“Crime scene unit,” Joe informs us.
We all turn to look at him, but Jimmy gets the question out, “How exactly do you know?”
Joe looks at our faces and laughs. “I forget sometimes when I meet new people they don’t know, but I’m pretty good at that whole lip-read thing—pretty excellent as a matter of fact. It’s like my superpower. I like to think of it as deaf boy self-defense.”
Pause for a smirk and a crossing of his index fingers, which then spread apart, while his eyes kind of do this slightly buggy thing, “But,” he makes an exasperated face, “since some people talk with their hands in front of their mouth or mumble a lot or they turn to talk to someone on their other side, it’s an unreliable option.” Joes shrugs, and right before any of us react, he continues, bursting out smiling. “But when it works, it’s pretty fun.”
Something about his smile jogs a brain cell to life, and I grab my phone, shooting a picture of the tableau to text Ava, you know, keeping her looped in, letting her know the crime scene unit is here, good girlfriend moment. However, lest we forget it is freezing out here, I am not as quick as usual, and before I hit send my jacket is being tugged. By Vik. Who is also giving me a head bob right.
I see our gang casually stepping farther away and realize they are on the move sort of downslope, just below the eyeline of the patrol officer who is now eyeballing us. Or me. Good intentions vanish. Text unsent. Joining Vik, doing the creep away.
Which is how we came to be hunkering down in the rustic shelter, the oldest original existing structure in the park or as I like to say, this shelter’s so old, it’s got no heat. A condition most likely caused by its lack of walls. The Ramble’s rustic shelter is basically a roof over old wooden posts, with benches lining the sides, running from, hello (!), pillar to post.
Yes. I know. Not exactly an accurate idiom considering we are now cramming ourselves onto one such bench in a pathetic attempt to generate body heat by having us shiver one into the other, but at least not literally freeze, while the sun lowers, its glare harshly visible from our seats. But it is a feeble attempt at some humor despite my brain cells’ impending frostbite.
“Do you people just have an affinity for dead bodies?” Tsarno steps into the middle of our shelter, thankfully blocking the glare for just a moment, while looking rather amused at our crammed presence.
His arrival brings a jolt of instantly warming energy, resulting in highly animated bringing Tsarno up to speed on everything.
At least everything we know. Which I think is pretty impressive considering no one will actually tell us anything.
He grunts a bit. Doesn’t say much. Also, doesn’t move to do anything with, well, anything. He does, however, take a seat on the bench across from the one he found us on.
So, we go back to just sitting, instantly chilling back down. Imani looks over at me, then so does Jimmy, and so on, as though somehow I am supposed to know what to do with the hulky, bulky shadow being cast by the thrust-out legs occupying way too much space, the cat who ate a canary, Tsarno the Barno.
Now, I gotta be honest here. The sun is sinking rapidly. We’re all getting colder, exponentially. I was hoping for a bit more information, or something. Not that I know what a bit more would look like, but a bit more. And you know, I know he has it, he’s just not giving it up. And that, that wee bit of I-know-something-you-don’t-know, is giving him pleasure. “Revenge is a dish best served cold” does cross my mind.
If I wasn’t so cold and miserable, I’d be rising to this occasion, but instead I slink deeper into my coat. In my mind, however, I’m taking notes for future opportunities.
“Robert?”
The voice behind the question comes into view. It belongs to a very tall, I mean maybe six-foot-five, maybe even six-foot-six, African American woman. As in we’re talking serious presence here. Which is kind of awesome, because I just learned “a bit more” comes in size statuesque and imposing. I kind of like that.
“Reese said you were here, asking for me?”
Although her question was for “Robert,” her eyeballs are firmly, curiously, assessing all of us.
“Vonnie.” Tsarno rises, shakes her hand, his shadow width dwarfed by her height. “Thanks for coming and finding us. Kids, this is Yvonne Nicolls, medicolegal death investigator from the Office of Chief Medical Examiner of New York City. Her job is to investigate any death that falls under the jurisdiction of the medical examiner, including all suspicious, violent, unexplained and, what I think we can assume is most pertinent here, unexpected deaths.”
“Now Vonnie, this,” Tsarno did one of those open-palm hand motion things at us, “this would be the group of kids who found the body. They would also be the same group of kids who were at the New York Public Library.”
Tsarno face twists, doing some kind of oversized, contorted thing, as though searching for a big word, followed by a small faux cough. “Helping,” he exaggerates the word, “helping us with that LARP costume thing that night. You remember, body encased in plaster, a certain broken pelvis.”
I refuse to make eye contact, keeping my focus firmly on Yvonne, who isn’t looking impressed. Nor is she looking happy. The terse line of her mouth is a giveaway. She looks at him, then us, then him, then chews her lip for a minute until finally, “Once I have something I can share on the bodies I’ll be happy to.”
“Bodies?” I am all ears and questions.
Yvonne glances toward Barno with a look I am guessing is pretty pure annoyance. Although personally I prefer to think of it as askance. But either way it begs the question, is it directed at me for asking? Or at herself for leaving that small door the tiniest bit ajar?
I have never met a small door ajar I don’t love to burst open. Just sayin’.
Pause for their silent communication moment to go down.
Whatever Yvonne reads in Tsarno’s face is deemed acceptable as she turns back to us, gives a shrug. “I guess it doesn’t matter much. It’ll be in all the morning papers. Actually, I’m pretty damn sure it will be all over social media long before that.”
It will be all over social media? The cue for all of us to turn ultrahip and “lean in.”
Her head shakes slightly, the frustration apparent. “The body you found was unfortunately only the proverbial tip of an iceberg. Or in this case, the top of a stack. What you unearthed is some type of mass grave, possibly even a burial ground. We won’t know until the historical people get their archeologist out here.”
I will report I was cool enough not to jump up and high five. But I will cop to, yes that was an intentional play on words, squeezing Imani’s hand.
TEN
So, if this were a TV show, we’d cut away from my reaction, go to a commercial, and come back to something incredibly exciting. You know a Holy Gadzooks, Batwoman moment. Of course, if this were a TV show, I’d also be standing here impervious to the cold and looking like Ruby Rose.
Only life isn’t a TV show, and as it turns out mine is more of a Dickensian novel than anything else. And no, I do not think I am exaggerating. I’m talking about A Tale of Two Cities: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, which is such an awesome line. I mean think about it, the epoch of incredulity.
Until you’re living it, then it’s a little less awesome. Trust me on this one.
Prior to my tonight, I always imagined best and worst of times as separate pieces of information. You know, the best of times goes in Column A, and the worst of times in Column B. It never occurred to me they could actually be their own double helix.
And today should have been all Column A. I mean it’s kind of amazing. Yvonne was right. It was all over the news. And it was our body. Well, it was Imani’s body, but that was close enough. We were in the game.
Already there are bunches of Jack the Ripper theories turning up all over reddit and other sites, but the odds-on favorit
e still seems to be that the bodies, which range from four to, I think, sixteen, might have been part of some place called Seneca Village, which I’d never heard of. Before I deep dive, Imani pings a list of maybe a dozen articles linking to said village.
Nothing like landing on a skeleton to get a person motivated.
I know. That’s a bit snarky. But normally I’m the first one off the mark. And the truth is I’m slow because even though we’re all in the game, I’m not . . . in the game.
Ava isn’t answering any of my texts.
And not just my texts. I did think to look, and yes, Imani did copy Ava and Joe when she sent out the Seneca Village stuff. First of all, they were there, and second, I’m sure Imani figured I’d already brought Ava up to speed, so this vast array of intel would make sense. Which is a perfectly fair assumption on Imani’s part.
Even if it’s wrong.
I knew for certain this wasn’t going to be good as soon as I muscled my way down into the snow-delayed, overcrowded subway, pulled out my phone, unlocked the password, and found myself staring at my written, but never sent, text from before, I don’t know when, maybe five hours ago. And even that theoretical bring-her-up-to-speed text probably wouldn’t have been drafted until at least an hour after Ava left the park.
So we are now more or less six hours further into our day, and she hasn’t texted me once. Or communicated on any other platform. There is not a single notice from any app at all.
Forget “not good”; this is just bad.
And ugly. And brings on a severe case of the chronic cringe. That flash of self-awareness, when you realize you’ve done something so cringe inducing that the cringe twists into a loop, which you can’t stop replaying in your brain.
I immediately send pic with a note ’splainin’ very quickly that Tsarno had finally made it, we had some news, subways are a mess, so heading home, but will bring you up to speed as soon as I get there.
Which might not be until forever. Because the trains are late and the subway is mobbed, so it takes three trains and everything I have to elbow my way into a car, where I get to stand crushed by New York’s humanity for the next several stops. Typing is not an option. Refresh is not an option. Let’s see, optimism? You want some optimism? At least it’s winter so the smell isn’t horrible and the coats help keep gropers at bay. How’s that for optimism?
Doors open. I exit. I fight through the sea of humanity pushing into the stairwell, get sideways, and find a wall. Take out phone. Hit refresh. Nothing. I turn off the phone. Reboot. Still nothing. Another train pulls in. Before its doors open, and its masses descend, I race for the stairwell.
Just as I’m exiting, there’s a ping. I rush back in, pull off my gloves, and pull out my phone. It’s Ari. Our body is on the news.
I shove my phone back into its pocket and rush out into the night.
I slip-slide my way home, sadly getting slushed over by passing cars twice, and as much as I don’t want to I do pause, pulling off my boots to text and bring the fam up to speed. Although as soon as I have the boots off my feet, I plead the need to pee, rush to the bathroom, and quick text Ava: “home now. cornered by mom. more in a few.”
More silence.
At least from Ava. Dad and my brother, Jean, on the other hand, form a very appreciative audience, making all the right noises, as I rush through the events, talking a mile a minute, my knee bouncing as fast as my mile-an-hour words pour out.
I hit all the highlights in record time, mention it’s already made the online editions of all the New York papers, which (thank you, gang) I promise to forward directly to them.
I give a fake smile, flash two thumbs up, rise to leave. As I turn, I hear it.
“Sidonie,” she calls out to me, forcing me to wait for her to catch up. “Two things. One, dinner will be in another fifteen minutes or so. And two,” her hand now having caught up to me tucks my hair back behind my ear, “you seem a bit . . . agité?”
I hate how she does that. Leaves the end dangling for me.
“It’s fine, Mom. Fine. Fifteen? Great.”
And I escape to my room. Boot up. And start pleading. And waiting. And then my eyes look to my messages, reading. And pause for another round of pleading. And then back to reading.
Hey, I might as well use my ignored time for something. I run through all the papers, and Imani’s right. Seneca Village seems to be everyone’s top choice. Well, not Seneca Village, exactly, but the section of New York City formerly known as Seneca Village.
Turns out somewhere in the mid-1800s, New York City decided it needed a park. So in 1851 New York City Mayor Ambrose Kingsland agreed to make one. By 1854, the city chose the center of Manhattan between what is now Fifty-Ninth and 106th streets, and construction began.
And what could possibly go wrong? I mean, who could object? It’s going to be a park! For the people!
Of course, some of “the people” happened to be living there already, in this very same stretch of Manhattan, and some of “those people,” according to a New York state census, approximately 264 of them, were residents of an area known as Seneca Village.
Seneca Village was founded in 1825 or a couple of decades earlier when John Whitehead, a white farmer, sold a young free black man, Andrew Williams, three lots for $125. The same day, African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church trustee Epiphany Davis bought twelve lots for $578. The AME bought six additional lots the same week, and by 1832 at least 24 lots had been sold to African Americans.
So about two-thirds of the population of this new village was African American, the rest mainly Irish, some German, and even a few Native Americans. There were three churches and a school. And even though about half the residents actually owned the land they lived on, when the government took it, the media of the time described this population as “squatters” and referred to the settlement as “n***er village.”
Wowzerhole.
I don’t even know how I process this.
A knock interrupts my shock. Before I can answer, the door opens and there’s Mama carrying a plate. She looks at me, glances to the screen, and smiles gently, “Your father and brother have le même visage, the same face. I think you will all be happy eating with your thoughts tonight.”
And as she places the plate next to me, she leans over, ruffles my hair, and kisses the top of my head. “But perhaps your thoughts are even more complicated, no?”
She doesn’t wait for me to answer, just turns to leave. At the door she glances back, pauses to say something, or maybe pausing to see if I will, but either way decides no. Instead she gives me another smile, then turns, pulling the door shut behind her.
I take advantage of the interruption to send another text, confused. “i don’t understand what i did so wrong. please talk to me.”
Again I wait. Nothing. But at least there’s more Seneca Village.
So, the government comes in and seizes their land under the law of eminent domain, through which they, the government, can take private land for public purposes. The Seneca peeps take it to court, fighting against both the seizure and the joke of a price they were given, but you know, it turns out even then when the media labeled people squatters and worse, it’s pretty much a given that their odds of winning this battle were slim to none.
And just like that, what may have been “Manhattan’s first prominent community of African American property owners,” as a plaque now built in their honor notes, was gone.
Just gone. And my heart hurts so bad. Filled with pain for them, the people of Seneca Village. Filled with fear for me and Ava and what her silence says. And now I’m shivering, too chilled to answer all the texts flying between our gang, texts no longer giddy with discovery, but now shocked, appalled, and stung by what we have learned.
Somewhere around three o’clock in the morning, I hear the ping. Ava finally answers my litany of pleas and agrees to FaceTime.
As relieved as I am, I’m equally wary—partly because I’m scared and partly because I’m way
beyond tired and emotional, which will make keeping up with her twice as hard.
And I am right to be wary. There is no smile, no gentle coaxing. Can we say iceberg. And anything I am thinking to say is caught in the freeze. Frozen solid until her ice queen self-shatters as she hurls the first sign at me. Now she is burning hot, filled with anger.
And her hands point to herself, and then fling forward, at the camera, four fingers hurtling straight at the aperture, growing so big, so fast, I instinctively pull back with some small fear that they will somehow come crashing through and collide with my face.
Before I even adjust, the hand turns and a single finger points back to herself.
It takes me a good minute, even with Ava’s face providing an expressively adamant, strident, contextual clue. It’s a full-on accusation. “You left me.”
Which first takes me time to translate. And then takes time to understand. But then, then I get it.
My hands stumble about, trying to form words. I sign something along the lines of “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I wasn’t,” pause to think how to say, “leaving you.” Or maybe it should be I wasn’t thinking.
This is excruciating. It’s incredibly hard to suddenly think in pictures or phrases when words have been my safety net, my defense, my offense for, well, forever. Add to that my emotional state and the sense that something very primal is on the line, and my sign vocabulary is woefully, glaringly not ready for prime time.
I hope my face looks desperate’ish as I spell “Imani” and then palms up, fingers shaped like an “l” facing away, cycle the hands, “screamed.”
I follow that by spreading my hands out and pulling a face I hope conveys, “what else could I have done?”
Ava stares at me for three or four seconds, which is a freaking eternity when one is under withering scrutiny. Finally, I get a curt nod. But then come more words, fast, furious, flying at me with no sympathy. I can keep up or not.
“I should be your first thought. What if Imani was screaming because there was danger? A shooter or something? I can’t hear. And you, you didn’t think about me.”
Say Her Name Page 6
