“This isn’t a project, Milo.” Her voice came out sharper than she had meant it to, but as a child of the crime- and graffiti-ridden projects of East New York, she didn’t want anyone to infer that at this point in her life she still lived in a ghetto.
He looked at her through narrowed eyes. “So it isn’t a project. Don’t bite my head off, will you?”
“Sorry,” she said, and took a breath. “I’m just so annoyed. And I’m a little worried, too, about these buildings going downhill and turning into something just a step or two removed from the projects. The maintenance is really starting to get bad. Remember those times last winter when the boiler wasn’t working? Winter is coming, and we’ll probably freeze again this year.” She sighed. “What we really need is a house.”
“We could use the winning lottery numbers, too, if you’re granting wishes.”
“Seriously, Milo.”
“Dawn, you know damn well we can’t afford a house. Only rich people can buy houses, at least in this part of the country. People with incomes a lot higher than ours are renting.”
“I know people our age at work who have houses.”
“Yeah? How many of them are black?”
She hesitated just a moment. “A few.”
“Okay. And how many of these black home owners aren’t from the Caribbean?”
“Okay, you’ve got me there.” Dawn didn’t understand why such a great number of people from places like Jamaica or Barbados or Trinidad managed to amass more than the average African American. Popular culture viewed these islanders as exceptionally hard workers who weren’t averse to working two or even three jobs to earn their rewards in life. But she and Milo could hardly be called lazy. She’d worked steadily ever since graduating high school nearly twenty years ago, even putting in full days until her labor pains started with Zach, and returning promptly at the close of six weeks’ maternity leave.
Dawn had spent her entire career at the same company, starting out as a receptionist, then moving into payroll and working as a clerk, and finally interviewing for the supervisory position when it became available. Milo’s first foray into the workforce was at a paint factory. He’d quickly decided he didn’t want to stay on there, doing hard physical labor, the strong odor of paint doing God knows what to his lungs, collecting tiny annual cost-of-living increases until retirement. He enrolled in a community college, learned to write code, and after getting his associate degree he got a job as a junior programmer at an office machines manufacturer. The “junior” had long since been dropped from his title, and he’d done quite well.
But not well enough to be able to afford a home of his own.
“Have you seen the prices of homes lately?” he asked.
She unconsciously jutted out her lower lip, like a child who’d been told she couldn’t have the toy she wanted. “Well, I think we ought to start looking. I’m sure there’s something out there we can afford.”
It looked to her like their building had begun what would likely be a long slide downward, and she didn’t want to take the trip with it.
Chapter 2
The Curry Family
The Bronx, New York
October 2001
Camille stirred at the sound of the Lexington Avenue line elevated train. She rolled over and snuggled up to Reuben. He grunted in his sleep and otherwise ignored her.
She stretched lazily, then sat up and turned the alarm clock to the OFF setting. She set it only as a precaution; she rarely slept until it went off, even now that it was mid-October and still dark out when she arose. The return of Standard Time would change that, but that wouldn’t happen for another two weeks. She’d be glad to see it come; she much preferred getting up in the daylight. She could open the blinds and let the morning sunlight wake Reuben. He’d pull a pillow over his eyes, but his subconscious would know it was time to get up. She got tired of shaking him every morning like a bottle of soy sauce.
Carrying the underwear she’d laid out last night and wearing a bathrobe, she stepped out into the hall and crossed to the bathroom to take a ten-minute shower. As she scrubbed herself she mentally went over her personal to-do list. The cable bill was due this week. She had to make appointments for Mitchell and Shayla to get their six-month dental checkups. And she needed to see her hairdresser; her roots had grown in as tough as an overdone steak.
No, before she made the hair appointment she’d better remind her sister-in-law, Arnelle, about that fifty dollars she’d loaned her three weeks ago. Camille’s expression went momentarily sour when she thought about Arnelle, who usually excused her financial shortages with, “It’s hard trying to raise my daughter all by myself. You’re lucky to have a husband, Camille.”
Camille resented Arnelle for trying to make her feel guilty just for being married. She and her sister-in-law had been quite close earlier in Camille’s marriage to Reuben, more like sisters than in-laws, but all these repeated requests for forty dollars here and sixty dollars there, which Arnelle often conveniently forgot about come payday, had begun to put a strain on their friendship.
Camille felt pretty sure that Arnelle had already tried the patience of both her mother, Ginny, and her older sister, Brenda. She usually prefaced each loan request with, “Don’t mention this to Reuben, okay?” Well, once Camille got back this fifty she’d start telling Arnelle she couldn’t spare any extra. Just because she had Reuben’s income to help provide the necessities of life didn’t mean that her children didn’t need things just like anybody else’s kids, or that she should go around looking like a tackhead.
Still, she did feel sorry for Arnelle. Her daughter’s father had long since skipped out of New York for an unknown destination and hadn’t sent her a fat nickel since. At least Brenda’s ex-husband, that is, if they’d ever gotten around to getting a divorce, helped her with the support of their daughter.
Camille scrubbed her back vigorously. She’d just have to stop being such a soft touch . . . and stick to it.
Fifteen minutes later, all dried off and a bathrobe covering her underwear-clad body, she woke the children. When they finished washing up she’d wake Reuben. He hated having to wait to get into the bathroom, something he’d had to do as a child as one of four children, and he insisted it be all clear by the time he got out of bed, so he could get in there right away.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful, Camille thought dreamily, if their two-bedroom apartment had two bathrooms. The building’s owner, who also owned the sheet metal shop that operated on the ground level directly below them, had once lived in this apartment with his family. For that reason he had made a few nice improvements: butcher block kitchen countertops, an attractive laminate vanity cabinet under the bathroom sink, parquet floors, storm windows. She knew for a fact that the duplicate apartment across the hall had no special features, although admittedly it rented for less money. Once the building’s owner started making big bucks with his sheet metal business he moved his family to a condo on City Island, which, along with Riverdale, ranked among the nicest neighborhoods in the Bronx.
She and Reuben first heard about the apartment from Reuben’s brother Saul, who was working downstairs in the shop. Not long after Saul decided to quit and work at a larger shop near Willis Avenue. At the time Mitchell was just eighteen months old and Camille had just gotten a positive result on a home pregnancy test. They desperately needed something bigger than their one-bedroom in Gun Hill.
Camille, now dressed in a brown wool suit and crisp yellow blouse, her long hair pinned into a French roll to help disguise the fact that she was overdue for a visit to the hairdresser, prepared breakfast for the family in the kitchen. The kids had cereal with sliced banana, and she had a Waldorf salad with sweet apple slices, golden raisins, and chopped walnuts. Reuben didn’t eat breakfast on weekdays, at least not at home. He usually grabbed a croissant or one of those fried-egg sandwiches with bacon. Camille kept telling him that all that butter and cholesterol were bad for his heart, as well as making him gain we
ight, but he didn’t particularly enjoy fruit or cereal. “I ate oatmeal for breakfast every day when I was growing up, but my stomach cried out for eggs and bacon,” he always said.
At ten minutes to eight Camille kissed her family good-bye and left for work. She sighed when she stepped out into the street. The sunlight that came through her apartment windows was practically obscured by the shadow of the elevated train tracks a block away. She heard the wheezing of the train’s brakes as it pulled into the 161st Street station. Employees from the sheet metal shop congregated outdoors, sipping coffee in Styrofoam cups bought at the convenience store down the street, savoring the last minutes before they were due to start work. They would hastily toss their cups at about a minute or two before eight, and nearly half of them would miss the trash can, leaving the ground littered with white cups that would soon be flattened and dirtied by the shoes of passing pedestrians.
She walked briskly in the direction of the train station, suddenly anxious to get downtown. She always felt like this the moment she stepped out of her apartment, always had the same thought. If only she could lift their building and drop it in a nicer area, like Dorothy Gale’s house in The Wizard of Oz. Only instead of landing on the Wicked Witch of the North, she’d want to land on a nice block on City Island or in Pelham Bay, where the commercial space would be filled with upscale shops, including a bakery, which would not only be quiet but sweet-smelling.
Ah, if only. This was no way to live, surrounded by all this noise and ugliness. She could stand the noise from the sheet metal shop if she absolutely had to, but the neighborhood had not one single redeeming feature. The kids didn’t even have a park to play in. Mitchell wanted a bike, but Reuben said no because there was no place to ride it safely.
And Mitchell was now ten years old, just a leap away from puberty. He really shouldn’t still be sharing a bedroom with his younger sister at this stage of his life.
As she huffed her way up the steep stairs to the elevated train—she’d put on twenty pounds after giving birth to Mitchell and another twenty after she had Shayla, losing none of it—Camille suddenly had an idea. She’d call Reuben when she got to work.
No, she thought, better to wait. This needed to be discussed in person.
“Can I be excused?” Shayla asked.
Camille glanced at her daughter’s dinner plate. “You didn’t finish your lima beans.”
The seven-year-old’s face promptly wrinkled, like she wanted to cry.
“Don’t even try it,” Reuben warned. “You can do better than that, Shayla. Come on. Two more spoonfuls.”
“You can do it,” Mitchell called out, urging her on from the attached living room.
“Tell you what,” Reuben said. “Mommy and I have a surprise for you two, but neither one of you are going to get it until Shayla finishes her beans.”
Mitchell got to his feet. “Come, on Shayla! We’ve got a surprise coming. Don’t hold it up.”
Shayla stuffed the remaining lima beans in her mouth, her cheeks blowing up like a squirrel’s.
Reuben leaned forward. “You’ve got to swallow them, Shayla, not just hold it in your mouth.”
“Chew them quick, Shayla,” Mitchell urged. “Otherwise they get nasty.”
Her mouth full, Shayla mumbled a response that sounded like, “They are nasty.” She shut her eyes tightly, held her nose, and swallowed.
Camille didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath. She’d never been too fond of lima beans as a child, either, but she wanted her children to eat a balanced diet and never be troubled by obesity, and she’d read someplace that limas were stuffed with vitamins. She figured twice a month wouldn’t hurt.
“Okay, Daddy, what’s our surprise?” Mitchell asked anxiously.
Reuben pointed his chin toward the vacant chair of the dinette set. “Sit down, Mitchell.”
Their son did as he’d been instructed, his eagerness demonstrated by the way he leaned forward.
“Okay, kids,” Reuben began. “You know that your Great Aunt Mary passed away last month.”
“She was real old,” Mitchell said matter-of-factly.
“Yes, she lived a full life,” Camille said. “May she rest in peace.”
“I’m sure you guys remember how our family used to help Aunt Mary out,” Reuben continued. “Y’all used to come along with me sometimes, to bring her to run her errands and things.”
Both children nodded, confusion in their eyes. Camille knew they both wondered what the recently departed Aunt Mary could possibly have to do with their surprise.
Reuben promptly cleared up their uncertainty. “Well, Aunt Mary appreciated us so much that she left us some money.”
Camille enjoyed the kids’ wide-eyed expressions.
“You mean we’re rich?” Shayla asked.
Reuben chuckled. “No, not by a long shot. But it does mean that we’ve got some extra money. And Mommy and I decided that it’s high time we got you guys down to Disney World for a vacation.”
He and Camille beamed at each other as the children digested this news, jumping out of their chairs and whooping like Indians, clapping their hands over their mouths.
“I’m gonna see Minnie Mouse!” Shayla exclaimed happily.
“When do we go?” Mitchell asked.
“The week after Thanksgiving,” Camille said. “You’re going to have to miss a few days of school.”
She’d suggested to Reuben that they go during Christmas or Easter, but he insisted that the lines would be much shorter if they avoided school vacation times. Besides, he said, in November the weather in central Florida would still be warm.
“I’ll make the sacrifice,” Mitchell said, trying to hide his grin.
“Will we be there for my birthday?” Shayla asked. She’d been born in late November; Camille had gone to the hospital in early labor just hours after eating Thanksgiving dinner.
“We sure will, and we’ll have a nice celebration for you down there,” Camille said, beaming. “I want you both to say a prayer of thanks for Great Aunt Mary before you go to sleep tonight,” she added. “She’s the one who made all this possible.”
Their vacations usually consisted of a few days at the Maryland shore or at Six Flags in Jersey, where all four of them stayed in a single hotel room, her sleeping with Shayla and Mitchell with Reuben. It would be nice to get on a plane, rent a car, and stay in a vacation condo where she and Reuben had their own bedroom, with a luxurious king-sized bed. They would actually be able to have sex while on a vacation with their children. As Robin Williams would say, “What a concept.”
Mitchell and Shayla disappeared into their room, and Reuben turned to Camille. “Well, I must say they took that well.”
She took a deep breath, knowing the time had come to present her idea. “Reuben, I’m glad we’re going to Orlando, but we didn’t talk much about what we plan to do with the rest of the money.” Aunt Mary had left him fifteen thousand dollars of her insurance proceeds, much to the annoyance of her son, Harvey, who didn’t feel he should have to share his mother’s estate with anyone. Harvey conveniently ignored the fact that he and his wife moved out to Long Island and essentially left his mother to fend for herself from her Bronxwood Avenue apartment. Camille kept waiting for him to move Aunt Mary in with his family when her age advanced and her health declined, but it never happened. Likewise, Reuben’s siblings all felt they should have been remembered as well, although none of them had even bothered to send their aunt so much as a Christmas card. Even Reuben’s mother, Ginny, made no secret that she was dissatisfied with the twenty-five hundred dollars her much older sister, who had practically raised her, willed to her.
“Well, I thought you and I might be able to take the vacation of our dreams. Maybe go to Europe, or take a nice romantic cruise somewhere exotic, like Tahiti.”
She stared at him incredulously. “You want to take another vacation?”
“What’s wrong with that? The manager of the store takes two trips every y
ear, one with his kids and one without. A lot of people do. We haven’t really been anywhere alone since our honeymoon, and Rehoboth Beach is hardly a dream spot.”
“It’s just that we’re already spending so much on Orlando, between the plane tickets, the condo, and that convertible you insisted on renting. Not to mention that it’ll be nearly two hundred dollars for all of us just to get in the park.”
“We’re only spending a small portion of the money we got on this trip. If you’re worried that I’m planning to blow the rest, don’t worry. We’re going to put most of it into the bank.”
Camille suddenly had a memory of her late mother sternly saying, “You’ll put it in the bank, young lady,” every time a family friend or relative gave her five or ten dollars’ spending money. She knew her mother only wanted the best for her, but all it did was make her feel deprived. She told herself that when she grew up she would never go without. It would have been so much better if she could have had even a third of the gift money for herself. Maybe then she would have cultivated the good savings habits her mother wanted her to form instead of being thirty-five years old with just a few thousand dollars in savings, at least before Aunt Mary’s bequest to them.
“I’ve got a better idea,” she said.
“Better than you and I taking a really nice trip for once, and probably the only time in our lives?”
“Yes.” She took a deep breath and plunged on. “Let’s see if we can buy a house.”
Chapter 3
The Lee Family
Manhattan
October 2001
Veronica turned around at the sound of a commotion behind her on Amsterdam Avenue. The next thing she knew she felt a tug at her midsection. A kid in a skull cap was going for the purse she had draped across her body. The bag was sturdier than he thought, but she wasn’t. She tried to brace herself as she tumbled down toward the hard cement, dropping the brown paper bag she carried that contained bread and milk from the corner store. Her would-be robber disappeared around the corner before anyone could nab him.
If These Walls Could Talk Page 2
