“Dawn, we don’t know for sure what really happened. For all we know, it could have been someone Hazel knew and willingly let inside her apartment.”
Zachary returned with a glass of ice water and handed it to Dawn. “Mom, you should see the hall. Miss Hazel’s door has all this bright yellow tape across it, just like you see on TV. I’ll bet that inside there’s a chalk outline around where they found her.”
“Thanks, Zach,” Milo said. “But I want you to go to your room for a little while so I can talk to Mom. And hold down the excitement level. This isn’t TV. Hazel was our friend.”
“Can I go outside?”
“No,” Dawn said sharply. “I don’t want you leaving this apartment, not with all that’s going on. The person who did this might still be out there, for all we know.”
“Your mother’s right, Zach,” Milo agreed. “There’s a lot of confusion outside, a lot of rumors spreading from people talking out of the side of their mouths. Someone might be listening in, trying to determine if anyone saw or heard anything. It’s too dangerous. Why don’t you go online?”
“Okay.” Zach headed off to his room and the computer Milo purchased for him after the two repeatedly clashed over the use of the family machine.
“I don’t like the way he’s reacting to this,” Dawn said when he had gone. “He knew Hazel. She was good to him. He should be upset, tearful even, but instead he seems thrilled. I don’t want him here if the police come to ask if we heard anything. The way he’s acting, who knows what ideas they might get.”
“They probably will come knocking on our door, since we live so close. They just haven’t gotten to us yet. It’s a madhouse out there now. But I’ll talk to Zach. I don’t care for his reaction, either. I don’t think he fully comprehends what murder and death mean. We haven’t lost anyone in our families, thank God. But he’s used to seeing it on TV and in the movies, where no one ever grieves.”
The doorbell rang, and a male voice called out loudly, “Police.”
Dawn stood close behind Milo as he answered the door. For the first time she became aware of the voices buzzing in the hallway. She recognized Gloria Hudson’s heavy voice carrying above all others. “I loaned Hazel my Crock-Pot and my good casserole dish,” she whined. “How’m I supposed to get them back now?” She ended on an indignant note. “That son of hers will probably take my stuff.”
Like Hazel would have borrowed anything from you, Dawn thought. More likely it was the other way around. Leave it to Gloria to try to find an angle somewhere where she might be able to benefit. She might look like a typical grandmotherly type to the unsuspecting, but the woman was a conniving old bat.
Milo spent a few minutes quietly speaking to the officers, assuring them that they had all been fast asleep and had heard nothing. Dawn nodded when the officers looked at her for confirmation.
“All right, that’s over,” he said, closing the door.
“But listen, Dawn. This thing with Hazel is awful, but murders do happen in large cities. It doesn’t mean that all of us are doomed to become victims.”
“Victims,” she repeated. “How about all those poor people who went to work on a beautiful Tuesday morning last month with no idea they would die before eleven AM?”
Milo sighed. “I know. Those people didn’t deserve to die like that. I don’t have an answer for you, Dawn. That line about never knowing when you might get hit by a truck has become passé.”
“And how about the elevators? We live twelve flights up, Milo. It seems like one of them is always out of order. I waited almost fifteen minutes for an elevator the other day because only one of them was running. I barely made it to work on time.”
“I heard management is going to replace them.”
“Oh, that’ll be fun, no elevator service for days, maybe even a week. Even if they replace them one at a time, one elevator just isn’t enough for a building with eighteen floors.”
“Listen, Dawn, I know you’re not happy about living here these days, but you’re forgetting something very important. If we left here, where would we go? Don’t you remember how difficult it is to rent an apartment in Brooklyn? Why do you think the waiting list to get in here is years long? It’s also very expensive. First and last months’ rent, plus the expense of moving. Are you forgetting that we pay such low rent because you create phony W2s for us each year and understate our income for the rental board? That wouldn’t work if we moved into an apartment where the rent is market rate.”
“Well, let’s see if we can buy.”
He grunted. “Sure, there’s a couple of brownstones over in Park Slope that will be perfect for us. Only two or three mil.” Then he grew serious. “Dawn, I’d love to be able to be a home owner. But it’s out of our reach. The only reason we can afford to live the way we do is because our rent is only $720 a month. Do you really think we’d be going to concerts or ordering pizza and Chinese food on Friday nights, eating out on Saturday nights, and taking vacations every year with Zach if we had to pay two or three thousand a month for a mortgage?”
“Milo, I make over fifty thousand dollars a year, and so do you. Our household income is over six figures. I’ve read financial guidelines that say it’s considered correct to spend up to twenty-eight percent of your annual income on rent or a mortgage. That comes to more than $25K, or something like seventeen or eighteen hundred a month. Surely we can find something with carrying charges in that vicinity.”
“That would be fine if we lived in Atlanta or Houston, but”—Milo quoted the title of a Roy Ayers tune—“we live in Brooklyn, baby. Besides, there’s more expense involved in home ownership than a mortgage payment. We’d have to buy a lawn mower, a water heater, a washer and dryer, all that stuff. And if it’s a condo, there’s a bunch of fees for maintenance and stuff. You wouldn’t be able to go clothes shopping for a very long time.”
She cast her eyes downward. All those things added up to thousands. If they had to pay an additional thousand dollars just to keep a roof over their heads, plus buy all that stuff Milo talked about, she’d be wearing the same clothes for ten years. She’d never get to the manicurist again. And forget about going on vacation or trading in their car for a newer one once they made the last payment and received the title. Damn it, Milo was probably right.
“We need to stay right here, Dawn,” he said firmly. “I’m as distressed as you are about Hazel, but in a month or two we’ll have a new neighbor, and life will go on.”
Chapter 5
The Currys
October 2001
“Reuben, I don’t know.” Camille’s voice was low with doubt and disappointment as she and Reuben sat at the dining table studying the real estate listings in the Sunday Times. “Look at these prices.”
“I thought we were doing pretty good financially until I saw these numbers,” he said, equally mournful. “Together, we have an income of about $75K a year, Camille. A lot of people living right here in this neighborhood are getting by on a lot less. But these people want more than a quarter mil for houses right here in the Bronx!”
“It’s even worse in Long Island and Westchester.” She twirled a lock of newly relaxed hair around her index finger and sighed. “I hate to say this, but our apartment is looking better and better to me all the time. I just wish we could pick it up and move it to a different location.” She wasn’t thrilled about their children having to share a bedroom, but the unpleasant surroundings truly made her unhappy. She felt Mitchell and Shayla deserved better than the junkyards with their barking dogs, used car lots, and the noisy elevated train. She wanted them to have someplace decent to play, unlike her own childhood, when the only times she got away from the concrete jungle of sidewalk hopscotch games and could actually play on grass were the ten days she spent at camp in Pennsylvania each year.
“It’s not fair,” Reuben muttered. “Back in the day your average working man could afford four walls and a roof. People who work hard are supposed to be able to get somewhere. I’d
like to get more out of life than just having a decent apartment, and I want to give Mitchell and Shayla something to strive for from life. Too many black kids today have no goals other than to drive a nice car. I don’t want our kids to start thinking that’s all they can achieve.”
“Well, let’s not give up. I’m sure that somewhere out there is the perfect house for us.”
But even as she said the words, she wondered if they were pursuing an impossible dream.
“Camille, c’mere!”
Camille sensed the urgency in Reuben’s voice. She rushed to their bedroom, toothbrush in hand and her mouth still full of toothpaste. “What is it?” she asked anxiously.
“Look at this.” He reached for the remote control and raised the volume on the TV.
She stared blankly as the camera scanned a neighborhood of well-kept, new-looking homes, all with immaculate front lawns. She felt a pang of wanting in her chest at the shot of children riding bicycles along wide sidewalks bordered by thick, lush grass. Those should be her children....
The announcer’s voice played as the camera continued to scan the pretty neighborhood. “Arlington Acres, a taste of paradise in the shadow of the Pocono Mountains. Enjoy life surrounded by graceful mountain peaks and peaceful valleys. Swim in our community pool, and indulge in boating and fishing in our lake. Come out to visit us today and arrange for your new home. Why wait? It’s affordable. Get rid of your landlord and become a home owner in lovely Arlington Acres, Tobyhanna, Pennsylvania.” The picture changed to a dark background with the address and telephone number written across the screen.
She shrugged. Most of her childhood friends had left the city years ago, settling in places like Ohio and Maryland, some alone, others with boyfriends, eventually settling down and purchasing homes in an affordable market. She envied their becoming home owners, but the time had passed for her and Reuben to make a cold move like that. They had careers to think about and two children to care for. “It’s too bad they don’t have anything like that here.” Damn New York for being so expensive.
“Why don’t we check it out?”
“What for? Seeing it will only break our hearts.”
“I don’t want to just look at it. I want us to consider it. Let’s see what it’s really like, see how long a commute would take. It’s not that far, Camille.”
She stared at him skeptically. “Not that far? It’s in Pennsylvania, Reuben. I went to camp in the Pocono Mountains when I was a kid. That ride took forever.”
“Camille, you missed the first part of the commercial. That man might as well have been talking to us. He asked if we were frustrated over being priced out of the New York suburbs. He asked if we wanted better neighborhoods and schools for our children. He said that hundreds of New Yorkers are moving to eastern Pennsylvania and enjoying the finer things in life while commuting to work. And the best thing of all, he said we can have a beautiful, brand-new home for as little as $740 a month.”
Her apprehension melted away quicker than butter on a steaming hot baked potato. They paid more than that for rent now. “Really?”
“I don’t know much about what it’s about, other than what I saw on the commercial. Maybe there’s a catch. But I think that if there’s a chance we can buy a brand-new house for less than we’re paying in rent, I think we owe it to ourselves to find out.”
“So do I, Reuben.” Camille made a face, suddenly aware of her taste buds objecting to the gooey toothpaste that lingered in her mouth. “I’ve got to rinse my mouth.”
She rocked her head jauntily from side to side and made little singsong noises in her throat as she finished brushing her teeth. A house note for just a little over seven hundred dollars? They could definitely afford that. They could take what remained of the fifteen thousand dollars Aunt Mary had left them and live happily ever after....
No, she shouldn’t get so far ahead of herself. They didn’t know a thing about what living in Pennsylvania involved. Regardless of what Reuben said, it was still a long way from New York.
But then again, maybe that bus ride to the Poconos wasn’t as long as she remembered.
After all, she’d been only a kid then, who’d never been out of the city.
And if other people could make it work, why not them?
Chapter 6
The Lees
November 2001
“Now, remember, girls,” Norman cautioned the children, “Mommy and I are just going to look at a few houses. Nothing is definite, so don’t go telling anyone that we’re going to be moving, all right? Not even your grandparents or your cousins.”
The girls nodded and replied affirmatively. “But I hope we do move here, Daddy,” Lorinda said. “I like it. It’s pretty.”
“I think so, too,” Veronica added softly, so that only Norman could hear. He smiled at her and reached for her hand, giving it an affectionate squeeze before returning it to the steering wheel.
They’d seen a commercial last weekend for the Arlington Acres housing development, and it seemed as though the announcer spoke directly to them. They’d both gotten excited at the prospect of affordable housing in what appeared to be a lovely suburban environment. Norman pointed out that nothing really held them to New York, that since they both worked in health care, they should be able to get jobs locally to avoid that long and expensive commute to the city. But Pennsylvania wasn’t so far away that they’d feel too isolated from their family members in Washington Heights.
They found themselves talking of nothing else, and before the weekend ended they decided to take off the next Thursday and Friday from work, take the girls out of school for two days, and spend the weekend checking out the area. Their first stop was the human resources department of the local medical center, where they each filled out applications and attached their resumes.
Then they went to the development they’d seen advertised on television, Arlington Acres. It looked just as it had been described: rows of neat houses, some larger than others, with lush lawns of thick green grass, and swing sets and trampolines visible in some of the backyards. In the center of the development sat a large lake, the water looking almost blue in the sparkling sunlight, even though Veronica knew that close up it would appear brown. This was, after all, the Mid-Atlantic, not Martinique.
Lorinda and Simone leaned against the windows of the backseat eagerly. “Mommy,” Simone said, “if we move here will we have our own yard to play in?”
“Yes, we will. But remember, girls, we’re just looking. We’re not sure if this will work for us yet. I wouldn’t want you to get your hopes up.” Still, Veronica knew how they felt. One glimpse, and she already wanted to live here. This neighborhood came right out of one of those Lifetime Network movies set in Middle America. Amsterdam Avenue seemed a million miles away instead of a mere hundred.
They made their next stop the sales office, which had been set up in the finished garage of a furnished model of one of the larger homes. Prospective buyers sat at each of the three desks. “Let’s look at the model while we wait,” Veronica suggested to Norman.
His whistle as they walked adequately expressed her own feelings. The exquisitely furnished model contained no shortage of upgrades—extra-long kitchen cabinets; a huge sculpted bathtub plus an oversized shower in the master bathroom; high, gracefully curved faucets; two fireplaces. “It’s a cinch this house is more than $125,000,” he whispered.
“But it’s beautiful,” Veronica replied wistfully.
“It’s probably the largest model they’ve got. That makes sense when you’re trying to sell houses, to make everyone want the one that costs the most.” He watched as Lorinda and Simone inspected a large rag doll that sat on one of the beds in the children’s room. “All right. There’s no way we can afford this one, but let’s go see how they react to a black family expressing interest in one of their smaller houses.”
“I don’t think it’ll be a problem. They showed black people in their commercial, remember?”
“Ac
tors, Veronica. We’re about to find out how they really feel. They may well be two different things.”
She shared his apprehension, in spite of the living-side-by-side harmony displayed in their advertising. Even in the twenty-first century (and, she suspected, it would be the same in a thousand years from now), black people were simply not welcome in certain neighborhoods.
Their salesman, a young blond man who introduced himself as Eric Nylund, certainly seemed friendly enough. He shook their hands and offered lollipops to Lorinda and Simone, “if your parents say it’s okay.” Veronica liked his methods. She hated it when personnel in doctors’ offices or at car dealerships offered sweets to her daughters without first getting her permission. Her own mother always turned down the lollipops they used to offer her at the dentist’s office, choosing instead to buy candy at the corner store. When Veronica asked why she did that she said, “Because I don’t trust those lollipops in the dentist’s office. You just had a cavity filled, and I think they get extra sugar put in their candy to guarantee you’ll be back with another.”
She, Norman, and Eric spent a few minutes chatting about the differences between city and suburban living, then moved on to their particular needs. Eric gave them floor plans for homes in their price range. Norman and Veronica studied them, and Eric answered their questions, excusing himself twice to take incoming calls on his cell phone. She guessed from hearing his end of the conversation that the first was a social call from a young lady, whom he quickly brushed off with a promise to call back later. The second call, from a client, sounded much more interesting.
“I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to hold that lot for you much longer,” he said politely. “It’s first come, first serve. We’re running out of lakefront lots, which means someone will want it soon. We tried to work with you while you sorted out your finances, but we just can’t deny it to another buyer on the strength of a maybe from you. I’m sorry.”
If These Walls Could Talk Page 4
