“We are faced with challenges, particularly the challenge of an inadequate database on contemporary, never mind archaic, African genetic diversity.”
And on he drones. I’m sure it’s all incredibly brilliant, just not incredibly engaging.
He takes a brief break, reaching behind for a set of papers. As he passes them to us, he returns to his lecture. Of course, there are only three copies, so we’re sharing, and I am scanning as fast as I can while trying to catch some of what he says.
“Teeth, my specialty, are particularly unique carriers of information. The pattern of enamel and dentin formation is clearly demarcated, and it’s ringlike, similar in the way you learned about the rings of trees giving us their age.”
Teeth? Again with the teeth. First Lolo. Now him.
I read a subhead: “Artificial prognathism with facially flared maxillary central incisors.”
Means nothing to me. But the accompanying black and white sketch shows that maxillary prognathism looks like a jutting upper jaw. Not exactly like buck teeth—it’s like the whole jaw is set too far forward.
Which, I continue to read, can be an indicator of where someone comes from, “a prognathism with facially flared maxillary central incisors is indicative of West Africa.”
Which should be a milestone moment for us, but Dr. Black is back to his platform of pontification.
A tidbit here, a nugget there. Until finally, with a nod to Detective Tsarnowsky, Dr. Stephon Black deems us enlightened enough, finishes,and takes his leave.
As soon as the door shut behind him, seven bodies wheel around, fixing seven sets of eyes on Tsarnowsky, demanding to know “How do you even know him?”
He laughs, rather heartily, I might add.
“I don’t. Vonnie does. She’s not happy the department can’t do more, won’t do more. Like you, it doesn’t sit right. So, when I saw her and told her I needed a copy of the DNA results because you all weren’t giving up, she sent us the very illustrious Doctor Black. I think he’s her cousin.”
Tsarno shrugs. “When he got here earlier, I tried my best. I did point out to him that telling you whatever he knows might help, but it isn’t going to hurt anything. But, you know, come to think of it, he did look pretty pained about it.”
And now, forget laughing, Tsarno’s nearly hysterical. “But not as pained as you.”
He’s probably right. We aren’t exactly floating on air for people who just got a puzzle piece. I think that man exhausted us.
But, whoever she is, she is West African. And that’s something. At least we think. Probably. Statistically speaking.
OMG. We so need food.
And we have to drop Imani and Marcus at rehearsal, so it’s too tight for a sit-down anywhere. Ahead, however, there waits an oasis. A falafel truck sits parked, open for business with no wait line and amazing aromas emanating.
Beeline are we.
Our hover while the falafels are being made is broken by Marcus, who crosses the sidewalk, jumps on top of a short ledge, and suddenly begins reenacting the key moment, with a dead-on impersonation and lots of linguistic liberty and improvisation.
“So, my lesser intelligent people, if you are going to get answers, most likely they will not come from a miraculous DNA result. God will not chisel them onto a tablet for you to read.”
And while we’re all laughing, a crowd is gathering, and some passerby yells out, “Preach!” Which makes everyone louder. Marcus raises his voice by, I don’t know, a mere ten times, rising to the challenge.
He calls out to his sidewalk congregants, “No, my lesser beings, they will most likely be delivered unto you from the practitioners of the great and powerful science known as bioarchaeology, or the ancient study of what you might call . . .” Dr. Marcus as Dr. Black mimes reaching back, grabbing a small stack of papers, and passing them about while finishing his sentence with “dem bones.”
His right foot taps a count, one two three four.
Your toe bone connected to your foot bone
Your foot bone connected to your anklebone
I start to sign for Joe, but he waves me off, and begins signing with the song as Marcus lifts up his voice and lets go. He is a spiritual master with a street corner pulpit, timing to spare, and rhythm to share.
Your anklebone connected to your leg bone
Your leg bone connected to your knee bone
Your knee bone connected to your thigh bone
Your thigh bone connected to your hip bone
He is clapping low, playing with the still-growing crowd, as charismatic as I’ve ever seen him, and that’s saying something.
Your hip bone connected to your backbone
Your backbone connected to your shoulder bone
Your shoulder bone connected to your neck bone
Your neck bone connected to your head bone
He spins. On toes, freeze. Look up to the sky. Back to the crowd.
I hear the word of the Lord!
He finishes with a big “hallelujah” flourish.
Imani has hold of my arm, my free hand reaches over and grabs for Ari, and we are shrieking and screaming. Over to our right, a small crowd had gathered to watch the display and joins in with their applause before moving along.
One lady walks up, handing him a dollar. As he waves to decline, she grabs his hand and tucks the bill inside, leaving him with a “bless you.”
Flashing a cocky smile to go with his new riches, Marcus grabs his falafel from Vikram, his faithful, laughing, head-shaking falafel custodian, and we set off. But the mania that propelled Marcus onto the ledge hasn’t burnt itself off, and as we arrive at the school entrance he wheels around, but this time he’s not dancing.
He’s, I think, bristling, as though his body is pulled taut and then electrified, and he’s staring from face to face with an intensity I don’t know how to describe. It’s as though he’s looking at us, but we aren’t there.
When he finally speaks, his gorgeous tenor of earlier is gone. He’s hoarse, choking, visceral. Seething.
“When?” It’s not a question; it’s a demand. “Tell me when the fuck it becomes okay to wake up, steal a person, and make them your slave?”
TWENTY
I come up from the subway, making my way home with Marcus’s words echoing in my head. It wasn’t until he said them that I realized the imitation, the performance, all of it, was rage induced.
And we were all laughing. But then we were all crying. Even big, strong, Jimmy. At least we have each other.
And family. I get home, and everyone’s hanging in the living room, waiting for the latest. Since I did drag Jean into helping and then stuck him in the stacks, I do kind of owe him. So I don’t bother trying to escape to my room. I join them, bringing them up to speed, trying to summarize the meeting and gloss over the emotions, sticking with the facts as it were, but it’s hard, really hard.
Doing it. Hunting for her. Searching through the research, trying to find a thread, even building an app, is incredibly less emotional, less painful than trying to talk about her. The research makes you busy, lets you keep your distance. The words said out loud, as though they are conversational, are all too ugly and too real. Marcus is right. When the fuck does it become okay to wake up in the morning, steal a person, and make them your slave?
“I’m proud of you, Sid.”
His voice startles me, and I realize I must have stopped talking. I look at Dad uncertainly. I’m not sure what part of my update would inspire that response. I’m not even sure where I left off. Either way, it’s not like I came home with some kind of big news proclaiming we have a name or even a country.
He keeps his voice gentle, his smile loving. “It’s very painful to walk through horror you can’t understand, torture you can’t change, suffering you can’t fix, all in an effort to give dignity, to bring peace, and ultimately to bear witness to one person, one stranger, all so that their life matters. I’m proud of you. I’m proud of your friends. I’m proud of y
our brother.”
And then I’m somehow off the couch, wrapped up in his arms, being held, and feeling little and big and lost and found and safe and loved. And then we sit, all quietly nestled and chatting, and as I head off to my room I’m feeling calm and connected and that somehow it’s going to be okay.
Which, life being what it is, is a somewhat fleeting feeling.
But first, for just a moment, it’s pretty great. That savage beast, better known as my brain, is totally soothed and quiet. I’m sailing through updating the app, adding links, compiling info and now, more or less caught up, with a deep breath I’m on my laptop and turning my attention to the New York Slavery Records Index, which, according to its home page, has over 38,000 records of individual enslaved people and their owners beginning in 1525, and going all the way through the Civil War era.
Yeppers. So as one might posit correctly, this is precisely why none of us have been rushing to dive in. But now I’m feeling positively bullish. I’m thinking that the year 1800 and West African gives us not much, but a little something to begin any kind of meaningful dialogue with their database.
I’m typing the URL. And it’s loading.
And we all knew noiseless brain would not last. What we didn’t know was how fast it would blow up, and what would set it off. Turns out, noiseless brain killer would be the words now appearing on my screen, ‘The John Jay College of Criminal Justice.’
C’est ouf, ça! It’s cray, I know.
Why? Because I’ve been so overwhelmed I really haven’t thought about Ava. Not like I haven’t thought about her because I forgot about her, trust me, I don’t mean that. I just haven’t had time to feel about her.
But here is the page, giving whole new meaning to the phrase “fully loaded,” John Jay College, home of our first date. Home of the night we first kissed.
What I told Imani is true. I was relieved. I am relieved. But being relieved, and knowing she’s not good for me, isn’t the same thing as not missing her. I truly do miss her. I miss the feeling of giddiness she inspired. I miss the feel of her mouth. I miss the adrenaline rush when she walked in a room. I miss the way I felt when she made want become need. And I miss how she made me laugh.
I look at the screen. I think I don’t want to do this anymore tonight. So I won’t. I close the computer, turn off the lights, and go to bed.
And I’m dreaming about I don’t know what when I hear Jimmy’s voice in my dreams saying, “Emergency. Emergency.” Only I realize it’s not in my dreams, it’s in my bedroom, and he’s using the computer communication system we built for, well, emergencies when we were kids. It’s been so long, I wouldn’t even have given using it a thought.
Translation. This has to be urgent and something he won’t just text. I bolt out of bed, pull up our old Caesarian Shift Cipher Encoder and get to work.
Thankfully it’s short.
“Outside school. Bring I’s old makeup kit. Urgent.”
I look at my clock, needing confirmation. Yes, it really is five in the morning. This is bad. Adrenaline is now flying. Stand still. It’s an order to myself. Imani’s old makeup kit. Think. I can’t remember the last time I saw it. It’s been forever since we stashed her makeup here.
I circle quietly, eyeballing the room. Dresser. No. Under bed. I pause, visualizing my stack of Lumberjanes and other assorted goodness. No. No makeup. And yes! Got it. Upper closet shelf. On the left.
I grab the bag, stashing it and my laptop into my backpack. I pull on clothes, slide quietly down the hall, and, nearly scream. Jean is standing in the hallway, watching me sneak out.
I look at him, frozen. His call. He looks at me, and then his hands move. I look back and gesture, “what?” He rolls his eyes and moves his hands again.
Merde. Write a note. Leave a note.
I turn left, scribble a note, which I leave on the kitchen table.
Forgot we are meeting early. See you later. XO.
Really? XO?
I stick that note in my mouth and grab another paper.
Forgot we are meeting early. Later.
Better. I extract the one held by my mouth and stash it deep in my pants pocket. I reach for the door, turn back, and Jean’s still there. I smile, sign “thank you,” and very quietly head out into the dark.
Jimmy and Imani are huddled together around the corner from the school, and, even from down the block in the dark I can see Imani’s a wreck.
The short terse version is given to me while I both stare and try not to stare at her eye. I half hear how Marcus went nuts in rehearsal, and then he walked out. Imani went after him, trying to calm him down. He went to push her away and hit her by accident. She’s okay, but he started sobbing and ran.
I’m not saying anything because I don’t know what exactly to say because while the shiner she’s sporting doesn’t look horrible, it also doesn’t look so good. I silently fish out her bag from my backpack and hand it to her.
As she opens it and begins pulling things out, she continues the saga of last night’s rehearsal.
“Andy’s playing Sancho. So he’s singing and hits the line about following his master. And well,” she pauses and looks at me for verification. “You saw Marcus last night. So Andy’s singing and Marcus just starts screaming, ‘this is bullshit’, and ‘screw this,’ and I’m trying to grab hold of him and walk him back, talk him down, something.”
I’m trying to say nothing, but I’m guessing my poker face isn’t working, because Imani stops, collects herself, and becomes nearly accusatory. “Look, we were all there. We all saw him last night.”
I cringe, but she’s right.
“All of us.” Her voice is steady. “But then, I don’t know exactly how, it became,” her shoulders shrug, her lack of what exactly to say. Finally she goes with, “too much.”
Jimmy’s been pacing, saying not a word, ever since I got here and Imani started talking, but it’s obvious he’s heard the story already because Imani is pleading her case directly with me. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say given Imani’s eye, his clenched jaw, and his matching clenched fists, James Flynn is not feeling overly sympathetic toward Marcus. Not that I exactly blame him. I wouldn’t put sympathy at the top of my list either.
Unfortunately, lack of poker face must be rearing its ugly head again.
“Look,” Imani is not backing down. “I saw my eye this morning, too. I texted Jimmy and flew out the door before my parents were alive and roaming. Only I didn’t grab my makeup bag because I didn’t want them to see it missing from the bathroom and, I don’t know, suspect something.”
Imani takes a breather, opens the compact, and passes it to me where my job, previously established over a number of years, is to hold it steady so she can use the mirror.
Imani has me in her direct sight, and Jimmy has finally stopped pacing. With the sun rising and the sky lightening, she can see him reflected in the compact’s mirror. “I am swearing to you both it was a complete accident. Marcus was so angry he was just raging, and I walked right into him, and unfortunately right into his flailing hand. I promise.”
We all fall silent.
It takes a couple of minutes, but even working with what has to be some old and imperfect concealer Imani renders the bruising virtually unnoticeable. Something I find kind of amazing, but equally really disturbing.
“Now,” Imani stares down me and Jimmy. It’s an assessment, followed by an order. “We are not going to argue about this. Jimmy, you are going to go and get Marcus. You are not going to do some stupid shit and go beat him up. You are going to grab him and get his ass back here before school begins. And we, that would be you and me, Sid, are going to find Ms. Bessette and convince her not to have him suspended or something.”
TWENTY-ONE
And we do manage that. Miraculously. Imani and I stammered through the story, Jimmy got Marcus pulled together, and Marcus threw himself on Ms. Bessette’s mercy, and she got it. Or at least, she let it go.
And if tha
t was a miracle, it was a minor one compared to the major god shot awaiting us.
Jean and Aaron are dutifully still pouring through the New York Evening Posts and linking anything that might remotely, obscurely, somehow have a tie to our case.
I’m sitting in the main section of the Schomburg Library, clicking through the newest four links Jean’s left me, but find nothing that will help us. However, in the last link, I do find the edge of an article, nearly off the page, about the opening of America’s first department store, Lord & Taylor, in 1826. I copy and paste it for Imani, figuring she’ll get a kick out of it.
And then, because I can, I head down the rabbit hole for a bit. I start clicking, looking for a random headline from every year since the paper began in 1801. 1805, Yellow Fever Epidemic. 1811, Nearly a Hundred Buildings Burn Down on Chatham Street.
Chatham Street? Now, I admit I’m not familiar with every street in New York City, but you’d think if one hundred buildings burned down, it might be on a street I’d heard of. So now, I must Google-ate.
Park Row was once known as Chatham Street; it was renamed Park Row in 1886, a reference to the fact that it faces City Hall Park, which is the former New York Common.
And that same year, the Commissioners’ Plan of 1811 laid out the original design for the streets of Manhattan above Houston and below 155th, putting in place the rectangular grid . . . There were a few interruptions in the grid for public spaces, such as the Grand Parade between 23rd and 33rd, which was the precursor to Madison Square Park . . .
Where you will not find the home of Madison Square Garden. Once you would have, but not now. Hey, at least we’ve still got the Flatiron.
Back up. That’s it. But not now . . . I feel it. It’s the missing piece. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but I know it is.
Central Park, my gorgeous, beloved, massive urban greenspace, which runs from Fifth Avenue all the way over to Eighth, and from Fifty-Ninth Street up to 110th, was not a part of the plan. No one thought about Central Park until the 1850s.
Say Her Name Page 13
