by Alyssa Cole
There’s nothing I can do about it but wait. I can’t afford another medical bill, and even if I could, they’d likely just tell me I need to reduce my stress, which isn’t exactly an option at this point.
Maybe it is a heart attack this time, though, because I’m sweating and shaking and the pain in my chest is intensifying. Hell, I wouldn’t be mad if this is the big one. Then I could get some rest and someone else could deal with the mess I’m in.
I lie on the floor for a long time, breathing and daring my punk-ass body to put up or shut up, then wondering what my mother would say if she saw me like this. I know what Marcus would say. “You want to make a scene and act crazy? Fine. I’ll treat you that way.”
That memory beats at my chest, but I call Mommy’s number and listen to her voicemail, and the panic attack recedes.
I get up shakily and make my way to the shower, where I squeeze an almost comical amount of exfoliating body scrub onto my washcloth, running it over my body until I feel like maybe I’ve scoured off a layer. After a face scrub and rinse, I head into my bedroom and work a thick body butter into my skin, taking my time, allowing myself to zone out during this familiar daily ritual.
I’m staring at the wall, mind blank and gaze unfocused, when a tiny black spot begins to scurry.
Any calm my little self-care routine has won back is lost immediately. I charge toward the crawling speck, scooping up the water glass on my bedside table and slamming it onto the wall.
It better not be another goddamn bedbug.
My skin starts to itch like the moisture’s been sucked out of it, but as I peer through the thin glass bottom of the cup I realize it’s just a baby roach. Not ideal, but picking up a can of Raid is easier than steaming all my belongings.
I’m about to move the glass when a remnant of my nightmare comes back to me . . . was it about something scratching in the walls? I slowly lower my ear to the glass like I used to do when I was a kid because I’d seen it in a movie. I can hear my own heartbeat, my own inhale . . . and—
The doorbell suddenly chimes and I jump, dropping the glass. It somehow doesn’t shatter after bouncing four times in slo-mo and then rolling under the bed.
I slap my hand at the wall as something scurries in my peripheral vision, but the roach apparently has way better luck than me and skitters off to freedom. We never had roaches when Mommy was here, but back then Miss Wanda still lived next door. She didn’t have a dirty kid, and she bleached down her countertops every night, despite the lies Josie told her friends. I hurriedly pull on my underwear, a shirt, and shorts and race to the door, heart hammering in my chest.
When I get to the front door, there’s a tall white man in a blue shirt standing outside of it. He’s wearing a blue hat pulled low on his brow and is so close to the door, right up against it, that I can’t see the street behind him. He’s bulky enough to do that.
“Is Yolanda Green here?” he asks, his gaze skirting over my shoulder and down the hall.
My words get all jumbled in my throat and I clear it, and school my expression to one of polite annoyance.
“I’m her daughter. Can I help you?”
“I’m here to read the meter,” he says through the glass. “Can you let me in?”
The electrical meters are in the hall closet, meaning I’ll have to let him inside the house to check them. The hairs on my neck rise in warning and I don’t ignore my gut, even if it is still running on Ambien fumes.
I reach into my pocket for my phone and realize it’s still on the floor next to my bed.
“Miss? I need to check the meter.” His voice is kind of amused, like he’s daring me to be dumb enough to believe him or paranoid enough not to. He takes a step closer to the door so his chest is pressed almost against it. The name patch on his uniform sends a chill through me: DREW.
He taps the glass as if I’m not staring right at him. “We’ve been billing you on estimates for months now. If you don’t let me in—”
“Sydney?”
The “Con Ed” guy looks back over his shoulder and steps out of the way to reveal Theo waiting at the bottom of the stairs. His hair is wet and his expression is . . . off.
“Thought we were supposed to meet at eight thirty,” he says, which I have no recollection of agreeing to. I’m wondering if he even sees the weird man looming in my doorway, then his gaze shifts with intentionality behind it. “Oh, hey man. What’s up?”
He does another one of those white-guy moves, placing a hand to his brow and scrunching up his face as he gives the meter man a lingering look that makes him aware that he’s been clocked.
“I can come back if you’ve got an appointment, miss,” the guy says. Then he’s gone, hustling down the stairs, hopping into the passenger side of a white van that pulls off.
I open the door enough to lean out and watch as the van drives out of sight. “That wasn’t a Con Ed van.”
“Maybe the clown-van clan is back in business.” Theo leans back from his hips, then takes a few steps back. “No license plate, front or back. Should we call the police?”
I shoot him a look. “Yeah, so another scary white man can show up at my door, but one who can definitely kill me with no worries instead of probably kill me with no worries.”
“Shit, Sydney.” He exhales. I wait for him to push back, but he says, “I get that. Just . . . that’s a pretty common con. Pretending to be from a utility service. So many cons are just banking on the fact that people will trust you because of the social contract.”
I take a step back into the doorway, ready to close the door on the world and this conversation. “Thanks for running him off,” I say.
“Have you spoken to Mr. Perkins this morning?” He scrubs his hands over his beard, and it’s in that moment that I realize he’s hungover. His eyes are red and he’s looking the worst I’ve ever seen him; beard unkempt and a waxy sheen to his skin. “I got kind of drunk last night, but I swore . . . I can’t remember everything, but I think I saw something in his window.”
My stomach clenches.
“Something like what?”
“Like maybe something happening to him?” There’s worry in his eyes. “I think I was trying to get up to see if he was okay but I passed out. I just remember that Count howled, and maybe I saw a shadow in his window. I wasn’t trying to get wasted, but Kim left me and I drank some of her expensive wine out of spite and . . .” He shrugs. “No one answered when I knocked on the door this morning.”
“Of course not,” I say. “He’s usually out doing his morning tour of the neighborhood, he wouldn’t be home.”
Theo shakes his head. “I’ve been keeping an eye out between puking sessions. He didn’t take Count for a walk this morning that I saw.”
I curse and slip my feet into the flip-flops by the doorway, feeling the vein in my temple start to throb. “You said you were drunk, right? Was that all you were doing? Drinking?”
“I ate some shrimp scampi, too,” he says, and I’m expecting that to be sarcasm, but when I turn to look at him, his forehead is wrinkled and he seems to be trying to remember where things took a wrong turn in his evening. “I’m never drinking Riesling again.”
I head down the stairs, passing him and going through Mr. Perkins’s gate—he’s more likely to be hanging out in City Hall watching Good Day New York than up in the apartment. I knock on the window, wait a beat, and then knock again. After three more attempts, I head up the stairs, ringing the buzzer for the first floor, pressing more insistently as my worry starts to pummel me.
Scary Uber driver. Preston in jail. Fake Con Ed guy the morning after Theo saw something in the window.
I think about Mr. Perkins jerking in his sleep the other evening.
I think about how he’s been around for my whole life, and how everything I care about is getting torn away.
I suck in a breath. He has to be okay.
Melissa, the college student whose parents paid a year’s rent up front, according to Mr. Perkins,
comes down. She has on shorts and a too-large tee, and her short dark hair is artfully disheveled. Her bike helmet is in her hand.
She looks back and forth between me and Theo in surprise, as if she didn’t expect us to be standing there.
“Sydney, right?” She looks over my shoulder to Theo, a sudden playfulness in her gaze, then she looks back to me. “What’s up?”
“Hi. We were looking for Mr. Perkins. Have you talked to him today? Kind of worried about him because I didn’t see him take Count for his walk.”
“Oh, he didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?” I ask, not even trying to blunt my annoyance. I hate when people ask a question instead of just giving the damn information off the bat.
“His daughter took him to the hospital. She came by last night.”
“Wait, his daughter? She lives in DC. Why would she be up here in the middle of the night?”
Melissa’s eyes go wide. “The woman said she was his daughter. Do you think she lied?”
“Did you hear anything strange last night?” I ask. “After his daughter came?”
“No, but I was at work after that.” She shrugs, her doe-eyed fear fading. “There was a show at the bar and we all hung out after. I got back super late. Or super early, rather.” She glances at Theo. “You saw me come in, right? You were watching from your window.”
Theo nods jerkily and she smirks. “You look like you had a rough night, too. What were you up to?”
“I think we can call the hospital and see what they have to say,” Theo says, his gaze returning to me.
“Okay,” she says. She pulls the door shut behind her and jogs down the stairs. “Keep me in the loop. You know where to find me,” she says to Theo with a wink as she passes him.
She pops AirPods in her ears as she unlocks her bike. I’m staring, my brain trying to catch up with what’s going on.
“Where’s Count?” I call out as she kicks off, but she doesn’t hear me.
“Count!” Theo calls out while leaning over the banister, but there’s no bark or even whine in response. He looks over at me. “If Mr. Perkins is at the hospital, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t just let a dog hang out in the waiting room. If Count is in there, he could starve. Die of thirst.”
I care about Count, too, and I know white people love them some dogs, but Theo’s talking probable cause, not liberating paws. A reason to break and enter. A way for us to not have to rely on the word of some girl who may or may not have been up until the crack of dawn doing coke.
I look around. A breeze blows through the leaves of the trees lining the street, but there isn’t anyone else on this end of the block. Theo follows me as I walk slowly into the plant-enclosed area that leads into the garden apartment.
“Don’t tell anyone, but his door is always unlocked,” I say as I turn the knob and push. “Okay, not always.”
“I can pick the lock,” Theo says casually. “Wait. No, I can’t. That wasn’t here on Monday.”
I’m trying not to freak out, but when I follow his gaze I notice one of the doorbell camera systems has been installed. Since when? Mr. Perkins is into gadgets, but not enough to install a camera, and especially not now when the neighborhood is supposedly the safest it’s been in years.
“The fuck? Okay. Okay.” I walk over to the window and peer into it—was that movement back there? Or just Theo’s reflection coming up behind me? The heat of him radiates along the left side of my body as he moves in closer to peer inside, too.
“I really thought I saw something,” he says quietly. “I hope it was a dream.”
His words remind me that I’d dreamed of demons in the walls, trying to scratch through to me. Had the demons howled as well? Had it been a dream at all?
“Sydney!”
I turn to find Ms. Candace watching us from the sidewalk. She pushes her sunglasses up onto her cap of gray curls.
“You two look like criminals casing a joint. Trying to get your picture put up on OurHood? ‘The Ebony and Ivory cat burglars.’ You just need matching striped shirts.”
She cackles at her bad joke.
“Have you seen Mr. Perkins?” I walk over to her. “His tenant said something about him being taken to the hospital? We’re worried.”
She looks between me and Theo and I can just imagine a little caption that says NEW GOSSIP ACQUIRED popping up over our heads. The Day Club Crew are gonna have a field day. Then her gaze settles on me and I see the connection form in her head. Her smile fades.
“Don’t worry yourself. He’s fine,” she says in that slightly raspy voice of hers. “He texted me saying one of the grandbabies had to get their appendix removed, so he went down to help Debbie and Ron with the kids. Maybe that girl misunderstood?”
“Maybe,” I say, then look back through the window; City Hall is empty and quiet. I guess it was just a reflection.
“You know she drunk half the time, and high the other half, but her parents paid her rent and she hasn’t burned the place down, so it is what it is.” She sighs. “John will be back before the block party this Sunday. How’s the tour research coming?”
She perks up at the last sentence, her gaze sharpening on us and a suggestive smile tightening her mouth.
“We’re figuring it out,” I say.
“Good. Me and the Day Club Crew are looking forward to it.”
“Day Club Crew?” Theo repeats.
“Ms. Candace takes care of some older people from the neighborhood in her house during the day,” I say, trying to keep any emotion out of my voice. “None of them like the term ‘elder care.’”
“Of course we don’t,’” she says. “We aren’t elderly. We’re finely aged, like that good top-shelf rum.”
She laughs.
“They might have some helpful stuff for the tour,” Theo says. “Do we have time to talk to them?”
I want to whirl on him, ask him if he remembers he’s my reparations assistant, not the boss of things, but he’s right. I cross my arms over my chest instead, nod, wishing I could get off this emotional Slip ’N Slide that has me crying, then pissed, then paranoid.
“Yeah, come on by. We’re always happy to see you, you know that.” Her gaze lingers on me, a little soft and sad. “But whenever you come, you two have to be out before General Hospital starts or Paulette will not be pleased.”
I throw my hands up. “I know better than to come between Paulette and Sonny Corinthos.”
“See you later,” she says, leaving me and Theo alone.
“Sorry to make you worry.” He stares at Mr. Perkins’s window. “It’s weird how a dream can feel so real. I swore—” He shakes his head. “I’ll meet you back here in half an hour? We can get breakfast before heading to the church.”
“Okay. There’s a good Caribbean diner across the street.”
I head back to my apartment, wondering what it means that Theo and I are just gonna spend the whole damn day together again in the name of research, and then check my texts. Drea’s listened to the audio of my panicked freak-out, according to the little check marks that show the message was received, and hasn’t bothered to respond. She’s online now, and I stop in the hallway, type, and hit send before I can think better of it.
Btw, I died of a heart attack waiting for you to respond, avenge me. xoxo
The message is sent. Marked as read.
No response.
Sorry for being a smartass, I type out. But stop leaving me on read and respond so I know you’re okay, *okay*?
Drea is typing . . . pops up in the display at the top of our conversation and relief floods me.
She’s okay.
She doesn’t hate me.
When I leave to go meet Theo, she still hasn’t hit send.
Gifford Place OurHood post by Josie Ulnar:
This is an accountability post. I want to apologize to everyone for the racket Toby made last night. Terriers are rat catchers at heart and, well, I don’t know where it came from, but a rat got into our
house in the middle of the night. Toby was barking bloody murder as he chased it down, and I’m sure he woke some of you up. Sorry about that!
Btw, if anyone wants, I have a couple of vouchers for the maid service I use. They do an excellent job and really deep clean your kitchen to prevent infestation of vermin.
(2 additional comments . . . see more)
Chapter 11
Theo
I’M EATING SOMETHING CALLED ACKEE AND SALTFISH, A KIND of buttery fruit cooked with salted fish and spices. It’s heavier than my normal breakfast, but really good.
Sydney is working on a basic plate of scrambled eggs, roasted potatoes, and rye toast. Maybe it’s because her braids are pulled up into a bun atop her head now and I can see her face better, but she looks more tired than when I left her this morning.
Her skin is sallow beneath the brown, and the bags under her eyes would have to be checked on most airlines. There’s a red mark on the brown skin of her forearm that she absentmindedly scratches every few moments. She also keeps checking her phone, trying to be subtle but with a desperation that makes it clear she’s waiting to hear from someone.
I keep thinking about that white van. It had been in my peripheral vision while I watched for movement at Mr. Perkins’s, dread growing as the markers for his usual schedule came and went. The van had been parked for so long that I hadn’t thought anyone was inside, and when the door suddenly swung open, it made me jump. Something about the way he scanned up and down the street—too casually, like a dog that happens to stretch lazily before trying to snag your food—had caught my attention.
If there’s one thing I know well, it’s how people act when they’re up to something shady.
And then he’d headed straight for Sydney.
I want to ask her if she’s tangled up in something that would bring a guy like that to her door, but I’m pretty sure she’d say it’s none of my business. And she’d be right.
The other thing I know, apart from criminal shit, is that trying to save women from things that they didn’t ask me to is a recipe for disaster. We’re just two neighbors having breakfast and working on a project, and the project isn’t “Saving Sydney.”