfacebetter,butshelooksmoretiredthanwhenIleftherthismorning.
Herskinissallowbeneaththebrown,andthebagsunderhereyeswouldhavetobecheckedonmostairlines.There’saredmarkonthebrownskinofherforearmthatsheabsentmindedlyscratcheseveryfewmoments.Shealsokeepscheckingherphone,tryingtobesubtlebutwithadesperationthatmakesitclearshe’swaitingtohearfromsomeone.
Ikeepthinkingaboutthatwhitevan.IthadbeeninmyperipheralvisionwhileIwatchedformovementatMr.Perkins’s,dreadgrowingasthemarkersforhisusualschedulecameandwent.ThevanhadbeenparkedforsolongthatIhadn’tthoughtanyonewasinside,andwhenthedoorsuddenlyswungopen,itmademejump.Somethingaboutthewayhescannedupanddownthestreet—toocasually,likeadogthathappenstostretchlazilybeforetryingtosnagyourfood—hadcaughtmyattention.
Ifthere’sonethingIknowwell,it’showpeopleactwhenthey’reuptosomethingshady.
Andthenhe’dheadedstraightforSydney.
Iwanttoaskherifshe’stangledupinsomethingthatwouldbringaguylikethattoherdoor,butI’mprettysureshe’dsayit’snoneofmybusiness.Andshe’dberight.
TheotherthingIknow,apartfromcriminalshit,isthattryingtosavewomenfromthingsthattheydidn’taskmetoisarecipefordisaster.We’rejusttwoneighborshavingbreakfastandworkingonaproject,andtheprojectisn’t“SavingSydney.”
“Man,Ihaven’tbeentochurchinforever,”Isay,tryingtopullheroutofwhereverherheadwentinthehalfhourshewasinherapartment,whichisascloseasI’llallowmyselftobeingherwhiteknight.
Wedidn’tgotochurchmuchwhenIwasyoung;welivedinGreenvilleforayearandmymomdatedadeaconataBaptistchurchinsomeattemptatfindingreligion.LouusedtosayJesusforgivesall.HekickedusoutwhenIaskedtheSundayschoolteacherwhyJesuswouldforgiveLouforhittingmymominsteadofjustmakinghimstopitifhereallywassopowerful.
“Whataboutyou?Areyoureligious?”IaskwhenSydneyglancesatherphoneagain.
“Iusedtobe,”shesays.“It’salotofsuspensionofdisbelief,though,andtheideaofsomeonewatchingmyeverymovecreepsmeout,whetherit’sSantaorJesus.IguessI’magnosticnow.”
“Hedgingyourbets.”
“It’smostlybecausemymo—”Shestopsthatsentencelikeabirdrunningintoacleanglasswindow.“Becauseitseemslikethedevilisrealwitheverythinggoingoninmylife,sotherehastobeaGod,too.Divinephysics,orsomething.”
Ismileandwipemyfingersonmynapkin,thenpickupthecamerabesidemeontheleatherboothseat,takingashotthroughthewindowofthechurchacrossthestreetwiththefirstthreelettersofthecafé’sname,Godfrey’s,intheframe.IflipthescreentowardSydney,andshesmilesabit.
“Clever.”Shesipsthedregsofhercoffee.Mycuphasbeenemptyforawhile,butshe’soneofthosepeoplewhoseemstoalwaysforgethercoffeeistheresoit’scoldbythetimeshefinishesit.Herindexfingernailtapsonthewhiteceramicmug.“Areyoustillapplyingforjobs?”
Iputmycameradowncarefully.“Whydoyouask?”
Sheliftsoneshoulder.“Becauseyoustaygettinginmybusiness,Mr.TwentyQuestions,sonowI’mgonnagetinyours.”
“Divinephysics?”Iask.
“Titfortat,”shereplies.“Also,I’mnosy.Whatisyourdeal?”
“Mydealis—”Icatchthewaiter’seyeandhecomesovertorefillmycoffee,glancingbackandforthbetweenmeandSydneyasifwonderingwhataschmucklikemeisdoingwithher.Itakemytimeaddingtheheavycreamandsugartothestrongdripbrew.“MydealisthatI’mcurrentlyunemployable.”
ShestaresasIsipandIholdhergaze,figuringoutmynextmove.
Sheplacesbothelbowsonthetable,leansforward,andpropsherheadonherhands.“Unemployable?”
I’mbuffetedbetweentheworrythatI’vesaidtoomuchandthenihilisticurgetosaymore,likethecompulsiontodriveoffacliffwhenthere’snoguardrail.
Rightnow,absolutelynooneknowsme.Mymomneverdid.Kimdoesn’t.Mydadtriedtobutdraggedmeoutofadisorganizedfucked-uplifewithmymomtojammeintohisalso-fucked-up-but-more-organizedsituation.
IleantowardSydney,decidingtoatleastsitdownontheedgeoftheproverbialcliffandletmylegsdangle.
“I…amaliar.”
That’sallIgiveherfornow.
Herexpressionremainsthesameexceptforhereyes.Someofthebrightnessgoesoutofthem,andeventhoughshe’sstillleaningforward,shemayaswellhavejumpedbackwardacrosstherestaurant.
“Word?Howso?”
Iclearmythroat.“Kimcomesfrommoney.Idon’t.”
Shetiltsherhead.“Ohhh,sothisisawrong-side-of-the-tracksromance?Badboylustingaftertherichchick?I’veseenthatLifetimemovie.”
IknowfromveggingoutwithmymomthatLifetimemoviesdon’tusuallyhavehappyendings,andIwonderifSydneyknowsthat,too.
“Shepursuedme,”Icorrect.“Wemetatthislocaldivebar.IwastherebecauseitwasallIcouldafford.Shewastherebecauseshewasslumming.”
“Okay,”shesays.
“Ifellhard,butthenIkeptthinkingaboutherhavingallthismoneyandmehavingnone.AndIjustwantedtoimpressher.TofeellikeIwasworthy,youknow?ShewenttoanIvyLeagueschool.IhaveaGED.”
Ipickupmywaterglasstotakeasip.
“Theo…”Sydneysmileswarmlyatme.“ThisisnotBlackmammyconfessional.I’mnotgonna‘ohhoney’youandtellyouyou’regoodenoughandsmartenough.Gettothepoint.”
MybarkofsurprisedlaughtermakestheswallowofwatergodownthewrongtubeandIcough-laughuntilmyeyeswater.“Right.Yeah.Idoctoredmyrésumé.”
Herbrowsrise,andIplowahead.
“Suddenly,I’dgraduatedfromcollege—agoodschool,butnotsogoodthatI’dstandout.Idoctoredmyworkhistory,too,paidsomeguysIusedtoworkwithtobemyreferences—formuchbetterjobs—ifthecompanybotheredtocall.”
“Didthey?”sheasks,andIfeelanactualphysicalpleasure,liketakingahugeshitwhenI’vebeenconstipatedfordays,whenIshakemyhead.
“Theydidn’tcall.Didn’taskfortranscripts,”Isay.
“Andtheguywhohiredyouwas…”Sheraisesherbrowsagain.
Iraisemineback,notknowingwhatshemeans.
“White,”shestage-whispers.
“Oh!Yeah.Wemostlytalkedaboutmusicduringtheinterview.SomebandI’dneverheardof,butIjustpretendedIwasblankingonthetitlesoftheirsongsbecauseIwasnervousabouttheinterview.ThenwetalkedsportsteamsbecauseIsawthepennanthanginginhisofficeandItoldhimaboutmyguyswhocangetamazingYankeestickets.”
“Wow.”Sheshakesherheadandleansbackinthebooth.“I’vebeenworkinginashittyschoolofficeandyou—”
“Areunemployed.Becauseeventuallyoneoftheadministrativeassistantswasputtingtogethersomelistofalumniforthecompany,somethingcompletelyinnocuous,andrealizedtherewasnorecordofmeattheschool.”
Isipmorewaterwhileshestaresatme.
“Isthatwhyyourgirlfriendwasbeingsuchaheifertoeverybody?Becauseyouliedonyourrésuméandstoppedbringinghometheluxuryleggings?”sheasks.“Icanunderstandthat,thoughIdon’tknowwhyshetookitoutonme.”
Ishakemyhead.“Shedoesn’tknow.”
Hereyesgowide.“Shedoesn’tknow?Aboutthelying?Gettingfired?Both?”
“Thelying.Ihaven’ttoldanyone.Exceptyou.”
Sydneyleansbackandraisesbothherhands,theexpressiononherfacememe-worthy.“Nope.Nope.I’mnottryingtobeyourrepositoryofsecrets,whichisanicertermfor‘thepersonyoukillbecauseyoudon’twantyourgirlfriendtofindoutyou’reasociopath.’”
“I’mnotasociopath,”Iprotest,thoughmaybelaughingasIsayitdoesn’thelpmycase.“You’veneverliedtogetwhatyouneed?”
Shestaresatmeforalongtimeandthenshakesherhead,picksupherpurse,andstandsup,glancingquicklyatherphoneassheslidesitintothebag.
“Let’sgo.Thisisalot.IjustwantedsomescrambledeggsandgotDashboardConfessionalinstead.”
“Andshe’snotmygirlfriendanymore,”Iadd,standingtofollowher.“Shetoldmeitwasoverandthenwenttoherfamily’splaceintheHamptonswiththedudeshecheatedonmewith.Ithink.You’retheonlypersonI’vetoldthatto,too.Sorrytoaddtotherepository.”
Ikindofchuckleeventhoughmythroatfeelsweirdandrough.Idon’twanttobewithKimanymoreandI’mrelievedmorethananything,butsayingitoutloudmakesitmorerealthandrinkingmyselfintoastupordid.
Sydneysquintsatme.“Shedumpedyouandshedidn’tevenknowaboutthelying?Whatelsedidyoudo?”
“Notliewellenough,Iguess?”Ishrug.“Should’veaimedabithigherandnotgottencaught.”
“Youareamess,”shesays,shakingherhead.“Unemployed,cheatedon,dumped.”
Soontobehomeless,Imentallyaddtothelistbutdon’tsayaloud.Idon’twanthertothinkit’sarequestforhelp.
Shesighsandsays,“ImeantwhatIsaid—I’mnotgonna‘ohhoney’you.Butyougetafreebreakfastatleastforthatsobstory.AndforscaringawaythefakeConEdman.”
Shesmiles,justonehalfofhersomehowstill-glossymouthliftingup,butshe’slookingatmeanditdoesn’tfeellikeshe’sacrosstheroomanymore.It’sbeenalongtimesinceI’vefeltthis.Notattractionordesire,ornotjustthosethings,butunderstanding.Camaraderie.
I’mgoingtohavetobemorecareful.Becausethere’sthetruthandthere’sthetruth,andSydney’ssmileisenoughtomakemethinkabouttellingherthelatter.
“Allright,boss,”Isay.“Takemetochurch.”
THECHURCHHISTORIAN,KendraHill,isexpectingus—apparentlySydneytextedherandaskedherifshecouldmaketimeforus.She’snotthatmucholderthanus,maybemidforties,thoughthere’satouchofgrayinthedarkbrownhairathertemplesthatmakesmeuncertain.Shebringsusintoasmallofficeandtakesaseatbehindapalegreenwoodendesk,gesturingatthetwochairsinfrontofit.
“Thisbuildingdoesn’tlooklikeachurch,really,”Isay.“I’vethoughtitwasaschoolallthistime.”
“Well,achurchcanbeabasement,astorefront,alivingroom.It’saboutthefaithcontainedinaplace,notthereceptacle.Butyes,itwasaschool.InthetimeofWeeksvilleitwasoneoftheAfricanschools,whereBlackchildrencouldgetaneducation.Later,itwasthefirstintegratedschoolinNewYork.Andeventuallyitbecamehometoourcongregation.”
Shenods,andthensendsasympatheticlookSydney’sway.
“How’syourmother,Sydney?Isshehanginginthere?”
IglanceatSydney,whopressesherlipstogetherlikeshe’sswallowingbilebutnods.
“That’sgood.Yolandawasalwayssotough.We’reprayingforher.”ShegivesSydneyacomfortinglook.“Shementionedyourtourtome,youknow,lasttimeIcametovisither.Wassoproudofyougettingintohistory.Now,tellmemoreaboutit.”
“I’mnotahistorianoranything,”Sydneysays,hervoicemoresubduedthanI’veeverheardit.“I’mjusttryingtoputtogetheralittlesomethingabouttheneighborhoodfromtheperspectiveofsomeonewhogrewuphereandalsoislearningthingsthatwedon’tgettaughtatschool.I’dlovetohearanyinterestingfactsyoumighthaveabouttheneighborhood’spastsinceeverythingischangingsoquickly.”
Kendragivesmeapointedlook,andSydneylaysahandonmyshoulder.“Theoismyassistant.He’sworkingoffhisreparationsdebt.”
“Howinteresting.Wereyourfamilyslaveowners?”Kendraasks,andmybigwhitefeelingsthreatentomakeanappearance,thoughthequestionmakessensegivenSydney’sintro.
Ishiftinmyseat.“Idon’tknow.Mom’ssideofthefamilydoesn’ttalkaboutthatkindofthing,butit’spossible,Iguess.AweekofbeingSydney’sresearchbuddyisn’tahighpricetopay,justincase.”
“Seriously.Youshouldbepayingmeforthiseducation,”SydneysaysinthattonewhereIcan’ttellifshe’sjokingorsheactuallydislikesme,butshegivesmyshoulderasqueezebeforereleasingit,andmyabsclenchagainstthesensationitcreates.
“Let’ssee.Youalreadysawtheexhibitionsdownatthecenter.”Kendragrinsassheleansbackinherofficechair.“Ithink,giventhenatureofyourtour,youmightwanttolookintotheebbandflowoftheneighborhooddemographics.Iwon’tsayit’scyclical,butmorelikeatide.Bringingonedemographicuptotheshore,thenpullingbackandleavinganotherintheirplace,andsometimesmixingthemallup.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”Iask.
“TherearetheBlackresidents,ofcourse.Intheearlytwentiethcentury,theneighborhoodhadlotsofworking-classItalians.ThenwegotthefirstwavesofCaribbeanimmigrants.Latinos.Africans.Everyonelivedtogetherpeacefullyenoughinthosetimesofoverlap.Mygrandmotherusedtotellmeaboutherbestfriendgrowingup,aJewishgirl.”
“Wheredideveryoneelsego?”
Sydneyelbowsme,andthenKendragrimacesandreachesintoherdeskdrawer,rifflingthroughpaperstopulloutafolder.SheplopsitontothedeskandslidesoutamapofBrooklyn.It’scolorful,themajorityofitredandyellowwithsomebluealongthewaterfront.
“ThisisthemapthatcreatedtheBrooklynweknownow.Seeallthatred?Thosearetheplacesthatbanksdecidedwerebadinvestments.Ifyoulivedinthoseareas,itwasimpossibletogetaloanorservicesthatmostpeopletookforgranted.Andifyoucan’tgetaloanandyourhousestartsfallingdown,whatareyousupposedtodo?”
Shesnorts.
“Thisisredlining?”Iask.
“Yes,”shesays.“So.Bankersdecideamongstthemselvestonotgiveanymoneytohelpenrichalllllllofthisredarea,whichjustsohappenstobewhereBlackpeoplelive.Thingsstarttogobad.Everyonewhocanmovedoes,butoop!—what’sthis?Alltheotherareasstartenactinghousingcovenantssaying‘Hellnoyoucan’tsellthishousetonoblackpeople.’Becauseourmerepresencecouldturnanyothercoloronthismapred.”
Shecurlsherlip.
“Isthatwhythingswentdownhill?”Iask,sinceSydneyisbeingoddlysubdued.“Ididalittleresearch,mostlylookingatphotos.Lotsofplacesfellintodisrepairintheeighties.”
“Crack,”Kendrasays,steeplingherfingers.“Theycouldn’tgetusmoney,buttheysurecouldgetusthosevials.”
Idon’thavetoguesswhotheyareinthissituation.
“Buttherehavealwaysbeennicehouses,too,”Sydneycounters.“Always.”
“Right.Becausewehadintracommunitysupporttomakeupforwhatweweredenied,andthat’ssomethingyoumightwanttocover,too.Blackrealestateagenciesoperated,makingsurepeoplecouldfindplacestolive.Before,youweren’tgonnafindanadforahouseinthisneighborhoodanywherebutinBlacknewspapersliketheAmsterdamNews.Blacklendingassociationsreplacedbankloans.”
“Butdidn’tbankslosemoneythatway?”Iask.IknowI’mprobablyannoyingwithmyquestions,butSydneyhasn’tHowdyDoodiedmeyet.
InallthetimesI’dmovedinNewYork,I’donlythoughtabouthowsafetheareawasforme,notwhatmypresencemeantforpeopleintheneighborhood.NotaboutwhatadvantagesIhadthattheydidn’t.Iwaspoor,too,afterall,eventhoughIhadfiguredouthownottobe,foralittlewhileatleast.
“Racismisn’tgenerallyverycost-efficient,”Kendrasays.“Butthey’remakingtheirmoneybackhandoverfistnowthatgentrificationisinfullswing.Outwiththeold—includingus.”
IsenseSydneystiffenbesidemeeventhoughI’mnottouchingher.
“Isthechurchgettingevicted?”sheasksinthatsmallvoicethatseemssounlikeher.
“Evictionissouncivilized.”Kendra’slipspresstogether.“Thelandlordjustkeptincreasingtherentaccordingtothenewpropertyvalue,whilenotdoingstandardrepairsandupkeep.Hadusfreezingourassesoffinherelastwinter.”Sheshakesherhead.“Wewouldn’tleave,sohesoldtheplace.It’sgoingtobeaschoolagain,fromwhatI’veheard.”
“Butthere’salreadyaschoolinthisneighborhood,”Sydneysays.“Imean,Iworkattheschool.”
“Youworkatthepublicschool.Thisisgoingtobeanindependentschoolpricedjusthighenoughtodotheworkofsegregationforthepeoplewhowillsendtheirkidsthere.InthebuildingthatwasoneofthefirstschoolsforBlackchildreninAmerica.”Kendrashakesherhead.“Idoubtitwaspurposeful,butain’tthatsomething?”
Ijustsitthere,embarrassedandsurethatanythingIsaywillresultinmemakingthingsworse.
Sydneysighs,thenstands.“I’msosorrythat’shappening.Thanksfortakingthetimetospeakwithus.”
“Yes!Thankyou.”Inodafewtimesandshovemyhandsintomypockets.
KendrahandsSydneythefilefolder.“We’llfindaway.Wealwaysdo.I’mexcitedtocomeseethistourofyours,though!Ifyouneedhelpwithanythingelse,justcallme,okay?”
Whenwegetoutside,SydneystopsatthetopofthestairswhileIkeepwalking.
“Youcangoahead,”shesaysnumbly.She’slookingoutattheneighborhood,butnotreally.Hergazeisunfocused,andthedarkcirclessmudgedbeneathhereyesseemevendeeper.
“Didyouforgetsomething?Icanwait.”Ishouldn’tbeworriedabouther.EspeciallywhenIneedtofigureoutwhereI’mgoingtobelivinginsteadofplayinghistorian.
Sheshakesherhead.“You’reofftheclock.Seeyoulater.”
“Ican—”
Hergazeliftstomeetmine,andwhentheyconnect,IseethewomanIcaughtglimpsesofthroughthewindowoverthelastfewmonths,thewomanwhoradiatedadespairthatmademyownproblemslooklikenothing,butwouldslaponasmilewhenshesteppedoutsideherfrontdoor.
“Theo,doyouknowhowmanypeoplehavetoldmethey’rebeingforcedoutoftheirhome,job,church,whatever,injustthelastfewdaysalone?Wait,don’tguess.Don’t.”Sydney’schestrisesslowly,thenfalls.“Theshittypartofallthisresearchisthatit’slike…findingalltheseinstancesofpeopleburyinglandminesinthepast,findingthemrightasthey’reblowingupunderourfeetinthehereandnow.Thisisn’taboutyou.Ijustneedtobealone.”
“Iunderstand.Thanksforbreakfast,”Isay.Iwanttoaddsomethingelse,somethingthatwillmakeherfeelbetter,butIcan’tevenhelpmyselfinthatdepartment.
Iwalkoff,KendraHill’swordsechoinginmymind.Sydney’smomhasbothahouseandthegardenplot,soshe’snotinabadposition,butthesituationoverallissobering.Evenifshestays,thepeoplesheknowsareleavingonebyone.
Ineverlivedinoneplacefortoolongasakid.I’veneverhadlifelongneighborsandfriends.Sydney’slosingallofthat,andinreturnshegetspeoplelikeKim,andJosie,andTerry,whoeitherignorethepeoplewho’velivedhereforeverorthinkthey’replottingagainstthem.
Ithinkbacktotheprocessofbuyingourhouse,whichhadseemedsoarduousandoverwhelmingatthetime.Inretrospect,everythinghadworkedouteasily.Therealtorshadbeeneagerforustomovein,andthebankhadpreapprovedaloanthatwedidn’tevenneed.
Noonehadsecond-guessedwhetherwebelongedorwereagoodinvestment.Therealtorshadtalkedabouthowwewerepartofawaveofnewpeoplecomingintoenrichtheneighborhood,makeitbetterandmorevaluable,withoutknowingadamnthingaboutus.
No,that’snottrue.Therealtorshadknownonething,thatIwasstartingtoseewasmoreimportantthanI’drealized.
Us.
Them.
GiffordPlaceOurHoodpostbyJennLithwick:
Heyeveryone,Iknowthingshavebeenprettysomber,butarewestillhavingtheblockpartythisweekend?I’vebeencallingMr.Perkins,butheseemstostillbeoutoftown.
CandaceTompkins:Theblockpartyisstillon.Nothingshortofthesecondcomingcouldstopit.
JosieUlnar:Fantastic!I’llbemakingthepotatosalad.I’musingthisrecipeI’vebeenlookingforwardtotrying.Link:Carly’sRaisin-tasticPotatoSalad
FitzroySweeney:Frightening!
DerekJames:
Chapter12
Sydney
THETIGHTNESSINMYCHESTDOESN’TLOOSENAFTERTHEOleaves.Itdoesn’tasIwalktowardthetrainstation,eventhoughit’shotenoughtofeellikeI’minasauna.Isn’tthatshitsupposedtorelaxyou?InsteadIjustfeellikeIcan’tbreathe.
Ispendthreehoursofmyafternooninthewaitingroomofanonprofitthathelpswithsituationslikemine,oneIlookedupafterMs.Gianetti’ssecretaryhadtoldmeshecouldn’thelp.Thewaitingroomispackedwithpeople,mostlyBlackandbrown,mostsportingeitheranumbed-out,hopelessexpressionoroneofannoyance.Ispendanothertwohourswaitingatthenextnonprofitafterthefirstonetellsmetheycan’thelp,either.WhenIfinallysitwiththepooroverworkedandharassedadvocate,sheapologeticallytellsmeIneedtocomebackonTuesdayandtobringmymotherwithmeifpossible,orsomethingthatshowsIhavepowerofattorney.
BythetimeIgetbacktoGiffordPlace,I’mexhaustedtothemarrowandcravingnicotine,alcohol,afewsnugglesfromthebodegacat—anythingtomaketheshitcirclingroundandroundinmyheadjuststop.Theblockfeelsoff—therearenokidsplayinginthestreet.Len,Amber,andLaTashasitonastoop,buttheylookhunchedinandsadinsteadoflikekidsenjoyingthelastdaysofsummer.Apolicecarslowsasitpassesonthestreet,andmaybeI’vewatchedtoomuchAnimalPlanetbutitremindsmeofapredatorscanningaherd,lookingforaweakyoungstertopickoff.
Thebodegahasitsgatedownduringtheeveningforthefirsttimeever,maybe,whenIstopinfrontofit.It’sstayedopenthroughnor’eastersandhurricanes,throughblackoutsandwatermainbreaks,andofcoursenowit’sclosed.AsIstareinannoyeddisbelief,Ihearaclankingnoisecomingfromthemetalcellardoorembeddedinthesidewalkoutsidethestore.There’sbeeneverythingfromanumberholetoasocialclubdownthereovertheyears,butthisisn’tthesoundofpeoplegamblingorshootingtheshit.There’sscrapingalongwiththeclankingandthenabruptsilence.
Istomponthemetaldoortwice.“Abdul?”
Thenoisestops,butIgetnoresponse.
Iknowit’sprobablynothing,butthatunsettledfeelingdescendsonmeagain.Icurlmyfistsatmysideandmarchtowardthenextbodega,twoblocksover.IusuallyavoiditbecausetheguywhoworksthereisalwaystryingtohollawhenIjustwanttobuysomesnacksandgo.IendupgettingawholepackofParliamentLightsbecauseheplaysdumbwhenIaskhimforaloosieandIwon’tbeghimforit.
Thefullboxisexpensiveasshit.IhopeAbdulfinisheshisrenovationsquickly
Ismokeacigaretteonthewalkbacktocuttheneed,deep,greedypullsthatleavemelight-headed.MyhandsareshakingbythetimeIgettomystoop,andIwonderifIshouldmaybegotoadoctortogetthislack-of-sleepthinglookedintobecauseI’mreallystartingtofeeltheeffects.MymoodhasplummetedandallIwanttodoissitandcry.
IjusthadmyperiodsoIknowitcan’tbePMS.
WhenIopenthemailboxandseeanotherbundleofmedicalbills,theworstkindofdéjàvu,Iletoutalittledesperatelaugh.Yeah,I’mnotgoingtothedoctoranytimesoon,unlessit’sagainstmywill.
Again.
IpulloutmyphoneasIwalkthroughthehallwaytowardmyapartmentdoor,pausingtoswipeawaythemissedcallsfrombillcollectorstoseeifDreahastexted.
Nothing.
Shesometimesdoesthis,disappearsintoanewbae,eating,drinking,andbreathingnothingbutthem.Withaholidayweekendandasurplusofpersonaldays,shecouldbegoneforwhoknowshowlong,thoughI’msurprisedthatshewouldboouprightbeforetheWestIndianDayparade.Thisisgenerallyherfreeagentperiodsoshecanwhineonwhoever
Andathermostinfatuated,shestillrespondstome,evenifjustwithtongue+waterdropsemojis,orathumbs-up.
Andsheneverletsafightdragon.IfIpissheroff,shetellsme.IfIstartshit,shefinishesit,andwegetbacktonormal.
ButtheDreaistyping…messagestillmocksmefromthetopofourchat.Ibetshestartedtowritesomethingwhileannoyedandthoughtbetterofit,butimaginingwhatitcouldbe,andhowangryshemustbeatmenottoevenlookatthechatandnotice,shootsmystressthroughtheroof.
“You’retooclingy.”
“Ican’tstandbeingaroundyouanymore.”
“God,you’repathetic.”
No.ThosearethingsMarcuswouldsay.NotDrea.Drealovesme.Forreallovesme.
Ishouldn’tpushanymore,butIfeelfrazzledbyjustabouteverything,andguiltyforputtingsomuchontoher,andworriedbecauseamillionthingscouldhavehappenedonherdatewithastranger.
Icallhercell,andwhenitgoestovoicemail,Itrytosoundnormalandnotlikeastalkerfriend.“Hey,bighead.Letmeknowyou’reokay,okay?”
AfterIdisconnectthecall,Idialherworknumber,anditalsogoestovoicemail,butIhangupbeforethebeep.
IcallMr.Perkinsagainandleaveanothervoicemailforhim,too.Hewasalwayssobadaboutleavinghisphoneonsilent.Onereasonwhy“CityHall”becameCityHallwasthatpeopleknewyouhadtojustgooverandseehim,sinceheneveransweredhisphone.Idon’tlikenothearingfromhim,butI’msureMs.Candacehasspokentohim.
WhenIunlockthedoortomyapartmentandpushitopen,I’mmetwithresistance.
Ipushagainanditopensalittleandthencloses.
Somethingispushingback.
Fearslidesdownmyspineandswirlsaroundinmybelly,butwhenIpushonemoretime,Irealizethattheresistanceiscomingfromthematontheothersideofthedoor—sometimesthecornerrollsback.Iletoutashakybreath,tiredofbeingscaredofeverydamnthing.Iwigglethedoorbackandforth,whichpushesthematawayandrevealsthemustardyellowofamanilaenvelope.
Dreahadtoldmethatshe’dslippedtheVerenTechinfoundermydoor,andIhadtotallyforgotten.She’dgoneoutofherwayforme,likeshealwaysdid,andIcouldn’tevenbebotheredtorememberuntildayslater.
I’malmostrelievedtorealizeIfuckedup—maybethisiswhyshe’savoidingme.Thisisfixable.
Afterclosingthedoor,Itossthefolderontothekitchentablewithmyotherresearch,shuckoffmygrimyclothes,andheaddirectlyintotheshower.Latheringupmywashclothandscrubbinguntilmyskintinglesischeaptherapy,andbythetimeIsliponshortsandatanktop,I’mstillexhaustedbutfeelslightlylesslikeI’minatarpitofdepression.
NightisfallingoutsideandIopenthebackdoortoletinabreeze;theneighborhoodistooquietforasummernight,andIjumpwhenalonecicadasuddenlyburstsintosongsomewherenearby.
Mommy’sConeyIslandashtray,fromwaybackbeforeshequitsmoking,restsnexttotheplacemat.Ibroughtitinsideafewweeksago,breakingthe“nosmokinginside”rule,becauseeverytimeItriedtorelaxoutback,TobywouldgoofflikeIwascomingforhisPurina.IsometimesimaginedhimclutchinghisdogbowlthesamewayhisownerclutchedherpursewhenIwasbehindheronthewalkhomefromworkonedayjustaftertheymovedhere.
Whatever.Tobyandhisownercankissmyass.Ihavemoreimportantthingstofocuson.
Theenvelopeisthin,especiallycomparedtothestacksofpapersalreadyonthetable.WhenIopenitandpullthepapersoutIrealizethisisn’twhatIwould’vegottenifI’dgonedowntowntomaketherequest.EachoneofthetenpageshasFORINTERNALUSEONLYstampedinredinthetoprightcorner.Igrabthelighterfromthetabletopandacigarette,lightit,andscanthefirstpage.
TheCompany(VerenTech)acknowledgesthatthisMemorandumisapublicrecordsubjecttodisclosurebutdoherebyrequirethatwebenotifiedofanyandallFOIArequests,bothduringthecityselectionprocessandintheeventthatthiscityischosen,toallowtheCompanytoseekaprotectiveorderorotherappropriateremedy.
Legaleseisnotmyjam,butI’mprettysurethatthisisVerenTechaskingtheCityofNewYorktosnitchifanyoneasksaboutwhatthey’redoing.Ihavenoideaifthisisnormalornot,butaskingforalistofpeoplewhorequestedinformationthatshouldbepublicinordertoseek“aprotectiveorderorotherappropriateremedy”againstthemisominousashell.
Ihadrequestedinformation.I’dbeendeniedbut…
Itakeanotherdragfromthecigarette.
Thesecondpage,afterthe“snitchesgetstitches”clause,isfullofterminologyIfullyhavenofuckingideawhattomakeof.
Thethirdpageseemstobefromsomekindofcensusreportontheneighborhoodsurroundingtheoldmedicalcenter.Myneighborhood.Numberofinhabitants,racialbreakdownoftheinhabitants,medianincome,howmanypeoplemakeuseofSSI,WIC,Medicaid.Thesenumbersarebumpedupbythehousingprojects,butit’ssomewhatalarmingtoseethetotalshighlightedinredbelowacertainincomelevel.
There’sablockoftextinamemoareaunderthenumbers.
Areaiscentrallylocated.It’sattheconvergenceofseveralsubwaylines,makingitidealforcommutingintoManhattan.ThereisalsocommutertrainservicetoLongIslandandPennStation.Tree-linedstreetsaboundandtherearemanyparks,smallandlarge,thoughmostarecurrentlyusedashangoutsfordelinquentsordrugdealers.ItisalsowithinreasonablewalkingdistancefromProspectPark,meaningthegoalofclosinggapbetweentheParkSlopeoperationsandtheNorthwestsectorcanbereachedwithinthenextfewyears.JFKisnotfar,forthosewhotraveloften,andaccesstoandfromLongIslandanditsbeachesisconvenientforthosewithpropertythere.Theseresourcesarecurrentlyunderutilized.Whilemanyofthebrownstonesandapartmentbuildingshavenotbeenkeptup,asurprisingnumberwillrequireminimalworktomeetourstandards.Weanticipateafullrej-
Iturnthepaperoverbutthere’snothingonthebackandthenextpageisfromadifferentreport.Aquickflipthroughshowsthatallofthepageswereprintedslightlytoobig,cuttingoffportionsofthetext.
Ididn’tknowthatVerenTechhadaParkSlopecampus.Thatdoesn’tmakesense,givenhoweveryonemadesuchabigdealoftheprojectabouttogetstartedinmyneighborhood.
Thefourthpageisclearlyfromanotherreport,givenitsnumbering,andlists“incentives”fromthecitythatVerenTechiscurrentlyconsidering,andIinhalewrongandstarttochoke.Thetaxsubsidiesaloneamounttooverabilliondollars.Abillionmotherfuckingdollars.
Thisisalotofmoneyatplay,beforeanythingelseisevenonthetable.It’smorethanalittlerage-inducingwhenthinkingabouttheredlinemapKendrahadgivenus,andhowlittleinvestmenttheneighborhoodhasbeendeemedworthyof.
Thenextpageisjustcolumnsofnumbersthatmeannothingtome,butthelastthreepagesareeasilyunderstandable.
VERENTECHHEADQUARTERSCAMPUS,5-YEARPROJECTIONreadsthefirstpage,andit’samock-upofanimmenseshiningtowerrightinthemiddleoftheneighborhood,likethemothershipforthosealiencraneshoveringeverywhere.Atitsbaseistherenovatedmedicalcenterthatwillserveastheresearchanddevelopmentbuilding.Thebuildingsarounditarethefamiliaronesthathavealwayslinedthesestreets.
Ifliptotheten-yearprojection;inthisillustration,thecampushasspread.Afewmoretallbuildings—thistimecondominiums,withstorefrontsalongthebottom.Forthistoworkout,afewotherbuildingswillhavetobetorndown.There’sacondominiumwheretheYMCAshouldbe,too.
MymomtoldmesomethingabouttheYMCAmaybemovingtoabiggerspace,whichwouldmakesenseifanofficebuildingaccommodatingthousandsandthousandsofnewworkerswasmovingintotheimmediatearea,butit’sstillunsettlingtoseesuchamajorchangeneatlylaidout.
Thefifteen-yearprojectionshowsaneighborhoodthat’scompletelyunrecognizabletomeatfirstglance,eventhoughit’smystreet.Condominiums,largefauxbrownstonesandsmallerglass-frontedcubes,havereplacedseveralofthefamiliarhouses.
IstareattheimageforalongtimebeforeInoticethattherearepeoplealongthebottomedgeofthepaper,slightlycutoffbythebadprintjob.AllofthelittleillustratedheadsIsee?
Belongtowhitepeople.
Somethingslamsupstairs,rightabovemyhead.AdoorinDrea’sapartment?Ididn’thearhercomeinthefront,butmaybeshecreptupbecauseshe’sstillmadatme.
Sulkingandevasionaren’tDrea’susualstyle.IpickupmyphoneandcheckourtextchateventhoughIknowdamnwellshehasn’tresponded:Dreaistyping
Enoughisenough.
Ishovemyfeetintomyhouseslippersandheadoutintothehallway.Ipassthecoatclosetunderthestairs,pushingthedoorthat’salwaysslightlyajarshut,andwalktothebottomofthesteps.
“Drea?”Icallupthestairs,andthefrightened-soundingreverberationofmyownvoicejump-startsmypulse.There’snoreasontobescared.ThisisthehouseIgrewupin.Anyspiritsthatlingerherehaveeitherhadalifetimetomaketheirmoveorwishmenoharm.
Whatifit’snotaspirit?
Thequestionslithersicilydownthenapeofmyneck.
Iheadupthestairs,justtoproveIcan.MommywouldhavebeenashamedathowI’mactingthisweek,shookbyeverylittlething.OnetimewhenIwasabouteight,Iwokeheruptotellheramonsterwaslivingundermybed.Shetoldmetogetthe.22andshootit,thentakemybehindtosleep.
Ilaughalittleatthatmemory,fortifymyselfwithit.
WhenIgetuptothesecondlanding,there’ssilencebehindDrea’sdoor.Usuallywhenshe’shome,there’smusicorhumming,orjustthethrumofherenergy—thesamethingthatfirstdrewmeintothelightofherfriendship.
“Dre?”Iknock.Silence.
Iturntheknob.
Itopens.
Theapartmentisstickywithhumidityandsmellsofsage,coconut,andsheabutter.EverythinginthelivingroomfitsDrea’spersonalcolorpalette—yellow,teal,andorange,bathingyouinbrightnessassoonasyoustepthroughthedoor.
Thelate-afternoonlightfromthesunsettingbehindthebuildingsacrossthestreetspearsintotheapartment,pinningdownDrea’sbelongingsaroundtheapartment:thealtarwithahalf-burntsagebundleandvariouscrystals;theheart-shapedcouchpillowIcross-stitchedhernameintoduringourhomeeconomicsclass;hercollegediploma,framedwithaphotoofme,her,andMommyathergraduation.
AdoorslamsdownthehallwayagainandIjump,thenbreatheasighofrelief.Oneofthebestpartsofherapartmentlayoutisshegetsthebombcross-breeze,butifshedoesn’tputadoorstopunderherbedroomdoor,it’llslamandopen,slamandopen.
Iheadbacktoherbedroom,pushingthedooropenandslidingthewoodentriangleunderitwithmyfoot.Thecolorschemeinhereisdifferent—allwhiteandpurple.Iheadovertoherwindow;herpolka-dotcurtainsflapinmyfacefromthebreezebutthengostillafterIshutthewindow.
Shemusthavebeenhomeatsomepointtodayifherwindowisopen…
Mybodytenses.Thisiswhereherairconditionershouldbe.Herbrand-newairconditioner.There’snoreasonfortheretobeacross-breezebecausethiswindowshouldn’tbeopen.
MyheadstartstospinalittleandIrealizeI’mnotbreathing.Mybrainistoobusytryingtopieceeverythingtogether,andhasforgottenbasicfunctions.
Ihavetogetoutofhere.Theairconditionerisgone,Dreadidn’ttellmeshewasmovingit,andanyonecould’vecomeinfromthefireescape.Theycouldbeinhererightnow.
Istarttodashoutoftheroom,butadarkstainonDrea’swhiteduvetcatchesmyeyeandIskidtoahalt.
Driedbloodisdarklikethat.
Iwalkslowlytowardthebed,heartinmythroatandthefearthreateningtoblotoutanysenseIhaveleft.Thenthestainmoves.
Tinyflecksofitcrawlaroundtheedges,andthistimeit’snotmymindplayingtricksonme.
It’snotblood.It’saclumpofbedbugs.
Arippleofrepulsionpassesovermyskin,leavingitchinessinitswake.
Irunforagiantplasticbagfromunderthekitchensink,forcemyselftoballtheduvetuparoundthemassofbugs,andshoveitintothebag,thenrunitoutsideafterdouble-baggingitfourtimesover.
Idon’tthinkasI’mdoingit,orfeel.I’monautopilot,justlikelasttime
Idon’tknowhowmuchtimepassesafterthat.Isearcheverycreviceofherbed,herfloorboards,hercloset,butfindnootherevidenceofthebugs.
Istarttoshoveherclothesintobagstobeheat-treated,butit’stoomuch.
I’moverwhelmedandshemightnotappreciatemeallupinherstuff,especiallysinceshealreadythinksI’munhealthilyobsessedwiththebedbugs.Ididn’ttakeapicture.Bythetimeshecomeshome,I’mgoingtolooklikeamaniacwhothrewawayherfavoriteduvetoutofspite.
She’salreadysuggestingtherapyandIneedtocalmdown.Idon’tthinkshewouldhurtmepurposely,likeMarcusdid,butthebiteofrestraintsagainstmywristsisn’tsomethingIwanttofeelagain.
IplaceherclothesbackintotheircubbyholesandtrytogettheclosetbacktotheneatstateitwasinbeforeItorethroughitlookingforbedbugs.WhenIhaveitbackinorder,Ipickupafewslipsofpaperthatdriftedoutfromthebottom-leftcubby.
AreceiptfromtheoldFoodtownthat’scurrentlybeingrenovatedsoitcanbereopenedasaWholeFoods–typesupermarket.Aphonenumberandsmileyfacescrawledonarippedscrapofpaperwithablueballpointpen.AnATMdepositslipforfiftythousanddollars.
Fiftythousanddollars.
Dreatellsmeaboutallhersidehustles,andespeciallyiftheypayevenremotelywell.
Fiftythousanddollars.Whatwouldpaythatwellandinalumpsum?
ButthiswasfromaroundthetimeIwasinthedeepestshitwithMarcus.MaybeI’dforgotten,orshehadn’twantedtorubitinwhileIwassuffering.Yeah,thatmakessense.
There’sascanofthecheckitselfonthereceipt,whichisdatedfrombeforeI’dreturnedhome.Thenameofthecompanyitwasissuedbyishardtoreadatfirst,ormaybeIjustdon’twanttoseeit,butit’salltoofamiliartome.
Istareatitforalongmoment,tryingtoreconcileitwithwhatIknowofthecompany.Dreawouldnever…
Shewouldnever.
She’llexplainwhenshegetsback.Ofcoursethere’sanexplanation.
Imarchmindlesslybacktotheapartmentdownstairsandbarricademyselfinmybedroomwithabottleofwineandmycellphone.IwrapmyhandsinsockstokeepfromhurtingmyselfasIscratchatimaginedbugscrawlingovermyskin,andIjumpatimaginaryflecksofblackjustoutofmylineofsight.Ican’tdistractmyselfwithTVbecauseIneedtohearifthereareanymorenoisesinthebuilding,butItakeasipeverytimethepossibilityofwhatthatcheckmeanspopsintomymind.
Bythetimethesunrises,thebottleisempty,Ihaven’tsleptawink,andDreastillhasn’tcomehome.
GiffordPlaceOurHoodpostbyKaneishaBell:
Ijustwanttoputouttherethatastrangewhitemanshowedupatmydoorandaskedtocomeinanddoa“valuation”ofmyhouse.ThiswasthefirstI’dheardofanyofthis,soIdidn’tlethimin.Icalledthepolice,andtheysaidthey’dsendsomeoneouttogetastatement,butnooneevercame.Everyonekeepaneyeout.
CandaceTompkins:@FitzroySweeney@GracieTodd
AsiaMartin:Thatisscaryasfuck.Doyouthinkhewastryingtodoahomeinvasion?
JosieUlnar:No,no,wehadourhomevaluatedlastweekandit’sfine.Theyjustcomeinandtakealookaround.It’ssotheycanfigureoutthepropertytax.Youhavetoletthemin.
AsiaMartin:Wedon’t*have*todoshit,actually.
Chapter13
Theo
“NORTHAMERICA.BRAZIL.THEDUTCHWESTINDIACOMPANYwasfoundedexplicitlytowageeconomicwarfare.It’sintheircharter.IthoughttheDutchwereaneutralpeople,butmaybeIwasthinkingoftheSwiss.”
Sydneygruntsaresponse.Herbehaviorisworryingme.I’vebeentalkingfortenminutesstraightandshehasn’tsmiled,hasn’tmadefunofme,hasn’trespondedtotheDutchWestIndiaCompanyfactsI’mspoutingtoimpressher.
Shestaresintospaceasshewatersthesunflowersalongtheedgeofthecommunitygarden,thedarkcirclesunderhereyessostartlingthatmystomachtwistedatfirstglance,mistakingthemforblackeyes.I’mstartingtowonderifshe’ssleptatallthisweek—it’shardnottonoticethatshe’smorefidgetyandfatiguedeverytimeIseeher.
I’malsowonderingwhyherproblems,whichshehasn’taskedforhelpwith,aremakingmesoantsy.
Ikeeptalking.
“ButthecraziestthingIfoundwasthatalotoftheseguysmadetheirmoneyfromslaves—uh,enslavedpeople.”
“Duh.Ithoughtyouweresupposedtobegoodatresearch,”shesays.Icantellshe’stryingforajab,butitlandsmorelikeaweakpoke.
Ipresson,tryingtorevivetheSydneywho’ssopassionateabouthistory.
“Well,that’snotthecrazything.Afterslaveryended,alltheseguysneedednewjobs,sotheyjustmovedintothebankingsector,evenfoundingsomeofthem.LikeyouknowVeritasBank?StartedbyaBrooklyn-Dutchformerslavemaster.Youtoldmebeforethatthebankswerealltiedupinslavery,whenyoutalkedaboutthatcrash,butit’slikealltheseguysnevergaveupmuchpower,theyjust…”Istruggletofindtherightwaytosaythis,therightwordstoconveyhowroyallyfuckedthisis.“Theyjustputonadifferentsuit.Thingsdidn’tchangethatmuch.Theywerestillcontrollingallthemoney,andinawaytheywerestillcontrollingthepeopletheydidn’townanymore,becausetheycontrolledwhogotmoney,wheremoneywasinvested.AndoneoftheVeritasdirectorsevenlivedinthisneighborhood!HislastnamewasVriesendaal,liketheoldsanitarium.”
“Wow,”shesays,butthere’snoexcitementinhervoice.Noneofthepassionfromwhensheshowedmeherideas,orevenwhensheinterruptedduringthebrownstonetour.“Goodwork.Icanusethat.”
Ikeeptalking.Youcanusuallytalkpeopleoutofbadmoods,justlikeyoucantalkthemintootherthings.Keepthewordsflowingatasteadypace.Lullthemintoakindofdistractedcomfort,orpushthemintoannoyance.Eitherway,theirreactionisunderyourcontrol.
“AndwhatkindofnameisUsselincx,thenameoftheguywhofoundedthecompany?Itsoundslikethesuper-obviousvillaininamovie.‘Mwahaha,mynameisUsselincxandIcameheretosteallandandgettrouncedbytheBritish,andI’malloutof—’”
“Theo.”Shecutsaglanceatmethroughsquintedeyes.“You’rewanderingveryclosetothebordersofHowdyDoodyLand,andalsotap-dancingjustnexttomylastnerve.Steplightly.”
Ishouldn’tbehappytohavedrawnthisreactionfromher,butthat’sthefirsttimeshe’slookedremotelyup-and-at-’emtoday.Idomybestapproximationofasoftshufflenexttoapatchoflettuceandsheplayfullyswervesthesprayofwaterinmydirection,thoughshemakessurenottogetmewet.
Ifeelslightlyridiculousforhavingjustliterallytap-dancedforawomanIsupposedlydon’tcareabout,butherexpressionisalittlelesstaut,andthere’sabitoflightinhereyes.
Sheturnsoffthehoseandwipesherhandsoverhershorts—longercutoffsthanshe’swornthepastfewdays,accentuatingherhipsandthighswithoutrevealingthem.Itakeadeepbreathandpullmythoughtsintheoppositedirection.
“ReadytomeettheDayClubCrewandpumpthemforhistory?”sheasks.
“Let’sgo.”
WHENWEGETtoCandace’shouse,IhatethatI’mshockedathowniceitis,mostlybecausetheoutsideissomarkedlyinastateofdisrepair.Iwouldn’thavepickedthisasoneofthenicestplacesontheblock,andIexcelatthat.Kimhadalwaysbeenannoyedbythishouse,sayingitwasbeingwasted.Shewouldhavethoughtdifferentlyifshe’dstoppedbeingajerklongenoughtobeinvitedinside.
Theinnerdoorisglassembeddedindarkwood,allowingyoutoseeintothebrightopen-planlivingroom/diningroom/kitchenareathattakesupthefloor.
Thewallsareaneleganteggshellandthefurniturealllooksexpensiveandclassy.Alongwindowalongthekitchenwallfloodstheentirefloorwithsunlightfromthebackyard.ItlookslikeapicturefromtheBoomtownapp,exceptthereareBlackpeopleintheframe.
Atthediningroomtablesitthreeelderlywomenandanevenolderman,judgingbythenumberofwrinklesonhisface.Hemoveshismouthinthefamiliarwayofsomeonewithuncomfortabledenturesworkingthemwithhistongue.Oneofthewomenisthinandwearingascarfonherhead,anotherhasherhairinastraightgraybob,andthethirdhasonehalfofhersundone—theotherhalfhasbeenputintoaboxerbraid,astyleKimwascrazyaboutafterseeingitinsomefashionmagazine.
Candacegoestostandbehindthewomanandbeginsbraidingtheotherhalfofherhairwithquickefficienttwistsandpullsofherfingersandwrists.
“Who’sthisman?”thewomanwiththescarfasks.There’stheslightsingsongofCaribbeanaccentinhervoice,butthewarinessisunmissable.“Anothercometrytostealwehomes?”
Idon’tknowhowtorespondsoIlooktoSydney.
“Hi,MissRuth,”shesays,takingaseatatthetable.“ThisisTheodore.HeownsthehousewherethePaynesusedtolive.”
Mynameisn’tTheodore,butInodinthewoman’sdirectionanywayasItakeaseat.“Nicetomeetyou,MissRuth.”
“Ah,itwasthePaynehousehetook?Ilikehim,then.Iwassogladwhenthatfamilyleft,letmetellyou.Icouldn’tstandDorisPayne,alwaysthinkingshebetterthaneveryone,tryingtotalkdownhernosetome.”MissRuth’saccentgrowshardertounderstandasshegetsagitated,butItrytofollow.“Shelookfunnyatmyhusband,askinghimtocomefixherkitchensinkandallthat!Ismacksheblackshewhite,andshenevertalktohimagain.”
Shenodsdecisivelyandtheotherwomenmakenoisesofcommiseration.IhavenoideawhatshejustsaidbutInod,too.
Theoldmanworkshisdentures,thensays,“Doriswasagoodwomaninmybook.”
“Ofcourseyouwouldsayso,Fitzroy,”thewomanwiththegraybobsaysinanaccentthatcouldbeBritish.
Sydneychuckles,anencouragingsignoflife.
Candaceshakesherhead.“Theo,that’sGracieandthisisPaulette.Paulettedon’ttalkmuch.”
Thewomangettingherhairbraidedstayssilentbutkeepsawarygazelockedonme,evenasCandacefinishesherhairandpatshershoulderbeforetakingherownseat.
“Howareyoudoing,Sydney?”GracieaskspolitelyasshereachesfortheteapotinthemiddleofthetableandfillstwocupsbeforehandingthemtomeandSydney.“Haven’ttalkedtoyoumuchthelastfewmonths.”
“I’vebeenbusy,”Sydneysays.“Youknowhowitis.”
“Well,no,Idon’tknow,sinceI’manoldcronewhospendsmydayswatchingstorieswiththesemiscreants,butIunderstand.”
Thatgetsanotherlaugharoundthetable,butGracie’sblithebehaviordoesn’tcompletelydistractfromthecuriousworryinhereyes.
Itakeasipofthestrongteaandtrytokeepmyexpressionneutralasthebitterliquidhitsmytongue,butsomethingmustgiveawaymyurgetodoaspit-takebecauseGracie’sgazemeetsminewithamusementdancinginhereyes.“Haveyouneverhadbushteabefore,youngman?”
“No,”Imanage,eyeswatering.“It’s…strong.”
“Goodforthehealth,”Fitzroysays.“That’swhyweold-timersarestillhereandkicking.”
“Don’tworry,it’snotpoison,”Gracieadds,thentiltsherhead.“Notforus.Butcometothinkofit,itisarecipepasseddownfromgenerationtogeneration,andbackontheBajanplantationsitwascalled‘buckra’sdo-fa-do.’Manyslaverscametoanunfortunateendafterhavingacup.”
Fitzroysnort-laughs.“Notenoughofthem,though!”
IwaitforGracietolaugh,too,andtellmeshe’sjoking,butshejusttakesasipofherteaandstaresatmeovertherim.Iholdmycupawkwardly,knowingthisissomekindoftestbutunsurewhetherit’stoseeifI’mdumbenoughtobelievethere’sapoisonthatworksonlyonwhitepeopleordumbenoughnotto
There’satautsilenceandthenIthinkfuckitandtakeasip.
Candacestartslaughing,hereyeswide.“YouthinkGraciewon’tpoisonyou?Boy,thiswomanhasgonethroughfivehusbandsandIknowsomeofthemdeathswasn’tnatural.”
“Ihavenoideawhatyou’retalkingabout,”Graciesaysdemurely.“Ijustwantedtoseeiftheyoungmancouldtakearibbing.”
Shewinksatme,andthoughshe’smaybesixty-five,Ifullyunderstandwhymenkeptmarryingherevenifshewaspossiblyamurderer.
“Sydney!”MissRuthcallshernamesuddenly,likeSydneyhasn’tbeensittingacrossthetablefromherthewholetime.“Iheardyouleftthatmanofyours,theonewithaforeheadlikethatBlackStarTrekalien.Isay,‘Goodriddance.’Goodforyou.Neverlikedthewayheactedwhenhecamearoundhere.”Shedustsherhandsinanexaggeratedmotion,thenclaps
Sydney’schestheavesupanddownbeforesheopenshermouthtospeak.
“Uh,thanks,MissRuth.Ijusthadsomequestionsabouttheneighborhoodforthehistorytour,”shesays.“Canwetalkaboutthat,please?”
MissRuthdoesn’tlookhappyaboutbeingdeniedgossipaboutSydney’sex.I’mbummedaboutit,too.
“Youcan’taskyourmother?”Fitzroyasks.
“Yolandaisnotwell,remember?”Graciechides,andFitzroystartles.HerglowerdissolvesintoapityingsmilewhensheturnstoSydney.“FitzroyismorelikeForgets-roythesedays.Ignorehim.Wealldo.”
Sydneynodstightly,thenblinksafewtimesandsays,“It’sfine.Idohavestoriesfrommymother,butdoanyofyouhavefunfactsabouttheneighborhoodorpeoplewholivedherethatIcanuseformytour?”
“Ihavestories,butnotonesyoucanuse,”MissRuthsays,andtheyalllaugh
Fitzroyscratchesathisbaldhead.
“Icameherebeforeyourmother,Ibelieve.Inseventy-two,”Fitzroysays.“IboughtmyhomefromaJamaicanmanwhoworkedatoneoftheBlackrealestateagencies.Ithink,now,allthewhiteagenciescomeandpushthemout,too.Andthentheyselltothewhitepeople.Butafewyearsago,itwasmostlyusselling,andmostlyusbuying.AtleastonGiffordPlace.”
BetweenthisandKendraHill’sconversation,I’mrealizingthatI’dneverthoughtmuchaboutBlackcommunities,orBlackpeople,really.
Ihad,ofcourse,butinthesamewayIthinkabouttheU.S.PostalService.Itexists,andfunctions,mostly,butIdon’tknowthenutsandboltsofhowthingsgetdelivered.WhenIthinkofaBlackcommunity,thefirstthingthatcomestomind—evenifIdon’twantitto—iscrime.Drugs.Gangs.Welfare.That’sallthenewshastalkedaboutsinceIwasakid.Notoldpeopledrinkingtea.Notcomplexself-sustainingfinancialsystemsthathadtobecreatedbecauseracismmeansbeingleftouttodry.
“Youhavetoownproperty.Youhaveto,”Graciesays.“Myfatheralwaystoldusthat.That’swhytheydon’tliketoselltous,youknow?Makingupstoriesaboutpropertyvaluedroppingliketheyaren’ttheoneswhodecidethevalue.”Shemakesaderisivenoise.“Truthis,ifyouown,youhavepower.That’swhytheyalwaystrytostripitaway.”
“Listentoallthiscapitalisttalk,”MissRuthsayswithaheadtoss.“Whatweneedisrevolution.”
“Ruth,youownfivehouses.Don’tevenstart,”Candacesaysseverely.“Yourheadwouldbethefirstontheblockonthisblock.”
Ruthshrugs.“IplayonthegameboardI’mgiven,Candace.AtleastifIsellfourofthehouses,maybeI’llbeabletopaythepropertytaxesonthefifth.Theycanprymyhousefrommycold,deadfingers.”
“Ah,thatremindsmeofastory,Sydney.”Fitzroynods.“Whentheblackouthappened,waybackwhen.Ihadtostandinfrontofmyhousewithmycricketbat.Said,‘Booooy,youwannatryityoucantryit’toeveryknuckleheadwhotriedtotakewhatIhadworkedfor.Notawindowwasshattered,notaplantpotwasoverturned.”Helaughsdeeplyandthencoughs,andCandacewalksover,picksuphiscup,andholdsittohismouthsohesips.
“Theblackoutafewyearsback?”Iask.
“No,therewasoneinseventy-seven,”Sydneysays.“Therewaslootingandallkindsofwildstuff.”
“Looting.”Graciesnortsdelicately.
“Yeah,”Sydneycontinues.“MymomtoldmetheTVwehadwhenIwasakidwasoneshe‘foundonthestreet’infrontofanelectronicsstoreduringtheblackout.”
Alloftheolderpeoplearoundthetablechuckle.
“Well,Idon’tknowhowshegotthatTV,butIdoknowthatsomeonesteppedtoyourmamawhileshesatontheporchsmokingandwatchingthemadness,”Fitzroysays.“Thatmanendedupdancingawayfromtheendofherrevolver.IthoughtIwasdoingsomethingwithmycricketbat,andshewasovertherereadytoshoot.”
Candacelaughs.“Oh,youknowYolanda’sfolkswerethoseVirginians.”
“Shenevertoldmethat,”Sydneysays,bittersweetlaughterinhervoice.“ButIcanimagineit.Shetoldmeshewasn’traisedtotakemessbutsheknewhowtocleanitup.”
“Ican’tbelieveIdon’tknowanythingaboutthisblackout,”Isay,itchingtopulloutmyphonebutnotwantingtoberude.“Whatcausedit?”
“Itwasonpurpose,”aquietvoicesays,andwhenIlookacrossthetable,Pauletteisstaringatme.Herdarkeyesarehard,andhervoicedoesn’thaveaCaribbeanlilt,butsoundsmorelikeanimitationofaNewYorkaccentfromanoldmovie.“Theywantedustodestroyeverything,sotheycouldcomeinandfixit.Turnedoffthelights.Startedtroubleinthedark.Theygotafootbackinthedoorthen,atoe,butitwasn’tenoughdamage.Afterthatthedrugscame,allofasudden,andtheviolence,andthecops.Breakingeverythingdown,sotheycouldcomeinandbuilditupforthemselves.”
Candacesighsintotheheavysilenceafterthatstatement.“WhenIsaidPaulettedon’ttalkmuch,Imeantwhenshedoes,it’silluminatimessfromwatchingtoomanyYouTubevideos.”
Paulette’sgazehasn’tswervedfrommine.“Heknows.He’soneofthem,alwayssneakingaroundatnight,alwayswatching.Heretobreakandbuild,breakandbuild.”Hervoiceisrisingsteadily,gainingstrength.“Raceriots,theycallthem,butwhostartedthem?Whywouldwe?Whoprofited?He’soneofthem!”
Herlastwordsbounceoffthehighceilingandreverberateintheroom.Herbreathingisheavyandshe’slookingatmeasifsheseesthroughthesmile,thegoofiness,rightdowntothepoortrashgriftercoreofme.
CandaceleansacrossthetableandtakesPaulette’shand.“Paulie?”
PaulettelooksatCandaceforalongminute,gazeunfocused,butslowlyshecomesbacktoherself,thensmiles.“Hey,Candy.”
“Therewego,honey.”Candacegivesherhandasqueeze.
“Weshouldgetgoing,”Sydneysays,andIfeelterriblebecauseI’mthereasonweshould.Mymerepresencewasenoughtogivethiswomanapanicattack,whichisannoying,becauseIhaven’tdoneanythingtoher.AndIcan’tsaythatordefendmyselfbecause,well,HowdyfuckingDoody.
Istandup.“Thanksforthetea.”
“Breakandbuild,”Paulettemuttersaccusatorily,butdoesn’tlookmywayagain.
“Thankyou,everyone,”Sydneysays.
“Don’tbeastranger.Youshouldcomebymore,evenifyourmotherisn’taround,”Ruthsays.“We’rehereforyou.”
Sydneynods,thengoesaroundthetablegivinghugs.
Iwave,stillawkward,andGracieraisesherteacuptome.“Ifyoudon’tdiefromthetea,youcancomebyagain,too.”
GiffordPlaceOurHood/privateusergroup/Rejuvenation
Emergencyboardmeetinginthenext48hours.Turnyournotificationsonforexacttime—attendanceismandatory,longweekendorno.
Chapter14
Sydney
“SHEWASKIDDING,RIGHT?”THEOASKSASSOONASOURfeethittheslatesidewalkinfrontofMs.Candace’s.“Aboutthepoison?”
Hisheavybrowsareallbunchedupandthere’saslightflushonthosesharpcheekbonesofhis.
“Idon’tknow,”Isay,becauseI’mfeelingkindofevilandhe’sconvenientlythere.“Iguesswe’llfindoutsoonenoughifyou—”
NauseahitsmebeforeIcanfinishthejoke,andnotfrompoisontea.It’sthestomach-roilingacheofburiedpainthatresurfacesunexpectedattheworsttimes,naturalasawhalebreachingthesurface,notgivingasinglefuckwhetherboatsarecaughtinitswake.
TearsfillmyeyesandIwalkabitfastersoTheocan’tseemyface.
“Shewasjoking.You’llbefine.”Ifanmyface.“It’shotashell.Ihatesweating.”
Iliftthebottomofmyshirtandwipemyface,hopingTheoistoodistractedbyeithermyweirdnessormyexposedskintonoticethebreathysobthatescapesasIwipemy“sweat”away.
Idropmyshirtandadjustitatmyhips,scrunchingmynoseafewtimesinsteadofsnifflingoutloud.Afewyardsaway,leavesandbranchespeekthroughthecommunitygarden’sfence,wavinginthebreeze.
“Areyou—”Theostarts,thenstops.“Let’sgogetsomethingcoldtodrinkfromthecornerstore.”
“Okay.”
Iwishhewouldtakemyhandandleadmethere,eventhoughit’sonlyacoupleofbuildingsdown,howMommywouldholdmyhandwhenIcrossedthestreet,eventhoughIwasoldenoughtowatchforcarsmyself.
Butofcoursehewouldn’tdothat.He’sjustmyneighbor.
HeholdsthedooropenformebutwhenIstepinside,I’mdisoriented.Everythingiscleanandbrightinsteadofthecomfortinglyrun-downstatethestorehadbeeninbefore.Itlookslikesomeonefromsomequick-makeoverrealityshowpulledanall-nighter—thewallsarewhite,thelightfixturesarenicer,theshelveshavebeenreplaced,andapparentlysohasthestock.There’safresh-fruit-and-veggiesectionwherethefreezerfulloficecreamhadbeen.Theshelvesarecleanenoughtopassawhiteglovetest,andthere’snaryaGoyaproductinsight.Thewordorganiciseverywhere,andthehot-foodprepareaisgone.Instead,there’safridgewithpremadesandwiches,wraps,sushi,andquinoasalad.
Itevensmellsdifferent,thegreasyodorofthegrillreplacedbyanewscentthat’smorelikethelackofone.
“Abdul,thisiswild,”Isay.“Didyougetaloanorsomething?”
Butwhenmygazesearchesaroundforthenewplacementofthecashregister,Abdulisn’ttherewaitingtocallmehabibiandslipmeaParliament.Theguybehindthecounterisslightlypaler,withsandybrownhairandsharpbrowneyes.
“Abdulhadsomeissueswithhispapers,”hesays,thenflashesmeasmile.“I’mTony,thenewowner.Nicetomeetyou.I’mlookingforwardtobecomingavaluedpartoftheGiffordPlacecommunity.”
“What?Youmeanhe’s…gone?”
“Butnotforgotten,clearly,”Tonysayswithawink.
Iturnonmyheelsandheadtothewinefridge,myheadfeelingfuzzy.Abdulisgone.Grillmanisgone.Justlikethat.
IautomaticallyreachforthewineI’vebeenbuyingformonths,butmyhandclosesaroundatinybottleofkombuchahealthdrink.Istareatit,mysluggishbraintryingtocatchupwiththislatestchange,butIfeelagazedrillingintomyback.WhenIglancetomyleft,Tonyisleaningallthewayoverthecounterwatchingme.
“Needhelpwithanything?”heasks.“Ifyou’relookingfortheforties,wedon’tsellmaltliquoranymore.”
Islamthefridgedoorabittoohardandwalkuptopay.
“Youlikekombucha?”Theoasks.“Ittasteslikevinegar.”
Iignorehimandplacethebottleonthecounter.Myskiniscrawling.There’snolottomachine,nopeoplestandingaroundfantasizingaboutwhatthey’lldowiththeirMegaMillionswhentheywin.Nobinsofcheapcandy.Nocharacter.
NoAbdul.
Thepanicstartstothruminmychestagain.
“Thatisn’tcoveredbyWIC,”Tonysaysnicelyashescansmydrink.I’mstartingtounderstandthatthisisthesamewayJosiesaysnicethingsonOurHoodposts.It’sathinveneerthatifscratchedawaywouldrevealsomeshitI’mdefinitelynotinastatetohandlerightnow.
“Notthatthere’sanythingwrongwithWICorforties,butisthereanyreasonyou’remakingassumptionsaboutmydrinkinghabitsorfinancialstatus?”
Heshrugs.Smirks.Ringsupthedrink,whichcostsfivedamndollars.“Justbeinghelpful.Andmakingsurepeopleunderstandwhatkindofestablishmentthisisnow.”
WhenIpulloutatwentytopay,hemakesabigshowoftakingoutthecounterfeitmoneytesterandrunningthemarkeroverit,holdingituptothelightandscrutinizingit.IalmostwalkoutbutIneedmymoneyback.
Hefinallyhandsmemychange,exceptit’safive-dollarbillinsteadofatenandafive.
“Igaveyouatwenty,”Isay.“Youstaredatitlongenough,youshouldknowthat.”
Mypolitenessreservesaregone,depletedbytryingtorestrainmynerves,whicharestretchedtothebreakingpoint.
Tonylooksbefuddled.“Didyou?Idon’tthinkso.”
“I.Did.”
“Shedid,”Theosaysfrombesideme.“Comeon,man.Giveherthemoney.”
“Or…what?”Tonyaskswithasmile,leaningonthecounterlikesomeolddrawingofakindlyneighborhoodgrocer.
“What?”Theoasks,thesuddenbassinhisvoicesurprisingme.
“IfIsayshegavemeaten,whocouldproveotherwise?”
Tony’svoiceandexpressionhaven’tchangedatall,andthere’ssomethingdangerousabouthimnowpreciselybecauseofthat.
“Let’sjustgo,”Isay,pluckingatTheo’sshirt.
“No.”WhenIlookatTheoheistight.“Giveherthemoney.Justbecoolandgiveherthemoney,man.”
Tonylooksdownatusinamusement.
“Someoneneedstomakeapurchaseinorderforthedrawertoopenagain,”Tonyliescalmly.
Theopullsouttwocrumpleddollarbillsandthrowsthemonthecounter,thenpicksupaseverelyoverpricedpeanutbuttercup.“I’lltakethis.”
“Surething.”Tonytakesthemoney,flattenseachbillout,thenringsupthepurchase.HeseemstodebateasecondbeforehandingmytendollarstoTheo.“Sorryabouttheconfusion.It’shardputtingthingsinorderwhenyou’regettingsettledin.”
Hedoesn’tevenlookatmeagain.IturnandstormoutofthestoreandhearTheofollowingclosebehind.Hecatchesupinafewsteps.“Youforgotyourcarbonatedvinegarandyourmoney.”
Iwhirlonhimandsnatchbothfromhishands.
“Whatthefuck?”
“Whoa.Ithinkyoumean‘Thanksforgettingmymoneyback.’”
“No!Isaidweshouldleave,andyouwentfullwhitedudewhodoesn’twanttobetoldno!”Ifeelsodumb,yellingathimwithtearsinmyeyeswhenhejusthelpedme.
Ungrateful.Needy.
“So,weshouldhavejustlethimstealyourmoney?WhatwasIsupposedtodo?”
Isqueezemyeyesclosedandmymouthshutandtrytoforcebacktheragethatwantstoexplodeoutofeveryorificebecausehe’sright.Whenthefeelingsubsides,Isay,“Yes.Iwasgoingtolethimjuststealmymoney.BecauseIdidthementalmathonhowmuchtimeandenergyI’dwastedealingwithhisbullshit,andthat’sbeforefactoringinwhathappensifthepoliceshowup.I’mtired,okay?I—”
Istopmyself.Ican’ttellhim.I’dpeggedhimrightwhenhewalkedintoMr.Perkins’splace.Hewasastrangewhiteman,notmyfriend.I’mnotsureIevenhavefriendsanymore.
Dreaistyping…flashesinmyheadandIfighttheurgetoscreamagain.
“Look.Thankyou.ButIneedtogohomenow.”Thewordsfeellikedustinmymouth.
“Sydney.”Helookslikehewantstoapologize,butIshakemyhead.
“You’rerelievedofduty,researchintern.”
“Wait,what?Like,fortodayorforever?”
Iignorehimandhe’ssmartenoughnottofollowme.
WhenIgettothehouseIignorethenewbatchofbillsthat’vearrived,thenewpileofcardspromisingquickcashifyoujustpullupyourrootsandleaveeverythingyouknow.Iputthekombuchainthefridge,grabacigarettefromthepackonthetable,andpryopenthedoorthatleadstothebackyard.
Theheat-swollenwoodresistsuntilItugsohardthatIstumbleback,crackingoneofmynailsintheprocess.Tobystartsbarkingthroughthewoodenfence,startlingme,andforsomereasonthat’swhatcausesthetearstostartinearnestthistime.Iplopdownonthebackstep,gladthatmostoftheyardispavedoverbecausethepartthatisn’thasthigh-highweedsthatI’llhavetodealwithsoonerorlater.
ThedozensanddozensofplantclippingsI’vebeenignoringoutherehavemostlymanagedtosurvive,atleast.Somethingsdothatwithoutalwaysneedinghelp.It’spatheticashelltobeoutdonebyacherrytomatobush.
Ateardripsofftheendofmynose,soakingthroughthethinpaperofthecigaretteasIlightit.
“Dammit!”Idropthelighterontothegroundastheflamelicksoutandburnsmythumb;thedogstartsbarkingevenmorewildly.
OurconversationwithKendra,thecheckinDrea’sroom,Paulette’sfearofTheo,Tony’sshitatthebrand-newbodega,Dreadisappearing…itallswirlsaroundinmyhead,threateningtooverwhelmme.
IstarttowonderifmaybeIshouldn’tjustgiveuponthetour.Theneighborhoodischangingtoofast;maybeeverythingwillbegonebeforeIcanevenmakethefirstdemo.MaybenoneofthismattersbecauseMommy,theonlyonewhoactuallybelievedIcoulddothis,isn’theretoseeit.
Iexhaleacloudofsmokeandshakemyhead,thenwipethetearsfrommyeyes.Ineedtodothis,evenifonlyonce,fortheblockparty.Justtoshowthatwewerehere,andwe’restillhere,andthatfactmatters,evenifIthrowoutallthenotesImadeandthetourendsupbeingmebullshittinganecdotesaboutthepeoplewhomadethisneighborhoodwhatitis.
Tobysuddenlyyipsinpain,andIglancetowardthefence.Tobyisamenace,butIdon’twanthimgettinghurt,either.
“Arwin!Leavethatdogalone,willyou?”Josie’svoicegratesthroughthewoodenslatsofthefence.
“I’mjustplaying,Mom.Youleavemealone!”
Lord,ifI’deverspokentomymotherthiswayshewould’vedeath-glaredaholeintomysoul.
Josiesays,“Sorry,honey.ButI’mtryingtorelaxonmydayoff.Andgardeningismywayofrelaxing.”
“Thatstuffsmells!”Arwincomplains.Theyaretalkingentirelytooloudfortwopeoplerightnexttoeachother,drivingmybloodpressureupanotherpointortwo.
“It’sfertilizer.Doyouknowwhatthatis?”
“No.”
“It’sshit,sweetie.”
Somethingaboutthewayshesaysthecursewordwithsuchdeliberationandrelish,toherchild,makesmyshoulderbladestenseup.
Arwinjustgigglesandyells,“Shit!Shit!”
Josielaughs,too.“Sometimesyouhavesoilthatisn’tgoodforgrowingthingsinanymore.Itneedstimetobecomefertileagain.Soyoucoveritwiththeshit,andthenyouwait.Youlettheshitdothework,thenyoucomeinandplantyourcrops.Mygrandfathertaughtmethat.Hisgrandfathertaughthimthat.”
MyphonevibratesinmyhandandI’msoonedgethatIalmostdropit.Istiffeninthemomentrightbeforeanamepopsuponthescreen,butit’sLen,notDrea.
Shit.Iwassupposedtogomeethiminthegarden.
“Hey,”Isay,tryingtosoundlikesomethingotherthanastressed-outwreck.“I’msorryI’mlate.I’mgonnaheadoverrightnow.Canyouwaitacouplemoreminutes?”
“No.”Hisvoicesoundslikeitdidwhenhewasalittleboy,andthenheclearshisthroat.“Iwassittingononeofthebencheswaitingforyou,withthekids,andthecopsshowedup.”
“What?”Istuboutthecigarette,andI’malreadythroughthebackdoorandjoggingpastthekitchentablewhenheresponds.
“Yeah.Um.They—theykickedallofusout?Everyonewhowasjustchillin’orgardening.Saiditwasonorderoftheowner,andIwasconfusedbecauseIthoughtyourmomsownedit.Itriedtoaskthemwhatwashappening,buttheystartedpushingme—”
Hestopsandtakesashakybreath,andinthatmomentIheartheaggressivetoneofapoliceofficerinthebackgroundorderingpeopletodisperse.I’veheardthatvoiceandthatorderontoomanyvideosfollowedbyhashtagsonsocialmedia.
“I’mcoming,okay?Justlistentotheofficersandwalkawayfromthegarden.”
“Okay.”
“Stayonthephonewithme,Len.Don’thangupuntilIgetthere.”
MyhandsshakeasIlockthedoor,andthenIrunharddownthestreet,thesolesofmysneakerspoundingthepavementandmyheartawild,fearfulthingtryingtoescapemychest.
No.No.No.No.
Mydisbeliefkeepspacewithmyfeet.Thiscan’tbehappening.Notaftereverythingelse.
WhenIgettoMommy’sgarden,Ifindtwoofficersstandinginfrontofthechain-linkfence.Justbehindthem,awirywhitemanwithgrayinghairisremovinganewpadlockfromitsplasticcasing.ThepadlockMommyusedforyears,moreadeterrentthanactualsecurity,isontheground,broken.
Inside,acrewofthreeorfourotherwhiteguysinconstruction-workeruniformsofjeansandT-shirtsarewalkingaroundexaminingeverything.Takingnotes.Iseethedecorationsthekidshadbeenmakingfortheblockpartyonthegroundundertheirboots.
I’mtooshockedtofeelanything.
Thisisit.
Thisistheendofeverything.
Inmyperipheralvision,IseeLenstandingwithMs.Candace.Afewmiddleschoolkidsontheirbikesstandwithfeetonthegroundandhandsgrippingtheirhandlebars.Someoftheolderpeoplewhooftencomerelaxinthegarden,ortendtheirownplots,keepwatch,too.
Iwalkuptotheofficers,astrangesensationinmyheadlikewhenthepressuredropsonaplaneandyourearsstopup.OrlikewhenthehusbandyouthoughtyouweregivingasecondchancegiftsyouanebooktitledDivorceforDummies
“Excuseme,officers.MayIaskwhat’shappeninghere?”Imanagetoaskinmymostpolite,leastthreateningvoice,eventhoughstrangersareinvadingMommy’sgarden.
Mystomachtwists.
“We’reherebecausetherightfulownerofthislandhasreclaimeditfromillegalusage,”oneoftheofficerssays.He’swearingthesamereflectiveaviatorlensesDrewtheUberdriversportedandsweatisbeadinguponthepinkskinofhisface—thegardenisindirectsunlightatthistimeofday.
“Therightfulowner?”Irepeat.“Thislothadnoownerthatcouldbetraced.Mymothercheckedseveraltimes.Ithadbecomeadumpinggroundandthecitygavemymotheradeedbecauseshecleaneditup,madeitbetter.Thecitysaid—”
“Thecityisnottheowner,”themanwiththelocksays,slippingthekeyintohispocketashesauntersup.Hehasthefaceofaguywhowouldstandbehindyouonthesubwayandaccidentallybrushagainstyourasseveryothertimethetraintookasharpturn.“I’mtheowner.Itrackeddowntherelativesofthewomanwhooriginallyownedthislot,andIboughtitfromthem.”
“No.Thatdoesn’tmakesense.”
“Itmakesperfectsense,”themansays.“Youpeoplejustdecidedyoucoulddowhateveryouwanted,withouttheguaranteeofthelaw.Ihavetheguaranteeofthelaw.”
“Ihaveadeed,”Isay,thepressureinmyheadincreasing.I’mnotsmartenoughtobescaredinthismomentashesmilessmuglyatme,hisgazeflickingtothepoliceofficers.
Thisisn’taten-dollarbill.
It’smymother’sgarden.
Rage,purerage,pullsmyshouldersbackandforcesmetotakeastepcloserandlookdownatthisman.“Showmetheproofofwhatyousaid.”
“Idon’thavetoshowyouanything,”hereplies,amused.
Iturntotheofficers,notexpectinghelpbuthavingnootherrecourse.Icannotletthisgardenbetaken.It’sthecornerstoneofeverythingIhaveleft.
“Please.Thishasbeenourcommunitygardenforyears.Therearetrees.Doyouknowhowlongittakesatreetogrow?Pleasetellhimhecan’tdothis.”
“Justshowherthedeed,”oneofthecopssays,thoughhedoesn’tseemmoved.“Ifyoudon’t,we’regonnahaveabunchofthesepeoplegettingangryandIdon’tfeellikedoinganypaperworkbeforeLaborDayweekend.”
Theguysmilesandhandsmeapaperthatwasfoldedupinhisbackpocket.It’sasmudgyphotocopythatsupposedlyshowsproofoflandpurchaseforfivethousanddollarsby24GiffordPlaceRealEstateManagement,from…
“Ican’tevenreadthesenames,”Isay,thecopycrinklinginmyhand.“Whoapprovedthis?”
“TheBrooklynhousingauthority.”
MygazefixesontheamountpaidandanycomposureIhadevaporates.
“Onlyfivethousand?DoyouthinkI’mfuckingstupid?IcouldwhipupsomethingbetterinPhotoshop.”MyvoiceisrisingbutIcan’thelpit.He’sjustheretryingtotakeeverything.Everything.No.“Icouldfindoutwhereyoulive,makeafakedeedandsayit’smine,ifthat’showthisworks.Youwannawakeupandfindmeinyourdamnlivingroomwithmyfeetonthecouch?Thisisbullshit.”
Theman’ssmugpatiencesuddenlysnaps,andhelungestowardmyfaceuntilhisnoseisalmostupagainstmine.“Look,bitch,Idon’twantanyproblemsfromyou.Thelotisours.Ifyouwannafuckwithus,ifyouwannatrytoholdthingsup,you’regonnaregretit.Iwillmakeyoufuckingregretit.”
“Bitch?”Myfaceishot,andIreflexivelypullmybraidsbackintoaponytailwiththehairtieonmywristinonesmoothmotion.“Whoareyoucallingabitch?”
“Whatareyougonnado,bitch?Hitme?”Heliftshisfacetowardminesohisnastybreathblowsinmyface.Hiseyesareflashingwithanangerdisproportionatetothefactthathe’stheonewhostartedthisshit.“Tryit.Tryit.I’llhaveyourasslockedupsofastyourfuckingheadwillspin.”
“Officer,sir,areyougoingtoletthismanthreatenherlikethat,sir?”Lenasks,distressinhisvoice.Theofficerlooksinhisdirectionandtakesasteptowardhim.
“Officer!”Icallout,andhisattentionshiftsbacktome.“Officer,please.Atleastletusgetourthings.Thisissomekindofmisunderstanding,butuntilit’sresolved,letuspleasejustgetourequipmentandwhateverwehave—”
“No,”themansaysfrombehindthem.“Noentrytotheproperty.”
“Sorry,ma’am,”theofficersays,shruggingwithaslightgrin.“Ihavetoadheretothepropertyowner’swishes.”
Thesecondofficerturnstothecrowdandstartsshouting.“Everybodydisperse!You,putthatphoneaway!Nothingtoseehere!Nothingtoseehere!”
“But—”
Behindhim,twoofthemeninsidestartpullingupplants.Theothersstartpilingupglovesandbucketsandgardeningtools,overturningthewoodenbenchesMr.Perkinsandsomeoftheotherneighborsmadeatthebeginningofthesummertoreplacetheoldrottenones.
“Why?”Icroakout.“Whyareyoudoingthis?”
“Ma’am,arewegoingtohaveaproblem?”Thesecondofficerrestshishandonhisholsterandmystomachturns.
Yes!Iwanttoscream.Iwanttoscreamuntilmythroatisrawandbleeding.Instead,Istandtheresilentandshiveringeventhoughit’ssohotthatmyshirtissoakedthroughwithsweat.I’vefailedmymotheragain.Iimagineherfacewhenwetouredtheretirementhome,howshe’dlookedatmeandsaid,“Youknowyou’regoingtohavetotakeoverthegardenformeifIcomehere,right?YoubetterwatchsomeYouTubevideossoyoudon’tkillmyplants.”
“Comeon,Sydney.”
Thevoiceseemsfaraway,butsomeonetakesmyarmandpullsmeback.Thegripisstrongandremindsmeofmymother,tryingtokeepmefromdanger.
“ButMommy’s—”
“Sydney,let’sgo!”Ms.Candacesqueezesmyarmharderandpullsmeaway,andLencomesupfrombehind;Irealizehe’scoveringmyflank,andthat’senoughtogetmemoving.
Ilookbackonemoretime.Theofficersandthemanwhostolemymother’sgardenarelaughing.They’relaughingandIcan’tdoadamnthingaboutit.
Ireflexivelytakeoutmyphone,pullupmylog,anddialthelastpersonI’dcalled:Mommy.Ijustneedtohearhervoice,toapologize.
ThephonestopsringingandIwaitforhervoicemailtopickup,butthere’sonlysilence.Then…anexhale.
Thedreadinmybodyconstrictstoasharppaininmychest.
“Hello?”Iwhisper.
Noresponse,butsomeoneisthere—Iknowwiththesuretyofachildwhorefusestolettheirfeethangofftheedgeofthebed.
“Hello?”Tearswellinmyeyes.
Theyhanguponme.
Ms.CandacerubsmybackwhenIgrasptherimofatrashcaninfrontofEttaMason’shouseandthrowup.
“Ettawillunderstand,”shesaysoverandoveragain.“Anyonewouldunderstand.”
GiffordPlaceOurHoodpostbyCandaceTompkins:
Ithinkweshouldalldiscussthelossofthecommunitygarden.There’snowaythatmanistherightfulowner.Weneedtoknowwhathappenedandhow.
AsiaMartin:Whohasthemoneytoprovehimotherwise?
JennLithwick:Ohno!Iheardwhathappened!Howawful.IsSydneyokay?
JenPeterson:Cansomeonereallylieaboutthat?Imean,thepolicewerewithhim?Theywouldknowifhisclaimwasreal,right?MaybeI’mbeingnaivebutthealternativeis…
AsiaMartin:…businessasusual,Jen.That’sallitis.
JenPeterson:I’msorry,Asia.Ijustcan’tbelievesomethinglikethiscouldhappeninBrooklyn.
JennLithwick:Honey…
Chapter15
Theo
AFTERTHERIESLINGINCIDENT,I’MSTAYINGWELLAWAYFROMbooze,whichisaprettyabruptchangeofpaceformybody.I’dwantedabeerprettybadlyaftertheweirdspatwithSydneyoutsidethecornerstore,andevenmoreaftergoingtoseearoomforrentafewtrainstopsaway.Asexpected,itwassomeone’scurtained-offlivingroom,butitwillbefineasatemporarybasewhileIfigureoutwhatthenextstepwillbe.
Insteadofcrackingopenacoldone,Igotothegym,needingtoworkoutthefeelingsbobbingaroundrecklesslynowthatI’mnotdrowningthemwithboozeordistractingmyselfwithSydney.
Somepeoplegettoazenplacewhileworkingout,butmythoughtsraceasIswingmyarmsontheelliptical.Lifehadbeenstalledformonths,itseemed,butthingshavekickedbackintogearwithavengeance—myworldisentirelydifferentthanitwasaweekago.Imadeafriend,foundapurpose—howevertemporary—thenlostmygirlfriend,mynewfriend,andmypurpose.Oh,andalsomyhouse.
NowI’vemadethedubiousdecisiontoroomwithaseventy-year-oldPolishex-conwho’swaytoointerestedinmycookingskillsandwantedtoknowifIcouldgetthevirusesoffhiscomputer.
William,theweirdguyfromtherealestateplace,suddenlystepsinfrontoftheelliptical.Hedoesn’tsayanything,justlooksupatmeexpectantlylikewewerealreadyinmidconversationandhe’djustmadeadirtyjoke.
“I’llbedoneinfiveminutes,”Isay.
“It’scool.I’mmoreofaweightroomguy.”Hepurseshislips,thenfrowns.“Younevercalledme.”
“Called?”
“Aboutthejoboffer.It’snotliketheytakeonjustanyoneatBVT,andIthoughtyouhadwhatittakes.Youlooklike…”Heconsidersmewithakindofdetachedamusement,likeI’maukuleleorsomething.“…Likeaguywhodoesn’thavescruples,whenitcomestomakingmoney.”
Idon’tletmyrhythmshowit,buthiswordsjarme.Islowabit,unsureofwhatturnthissituationisabouttotake.
“Whatmakesyousaythat?”
Heshrugs.“I’mnotjudgingyou.Wecoulduseguyslikethatbecausethingsarestartingtogetintense.DidyouhearaboutthecommunitygardenonGifford?”
Thequestionisgleefulandalittlegossipy.
MystomachdropsasanimageofSydneyonherhandsandknees,miserablytendingherplot,popsintomyhead.
“Hearwhat?”
“Somedevelopergankedit,”hesays.“Slidrightinwithanewdeedandwaslike,‘Yeah,thisismyshitnow.Inyourface,bitch!’”
Iconsiderjustknockingmyfistrightintohismouthtoshuthimup.
No.I’vebackslidalotinthelastfewmonths,butIdon’tdothatanymore.
“Foraseconditlookedlikethingsmightgosideways.Thecopstalkedsenseintoeveryonesothingspannedout,butthat’sthepartwhereweneedmoreguyslikeyou.”Hishyperfriendlyexpressionshiftsjustsubtlyenougharoundhismouthandeyestobecomehateful.“IwishIcould’vebeenthere.I’veputupwithmonthsofattitudefromthat—”
“Ithoughtthecommunitygardenalreadybelongstosomebody,”Isay.“Wouldn’tadeveloperjustmakeanoffertowhoeverownsit?”
Williamshakeshishead.“Iguesstheycoulddothat.Therewasaprovisionaldeedgivenbythecitybecausethelothadbeenvacantforyearsandwasaneyesore.Blah,blah,blah.Youcanpaythepersonwhoownsit.Butifyouwanttogetitforcheap,allyouhavetodoisfindtheoriginallandownerortheirnextofkin,andbuyitfromthem.Theydon’tevenhavetostickaround.Theycanpopup,takeaquickfiveKforprimeBrooklynrealestate,andthenreturntowhereveritisthey’vebeenlurkingforyears.”
I’mnolongermovingontheelliptical,justglaringdownatthesmugassholestandinginfrontofmeandalsokickingmyself.“Yousayingthisisascam?”
“Peoplemightcallitthat,butnoonecanproveanything.Ormaybetheydon’twanttoproveanything.”Heshrugs.“Youknowhowitgoes.”
Istareathim.
“Oh,youdon’t?Okay,I’llplayalong.”
Ihatethisfeeling,ofsomeonedanglingathreatinfrontofmeandnotjustgettingtothepartwhereIcaneitherhitthembeforetheyhitme,orrun.“Didyouwantsomething?”
“Iknowyouneedmoney.Andaplacetostay.”
Ishouldbesurprised,butitseemsKimtoldmultiplepeoplethatIwasabumandshewasgoingtoleaveme.Whynottherealtor?
“Ican’tmakeyoudoanything,butyouneedtoreallythinkaboutyourfuturehere.Don’tletyourpride,oryourpenis,getinthewayofgettingpaid,bro.Callme.”
Heholdsupanimaginarycellphonebesidehisear,thenchangesittoathumbs-uppushedinmydirection,andthenwalksofftowardtheweight-liftingroom.
Istandthere,sweatingandtryingtoconnecttwopiecesofinformationthatIreallyhopearenotconnected.Anyonecouldhavetakenaninterestinthegarden,right?
Iclamberofftheelliptical,showerquickly,andjogbackoutintothegrosshumidity.
WhenIgettothecommunitygarden,itlookslikeoneoftheoldpicturesofBrooklynI’dseen,backwhentheemptylotswereusedasgarbagedumps.Alltheplantshavebeenrippedup.Thebenchesandflowerboxesandplanterpotsareinapileagainstthewalloftheadjacentbuilding.Bitsofchewed-up-lookingleavesspotthegroundwithgreen,andabsolutedreadfillsme.
IthinkaboutSydney’svoicecrackingwhenshetalkedaboutnotbeingabletomaintainthegarden.Howoverthelastfewdays,she’swiltedliketheplantsshetriedsofruitlesslytokeepalive.HowearliertodayshesentmeawaybecauseIwasabumblingidiotwhodidn’tunderstandhowthingsworkedaroundhere.
Shemustbewreckedrightnow.
Isuckinadeepbreathandheadtoherfrontdoor.AsIgettothebottomstep,somethingsharpgrazesthebackofmyankleandtugsatmyshoe.IturntofindTerryviciouslytuggingathisdog’sleash.
“Toby,youlittlebastard!”Hetugshardagain.Hisfaceisscrewedupwithanger,likethedogbeingalittlemonsterissomeoneelse’sfaultandnothis.
“Hey,Terry,”IsayoutofreflexivepolitenesseventhoughhisdogjustsankitsteethintothefoamofmyNewBalances.Helooksupatme,hisgazejumpingbackandforthbetweenmeandSydney’sdoor.Hegrins.
“Iknewit.”
ThisisaweirdwayofsayingSorrymyuntraineddogbityou.
“ItoldJosiethatyouneededtojustgetthisoutofyoursystemandthenyou’dbeabletothinkstraight.EvenifyouandKimdon’tworkout,it’dbeashameifournumberswentdown.Wehaveanapartmentforrent,youknow.”
“Okay.”Iscratchmyheadandstartturningtoheadupthestairs.
TwoBlackguyswalkslowlyacrossthestreetandTobysurgesforward,barkinglikehewantstotakeachunkoutofthem.Terryloosenstheleashinsteadofpullingitback,andthemendecidetowalkinthestreet.TerrynodshischintowardSydney’sdooragain.
“Look,justgogetitoutofyoursystem.Don’tworry,we’veallhadthatphase.Hell,JosieandIstilltraveldowntotheCaribbeaneveryyeartoscratchthatitch,thoughnowthatwelivehere…well,youclearlyunderstandtheconvenience.”
“What?”Ihavenoideawhathe’stalkingabout.
Heinclineshisheadtowardthehouse.“Issheanygood?Imean,thatmouthlookslikeitcouldsucktheshellacoffa—”
Idropmyduffelbagtotheground,thoughthestrapisstilllooselybetweenmyfingers.“Watchwhatyousaynext,man.”
AnotherthingI’dworkedonwhiletryingtofitinwithKim’slifewasmytemper,butmylimitsarebeingtestedhardtoday.
“Hey,hey,Iwasjustbeingneighborly,noneedtogettouchy.Havefun!”
Hetrotsupthestairswithhisdog.
Aftertakingaminutetogetmyangerwhack-a-moledbackintoitsproperplace,IringthedoorbelltoSydney’sapartmentacoupleoftimes.
Noanswer.MaybeIshouldjustleave.ButI’veseenhercryingaloneinherapartmentaslifeintheneighborhoodwentonaroundhertoomanytimes.She’dneverinvitedDreadown,orgonetoMr.PerkinsorMs.Candace.Sydneyalwaystriestosoldierthroughalone—maybesheneedssomeonetocomebargingin,toknowthatsomeonecaresenoughtotry,evenifitistheannoyingneighborfromacrossthestreet.
Iringthedoorbellonemoretime,tellingmyselfthatifshedoesn’tcomeout,I’llgohome.Thebettertopeepintoherwindowandmakesureshe’sokay.
There’sthesoundofadeadboltunlockingdownthehallandthenasliveroflightexpandsintoadiffusedglow,andSydneystepsintothehall.Herbraidsareinasloppyponytailonthesideofherheadandshe’swearingoldbasketballshortsandawhitetanktop.
She’swalkingslowly,hesitantly,andIcanseethesurpriseinherfacewhenshemakesoutit’sme.
Surprise,butnotdisappointment.
Sheopensthedoorhalfwayandsays,“Hi,”withavoicethatsoundslikeabruise.
“Ijustheardwhathappened,”Isay.“Tothegarden.Areyouokay?”
Shepushespastmealittletolookbackandforthdownthestreet,andshe’swarmandsmellslikesomekindofvanilla-lacedpastryandcigarettes.Sweetandbitter.Thescentlingersasshepullsback.“Comein.”
“Huh?”
“Comein,”shesayswithanedgeofannoyancethatreassuresme.
Sheclosesthedooraftermeandlocksbothlocks,thenpadspastmeandmovesthroughthehallwaytowardherapartment.Ifollow,thescentofcigarettesmokegrowingstrongerthecloserIgettothedoor.
WhenIgetinsidetheapartment,sherepeatsherclosingandlockingroutine,jerkilytuggingatthedoorknobafterwardasifcheckingthesturdinessofthelocks.
“You’realone?”
“Yes.Dreaisn’tansweringmycalls.Mr.Perkinsisn’tansweringeither,eventhoughtheblockpartyisonlyacoupledaysaway.Ms.Candacetriedtocomein,butI—Icouldn’ttalktoher.”SheplodstothekitchentableandpicksupthecigarettethatsitsbalancedontheedgeofawhiteceramicashtraywithConeyIslandwrittenintinystarfishalongtheside.
Sydneysmokeslikethefemmefatalepacingthehaplessdetective’sofficeinanoirfilm.Shestaresintothedistancewithunfocusedpaininhereyes,liftingthecigarettetohermouthinasmootharcandclosingherlipsaroundit,somethingthatdoesn’tseempracticedorcontrivedgivenhercurrentstate.
I’mremindedthateventhoughtheystinkandcausecancer,acigaretteissexyashellintherighthands.
“Didyouseethegarden?”sheasksontheexhale,thenrollsherbottomlipwithherteeth.
“Yeah.”
“Howbadisit?”
“It’sbad.”ItrytobreakthisasgentlyasIcanwhilenotgivingherevenasmidgenofhope.“Theyrippedupalltheplotsandpiledupallthewoodandotherstuff.Thegardenisgone.”
Shesitsdownatthekitchentable—morelikeherlegsgiveoutandsheslumpsintothechairthatwasalreadypulledout.Tearswellupinhereyesandherhandisshakingwhensheraisesthecigarettethistime.
“Sydney?”
Sheinhalesandtearsslipoverhercheeks,suddenly,asifshe’sbeenjustholdingthembackthiswholetime.Shedoesn’tsobormakeanysound,justsucksatthatcigarette,thenreachesforanapkinfromtheholderinthemiddleofthetableandwipesroughlyatherfaceasshesniffles.
“Fuck,I’mtired.”
“You’vementionedthat.”Ipulloutachairnexttoheratthetable.“Tellmewhat’sgoingon,Sydney.Orifyoudon’twantto,justtellmewhatyouneedrightnow.”
Shelooksatme,hereyesstillglossyandherexpressionsomethinglikestoic.
“Getthescotchoutofthatcabinet.Topshelf.”Shedoesn’tsaypleaseandIfeellikethat’spartofwhatsheneedsrightnow,too,soIjuststandupanddoit.Igrabtwoglasseswithoutherasking,thenplacethemdownandpour.
“Whydidyoureallygetfired?Forreal?”Hermouthtrembles,butherhandissteadywhensheraisesthecigaretteagain.“Iknowyouweren’ttellingmethewholetruth.I’musedtoacceptinghalf-truthsfrommen.Butrightnow,withallofthismessgoingon,Ineedtoknow.”
Ipursemylipsandexhalehardthroughmynose,takethegulpofboozeshedidn’t.
ThenItellherthetruth.
“Theycaughtmetryingtosteal,”Isay.“BecauseIgotgreedy.Itwasn’tenoughthatI’dgriftedapositionpeoplebusttheirassesforyearstoget.Itdidn’tmatterthatIwasmakingmoresemihonestmoneythananyoneinmyfamilyhadevermadethroughanymeans,dishonestorotherwise.OnceIhadalittle,Ithought,‘Icangetmore.AndI’mgonnatakeit.’Typical,ifI’velearnedanythingfromyouthelastfewdays.”
“Completelytypical.Exceptyouwerestupidenoughtogetcaught.”ShegigglesandIwonderifshewasn’talreadydrinkingbeforeIgothere.
“Soyoushouldknowthatmynameisn’tTheodore,likeyoutoldCandace,”Isay.“Well,itis.InRussian.Fyodor.Namedaftermydad,whowastangledupwithstuffconsiderablymoredangerousthanwhite-collarcrime.IwenttolivewithhimafterIgotintosometroubleandhadtodropoutofhighschool,laylow.Iworkedconstructionwithhim,butalsogottangledupwiththestuffhewastangledupwith.IguessthisthingwithKimwasmywayofgoingstraight.”
Sydneylooksatmewithwideeyes,theashbuildingupontheendofhercigarette.“Mafia?”
“Somethinglikethat,butamilliontimeslessinterestingthanthemovies.IgotoutbeforeImovedtoNewYork,soIdon’tknow,maybethisiswhereallthecoolmafiastuffhappens.”Peopleglamorizeit,butit’dbeenjustanotherjobwithnoinsuranceandalowlifeexpectancywhenitcamedowntoit.“Anyway,hereIwasatthisfancyoffice.AndIwasn’tstupidoranything.Ifitinfine,andIstartedsmall.Therewasagroupinmydepartmentwhoalwayswantedcocaine.AndItoldthemIcouldgetitforthem.I’dtaketheirmoney,buyalittleofthegoodstuff,alittleofthenot-so-goodstuff,andalittleoftheprobablybadstuff.Imadeaprofit,thecokeheadswerejusthappytohavesomecoke,andallwaswellandgood.”
“Wow.AndhereIwasthinkingyouwerejustaregulardegulardude,butFyodorwastrappin’attheoffice.”Shesnort-laughsacloudofsmoke.
“Yup.Andeventually,IrealizedthatIhadaccesstoallthesepeople’sbankaccountinformation.AndmaybeIcouldmakesometransfers.”
“Theo!”Sheslapsthetable,eyeswideindisbelief.“Youdidn’t.”
“Idid.Kimwantedthishouseandkeptsayingitwasfineifshehadtopayforeverything,whichmademefeellikeIhadtocontributebecause,Idon’tknow,toxicmasculinity?InretrospectIshouldhavejustletherbemysugarmamainsteadofcommittingmultipleelaborateandunsustainablecrimestogetoutofalifeofcommittingsmallsustainablecrimes.Hindsightistwenty-twenty,Iguess.”
Sydneylaughs,sharply,abruptly,andI’msurprisedtofindthatIcanjoinher
“Allthistoimpresssomewomanwhocheatedonyourassanyway.Ifeelthat.”Shetakesagulpthistimewhensheraisesherglass.
“Yesandno.PartofitwasthatallthatmoneywassittingthereandIknew,intimately,howlittleworkmostofthesepeopledidtoearnit.Kim’sfamilyarethemostmiserlypeopleever,andtheaccountswereheldbysomanypeoplejustlikethem.Everythingwasabouthelpingthemcheattogetmoremoney,tonotpayemployeeswhowereowedmoney,toavoidtaxes,andtohoarditbecausetheydidn’teverwanttospendwhattheyhad.”
Igritmyteethandlookather,expectingtoseejudgment,butherexpressionhasn’tchangedmuch.
“Yougotcaught,”shesays.
“Itriggeredsomeinternalsystembeforeanytransferwentthrough.Thentheystartedlookingintomybackground.Firedmewithoutprosecutingbecausetheydidn’twanttomakethecompanylookbad,butmynamewasblacklistedwithinthecompany,withourpartners,withintheindustry’swhispernetwork.”
“AndKim?”
“Didn’tknow.Wasunderstandingatfirst,whenshethoughtIgotdownsized,butcouldn’tunderstandwhyIcouldn’tjustgetanothergreatjob.ShethoughtIwaslazybutapparentlyneverrealizedIwasjustabadliarandacriminal.Theformerisworsethanthelatterinherworld.”
Sydneydrainsthelastofherdrinkandthumpsatherchest.
“Myturn.”
I’dexpectedmoreofareaction,butsheseemsunfazedbymyconfession.Shegrabsthebottle,pourssomemorescotchforherself,andthentopsmeoff.
“Iwasmarried,likeItoldyou.MommyneverlikedMarcus.Toldmehehadthefingernailsofacheaterandaforeheadlikeabillboard.Ididn’tlisten,ofcourse.Hewasfromanicefamilyandsaidalltherightthings.WhenwehadtomovetoSeattleforhisfirstjoboutofgradschool,Mommyhatedhimevenmorebutwishedthebestforme.”
“Didhehityou?”Iask,becauseIneedtopreparemyselfforthatparticularkindofrage.
“No.Heneverhitme.Just…Inevercoulddoanythingrightoncewegotthere.Icouldn’tfindajobbecausethemarketsucked.”SheraisesherglasstomeandIraisemineinreturn.“Andhisjobwassostressful,somekindofstart-upthatheneverwantedtotalkaboutbecause‘Youwouldn’tunderstand.’Itstartedwithdinner.Suddenlymyfoodwastoospicyortoosaltyornothealthyenough.ThenIwasn’tcleaningthehousewellenough.ThenIwasn’twell-informedenoughandhedidn’twanttobringmearoundhiscolleaguesincaseIembarrassedhim…”
Shelaughsbitterly.“Andthen,‘Hey,you’vegainedsomeweight.’‘No,Iwouldnevercheat,stopbeingparanoid.’Andthen,‘MaybeIdidcheatbutyou’recrazy,weshouldhaveyoucommitted.’”
“Jesus,Sydney.Youdidn’tdeservethat.Youknowthat,right?”
Shegivesmeajerkynod.
“Seriously.You’rebeautiful,you’reinteresting,andevenifhedidn’tthinksotherewasnoreasonforhimtotreatyoubadly.”
Sheexhalesdeeply.
“Thanks.Itallfeelssosillynowcomparedtoeverythingelse.Whilethatwasgoingon,Mommystartedhavingsomehealthproblems.Shecouldn’tworkasmuch.Startedfallingbehindinthewaterbillpayments,thetaxes,andshedidn’twanttobothermewithanyofit.Itoldhereverythingwasfine,andshetoldmeeverythingwasfine,andguesswhat?”
“Nothingwasfine,”Ivolunteer.
Shenods.“Onedayshegetsacallsayingthatshe’sindangeroflosingthehousebecauseshe’srackedupbacktaxes.Thispersoniscallingfromaprogramtohelppeoplegettheirdebtincontrolandmakesuretheydon’tlosetheirhomes.Shedoesn’twanttobothermebecausesheknowsI’mnotdoingwell,soshedoesn’tevenmentionit.Shedoesn’ttellmeanything!Shejustagreestotheirtermsandconditionsbecauseshewantstomakesureshedoesn’tlosethehouse,myinheritance.Whodoesthat?”
Atearstartstoslipdownhercheekandshebrushesitawayhard.“Thenwhaddayaknow,ayearlaterherdebthasballooned.Thecompanythatwassupposedtohavepreventedthisdoesn’tknowhowthishappenedbuttheycanhelp.They’rewillingtopayoffherdebtforher.Allshehastodoissignthehouseovertothemandthedebtwillgoaway.Shecanstayinthehouseuntil…untilshedies.It’llbejustlikethedebtneverhappened.They’llevengivehersomemoney.Atthatpoint,sheknewthingswithMarcuswerebad.Sheknewifshecouldgetsomemoneyforme,maybeIwouldleavehim.Thehousewouldn’tgetpasseddowninthefamilylikeshe’ddreamed,butshewouldn’thavetoworryaboutmepayingoffherdebtbecausesomeoneelsehadtakenit.AndI’dstillhavesomeplacetocomebackto.Soundslegit,right?”
Hereyesaresofilledwithhurt,ahurtIunderstandcompletely—thepainofgrabbingaproverbialhotdoorknob,pullingthedooropen,andnotbeingabletoletgoasyourmother’sbaddecisionsflambéyouintheirbackdraft.
“I’msorry.”Idon’tknowwhattodo,soIgentlypryawaythecigarettethat’sburneddowntothefilterandputitintheashtraybeforeholdingherhand
“Icamebackafterthedivorceandshedidn’ttellmeanythingthen,either.”Hervoiceishoarse,breakingeverywordsoIhavetoleanintounderstandher.“Shedidn’ttellmeanythinguntilshegotsick,andthensheonlytoldmebecausesherealizedhowthey’dfooledher,stolenallherhardworkfromhersothatitaddeduptolessthannothing.Shegotmadthen,andtoldme,‘Don’tyouletthemtakemyhouse.Ourhouse.Nomatterwhathappenstome.’”
Sydney’seyesareunblinkingandemptyashergazemeetsmine.
“She’sinthegarden.Mommyisinthegarden.”
Chapter16
Sydney
ISTARTSHAKINGNOWTHATI’VESAIDITOUTLOUD—IFEELlikeImightshivermyselfrightoutofmyseat.
Ican’tbelieveI’vetoldhim.Iwasn’tsupposedtotellanybody.Whyhim?
Mostlybecausehewasthere,butmaybebecausehelookssoconcerned.MaybebecauseI’mfuckinglonely,andhetoldmethatI’mbeautifulandheldmyhand.
No.
It’sbecausethissecrethasbeenturningmetoashfromtheinsideoutandI’vehittheI’mnotfeelingsogood,Mr.Starkthreshold.IfIhadn’ttoldhim,Iwouldhavebeenlost.
Theoisstillholdingmyhand,andIexpecthisgriptoslackenbutitgetstighter.“Hey.Whoa.Whatdoyoumeanshe’sinthegarden?”
“Um.”MythroattightenspainfullyandItrytobreathethroughitsoIcanspeakthewordsthathavetiedthishouseIlovesomucharoundmynecklikeanalbatross.“Shegotreallysickand—andshedidn’twanttobeabotheranymore.Themoneyshe’dgottenfromthepeoplewhostolethehousewasgonesofastwithallthemedicalbills.Herhealthinsurancewasshit.Mysavingswentlikethat.”Isnap,ortrytobutmyhandsareshakingtoomuch.“Wewerewatchingherfavoritemovieinherbed.ConAirConAir!God,Mommyhassuchbadtasteinmovies.IfIwouldhaveknown—”
Isuckinabreath,caughtoffguardasIthinkaboutthelastnightwithher.HowI’dsnuggledupnexttohertoo-thinbodyandkeptcrackingjokesabouthowbadthemoviewas—howshehadn’ttoldmetostopinterrupting,likesheusuallydid.
“That’sanunderratedclassic,”Theosayscalmly,likethisisafirstdateandwe’remakingsmalltalk.“Igrewoutamulletafterwatchingit.”
Isniffleandswallowthetearsandthesnotandthepain.“Shetoldmeshelovedmewhenthecreditsrolled.Shetoldmethatifshediedbeforewewereabletogetthehousebacklegally,Icouldn’tletanyoneknowbecauseshewouldn’tbeabletorestknowingshe’dfailedme,andanykidsIhad,andanykidstheyhad.Generationalwealthalllostbecauseofonemistake.
“Ifoundherbottleofpainkillersemptythenextmorning.Andshewas…shewas…Therecouldn’tbeadeathcertificate,right?Thenthey’dknow.Iburiedherinthegardenthatnight.”
Ithurtsthinkingaboutherfacesostill,herbodyso…empty.Aboutwrappingherupinherfavoriteblanket.
Ijammyfingertipsagainstmyforearmandrub—Irememberhowcoldandslackshewasbeneathmyfingers.Ican’tstopfeelingthatmemory.
Theobreaksthesilence.“Youmovedherbyyourself?”
“Yeah.”Hedoesn’tneedtoknowaboutDrea.Afterthatnight,wenevermentioneditagain.AndItoldherifanyoneeverasked,Iwouldnever,evertakeherdownwithme,woulddenyitevenifshetriedtoconfess.Butit’sbeensoheavyonmysoul.AndDrea’s,soIthought.Butthere’sthatcheck.Thatcheckwiththenameofthecompanythattrickedmymotherinthe“issuedby”area:GoodNeighborsLLC.
Thelawyertoldmethatsometimescompanieslikethisgivemoneytoapersonwhohelpsthemconvincetheirmarkstosignthehouseaway.ButDreacouldn’thave…she’dnever…
Theostandsupandhissneakerssqueakonthetilebehindme.Maybehe’sgoingtocallthepolice.
Ihearthefridgedooropenandthesniktofabottlecapbeingtwistedoff.Heplacesabottleofwaterinfrontofme,sitsbackdown,pullinghischairslightlyclosertome.Hisrightarmisalongthebackofmychair,andhisgazeislockedonmyface.
“Drinkthewater.”HewaitsuntilIpickupthebottleandtakeasip,urgesmetotakeanother,thensays,“Soyourmom…died.Andyouburiedherinthecommunitygarden?”
Inod,waitingforhimtotellmethethingthatkeepsmeupatnight:whatanawful,evildaughterIam.HowIfailedher.Buriedherlikeadog,anddidn’tevengivehersoulthechancetohavehermemoryhonoredandcelebrated.I’mnotreligious,butIwonderallthetimeifI’vesomehowdamnedheralongwithmyself.
“Whereinthegarden?”Theoasks.
Thewordsfalloutofmymouth.“Behindtheshed.There’sastripofsunflowers.She’sunderthem.”
Ican’tbringmyselftolookathiminthelongsilencethatfollows,butglanceathimfromthecornerofmyeyewhenIhearhimshiftinhisseat.
“Well,Ithinkthat’snicerthanbeinginacemeterysomewherewithabunchofstrangers.Youburiedhersomeplacesheloved.”Hesighsdeeplyandsmoothsbothhandsdownhisbeard,butthennods.“It’sillegalasfuck,butI’mnotexactlyonetojudgethat.Ican’timaginehowhardthishasbeenforyou,goingthereeveryday,notabletotellanyone.Howunfairitwasthatyouwerepushedtomakethatdecision.”Hisgazerestsonme,andthere’snojudgmentamongthevariousemotionsinhiseyes.“I’msorry,Sydney.”
It’sthelastsorrythatbreaksme.He’ssaiditafewtimes,butthisonefinallysinksin.I’vegottensousedtoapologizingforbeingtooweaktocarrymyownburdens—Idon’tknowifanyone’severapologizedtomeforhowheavytheyare,eveniftheycouldn’tdoanythingtolightentheload.
Iputthewaterbottledownanddropmyheadtothetabletop,oneswiftmotiontohidethefissureofpainhiswordsopeninme.Asilentsobchokesmeup,butthebandsoffearandpanicthathavebeensqueezingmeformonthsfallaway.
Icanbreathe.Itakeinadeepshudderingbreath,andwhenIexhaleit’slikeadambreaking.
Herubsmybackandletsmecry;thetearspoolonthetableandcoolagainstmyheatedface,butIdon’tstop.
AtsomepointheslipshisarmthroughmineandhalfcarriesmetothecouchasIsobandsobandsob,butforthefirsttimeinalongtime,itfeelssomethinglikerelief.Ikeenintohischest,andhejustcradlesme.
Idon’tevencareifhereportsmetothepoliceafterthis,really.Rightnow,itfeelsgoodtobeheldwithoutjudgment,withoutfeelingweakorevilorlikeIletMommydown,evenifjustforafewminutes.
Idon’tknowhowmuchtimehasgonebywhenthesobstaperoff,buthe’sstillholdingme,stillrubbinghishandovermyback.
“Thepeoplewhoscammedheroutofthehousedon’tknow,”hesays.Hisvoiceisroughandlow.
“No.TheykeepcallingtocheckinandIkeepmakingexcuses.ButI’mstartingtofeelcrazy,likethey’rewatchingme.Likethey’regonnafindoutandthencomeandtakeeverything.Andthegarden,today…”Awaveoffull-bodyterrorseizesmeasIrememberthebreathingontheotherendofthephone.
No.Theywouldhavejustarrestedme,thoughthatseemsinevitable.
“Iftheystartdiggingforafoundation.They’llfindher.It’llallbeover.Thehousewillbetaken.I’llbeinjail.”
ThewellofpanicI’vejustcriedoutstartstofillagain.
“Okay.Okay.Don’tworryaboutthatfornow.Itusuallytakesawhileforaplacetogetbuildingpermitsandallthatjazz.”He’sstillspeakingasifthisisaperfectlynormalsituation,andithelpstocalmme.Maybeitisn’tnormal,butitiswhatitis.
“Idon’tthinkthesepeopleareexactlyboundbytherules,”Isay.“Thedeedtheyhadwasapproved,butitwasfake.Iknowitwas.ThesupposednewowneroftheplotgotsomadwhenIquestionedhim,likehowpeopleblowupwhenthey’retryingtohidesomethingandwanttoscareyoufromthetruth.Andthere’snothingIcando.”
Wesitinsilence.Theo’sheartisbeatingfasteventhoughheseemsoutwardlycalm,andIrememberhimgrinningatmeandtellingmehisownsecret.
Theoisaliar.Agrifter,withpossibletiestothemob.He’samanI’veknownforjustafewdays.
I’veentrustedhimwiththeonethingthatcandestroywhat’sleftofmylifeandpossiblytakeoutDrea,too.
“Pleasedon’ttellanyone,”Isay,notnearlyasupsetasIshouldbebecausemybodyislimplikeawetwashcloth.I’llprobablybeangrierwithmyselftomorrow.ButI’vefeltsoheavyforsolong,andnowI’mlight,likeIcouldfloatawayfromalltheseproblemsforjustalittlebit.
“Gotosleep,Sydney.”Theobrusheshishandovermybraids,thenexertspressure,holdingmeagainsthim.It’sthisstillnessthatmakesmerealizeI’mshaking.
“But—”
“Justgotosleep,”hesaysgently.
Ido.
WHENIWAKEupafewhourslater,I’mstretchedoutonthecouchandthethrowblanketfromTargetthatusuallyrestsononeofthearmsistuckedaroundme.Isitup,headthrobbingandfaceswollen,andfindanotherbottleofwater,someAdvil,andacoldcompressfromthefreezersittingonthecoffeetable.They’vebeenthereforawhile,judgingfromthecondensation.
Iconsiderthatmaybethiswasafarewellgiftbeforehewentandcalledthepolice—though,maybetheywouldhavebeenherebynow?Unlessthey’reatthegarden…
Butheisn’texactlythekindofpersonwhowouldwanttoinvitetheattentionofthepolice,either.
Ipalmthetwopillsandtakeasipofthewatertowashthemdown,thenpickupthecoldcompressandstareatitforaminute.Thisissomethoughtfulshit.
Ilayitovermyswolleneyes,butwhenamemoryflashesinmymindfromthathorriblenightinthegarden,Ipullitoff,throwitbackontothecoffeetable,andgotothekitchentolookforanothercigarette.
There’reotherthingsIshouldbedoing.Goingtothepolicemyself,toexplainwhathappened?RunningofftoBelize,whichhasnoextraditiontreatybutdoeshavethosecutemanatees?Icouldcreateanewlifeasanever-marriedmanateetourguidewhosemotherisabsolutelyfinebutwon’tcometovisit,andnoonewouldeverknowaboutmypast.
Igiggleatthethought.ThegigglesarealittlewildeventhoughmythoughtsaresurprisinglycalmgiventhesituationI’min.
That’swhathappenswhenlifekeepsthrowingshitatyou—thelastmonths,hell,eventhislastweek,havebeenenoughtopushsomeoneovertheedge.ButI’mstillhere.AndnowthatIcanthinkclearly,I’mstartingtosuspectthatsomemajorlyfucked-upshitisgoingon,besidesthefactthatIhadtodigmyownmother’sgrave.
I’llthinkitthroughafteranothercigarette.
I’mfidgetingwiththepacket’sfliptopwhenthere’sahardknockattheapartmentdoor.
IfeelaspurtofangerthatIwon’tevengettoenjoythislastdraginpeacebeforegoingtojail,whereI’llhavetopaywhoknowswhatpriceifIreallyneedahitofnicotine.
Iwon’tevengettogototheblockparty.
“Sydney?”
IflingthedooropentofindastrangewhitemanstandingthereinjeansandaT-shirt.No.It’sTheo,hishairdarkerbecauseit’swetandhisbeardshavedtorevealtheharshanglesofhisjaw,whichdoalottowardcontainingandputtingintoperspectiveallthoseotherprominentfeaturesonhisface.Ithoughtthebeardwasgreat,butIlikethissmooth-facedstrangeratmydoor,bearinggifts.
Heholdsupaplasticbag,slowly.“I,uh,wentforawalk.GotsomeguavatartsfromtheCaribbeanbakerybecauseitwastheonlyplaceopenthisearly.Doyoulikethose?”
I’mabouttoanswerwhenInoticehisnails.There’sasolidcrescentofdirtundereachofthem.Thatdirtwasn’tthereyesterdayevening.
“Theo.”
Ipullhiminsidebythefrontofhisshirtandslamthedoorbehindhim.
“Soyoudolikeguavatarts?Good.”
Igraboneofhisbighandswithbothofmine.Thereareblistersthatwillsoonformintocallusesonthepalmpadsbeloweachfinger.Thereisthedirt.WhenIsniffhimclosely,thereisthesmellofsunflowers.
“Theo.Didyou—?”
Heshrugs,runshisotherhandthroughhishair.“Youknowwho’sthelastpersontogetstoppedfordoingsomeweirdshitlikedigginginanemptyBrooklynlotinthemiddleofthenight?Imean,acopcardidstopand—”
“What?”Myheartthumpssohardinmychestthatithurts.
“—ItoldthemIwasburyingmy…dog.I’msorry,itwasthefirstthingthatcametomindthatwouldwork.Thenthecopgotallmisty-eyedabouthisGermanshepherd.”
“Whereisshe?”Iask,myheartinmythroat.
Helooksatmeforabeatlongerthanitshouldtaketoreply.“Therewasnothingthere.Noonethere.Underthesunflowers.”
No.
“Theytookher?”Iask,grippinghishandharder,butheshakeshishead.
“Theymessedthingsup,buttherewasnodiggingbeforeIgotthere.Ididn’tfindher.”
Myentirebodyflinchesfromthisasmultiplethoughtshitmeatonce:someonemovedMommy,Dreaisgone,TheowillthinkI’mcrazy,peoplehurtyouwhentheythinkyou’recrazy.
Maybehewouldn’tbewrong,thinkingthat.
“Iburiedherthere,”Isayquietly.HishandsqueezesmineandIlookupathim.
“Ibelieveyou.”
“Don’tjustsaythatto—”
“Ifyousayyouburiedher,youburiedher.We’llfindoutwheresheis.”Hesqueezesmyhandagain,thepressuresteadyandcomforting.“Everythingisgoingtobeokay.”
OnsomelevelIknowit’swrong,macabre—fuckedup—whenIbringhishandtomymouthandkissthebackofit.
Mommyisgone.
Dreahasseeminglyabandonedme—maybeshe’stheoneinBelizewithher$50K.She’dlookedupcountrieswecouldn’tbeextraditedfrom,afterall.
Theoishere,infrontofme,lookingatmewithkindeyesthathavenotraceofdoubtinthem,hishandsrubbedrawfromanattemptedexhumation.
Noonehasevertriedtosaveme.
Myfearandpainandfatigueburnawayinthegenerouslightofhisattempt,leavingaroaroftheemptinessinsideofme,andthefeelingthatonlyonethingcanfillitrightnow.
Ipullhimbythehandtothebedroom,glancingbackovermyshouldertolookathim.
“Sydney?”Hepausesatthethresholdofmybedroomdoor,despitemyattempttotughimafterme.“Areyousure?”
“Yes.”
“You’vebeenthroughalotand—”
“Youjustsaidyoubelievedme.”Myvoiceistremblingbecausemybodyis.“I’mtellingyouthatIwantyou,needyou,rightnow.Doyoubelievethat?”
Henodsandstepsintotheroomwithme,andeverythingelsefallsaway.
There’snofearofalltheawfulthingsthat’vehappenedbeforethismoment,orallthebadthingsthatmighthappenafter.Justthereliefofhisgaze,sofuckingintenseashelooksdownatme.Theexpectationofhistouch,hisheat,hisscent,hispresence…
Iexpecthimtobegentle,buthedropsthebagonthefloorandhishandsmovetowardmyshoulderslikehe’sbeenholdinghimselfbackfromitfordays.Hisfingertipspressintomyshoulderbladesashepullsmetowardhim.
Theo’sgazeroamsallovermyfacebeforehemeetsmyeyes,readsmyconfirmationthere,andkissesme.
I’mnottheonlyonewhoneedsthisrightnow.Ourkissisliketwodrowningpeoplesearchingforalifepreserver,findingeachotherinstead,anddecidingthatroaringwavesaren’tsobadifyoucanfuckinthelullsbetweenthem.
Hismouthmovesasdesperatelyasmine,histonguesearchesasfrantically;agroanslipsbetweenmylipsbutIcan’tpinpointitsorigin—himorme.
Hebacksmeuptothewallofthebedroom,onehandslidingfrommyshouldertomyneckandrestingthere—notsqueezing,butsimplyrestraining.Holdingme,keepingmefromfallingapart.Heatsearsthroughmybodyathistouch,atthefactthatheunderstandsitisn’troughnessthatwouldhurtmerightnow,butcoddling.Hiseyesaretookindforhistouchtobegentle—Iwouldn’tbeabletostandthat.Soheholdsmeashismouthcrushesintomineandhishipsgrindagainstme,hisarmwedgedbetweenus.
Heglancesintomyeyesafewminuteslater,faceflushedandeyesstormy.Hisfingertipsstrokeundermyjawboneasheasks,“Doyouneedmore?”
WhenInod,helowershishandstomyhipsandhismouthtomyneck,suckingatmyskin,rubbinghislipsacrossmycollarbone.MynipplesarehardpointsthroughthefabricofmycamisoleandheteasesthemthroughthefabricwithhisteethasIdrivemyhandsintohishair.Heuseshischintodragthetopofmyshirtdown,andhislightstubbleteasesmysensitiveskinbeforehesucksanipplebetweenhislips.
Forthefirsttimeinmonths,mymindisgloriouslyclear,allofmytroublesandpainhackedawaybythepleasureofTheo’stongueswirlingovermynipples,firstright,thenleft,ofhishandspressingmyhipsagainstthewallsothatwhentheyliftinvoluntarilymyassisforcedtoremainagainstthewall.
“Theo.”Ishoveathisshouldersandhishandsareoffmeinstantly,histongueasecondlater.Helooksupatme,browsraised,andwhenIpushhimagain,hetumblesbackontomybedwithagrin,handsalreadyreachinguptocatchmetohimasIscrambleontopofhim.
Ifumbleinthebedsidetabledrawerforacondomandlube,andTheotakesadvantageofmyraisedhipsandshovesdownhispantsandboxers.
HefollowsmyleadasIrollusover,butstopsmovingasIreachbetweenourthighstopumphisveinyshaft,toslidethecondomonandwarmthelubeusingmyfingertips.
He’slookingatmeallgentleagain,soIliftmyheadandkisshimhardasIholdhisgaze,teasehisbottomlipwiththethreatofahardbite.Ifeelhisgrinbetweenmylips,andthenhethrustsintome.
Hedoesn’tpushintomeroughly,butIstillgaspattheslow,teasingstretchofhim.He’sthick,hot,andhardinsideofme,hisweightcrushingmetothebed.Hedoesn’tmoveforasecond,asifadjustingtobeingencompassedbymytightheat.
“Sydney.”Helowershisheadandkissesme,andwhenIslidemyhandsintohishairandtug,whenIniphisbottomlipagain,hepullsoutanddrivesintomehard.
Afterthatitallmovestooquickly,thisalmostviolentdesirecausedbythecareinacrescentofdirt.I’mhalfoffthebedatonepoint,myheadbangingagainstthefloor,thenonmyhandsandknees.Ifliphimontohisback,ridinghisdickdesperatelybecauseIneedthisrelease,need…
HebrushesawaytearsIdidn’trealizewererollingdownmycheekswithonethumbandstrumsmyclitwiththeother,andIbuckleagainsthimastheorgasmhitsmelikeacleansingwave.
Chapter17
Theo
NOTTHINKINGTOODEEPLYBEFOREIACTHASLEDMEDOWNsomeprettybizarrepathsinlife.
Committingcrimeswithmydad.Lyingtogethiredatsomehot-shitcompany.BuyingahousewithsomeoneI’mnotmarriedtowhilehavingnorealknowledgeofhowowningpropertyworks.Tryingtosiphonmoneyfromrichpeople,andgettingcaught.
Searchingformyneighbor’smom’sbodysoIcanmoveittoasafelocation.
I’dthoughtaboutthefirsttimeIhandledadeadbodyasIshoveleduphumidmoundsofdirtlookingforYolandaGreen.Myownmomhadbeenwatchingbackthen,blood-spatteredandangryatme,likeIhadn’tjustsavedherfrombeingtheoneonthereceivingendofashotgunblast.
MomandIdon’ttalkaboutthat.
Ever.
Wedon’ttalkabouthowIwasseventeenandhadtoleavetownabruptlyatthebeginningofsenioryear.That’swhenImovedinwithmydadandlearnedsomethingsfromhimthatwouldhavecomeinhandywithburyingthatfirstbody,ormaybewould’veputastoptothesituationbeforeitgotthatfar.
Idon’tknowwhereSydney’smotheris,butIbelievethatSydneyputherintheground.Icouldbewrong,butI’vebeenwrongaboutworsethings.
WhatI’mnotsureaboutiswhathappenedafterIgottoherapartment.Shewantedme,Iwantedher,butmaybeitwasjustoneofthoseweirdemotionalpressure-valve-releasethingsandshewashappyforittoendthere.
Webothpassedoutafterthatfirstroundofsex,wakinguphourslatertothesoundofafternoonnoiseontheblock.Shegotupandhadacigarette,brushedherteeth,andthenwediditagain,moreslowlythistimebutjustasintense.Thenwesleptsomemore,untilshepulledmeintotheshowerwithherafterwelaysweatingonherbedforawhile.Inherclawfootbathtub,shestoodnakedandsoapybeneathmyhands,dodgingtheshowerspraybecauseshedidn’twanttogetherbraidswetasshekissedme.
Itseemedlikesomesurrealdreamoutsideofeverythingthat’shappenedoverthelastfewdays,butnowwe’rebackinreality.Mybodyachesfromgrave-robbingandweirdsexualpositionsandshe’ssittingacrossthetablefromme,mouthfullofguavatartandwideeyesdartingbackandforth,everywherebutmydirection,asshechews.
TheairconditionerwhinesinthebackgroundandIfumblearoundforsomethingtosay.Idon’tknowthebanging-after-attempting-to-hide-a-body-for-youetiquette.
“Thisisawkwardashell,”shefinallysays,thentakesanotherbiteofhertartandpullsherfeetupontoherchairsoherkneespressagainstthetableandblockherchestfromview.She’swearingathin-strappedwhitetanktopandblackcaprisweatsthatarebothlooseandformfitting.
Inodinagreement.“Definitelyatthetopoftheweird-first-dateslistforme.”
Shechuckles,crumbsdustinghersmileashergazefinallylandsonmyface.
“Minetoo.Iguess.”Shesighs.“Ithink…IneedtotalkabouttheweirdweekI’vebeenhaving.Ifnotfindingmy—anythinginthegardenhasn’tledyoutobelieveI’mcrazy,thenmaybeyou’retheonlypersonIcantalkaboutthiswith.I’veactuallymanagedtosleepformorethanacoupleofhours,andmybrainissomewhatfunctional,thoughIwishitwasn’t.”
“Tryme.”
“YousawtheConEddudewhotriedtogetintomyhouse,”shesaysquietly.Hereyeswiden.“Didn’tyou?Thathappened,right?”
“Yes.Isawhim,Isawthevan,andtheentiresituationwasshady.Look,justtellmewhatyouthinkisgoingon.I’llbelieveyou,okay?”
Asliverofthisisbullshitting;Idon’tknowherthatwellandanynumberofmentalillnessescouldbeatplay.Idon’tthinkthat’sthecase,butevenifitis,shebelieveswhatevershe’sabouttotellme,andwecantakeitfromthere.
Shetwistshermouth.“Andif…ifwhatIsayiscrazy,willyoutellmethat?Andnotjustcallthecopsonme?”
Inod.“Iwon’tcallthepolice.”
Shetakesadeepbreath.“There’sbeenotherstuff,besidesthat.TwodaysbeforetheConEdguy,IgotintoanUber,andthedriverlockedthedoorsanddrovemetoasemi-desertedstreet.Hestartedsayingwildshitaboutbeinganex-copandcivilizingtheneighborhoodand—Idon’tremembereverything.Itwasterrifying.”
Mystomachtightenswiththesuddenfearofwhatcanhappentoawomantrappedinthebackofastranger’scar.“Whydidn’tyoutellme?”
“Ididn’tknowyou,”shesays.“Thisweekhasbeenlikethreeyearslong,butthiswasbeforeyouevencameheretohavecoffee.”
ShecouldhavedisappearedbeforeI’devenhadthechancetogettoknowher.
“Plus,there’snorecordofthedriverinmyaccount.”Herhandsshakealittlenowandsheputsthehalf-eatentartdown.“EverythingstartedtohappensofastthatIcouldn’tkeepup.Thatsameday,Prestongotarrestedonsomebullshit.AndthenMr.Perkinswasgone.Dreahasn’trespondedtomytextsandcalls.Iheardnoiseupstairsinherapartmentacoupleofnightsago,andwhenIwentupthere,therewerebedbugsonherbed.Alotofthem.”
Herincreasinglyspeedywordscrashtoahaltassheshudders.
“Theytookthebodega.Andthenthegarden.Everythingis…”Shepressesherpalmstotheoutsidecornersofhereyesandpullsback,stretchingtheskinwhileblinkingrapidly.She’stryingtopreventanotherdelugeoftears.
“Whatdoyouthinkthisallmeans?”Iask,soundingcalmerthanIfeel.I’mgettingthatfeelingofsomethingbadheadingourway.
“Idon’tknow,”shesays.“Itfeelslikesomeoneismessingwithme.Notjustme.Withallofus.Butthatdoesn’tmakesense,doesit?”
I’mtryingtopiecetogethertherandomthingsthatdon’tseemrandomtoherandfigureouthowtorespondwhenafamiliarhowlingbarkcomesfromoutsidethehouse.
“Count,”Sydneysays,thetartdroppingontoherplateasherbodysagswithrelief.“Thankgod.”
Shehopsupandjogsoutoftheapartmenttowardthefrontdoor,andIfollowataslowerpace;ifI’djoggedafterher,Iwouldhaverammedrightintoherwhenshestopsshortatthetopoftheouterstairs.
ThemovingtruckcomesintoviewasIstepoutbehindher.There’sadark-hairedmiddle-agedwomanandherblond-fading-to-grayhusbandstandingoutfrontasmoverscarttheirbelongingsinside.He’swearingkhakishortsandabutton-upshirtandshehasonabreezy,expensivedress.NeitherofthemwouldlookoutofplaceatagatheringatKim’sparents’house.
Theyhaveadogonaleash,anoldhoundwholooksupatSydneyandtriestoruntoher,onlytogettuggedback.
Sydneyslipsintoflip-flopsandstartswalkingslowlydownthestairs.“Count?”
Thedogstrainstowardheragainandthewomantugstheleashhardenoughthathewhinessharply.
“Down,boy,”themansays.“Beagoodboy.”
“Areyouournewneighbor?”thewomanaskswiththatslightlycondescendingsmileKim’smomalwaysusedtogiveme.
“I’mMr.Perkins’sneighbor,”Sydneyreplies.“He’scominghometoday.”
Thecouplelookateachother,seeminglybaffled,beforelookingbackatSydney.“Weownthishouse,”thewomansays.“OurdaughterMelissamovedherefirst,sinceshewasstartingschool,andthenwedecidedwewantedanadventureinthecity,too.”
“Brooklynisthenumberonemosthappeningplacetolivenow,evenmoreexclusivethanManhattan,”thehusbandadds,hisvoiceaparodyofacountryclubChadthatisn’taparody.“Allofourfriendsarejustflockinghere,andwedidn’twanttobethelastones!”
Theylaugh,andIjustwatchthem,mywholebodyfeelingheavyasmybraintriestofightwhatmygutisscreamingatme:Thisisn’tright.Thisdefinitelyisn’tright.They’rejustmovingintosomeone’shouse.Mr.Perkins’shouse.ThemanIpossiblysawsomethinghappento,andwhoIwastoldwasvisitinghisfamily.
“No,”Sydneysays.“Mr.Perkinsiscomingbackfortheblockparty.Andthat’shisdog.”
Themanlookstakenaback.“Wegotthisdogattheshelter.Someonehadabandonedit—youknowsomepeopledon’tlikedogs.Remindsthemofwhentheycouldbechaseddownandreturnedtoslavery.That’swhatIheard.”
“Itreallyisashame,”hiswifesays,frowning.“Thedogsdidn’tdoanythingtodeservethatkindofhatred.”
“Whoa,”Icutin,butCountryClubChadtalksrightoverme.
“AsforMr.Perkins,trustme,hewaspaidmorethanenoughtobeabletomovesomewhereelse.Whereverhewanted.Idon’tseewhattheproblemis.”
“Hewouldn’tmovewithouttellingmeoranyoneelse,”Sydneysaysangrily.“Andwherewouldhego?Thisishisneighborhood.We’rehisneighbors!Hewouldn’tjustleaveus.”
Thewomanstepsclosertoherhusband,asifshe’sscaredofbeingattacked.
“Thisisn’taveryhospitablewelcome,”thehusbandsaysinthesametoneheusedtochastiseCount.“Andifyouwanttocontinue,youshouldknowI’mclosefriendswiththechiefofpolice.”
“Sydney,comeon,”Isay,doingmyownCountryClubChadparody.“Let’sgotomyplace.”
Sheresistsmytugatherarm,thenwhirlsupthestepstoherhouseanddownthehall.
“Ohwait.You’reKim’slatest?Weren’tyouatthehouselastsummer?”thehusbandaskswhileSydney’sgone.“Shealwayspicksupthemostinterestingplaythings.Iguessyoudo,too.”
“YouknowKim?”
Hisbrowwrinkles.“Ofcourse—”
“Charlie!Gomakesurethemoversdon’tbreakthat.It’sbeeninmyfamilyforyearsandhejustdroppeditwithoutasecondthought!”
Charliegivesmeastrangelook,thelookyougivesomeonewhenyougreetthemlikeafriendandthenrealizethey’rejustasimilar-lookingstranger.
Heandhiswifeheadovertothemovingtruck,tuggingCountalongwiththem,andSydneystormsbackdownthestairswithmyduffelbagoverhershoulder,variouspapersshovedhaphazardlyinside.SheglancesatCharlieandhiswifeastheystandnexttoagiantcarved-woodAfricanstatuethatthemoversareabouttotakeupthestairs.
IguideSydneyintomyhouse—Kim’shouse—andintothefirst-floorapartment.Whichisn’tacauldronthathasn’tbeencleanedforamonth,likemine.SydneyandIpushasidetheexpensivecurtainsandglareatthepeoplewhoclaimtheyboughtahousethatwasn’tforsale.
TerryandJosiewanderoverwithArwinandToby,greetingthenewcomerswithacombinationofairkissesandfirmhandshakes.
Sydneypushespastmeanddropsontothecouch.“AmIgoingcrazy?Pleasetellmethetruth,becauseIalreadythoughtIwas,butthisfeelslikeI’mgoingcrazyforreal.”
Iflexmyhands,breathingslowly,tryingtocollectmythoughts.Mr.Perkinswassokindandwelcomingtome,andconstant,andnowhe’sjustgone.
“Iwasatthemeeting,”Isay.“Hehadnoplanstomove,andhewouldn’tleavehisdogifhedid.Ifyou’recrazy,I’mcrazy,too.”
ShecoversherfacewithherhandsforafewminutesandIdon’tpushher;amomentofquietwouldn’thurteitherofusrightnow.
Eventually,shesighsshakilythroughherfingersandherheadpopsup.
“I’mthinkingaboutthetour,”shesays,whichismaybethelastthingIexpecthertosay.
“Thetour?Youstillwanttodoittomorrow?”Ican’tkeeptheedgeofyou’rekiddingmeoutofmyvoice.
“Welookedupalotofhistory.Wetalkedtoalotofpeople.Andsomeofthosethingsareringingbellsformenow.”
Shelooksatmeforalongmoment,asifwaitingformetoguess,butIhavenocluewhatshe’stalkingabout.
“IresearchedthepastandpresentofGiffordPlace.OfBrooklyn.IwantedtothrowmymiddlefingerupatZephyr,atVerenTech,at…atyou.”
Igetwhatshemeans,butitstillchafes.“Atgentrification.”
Shenods.“ButIhadn’tfoundthethingthattiesittogether.Thehook,likebrownstones,orfamousarchitects,orwhatever.AndifI’mright,thishookisfuckingoldandsharp.Therearepatternsinallofthesesituationsthatwerejustgoingtobestopsonthetour,spiralingoutfromthebeginning.”Shepauses,licksherlips.“Noneofthisishappeningbychance.Howcouldit?”
“Whatdoyoumean?”Iask.ItoldherIwouldbelieveher,butI’dalreadydealtwithKim’sparanoia—
Kim’swordsslamintome.
“Therearejustsofewofus.”
“Weneedtoknowwhetherthere’sanythingtoworryabout.Safety-wise.”
TheyhadaprivategrouponOurHood…Whatfor?
CharlieknowsKim.Knowsme.
SydneykicksthecoffeetablethatI’vealwayshatedawayfromthecouch,pullsmyduffelbetweenherlegs,andstartspickingthroughthemessofpapers.Whenshespeaks,herwordsspilloutinarush.
“Okay.Boom.RememberwhenyoucametoMr.Perkins’sbeforethemeetingandIwasreadingaboutUnderhill?Well,no,youwouldn’trememberthat,butthisiswhatIwasreading.”Shepullsoutanoldyellowedpamphlet.“It’sthisBritishdudejerkingoffabouthowgreatkillingNativeAmericansissoyoucantaketheirlandandabouthowAmericaisgreatbecauseit’ssouninhabited.Thecognitivedissonanceofthat,right?Hewouldn’tbeouttherekillingNativeAmericansifnoonewasontheland.Hewasamercenaryforthecolonizers,basically,andtheDutchhiredhimtokilltheNativesaroundhere.HehelpedpavethewayforNewYorkCityasitisnow.”
“Okay.”Itakethepamphletandstareatit,goingalongwithherbutworriedforthefirsttimethatherbeliefsaregoingtofallintothe“allinherhead”category.“So,thiswasinthe1600s?”
“Yes,”shesays.“Nowthinkabouttheinfofromtheheritagecenter.ThelawspreventingBlackpeoplefrompassingdownpropertytheyownedtotheirchildrenwereputinplaceinthe1700s.Weeksvillewasfoundedinthe1800sbecauseyouhadtoownlandtovote,whichiswhytheymadeitsohardforBlackpeopletoownland.”She’snoddingasshetalks.“ThepeopleinWeeksvillebuildawholecommunity,andthenboom,suddenlythegovernmentjusthastoplowrightthroughwithEasternParkway,likenoonelivedthere?Justliketheydidwiththeindigenouspeople.Justlikethey’vedonewithsomanycommunitieswhenyoudoeventhemostbasicGooglesearchforthis.CentralParkwasbuiltonaBlackcommunity.Iamleavingawholelotoutrightnow,butit’slikethiscyclerepeatingoverandoveragain.”
“Hey.Maybeweneedtojustthinkonthisabit,”Isay.
“Youdon’tseethepattern?Ithoughtyousaidwewerebothcrazy.Damnit,Theo.”Sheplucksapacketofpapersout,flipsafewpages,andthenshakesitatme.“TheseareinternaldocumentsfromtheVerenTechPharmaproposal.ComparethisdescriptionoftheneighborhoodandUnderhill’slittlemanifesto.”
Hereyesarewide,beggingmetomaketheconnection,soIglancebackandforthbetweenthetwopiecesofevidenceshe’sgivenme.
“Okay,areyousayingyouthinksomedudefromthe1600sisinvolvedintheVerenTechPharmaceuticalsheadquarters?”
Shecloseshereyesandpinchesthebridgeofhernosebeforespeaking.
“No!I’msayingthatthisVerenTechmemofeelslikethesamething.Howtheytalkaboutalltheresourcesintheneighborhoodthatareunderutilized,eventhoughwe’rerightfuckinghere?AndnowAbdulisgoneandsomeracistmotherfuckerownsthebodega.Mr.Perkins—theMayorofGiffordPlace—supposedlyjustupandmoved,withouttellingasinglesoul?”
“Wheredidyouevengetthisfrom?”Iask,flippingthroughthepages.
Herhandslapstohermouththen.
“Ohno.Fuck.”Shepullsoutherphone,swipesaround,andherfacefalls.“Drea.IgotitfromDrea.She’sbeentypingforlikethreefuckingdays!”
Ilookather,hunchedoverherphone,eyeswide,bodytautwithterror.Ishouldgetfarawayfromhere,rightnow.Thisisabovemypaygrade.Iwasgoingalongwithher,butrightnowshe’spossiblyhavingapsychoticbreak.Somethingisgoingonhere,though,evenifSydney’sbehaviorisfreakingmeout.
IthinkofWilliamBilfordmimickingthekabooshofanuclearbomb.
“Rememberwhatyousaidabouthowyougotcaughtatyourcompany?”Sydney’svoiceissuddenlydull.“Thatyoutriggeredsomeinternalsystem,orsomething?”
ShegentlypullstheVerenTechpagesfrommyhand,flipstothefirstdocument,andreadsit.“‘TheCompany(VerenTech)acknowledgesthatthisMemorandumisapublicrecordsubjecttodisclosurebutdoherebyrequirethatwebenotifiedofanyandallFOIArequests,bothduringthecityselectionprocessandintheeventthatacityischosen,toallowtheCompanytoseekaprotectiveorderorotherappropriateremedy.’”
“Otherappropriateremedy,”Irepeat,takingthepapersbackfromher.Thatseemslikesomethingdesignedtoscarepeopleonitsown,butalongwitheverythingelseit’skindofominous.“Youknow,thereisachancethatDrearanoff.She’sanadult.”
“Shewouldn’t,”Sydneysays,asuddenfiercenessinhertone.“It’spossibleshemadeamistake,butwe’vebeenfriendsforhalfofourlives.She’sneverletmedownandshesureashellwouldn’trunfromme.”
Thelookinhereyeishowmymomlookedatmewhenshe’dletherassholeboyfriendmovebackinaftertellingmehewasgoneforgood—indignation,hope,anddesperation.
“Okay.”Inodandflipthroughtheprojectionpagesthatshowthefutureplansfortheneighborhood.“Sometimesacompanytriestopushtheirluck.Getinaheadofthecompetition.Oraheadofanyonewhomightwanttostopthem.Sameasagangoranyothercriminalenterprise.”
Ilookattheclean,reimaginedfutureoftheneighborhood;thisiswhatwassoldtomeandKimbytherealtors.They’dtalkedofrevitalizationandchangingdemographicsandI’dnoddedalongbecauseofcoursethathadnothingtodowithme,butI’dstillgettoreapthebenefits.Andwhentherearebenefitstobereaped,there’salwayssomeonereadytodosomeillegalshittogetevenmoreofthem.
Iknowthatalltoowell.
Sydneysitsonthefloorbesidetheduffelbagandwrapsherarmsaroundherknees,staringatthecouchasshethinks.
“I’mworriedaboutKavaughn,too.Lensaidhewentdownsouth,butit’snotlikehimtojustdiplikethat.”
Kavaughn,theguyIreplacedasherresearcher,thereasonIinsertedmyselfintothismesstobeginwith.
Shegrabsherphoneagainandmakesacall,puttingitonspeakerthistime.Webothstareatthepictureofthethick-neckedmanonthescreen.
“JesusChrist.”Ipickupthephoneasanautomatedmessageannouncesthatthenumberisnolongerinservice.
Sydneylooksupatme.“Whatisit?”
Iwavethephonefromsidetosideashispicturefadesaway.“ThisistheguythatcameatmeinfrontofthemedicalcenterthatItriedtotellyouabout.Hewasonsomething.Iassumedhewasjustyouraveragemethhead—”
“Methisn’tthedrugofchoicehere,Theo.AndespeciallynotforKavaughn.”
“Okay,whatever.Hewashigh.Butatthemeeting,LensaidKavaughnwenttovisithisgrandmother,right?Andifhewashighandroamingaroundgrabbingpeople,wouldn’tsomeoneintheneighborhoodknowhewasback?Ican’thavebeentheonlypersontohaveseenhim.”
“Kavaughndoesn’tmesswithdrugs,”shesays,shakingherhead.“Heisabsolutelya‘drugsareatooloftheoppressor’typedude.Hedoesn’tevendrinkcoffee.Areyousureitwashim?”
IclosemyeyesandbangmyfistlightlyagainstmyforeheadasIrememberwhenhebumpedintome.I’dassumedhewastryingtoattackme,butinretrospect…Isawthatfearinhiseyes.
“Please.Money.”
Wasthatreallywhathe’dbeensaying?
“Mommyisinthegarden.Mommy.”That’swhatSydneysaid.I’mnotusedtoadultscallingtheirmothersthat,but…
Mystomachlurches.
“Didhelivewithhismother?”Iask.
“Withhisgrandmother,butsheraisedhim,soshewasbasicallyhismom.”
Hisgarbledwordsrepeatinmyhead,butthistimeIdon’timaginehe’sbeggingformoneyforhisnextfix.Iimaginehe’saskingforwhatmostdisorientedpeopleaskforwhenthey’reterrified.Thesoundsaresosimilar.
“Mommy?BringMommy.Help.Please!Please!”
I’dreactedtowhatIwastaughttothinkwhenalargeBlackmanranuptomeactingstrangely.
Drugs.
Crime.
Danger.
Andwhenthecopsaskedmewherehe’dgone,Irattedhimout.Acoupledayslater,I’dgliblypulledonaBlackLivesMatterT-shirtandgotpissywhenIwascalledonit.
“Wasithim?”sheasksagain.
Iwanttolietoher,toignoremydisgustwithmyselfandthefeargrowingintoapalpablepresenceinmytorso.
“Itwashim.Forsure.”Ilookather.“I’dstoppedbecauseIthoughtIsawsomethingmovingthroughthewindowintheoldhospital.Andwhenheattackedme…itwasrightafterIaskedhimifhewantedtogotothehospital.”
Shestaresatme,thatdistanceinhergazeagain,andIdon’tvolunteerthatIsnitchedonhimtothecops.
“Okay,let’sjust…processforaminute,”shesays.
Ipulloutmyownphoneandsitbesideher.Atmylastjob,Ilearnedthatmostcompanieshavetheirfingersinmanypies,nomatterwhattheirbusiness.Hell,evenbeforethat,workingwithmydadinlow-levelshithadtaughtmehowafrontoperates.Howdirtymoneygetsclean.
“MostofthisstuffhappenedaftertheVerenTechannouncement,”Isay.
Shenods.
IhearWilliam’skabooshagain.
IGoogle“VerenTech+Brooklyn+RealEstate.”Thefirstfewpagesareamixofarticlesfromthisweekcelebratingtheborough’swinningtheVerenTechcontractsandolderoneswarningoftheharmthecompanymightbring.Nothingstandsout,butIscrolluntilsomethingsnagsmyeye:
VerenTech,whichisprimarilyknownforitspharmaceuticalendeavorsbutisalsotheprimaryshareholderinBevruchTenProperties(BVTRealty)…
That’stheagencyKimandIused.IflashSydneymyscreen.
“They’retheonesputtingupallthosecondos,”shesays,hervoicesurprisinglysubdued.
AsSydneygazesovermyshoulder,IGoogle“VerenTech+BevruchTenProperties.”
Thistimeonlyahandfulofresultsshowup.Oneisalinktoanr/shadybusinessforumpageabouttheVerenTechcampussearch.
Brooklyncanhavethem.EveryoneforgetsaboutthetowntheyboughtinConnecticutintheearly00s.Promisedtonsofwealth,buttheyusedeminentdomaintokickpeopleoutoftheirhousesandthenneverbuilttheirlocationthere.Localbusinessesallcloseddownbecausetheyhadnocustomers.Politiciansandinvestorsalllostbig.Itturnedintoaghosttown.
There’salinkinresponsethatIhesitatetoclickonbutdo.
AdiagramofallthebusinessesconnectedtoVerenTechpopsupinanewtab.Smallerorlargercirclesreflecthowmuchmoneyeachsubsidiaryproducesforthecompanyoverall.VerenTech(pharmaceuticals)islarge,butonlyslightlysmalleristhecirclerepresentingCivilCommunitiesInc.(privateprisoncompany).
“Thesemotherfuckers,”Sydneygrowls.
Severalsmallercirclesclusteraroundthat,offshootsofthatcompany.Thethird-largestcircleisBVTRealty,andthefourthis…
“VeritasBank.Isn’tthattheoneyoutoldmeabout?”Sydneyasks.“Theonetheformerslaveownerstarted?”
“Yeah.AndwhenIlookedthemup,alotoftheheadlineswerepeoplecallingthemoutforofferingsubprimeloanstominoritiesinthelead-uptothe2008housingbubblebursting.”
“Gaininghowmanyhouseswhentheforeclosuresstartedrollingout,”Sydneysaysbitterly.SheexpandsthecirclearoundBVTRealtysothatapixelatednameinasmallercircletakesupmostofthescreen:GoodNeighborsLLC.
“ThosearethepeoplewhostoleMommy’shouse.Drea—”Shetakesadeepbreath.“DreaoncetoldmethatBVTgotspecialtreatment,whichiswhythey’rebuildingheremorethananyoneelse.ShealsosaidsomeonehadpulledlotsofstringsfortheVerenTechdeal.”
“I’mnoRobinHood,butoneofthereasonsIfeltokaystealingfrommyjobwasbecausesomuchofthemoneycominginwasgraft,pureandsimple,”Isay.“TheylaunderedmorecleanlythanthejobIhadbefore,butpeoplewhohavemoneyusethatmoneytomakemoreofit,andtheydon’tcarewhotheyhurtwhiledoingthat.VerenTechhasmoremoneythanmostofuscanimagine.”
“TheychoseBrooklyn,outofalltheplacesvyingfortheirnewcampus,”Sydneysays.“Themostexpensiveplace,buttheonethatwouldmakethemthemostmoneyoncetheygotusalloutofhere.Ifthey’vebeencollectinghousessincetheearlierhousingcrises…”
“Yeah.It’spossiblethatthishasbeenyearsinthemaking.”
Sydneymeetsmygaze,andIconfirmwhatshesaidaminuteago,becausesomethinglikethisbearsrepeatingtomakeitreal.
“Somethingshadyisgoingonhere,andit’sconnectedtothem.”
Chapter18
Sydney
IWRAPMYARMSAROUNDMYKNEES.
“Youknow,sometimesmymotherusedtosendmetheseilluminativideosshegotfromherfriends—shebarelyknewhowtotextbutcouldforwardthose—andIwouldshakemyheadlikeshewasbeingfoolish.Butthiswholesituationmakesthosevideosseemquaint.”
Isqueezemyeyesshutastheconnectionskeepforminginmyhead,lightingupastheydo.
Thepolicepresencehasexplodedoverthelastfewyears,withcopsstationedenmasseatsubwayentrancesandstepped-upfootpatrolsthatweresupposedtoincreasesafety,buthaven’tforthepeoplewholivedhere.Prestonandthemanyotherpeopleintheneighborhoodwho’vebeenarrestedoverthelastcoupleofyearshavelikelybeentakentoVerenTech’sjailsandprisons.AllthenewcondosgoingupinanyavailablesliceoflandareownedbyBVT.VeritasBank,thebiggestlendertothenewbusinessesopening—andtheownerofsomanyofthedefaultedloansofthepast—ispartofVerenTech.
Andallthepeoplewhomovedawayandnevercheckedinwitholdneighborhoodfriends.Wherewerethey?
“Wecan’ttellanyonethis,canwe?Thisislock-you-up-and-sedate-youshit.”Ishakemyhead,tryingtostoptheconspiracytheorydominorally.“Evenifit’strue.”
“Especiallyifit’strue,”Theosays.
Ineverwanttoseetheinsideofaninstitutionagain.IwasonlyattheoneinSeattleforthreesoul-breakingdays,tryingtoexplainthatIwasfine,thatMarcushadlied,thatIwouldn’thurtmyselforhim.
JustthethoughtofbeingignoredwhileIscreamedthetruth,again,makesmewanttovomit.IttookmonthstoassuremyselfIwasn’tactuallycrazyafterMarcus’sfinalactofhumiliation,andallofthisismakingmestarttodoubtagain.
“WhatamIsupposedtodo?”Igetupandpace.“I’mnotwalkingintoapolicestationandannouncingthere’sanorganizedmovementtokillBlackpeopleandstealourland.Eventhoughit’sbeenhappeninginthiscountryforgenerationsanditshouldn’tbehardtobelieve.Canweevencallthisaconspiracytheory?Imean…that’swhythepoliceexistinthefirstplace.Ofcoursetheywon’thelp!”
Thelastofmygoodnervesfray,sothatI’mhangingonbyathread.Theostandsandstepsinfrontofme,blockingmyrestlessstrideandforcingmetolookupathim.
“We’llfigurethisout,okay?”Herunshisknucklesovermyjawline,gently,andItakeadeepbreath.
“How?”Iwanttobelievehim.Sobad.ButatthispointIdon’tseeanywaythisendswell.
“Sydney.”Theoisgrinningashecallsmyattentionbacktohim,thoughhiseyesaresomber.“Ineedyoutochanneltheconfidenceofamediocrewhiteman.I’llgiveyoumine.We’llfigureitoutbecausewedon’thaveanyotherchoice.”
“Right.Right.”Itakeadeepbreath,steadymyselfabit.“Doyouhavechamomileteaorsomething?Ipreferscotch,butIneedsomethingthatwon’taffectmythinking.”
“Letmesee,”hesays,thenheadsdownthehallwaytothekitchen.Ihearthehissandcatchofastovebeinglit,andjumpoutofmyseatreadytofightwhenit’sfollowedbyacurseandametalliccrash.
“I’mokay!”hecallsout.
Idropbackontothecouchpillowsandtakeadeepbreath.There’snochanceinhellthatIcanactuallyrelax,butItrytocollectmythoughts,whichhavescatteredlikefishinthekoipondatProspectParkrunningfromanoff-leashdog
Mygazedartsbackandfortharoundthelivingroom,reallyabsorbingthedifferencesbetweenmyhouseandthisone.Thepaintisnew,andlookslikethethousand-thread-countsheetsofpaint.Therearelittleglassterrariumseverywhere—whenIstoppedinoneofthenewboutiquesthat’sopenedup,thesmallestonewithatinysucculentwasfiftybucks.
Aneight-by-tenofMichelleObamasitsonthemantelpiece,andagiantpaintingofanoldwhitedudehangsaboveit,thekindyouseeinthelobbiesofbanksandgovernmentbuildings.It’soneofthosepaintingswherethebeadyeyesfollowyouanywhereyoumoveinaroom.
Itjump-startsmynervousnessandIgetup,creepovertothewindow,andpeekthroughthecurtains,theicybreezeoftheairconditionerblowingovermyfaceandcalmingmeabit.Themovingtruckisstillparkedtherebutappearstobeempty,andnooneisoutsideMr.Perkins’splace.
WhenIleanclosertothewindowsoIcanseealittlefartherdownthestreet,mythumbrestsagainsttheairconditionerandcomesawaysticky.
Ibenddown,blinkagainstthecoldairhittingmyeyes,andthenfreezeinmycrouchedposition.
There’satackyspotintheshapeofaheartonthefrontoftheairconditioner.AndwhenIcheckthemakeandmodel…it’sthesameasDrea’s.
Irememberherpurple-tippedfingerspressingthestickerontotheairconditionerafterI’dhelpedherinstallit.
“Nowit’llspreadthelove.Getit?Getit?”
Mybrainrefusestoprocesstheimportanceoftheheart-shapedgluemark,orthefactthattheairconditionerthat’sgonefromDrea’sroomisnowhereatTheo’shouse.Fyodor,whoworkedfortheRussianmobatsomepoint.Whotriedtogriftamajorcorporation.WhoofferedtopickthelocktogetintoMr.Perkins’shouse.
Whoclearlywoulddoanythingformoney.
Theo,whohelpfullypointedoutthatallofthisshithadstartedupwhentheVerenTechdealwentthrough,whofoundtheperfectpiecesofevidencetosupportmyconspiracytheories,butwho’dleftoutthefactthathe’delbowedhiswayintomyresearchandmylifeattheexactsametime.
Dammit.
I’dwatchedTheothroughhiswindowsometimes—hadhebeenwatchingme?Theserealestatecompanieswoulddoseeminglyanythingtogettheirhandsonpeople’sproperties.IfIthoughtacompanywouldmurder,itwasn’tthatfarofastretchtobelievetheycouldhireamoderatelyattractivemantospendafewdaysseducingalonely,brokenwomanbeforefinishingthejob.
Nausearoilsmystomachatthethought,butit’saspossibleasanythingelseinthistrashfireofaworld.
Somethinglightsuptomyleft,drawingmyattentionfromtheinternalscreamI’mswallowing,andIglanceovertoseeaniPadonthelowerleveloftheperfectlydistressedcouch-sidetable.Idon’tevenpretendnottobeinterested—thatwaswhatIdidwithMarcusatfirst,avertingmyeyeswhenamessagepoppeduponhisscreen.It’ssupposedlybadtosnoop,butTheo’sownadmissionplaysinmyhead.
“I…amaliar.”
IleanoverthearmofthecouchandtilttheiPadsoIcanseethemessagescominginunderaconversationlabeledHoneycheeks
They’regettingsettledintothePerkinsplace.Istillthinkwe’removingtooquickly.Peoplearegoingtonotice.Sydneyistoounreliabletoposearealthreat,butI’mtakingcareofhertoday.Iwasgoingtoearlier,buttheyjusthadtobringthatdamneddogwiththem.CharliesaidtheywantedthehouseANDthedog,butIthoughthiswifewouldwaituntilafterweweredonetotrotitout.Youknowhowsheiswithdogs.Ihaterushingthingstoo,butI’mnotinchargehere.Besides,myfatherisprettysureeveniftheyallnotice,itwon’tmatter.Othercorpshaverazedentiretowns.Inthepast,they’vedroppedbombs,pollutedwater.Noonecares,lmao.True.Icouldrecordmyselfshootingoneoftheminthefaceandgetoffscot-free,lmfao.Noonewillpayanyattentiontothis.Ihatethatshe’sinmyhouse.Gross.Sorry.Ihadtomakeadecisionaftersheranintothestreet.She’llbehandledASAP.Good.Shewassomeantome!
Hurryup.Yourlittlecowgirlwantstorideandifyoufinishfastenoughwecanfititinbeforethemeeting.I’lltry,tonight’srevitalizationisgoingtobeprettyintense—wehavetogeteverythingcontainedsoitlinesupwiththeparade.Everyonealreadyassociatesitwithviolencesoit’llprovideevenmorecover.You’llhavetowaitafewhoursforthis.Keepyourselfentertained—andsendpictures.
Apicturecomesthroughalmostimmediately:PonytailLululemon,Theo’ssupposedex-girlfriend,half-nakedinanasty-lookingpublicbathroommirrorwithherhipjuttingouttogivetheillusionofasswherethereisnone.
TheclankingofcupsinthekitchensignalsthatI’vereadenough.Itiptoetowardthelivingroomdoor.Luckily,thehouseadherestotherulesofNewBrooklyn;theflooringisnewanddoesn’tsqueaklikeatmyplace,andthere’soneofthosebig-assmirrorsinthehallwaysoIcanseewhatthattraitorousmotherfuckerisdoinginthekitchen.
Theohasaboxofteainonehandandhisphoneintheother,tappingwithhisthumb.
I’vepanickedalotoverthelastfewweeks,andthelastfewhours.I’verelivedpastbetrayalsanduncoveredoneandnowtwomore.Mommyandmanyofmyneighborsaregone,directlyorindirectlythankstothiscompany,andifthewordrejuvenationmeanswhatIthinkitmeans,moreofuswillbegonesoon.
Rightnow,ifIcryonemoretear,orgiveintopanic,ImightaswelljustletTheokillmerighthereandleavemyneighborsandfriendsfordead.
Mylastfuckdisintegratesuneventfully,butinitswakeitleavestheknowledgeofwhatIhavetodo.OfwhatMommywouldwantmetodo.
“Don’tletthemtakemyhouse.”
Iheadbacktotheduffelandgrabit—it’shis,butitcontainswhatlittleevidenceIhaveandalso:Fuckhim.IfIcaninconveniencehimalittlebit,good.
AsharpwhiteedgeofpapersticksoutofthesidepocketandIpushitinmoredeeply,thenquicklytugitouttopeekatit.It’sabusinesscard.MotherfuckingBillBil,forBVTRealty.
ThesamecompanyTheojustactedsurprisedtolearnwaspartofVerenTech.
Okay.
I’mnotbeingparanoid.TheonepersonIthoughtwasonmysideisnot.Again.Irefusetofeelupset—thisiswhatIgetfordependingoneveryoneelsetohelpme.ThisiswhatIgetfornotbeingstrongenoughtodothingsonmyown.
Thatendsnow.
Igrabtheduffelandquietlyjogtothedoor.
“Youwanthoney?”Theocallsout.
Idon’tknowifherepeatshimselfbecausemyresponseisthequietclickofthedoorclosingafterme.
GiffordPlaceOurHood/privateusergroup/Rejuvenation
Reviewofthedoor-camfootage,storesurveillance,andthein-appmicrophoneoverridemakeitclearthatwecan’twaitanylonger.Wecanfindanotherexplanation,butifwedon’tmovenow,theentireprojectisinjeopardy.GeolocationshowsGreenismovingtowardthehousemarkednextforclearance.
Chapter19
Sydney
IJOGACROSSTHESTREETINTHEDARKENINGEVENINGLIGHT,hidingbetweenparkedcarstowatchablacksedanwithtintedwindowsthatslows,thenkeepsdriving.WasitDrew?WhatwouldhappenifIendedupinthebackseatofhiscaragain?Idoubthe’dletmeoutthistime,andakeybetweenmyfingersprobablywon’tcutit.
Tobybarksfromsomewherebehindme,andIturnandlookup.Oneithersideofmyhouse,Mommy’shouse,thebrownstonesareinhabitedbystrangerswhoarenolongerjustnewneighbors,butlikelypeoplewhowanttodomeharm.
AsirenwhinestolifeafewblocksawayandIflinch.Theroarofajetengineoverheadmakesmewonderiftheymighthavedroneswatchingus.
Everythingseemslikeitmightbeameanstohurtme.Every.Goddamn.Thing.
LaughtertinklesthroughthewindowofJosieandTerry’shouse,andthat’stheragestrawonthecamel’sbackforme.
IcamebacktoBrooklyntofindhome,andthesebastardshavetakeneventhecomfortofthefamiliarfromme.Takenmymother’sdignity,andmybestfriend’sloyalty,andmycommunity.Icannevergetthosethingsback,andtheythinkthey’llgetawaywithitbecausenoonecares.
Theydon’tcountmypain,ourpain,intheirideaofcare.
They’regonnalearntoday.
Ijogupthestairstomyfrontdoor,thekeyslippingoutofthelocktwotimesbeforeImanagetoturnit.
Oncethedoorisshutandlockedbehindme,Istandforamomentandtakeseveraldeepbreaths,fillingmynosewiththefamiliarscentofpotpourri,woodpolish,anddustthatalwaysmadecominghomefeelreal.Eventhoughit’stheoppositeofwhatIwouldnormallydo,IsliponthepairofoldTimbsIusuallywearwhilegardeningandneverwearintothehouse.Idon’tknowwhat’sgoingon,andyoucan’tstompsomeonewithOldNavyflip-flops.
IjoguptoMommy’sapartment,andwhenIopenthedoor,I’mhitwiththestale,stiflinghotairofanun-air-conditionedtopfloor.SweatbeadsonmybrowasIclosethedoorandengagethemultiplelocks.TheduffelbagrestsagainstmyhipasIscantheapartment,andasuddenvibrationmakesmejumpaboutafootintheairbeforeIrealizeit’smyphone.
FuckingTheo.
MyjawclenchesandIbeelineforMommy’sbedroom,theoneplaceinthehouseIhaven’tbeensincethatnight.Theroomissimple,lightbluewithadarkwoodbedroomsetandararelyusedvanity,thekindwithlightbulbsaroundthemirror.ItmademefeelsoglamorousasakidwhenI’dsitinfrontofit,cataloguingthefeaturesthatweresosimilartothoseofthewomanIthoughtwastheprettiestintheworld,andsneakingdabsofherlipstickandblush.
It’sdarkintheroom,eventhoughtheblindsaren’tclosed—it’salreadyevening,somehow,asiftimehasstoppedmakingsensealongwitheverythingelseIthoughtIknew.
Herbedroomwindowsitsinthefaux-parapet,thehightower,whereIcanlookdownonthosewhomightcometogetme.WhereIoncewatchedmyfriendspretendtobattletosaveme.
Noone’sfightingforthatjobnow.
Istandinthedoorway,staringdownatMommy’sbed,myteethpressedtogethersohardthatIfeelliketheymightcrumble.Thebedisbareexceptforitsmattresscoverbecauseweusedherfavoriteblankettowrapherup.
Dreahadhelped,hadgivenmetherecommendationforthelawyers,hadpromisedtohelpmefighttokeepthehouse.Shesaidshedidn’tknowwhyMommyhadagreedtosignoverthehouse,andMommyhadnevermentionedDreapressuringher—butpressurewasn’talwaysblatant.
Drea’dbetrayedus,gottenpaid,pretendedtocare,andthenleftmetofightthisalone.
Hasshepretendedtobemyfriendallthistime?HasshehatedmealltheseyearswhenI’dthoughtofherasasister?Didshetellthemwherethebodywas,andthat’swhyMommyismissing?
Wait.Theoistheonewhotoldmeherbodywasn’tthere.Thatmightbealietoo.Everythingcouldbealie.
Ipurposefullyunclenchmyjawandtakeadeepbreath.Notimeformemories,orforquestions.
I’minMommy’sroomforareason.
Iheadforhercloset,pulldownoneofthefamiliarbluecookietinsasthepersistentvibrationofmyphonepurrsintheduffelonthewindowseat.No,thistinistoolight.Mustbehersewingthings.Iplaceitbackontheshelf—MommydidnottoleratemediggingthroughherbelongingsandIlearnedasachildtoputthingsbackexactlyastheywere.
IfindwhatI’mlookingforinthefourthcookietinIpickup,theheaviestone,theonewiththingsrollingaroundlikemarblesinside.
Iplaceitonthebed,sweatrollingdownmytemplesandpoolingbeneathmytittiesfromthetop-floorheatofthisroom,andfightwiththeslightlyrustedlid,eventuallywinningthebattle.Thelidpullsfreeandthereitis.Mommy’slittlesilverrevolver.It’snotshinyanymore,howIrememberit,andit’soldenoughthatpeoplewouldclownmeifIpostedapicofitonsocialmedia,butI’mnotpullingitoutforsocialmediaclout.
Mygrandfatherhadgiventheguntoherwhenshe’dcomeupnorth,butshe’dknownhowtouseitsinceshecouldwalk.That’swhatshetoldme,atleast.Herparentstaughtherhowtohuntforfood,andhowtoprotectherselfwhenthewhiteboysfromtowngotboredandcamecruisingthroughtheirneighborhoodlookingtodoevil,oriftheBrownboysshe’dgrownupwithsuddenlydidn’tunderstandthewordno
Ipickitup,theheftofitafamiliarcomfortthatgroundsmeintheswirlingtornadoofmythoughtsandfears.Mommytaughtmehowtouseitearly,andthentaughtmenevertotouchitunlesstherewasanemergency.
Ithinkshe’dagreethiscounts,givenwhatIknowofherdefinitionofemergency
FitzroytoldusthestoryofMommymakingamandanceattheendofthisgunduringtheblackout.Heprobablydidn’tknowshe’drunmydaddyoffthesameway.Ionlyfoundoutthetruthtowardtheendofthings.We’dbeenwatchingGoodfellasinherbed,andduringthescenewhereKarenshovesagunintoHenry’smouthashe’ssleepingaftershefindsouthe’scheating,Mommylaughedsohardshe’dlostherbreath.Iforcedhertotakeafewsipsofwaterandaskedwhatwassofunny.
“Just…memories.That’showyourdaddywokeupafterthefirstandlasttimehehitme,”shesaid,hergazesoftandunfocusedandtheslightestsmileonherface.
“IwishI’dtoldyouthatearlier.Howtotreatmenwhowanttomakeyousmall,crushyouundertheirheel.”Shelookedintomyeyes,hergazelovingbuthard.“Iputmyguninyourdaddy’smouthandImadehimapologize.AndthenItoldhim,‘Ifyoueverhitmeagain,youbetterkillme,becausenexttimeIwon’thesitatetopullthistrigger.’Heleftnotlongafterthat.Beforeheknewaboutyou.”
Igraspthebulletsfromtheboxinthetinwithclumsyfingersandloadthemintothechamber,thinkingofallthepeoplewhothinktheycanhurteverybodyelsewithnoconsequence.Mosttimesthey’reright.Theylivelong,successfulliveswhileusingotherpeople’snecksasladderrungs.
Idon’thaveaplanjustyet,butthisisnotgoingtobeoneofthosetimes,ifIcanhelpit.I’mnotgoingtoletVerenTech,JosieandTerry,PonytailLululemon,oranyoneelsecontinuetotakewhat’smine.
SomethingflashesintomyeyesthroughthewindowasIpushthechamberbackintoplacewiththeheelofmyhand.Theoisinhiswindowacrossthestreet,eyeswideandwavingaroundamirrorwithaflashlightpointedatit,somekindofBoyScouttricktogetmyattention.Igivehimthefinger,jammingitupintotheairhardandthenpressingittotheglassasmyrageathisbetrayalflaresupinme.
Iexpectedhimtohavedroppedtheactalready,buthishairisonendandhisfaceisflushedashetossesthemirrorandpicksuphisphone,wavinghisotherarmandpointingatme,wavingandthenpointingatthephone.Icanseethatconfusedbrowknitofhisfromallthewayoverhere.
Ishakemyhead,pissedoffthathehasthenervetolooklegitimatelydistressed,butIdon’ttakemyeyesoffhimevenasIsticktheZiplocbaggieofbulletsintomypocket.
Hebangshiswindowpaneandbecausehiswindowisopen,Ihearhimwhenheyellssomethinginfrustration.
“Please!”
AndbecauseI’mnotmymother’sdaughter,justherdilutedprogeny,Isecond-guessmyself.Onedoubtisallittakes.Ipickupthephonewhenitvibratesagain.
“Sydney,whatthe—”Hereinshimselfin,andthroughthewindowIseehimdrophishandontohishipinanalmostcomicalway.“Youneedtogetoutofyourhousenow.He’sdownstairs.Canyougodownafireescape?He’sinthehouse.”
Hispanichitsmelikeawavethroughthephone,soreal,ormaybe,likethephonecallthattrappedmymother,justsomefasttalkingdesignedtoluremeintoatrap.Theoknowshowtodothat—talkandtalkandmakeyoufeelsafe.
“Whoishe?WhyshouldIbelieveyouafteryourlittleconversationwithKim?Isawyoutextingherwhileyouwereinthekitchen!Ireadthemessages.”
Iwatchhim,expectinghimtoshowsomesignthatthejigisup,buthisexasperatedexpressiondoesn’tchange.“IrememberedwhereI’dfirstheardthenameVerenTechandwaslookingupsomething.Whatmessages?”
“TheonesthatpoppedupontheiPadinthelivingroom,honeycheeks.NexttoDrea’sairconditioner.Theonemissingfromherroom.”
“That’sKim’siPad.Andhernewairconditioner.”Heshakeshishead.“And‘honeycheeks’hasneverbeeninmyvocabulary.TheclosestI’vegottenis‘HowdyDoody.’”
Iwanttobelievehimsobadlyithurts.Thepossibilitythateveryonehasbetrayedmeistoomuchtodealwith.
Theosuddenlydivesmostlyoutofview,thenthetopofhisheadfromhiseyesupreturns.“He’sonthesecondfloornow,inDrea’sapartment.ThefakeConEdguy.HewasinthecabofthemovingtruckandIsawhimgetoutandgointoyourhouse.Please.”Hisvoicebreaks.“Iknowwe’reinthisinsanesituationandnothingmakessense,butIwasn’ttalkingtoKim.IhavenoideawhatKimhastodowithanyofthis.IlikeyouandIwouldn’ttrytohurtyou.TheonlythingIdidis—”
“What?Whatdidyoudo?”
“I’vebeenstealingfromtherichpeopleinthesurroundingneighborhoods,”hesaysinarush.“NotlikeRobinHood,themoneywasforme.Theuptickincarbreak-insandhouseburglariespeoplehavebeentalkingaboutwasme.AndoneoftheguysIusetofencethestuffaskedmeifIhadanyleadsonrealestate.Itoldhimtherewasanemptylot.”
“What?”Mygripontheguntightens.
“HeaskedmeifIknewanyplacesgoingforcheapinmyneighborhood,tokeepaneyeoutbecausehe’dheardtheVerenTechdealwasgoingtogothrough.ItoldhimtherewasanemptylotbeingusedasagardenbecauseIassumedhe’dasktobuylikearegularperson.Idon’tknowifhehadanythingtodowiththisstuff,Iswear.Iswear,Syd.”
Hisgazeconnectswithmine,thenhestandsandrunsoutoftheroom.Ihearthepoundingofhisfootstepsandhisheavybreathingthroughthephone.“He’sheadingforthethirdfloor.Hidesomewhere,now.Now,Sydney!I’mcomingforyou.”
Hehangsup.
Istilldon’tknowifIcantrusthim,butIdecidethatattheveryleast,Iwillhide.I’mfeelingmadpetty,butI’mnotgonnadiejusttospiteTheobyignoringhiswarning.
Icloseandlockmymother’sbedroomdoor.ThefakeConEddudewasbig.Helikelyhassomethinglettinghimbustthroughthelocksontheouterapartmentdoors—maybeheevenhasthekey.
Whathedoesn’thave,whatnoneofthesemotherfuckerstryingtotakeovermyneighborhoodhave,istheknowledgeofsomeonewhogrewuphere.Someonewhodoesn’tseethesehousesasjustaplacetoshowofftotheirrichfriendsorpostpicturesofonBoomtown.
Woodcrackswithaloudsplitinthelivingroom—theouterapartmentdoor,whichconfirmsthatTheowastellingatleastabitoftruth:someoneistryingtogetme.Islideintothecloset,closethedoorbehindme,andturnthekeythatsitsinthelockinsideofit.Thelockisn’theavyduty,andwasinstalledtokeepvisitingkidsandnosyhouseguestsoutofMommy’sthingswhenlockedfromtheoutside.Lockingitfromtheinsidewasanother“incaseofemergency”bonus—thepoorwoman’spanicroom.
Ituckthegunintothewaistbandofmypants,anddothethingIreceivedmyonlyeverspankingfor;notbecauseI’ddoneanythingbadbutbecauseI’dscaredtheshitoutofmymotherbydisappearingforhours.
IpushthroughMommy’sdressesandtrousers,stillhungneatlyandcarryingthescentofher,andunlatchthedoorinthewallatthebackofthecloset.Itleadstotheservants’staircase,afeaturebuiltintomanyofthesebrownstones.Foronce,theexcessoftherichpeoplewholivedhereinthepastcomesinhandy.
Thanks,FrederickLangston.
Istepintodarknessandclosethesecretdoorbehindme.
Theairissurprisinglycool,andwhatfeelsoddlylikeabreezeblowsuptowardmeeventhoughourstepsdon’tleaddowntoacellarlikemanypeople’sdo.Aftertheinitialjoltoffearatwhatmightbelurking,Iturnonmyphone’sflashlightandstartmakingmywaydown.
Itrytowalkquietly—thesestairsareahundredyearsoldatleast,andthelasttimetheyweremaintainedwaswhenMr.PerkinsmadeabunchofrepairsafterIgotstuckinherethatonetime.Twenty-fiveyearsago?
Afterthefirstfewstepsdon’tbreakbeneathmyweightandanarmyofratsdoesn’tswarmupthepassagewaytowardme,Igainabitofconfidence.
Istarttomovefaster,thedarknesscrowdingdownthestairsandupbehindme,wheretheweakphonelightdoesn’treach.
AspiderwebclingstomyarmandIshudder,butwhenIhearcrashingupstairs,inthebedroom,Icouldgiveagoodgoddamnaboutaspideroracreakingstair.I’mjoggingnow.OnemoreshortflightofstepsandI’mintothecoatclosetonthefirstfloorandoutofthis—
Thesoleofmybootcomesdownonsomethingnotsoft,butnothardlikeawoodenstepandnotflatlikeone,either.Ilookdownattheglowcomingfromthephonethat’ssuddenlyilluminatedundermyshoe.Atthefamiliarbrownhandholdingittightly.
AllIcanseeisthishand,theLEDscreenshiningagainstthemattepurpleacrylicsatitsfingertips.Thescreen,nowcracked,showsdozensofcallsandmessages,mostlyfromme.Thebatterypowerisaslivertoothintobeseen,butreads1%.
“Drea,”Iwhisper,andeventhoughIresolvednottocryandnottopanic,thatwasbeforethishorrorlurkingaroundthebendinthestaircase.Mysinusesburnandtearswellup.“Fuck,Drea.Why?”
Ican’tbringmyselftolookatherfaceyet,andthoughsomepartofmeknowsIneedtomovepastherordie,myassdropsdowntothestepsandItugthephonefromherhands,wincingwhensheseemstoholdontoit.Weplayedlikethatsometimes,metuggingtoseewhatwildtextshe’djustreceived,butthisisn’tagame.
It’srigormortis.
Iputinherunlockcodeandourtextchatopensonthescreen.Ifinallyseethelastthingshe’dbeentyping.Theunsentmessagethathasbeenhauntingmefordays.
Luvu.Imsorrrrrrtttyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.
Thephoneshutsoff,andIsitunmovingandunbreathingasthedarknessblanketsonusboth.
Chapter20
Theo
IHAVEACERAMICKNIFEFROMCRATEANDBARRELINONEhandandaridiculouslytinycrowbarshovedinmybackpocketasIjogacrossthestreet—Kim’svastarrayofpowertoolsaresuddenlyputawaysomewhereinsteadoflyingallovertheplaceandtrippingmeup.MaybeshethoughtIwouldsellthem,ormorenefariously,maybeshedidn’twantmetohaveanythingtodefendmyselfwith.
Kim,thewomanIthoughtIcouldpinmyfutureto.
Kim,whohadtextedsomethingthatmadeSydneyfleeinterror.
Kim,whosefather’snamehadcomeupasaVerenTechPharmashareholderaswellasalawyerforBVTRealtyasI’dwaitedforthewatertoboil,asSydneyhadfreakedoutandrunaway.
TheiPadisinmyotherhand,butIhaven’treadthemessagesbecauseIhavetogofightamanwho’slikelyatrainedkillerwiththeassistanceofakitchenknife.
Notbeingabletocallthepolicewhenyouneedhelpreallysucks,I’mlearning
Istalktothehouse,awarethateyesareonme,trackingmefromwindowsIusedtopeepintofrommyownandfromthecamerasthathavepoppeduponseveralofthehouses.AshadowissilhouettedbythewarmlamplightinMelissa’sapartment.ThecurtainsflutterinJosieandTerry’slivingroom,andTobybarks.
WhenIgettoSydney’stopstep,Ipushthedooropen—thewoodissplinteredaroundthelockasifsomeonehasforcedtheirwayinwithamuchbiggercrowbarthantheoneI’mpacking.Ipeerintothedarkhallway,butcan’tseemuchsinceduskhasmostlyfallenandtheplaceisfilledwithshadows.Myeyesstarttoadjust,andthat’showIseethewallswingopen.That’showIseeadarkershadowslipout.
Sydney.
TheiPadpingssuddenly,thescreengoingbrightandilluminatingmeasIinstinctivelyturnittoreadthemessagethat’scomein.Sydney’sheadwhipsmywayasmyeyesskimoverthemessages,thelatestofwhichisDidyougetridoftheskank?
AnearlierresponsefromwhoeverSydneyassumedwasmehasaknifeemojiaimedataBlackwoman.
Iamholdingaknife.SydneyisaBlackwoman.
Correction:SydneyisanarmedBlackwoman.
“Thislooksreallybad,”Isay,holdinguptheknifeandtheiPadasshepointsagunatme.“IreallywishI’dreadthisbeforehand.Iwouldhavecarriedtheshoveloverinstead.”
Hergazeisempty,herexpressionblank,butherwholebodyisshaking.“Dropit.”
Iputtheknifedown.
“Okay,let’sgetoutofhere,”Isay.“Youhavethegun,youhavethepower,wecanfigurethisoutoncewe’reoutside.”
Tearsspillfromhereyesandherexpressioncrumplesandthensmoothsasshebattlestokeephercomposure.
“DidyouknowaboutDreaallthistime?”Shesucksinabreath,andturnsthegunfromsidetosidebutwiththemuzzlealwayspointedatme.“WhileIworriedandcheckedmyphone?WhileIwaspissedoffatherfortakingtheirmoney?Didyouknowshediedlikearatinthewall?”
Hervoicefadesintoabroken,woundedwail,andIunderstandthatsomethinghorrifyinghashappenedinthefewmomentssinceItalkedtoheronthephone.
Asecondshadowmovesagainstthewallnearthetopofthestairs—someonewalkingslowlyalongthesecondfloorlanding.
“Weneedtogetoutofhere,”Ipress.“Remember?Themanwho—”
“Did.You.Know?”Hereyesarewild,andIdon’tthinksheevenremembersthatsomeoneistryingtokillher,orifshedoes,she’sstoppedcaring.
“Ididn’t,”Isaygently.“I’msorry,but—”
IreflexivelychucktheiPadashardasIcanastheshadowtakessolid,bulkyformatthetopofthestaircase.I’msureitdoesn’thurtmuchasitsmacksintotheman,butitdoesthejobofknockinghimoffbalance—abulletbitesintothewalltotherightofSydney’shead.
He’sgotagun.Withasilencer.
“Motherfucker,”shegrowls,turningandpoppingthreeshotsoffathim.Sheisn’tusingasilencer,andthesoundechoesloudlyinthehallway.
Theintrudertwistsandtriestododge,butthemotionpairedwithatleastonebullethittinghimsendshimslidingdownthesteps.Isnatchuptheknifeandruntomeethimashereachesthebottom.
Hetumblesassoverfeetwhenhehitsthebottomlanding,andIjumpontohimbeforehecangethisbearings.Istraddlehischestwithenoughforcetocrushhissolarplexusbetweenthestepsandmybodyweight,knockingthewindoutofhim.Hismusclestensebeneathmeashepullsagainstsomething;hisgunhandisbetweenthepolesofthebanisterandinmyperipheralvisionIseeSydneytryingtotugitfromhisgrip.
Shit.Onewrongmoveandhemight—
No.ShesmashesabootedfootintohiselbowandIhearhimhiss,followedbythesoundofsomethingheavyhittingtheground.
Ibringafistdownonhisnoseandthenhiswindpipewithonehandbeforeplungingtheknifeintohissidewiththeother.Itgoesinsmoothly,givesbarelyanyresistanceasItwist,andIfinallyunderstandwhyKimpaidsomuchforthisthing.
Hecriesout,andtriestothrowmeoff,butIpressdownwithallmyweight,jabbingtheknifewithonehandandpunchinghiminthesideoftheheadwiththeother,againandagain,untilhestopsresistingandgoeslimpbeneathme.
ThelightswitchesonandIblinkbackovermyshoulderatSydney.Mylefthandiswetandstainedred,andIusethebottomoftheguy’sblackT-shirttowipeitoff.Theiron-richscentofblood,likeabutchershop,andshitfillsmynoseandItrynottogag.
ThefaceofthemanwhotriedtokillSydneyisbloodyandswollen,butIcanseethathelooksalittlelikeme:tall,burly,lightbrownhair.Kimhasatype.Heshakesalittle,andwrithesasItakehiscellphoneandholdhisthumbtothehomebutton.Whenitunlocks,Igetup,notlookingathimagain.
AfterquicklychangingthepasswordsoIdon’thavetoworryaboutitautomaticallylockingmeout,Ipickuphisgun,walkovertoSydney,andopenhistexts.
Iknewthingswereover,butseeinganudeofyourrecentexsandwichedbetweenrequeststokillthewomanyoucurrentlyhave…somethingwithisjustabitofamindfuck.
Didyougetridoftheskank?
Ireplywith,andtheninasecondreply,
Andmyloserex?popsup.
Ouch.
Isendaanda,thistimefollowingitupwitha,thenscreenshottheconversation.
Sydney’shandgripsmyarm.“Hewashoneycheeks?”
“Ithink,”Isay.MyheartisracingandIfeelkindoflikeI’mgonnapuke,butitpasses.“KimissupposedtobeintheHamptons.Thatpictureisn’therparents’place,though.Idon’tknowwhyshe’sinvolvedinthis.Idon’tknowwhatshehastodowithhiredkillers.Fuck!”
TheangerIfeltwhenthemantookashotatSydneyisn’tgoingaway,isn’tfadingasIcomedownfromthehighofthefight.HeletsoutarattlingbreathandIwanttowalkoverandkickhiminthehead,stomphim…
No.
“WhathappenedtoDrea?”IaskSydney,rememberingherdefianthopeinherfriendandtheemptinessinhereyeswhenshesteppedoutinfrontofme.
Sydney’seyesfillwithtears,andIslidemyfreearm,withtheguninmyhand,overhershoulderandpullherintomyside.Shepointstowardthedoorthroughwhichsheseeminglymagicallyappearedinthehallway.
“Evenifshedidbetrayus,Ineverwantedthis.Ever.Icouldn’ttellwhattheydidtoher.Ithinkshetriedtoescapethroughtheoldservants’staircase.Idon’tknowwhy,eventhoughIwas—”
SheraisesafisttohermouthandIfeelthedryheavesrackherbody.
Ican’ttellhereverythingwillbeallrightanymore.Iholdhermoretightly,mythoughtsgoingamileaminuteasItrytofigureouthowwegetoutofthis.Thereareatleasttwobodiesinthishouse,oneofwhichwe’reresponsibleforandtheotherofwhichcouldeasilybepinnedonus.
Herbestfriendisdead.There’samanbleedingoutonthefloor—amanmyexsenttokillher.
AnOurHoodchatnotificationpopsuponthescreen.ItapintotheaccountandseethatthenotificationiscomingnotfromthemainGiffordPlacehub,butfromaconversationundertheheadingPRIVATEGROUPS.Therearetwogroups,MarketplaceandRejuvenationPlanning,butonlythesecondishighlighted.
GiffordPlaceOurHood/privateusergroup/Rejuvenation
KimDeVries:Dad,ItoldyouIwouldhandleit.They’redead.Soisherfriendwhogotthephotocopies.Soistheguywhosnuckthemtoher.Thislooseendistiedoff.
MikelDeVries:Areyousure?Thelastthingweneedisthispoppingupinthenews.Everyoneelsewillbehandledbutshewastheonlyonewhostuckhernosewhereitdidn’tbelong.Makesureherhouse,emails,socialmedia,andclosefriendsareclearedtoo.
KimDeVries:Itwillbetakencareof.
JosieUlnar:Doyouknowhowmanystoriesarereportedeachdaythatshouldhavepeopleburningthiscountrydown?Dozens.Afewpeoplegetmadonsocialmedia.Everyonceinawhile,somepoorsapgoestoprisonforafewyearstosatiatetheplebes.Tobefrank,ifwepullofftonight’srejuvenationwithminorcomplications,itdoesn’tmatterwhofindsout.
JosieUlnar:AsItellArwin,wearethesticksandstones,andwearethewords.Noonecanhurt*us*,especiallynotsocialmediastories,whichhavethelifecycleofafruitfly.Let’sjustgetthisdone.
TerryUlnar:Yes.Wehavecontactsinmostmajornewsrooms,andthereisalwaysamoretitillatingspinonthestory.Withtheparadeandpartiesthisweekend,therewilldoubtlessbeashootingormolestationforthemtofocuson.Ifnot,we’llmakeonehappen.
KimDeVries:Besides,whatcantheydo,callthepolice?lmaoLet’sjustgetreadyforthemeetingtonight.Aftertherejuvenation,thenextphaseisgoingtomovefastandwehavetogetourpressreleases,contracts,andcontainmentserviceslinedup.
SydneyisreadingovermyshoulderandI’mprettysurebothofusaretooshakenuptoreallyprocesseverythingthat’shappening.
“Whatisarejuvenation?”Sydneyasks.“Theykeepmentioningit.”
Iscrollthroughthegroupconversationbutseenothingelsethatmakessensetome.
“Can’tfindanything,”Isay.Iclicktotheotherprivategroupandseeapostaskingifthereareanyhousesavailablewithcentralair-conditioning.Itseemstojustbearealestatelistingspage.“Therearepostsintheotherprivategroup,butweneedtogetoutofhere.Theymightfigureoutthisguydidn’tfinishthejobsoon.”
Shenods,thencontinuestonodasifrunningthroughthingsinherhead.“They’regonnadosomethingbigtonight,somethingworsethanwhatthey’realreadydoing.That’sallweneedtoknow.”
Ichecktheguntoreacquaintmyselfwiththefeelofoneandmakesuretherearenotrickstoit.It’sasimpleGlock,oldermodelwithasilencerscrewedon.Sydneychecksherrevolver,too,loadingbulletsintothechambertoreplacetheonescurrentlylodgedinherhallwayandinthebodyofthemanonthefloor.
“Sydney?Sydney?”Someoneiscallingherfromoutside.
“Let’sgo,”Isay.
Whenwestepthroughthefrontdoor,therearepeoplegatheredinthestreetandmorearriving,theglowofthestreetlightssilhouettingthem.
Ofcoursethey’reoutthere.
Thisisaneighborhoodwherepeoplecareabouteachother,andthreegunshotswentoffinSydney’shouse.
Ms.Candaceisfrontandcenter,handsrestingontheheadofhercane.“Sydney,whatwasthatnoise?Isthatbloodalloveryou?Whatinthe—”
Herwordsdropoffasthestreetlightsandeveryotherlightontheblockblinkout,leavingusindarkness.
Chapter21
Sydney
WE’VEHADBLACKOUTSANDBROWNOUTSINTHENEIGHBORHOODsinceI’vemovedback—whenthegridgetshot,wegetshutdownsothericherneighborscanstaycool.Thefactthattheelectricalcompanyfeelscomfortableadmittingthatseemssinistergiveneverythingelsegoingon.
Icanthinkofamillionpossibilitiestyingthiscoincidencetoallofthefucked-upthingsthathappenedthisweek.
Maybetheotherpoweroutageshadbeenconditioning.We’reusedtothishappeningnow.We’renotsupposedtoworrythattherestofBrooklynisbrightinthedistance,notknowingorcaringwhatgoesoninthedarkatGiffordPlace.
Thisknowledgecombineswiththedarknessandthehumidity,pushingmedownintotheasphalt.MyheartwasalreadybeatingoutofmychestandnowIgetgoosebumpsdespitetheheatbecausethisblackoutfeelsdifferent.
Dreaisdead.She’snevercomingback.
Rejuvenation.
Amanjusttriedtokillmeinmyownhome.
Clearout.
Mybreathingstartstocomefastandshallow,thepaininmychestaseedofanxietyreadytosproutandbindme,chokethebreathfromme.
No.
Ihavetokeepittogether.
AnimageofDrea’slastwords,intext,popsintomyhead.Iforceitaway.IfIthinktoomuchIwilldie.That’sthebottomlinehere.
Itakeadeepbreath.Andanother.
Breathe.
“Well,shit,”Ms.Candacesaysfromsomewherenexttome.“Thisain’tgood.”
Ahandclosesaroundmyarm,andeventhoughI’mreadytobashanythingthattouchesme,Theo’slowvoicefollowsimmediately.Hesqueezesmyarmtwiceandthenhishandslidesdowntogripmine.
“Thisremindsmeof…onetime,oneofmymom’sboyfriendstookmeonanighthunt,”hesays.“Hegotakickoutofchasingpanickedcreaturesthroughthedark.Thisfeelslikethat.ExceptI’mnotoneofthehuntersthistime.”
“Let’swalkCandacebacktoherplace,”Isayas,onebyone,cellphonesglowintothedarknessaroundus,likegiantbluelightningbugsfloatingupanddownthestreet.
“Damn,Iwantedtowatchthegametonightbutthenetworkisdown,too,”amanIdon’tknowbyvoicesays,sighingdramaticallyashewaveshisphonearound.“Can’tevenusemyphoneasahotspot.Fuckouttaherewiththisshit,man.Look.Look.Medicalcenterbeencloseddownforyears,andtheygotelectric?”
Hewaveshisphonedownthestreet.
Hisfriend,standingbesidehim,laughs.“YouthinktheygotaTVthatplayESPNinthere?”
Theirjokingonlyaddstothesenseofunreality,becausewhenIlookdownthestreet,therearelightsonintheoldhospital.
“They’rehavingameeting,”Theosaysquietly.“AndthelightsareoninthehospitalVerenTechjustbought.Idon’tthinkthat’sacoincidence.IsworeIsawsomethingintheretheothernight.”
“Whatwasthatnoisethatcamefromyourhouse,Sydney?”Candaceasksagain,nudgingatmyotherarm.
“Firecrackers.IthinkyouneedtogobewithPaulette,Ms.Candace.She’sprobablyscaredsinceshedoesn’tlike…Ohfuck.”Paulette’sramblingsaboutthe’77blackoutcomebacktome.
EarlierIwastellingTheohowthesethingshappenincycles,whitepeopleclamberingintoahood,beittheoriginalAlgonquinhoodorcloserinhistory,likeWeeksville.IfI’mright,whatPaulettesaidmakesthisdarknessevenmorefrightening.
Breakandbuild
Thisisthebreakingpoint.
Ilookdownthestreetinthedirectionoppositethehospitalintimetoseemorecellphonelightsblinkoninthedistance—no,notcellphonelights.It’sthefarawaymirrorimagesofthecellphonesnearusonreflectivesurfaces.
“It’sthecops,”Isayaloud,graspingtowardwhereIlastheardMs.Candace.Aftersnatchinghumidairafewtimes,Icatchholdofherwrist.
Ontheotherendoftheblockisaphalanxofcops—Iassume.Ican’treallymakeoutmuchexceptforthereflectionoflightsourcesintheirplasticriotshieldsanddark,bulkysilhouettes.
Iverybrieflyassumethey’rehereformeandTheoorthemanbleedingoutinmyhallway,butno.Theywouldn’tneedthismanycops,orshields,forthat.
Breakandbuild
Nighthunt.
Rejuvenation.
“Disperse!”avoiceshoutsthroughabullhornasthemarchoffootstepssoundsthroughthestreet.“Disperse!Anyonecontinuingtoriotwillbearrestedandputsthemselvesattheriskoflethalforce.”
“Continuingtoriot,”themanwhohadjokedaboutthehospitalrepeats.“Thefuck?Ain’tnobodyrioting.”
“Everybodygetinside,”Theoshouts,joggingandpullingmealongtowardCandace’shouse.“Getinsideyourhousesanddon’tletanyonein.”
“I’mnotgoinginsideshit,”anothermansays.“Wedidn’tdonothingand—”
There’saflashoflightandawhistlewherethecopsstand,andthenacanisteristumblingtowardus,endoverend,shootingsmoke.Itlandsbythemanwhowastalkingandhereflexivelykicksit,sendingitbacktowardthegrowingclusterofpolice.
“Assaultagainstapoliceofficerisafelonyoffense,”thecopwiththebullhornsays,andthere’slaughterinhisvoice.
Theycharge.
It’sashortruntoCandace’s,butshe’sold.Westarttofallbehindasshelimps,butoneoftheguysnexttousscoopsherupwithoutawordandsprintstoherstoop,thenkeepsgoingwithoutwaitingforathank-you.
Aknotformsinmythroatashemeltsintothedarkness.ThisiswhatGiffordPlacehasalwaysbeentome—someonehelpingyouwithoutasecondthoughtandkeepingitmoving.
Thisiswhatthepeoplebehindthisrejuvenationaretryingtodestroy.
JennandJen’sdooropensandtheypoptheirheadsout.
“What’shappening?”Jenasks,hereyeswide.
“Gobackinanddon’tcomeout,”Theosaysharshly.
Jenlookshurt.“Ijustwanttohelp.Shouldwecallthepolice?”
“Baby,goinside,”Ms.Candacesaysinherfirmbutfriendlytoneassheopensherowndoor.“Shitisabouttogetreal,andIdon’twannaseeyouhurt,okay?”
JenncomesupbehindJen,pullsherin,andslamsthedoorshut.
CandacelooksdownatmeandTheo.“Andyoutwo.Getinhere,now.Youneedtotellmewhat’sgoingon.”
Hervoiceisalittlelessgentlewithus.
“Wehavetogotothemedicalcenter,”Isay,thinkingaboutthoselightsthatshouldn’tbeon.“We’llcomecheckonyouafter.Getinside,hide,don’tletthemfindyou.”
Candaceputsherhandonherhip,herpatiencegone.“Girl,ifyoudon’tstopplayingandgetyourassinsidethishouse!”
Thattonewouldhaveworkedonmeanyothertime,butCandacedoesn’tunderstand.Doesn’tknowthatsomeofourfriendsaredeadorindanger.
IthinkofDrea’sface,whenI’dfinallylookedatit.Shedidn’tlookpeacefullikeMommyhad.Foamhaddriedattheedgesofhermouthandhereyeshadstaredtowardthedoor,asifshe’dbeenexpectingmetoopenitandfindher.
Ihadn’t.
I’dwalkedpasther,howmanytimes?
I’dheardscratchinginthewalls.Maybeithadbeenher.Maybe—
“Sydney!”
TheoyellsrightinmyfaceandIrealizethatIwasstartingtogiveintothepanic.
“Let’sgo.”
Theoholdsmyarmaswerun,andheguidesmeacrossthestreetasanothersmokebombstreaksbyus.Thehospitalloomsaheadofus,thebrighterlightsofthelowerfloorilluminatingthebaseofitandmakingitlookevenmoreimposing.
“Wherearewegoing?”Iask.
“WhenIsawKavaughn,heappearedoutofnowherebutitwashere.Ifhegotout,thenthere’sanentranceorexitwecanusetogetinside.”
Iwatchhimashelooksbackandforth,hisjawrigidandhisshirtsplatteredwiththebloodofamanhekilledforme.
“Whyareyoudoingthis?”Iask.“Thisisn’tyourneighborhood.”
AndI’mnotanythingtoyou.
“Maybenot,”hehuffs.“Butyouknowusstrangewhitedudeshaveaherocomplex.OfcourseI’mgonnaswoopinandsavetheday.”
“Ifyoudon’tgetkilled,”Iremindhim.
“I’mhopingtoavoidthatoutcome.”
Idon’twantanyoneelsetodie,butIreallyhopeTheoinparticularavoidsthatoutcome,too.Idon’tknowifeitherofuswill,giventhewarzonesoundscomingfrommyneighborhood.
Weskirtaroundthechain-linkfenceandhemovestotouchitbutthenpullsback.“Eitherrunninginthesejeansbuiltupsomestaticelectricityorthisisnowelectrified.Itwasn’ttheotherday.”
Shit.
Thecopsarestartingtoreachourendoftheblock.Thereareknotsofpeopletusslinginthestreets.
Think,Sydney.
“RememberItoldyouthoseurbanlegendsaboutpeoplegettingpulledunderground?”Iask.“Nowthatwe’reinthemiddleofthis,yearsandyearsofrumorsthatpeoplehavebeenkidnappedanddraggedintothishospitalstarttomakemoresense.”
“WhenIdidtheresearch,Ididseeabriefentryaboutsupposedundergroundtunnelstothehospital,”Theosays.“Itwasdebunked,buttherumorsaidtheywerebuiltduringthewarwhenthehospitalwasafactory.Ifthosearestillinuse…”
“Wewerealwaystoldthemolepeoplewouldgetyouifwalkedonsubwaygratesormetalcellardoors…”Ilookoveratthebodega.“Comewithme.”
IgrabTheo’shandanddashacrossthestreettothebodega,tothemetalcellardooroutsideit.Andpeoplekeptmentioningfeelingrumblingunderground,andI’vefelttheshakinginthemiddleofthenightmyself.“IheardsomethinginherethedaybeforeTonyarrived.Maybethere’sawayinthroughhere.”
Itrytoliftthedoor,butitdoesn’tbudge.
“Holdon,”Theosays,thenpullswhatseemstobeababycrowbaroutofhisbackpocket.
Iraisemybrowsathim.“Youjustcarrythataroundwithyou?”
Heslidesitbetweenthetwometaldoorsandstartsworkingitbackandforthlikeaberserkeruntilfinallywhateverlockingmechanismisholdingthedoorclosedfrominsidepops.Hemakesabigshowofliftingfirstonecellardooropen,andthentheother.
Istandinfrontofthestairsthatleaddownintothedarkness,andhestandsbesideme.
“Youweresaying?”
Ariotgear–cladcopsuddenlyappearsfromaroundthecorner,runningatusfull-tilt—Ionlyregisterhispresenceashe’sontopofus.Withoutthinking,IpushTheooutofthewayandtakeafewquickstepsafterhim.Thecopbarrelsthroughwherewe’dbeenstandingandstepsrightintothespacewherethemetaldoorsshouldbe.
Hisarmsswingwildlyashetriestosteadyhimself,soclosetomethatIfeelthebreezecreatedbytheirwindmilling,smellthescentofcheapRiteAidcologneandsweat.
Asfastasthisishappening,myreflexesregisterthatIcanreachouttohim.Steadyhim.
Idon’t.
Hetumblesforwardandhischincatchestheedgeofthemetal-linedinsetcellardoorbeforehishanddoes;hisnecksnapswithaquick,sickeningcrack
Istandthereinshockforasecond,andthenpressmylipstogether.Yearsofwatchingover-the-topcomedieshavetrainedmetolaughatthesheerslapstickofthesituation—thearmswaving,theshockonhisfacebecauseofhismiscalculation.OnehystericalyelpescapesfrombetweenmylipsbeforeIcovermymouthwithbothhands;hottearsrunfrommyeyesandformrivuletswheremypalmsmeetmycheeks.
Thisshitisreal.Reallyreal.Idon’tfeelbadforthemotherfucker,andIknowhe’d’vebeenlaughingifitwereme,butthisisreal,andthere’snothingfunnyaboutit.
Drea’sfacefrozeninagonyflashesintomyheadandIforcetheimageaway.
Alightshinesdownthestepsintothedarknessofthecellar—Theo’sreachedpastmewithhisphone.Weneedtomakesurethecopisdeadandnotdowntherewaitingwithgundrawn.Thelightrevealsthatthedude’sheadistwistedallthewaytothesideatthebottomofthecementsteps.
Somethingmovesnearhiswaist,andforasecondIthinkhe’sstillreachingforhisgun,butit’sFrito,who’sapparentlyescapedTony’sremodeling.Shesitsonthecop’sassandmeowsupatus.
Icheckfortherevolver—it’sstilltuckedsnuglybetweentheelasticwaistbandofmysweatsandthecushionofmybelly.Ipullitout,theheatofthemetalcomforting;Mommyhadheldthisguninherhand,maintainedit.It’spartofher,likethehouseandthegarden.LikeGiffordPlace.Likeme.
TheostillhasthegunhetookfromConDeadbackinmyhallway.
Myneighborhoodisundersiege.There’saverygoodchanceneitherofuswillmakeitoutofthissituationalive,givenhowmuchmoneyandpowerareatstake.
Iforcemyselftostartwalkingdownthestepsintothedarknessofthecellar,becausethere’snoturningback.
“Let’sgo.”
Chapter22
Theo
IWATCHSYDNEYDISAPPEARINTOTHECELLARBUTDON’TMOVE.
WhatamIdoing?
Myeyesstingasacloudofteargasiscarriedpastmeonthebreeze.Flashlightsshinewildlyinthenight,highlightingraisedbatonscomingdownoninnocentpeople.I’vebeentangledupinsomeshadystuff,butIaminwayovermyhead
Goingdownintothatcellar,whereacopislyingdead,isaverydifferentdecisionfromrunningacrossthestreettoSydney’shousewhenI’dseenamanhuntingher.
Thisconspiracymayverywellbereal,butlikeSydneyjustsaid,thisisn’tmyneighborhood.Ialreadyputmoneydownonashittyroom.Icouldputthisgundownandleave.I’dbesafe;anyofthecopssurgingdownthestreetwhosawmewouldassumeIwaswiththem.
AndifIwalkawayfromthisandpretenditneverhappened,Imightaswellbe.
IfollowSydneyintothecellar.
“Closethedoorsafteryou,”shesayswhenI’mhalfwaydown.“Wedon’twantoneofustofalldownherelikethisassholedid.”
Ipauseatherwords,thennodandpullthemetaldoorsshut.Thelockisbustedbuthopefullynoonefollowsusin.
Sydney’sphoneflashlightisstillon,andthedimglowilluminateshersearchingthebody.
WhenIgettothebottomstep,shelooksupwithaferocioussmile,teethclenchedandeyeswide.I’msureifIplacedmyhandatherthroat,herpulsewouldbepoundinglikemad.I’veseenthesamelookbefore,andhaveprobablygivenit,afterpullingoffajobthatcouldhaveendedwithmeinabodybag.
ShehandsmeaTaser,takingthecop’sgunforherself,andIsnortasIseethecompactGlock.
IholduptheoneItookfromherassailantforcomparison.“Matchingset.Standardpoliceissue.”
“Ofcoursethatguywasacop.Ofcourse.Thisisalljust—”Sheinhalesdeeply,thentugsthecop’sMaglitefromhisbeltandstandsfromhercrouch.Bright,crisplightsuddenlyfillstherestofthecellarandthankgod,there’snothingherebutstacksofflattenedcardboardboxesandsomecatfood.
“Shouldn’ttherebeinventory?”Sydneyasks.Shestalksaroundthespace,shininglightsintoeverycorner.HerefficientstrideknocksoveraboxofMeowMixandthecontentsspillonthefloor,toFrito’scontent.Sydneypassesthelightoverthebarecementwallsandwebothsearchforafewminutes,neitherofuscommentingonthemutednoiseofscreamsoutsideand,eventually,agunshotthatmakesusbothjump.
“MaybeIwaswrong,”shesays,leaningdowntostrokeFrito,who’swindingaroundherfeet.Shestaysbent,flashlighttuckedbeneathherarmandpointedbehindher,andthat’swhenIseeit—thethinstripofshadowinthecementwall.
Isteparoundherwiththecrowbar.Theflatedgeofitjustfitsintotheslit,butIdon’thavetodomuchmorethanonelever.Thisdoorswingsbackintothecellarsmoothly.Quietly.
“Ican’tbelieveImadefunofyouforhavingthat,”shewhispersasitopens,andthenwebothtense.
AbreezeblowsmyhairbackasIstepinfrontofherwithmygunraised.Ahallwayisrevealedasthedoortouchesbackagainstthecellarwall,completelyopen.No,notahallway.
“Iguesstherumorsaboutthetunnelswereright,”Sydneysaysinabarelyaudiblevoice.“It’screepyknowingthiswasunderneathusallthistime.”
It’snottheunfinishedtunnelthathadcometomindwhentheteensattheplanningmeetinghadtalkedaboutmolepeople.It’sprofessionallydonecinderblockpaintedbeigewithagarishyellowstriprunningalongthetop.Halogentubesarespacedevenlyalongthewalls,andit’ssurprisinglywide,theceilingshighenoughforatrucktopassthrough.
Itlookslike—
“It’spartofthehospital,”Sydneysaysasshecautiouslypeeksout,andturnsherheadfromrighttoleft.“Thishastobeit.”
WhenIpeekoutafterher,Igetthefulleffectofwhatshemeans.Ithasthesameold,sterile,andunwelcomingatmosphereofmostpublichospitals.
Thetunnelstretchesdowntotheleftbutontherightthere’sasetofbeigedoubledoors,withaluminumplatesalongthebottoms,abouttenfeetaway.
Shegripshergunandstartswalkingright.
“Shouldwecomeupwithaplan?”Iask.
“Likewhat?Shootallthewhitepeopleexceptyou?”Sheglancesatme,thenbacktowardtheapproachingdoubledoor.“That’stheonlyinformationwereallyhave.”
“True.Awkward.Iguesswe’llplayitbyear.”
OurfootstepsechointhehallwayandIkeepturningaroundtomakesurethesoundisn’tsomeonesneakinguponus,butthehallisempty.There’snomotionexceptfortheflickerofoneofthehalogenbulbsthatneedstobechanged.
Whenwegettothedoor,Sydneyasks,“Ready?”inavoicethatshakeswithfear.Herhandsaretrembling,too,andshequicklytuckstheGlockintothebackofherwaistbandandpullsthe.22revolveroutfromthefront,flippingthesafety.
Herhandssteady,butsheshiftsherweightfromfoottofoot,probablyfeelingthesameanxietythat’scrawlingovermyownskin.
“Ready,”Isay.
MybreathiscomingfastasIpushthedooropenandshestalksthroughaheadofme.We’regreetedanticlimacticallywithanothersetofdoubledoors,andourbreathingfillsthesmallspaceaswepsychourselvesuptowalkintodangeragain.
JustasSydneytakesastepforwardtowardthedoor,someonepullsitopenslowlyfromtheotherside,andthesoundofbenignchatterprecedeswhoeveritis.
“Shit,theyneedtofixthesedoorsalready;theotheroneisjammed.Anyway,yeah,theysaidIcouldhavethePerkinsplace,thentheywentandgaveittothatshitheadCharlie,”afamiliarvoicesays.WilliamBilford’svoice.“Likefuckthat,I’vebeendoingallthelegworkformonthsandItoldthemIwantedthosefireplaces.AttheJonesplace,I’llhavetogetthefireplacesrebrickedandgetridofallthecementoverthebackyard.”
Thefrontendofarollinggurneypushesthroughthedoorsintothevestibule,followedbyanunfamiliarwoman’svoice.“Atleastyougottocalldibs,Ijusthavetowait,eventhoughI’veputupwith—”
Abrunettewithherdarkcurlspulledback,wearingablouseandslacks,staresatme,leavinghersentenceunfinished.
“Who’sthis?Isheoneoftheresearchers?”Shesquints,tryingtoplacemyface.
“Didyouchangeyourmind?”Williamasksme,clearlyamused.“Onceshitstartedgoingdown?Itoldyoutogetinearly.”
“Ms.Gianetti?”
It’sonlywhenSydneyspeaksthattheyevenseemtonoticeherpresence.Thewomanstartles.
“Ms.Green.”Thewomanlooksdismayed.“Whatareyou—?”
“Iguessthisiswhyyoucouldn’thelpmymothergetherhouseback?”Sydney’svoiceislowandvicious,angrierthanI’veeverheardher.
“No,it’snotlikethat,”thewomansays,hereyesdartingbetweenmeandWilliam.“Itriedmybest,buttherewasnothingtobedone.”
“Ofcoursetherewasnothingtobedone!”Sydneypointsthegunather.“Tellmethetruth.Youhelpedcheatasickolderwomanoutofthehomeshe’dpouredherlifeinto.”
“Sheisn’tthatold,”Gianettisays.“Andnothingwedidwasillegal.Youcantryfindinganotherlawyer,buttheresponsibilitytoreadthefineprintandthinkthroughthesalefallsontothehomeowner.”
“Howcouldyoudothistopeople?”
I’veseenSydneyfreakout,butrightnowhervoiceisflat.Iwanttoreachouttoher,butthesepeoplehurther,notme.Andshe’ssooutofitthatshe’snotwatchingtheirmovements.
Thewomandoesn’tanswerherandSydneypushes.“Howdoyoudosomeshitlikethisandthinkyoucanjustgetawaywithit?Don’tyoucarethatyou’rehurtingpeople?Don’tyoucarethatyou’reruininglives,takingfrompeoplewhenyoualreadyhaveenoughforyourself?”
Gianettisuddenlylooksannoyedwhensheshouldbefrightened.“I’mtiredofyoupeople.You’resayingallthisnowwhenyouweren’tevenresponsibleenoughtomakeyourappointmentonThursday!Justlikeyourmother,cryingafterthefactandexpectingspecialtreatment.Ifyourmotherwantedtokeepherhousesheshouldhavepaidhertaxesandnotbeensoignorantshefellfor—”
Thewoman’swordsarecutoffagain,butnotbysurpriseorbyaquestion—thistimeit’sbythebulletcurrentlylodgedintheareaofherbrainlocatedbehindherpalate.
Theblastofthegunshotreverberatesinthevestibuleandthewomankeelsforwardontothegurney,eyeswide.
“Christ,Sydney,”Iyell,jumpingback,butsheignoresme,herfocuslasersharponWilliam.
“BillBil.”Sheturnsherguntowardhim.Hervoiceisloud,likeherearsarestillringing.“Gotanythingtosayaboutmymother?”
“Didn’tknowher,butshewasaveryfinewoman,I’msure.”Hisexpressionissmoothlikeanoilslickeventhoughbitsofhiscolleague’sbrainshavesplatteredonhim.
“Good.Thenyoucananswersomeofthemanyquestionswehave.”Sydney’sgazedropsdowntoGianettiandthenmovesbackuptoWilliam.“Whatisthisgurneyfor?WhyareyoutalkingabouthavingdibsonMr.Perkins’shouse?”
Heshrugs,glancesbackoverhisshoulder.FromwhereI’mstanding,Icanfollowhislineofsighttotheredemergencyalarmleveronthewallalittlemorethananarm’slengthawayfromhim.
“Ithinkthere’sbeensomekindofmisunderstanding.”WilliamtakesastepbackandSydneyclosesthespacebetweenthem.
“Iftherewasamisunderstanding,you’dbealittlemoreconcernedbythefactIjustblewaholeinhomegirl’shead.Talk.”
“I’mjustdoingmyjob,right?TheytoldmeIcouldchoosefromoneofthehousesonthestreetifeverythingwentwell.”HishandreachesbehindhimandItakeaimforhisshoulder.
“Stopmoving,”Isay.
Hishandstills.
“Howdidyouthinkyouwouldgetthathouse?Magic?”shepresses.“Howcanyoulayclaimtosomethingthatbelongstosomebodyelse?”
“Ididn’tknowtheywerehurtingpeople,”Williamcontinues,tearsspringingupinhiseyes.“Theysaidtheywerepayingpeopleforthehouses.”
“Thenwhat’sthegurneyfor?”Sydneyasks.
“Oh.This?Um.”Hiseyesdartbackandforthbetweenus.“Well…”
ThegurneysuddenlysurgestowardSydney—I’vebeenwatchinghishands,nothisfeet,andhe’skickedittowardher.Ithitsherinthethighsbeforereboundingoffher,andshestumblesbackintothedoor.Williamleansback,hisfingersgraspingtowardthealarm.
Mygunisalreadyaimed.Theelementofsurpriseisallwehaveandifhealertspeopletoourpresencewe’redead.Isqueezeoffonesilentshot.
ThereverberationoftheGlock’sblastjanglesthroughme,andWilliamBilfordslumpsforwardontothegurneyoverhisfriend,asprayofbloodmistingoutofhischest.Hischestandnothisarm.There’sagapingholewhereaheartisusuallylocated.
Shit.
“Whydidyoukillhim?”Sydney’seyesarewide.Shewipesfranticallyathercheeks,wheredropletsofbloodspattered.“Iwastryingtogethimtotelluswhat’sgoingonhere.”
Iscrunchmyfacecontritelyandexhalesharplythroughmynose.
“Thatwassupposedtobeanarmshottostophimfrompullingthealarm,butapparentlymyaimisn’tasgoodasyours.I’mmoreofafistsorkniveskindofguy.”
“It’sokay.Ikilledone,youkilledone.”Shelooksdownatthetwobodies.“Allright.They’redead.They’redead.”
“Sydney?”
Shebendsandstartspushingthegurney,strugglingwiththeweightofit.“Wecan’tleavethemhereincasesomeonecomesthrough.Andwedon’tknowifthepeopleaheadwillbearmed.Wecanusethisforcover.”
Imovebesideherandwepushthegurneythroughthedoor.
“She’sthelawyerwhosaidshecouldhelpmegetthehouseback,”shesaysasweenterwhatseemstobeanotherhallway,noddingherchintowardthewoman’sbody.“Shestrungmealongforalmostayear,actingsoconcernedandenragedonmymother’sbehalf.I’mstartingtowonderifallofyouareevil.”
“NothingIsayrightnowwillputyouateaseaboutthat.”Iinhaleandthesmellofbloodfillsmynostrils.“Ihopewemakeitoutofherealive.BecauseIlikeyoualot.Iwanttospendsometimewithyouthatisn’tusactivelycaughtupinawebofconspiracy.IknowIprobablyshouldn’tbesayingthiswhilewe’repushingdeadbodiesaround,butlifeisshort.”
“Nothingwrongwithshootingyourshotinthemiddleofabloodbath.Ifnotnow,when?”sheaskssardonically,butdoesn’treciprocatethesentiment.
Wereachabendinthehallwayandturnright,slowlymaneuveringthegurneyanditshorrificpayload.Wemovethroughanothersetofdoubledoors—automaticonesthathaven’tclosedalltheway.
Thehallwayaheadisalittledimmer,thewallspaintedadullgrayandmanyofthelightsconcesbulbless.We’vepassedintoadifferentwing.
It’sthesmellthathitsmefirst.Feces.Bodilyodor.
Despair.
Largewindowslinethewallsofthecorridorupahead—notglass,somethinglesseasytobreak.Somethinggoodforkeepingpeopleconfined.Thislookslikealockup—itshouldn’tbeinthebasementofanoldshut-downhospital.
There’snosoundexceptourlaboredbreathingandthecreakofthegurneywheels.Thesilencearoundusfeelsheavy,foreboding.
Asweapproachthefirstwindow,ahandslapsagainstithard,andSydneystopsshortandpressesintome—WilliamBilford’sbodyslidesoffthegurneytothefloorwithaheavythud.
“Mrs.Payne?”Sherushespastthebodyonthefloorandpressesherhandtothewindow.
“No,no,no.Thisistoomuch.Thisistoo—”
Herwordsbreakoff,andshejustshakesherhead,staringintotheroom.
WhenIwalkupbehindher,anolderwomanwithmattedhairandcheekscavedinfrommissingteethisstaringatSydneythroughtheplexiglass.Thewhitesofhereyesareyellowandswimmingwithtears.Istareatthoseeyesforalongmoment.
Irecognizethem.
“She’s—IfoundaphotoalbumalittleafterImovedhere.Inthegarbage.She’sinalotofthepictures.”
I’dwonderedwhysomeonehadtossedawaysuchpreciousmemoriesliketrash.Thiswomanhadn’tthrownitout.Whoeverstoleherhomehadtakencareofthat.
Thewoman,nolongertheyoungbright-eyedgirloralways-laughingyoungwomanwhosephotoIhadlookedatcountlesstimes,slapstheplexiglasswhereSydney’shandis,herhandpressinghardasifshemighttouchSydneythroughit.Irecognizetheexpressioninhereyes—it’sthesamewayKavaughnlookedatme.
Desperation.
Acryforhelp.
Shepointsatthetubesinherarms,startsmakingwildgesturesIcan’tunderstand.
“Theysaidtheyweregoingtoopenaresearchcenter,andtheyhave.”Sydney’svoiceisquiet,butwhenshelooksupatmehereyesarewideandterrified.“ThisisDorisPayne.Thewomanwhosehouseyoutook.”
Chapter23
Sydney
ILOOKUPATTHEO,THEHORRORI’MFEELINGSOOVERWHELMINGthatImightblackout.Dorisiscaged.Cagedlikeananimal.She’salwaysbeensopridefulaboutherlooks,andtheyhaveherinherelookinglikethis.
“Thedayofthetour,yourgirlfriendwaslookingatthePaynehouse.”I’dregistereditasIslammedmydoorinTheo’sface,buthadn’tremembereditandwhatitmeantuntilnow.“It’slikewhatBillBilsaid.Theywantahouse,andtheytakeit.Doesn’tmatterifsomeoneelselivesthere.”
“Ihadnoideaaboutanyofthis.”
I’mstartingtowonderhowit’spossibleforhimnottoknowaboutanyofthis
“Whydidyouevengoonthattour?”Iaskhim,asmybodyshakes.Ifeellikeeverycellinmybodywantstoflyoffinadifferentdirection.“SoKimcouldplaysomefucked-upgame?Eeniemeeniemineymo,catchabrownstoneby—bykidnappingandtorturing?”
DorislooksatTheo,butshehasnoreactiontohim.Notfearorangerorrecognition.Hergazedriftsbacktome,unfocusedandawfulandpleading.
SheusedtosellAvonproductsandhadslippedmesamplesofSkinSoSoftinthesummerwhenthemosquitoeswerebiting.Thegentlescenthasalwaysremindedmeofher,butnowthesmellinthishallwaymakesitimpossibletoevenrecall.
Theodoesn’ttouchme,buthemovescloser.“Kimtoldmethatherdadhadboughtusthetourticketsandthatitwouldbeagoodwaytocheckouttheneighborhood,sincewewerelookingtobuy.”
Iturnawayfromthewindow,awayfromDoris,andmygazelandsonthedoorbesidehersmallroomthatcontainsonlyacotandabucket.Thedoorhasanelectroniccodereaderonitsheavy-dutylock.ThechartonthewallnexttothedoorsaysTestSubject3andnonviableisscrawledbeneathitinSharpie.
Itrytocollateallofthesefacts,makethemmakesense,butmybraincan’tprocessthishorror.
“Sydney.”
IignoreTheoandstalkdownthehallway,weavingfromonesidetotheotherasIinspecteachroomandeachchart.
TestSubject1isadark-skinnedmanIdon’tknowwholiesonhiscotwithoutmoving.
Nonviable
Testsubject2.MissWanda,dammit,MissWanda,frailandhunchedover,scratchingatherneck.
Nonviable
“Sydney.”Theo’sharshwhisperisdrownedoutbythebuzzinmymind.
TestSubjects4and5arestrangers,amanandawoman.MaybethewomanistheoneAmbermentioned,whosupposedlygotsnatcheddownasubwaygrate.Ormaybethatwomanisalreadydead.
Number6isAbdul.Hiscellisabitdifferent—he’sonagurney,hookeduptomachinesthatmonitorhisvitals.
Irundownthehallnow,heartpoundinginmyears,theunfamiliarandfamiliarfacesblendingtogether.Stranger,slappingathisownhead.JamelJones,whoIjustsawacoupleofdaysago,knockedoutandwithanIVinhisarm.
Thecorridorseemstogoonforever,theroomsandtheirinhabitantsinvariousstatesbutalmosteverydamnroomoccupied.They’resoundproofed,Irealizeatsomepoint,sothestrangledcriesIhearechoinginthehallwayaremyown.
TestSubject18.Mr.Perkinssitsontheedgeofhisgurney,staringatthefloor.Helookssothincomparedtojustafewdaysago,thewrinklesonhisfacehanginglikeheavypleatsinfabric.
Itapfranticallyatthewindowandheslowlyraiseshishead.Hestaresatme,norecognitiononhisface,butstandsandshufflestowardtheglass.
Hismovementsarejerky;hisheadlollstotheside.
Andthenhelungesatme,beatinghisfistsonthewindow.Ican’thearhim,buthismouthstretcheswideinascreamandhisspitflecksthewindow.Hiseyesarefullofrage—I’veneverevenseenhimangrybefore.
Asirensoundsinthehallway,butIstandtherefrozen.Evenwhenarmsclosearoundmeandhaulmebackintotherecesseddoorwayoftheroomacrossthehall,IholdMr.Perkins’srage-filledgaze.
Thedoubledoorsthatcapthiswingopenslowlywithaprolongedwhoosh,automated,andtwowhitewomenrushintothehall,onebrunette,onegrayhaired.They’redressedinjeansandT-shirts,butwearwhitelabcoats.Thegray-hairedone,whohasashortpixiecut,swipesherIDagainstthelocktoMr.Perkins’sroom,andtheyrushin.Astheydo,hiswailsfillthehallway,andIhatethatIrecognizehisvoiceinthiscryofpurepain.
Key,Theomouths,andheslipspastme,givingmeafirmpressbackagainstthedoorthat’sanordertostaythere.Hedidn’thavetodothat—Ican’tmove.Thehorrorofeverythinghaswrappedmeuptightly,strappedmedownlikeI’monthatgurneyinsteadofMs.Gianetti’slifelessbody.
Hestalkstowardtheroom,tuckingintoacrouchandthenpeekingaroundthedoorframe.Iexpecthimtojustburstinbuthewaits.Andwaits.FurystartstobuildinmeasMr.Perkins’showlsfillthehallway,butthenIremember.
“Myaimisn’tasgoodasyours.”
He’swaitingtomakeacleanshot.
Hedoesn’twanttohurtMr.Perkins.
Thehowlingsubsidesandthefirstwomanstepsthroughthedoorandbackintothehallway,andthenthesecond.Beforetheyletthedoorswingshut,Theostandsupbehindthemandsays,“Don’tmove.”
Bothwomenfreeze,butthebrunette’shandkeepsgoingtowardthebulgeinherpocket.WhateverconstraintswereonmybodyimmediatelyreleaseasIinstinctivelyrecognizethemotion—she’sreachingforaweapon.
Istepoutfromthedoorwayandshoot.Shegrabsherstomachandfallstothefloor,screaminginpain,soundingnotsodifferentfromMr.Perkins.
“Ohmygoodness.Julia!”theolderwomancallsout,andTheorushesuptoher,strippingtheIDfromherandsearchingherforweapons.
Ipatdownthewomanonthefloorandsheclaspsatmyhand.
“Helpme,”shesaysastearswellfromhereyesandcourseintoherhair.
Ishakeherhandoffandsearchherforweapons—I’msecond-guessingmyself,wonderingifshe’dgoneforherphoneandI’djustshotsomeoneforno—no,it’sagun.
Withasilencer.LiketheoneTheotookfromConDead.
“Don’tletmediehere,Ihaveason.Ahusband.”Shegraspsatherstomachandthencriesoutinpain.
Pityandguiltspearme,andIremindmyselfthatallthepeoplelockedupherehavefamiliesandlives,too.
“WhatdidyoudotoMr.Perkins,Julia?Toallthesepeople?”
“Mr.Perkins?”
“TestSubjectEighteen,”Igritout.
Shecoughs,avertshergazefrommine.“…Myjob.”
“Whichis?”
Shestartscryinginearnest,lockinghergazeonmine.“Pleasehelpme,ithurtssomuch!”
Iwanttocry,too.Ididthistoher.Doesshedeserveit?DidMs.Gianetti?WhowasItodecide?WhatifIwaswrong?
MyvisionstartstoswimandIsuckinabreath.
“I’llhelpyouwhenyoutellme,”Isaythroughgrittedteeth.“Idon’twanttohurtanyone.Ijustneedtoknowwhat’sgoingonhere.Ican’thelpyouuntilyoutellme.”
“We’reresearchinghowtocureopiateaddiction,”shesaysquickly,hopeglintinginhereyes.“Weneededtestsubjects,andfederalregulationsmaketrueprogresstoodifficult.There’samethadoneclinicnearhere,wepickeduppeoplethere.Andtheothers—”
“Shutup,Julia,”theolderwomansays,thenyelpsasTheotightenshisholdonher.
ItugatJulia’scollartodrawherattentionbacktome.“Whylikethis?Youalreadywonthebidforthenewresearchcenter.Whydothingslikethis?”
“Newresearchcenter?Notnew.Youmeanofficial.”Julia’swordsaresluggish,andwhenshesmiles,herteetharesheenedwithblood.“Andwedoitbecausewecan.”
Ibackawayfromher,holdingthegun,andshewrithesonthefloorandscreams.“Helpme,youbitch!”
“Gostartunlockingthedoors,”Theosaysfrombehindme,handingmeakeycard.“Startattheotherendofthehall.”
“But—”
Hetakeshergunfrommyhand.“Go.”
Hisvoiceishard,butnotmean.
Iruntotheotherendofthehall,franticallyswipingthecardoverthelocksandopeningeverydoor.Mostpeoplearen’tinastatetomovethemselves,butsomeofthemcanstartmakingtheirwayout.Attheveryleastthey’renolongerlockedin.Wecan’tcallthepoliceoranambulance.Wecan’ttrustanyone.
Astheirdoorsopen,thecriesandmoansofthepeopleVerenTechhasbeenusingastestsubjects—strangers,neighbors,andfriends—fillthehall.
Iwanttoclosemyears.Iwanttorunawayfromallofthis.ButIjustunlockthedoorsandswingthemopen,onebyone.
BythetimeImakeitbacktoTheothereareonlytwostreaksofbloodleadingintoanemptyroomnexttoMr.Perkins’s.
“Dowegoaheadorgoback?”heasksgrimlyasIhandhimthecard.
“Wecan’tgoback,”Isay,eventhoughmymindisscreamingatmetodojustthat.“Movingthosepeopleourselvescouldkillthem.Wecan’tcallthepolice.Welosetheelementofsurprise,andthesepeoplewillgetawaywiththis.Ineedtoendthisshit.”
Theodoesn’tsayanything.Justcheckshisclip,thenwavestheIDcardinfrontofthesensornexttothedoubledoorsthatleadoutofthewing.
Istepthroughthemastheyswingopen.
Chapter24
Sydney
“YOUEVERPLAYAFIRST-PERSON-SHOOTERVIDEOGAME?”Theoasks.“Wargameswhereyoumoveroombyroom,pickingtheenemyofftoadvance?”
“Ihategameslikethat,”Isay.“Icanneverfigureoutthedamncontrolsandalwaysfreakoutandgetmoweddown.Arealgunis—”
Easier.Easier,andamilliontimesharderbecausethesearen’tpixelsonascreen.Thepeoplewe’veshot,we’vekilled,arereal.Ohgod,they’rerealandsomehowIcan’tevenmakemyselffeelthatanymore.I’mnotahardenedkiller—Ithinkmybrainhasreachedsomekindofoverloadpointandthechoicesarecurluporkeepitmoving.
Igripmyguntightly,myeyesdartingbackandforthasweenteralobbyspace.Lookingformorepeoplewemighthavetoshoot.
“I’msellingmyPlayStationafterthis,”Theosaysdarklyashepeersaround.
Thelobbywe’repassingthroughisasmallone,withthesameyellow-and-beigecolorschemeasthefirstpartofthetunnel.Thisareaisslightlynicerthanwhatwe’veseensofar.
Insteadofholdingcageswithtestsubjects,therearenormal-lookingofficesbehindtheglassintheserooms.Plantssitondesksandhangfromceilings.Picturesofchildrenandfamiliesareinframesofallshapesandsizes.
Itcouldbeanyworkplace,quietonaSaturdaynightbecauseeveryoneisofffortheweekend.No.Twopeople,fourpeople,hadbeenworking,andnowthey’re…not.
Theowalksaheadofme,peeringintooffices.Hestopsinfrontofone,sosuddenlythatI’msuresomeoneisinside,buthedoesn’tsayanything,doesn’traisehisgun.HisjawworksandhisAdam’sapplebobs.
WhenImovebesidehim,Ilookintoanofficethatbelongstooneofthepeoplewhoisnolongerworking.ApieceofpatternedpurplecloththatyoucanbuyfromoneofthetinyIndianstorefrontsaroundNostrand—well,youcouldbeforetheygotshutdown—hangsonthewall.Theroomsmellsoflavenderandsandalwood,andcrystalsofallcolorsandsizessitonshelvesandmostavailablespaces.Instagram-meme-styleaffirmationswrittenincalligraphylikeRiseandshine!andJustBreatheandKindnessisthekeyareframedonthewalls,andonthedeskisaneight-by-tenofJulialaughinginaweddingphotowithaslim,beamingBlackguy.Besideit,apictureofherwithtwobrownkids.
“Jesus,”Theosays.
Ican’tabsorbthis.Didherhusbandknowwhatherjobwas?Howwillherchildrenfeelwhentheirmotherdoesn’tcomehome?Becauseofme.
Ilookawayandmyeyecatchesonanotheraffirmation.
Theonlywayforwardisthrough.
Ishakemyheadandcontinuethesweepoftheoffices—that’swhatthisis.
Theopeelsawayfromthewindowandwalksalongbesideme,andwhenIglanceupathim,hisexpressionisblank,hiscomplexionchalky.
Wepassdownthecorridorbacktoback,theglassmakingiteasytoseethatnooneisinside,andnooneishidingunderdesksorbehinddoors.Interspersedwiththeofficesareexaminationroomslikeyoumightfindinanyurgentcarecenter—somewhereinmyhead,I’ddisconnectedthissectionfromtheother,butthepeoplesittingherewouldhaveseenthetestsubjectsbroughtthrough,wouldhaveheardtheircries.
Theyweretheonesdoingthetesting.
Theostopsandscrubsahandthroughhishairinagitation.“Doyouthinktheyweretheonlyoneshere?Thepeoplewealreadyencountered?”
“There’sthemeeting,”Isay,tryingtofigureouthowmuchtimehaspassedsincehestrippedmyassailantofhisphoneandwescrolledthroughtheprivategroup.Sincethepolicestartedtheirsiegeofmyneighborhood.Itcouldhavebeenminutesorhours.“Maybethat’swhereeveryoneis.”
“Iguesswekeepgoing,”hesaysflatly.
Wereachthenextsetofdoubledoorswithoutencounteringanyone,andswipethrough;theyleadusintoastairwellthat’screepyasshit.Ametalcageseparatesthislevelfromthestairs,thegraypaintpeelingtoshowtherustbeneath,butthedoorisajar.Thestairwellitselfisconcrete,dank,anddimlylit,linedwithrandomclustersofpipesandHVACtubes.Webegintoclimb,expectingtofindadoorwayateachlandingandbeingmetwithblankwall.
“Theo?”Idon’tmeantosayhisname,don’tmeanformyvoicetobebreathyandpanicked,butthedimnessandthesilencestarttopressinonme,aclaustrophobicnightmare.Partofmewondersifthereareanydoors.Maybeweshouldturnback—ifwedo,willwefindthedoortothemetalcagelocked?Isthisatrap?Maybeweshouldhaveturnedback.MaybeI’vechosenincorrectly,likeIalwaysdo.
Theo’sbighandpressesintomybackasweclimb,rightoverthegrowingknotoftensionbetweenmyshoulderblades.“Don’tforgetthetunnelsareunderground,soit’sgoingtotaketimetoreachgroundlevel.Therewillbeadoor.Wejusthavetokeepclimbing.”
Inod.
Finally,finally,wereachalandingwithametaldoor.Lightseepsoutfromthespacewhereitdoesn’tmeettheground,anduglyofficelightingneverlookedsogood.
TheotriestheIDcardonthescanner,andthelockmechanismwhirsandreleases.Wecrackthedoorandenteranotherlevel,whichlooksentirelydifferentfromtheundergroundtunnels.It’sclearlystillunderrenovation,butthemedicalcenterclosedrelativelyrecently.Thisfloorisstillprettyugly,buttwenty-first-centuryugly,withbrightlightsembeddedingray-speckleddroptileceilingsandbone-whitewalls.
Themurmurofvoicescanbehearddownthehall,andthescentofcoffeefillsthehallway,thoughIcan’tshakethesmellofthatfirstcorridorwe’dencountered—whatwouldbethelastcorridorforpeopleapproachingfrominsidethebuilding.
MyinsidesarequakingbutmyhandsaresteadyasIpulloutmysecondgun.Theoshakeshishead,leansdowntowhisper.“Thatonlyworksinmovies,Syd.”
Aspurtoffrustrationgoesthroughme,butItuckitawaylikeIdothegun.He’sright,andI’musedtoMommy’sgunanyway.
Wecreepdownthehallway,towardthesoundofamantalkingloudly.Confidently.Idon’tknowwhoitis,butIknowthetype—theguywhoexpectstogetwhathewants,anddoes.
“Okay,wehavesomeliveviewfromthestreethere,viathedronesandthedoorbellcams,”thevoicesays.“Lookatthismess.Itoldthoseidiotstobemindfulofpropertydamage.Thisshouldhavebeendoneinthemiddleofthenightnotatthebeginningofit,anditshouldhavebeendonetomorrow,duringtheblockpartyandleadingintotheparade.”
Theoplacesahandonmyshoulder,leansdowntowhisperagain.“Kim’sdad.”
Irealizesomething.Upuntilnow,thishasnotbeenpersonalforhim.Yeah,ConDeadhadbeenfuckinghisex,buthehadn’twalkedinonthemoranything.Hehadn’tknownthecopsattackingusandhadbarelyknownthepeopleonthestreet.
Nowit’sabouttogetrealpersonal.
Mythoughtsstartracingagain.
Theoisonmyside.ButDreawasonmyside,too,wasn’tshe?Untilmoneymadeherbetrayme.
Theosaidhelikesme,butifIkeepitreal,I’mhisreboundhookup.HewaswithKimforhowlong,andwe’veonlyknowneachotheraweek.IhateMarcusandhaven’tspokentohimsincethedivorcewasfinalized,andI’mnotsureIcouldwalkintoaroomandpointagunathimforanyreason,thoughI’vefantasizedaboutitalot.
I’mfrozenasTheomovesaheadofme,gunathisside.
“Wait,”Isay,butmywhisperdoesn’tleavemymouth,likeI’minoneofthebaddreamsagain.Icouldleave,run,butI’dbecaughtinthemeleeoutsideandhavenoideawhowouldbelievemeenoughtocomebacktothehospitalwithme.Imightgetarrestedorkilled,orputintooneoftheroomsdownstairsandtestedon,beforeIcandoanything.
IwanttotrustTheobecausehe’scomethisfarwithme,butIdon’t.Idon’ttrustanyone,oranything,exceptthefactthatIhavetoendwhateverisgoingon,andifIrunnowthatwon’thappen.
Istartwalking,too,steelingmyselfforwhatever’sbehindthedoorinthisconferenceroom.ForthefactthatjustbecauseTheodidn’tturnonmebeforedoesn’tmeanhewon’tnow.
“Therejuvenationisnotgoingassmoothlyasplanned,butifitcontinuesasitis,thenbydaylightwe’llhaveanewneighborhoodunderourumbrella.”
“Didwereallyhavetobesobluntaboutit?”anothermanasks.“Istillthinkweshouldhavemovedmoresubtly,likewiththeWilliamsburgandParkSlopeprojects.”
Theoisstandingbesidethedoornow,hisbacktome.
“Thecarafeisempty,”someonemutters,andgetsshushed.
“Subtletyisnolongernecessary.Thisneighborhoodisours.Wehadtogetaheadoftheotherdeveloperstryingtomovein,”Kim’sfathersays,voicehard.“Thisisnotimetogetsqueamish.Inchingslowlytowardrejuvenationisn’tanoptionanymore,andwiththepolice,themedia,andthegovernmentonourside,there’snothingtoworryabout.Evenwithanydestructionandbribes,thecostofgettingthisoveranddonequicklyisnegligible.”
Awoman’svoicecutsin,hertoneglib.Irecognizeitfromwhenshethreatenedtocallthecopsonme.“Whenyouaddtheincentiveswe’regettingfromthecity,thislatestprojectwillgainusbillionsofdollarstogetbacklandthatwecouldhavepaiduntoldamountsofmoneyforotherwise.WetotallypulledaStuyvesant.”
Shelaughs.
“Well,hopefullywemanagethingsabitbetterthanourforebear,”herfathersays.“Onthenextslidearetheprojectedearningsfortheeventualaddictioncure.Methadonehassuchanegativeconnotation,andthenewdrugcrisissweepingthecountrycallsforahipper,funkierproduct.Somethingthatcanappealtoafamilyintheheartlandandanurbanmillennialfamily.”
“Ouronlinemonitoringteamshavestartedtospotstorieslinkingourproductionofopioidsandourgettingpaidtofindthesolution,butnothingisstickingsofar,”adeepervoicechimesin,thebrownnosinginhistoneapparent.“They’remostlygettingwrittenoffascrackpotconspiracytheorists.”
Multiplevoiceslaughatthat.
“Good.Makesuretoplantsomeadditionalstories,andalsoevenmoreembellishedones,likewe’regrowingbabiesintanksorsomething.Hell,dredgeupthemolepeoplething,thatseemstogetgoodplay.”
“Speakingofvermin,”someoneelsesays,“asforthecureitself,whileit’seffectiveinmice,mostofourhumantestsubjectshaven’tfaredaswell.Thisonewaspromising,butwascompromised.”
“We’retryingtoeathere,”anothermansaysinannoyance.
ItugatTheo’sshirt,butheignoresmeandstepsinsidetheroom.Thechatterabruptlystops.
Shit.Shitshitshit.
Weweresupposedtohavetheelementofsurprise,butnottojustwalkinandstareatthem.
Igraspmygunandverycarefullypeekinside.Theoisstandingtherelikeadummy,partiallyblockingmyview.Aftereverythingthat’shappened,Iexpecttheroomtobefilledwithmonsters,butno.Justabunchofnormal-lookingpeopleinrumpledsuits,mostlymen,mostlywhite.Butnotentirely.Goddammit.IrecognizetheBlackmanwho’sfrozenwithhisnapkintohismouth,readytobolt—apoliticianwho’sbeenonthesceneforyears.AnolderAsianmanhashisheadturnedtowardTheo,eyebrowsraised.
They’reallsittingatanovaltablewithpapercups,plates,andstacksofdocumentsscatteredacrossit.APowerPointpresentationisbeingprojectedontoascreen.Itcouldbeanyoldmeeting,atanyoldcompany,excepttheslideonthescreenshowsapictureofKavaughn,eyesbulgingandbloodcrustingbothnostrils.Greenishspittlehasdrippedfromthecornerofhismouthanddowntohisneck.
Ipullmyheadaway,pressmybackagainstthewallnexttothedoor,andtrytocalmmystomach,mynerves,mysoul.TheykilledKavaughn.AndDrea.Theywanttodothistoallofus.
“Youtoldushewasdead,Kimberly,”herfathersays.
“Don’tblamethisonme!Eriktoldme—”
“Hey,”Theosayssharply.“Enough.Thisisit.You’vebeencaught.It’sover.”
“What?Oh,youreallythoughtyouwouldstopus?”It’stheincredulouslaughterinhervoicethatstompsallmyemotionsflatexceptforone—rage.
“Youalwaystriedtobesosmart,whenyou’renothingbuttrailertrash,”shesays,andthetoneissosimilartohowMarcuswouldcalmlytellmeIwasnothing.“Didyouthinkyouwouldwaltzinhereandtellustostopandwewould?Isthathowthisplayedoutinyourhead?Youreallydidn’tpayattentionatallwhenyoumetmyfamilyandtheirfriends,didyou?Allthelawyers,andCEOs,andpoliticians?”
“Youcan’tstopus.Thisistoobig,andthere’stoomuchmoneyontheline,”herfathersayscalmly.“Weownthejails,shithead.They’renotforpeoplelikeus.”
Kim’sfatherisright.Inthebest-casescenario,therearesomegoodcopsinthismess,andsomecleanlawyers,andajurythatdoestherightthing.Howeveritplaysout,maybehegoestoawhite-collarprisonforafewyears.Maybe.
Imakethesignofthecross,somethingIhaven’tdonesinceIwasateenager,andthenwhirlandtakeastepintotheroombesideTheo.Idon’tjuststandtherethough—they’vealreadysaidthatnothingwecandowithintheboundsofthelawwillstopthem.Igetthemotherfuckerstandingwithasmugsmileinfrontoftheroom’sheartinmysight,andpullthetriggeruntilthechamberisempty.
Iwatchhiseyes,seethesmuglightfadefromthem,butIfeelnothingthistime.NotwithKavaughn’sfaceuponthatscreen,thoughnowit’ssplatteredwiththeoldman’sblood.
Shockedsilencefillstheroom.Kim,dressedinabootlegHillaryClintonpantsuit,jumpstoherfeetandstaresatme.
“You—you—”
“Youcanseemenow,can’tyou,bitch?Funnyhowthatworks.”
Ipointthegunatherandpullthetrigger,forgettingI’moutofbulletsinmyrage.Shedivesunderthetable,andpandemoniumensues.Thepeoplewho’vebeensittingaroundthetableinshockstarttorun,knockingoverchairsandscattering,andKim’sfather’swordsplayinmyhead.
“Youcan’tstopus.Weownthejails.”
Idon’thavetimetoreload.IpulltheGlockItookfromthecop,fumblewiththesafety,andstartfiring.Thisisahigher-calibergun;theshapeofitinmyhandfeelswrongandhittingarunningtargetiswaymoredifficultthanhittingonestandinginfrontofyou—aboutathirdofthepeoplegodown,buttherestofthemrunoutoftheroom.
Shit!
ThegunjamsandIshakeit,likethatwillfixanything,butit’smessedup.Idon’tknowwhattodo,soIdropitonthefloor,pulloutMommy’strusty.22,andfumbleforthebaggieofbulletsinmypocket.
ThecriesandshufflingofthepeopleIclippedfillstheroom,andeventhat’smuffledbytheloudnessofmyheartbeatandmybreathingandtheringingofmyears.
BulletsarespillingonthefloorwhenIhearaguncocknexttomyhead.
Theo.
“Don’t,”hesaysinabarelyrecognizablevoice.“Don’teventhinkaboutit.”
IthoughtIcouldn’tfeelanythingbutrage,butsadnessslicesthroughmeinamilliontinyblades,likeeverythingI’vebeentryingnottofeelcompressedandthenexplodedinsideofme.Ihavenoone.
Noone.
Iseethemuzzleoftheguninmyperipheralvision.It’sshakingalmostuncontrollably,andwhenTheostepspastme,Ifollowwherethegunispointed.WhileIwasbusyreloading,Kimhadstoodfrombehindthetablewithagunofherown.
“Kim,it’soverforrealthistime,”Theosays.
Herexpressionsuddenlysoftens,eyesfillingwithtendernesseventhoughshe’spointingaweapon.“Canyoureallyshootme,babe?Really?”
“Doit,Theo,”Iurge.“She’sgoingtokillus.She’shurtsomanypeople.”
Kimtiltsherheadandsmiles.“Youknow,I’mgladyou’renotdead.”
“Why?”Theoaskssadly,stilljuststandingthere.Ican’tseemtogetthebulletsintomygun,becausemyownhandsareshaking,too,mybodytoooverwhelmedbywhat’shappeningevenifmymindisstillhanginginthere.
“Theo,please,”Ipleadasmorebulletsdroptotheground.
“Becauseyou’vefinallydonesomethinguseful.I’vebeenwaitingformydadtodropdead.NowI’mincharge.”Shegrins,releasesthesafetyonhergun.“You’rebigandstrong,butsowhat?You’rejustasoftlittlemama’sboy.”
“HowdyDoody!”IyellatTheo.“HowdyfuckingDoody!”
Theogrunts,hisfingerjerksonthetrigger,andKimstumblesback,bloodbloomingonthefrontofherblouselikethezinniasMommyplantedinourbackyard.
Idon’thavetimetosayanything,toprocessanything;IhearstepsrunningdownthehalltowardusandTheoisstaringblank-eyedatthespotwhereKimwasstanding.Ireachforhisbackpocket,grabsomethingthatlookslikeagun,andcomeawaywiththeTaserIstrippedfromthecopinstead.
AbulletwhizzespastmyheadandIturn,flipwhatIhopeisthesafety,andwhenalasersightappearsonthechestofthemanshootingatus,Ifire.Twometalwiresshootoutandhithim,andhedropstothegroundwrithing.Idon’tletup,watchingthegunslipfromhissplayedfingersandtheRedSoxcapslidebackandbecrushedasherollsontoit.
“FuckingDrew,”Isayinavoicesolowitraspsmythroat.Ifinallyreleasemyfinger,whichisstartingtocrampfromwillingmyangerthroughtheTaser.
IwalkovertoDrewandpickuphisgun.Ican’tbringmyselftoshoothim,unconsciousandwithapissstainonhisjeans.Ishouldkillhim,butinsteadIsliptothefloorasmylegsgiveoutwithoutsomuchasawarningtremble.
Theowalksuptome.“I’msorryIfroze.Ishouldhave—Ishouldhave—”
“It’sokaynottobethatcold-blooded,”Isay,myteethstartingtochatter.“I’msureashellnot.Fuck.”
Theodropsdownbesidemeandpullsmeagainsthim,andwestaylikethatforaminute.Holdingeachotherinaroomfullofbodiesandgorebecauseifwedidn’tneedahugafterallthat,itwouldmeanthisnighthadbrokensomethinginusthatcouldn’tbefixed.
“Weneedtogetthepeopleoutofthoseroomsdownthere,”Isay.Idon’twanttogiveupthesensation,buttheremightbemoreDrewsandtherearedefinitelypeopleinneedofimmediatemedicalattention.Idon’tknowhowwe’llgetittothem,butwehavetofinishthis.
“Let’sgo,”hesays.
Weshufflebackdownthestairs—myadrenalinesurgehasfadedandI’mfuckingexhausted,andthenightisn’tevenclosetoover.Weeachgrabawheelchairfromthelobbyasweheadbacktowardthatawfulwingofhorrorswefirstencountered.
Whenwepassthroughthedoubledoorsmyheartstops.Thebloodonthefloorisgone.Allthedoorstotheroomsforthe“testsubjects”arelockedtight,theirpainlockedbehindthesoundproofdoorsonceagain.
Twomenwholookbarelyoutofcollege,onewhitewithgreasyblackhair,wearingaT-shirtwithvarioussexualpositionsonit,theotheronewithcurlybrownhairandfeaturespeoplecallraciallyambiguous,standtalkingwithanolderwhitemaninablood-spatteredbusinesssuitafewfeetaway.
“Oh,theretheyare,”themansays,exasperationinhisvoiceashelooksatmeandTheo,completelyignoringourguns.“Perfect.Primethem,andthenyoucantrytheFeelbutrolonthem.Howdoesthatsound?Feelbutrol.Mikelthoughtitsoundedtoomuchlikeanantidepressant,buthe’sgonenowandIlikeit.Hasasci-fielementbutit’sstillhip.”
“Soundsgood,Mr.Voorhies.YouwerealwayscoolerthanMr.DeVries,”CurlyHairsays.
“Yeah,andKimwasarealbitch.Gladshe’sgone,”GreasyHairsays,thenlooksatus,annoyed.“We’regivingittothisguy,too?”
“Yes,”Voorhiessays.“Ihatetosayit,butMikelwasabitracist.Imeanyes,yes,superiorrace,whatever.Healsowastedalotofmoneyonhiswhims.I’mnotgoingtoletagoodstrongvolunteergotowaste.Usethemboth.”
Helookspastus,snaps,andmakesawrap-it-upmotionwithonehand.
There’sasharpprickinmyshoulderandeverythinggoesblack.
Chapter25
Sydney
INMOVIES,WHENPEOPLEGETSTRAPPEDDOWNTOHOSPITALbedsbythebadguys,theyeitherdevelopsuperhumanstrengthortheymanagetofindsomewaytoslipout.I’vebeenstrappeddownagainstmywillbefore.Iknowthatnoamountofwriggling,noamountofscreaming,noamountofprayingtoGodorSatanoroneoftheirlittlefriendswillgetyouout.
I’mnotcalmasIlieonthegurneynexttoTheo—myheartispounding,myjawislocked,andIfeellikeifIblinktoohardImightsetoffafull-onpanicattack.IlookcalmcomparedtoTheo,who,intypicalwhitedudemanner,isnotpleasedaboutbeingdeniedautonomy.
“Letusgo!”hescreams,writhingsothatthebedhe’sstrappedtoshakesandthemetalbucklesofthestrapsclangagainsttherails.
Thetwoyoungdoctors,scientists,whatever,areinthisroomwithusandbustlearounduslikethey’rejustataregularofficejob.LikeJuliaandhercoworker,theywearnormalclothesandwhitejackets,andbothofthemaresippingteafromwinterholidayStarbucksthermoseseventhoughit’ssummer.
Thecurly-hairedoneispowerwalkingbackandfortharoundtheroom,openingsmallfridgesandgatheringglassbottlesofchemicals.Thewhiteguyissittinginarollingofficechair,andhishairhangsinhisfaceashelooksoversomepapersandeatswingsfromaCrownFriedChickenbox.
We’reabouttogetkilledbysomedudewhoprobablyhasn’tchangedhisunderwearinthelastfivedaysanddoesn’tcareaboutgettingstrangers’bodilyfluidsinhisfood.
Great.
“Youknowwhatwouldbecool?”GreasyHairasks.
“Lettingusgo,”Theoanswers.
“Menothavingtodoallthesetupforonce,”CurlyHairsaysirritably.“That’swhatwouldbecool.”
“Hey,IstillhavetenminutesinmydinnerbreakbecauseIgotinterruptedbyallthosesuitsstampedingdownhere.Yougettogohomeafterthisandyougottogototheshareholderdinnerandeatallthegoodfood.”
CurlyHairrollshiseyes.“Itwasboringashell,Ialmostgotkilledatthedinner,andthefoodwasworsethanwhatwefeedthetestsubjects.”
“Letusgo!”Theoshoutsagain,thetendonsinhisneckcording.
They’remostlyignoringhim,butthecurly-hairedone’sgazekeepsflickingover.Heseemsdisturbed,havingtodothistoawhiteguy,eventhoughhelooksmoreliketheprevioustestsubjects.
GreasyHairsuckshisindexfingerandthumb,andthendropsachickenboneintohispaperbox.“IwasgonnasayitwouldbecooliftherewasaWholeFoodsherealready,soIcouldgotothebuffetinsteadofeatingthisghettoshit.Therewasonebymyoldjob,anditwasfucking—”
“Letusgo!”Theoyells,andGreasyHairgrabsasyringe,stretchesalankyarmover,andsquirtsaliquidintoTheo’sface.
“Shut.Up.”Hisvoiceisdeadpan,likesomeonemildlyannoyedbyacatscratchingfurniturethat’salreadybeenshreddedbythreecatsbeforeit.
TheosputtersandblinksliquidthatIhopeiswateroutofhiseyes,thenglaresattheguy.“Don’tyouknowthatyou’rekillingpeople?That—”
HiswordsarecutoffbecauseGreasyHairpicksuptheusedlatexglovesbesidehisfoodandshovesthemdeepintoTheo’smouth.
Igagalongwithhim.
“Shut.Up.Myrentjustgotjackedup.Thisjobpayswell.Endofstory,”GreasyHairsays,thenleansbackinhisseat.Heshakeshishead.“Andyoutwojustkilledabunchofpeople?You’vegotalotofnervejudgingme.AtleastIdon’tkillmyownkind.”
CurlyHairknocksoverabeaker,swears,thenheadstothemedical-gradefridgehumminginacorner.
“Whatareyoudoingnow,then?”Iask.
“He’snotoneofus.”Heshrugs.“Ifhewas,hewouldn’tbehere,wouldhe?”
Funnyhowmuchracemattersuntilitdoesn’t.
“Besides,there’snoguaranteehe’lldie.Infact,he’sgonnafeelreallygoodforalittlewhile.UnlessIoverdosehimonthisoxysinceheruinedmydinner.”
“Let’sdothisalready.He’sgivingmeaheadacheandIdon’twantamigraineatthebeachtomorrow,”CurlyHairsaysashewalksovertome.HeplaceshislittletrayofmedsonthetablenexttomeandIseethefamiliarsetupforamedicineportfromwhenMommywasinthehospital.
Hetightensthebandaroundmyarm,andItakeadeepbreathagainstthepanicandtheangerattheunfairnessofthisall.
Itstrikesmethatit’sprettytypicalthatI’ddiscoveragoddamnconspiracytheory,infiltrateasecretresearchcenter,killabunchofbadguys,andstillendupnotsavingtheday.
IsnortalaughandCurlyHairlooksatmequizzically,whichmakesmelaughmore.
Shit,whatastupidfuckingwaytodie.Andifthereisahell,Icertainlyjustearnedmywayinwithallthebloodnowonmyhandsfromthisdummymission.
Whataweek.
“What’ssofunny?”GreasyHairasks,throwinghiswingsboxintoagarbagecanwithabiohazardlabelonitandwipinghisfingersonhisjeans.Hetakesasipfromhisthermos.“Areyoualreadyhighorwhat?”
“Nothing,”Isay.
“Thenshutthefu—ack!”Iglanceoverathimandhedropshiscup,hishandsgoingtohisthroat.HismouthisstuckinanexaggeratedOshapeandhiseyesbugoutofhisheadashisfaceturnsaviolentshadeofpurple.
CurlyHair’sbrowcreasesinconcernandheputsdowntheporthewasabouttoinsertintomyarmsohecangocheckonhisbuddy.Hishandslamsintothetrayclumsily.
“Whatthehell?”
GreasyHairdropstothefloor,convulsing—Ican’tseehimbutcanhearhisdesperateflailingandthesqueakofhissneakersagainstthefloor.CurlyHairstaggersforward,andthenthedooropensslowly.
Slowly.
Shit,whatnow?IwishCurlyHairhadmanagedtodrugmebeforewhateverfreshhellisabouttogodowntakesplace.
FitzroySweeneypokeshisheadin,hiswrinklesrearrangingthemselvesashesmilesatus.
“Thereyouare.Good,good.”HeopensthedoorcompletelyandIseethathe’sholdingacricketbatinhisotherhand.
Ilaughagain;eitherI’vehadapsychoticbreakorthey’vegivenmethedrugsalreadywithoutmyrealizingbecausethereisnowayanyofthisshitisreallyhappening.
FitzroytwirlsthebateasilyinonehandasCurlyHairstaggerstowardhim,thenheftsitbackandswingsrightattheresearcher’shead;thesoundofitsmashingintohisskullreverberatesintheroomandthenCurlyHairdropsoutofsight.Fitzroyshufflesoverandlaysthebatovermykneesashebeginstoundothestraps.
SomeoneglidesbyoutsidethewindowandthenGraciestepsintotheroom,dressedinherchurchclothesandwithhergraybobperfectlylaid.
“Whatisgoingon?”IaskwhenFitzroy’sstronggriphelpingmeupmakesitclearI’mnotdruggedordead.Thisshitis,indeed,reallyhappening.
“What’sgoingonisyoushouldhavelistenedtoCandacewhenshetoldyoutocomeinside,”GraciesaystartlyasshepullsthelatexoutofTheo’smouthwithanexpressionofdisgustonherface.“Justlikeyourmother,alwayssostubbornandnotwantingtoaskforhelp.”
Shesucksherteeth.
SheunstrapsTheo’shandsandchest,andhepopsupintoaseatedposition,takingdeepraggedbreaths.Hisgazefliestothetwoonthefloorasherubsathiswrists.“Do-fa-do.”
“IknewIlikedthisyoungman,”Graciesaysasshetugshisanklestrapsfree.“Do-fa-domeans‘tit-for-tat.’Certainlyseemednecessaryhere,wouldn’tyousay?”Shegruntsasshegivesthestraponelasttugtofreehim.“Theseracistsneverthinkaboutthingslikethepredispositionandmoodofthepeoplewhopreparetheirfoodandbeverages.Muchlikemydeardepartedhusbands.Whenyouexpectotherstoserveyou,especiallyotherswhoyoumistreat,youshouldreallybemorecarefulaboutwhatexactlyitisthat’sbeingserved.”
“Howdidyougetinhere?”Iask.
“Samewayyoutwodid,”Fitzroysays,throwinghisarmovermyshoulder.Ileanintohim.“Youknowwewatchoutforeachotheraroundhere.Doyoureallythinkyouweretheonlyoneswhowouldnoticesomethingwasamiss?”
HimandGracielaughlikeTheoandIarestillindiapers,andeventhoughI’mgratefultothem,myangerflares.
“Ifyouknew,thenwhatthef—thenwhatwereyouwaitingfor?Peoplearedead.Ihadto…wehadto…”Mythroatclosesasemotionthreatenstoswampme.
Fitzroytakesmyhandandsqueezesit.“You’reright.Weweretryingtodothingstheoldway,howwe’vehandleditinthepast.Buttheworldmovesfasternow,andevilmovesfaster,too.Weweretooslow.”
“Ithinkwecanallagreethatpoisonmovesquitefast,thankyou,”Graciesayspeevishly,thensighs.“Badthingshappeninthisworld,everyminuteofeveryday.Wetrytostopthem,whenwecan,howwecan.Wetrytolookoutforoneanother.Like,whensomebodyrecklesslyburiessomethinginagarden,wemoveittoasafelocation.”
Ifeelanactualpaininmybody,likesomeone’skickedmeinmychest,butIjustsqueezeFitzroy’shandtighter.
Gracietakesmyotherhandandhelpsmeoffthehospitalbed.“That’swhatwe’vealwaysdoneandwhatwe’llcontinuetodoinGiffordPlace.”
“YouknowCandace,”Fitzroysays,asifhe’sabouttolaunchintooneofhisoldmanstories.“Candace’sgreat-grandmothergrewupinWeeksville.Shewasoneofthesurvivors.”
“Survivors?”Theoasks,attemptingtostand.
Fitzroylooksathim.
“Cycles,”Isayquietly.“Breakandbuild.”
“Theycanbreak,buttheycan’terase,”Graciesays.“Theycanbuild,buttheycan’tburyus.”
We’reallquietafterthat.
Whentheyleadusbackintothehallway,Iseealineofneighborshelpingtoevacuatethepeoplewho’dbeentestsubjectsoutthroughthetunnel.
Wegetontheendoftheline.
Candaceiswaitinginthecellarofthebodega,holdingFrito.
“Sydney.”
ShelooksatmedisapprovinglyandIsuddenlyfeellikeachildagain.Tearswellupinmyeyes.
“I’msorry.Ishouldhavelistened.Ishouldhave…”
ShedropsFritoandpullsmeintoahug.“Littlemissbobblehead.Let’sfindyouashowerandsomesleep.”
“Whataboutthemedicalcenter?”Theweightofeverythingstartstocrashdownonme.Theshooting,thebodies,thepeopleinpower.We’realive,butI’vewatchedForensicFiles.We’veleftatrailofevidenceandwilllikelybeinaVerenTechprisonbysunup.
“Oh,wetakin’careofthat.Let’sgosee.”
Whenwewalkupthesteps,thescentofsmokehitsmynose.Smokeandanoddlyelectricalsmell,likeabatteryonyourtongue.
Wegatheryardsbackfromthehospitalasit’sconsumedinorangeflames,withacoronaofblueatitscenterthatbrightenstheskybehinditlikeaborealis.
Paulettecomestostandnexttome,reekingofgasoline.
“Transformer,”shesays,morelucidthanI’veseenherinmonths.“Causesblackouts.Causesfires.Makestheskysopretty,too.Theylikethedark;thisissobrightthatnooneinthecitycanignoreit.Ifthere’reanyofthemleft,andthereare,that’sthelastthingtheywant.Wegavethemanexcuse,andawarning.They’llcleanupafterthemselves.”
AhandcomestorestonmyshoulderandIfeelTheo’ssolidweightbehindme.
Ileanbackintoit,andwewatchthatshitburndown.
Epilogue
THENEXTAFTERNOON,IWAKEUPINANUNFAMILIARBED—thepulloutinCandace’sguestroom.Armsarearoundme,inabearhug,butI’mnotafraid.
Theo.
HesmellslikeIvorysoapandsmoke,butnottheironofbloodanymore.
Thescentofcoffeedriftsinthroughthedoubledoorsthatleadtothekitchen,thenthere’sahissandpopofoilandthesmellofbaconfollows.
WhenIopenmyeyes,MissRuthissittingonthearmofthecouch,lookingdownatmeandTheo.
“Youmovefast,”shesays,withbrowsraisedandshouldersbackinjudgment.
Isitup,myentirebodysoreandmyheadspinning.Mythroathurtsfromthesmokeofthefirewewatchedandfromcryingitraw.
“Didn’tyousayyouneverlikedMarcus?Letmelive,MissRuth.”
Sheleansinclosertome.“Isitpink?Downthere?I’veneverseen—”
“Ruth,leavethechildrenalone,”Graciecallsout.“Comehelpwithbreakfast.”
WhenIglancedown,Theoisstaringupatme,hisexpressionunreadable.Everythingthathaspassedoverthelastfewdaysbarrelsintome.
“Goodmorning,”Icroak.
Hecrookshisfingeratme,facestillblank.
Ileandownclosetohimandhesays,“Inthefuture,ifanyoneasks,youcantellthemit’staupe.”
Idon’tknowhowit’spossible,butIstarttolaugh.ThelaughtershiftstotearssofastthatIdon’tevenrealizeit,andTheopullsmeagainsthim.Holdsmetogether.
Theradiocutsoninthekitchen,whichIguessistheirwayofgivingusprivacy.Afteraminute,Ipullback,surprisedtoseethathiseyesarered-rimmedandwatery,too.
“Everything’sgoingtobeokay,”hesays,andIkisshimoncesoftlyonthelipseventhoughwebothknowthere’snoguaranteeofthat.
“Freshasses!”MissRuthcallsout,andwegetup,freshenup,andjointhem.
Andbacktothebiggeststoryoftheday,andmaybetheyear:TheproposedsitefortheVerenTechcampushasgoneupinflamesovernight,justweeksbeforeconstructionwastostart.Itisbelievedthatatransformerfirespreadquickly,trappingseveralVerenTechemployeesintheinferno.Althoughthenewsitewasopposedbycommunityactivists,nofoulplayissuspected.Theprojecthasbeencanceledasthecompanyfacesmajorrestructuringchallenges.Stocksplummeted—
Fitzroycutsofftheradioaswepulltwoseatstothetable.JamelandAshleyJonesarehere,too,lookinghaggardbutabletomoveontheirown.TheyhadapparentlybeentakenshortlybeforeTheoandIhadfoundthem.
Theynodatus,andwenodback.
CandaceandGraciebringplatterstothetable,notlettinganyonehelpthem,andwealldigin.
Jamelclearshisthroat.“Um.Soy’allknowIdocommunityactivistwork.AndI’minsomegroups.Itmightbetoosoontobringthisup,but…”
“Whatisit,baby?”Candaceprods,buthergazeissharp.
“Lastmonth,thiscatinoneoftheanti-VerenTechorganizingforumsstartedactingrealweird.AdudeoutinDetroit.Hewassayingthat—thatpeoplewasdisappearing,andtheneighborhoodwasgentrifyingfast.Hekepttryingtoshowusallthisevidence,thesearticles,buttheyjustseemedlikeregularnews,right?Weallthoughthewasmaybegoingthroughsomethings.Heleftthegroup,buthesentmeaninvitationforanewonethathe’dmade.Ihadjoinedjusttokeepaneyeoutforhim,buthadn’tcheckedininawhile…”
“Showthem,”Ashleysaysgently.
Hepullsouthisphoneandasitpassesfrompersontoperson,theirexpressionsdrop.
Whenitgetstome,IholditbetweenmeandTheoasweread.
It’sathreadonaprivateforum,withdozensofresponses.ThetoppostisalongerversionofthestoryJameltold,withlinks;thewaythepageissetupwecanonlyseethefirstfewlinesofeachresponseinthethread,butthat’senough.
BelquiseRamos(Queens,NYC):Inmyneighborhood,theyjuststraightuprolledthroughwithatank.Arrestedamanwhohadbeengoingtocommunitymeetingsandaskingwhythehousesofdeportedcitizensweregettingflippedandsoldforridiculouslyhighprices.
SandySmith(Jasper,AL):OhthankgodIfoundallofyou,Iwasstartingtogocrazy.I’mwhite,butmytownispoor.Adistributionplantopenedupthatwassupposedtobringusjobsandimprovethings,butIswear,everyoneisdisappearing,andmoreandmorelandgoestothefactories.
AndrewChen(LosAngeles,CA):Healthinspectorsshowedupatmyparents’restaurantandshutitdownsotheyhadtosell,andnowit’saPanera.They’dbeenrefusingalotofbuyoutoffersrightbeforethat.LotsofmychildhoodfriendswhogrewuparoundChinatownsaythesamething—it’slikesomeoneispickingusoffandjusttakingwhattheywant.
GloriaPierce(NewJersey):Itwasslowerhereandlessscaryandmaybeit’snotpartof…this,butmaybeitis.Thingschanged,peoplemoved,buttheysuddenlyuppedthetaxes.Overnight,alltheoriginalinhabitantsofmyneighborhoodwentfromlivingtheAmericandreamofowningpropertythathadappreciatedinvaluetohavingtosellbecauseonlymillionairescanaffordthesekindoftaxes.Wherearewesupposedtogo?
Thethreadgoesonandon,butalmosteveryentryismoreorlessthesamething:marginalizedpeopledisappearing.
IhandthephonebacktoJamel.Myheadstartstospin,imagininghowmanyplacesacrossthecountrymighthavehadnightslikewehadlastnightorweretakenoutbymoresubtleforces.Howmanydidn’tmakeitthrough.
“Whathappensnow?”Iask.
“Now?Wesithereandeatourfood,”Paulettesays.“Alwaysfightingtobedone.Rushingwon’thelpanything.Beingstrongwill.”
Theogripsmyhandunderthetable,andoutsideasirenwailsinthedistance.
Idon’tjump.
IpatmywaistbandandmakesureMommy’srevolver,whichFitzroyfoundforme,isstillthere.
ThenIpickupmyforkandeat.
AdditionalReadingMaterial
ThislistincludesafewofthemanysourcesIreferencedwhilewriting,aswellasothersthattouchonthetopicsathand.
deFreytas-Tamura,Kimiko.“WhyBlackHomeownersinBrooklynAreBeingVictimizedbyFraud.”NewYorkTimes.October21,2019.Freeman,Lance.ThereGoesthe’Hood:ViewsofGentrificationfromtheGroundUp.TempleUniversityPress,2006.Ottley,Roi,andWilliamJ.Weatherby,eds.TheNegroinNewYork:AnInformalSocialHistory,1626–1940.PraegerPaperbacks,1967.Spellen,Suzanne(akaMontroseMorris).https://www.brownstoner.com/author/montrosemorris/.[VariousarticlesonthearchitecturalhistoryofBrooklynatBrownstoner.com.]Staples,Brent.“ToBeaSlaveinBrooklyn.”NewYorkTimes.June24,2001.ThereGoestheNeighborhood,season1(podcast).ProducedbyTheNationandWNYCStudios.https://www.wnycstudios.org/podcasts/neighborhood/season-one.Wellman,Judith.Brooklyn’sPromisedLand:TheFreeBlackCommunityofWeeksville,NewYork.NewYorkUniversityPress,2014.Wilder,CraigSteven.ACovenantwithColor:RaceandSocialPowerinBrooklyn.ColumbiaUniversityPress,2000.Acknowledgments
I’DLIKETOTHANKPETEHARRISANDALLIDYEROFTEMPLEHillPublishing,mypartnersinfictionalcrimeforthisproject,aswellasErikaTsang,myamazingeditor,whoputsupwithmytornadobrainthatisalwaysleavingnewideasinherinbox(evenwhenI’mlatewithanotherproject,lol).LucienneDiver,myagent,whoalwayshasmybackandkeepsmeontrack.PamJaffee,ImaniGary,NicoleFischer,andeveryoneontheHarperCollinsstaffwhomadethisbookpossible.SpecialthankstoLauraCherkas,mycopyeditor,andJeanieLee,myproductioneditor;theirworkwasinvaluabletothisbook.
IwouldalsoliketothankSuzanneSpellen,whoseworkpoppedupagainandagainasIresearchedthisbook,andwhowaskindenoughtospeakwithmeaboutCrownHeightsandBed-Stuyhistory.Aswithsomanyofmybooks,I’mtrulyindebtedtothehardworkanddetectiveworkofhistorians,especiallythosewhocenterpeopleoftenleftoffthepagesoftextbooks.
I’dalsoliketothankRebekahWeatherspoon,JanetEckford,BreeBridges,andDonnaHerrenforchatgroupsupport—Janet,especially,forbeingthebook’searliestreaderandhypeperson.
Finally,I’dliketothankmyparentsfortheirloveandsupport,andalsofortheirstoriesandforencouragingmine.
AbouttheAuthor
ALYSSACOLEisanaward-winningauthorofhistorical,contemporary,andsci-firomance.Hercontemporaryrom-comAPrincessinTheorywasoneoftheNewYorkTimes’s100NotableBooksof2018,andherbookshavereceivedcriticalacclaimfromLibraryJournal,theWashingtonPost,EntertainmentWeekly,BuzzFeed,KirkusReviews,Booklist,Jezebel,Vulture,BookRiot,andvariousotheroutlets.Whenshe’snotworking,shecanusuallybefoundwatchinganimewithherhusbandorwranglinghermanypets.
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Copyright
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DigitalEditionSEPTEMBER2020ISBN:978-0-06-298266-7
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PrintISBN:978-0-06-298265-0
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Contents
Cover
TitlePage
Epigraph
Prologue:Sydney
Chapter1:Sydney
Chapter2:Theo
Chapter3:Sydney
Chapter4:Theo
Chapter5:Sydney
Chapter6:Theo
Chapter7:Sydney
Chapter8:Sydney
Chapter9:Theo
Chapter10:Sydney
Chapter11:Theo
Chapter12:Sydney
Chapter13:Theo
Chapter14:Sydney
Chapter15:Theo
Chapter16:Sydney
Chapter17:Theo
Chapter18:Sydney
Chapter19:Sydney
Chapter20:Theo
Chapter21:Sydney
Chapter22:Theo
Chapter23:Sydney
Chapter24:Sydney
Chapter25:Sydney
Epilogue
AdditionalReadingMaterial
Acknowledgments
AbouttheAuthor
AlsobyAlyssaCole
Copyright
AboutthePublisher
TableofContents
Cover
TitlePage
Epigraph
Prologue:Sydney
Chapter1:Sydney
Chapter2:Theo
Chapter3:Sydney
Chapter4:Theo
Chapter5:Sydney
Chapter6:Theo
Chapter7:Sydney
Chapter8:Sydney
Chapter9:Theo
Chapter10:Sydney
Chapter11:Theo
Chapter12:Sydney
Chapter13:Theo
Chapter14:Sydney
Chapter15:Theo
Chapter16:Sydney
Chapter17:Theo
Chapter18:Sydney
Chapter19:Sydney
Chapter20:Theo
Chapter21:Sydney
Chapter22:Theo
Chapter23:Sydney
Chapter24:Sydney
Chapter25:Sydney
Epilogue
AdditionalReadingMaterial
Acknowledgments
AbouttheAuthor
AlsobyAlyssaCole
Copyright
AboutthePublisher