by Triss Stein
I didn’t believe it even more when I was hidden at the back, browsing, and heard a customer ask what kind of diapers were on sale. She said clearly, “We got that no-name brand, and Huggies are also reduced this week.”
I went out and looked around. There was a kind of alley along the back. Probably where they kept trashcans, I thought.
And then I did a stupid thing. I walked around the corner and into the alley. Maybe I could see through a window into the back room.
The only window was covered with a metal security screen and too high for me to see in. There was a door, metal, no windows, no doorknob, no way to get in from the outside short of a blowtorch. I was not learning a thing here. Time to go.
I turned and almost bumped into someone right behind me. Way too close behind me.
It was that derelict-looking white guy I had spotted before. Scary clothes, smelling of alcohol, a large open bottle of Colt .45 in one hand. A knife in the other.
“You.” He seemed to have trouble focusing. With visible effort, he tried again. “You. Go away. My place. Mine.” And he waved the knife at me.
Even in my fog of fright, I could see it was a jackknife. Really? I thought in one tiny corner of my mind. You want to be a menace in the hood, and you’re using a jackknife. A jackknife?
On the other hand, I did not want to find out if it was still sharp enough to do damage.
I held up both hands so he could see I was unarmed. I took one tiny step away from him.
“I didn’t mean to trespass.” A blatant lie. Of course I was trespassing. “Not on your space. I didn’t know. And I’m very sorry. I’ll go now.”
“You could have stolen my things. I have important things here.” Stubborn. “I keep them hidden.” But his eyes shifted slightly and I saw the clean plastic garbage can with a chain around it and two enormous padlocks.
“Well, do you see any place I could have hidden anything?” I turned slightly, just enough to show him my backpack. I sure didn’t want to turn my back on him. “See?”
He stared and stared, and then he lowered the knife and stepped aside. A wave of his knife hand pointed me to the entrance of the alley. I left as quickly as I could. I didn’t break into a run until I was out of his sight. His parting words, shouted behind me, were “Don’t come back. Or I’ll get you good!”
My brain said he was in no shape to harm me. My adrenaline said, “Even if he’s a strung-out junky, he could be vicious. And unpredictable. Move!”
I didn’t stop until I was around the corner, under the elevated train tracks. There were stores nearby and some foot traffic. I felt safe there, though that might have been a fantasy. In one of the highest crime rate neighborhoods in the city, would anyone come to my aid if he did follow me? There was not a cop in sight.
When I could breathe again, and stopped shaking, I reached for the soda I had bought, and realized I must have dropped it in the alley. Damn.
I looked around the intersection. A boarded-up pharmacy. An old freestanding news dealer kiosk, also boarded up. A couple of bars not boarded up. And there was another tiny market where I could replace my soda before going home. I hoped the sugar would calm my inner shaking; on the outside, I put on my street face, the one that says, “Don’t mess with me.”
Soda in my hand, leaning against the wall outside the shop, nobody gave me a second look. I guessed I was not the only one on the street with shaking hands, gulping down a drink.
I had one more thing to do before I left the neighborhood. I wanted to go see for myself the improvised memorial to Deandra. I knew where it was. Right there where I had found her. Under all my busy, ordinary activities, that picture never fully left my mind.
I walked carefully this time, alert to any activity near me. It wasn’t hard to find. Even though all the buildings in a project look the same, I remembered where we were going that day. I stood there, silent, for a long time. There were more balloons but the flowers were starting to look frayed. I wished I had brought some.
No one was there but me, and then I sensed someone standing behind me.
A cracked, old lady voice. “What you here for? You the white lady who was here that day?”
I turned. She looked grandmother age, wrapped in a heavy sweater over her shabby dress, misshapen canvas sneakers on her feet, scarf over her gray hair. Squinting eyes.
“Well? I asked you.”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“You knew her? Dee?”
“I met her once. Nice girl.”
“She was that. I knowed her all her life. I be her aunt.” She stopped. “Kind of like her aunt. Long story. That child needed some mothering.” She looked away from me. “I stepped up.”
I had no words. All I could find was “I’m so sorry.”
“Young people get in trouble. Or trouble finds them.” She shook her head. “Poor baby.”
I was so uncomfortable, I said the first thing that came to my mind. “How is her mother doing?”
“How you think? She sobbing and wailing. Begging for money to pay for a funeral that she not making any plans for.” She made a face. “She easing the pain just like always. Lots of people give her what she want, for a price. You know?”
I nodded. I understood.
“I need to go now.” I fell back on what I’d said before. “I’m so sorry.”
After I turned away, the old lady spoke out loud. To me? To herself? To the air around us? “Baby girl had secrets worrying her.”
I turned back. “What did you say?”
“Secrets.” She stepped back from me. “She had secrets.”
“She told me one, but not enough. Did you know what was on her mind? It might help police solve this.”
“Police? Po-leece??? They don’t care. They ain’t gonna make a move and they ain’t talking to me.” She stopped and thought it over. “They came around but didn’t find me. And I ain’t talking to them either.”
What if I argued with her, made her see it my way?
As if reading my mind, she said, “Ain’t gonna bring her back.” She walked away, just like that.
It blew my earlier scary incident right out of my mind. I did turn back to the train then, saddened by the old lady, more saddened by what she’d said about Deandra’s mother. I was trying hard not to judge what I did not know enough about, not fully succeeding, and wishing Deandra had told me a little bit more that day she felt like confiding.
They came out of nowhere. I was walking along and there they were in front of me, two of the boys who’d accosted me at the library. And the weird guy I’d met earlier.
They stood across the sidewalk. I had no way to keep moving. Could I go the other way, and outrun them? Not bloody likely.
“Don’t even think it.” I hadn’t said it out loud, or moved, but the leader must have read my mind. He stepped closer, right into my space. “Let’s take a walk.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He didn’t say a word, just smiled.
His friend was there now, holding my arm.
“We walk there, behind the building.”
I was too scared to move my feet, but somehow we ended up there, in a sheltered corner. Even if anyone came along, it was doubtful if they would see us. Or think about it if they did.
“Street face!” I told myself silently. “Street face.” And I tried to straighten up.
“We not intending to hurt you,” he said. In all this time, the others had not said a word. “Not now. But me and my man, Jimmy N. here—” he hooked an arm about the blond man’s neck—“me and my man have plans for that building. So you stay away, hear?”
I squeaked it out. “You mean the store on the corner?”
“Well, duh. Where you were today? Yeah. Stay the fuck away. We need to never see you there again.”
“I was only buying
a soda.”
“You were snooping in my place.” So he could still talk, that blond guy. He sounded indignant. “You have no reason to be there. Stay away.”
“Don’t matter even if she do have some b.s. reason. We gave a real solid reason not to. Our place now.”
I nodded, afraid I couldn’t get any words out.
“You got that?” He let his jacket open a little so I could see the gun in his belt. “You not interfering with what we doing no more?”
I nodded again.
He jerked his head toward the end of the building.
“Now bounce. Don’t look back.”
And bounce I did, walking as fast as I could, around the corner of one building and then another, till I could be sure I was not in their sight. Unless they followed me. I peeked around. No one.
It wasn’t until a long time later, safe at home, that it hit me. They’d called him Jimmy N. James Nathan?
That was ridiculous, I told myself sternly. I was way overreaching. There was something not right about that guy. And why was he hanging around this very unsavory neighborhood? That alone was off base. Unless he was buying drugs every day.
It was impossible to imagine him having focus enough to get on the subway, get himself to a city building, get admitted in his filthy clothes. Do research. Focus enough to read for hours.
So my thought was ridiculous. And anyway, it didn’t matter. I was done with my Brownsville research.
But still.
The next day, it still seemed absurd and it still bothered me. I called Jennifer at the Archives and asked her straight out, “Did you see the person, this James Nathan, who wanted to see the same records I did?”
“I did, for a minute when he signed in. Why? What is going on?”
I sighed. “Probably nothing. It’s just that, well, maybe he and I could be helpful to each other? If we’re working in the same subject area? You know? And I am trying to track him down. He doesn’t show up anywhere. But maybe I met him somewhere? Sometime?” Not altogether the truth, but close. “What’s he like?”
“He was polite, very soft voice. He didn’t sound like a professor but he wasn’t even as weird as some of the other people who come in here. Trust me on that.”
“Wearing normal clothes?”
“Oh, sure. Nothing stands out so he must have been.”
“Anything about his hair? Beard?”
“Erica! What is this? Did you find hidden treasure or something in those files?”
“I’m sorry. I’m still thinking he might be someone I already know, that’s all.”
“Oh, sure. Sure he might.” I didn’t miss the sarcasm. “If I tell you, will you tell me what you’re really doing?”
“Yes. Over dinner next week one night?”
“Nothing I noticed about his hair. Clean shaven. Blondish. You want his weight, height and age too?”
“You don’t have his shoe size?”
“I was kidding.”
“I knew that.” I sighed. “Me too.”
“He was maybe fortyish? Five eight or so. Totally non-descript. Average everything. Dinner next Wednesday? I’m partial to sushi.”
“You’re on.”
Right size. Right coloring. Right age. Exactly like a million or so men in New York. And everything else was wrong.
Chapter Fifteen
Late at night. I couldn’t sleep. There was too much information, too many questions, too much sadness running around in my brain and I was failing completely at turning it off.
I finally decided the cure was getting some work done. It was a good plan but I sabotaged it by looking at Facebook first.
On Savanna’s page I spent some time scrolling through the long list of comments. They poured out sympathy and support. Most mentioned prayer. Some offered interesting anecdotes and memories about Savanna. After a little while it began to feel uncomfortably like a memorial page. And there was no real news. Zora’s last update merely said she was stable.
And just before I was ready to admit this was pointless I was caught by one more comment. “Savanna not the lil angel y’all think. She getting up to plenty and taking what don’t belong to her.” It was signed StarrGurl.
I was genuinely shocked by the cruelty. Not that I did not know some people love to spew out hate, especially on social media where you always feel anonymous. I’d have to be a deaf moron not to know the modern meaning of the word troll.
I sent a note off to Mike asking if he thought the detective team was looking at this page and would pick up that name. And could they trace it? He wrote right back, asking me what I was doing on e-mail at three AM and adding of course they are and would and can.
And then, because what happens at three AM is not real life, it is dreamtime, I read all the other comments StarrGurl had put up. When I was done, I wished I hadn’t.
She sounded like a teenager. After I got past the slang and the profanity, the abbreviations and the emoticons, I could see that every word she wrote was steeped in resentment. I didn’t have to be a teenager to know this was not about a missing sweater.
As I was looking at the screen, moving around, jumping here and there, trying not to lose track, one more post from StarrGurl popped up right in front of me. “Oh, ha! They picked up Jackie Eye, that baby wanna be, trying to see skanky thief. What he up to? And got let out cause he not a N who hollers. Maybe he trying to give a message?”
This made a little sense. Maybe. Honestly, I wanted to smack this anonymous twit.
I was starting to feel sleepy at last, but I made a quick click over to Zora’s page. She was in despair.
My baby not much better. Not much worse. Tonight her fingers move and I get all excited. They say it don’t mean a thing, only a kind of reflex. They say, all these medical people that she is doing ok, but I don’t see it. I don’t see it. My whole world now is this hospital room. And nothing new on finding who did this, either. Cops had those boys been bothering her, then let them go. Than they had a kid who CAME TO HER ROOM. No reason for him to be there a-tall. And they let him go. I need to tell my Savvie no one will hurt her again. When can I do that?”
There were some responses from other night owls. I didn’t know there were so many of us.
Now my eyes really were closing. I barely made it back to bed. And then my phone was ringing. I squinted at the number. It was Joe.
“I’m working on your block today. Do you want breakfast? I’m going to get some for myself.”
“Just woke up,” I mumbled. “What time is it?” I squinted at my clock, unable to focus.
“It’s nine-thirty, young lady. I’ve been at work for two hours already. Were you out late on a spree last night?”
“Uh, no. Not at all.” I tried to focus. “Bring breakfast here? When?”
“Soon. Fifteen minutes?”
I agreed and stumbled off to splash water in my face, brush my teeth, replace my pajamas that looked like workout clothes with actual workout clothes.
I found a note from Chris, stuck on the bathroom mirror. “You seemed so tired, I didn’t wake you. Left for school.”
When Joe rang my bell, my eyes were open and my hair was brushed. It was a fair imitation of being awake. I could smell the coffee and bacon-and-egg-sandwiches right through the wrappings. I was glad to see him. I thought I was. Perhaps I was not awake enough to know how I felt.
“Here.” He handed me my coffee. “Drink. Eat. Don’t try to talk until you are fueled.” I suspected he was laughing at me. I didn’t care, because he was the guy who came bringing coffee. It was still hot.
I sank into my kitchen chair, drinking and unwrapping my sandwich. Joe, restless, wandered around my kitchen that he had built.
“How’s the garbage disposer working? All right since I fixed it?”
“Mmm-hm.” I sucked down my coffee.
>
“Cabinets look good.” Doors were opened and closed.
“Dishwasher holding up okay?”
Slurping sounds. And chewing. I ate the sandwich right from the waxed paper wrapping. Joe helped himself to a mug, a plate and a knife and fork for his. He was a better host than I was.
Finally I was able to smile at him. “What have you been up to?
“Same old. I’m about done with that building I showed you. We have a walkthrough later today, get the punch list and send some of my guys over.”
“How nice that you have ‘my guys.’ To send hither and yon.” Now it was me laughing at him. “Is that like ‘my people talk to your people’?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Did you get that from a TV show? But yes, it is exactly like that.”
We chatted, but he seemed quieter than usual and I was not entirely awake. Finally fed and caffeinated my brain switched to on. “Joe, you are a sports fan, right?”
“I follow a few teams, sure. Why?”
“A few teams? Giants, Knicks. Yankees? And Tour de France still?”
“Don’t forget tennis. Yeah, you got me. It’s more than a few.” He looked at me quizzically. “Since when are you interested? You barely know one from the other.”
“Unfair. I knew them when I was a kid!” I left out the part about wasting time. “But you are getting me sidetracked.”
He looked amused, but I plowed on.
“Boxing.” I took another gulp of my coffee. A big one. “I want to ask if you know anything about boxing.”
“Some. I might watch it if I have nothing else to do. Why?”
“I need to know something.”
“Of course you do.”
“Ha. Very funny.” I stopped, concentrating on breakfast.
“And?”
“There’s supposedly a local boxer who is terrific, a real up-and-comer. Name of Isiahson. Do you know anything about him?”
“There’s buzz. It’s been a long time since there was a real American boxer that good. Why?”
I looked away, not answering. If I told him the whole story, one, we’d be there all morning, and two, he would disapprove.
