by Alyssa Cole
“Man, I haven’t been to church in forever,” I say, trying to pull her out of wherever her head went in the half hour she was in her apartment, which is as close as I’ll allow myself to being her white knight.
We didn’t go to church much when I was young; we lived in Greenville for a year and my mom dated a deacon at a Baptist church in some attempt at finding religion. Lou used to say Jesus forgives all. He kicked us out when I asked the Sunday school teacher why Jesus would forgive Lou for hitting my mom instead of just making him stop it if he really was so powerful.
“What about you? Are you religious?” I ask when Sydney glances at her phone again.
“I used to be,” she says. “It’s a lot of suspension of disbelief, though, and the idea of someone watching my every move creeps me out, whether it’s Santa or Jesus. I guess I’m agnostic now.”
“Hedging your bets.”
“It’s mostly because my mo—” She stops that sentence like a bird running into a clean glass window. “Because it seems like the devil is real with everything going on in my life, so there has to be a God, too. Divine physics, or something.”
I smile and wipe my fingers on my napkin, then pick up the camera beside me on the leather booth seat, taking a shot through the window of the church across the street with the first three letters of the café’s name, Godfrey’s, in the frame. I flip the screen toward Sydney, and she smiles a bit.
“Clever.” She sips the dregs of her coffee. My cup has been empty for a while, but she’s one of those people who seems to always forget her coffee is there so it’s cold by the time she finishes it. Her index fingernail taps on the white ceramic mug. “Are you still applying for jobs?”
I put my camera down carefully. “Why do you ask?”
She lifts one shoulder. “Because you stay getting in my business, Mr. Twenty Questions, so now I’m gonna get in yours.”
“Divine physics?” I ask.
“Tit for tat,” she replies. “Also, I’m nosy. What is your deal?”
“My deal is—” I catch the waiter’s eye and he comes over to refill my coffee, glancing back and forth between me and Sydney as if wondering what a schmuck like me is doing with her. I take my time adding the heavy cream and sugar to the strong drip brew. “My deal is that I’m currently unemployable.”
She stares as I sip and I hold her gaze, figuring out my next move.
She places both elbows on the table, leans forward, and props her head on her hands. “Unemployable?”
I’m buffeted between the worry that I’ve said too much and the nihilistic urge to say more, like the compulsion to drive off a cliff when there’s no guardrail.
Right now, absolutely no one knows me. My mom never did. Kim doesn’t. My dad tried to but dragged me out of a disorganized fucked-up life with my mom to jam me into his also-fucked-up-but-more-organized situation.
I lean toward Sydney, deciding to at least sit down on the edge of the proverbial cliff and let my legs dangle.
“I . . . am a liar.”
That’s all I give her for now.
Her expression remains the same except for her eyes. Some of the brightness goes out of them, and even though she’s still leaning forward, she may as well have jumped backward across the restaurant.
“Word? How so?”
I clear my throat. “Kim comes from money. I don’t.”
She tilts her head. “Ohhh, so this is a wrong-side-of-the-tracks romance? Bad boy lusting after the rich chick? I’ve seen that Lifetime movie.”
I know from vegging out with my mom that Lifetime movies don’t usually have happy endings, and I wonder if Sydney knows that, too.
“She pursued me,” I correct. “We met at this local dive bar. I was there because it was all I could afford. She was there because she was slumming.”
“Okay,” she says.
“I fell hard, but then I kept thinking about her having all this money and me having none. And I just wanted to impress her. To feel like I was worthy, you know? She went to an Ivy League school. I have a GED.”
I pick up my water glass to take a sip.
“Theo . . .” Sydney smiles warmly at me. “This is not Black mammy confessional. I’m not gonna ‘oh honey’ you and tell you you’re good enough and smart enough. Get to the point.”
My bark of surprised laughter makes the swallow of water go down the wrong tube and I cough-laugh until my eyes water. “Right. Yeah. I doctored my résumé.”
Her brows rise, and I plow ahead.
“Suddenly, I’d graduated from college—a good school, but not so good that I’d stand out. I doctored my work history, too, paid some guys I used to work with to be my references—for much better jobs—if the company bothered to call.”
“Did they?” she asks, and I feel an actual physical pleasure, like taking a huge shit when I’ve been constipated for days, when I shake my head.
“They didn’t call. Didn’t ask for transcripts,” I say.
“And the guy who hired you was . . .” She raises her brows again.
I raise mine back, not knowing what she means.
“White,” she stage-whispers.
“Oh! Yeah. We mostly talked about music during the interview. Some band I’d never heard of, but I just pretended I was blanking on the titles of their songs because I was nervous about the interview. Then we talked sports teams because I saw the pennant hanging in his office and I told him about my guys who can get amazing Yankees tickets.”
“Wow.” She shakes her head and leans back in the booth. “I’ve been working in a shitty school office and you—”
“Are unemployed. Because eventually one of the administrative assistants was putting together some list of alumni for the company, something completely innocuous, and realized there was no record of me at the school.”
I sip more water while she stares at me.
“Is that why your girlfriend was being such a heifer to everybody? Because you lied on your résumé and stopped bringing home the luxury leggings?” she asks. “I can understand that, though I don’t know why she took it out on me.”
I shake my head. “She doesn’t know.”
Her eyes go wide. “She doesn’t know? About the lying? Getting fired? Both?”
“The lying. I haven’t told anyone. Except you.”
Sydney leans back and raises both her hands, the expression on her face meme-worthy. “Nope. Nope. I’m not trying to be your repository of secrets, which is a nicer term for ‘the person you kill because you don’t want your girlfriend to find out you’re a sociopath.’”
“I’m not a sociopath,” I protest, though maybe laughing as I say it doesn’t help my case. “You’ve never lied to get what you need?”
She stares at me for a long time and then shakes her head, picks up her purse, and stands up, glancing quickly at her phone as she slides it into the bag.
“Let’s go. This is a lot. I just wanted some scrambled eggs and got Dashboard Confessional instead.”
“And she’s not my girlfriend anymore,” I add, standing to follow her. “She told me it was over and then went to her family’s place in the Hamptons with the dude she cheated on me with. I think. You’re the only person I’ve told that to, too. Sorry to add to the repository.”
I kind of chuckle even though my throat feels weird and rough. I don’t want to be with Kim anymore and I’m relieved more than anything, but saying it out loud makes it more real than drinking myself into a stupor did.
Sydney squints at me. “She dumped you and she didn’t even know about the lying? What else did you do?”
“Not lie well enough, I guess?” I shrug. “Should’ve aimed a bit higher and not gotten caught.”
“You are a mess,” she says, shaking her head. “Unemployed, cheated on, dumped.”
Soon to be homeless, I mentally add to the list but don’t say aloud. I don’t want her to think it’s a request for help.
She sighs and says, “I meant what I said—I’m not go
nna ‘oh honey’ you. But you get a free breakfast at least for that sob story. And for scaring away the fake Con Ed man.”
She smiles, just one half of her somehow still-glossy mouth lifting up, but she’s looking at me and it doesn’t feel like she’s across the room anymore. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this. Not attraction or desire, or not just those things, but understanding. Camaraderie.
I’m going to have to be more careful. Because there’s the truth and there’s the truth, and Sydney’s smile is enough to make me think about telling her the latter.
“All right, boss,” I say. “Take me to church.”
THE CHURCH HISTORIAN, Kendra Hill, is expecting us—apparently Sydney texted her and asked her if she could make time for us. She’s not that much older than us, maybe midforties, though there’s a touch of gray in the dark brown hair at her temples that makes me uncertain. She brings us into a small office and takes a seat behind a pale green wooden desk, gesturing at the two chairs in front of it.
“This building doesn’t look like a church, really,” I say. “I’ve thought it was a school all this time.”
“Well, a church can be a basement, a storefront, a living room. It’s about the faith contained in a place, not the receptacle. But yes, it was a school. In the time of Weeksville it was one of the African schools, where Black children could get an education. Later, it was the first integrated school in New York. And eventually it became home to our congregation.”
She nods, and then sends a sympathetic look Sydney’s way.
“How’s your mother, Sydney? Is she hanging in there?”
I glance at Sydney, who presses her lips together like she’s swallowing bile but nods.
“That’s good. Yolanda was always so tough. We’re praying for her.” She gives Sydney a comforting look. “She mentioned your tour to me, you know, last time I came to visit her. Was so proud of you getting into history. Now, tell me more about it.”
“I’m not a historian or anything,” Sydney says, her voice more subdued than I’ve ever heard it. “I’m just trying to put together a little something about the neighborhood from the perspective of someone who grew up here and also is learning things that we don’t get taught at school. I’d love to hear any interesting facts you might have about the neighborhood’s past since everything is changing so quickly.”
Kendra gives me a pointed look, and Sydney lays a hand on my shoulder. “Theo is my assistant. He’s working off his reparations debt.”
“How interesting. Were your family slaveowners?” Kendra asks, and my big white feelings threaten to make an appearance, though the question makes sense given Sydney’s intro.
I shift in my seat. “I don’t know. Mom’s side of the family doesn’t talk about that kind of thing, but it’s possible, I guess. A week of being Sydney’s research buddy isn’t a high price to pay, just in case.”
“Seriously. You should be paying me for this education,” Sydney says in that tone where I can’t tell if she’s joking or she actually dislikes me, but she gives my shoulder a squeeze before releasing it, and my abs clench against the sensation it creates.
“Let’s see. You already saw the exhibitions down at the center.” Kendra grins as she leans back in her office chair. “I think, given the nature of your tour, you might want to look into the ebb and flow of the neighborhood demographics. I won’t say it’s cyclical, but more like a tide. Bringing one demographic up to the shore, then pulling back and leaving another in their place, and sometimes mixing them all up.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“There are the Black residents, of course. In the early twentieth century, the neighborhood had lots of working-class Italians. Then we got the first waves of Caribbean immigrants. Latinos. Africans. Everyone lived together peacefully enough in those times of overlap. My grandmother used to tell me about her best friend growing up, a Jewish girl.”
“Where did everyone else go?”
Sydney elbows me, and then Kendra grimaces and reaches into her desk drawer, riffling through papers to pull out a folder. She plops it onto the desk and slides out a map of Brooklyn. It’s colorful, the majority of it red and yellow with some blue along the waterfront.
“This is the map that created the Brooklyn we know now. See all that red? Those are the places that banks decided were bad investments. If you lived in those areas, it was impossible to get a loan or services that most people took for granted. And if you can’t get a loan and your house starts falling down, what are you supposed to do?”
She snorts.
“This is redlining?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “So. Bankers decide amongst themselves to not give any money to help enrich alllllll of this red area, which just so happens to be where Black people live. Things start to go bad. Everyone who can move does, but oop!—what’s this? All the other areas start enacting housing covenants saying ‘Hell no you can’t sell this house to no black people.’ Because our mere presence could turn any other color on this map red.”
She curls her lip.
“Is that why things went downhill?” I ask, since Sydney is being oddly subdued. “I did a little research, mostly looking at photos. Lots of places fell into disrepair in the eighties.”
“Crack,” Kendra says, steepling her fingers. “They couldn’t get us money, but they sure could get us those vials.”
I don’t have to guess who they are in this situation.
“But there have always been nice houses, too,” Sydney counters. “Always.”
“Right. Because we had intracommunity support to make up for what we were denied, and that’s something you might want to cover, too. Black real estate agencies operated, making sure people could find places to live. Before, you weren’t gonna find an ad for a house in this neighborhood anywhere but in Black newspapers like the Amsterdam News. Black lending associations replaced bank loans.”
“But didn’t banks lose money that way?” I ask. I know I’m probably annoying with my questions, but Sydney hasn’t Howdy Doodied me yet.
In all the times I’d moved in New York, I’d only thought about how safe the area was for me, not what my presence meant for people in the neighborhood. Not about what advantages I had that they didn’t. I was poor, too, after all, even though I had figured out how not to be, for a little while at least.
“Racism isn’t generally very cost-efficient,” Kendra says. “But they’re making their money back hand over fist now that gentrification is in full swing. Out with the old—including us.”
I sense Sydney stiffen beside me even though I’m not touching her.
“Is the church getting evicted?” she asks in that small voice that seems so unlike her.
“Eviction is so uncivilized.” Kendra’s lips press together. “The landlord just kept increasing the rent according to the new property value, while not doing standard repairs and upkeep. Had us freezing our asses off in here last winter.” She shakes her head. “We wouldn’t leave, so he sold the place. It’s going to be a school again, from what I’ve heard.”
“But there’s already a school in this neighborhood,” Sydney says. “I mean, I work at the school.”
“You work at the public school. This is going to be an independent school priced just high enough to do the work of segregation for the people who will send their kids there. In the building that was one of the first schools for Black children in America.” Kendra shakes her head. “I doubt it was purposeful, but ain’t that something?”
I just sit there, embarrassed and sure that anything I say will result in me making things worse.
Sydney sighs, then stands. “I’m so sorry that’s happening. Thanks for taking the time to speak with us.”
“Yes! Thank you.” I nod a few times and shove my hands into my pockets.
Kendra hands Sydney the file folder. “We’ll find a way. We always do. I’m excited to come see this tour of yours, though! If you need help with anything else, just call me, okay?”
When we get outside, Sydney stops at the top of the stairs while I keep walking.
“You can go ahead,” she says numbly. She’s looking out at the neighborhood, but not really. Her gaze is unfocused, and the dark circles smudged beneath her eyes seem even deeper.
“Did you forget something? I can wait.” I shouldn’t be worried about her. Especially when I need to figure out where I’m going to be living instead of playing historian.
She shakes her head. “You’re off the clock. See you later.”
“I can—”
Her gaze lifts to meet mine, and when they connect, I see the woman I caught glimpses of through the window over the last few months, the woman who radiated a despair that made my own problems look like nothing, but would slap on a smile when she stepped outside her front door.
“Theo, do you know how many people have told me they’re being forced out of their home, job, church, whatever, in just the last few days alone? Wait, don’t guess. Don’t.” Sydney’s chest rises slowly, then falls. “The shitty part of all this research is that it’s like . . . finding all these instances of people burying land mines in the past, finding them right as they’re blowing up under our feet in the here and now. This isn’t about you. I just need to be alone.”
“I understand. Thanks for breakfast,” I say. I want to add something else, something that will make her feel better, but I can’t even help myself in that department.
I walk off, Kendra Hill’s words echoing in my mind. Sydney’s mom has both a house and the garden plot, so she’s not in a bad position, but the situation overall is sobering. Even if she stays, the people she knows are leaving one by one.
I never lived in one place for too long as a kid. I’ve never had lifelong neighbors and friends. Sydney’s losing all of that, and in return she gets people like Kim, and Josie, and Terry, who either ignore the people who’ve lived here forever or think they’re plotting against them.
I think back to the process of buying our house, which had seemed so arduous and overwhelming at the time. In retrospect, everything had worked out easily. The realtors had been eager for us to move in, and the bank had preapproved a loan that we didn’t even need.