by Angela Henry
Whether or not Joy’s aunt had known what she was doing, I knew that she’d really struck a nerve in Alex. Alex’s best friend Jessie Milton had killed himself four years ago. They’d grown up together and had even worked together at Hampton’s Truck Parts. But when they’d been laid off, Alex used the opportunity to start his own business while Jessie got depressed and started drinking. He’d get jobs and then lose them because of his drinking. His wife left him and took their two boys with her. A month after she left, Jessie closed himself up in his garage and left his car running.
Alex has felt guilty ever since. He was too busy getting the restaurant off the ground to notice that his best friend was in trouble. It was especially hard on him to see how the lives of Jessie’s sons had taken a wrong turn. Their mother had taken them to Detroit to live, and they’d gotten mixed up with a bad crowd. Dell, the oldest, is currently serving a five-to-fifteen-year prison term for armed robbery. His younger brother Timmy is a crack head. I knew now that hiring Joy had little to do with Joy herself and everything to do with the guilt Alex still felt over Jessie and his sons.
“Don’t you think that’s all the more reason for her to do a good job? You took a chance on her and look how she repays you, by offending your customers.”
“I’m wondering how much longer she’s going to be working here anyway. I was the one who talked to her when she called earlier. She was real excited because she was going to meet with someone who was interested in buying some of her paintings. She said if she could sell the paintings for what she was asking, then she wouldn’t have to work and she’d be able to take a full load in the fall so she can graduate on time.”
“Well, I hope it works out for her.” I meant that sincerely. Maybe she’d be a much happier person if she was doing something she enjoyed.
NINE
Monday morning I forced myself out of bed. I’ve never been good at getting up when I have someplace to go. It’s especially hard when I’m off on summer break and I don’t have to be anywhere. What I planned on doing this morning wasn’t anything I had to do, but I wanted some answers, especially since my own ass was on the line, plus, I’m just plain nosy. I figured that going out and getting them on my own was the only sure way. I took a quick shower to wake myself up, then put on cutoff jean shorts, an Ohio State T-shirt, and my Nikes. I wolfed down a bowl of Cap’n Crunch and headed out. It was a little after nine o’clock.
The first place I went was the public library. I went to the reference section and got the most recent edition of the city directory. I turned to the section in the back of the directory that listed street addresses and the names of the people who lived at each address. I made a copy of the names and addresses on River Avenue, the three hundred block that runs directly behind Archer Street. I’d worked for the company that publishes the directory one summer when I was in college. It had been a miserable job going door to door verifying information in the summer heat. Most people were nice enough. Of course there were always the few who had to be difficult. I got eaten up my mosquitoes, chased by dogs, and had doors slammed in my face. Not to mention being scared half to death by a strange man who tried to lure me into his house with a big glass of ice water. All that excitement for minimum wage was more than I could stand. After about three weeks, I quit and worked the rest of the summer baby-sitting.
I figured I could endure it again just this once. I was only planning on going to a few houses: the ones that backed up to the alley and had a view of Vanessa’s backyard. 1 parked my car on Archer and walked around the corner to River Avenue. The house directly behind Vanessa’s, 315 River Avenue, had a fence as high as hers. I doubted they’d seen anything. Besides, the residents at that address were listed as Alice and Dave Parker, a laborer and a secretary, respectively. They were probably at work that Friday morning. Both residents on either side of them were listed as being retired. Lucretia Bentley at 313 and Walter Crawley at 317.
I took my sheets of paper that I copied from the directory and put them on a clipboard along with a pen. I put on my sunglasses because the sun was pretty bright by this time, plus I figured people wouldn’t notice how shifty I might look and get suspicious. I walked up the cracked front steps of 313. It didn’t look like anyone was home. The house was white with black shutters and black trim around the door. The mailbox was also black with the name “Bentley” written on a piece of white tape on the lid. I rang the doorbell and heard it echo through the house. I didn’t hear any movement. The curtains were shut tightly, and I couldn’t see into the house.
“She ain’t home,” yelled a voice behind me that made me jump ten feet. I turned and saw a woman in a blue housecoat with black flip-flops and curlers. She was walking a dog that looked like a cross between a poodle and a dachshund. It was a curly-haired dog with short legs. I walked down the front steps and the dog growled at me. The woman jerked the dog’s leash and it shut up but continued to stare at me like nothing would make it happier than sinking its teeth into my flesh.
“She don’t bite,” the woman assured me. She had a gravelly smoker’s voice. I stayed where I was, not taking any chances.
“You selling something?” she asked, looking me over suspiciously.
“No, I’m with the city directory. I’m verifying information from last year.”
“Oh yeah. I guess it is about that time of year again. Well, I can tell you that Lucretia Bentley still lives here. All her information’s the same as last year. She’s still retired and she’s still a mean old heifer. You better be glad she wasn’t home. She sprayed some Jehovah’s Witnesses with her garden hose last week. She don’t like strangers.”
I pretended to consult my list and made a check mark next to Lucretia Bentley’s name. I could see my bright idea start to fizzle before my eyes. I walked over to the woman, keeping my eye on the dog.
“I can also tell you about the Parkers next door here. They’re the same as last year too. Except he got a new job at GM. They’re supposed to be moving in a couple of months. I’ll believe that when I see it. He’s been promising her a new house for ten years.”
I wrote down the information on my paper. “What about 317? I have down a Walter Crawley living there.”
“Nope, he’s dead. Died a few months ago. He was in his nineties and senile. His son and daughter-in-law moved in with him last year to take care of him. They’re still living there. I don’t know much about them ‘cause they ain’t real friendly. He’s not bad but she’s real uppity. Don’t never speak.”
“Do you know if they’re home?”
She turned and looked while the dog sniffed my shoe and started barking. It probably knew I was a fraud. The woman jerked on the leash again. “There’s a car in the driveway. I guess someone’s home.”
“Thanks a lot. Do you live on this street?”
“Yeah, Josephine Cooper, 322. All my information’s the same too.”
“Wasn’t it awful about that man who got killed around the corner?” I asked for the hell of it.
“Sure was,” she said, shaking her head.
“I was out walking Lady here that morning before it happened. I saw that white girl that lives there. Looked like she was leaving for a trip. Had a little suitcase with her. Got picked up by some woman. Course we all knew what that brother was doing over there with her. He was working on her plumbing,” she said with a smirk and a wink. “I bet he surprised a burglar or something.”
Or something, I thought. I thanked her and watched her drag her little mutt down the street. I walked up the driveway of 317. There was a late-model Buick in the driveway. The yard was very neat with an immaculate lawn and pink-and-white impatiens by the front door.
The small ranch house was brick in the front with white siding everywhere else. The front door was open. I looked through the screen door, which had a small tear in it, and rang the doorbell. When I saw who came to the door I almost fainted. It was Delbert Ivory, Donna’s henpecked husband. He came to the door and squinted at me through
the screen. When he realized it was me, I thought he might pass out.
“Mr. Ivory, what a surprise,” I exclaimed. I was trying to figure out how I was going to play this off. He was the last person I was expecting to see. I prayed his wife wasn’t home.
“Hi there, young lady,” he said nervously. He opened up the screen door and looked up and down the street quickly.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m working for the city directory this summer and I need to verify information for this address.” I figured why ruin a good excuse.
“Is Walter Crawley at home?”
“He was my stepfather, and he passed away back in March. Donna and me live here now. He left the house to us. Would you like to come in?” He had regained his composure and had a sly gleam in his eye. I knew instantly that his wife wasn’t at home.
“Sure, I’d like that.” I stepped into a small living room, which was crowded with furniture. A big brown tweed couch took up most of the wall facing the door. A piano sat under the front picture window that looked over the front yard. The top of it was covered in family pictures. The wooden cross on the wall over the couch and the various ceramic figurines of Jesus and praying hands told me that this was a Christian home, even if the look Mr. Ivory was giving me wasn’t very chaste. He gestured me toward a beige recliner that had a plastic cover on it. It made an obscene noise when I sat down.
“Now what was it you needed to know, sweetheart?” He sat down on the couch. He had directed the question at my legs.
“I just need to update information for this address. I had no idea that you and Mrs. Ivory weren’t still living over on Harvey Street.” Actually, Mama had probably mentioned it at some point, but the information was too useless for my brain to retain.
“We been here almost a year now. The house over on Harvey just got to be too much for us since the twins left home.”
The twins were Donella and Donte, the Ivory’s grandchildren who they raised after their daughter Donetta died of leukemia when the twins were nine. My mother had gone to school with Donetta. After a childhood and adolescence spent in strict religious upbringing, Donetta had gone to college at Kent State and had taken the sixties “free love” experience to the limit. According to my mother, Donetta had no idea who the twins’ father was, a fact that Donna Ivory would rather cut off her arm than admit to. She told everyone that Donetta was married and that her husband was killed in the Vietnam War. Rumor had it, Donetta was told to go along with Donna’s lie if she wanted any financial assistance from her parents.
I went to school with the twins. I’ve always been amazed at how they had each taken on the exact characteristics of their grandparents. Donte was a loud, bossy, know-it-all just like his grandmother. He had a crush on me all throughout high school and had harassed me almost daily about my breast size. When I got an after- school job at the public library as a page, I caught him stealing the “Beauty of the Week” photos out of the Jet magazines and threatened to tell his grandmother. He left me alone after that.
Donella, on the other hand, was as meek and mild as her grandfather, but I knew she had a secret side that few people were aware of. I’d had a feeling right around the time we’d graduated from high school that Donella was messing around with one of the married deacons at the church, a fact no one would believe until she turned up pregnant. The baby’s father was never mentioned. Instead, she was shipped off to relatives down South, and the baby was put up for adoption. Last I’d heard, she’d joined some strange cult out West.
“How are the twins? I haven’t seen them in years.”
“Donte’s a minister up in Cleveland. He’s married with two kids. Donella, well, we pray for her. That’s about all we can do. I just hope she’ll come to her senses and come home one day.” He started grinning at me with his big white dentures and leaned closer.
“So, why is it that a pretty young lady like yourself isn’t married yet? The young men ‘round here must be blind.”
I was more than willing to go along with that assessment. “The Lord hasn’t blessed me with a mate yet like he has you, Mr. Ivory. How long have you and Mrs. Ivory been married?”
“Forty-nine years,” he said with a grimace. I got the feeling that he wasn’t feeling very blessed.
“You know, Mr. Ivory, I’m just thankful to be alive from day to day. You just never know what might happen to you. Like that Jordan Wallace who was murdered last week. That happened just around the corner and no one saw a thing.”
“I know just what you mean. The police came ‘round here after it happened. But Donna and I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary that morning.”
“I’m a little thirsty. Could I please have a glass of water?” I wanted to get a look at the kitchen window to see what kind of view it offered of the alley.
I followed Mr. Ivory into the kitchen. It was decorated with seventies-green appliances with bright yellow countertops. We’d had a similar kitchen when I was growing up. I was suddenly transported to the days of eating Trix cereal on Saturday mornings while watching Scooby Doo and Josie and the Pussycats on the portable TV that sat on our bright orange kitchen counter.
While Mr. Ivory was busy pouring me a glass of water, I took the opportunity to walk over to the kitchen sink and take a look out the window. The backyard was just as well kept as the front. The small patio off the back door had a barbecue grill on it and white plastic patio furniture. There was a bird feeder hanging from the large tree in the left corner of the yard by the back fence. In the opposite corner was a garden shed. The fence that separated the yard from the alley was a high chain-link one. Still, there was an excellent view of the alley and the back gate of the house on Archer.
“You know, they figure the killer probably came down the alley and approached the house from the backyard,” I said.
“When my stepfather first moved here years ago, after my mother died, I made him get that fence installed. There didn’t used to be a fence separating the backyard from that alley. I think most of the people who live on either side of this alley have had to put fences in.” He handed me my glass of water and I took a long drink. I was actually thirsty after all. I guess it was all the lying I was doing.
“Do you get much traffic down this alley?”
“There’s a car now and again. Usually it’s just kids on bicycles and of course Crazy Frieda was usually roaming up and down the alley looking for cans. Most people left their cans out for her to collect. But you never know who might be coming down that alley at night.
Just then a horn sounded from the driveway. Mr. Ivory jumped at the sound. “Oh, that’s Donna. She’s back from the store and wants me to come out and help her bring in the groceries.”
I wasn’t in any hurry to see Donna Ivory and Mr. Ivory looked like he’d just been caught with his fly open. “Why don’t I just go on out the back door and cut through the alley. My car’s parked around the block, and in this heat I’d appreciate a shortcut. Thanks for the water.” I didn’t even wait for an answer and just walked out the back door. I didn’t miss the look of relief on the poor man’s face as he scurried to do his wife’s bidding.
I quickly cut across the backyard and slipped out the gate. I headed down the alley and noticed bags and sacks of what looked like aluminum cans along the fences of a couple of houses. No doubt they were for Frieda. I figured people might not be aware that she was dead. It would be hard to connect Elfrieda Barlow, educated former career woman, to the muttering bundle of rags she became. A rumble from my stomach brought me out of my thoughts, and I headed back to my car.
I drove over to Estelle’s for an early lunch. It was now almost eleven. There wasn’t anybody around except Gwen, who was standing by the hostess station staring off into space. She didn’t even notice me when I walked in.
“Earth to Gwen, come in, Gwen.” She looked at me and burst into tears.
“Girl, what’s the matter?” Since I’d known Gwen I’d seen her cry exactly twice. On
ce when her father died and the other time when her dog Cleo got run over by a car.
“It’s Joy,” she said, barely able to get the words out.
Here we go again.
“Somebody ran her down last night while she was riding her bike. You know I can’t stand that girl, Kendra, but I never wanted anything like this to happen to her. I wanted her out of here, but not like this.”
I was stunned. “Is she alive?”
“Yeah, she’s alive but it don’t look good. Whoever did it just drove off and left her in the road.” She pulled out a tissue from her skirt pocket and wiped her eyes.
“Where did it happen?”
“Out on Commerce Road.”
“Commerce Road? What was she doing way out there?” Commerce Road was about as far out as you could get and still be in Willow County. It was practically a dirt road out by the fairgrounds. What could Joy have been doing out there?
“I don’t know. Alex got a call early this morning from the police. They found his number in her backpack. He’s at the hospital now. He had to call her aunt and give her the news.”
“Do you want me to stay here so you can go to the hospital?”
“No, I don’t think I could stand it. Alex called and said I could close the restaurant and go home if I want. If I go home, all I’ll do is think about Joy. I need to keep busy,” she said with a shaky smile.
“I did remember to bring that graduation program. It’s taped to your locker.”
I thanked her and headed back to get it. I hurriedly flipped through the program, scanning the list of names in the W column. No Jordan Wallace was listed as having received a degree from Morehouse in 1976. It didn’t surprise me. His carefully put-together lie of a life would have required a degree from a prominent university. And who’s to say he didn’t attend Morehouse? I gave Gwen back the program and headed over to the hospital.
