“I guess that gets me off the hook.”
“Don’t even think about it. We have approximately three weeks left till your birthday. You’re getting married by then,” Sissy said, grabbing her keys off the end table. She headed toward the door, but stopped and turned around. “There’s another person I’ve been considering. I promise I’ll thoroughly vet her.”
12
It was early. The sun was out, and it was going to be a beautiful day.
But for Austen Melrose Greer, it was already starting horribly.
Austen had jet-black hair brushed back in a ponytail and beautiful, flawless Hershey Kiss–colored skin. Her eyes were almond shaped, and her lips were the shade of rose petals.
Austen pulled the key out of her car’s ignition and exhaled deeply as she sat behind the steering wheel. She had loved this car. It was a 2008 Jaguar XJ8. It was silver with dark gray interior. She had bought the car in late 2007. It had just hit the dealership, and the housing business had still been great to her.
As a Realtor, she had heard grumblings about awful things to come in the market, but like so many of her friends in the business, she ignored those warnings. At the time, Austen was still selling downtown Chicago properties as fast as she could list them.
But not three months into 2008, things started to change drastically. There was talk, then evidence of a recession. People stopped buying houses, then houses started to go into foreclosure. Folks started losing their jobs, the value of properties dropped, and the stock market did things Austen never thought possible.
By the time 2009 rolled in, Austen had lost almost all of her savings and hadn’t sold a property in over six months. With each month that passed, it became harder and harder to scrape together the money to pay the mortgage on her very expensive Michigan Avenue condominium located in the heart of the Gold Coast.
Austen flipped open the armrest between the seats of the Jaguar and set the key inside it. She leaned over, checked the glove compartment to make sure she hadn’t left anything, then climbed out and closed the door.
She stood in the Jewel grocery store parking lot, as mothers dragged their kids by the hands, and pushed their carts past her.
Austen felt like crying as she turned and walked away from the vehicle.
After climbing in a cab, she dug her cell phone out of her purse and dialed the 800 number of the finance company she was giving her car back to.
“Yes, this is Austen Greer,” Austen said. “The car is in the Jewel Foods parking lot on North Clark.” The cab driver glanced up at her. She cut him an evil look, then went back to her conversation. “But if you don’t pick it up by closing, I’m sure it’ll be towed.”
Austen disconnected the call and settled back into her seat for the remainder of the ride home.
When she walked through the heavy wood-and-glass doors of the aging but beautifully kept condo building, the uniformed attendant stood from behind the counter. “Ms. Greer, this man is here to see you,” the attendant said, gesturing to a blond man wearing shorts, topsiders, and a baseball cap.
Austen hooked a finger over the top of her glasses, pulled them down a bit. She looked the man over suspiciously.
“Hi,” the man said, extending a hand. “I’m Ken. I came to look at the—”
“This way, Ken,” Austen said, cutting the man off before he could put her business out for the entire building to hear.
On the elevator ride up to the twenty-third floor, Austen kept her eyes down.
The elevator doors slid open with the ding of the bell.
“This way,” Austen said, stepping out first.
Austen pushed open the heavy wooden door of her 2,000-square-foot condo. She walked in first, Ken following behind. Her heels clicked loudly across the immaculate hardwood floors and echoed through the huge space; it was practically empty.
There was a beautiful Asian antique dining room set in the dining room, and a burnt orange antique leather sofa with claw feet in the living room.
“So that’s it, huh?” Ken said, walking over to the sofa, his fists on his hips.
“That’s it,” Austen said, hating the fact that she had to sell it.
Austen had once been so successful that she would fly all over the country looking for furniture to decorate her new condo. When she found the perfect piece, no matter the cost, she’d buy it and have it shipped home.
The sofa was a piece she had found in San Francisco and just had to have. It was in flawless condition. She happily paid $12,000 dollars for it, and now had it sitting on Craigslist for a quarter of that.
“I like it,” Ken said, his arms crossed. “I want it.”
Austen was both relieved and disappointed. Once the sofa was gone, all that would be left was the dining room set and her bed.
Ken sunk his hands into his pockets. “Will you take fifteen hundred?”
Austen almost choked and thought about smacking the baseball cap off the man’s head. “If I’m not mistaken, it’s listed on Craigslist for three thousand.”
“Okay, how about two thousand.”
Austen stared at the man through her dark glasses. “That antique is in perfect condition.”
Ken smiled. “I know. That’s why I’m offering two grand.”
Her teeth clenched, her hands in fists, her long nails digging into the flesh of her palms, Austen walked briskly to her front door and yanked it open. “Get out.”
“Ms. Greer, I don’t mean to offend you, but times are tough for everyone. I know the value of what you’re selling, and I also know you want to sell it or you wouldn’t have it listed. I’m here right now with two thousand dollars cash. If you let me, I’ll give you this and send someone back to pick up the couch tonight. If you let me.”
Austen thought about her situation. No one else had called about the sofa. Over the last week, she had relisted it four times. She wasn’t penniless, but she was damn close. She needed the money. She looked over her glasses at Ken. “Twenty-five hundred,” Austen said.
Ken smiled. “Deal.”
13
Today had been a rough day for me. By the time I pulled the Mercedes into the drive at home, I felt as though I couldn’t deal with another single thing.
I had driven up to Joliet State Prison earlier to meet with another attorney and his client. The client, a man named Roger Finch, was in prison on charges of attempted murder. Last week a policeman had been shot. There was a sketch of the suspect splashed across every news channel, and this Roger Finch said he recognized the guy. Finch said he knew the man’s phone number, who his friends were, and where he lived. He would be willing to part with that information in exchange for a shot at a reduced sentence. I heard the man out and told him I would have to get back to him.
I was in a hurry to get out of there. That place was depressing and so disproportionately occupied with black men. Every time I walked through those corridors, I became more depressed. I know many, maybe even most of them, were guilty of their crimes and had been justly convicted. But I also knew that the legal system was biased against black men, resulting in them often being falsely imprisoned, or when they were found guilty, getting longer, harsher sentences, or being sent away for crimes white men would get probation for. Not to mention the situation they would find themselves in when they finally got out—jobless, often uneducated, and branded as convicts—it was almost hopeless. No wonder so many went back.
Finally climbing out of my car, I felt dirty and exhausted. All I wanted to do was step into a steaming shower. I caught sight of my mailbox not twenty feet from where I stood. I should check it, I thought. Maybe the letter from the Social Security Administration had been delivered.
I walked toward the mailbox. When I opened it, there was a single letter lying inside. I pulled it out, read the envelope, and it was indeed the letter I had been waiting for.
Finally, a breakthrough.
I went inside, took a shower, and slipped on some khakis, a T-shirt, and my house robe. I w
ent downstairs, poured myself a cold glass of white wine in anticipation of opening the letter and finding the address where my brother was currently living, or at least some information that would make him much easier to find.
I carried my wine and the letter into the dining room, set the letter on the table, and stared at it.
I felt my heart speeding in my chest and urged myself to calm down. I could not. This would be the closest I had come to actually meeting my brother. I wanted it to be a special occasion of sorts.
I took a celebratory sip of my wine, inhaled, exhaled, then tore the letter open. It took me only a moment to find what I was looking for. I read it, set the letter down, then smiled, then forced myself to laugh. I took a giant gulp of my wine before I angrily slung the glass across the room where it shattered against the wall.
I looked down at the letter and again read the line.
Unable to provide requested information.
I crumpled the page into a ball as I yelled into the empty house, “I fucking give up!”
I stood there infuriated, my chest heaving. I took another deep breath and told myself if my brother didn’t want to be found, or if the universe was in some way preventing it from happening, maybe it wasn’t meant to be.
14
Eric Reed lay in his prison cell bunk moments before lights out. His cellmate, in the rack above him, was already snoring. Eric was staring up at the tattered old photo that he had stuck into the springs of that overhead bunk. The picture was of his little girl, Maya. She was two years old then—the most beautiful little brown baby in the world. She had thick black hair, big brown eyes, and the fattest dimpled cheeks.
Eric hadn’t seen his daughter, or the mother of the child, in a little more than two years.
As Eric lay in that bunk, wearing jailhouse trousers and a wife beater undershirt, he remembered the days when he was free.
He had dated Jess, a gorgeous, shapely, loving sister for twenty-four months.
Eric loved her and had been honest with her about his upbringing in foster care and his run-ins with the law. Jess said none of that mattered. She felt he was a good man, and as long as he was good to her and stayed out of trouble, she would stick by him.
There were nights when he lay in bed beside Jess after making love, and he couldn’t understand why she had chosen to stay with him, why she loved him. He told himself he wasn’t good enough for her. He knew that any day she could leave him for someone better.
Eric worked when he could find day labor, pouring what cash he made onto the coffee table at the end of the day when he walked into the small one-bedroom apartment they shared. There were a couple of days when the ten- and twenty-dollar bills totaled close to a hundred dollars. Most days he barely made twenty or thirty, but Jess would smile and tell him what he gave was much appreciated and would help a lot. Eric knew she couldn’t even buy a decent pair of shoes with that money.
Eventually, Jess picked up on Eric’s insecurities. She started going out of her way to tell him how much she loved him. She had even bought him flowers on two occasions. None of it worked. One night, before bed, Jess walked over to Eric, her hands behind her back.
“I have something to ask you.”
“What?” Eric said.
“I want you to say yes.”
“Ask me first.”
“Will you say yes?”
“Just ask.”
Jess raised her hand from behind her back, opened it. In her palm was a plain, dull gold wedding band. “Will you marry me, Eric Reed?”
Eric had nothing. He was no one. He took Jess’s hand in his and softly closed her fingers back around the ring. “You know I love you, right?” he said.
“And I love you, too. That’s why I’m asking you to marry me.”
“That’s why I gotta say no. Just for right now, until I can be the man I need to be for you. Will you understand that for me?”
“Only if you stop acting like we don’t belong together and believe me when I tell you I need you with me.”
Eric smiled. “Yeah, okay.”
A week later, after coming in from standing on the corner all day, hoping for work and not getting it, Eric found Jess sitting in the living room, a smile on her face.
“What?” Eric said, smiling too, after closing the door.
“Come here.”
He walked to Jess, sat down beside her. She took his hand, kissed Eric’s lips.
“What?” Eric asked again.
“I’m pregnant,” Jess said softly. Eric could feel her practically trembling with excitement. “I had a doctor’s appointment. I’m one month!” She threw her arms around Eric’s neck.
“That’s great news, Jess,” Eric said, hugging her back. He didn’t mean it. The money Jess made as a supervisor at Target was enough to take care of the two of them, allowing the little bit he gave her to seem like a meaningful contribution. But once a baby and a number of new expenses came, Jess would see just how little Eric was doing for them. It would make even plainer the fact that she had to find a better man than him.
Every day up until the baby’s birth, Eric wished the pregnancy away. Then Maya was born. It turned out to be the happiest day of Eric’s life. He stood in the delivery room, wearing a white gown, holding his baby for the first time and smiling through his joyful tears.
For the first time, Eric felt good about not having a job and being home, allowing them to save on child care. The first eight months, he cared for Maya full time, feeding her, changing her, bathing her. He grew very close to the little girl. Many days he would just hold her, marvel at how beautiful she was. He never knew he was capable of helping to create someone so perfect. He loved that little girl so much. At times, it made him wonder how his mother could’ve put him up for adoption and just walk away.
“I’ll never leave you, baby,” Eric said that night, leaning over and kissing his sleeping child on the cheek. “I’ll always be here for you.”
Soon, the bills began to stack. Eric would see the frustration on Jess’s face when it came time to try to pay them all. Utilities were soon to be cut off, and Jess had been hinting to Eric for a number of months that he would have to find employment.
While Jess was at work during the day, Eric would cart Maya with him down the street to the public library and search online for job opportunities. Jobs he was qualified for were almost nonexistent, and with his criminal record of theft convictions, he quickly realized he had no chance at anything legal.
The next day, Eric got in touch with two friends of his, a guy named Luck and a chubby guy who insisted on being called Skinny Steve. In the past, the three of them ran small crime jobs together. They never amounted to huge money, but Eric was hoping they’d be on to bigger things by now.
The next night, when the guys got together, Skinny Steve said to Luck and Eric that he knew a guy who ran a chop shop.
“He’ll give us five hundred to two thousand dollars a car, depending on what kind of rides we bring him.”
“That ain’t shit,” Luck said, wearing a do-rag tied over his head.
“It’s better than what we got now,” Skinny Steve said. “And we can make as much as we want. Just keep on bringing in cars.”
“Steve’s right,” Eric said. He was already counting the money in his head, thinking about what it could provide for Jess and Maya.
On the night of Eric’s first job, he told himself things were going to work out just fine. That was until, while speeding down Stony Island Avenue in the Ford Expedition he had just stolen, he saw the blue lights of a Chicago police car flash in his rearview mirror.
Luck and Skinny Steve were in Luck’s beat-up Mustang, trailing Eric. They quickly made a left on Seventy-ninth Street when they saw the cops on Eric’s tail.
Standing in front of the judge, Eric could hear Jess bawling as he was sentenced to four years in prison.
The first year Eric was in, Jess and Maya came often. It was the only thing that made prison tolerable. They wer
e his link to the outside, something to look forward to.
On his year anniversary of being incarcerated, Jess came to visit Eric alone.
In the visitors’ room, she really looked nice. She wore a lavender skirt and a floral print shirt. Her hair was freshly done. It was shiny, straightened, and hung to her shoulders. She looked good, but she looked sad.
“You okay?” Eric said.
“Yeah.”
“I got a surprise for you.”
“What is it, Eric?”
“I know I got two more years up in here, but I was thinking. I’m ready to say yes to your marriage proposal.”
Jess didn’t do a backflip like Eric had been expecting. She didn’t shriek with surprise or throw herself into his arms. None of that. She just smiled a little, as if someone she didn’t know had told her she looked nice that day.
Eric didn’t know what was wrong. “Is that a yes?”
Jess nodded. “Yes,” she said.
Three days later when Eric tried calling her phone, Jess didn’t pick up. That was the case for the next two weeks. On her regular visiting day, she didn’t show. The next time Eric tried calling Jess, her voicemail didn’t even pick up. The phone just rang.
Eric stood there, the phone in his hand, looking stupid and feeling betrayed.
Now, lying in his cot, looking up at his child’s picture, he told himself, yes, it’s been a little over two years since I’ve seen my child or my baby’s mother. He had no idea what happened to them. Did Jess stop loving him? Did she and his child die in some horrible car accident? He had looked her name up on the Internet and searched Facebook trying to find her, but she just disappeared.
Earlier that afternoon, Eric sat in the cafeteria, hunched over a metal tray of chili-mac. The old tattooed man Eric sometimes ate lunch with was spooning some of his chili-mac onto a slice of white bread.
“You find your girl and your baby?” the old man asked. Eric didn’t know what his real name was, but inside everybody called him V.C.
No One in the World Page 5
