When No One Is Watching

by Alyssa Cole

  I look away so I don’t watch him head into his house. Somewhere nearby a jackhammer is breaking up solid ground, and the whine of construction machinery floats through the air. A Black woman with high cheekbones and a brown-skinned Asian woman walk down the street, chatting in accented English; each pushes a stroller with a white child tucked inside. They nod at me in greeting, and Toby starts up his barking as they pass by.

  As I close the door, I hear the phone ringing upstairs. All the way upstairs. In Mommy’s apartment.

  It could be a telemarketer—every time I bother to answer, it’s someone warning about auto insurance default for a car I don’t own or trying to scam me with questions about tax evasion. Those threats are nothing compared to the call I’m dreading, and I can’t keep avoiding said calls because that could lead to worse consequences. I bolt up the stairs, pull the key from my pocket as I round the banister, and fumble the door open.

  “Hello?”

  I pray for the automated click of a recording trying to sell me something or scam me, but a man’s voice says, “Hello, is this Yolanda Green?”

  A lifetime of lying to bill collectors enables me to lie smoothly and without hesitation. “She’s out right now. May I take a message?”

  “She gets out a lot for a woman in her condition,” the man says.

  “Can I take a message?” I repeat, putting a little steel in my tone. These weasels had found her number at the hospital, trying to find out her condition. Getting her into the retirement home had felt like a spy mission, even if it had gone to shit in the end.

  “No message. I’ll call back at a better time. Which would be . . . ?”

  “Actually, I have your number here, I’ll have her call you back. Does that work?”

  He chuckles. “Sure.”

  With that I hang up and walk out of the apartment, feeling like I’m wobbling on stilts, my head spinning like it’s in the clouds. My heart is still hammering from my dash up to the apartment, and I sit down in the middle of the staircase and drop my forehead to my knees, forcing myself to breathe deeply. The air is humid and thick in the stairwell, and my nose itches from dust because I haven’t swept up here in a while, but I don’t get up.

  I can do this. I’m my mother’s daughter. I can do this.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and text Drea.

  Are you busy? I’m sorry to bother you every time but they called again.

  I’m at work. We can talk about this later.

  Okay. ˂3

  I put the phone down and just breathe. I start to nod off a bit, the heat and the soul-deep fatigue threatening to pull me under. I feel too heavy, and the thought of carrying this body all the way down to my apartment is overwhelming.

  My eyes are drifting closed when Toby starts barking next door. I try to ignore him like I usually do, since he barks at damn near everything, but his bark is so insistent and almost desperate that I drag myself to my feet. This isn’t how he sounds when demanding a walk or barking at whoever walks by outside. I stumble down the stairs, still in a pre-nap fog, cursing Josie and Terry for not putting him into the new doggie day care that they can certainly afford.

  When I get to the main landing, the front door of the house is wide open, and I freeze on the bottom step. Hadn’t I closed it after Theo left? I was in a rush and I haven’t been super sharp lately, but closing and locking the door is instinct for me. Second nature.

  Mommy drilled that shit into me, especially because I’d sometimes be home alone during the time between when I left school and she got home from work. It was muscle memory now.

  I peer over the banister into the hallway, which is dark even in midday because Drea always turns off the light as she heads out to work, another habit instilled by my mother.

  Toby is still barking wildly, but I stand on the bottom step like a kid afraid to hang their foot over the side of the bed because they expect a monster to pull them down into the darkness. I don’t see anything, but fear gathers at the nape of my neck as I stare because I feel like someone, or something, is looking back.

  I think of Drew the Uber driver’s calm as he ignored my demands that he stop. How he knew my last name and there was no trace of him on my phone, and I haven’t even told anyone what happened.

  The shadows near the door shift and my heart slams in my chest. Someone is there.

  “Sydney?”

  I jump, and damn near piss myself, but the voice is coming from outside. Ms. Candace, gripping her cane and peering in.

  “You okay?”

  I nod, even though tremors of fear are running through my body, a light thrum against my constant tension.

  “I was like, ‘Did this child forget to lock the door?’ and instead you just standing there looking like you saw the boogeyman.” She laughs.

  I step firmly down onto the hardwood floor, forcing myself not to look behind me into the dark end of the hallway. It’s only a few wobbly steps to the doorway, and then I flip on the hall light.

  There’s nothing there but the heavy wooden apartment door, closed tightly. Did I close it before walking Theo to the door? Yes. The air conditioner is on. Of course I did.

  “Girl, you need a nap. You always did turn into a bobble-headed little thing when you was tired, and I see that’s still the case.”

  I shake my head and step out onto the stoop, where it’s slightly more humid than the hallway and about fifteen degrees hotter. “I’m fine.”

  “Here, take this,” she says, reaching into the plastic bag hanging from her arm to hand me a round aluminum container with a plastic lid. As I reach for it, the smell of plátanos and rice and beans from the Dominican spot on the corner makes my mouth water. I try to remember the last thing I ate and come up blank.

  “No, that’s o—”

  “Take. It,” she says firmly. “I have enough here to feed ten people instead of two, anyway. Gonna take some over to Ashley and Jamel, too. We’re all we got.”

  The reminder of my neighbors, who are dealing with every Black parent’s worst nightmare, puts my own problems in perspective. I can’t just fall back into the hole of self-pity.

  “You’re right. Thanks.” I blink and inhale deeply. “Are you doing okay?”

  She shrugs. “I’m old, my body hurts, but my brain is sharp as ever, even though some people wish that was otherwise.”

  My fingers press into the sides of the aluminum container. “Who?”

  She sucks her teeth. “These fools playing on my phone, trying to trick me into selling my house like I didn’t spend thirty years processing loans at Apple Bank and wasn’t blessed with two helpings of good sense.”

  Some of the sauce from the beans dribbles out onto my fingers and I loosen my grip. “The real estate people?”

  She nods. “Been coming to my door, too. Telling me all kinds of bullshit, thinking if they talk fast I’ll go along with it.” She sucks her teeth again, holding it for longer this time to show the true depth of her disdain. “My hair is gray, but my gray matter is still functional, thank you very much.”

  “It’s terrible,” I say woodenly. “But they can’t get anything over on you.”

  “Not today, not tomorrow, not in this lifetime, baby,” she says with a laugh. “Let me get going. I’ll see you later. Make sure you get that tour ready.”

  She says it the same way she used to say, “Make sure you do your homework” when I was a kid, except when I go into the kitchen to do my work now, there won’t be a bologna sandwich and a cup of SunnyD waiting for me.

  “Yes, Ms. Candace,” I reply. I linger a bit, take a deep breath, then head back into the apartment, checking every possible hiding place before grabbing a fork, pushing a stack of papers aside, and making myself eat.

  Gifford Place OurHood post by Jamel Jones:

  Thank you everyone who has stopped by, called, prayed, or sent a message. Ashley and I are hanging in there, but we talked to Preston on the phone and he’s not doing too great. We’re figuring out financial st
uff, and we’re treading water for now, but as much as I hate this, I have to ask if anyone has worked with BVT. We have some questions. When it comes to our son, we’re willing to do anything.

  Josie Ulnar: I highly recommend them.

  Kim DeVries: Same. They’re extremely professional.

  Jamel Jones: Thank you both. I am looking for people in the neighborhood who’ve used them to sell a property quickly or have heard from any of our neighbors who sold.

  (0 additional comments)

  Chapter 8

  Sydney

  “WHY ARE YOU DRESSED UP?” DREA ASKS, GIVING ME ELEVATOR eyes as I stand up from beside my mother’s garden plot.

  I’m sweaty, my tomato vine has withered, and I’m so tired that my mind is playing tricks on me. I’m not in the mood to be judged for my damn outfit.

  I point my trowel at her, and she dodges the clump of fertilizer that flies in her direction.

  “I’m wearing a T-shirt from our junior year of high school, cutoff shorts, and I have horse crap under my nails from trying to save this tomato plant,” I say with an annoyed shake of my head. “I am not dressed up.”

  Drea looks me up and down again. “Yes, an old T-shirt and shorts, but this T-shirt is the one that makes your titties look fantastic and those Daisy Dukes are the ones that show just the perfect sliver of ass cheek. You really think you can fool me?”

  “Whatever.” I change the subject and hope she gets the point. “Did you get the VerenTech info from work bae?”

  I probably don’t need it, but the way Theo had looked at me yesterday is going to my head a little. I start thinking about how I should include some of this new stuff, too, even if it isn’t history; it’s important, and now that the project has been approved, it will lead to big changes. It wouldn’t hurt to take a look.

  She sucks her teeth. “Yes. I got you. I slipped the envelope under your door before I left today.”

  “Thank you. I love youuu,” I croon into the trowel.

  “Damn right you do.” Her eyes crease at the corners when she smiles at me, which makes me smile even more widely. “I didn’t look at the files, but he said VerenTech got some kind of special dispensation from the city. Same one BVT Realty gets and probably got it the same way—paying off these commissioners so they look the other way as they’re stamping contracts. Meanwhile I can’t even get a business loan.”

  “You got rejected again?” I ask. “Maybe you can do a GoFundMe, or . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “Here comes your little friend.” She squints and tilts her chin at something over my shoulder. When I turn, I see Theo approaching.

  His hair is damp and messy and his stride is confident; he has a coffee cup in each hand. A camera hangs from a strap around his neck, bouncing over a black T-shirt emblazoned with three bold words in white: BLACK LIVES MATTER.

  “Good morning,” he says, holding out one of the brown cardboard cups toward me.

  I snatch it, then gesture at his shirt with my other hand. “Howdy Doody! Howdy Doody!”

  He plucks at the shirt. “Really? This is Howdy Doody?”

  Drea looks back and forth between us, hand over her chest as she laughs. “What is happening right now?”

  I narrow my eyes at Theo. “Why are you wearing this?”

  He blinks a few times. “I saw the posts about Preston on OurHood. I wanted to let people know that I support—”

  “Can you change out of that? Please.” I run my hands over my braids, gently because my scalp is still tender. “I don’t want to be known as the woman walking around with the white dude with a BLM shirt on, okay?”

  I expect him to push back, but those harsh features of his kind of droop all at once, like a dog that’s being yelled at but doesn’t know why.

  “I appreciate the sentiment,” I add.

  He nods stiffly, places his coffee down on the chair next to me, then the camera, and yanks his shirt up. It’s nothing I haven’t seen a dozen times through his window, but it hits a little different now that he’s right in front of me. My neck and chest go hot in a flash and I look away.

  I should just start building my cabin alongside Fuckboy Creek because obviously it’s where I intend to spend the rest of my days.

  “Sydney, was this all a devious plan to get him to take his shirt off?” Drea whispers, and now it’s Theo who’s getting her elevator-eye treatment. “Well played, well played.”

  “Dre.” I give her a if you don’t cut it out look, but she’s busy pretending to run her hand over Theo’s chest hair while the shirt is up over his head. She jerks her hand back when his head pops out of the shirt’s neck.

  He turns the shirt inside out and pulls it back on. “I’m just gonna hide this important social justice message that seems to be embarrassing Sydney.”

  His tone is a little . . . persnickety.

  “Was I supposed to thank you? Appreciate it and give you a cookie or two?”

  He looks down at me, his face flushed from embarrassment and his gaze wounded as he tugs the shirt down around his waist. “I know you don’t need my help, but do you want it? I thought you were just giving me shit for fun, but if you seriously don’t want me around, let me know now.”

  “You know, that’s very thoughtful of you to ask, Brad,” Drea says in a surprisingly friendly tone, grabbing my coffee and taking a sip, then returning the cup to my hand. “Sydney does need the help. She’s not a super detail-oriented person.”

  “My details for the tour are oriented, thank you very much,” I say as I turn to glare at her, but she has her phone out and isn’t paying me a bit of mind.

  I take a deep breath, lowering my hackles and trying not to be the person Marcus always told me I was. “You got a date lined up or something?”

  “Line up in progress. There’s this cutie working at the new Jamaican-Mexican fusion restaurant and he slipped me his phone number with my beef patty taco. Might as well make the most of the changes gentrification has wrought, right?”

  She wiggles her brows, glances at Theo, and then blows me a kiss as she walks off, navigating around raised garden beds while her eyes seem to be glued to her screen. After I put my tools away and wash my hands, Theo and I head for the heritage center, marinating in the full-on August heat and humidity, and the awkwardness shared by a person who’s committed a faux pas and the person who corrected them.

  He slows as we pass the medical center, looking up at the huge sign on the fence with a 3-D rendering of what the VerenTech campus will look like. “What do you think of the VerenTech deal? I used to pass the people protesting, and talked to a few of them, but I didn’t really get why people wouldn’t want it in our neighborhood when other states were dying to have VerenTech choose them.”

  I bristle at his use of our but don’t snap at him.

  “Well, a big part of it is how people addicted to crack were treated back in the day.” I sniff and start walking. “People acted like those addicts were soulless zombies, or jokes, or problems to lock away and take their babies from. Now white people get hooked on something, and we’re building fancy new facilities to research how to fix things.”

  He has the nerve to give me a look. “Do you think Black people are immune to opioids? I’ve seen all kinds of people hooked on them. I mean, the other night, in this very spot a guy who was high out of his mind—”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, some drugged-up Black dude from Gifford Place is exactly who’s making the cover of magazines and news reports when people discuss the opioid problem.”

  “The alternative is not helping anyone, then?” he asks.

  “The alternative is not dropping the research center and the adjoining headquarters of a major corporation dead in the middle of a community that still gets overpoliced based on War on Drugs bullshit. It’s gonna be like seeing a middle finger every day for some people. Oh wait, it won’t be, because none of us will be able to afford living here by the time it’s done.”

  He doesn’t s
ay anything for once and we keep walking.

  “It used to be an asylum, you know,” I say eventually, feeling guilty for snapping. “Before it became a hospital. People always used to say the place was haunted. Like, bad haunted. Ghosts-tryin’-to-kill-you haunted. Supposedly, that’s the real reason for all the malpractice lawsuits they got.”

  Theo flashes me a grin—he’s not mad at me. Good.

  “I’m sure the doctors backed that theory.”

  “Yup. And when I was a kid, there was a rumor that if you stayed out too late, the men in the white coats would get you and you’d never be heard from again.”

  Theo looks up at the building, old and with dead vines clinging to the sides of it but still imposing. He rubs at his arms.

  “Creepy. Was that like the clown-van-kidnappers urban legend?”

  “The what?” I cut my eyes at him.

  “When I was growing up, they used to say clowns drove around in a white van and tried to lure kids in. I heard it in, like, six different states. There has to be some truth to it.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “That is the worst kidnapping plot I’ve ever heard. Dress like something that will send kids running and screaming from you and try to lure them into your clown van? Not even clown car for consistency? Come on now.”

  “Well, it makes as much sense as kids getting kidnapped by hospital ghosts.” His lips are all tooted up like I didn’t respect his clown story enough.

  “Well. At least one person who had a relative killed by the Tuskegee experiment lives on our street. It’s not that hard to figure out where the fear of hospital kidnappers might come from.”

  “Yeah.”

  Awkward silence descends upon us again and I sip my coffee, trying to figure out why I keep dunking on him like this. I want to have a conversation, but I’m annoyed at literally everything this perfectly nice and normal man is saying.