I heard one say, “You can’t see it if it’s got hair all over it.”
The other eyed his companion. Dead serious. “Yeah, sure. That’s what we keep it trim for.”
“Huh. So, you on some health thing now? Eating right. Dressing good. Working out. Look at you.”
“Ha,” said the other guy, “next thing, you’re telling me what hat to wear.”
When we walked toward them, they stopped to look us over. “My man?” said one.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Akinwole said. “We are not from around here. Could you direct us to this place?”
He presented the letter with the return address. The one old guy looked at it, worked his gums, and passed it over to the other, who studied it with greater care.
“I don’t got my reading glasses, so I don’t look so good,” said the first. “Willie here’s still able.”
“Oh yeah,” said Willie after he saw the address, “that’s in one of them hysterical neighbourhoods they’re talking of fixing. They ain’t come down there yet.”
His friend nodded his agreement.
“Sounds bad,” I said. “A hysterical neighbourhood?”
“No, no,” said Willie. He returned the letter to Akinwole. “Used to be nice there, in the day. Old houses. Now, they’s mostly busted or burnt. But, it’s all good and it’s going to get better.”
“Yeah,” the other one added, “they still got nice old ones there for fixing.”
“He means historical,” Akinwole said.
Willie nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I said, all right.”
Akinwole passed him the map. “Can you show us where that is from here, sir?”
Willie nodded. He knew where we needed to be. He didn’t need a map to tell us. He said, “You turn left here past the church and go on down a couple of miles. After a while you’re passing a bunch of A-rab stores with that funny writing on them, and there’ll be a Kia dealer right there at the intersection. You’ll recognize it because Mohamad’s got his picture up there with the Ko-rean cars. Turn right there. And you’re pretty close, I’d say. Got that?”
Akinwole nodded. “I have a good memory for details. Thank you, sir.”
Willie said, “Where you come from? That’s an unfamiliar accent.”
“My name’s Mulumba, Akinwole. I come from Africa, brother. My accent is British,” Akinwole said, “because when I was a boy, I spent some time in the United Kingdom. England, that is. The accent stuck. I suppose.”
“African, huh?” Willie nodded like it all made sense. “Well, that’s a nice car you have, son. A ’68 Firebird. She’s a beauty. I recall working the line when they still made great cars in this town. Those were the glory days.”
“You fellas don’t be driving that around here at night,” the other guy said. “You’re liable to get into some situation.”
Akinwole said, “Thank you for your advice, we will take that into consideration. Rest assured, we are perfectly capable of looking after ourselves.”
Both old men laughed, and Willie said, “This ain’t Africa, son. This place has a habit of being dangerous.”
“Yes, sir,” said his friend, “this here’s Deetroyit. That rhymes with destroy-it. We got burning and looting and shooting. Now, it’s all good and getting better.”
“More than a million folks moved away from here in my lifetime,” said Willie. “We been called the angriest city in America once. Before that, we used to be the proud engine of the nation. Now we’re seized up. Broke and broken. Half the city don’t even get running water. Nobody left over except teenage welfare mothers and old folks. No one works anymore. No one’s angry anymore. We just tired.”
His companion nodded. “We got a front-row seat to the Apocalypse. Take a look around, boys, this is the future.”
Willie rose out of his lawn chair and shook his fist at the sky. “If America knew how we live here, at the centre of the End of Days,” he said, “they’d be shitting their beds in fear at night. Because it’s coming to their town. At the End of Days, the mighty Angel of the Lord, with his face shining like the sun and his legs like pillars of fire, will look upon us and roar like a lion, and the seven thunders will speak. And there will be reckoning.”
Akinwole stepped back, unprepared for this outburst. He looked at me and tipped his head toward the car like he meant to bolt. Instead, Willie grabbed Akinwole by both hands and said, “Brother, you and me, we don’t need to worry. We’re all right. We have no fear of His judgement. We are righteous men. Paul, in his letter to the Corinthians, said, ‘And the work each man does will at last be brought to light; the Day of Judgement will expose it. For that day dawns in fire, and fire will test the worth of each man’s work. And if a man’s building stands, he will be rewarded, and if it burns, he will have to bear the loss.’ And, brother, surely those responsible for all that has fallen on our heads will have to bear this loss themselves in God’s great eternity.”
“Amen,” intoned his friend, “that’s how it’s going to be.”
Willie looked around the street and folded his arms across his chest. We all revelled in the glory of his speech, nodded our heads, and looked in awe at the destruction that lay around us.
“All’s good and getting better,” Akinwole said under his breath.
EIGHTEEN
Shirley Rose and the Dipshit Kid
SHELTERED FROM the glazing sun, we waited on the covered porch for someone to answer the bell. The modest clapboard bungalow was painted white, with red trim around the sturdy door and windows. A wall of blue morning glories poured over a trellis. Two Adirondack chairs overlooked a thick patch of well-tended grass in front of the house. Next door had been firebombed sometime earlier. Ashes and sooty timber spilled through a charred hole from an explosion where the front door and a bay window used to be. The dandelions were littered with mangled metal chairs and a brown-stained mattress. The grimy scent of smoke still clung to the afternoon breeze. The next four houses were boarded up. On the street, a dented Cadillac sat on concrete blocks, all four wheels gone. No people anywhere.
After a few moments, the inside door cracked open, and a boy of about eight peered out behind the screen door. He wore a clean white T-shirt and camo shorts. The Dipshit Kid. Like his picture: expressionless. He didn’t say a word. He looked like he wasn’t all there. I leaned down and smiled.
“Is your mother home? We’re friends with Mr. Hornsmith from Toronto. We’re here to say hello.”
“Theo? Who’s at the door, honey?” a woman called from somewhere in the house.
“Dunno,” he hollered over his shoulder. He rubbed his nose with a finger while he looked us over. He wasn’t about to let us pass.
Akinwole looked at me. Confused.
“Who’s Mr. Hornsmith?” he said.
But there was no time to fill him in before she came to the door with a dishcloth in her long, elegant hands. She stood tall. Thin. Since the picture, she’d cut her hair short. The simplicity of it made her beauty breathtaking.
“Shirley Rose Holbert?” I said.
“Yes?” She stood between the kid and us.
“My name is Paul Wint,” I said, “and this is my friend Akinwole Mulumba. I’m a friend of Mr. Hornsmith. May we come in?”
She must have concluded we were harmless, because she put her hand on the kid’s head to gently push him out of the doorway.
“Go play in your room,” she said.
A threadbare rug lay over the scarred oak floor of the darkened living room. Outside it was hot. Inside the world felt cool and orderly. She sat in an armchair across from the sofa where we balanced glasses of iced lemonade on our knees.
“Tell me about your trip,” she said. “We don’t see a lot of visitors passing through. I mean, who comes to Detroit, right?” Her smile seemed weak, apologetic.
“We couldn’t call ahead,” I said, unsure how to get into it. “We didn’t have your number. Just an address. Besides, it’s spontaneous.”
�
�Everything about Albert’s always been like that. Last minute.” Her gentle laugh betrayed her affection. “He’s been on my mind lately, like absent friends get. I was sure I saw him on the street last week. Tell me why you’ve come. How is he?”
An old electric fan whirled on the buffet. Akinwole rattled his ice cubes. Our eyes met. He didn’t have a handle on why we’d come, either. There was no good way to say this.
“I’m sorry to say, he’s had an accident,” I said. “At home. He fell down the stairs.”
“Oh,” she said and reached for a small wooden box on the coffee table. “He always had a clumsy side.”
She took the seashell-studded lid off and rummaged a finger about to extract a silver ring with a milky opal, which she started to polish on her dress.
“Will he be all right?”
“The fall broke his back,” I said. “A private funeral was held last week. Attended only by his family.”
She rolled the ring around in her hands, her lips pursed. She closed her eyes, her long lashes like so many delicate antennae. Akinwole let out a sigh and sat back on the couch beside me.
“If it matters,” I said, “he was already sick with advanced bowel cancer. He passed quickly without suffering.”
I guess I could’ve told her about the dope and about not feeling any pain on his way out. But, still unsure of my own complicity, I kept my role out of the story.
She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye with the back of her hand. She licked her lips like she wanted a drink.
“Albert and I hadn’t spoken in almost a year. How long was he sick?”
“No one knew. He kept it to himself. It was very sudden,” I said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“He was a strange and wonderful man,” she said. “I’m going to miss him.”
“How did you meet?” I said. It sounded inane and was only meant to keep the silence at bay.
“I’m a nurse. He walked into emerg one night after a car accident, he said. He’d broken two ribs. That much was for sure. The next night, I saw him in a bar. When he recognized me, he bought me a drink.”
She stared at the floor. Tears welled up again.
Akinwole presented a clean handkerchief from his pocket. She blew her nose.
“For years, I hoped we’d find a way that worked for both of us,” she said, “until I resigned myself to the fact that it never would.”
“It looks like you made it work,” I said.
“No, we didn’t. I knew he was married.” She strangled Akinwole’s handkerchief in her lap. “For the longest time I told myself he’d come to me. That we had something no one else had. It turned out different. His way wasn’t good for me. He was who he was. I wanted what I wanted. I finally gave up.”
Akinwole leaned forward and took her hands in his.
“Everyone has limitations, Shirley Rose. We should love each other despite them. If we truly love someone, we love without expectations. Without hope.”
“Without hope.” She closed her eyes and shook her head a little. After a while, she said, “There were a thousand ways we could’ve said or done it better. I wasn’t asking for much. I loved him till it ached. And in my way, I never let him go. I could’ve tried a little harder. Instead, I kept my emotions in check.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said. “It wasn’t all bad for me. I loved him. Albert had a special soul. I don’t regret any of it.”
I produced a folded envelope from my jeans pocket and straightened it out on the coffee table.
“He wanted you to have this,” I said.
She tore it open and examined the money order drawn up in her name.
“No, that’s not true,” she said through her tears, “but I’m grateful, regardless of how you managed this.”
Shirley Rose asked us to stay for supper. She had a small garage behind her house where we could lock up the Firebird. I guessed she needed us to help her mourn. For now, Hornsmith hovered around us. Between us. Unseen. Unheard. He’d never come back to her. We could postpone that inevitability for the night, at least.
Ben and Barry barked while I stashed the car. They demanded answers. Why wasn’t the car farther down the road?
“I’m lost,” I said. “I’m tired. I got up early. I need sleep before taking on the next part of the drive.”
“Listen, fuck nuts, don’t make us send someone to sort you out,” they said.
“It’s Detroit,” I said. “Not a town to drive around in after sundown with a car like this.”
“We better see you on the move bright and early,” they said, “or there’s a shitstorm coming your way.”
Whack jobs. I’d heard enough threats for one day. Still, I didn’t push back hard with them. After vowing to be on my way by dawn, I locked the garage and put the matter out of my mind.
Later, we sat at Shirley Rose’s kitchen table while Theo played in his room. She produced a bottle of red wine, which we approached with relief. Then, with her permission, we smoked a joint from the pot stashed in my shaving kit. Louis Armstrong sang “Stormy Weather” in the next room.
Relaxed, Akinwole rolled his head from side to side.
“I have smoked no ganja since I was a boy,” he said. “It used to grow wild in the fields near our house.” He rose from the table and opened the refrigerator to take stock. “Eggs. Onions. Ketchup. Any mushrooms?”
Shirley Rose pointed and said, “There’re dried ones next to the Arborio rice in the cupboard above the stove.”
“Arborio? I make a good risotto,” Akinwole said. “I am in the mood to cook for you.”
“Knock yourself out,” she said.
We drank some more wine while Akinwole marshalled ingredients from various cupboards. Louis sang the blues.
“No real Parmesan cheese,” Akinwole reported from inside the fridge. “Only these dried flakes. I make no promises.”
Shirley Rose watched him move about her kitchen. Tears streaked down her cheeks again.
“He used to come around unannounced,” she said to me, “and we’d sit here sometimes till dawn talking about who knows what. Politics. Poetry. God. Time stood still around us. In the mornings, if he was still here, I’d call in sick and we’d sleep all day. We used to call it an upside-down day. Then, he’d be gone. I’d feel so empty and so alone after. For weeks, sometimes. I’d yearn for him to come back. Funny. I didn’t want him living with me. I didn’t want to cook for him or wash his underwear. Still, I needed him to be here. Which he mostly wasn’t. To his credit, he made sure I wanted for nothing. Albert was attentive in his absence. Except for the one thing I so wanted.”
“Are you lactose intolerant?” Akinwole held Shirley Rose in his big brown eyes while he scooped spoons of butter into his risotto.
“No.” She laughed in spite of herself. “Besides, it’s a bit late for that. That’s enough butter for a full-on heart attack.”
Akinwole waved his wooden stir spoon in our direction.
“Yes,” he said in a Julia Child falsetto, “it’s all about the butter.”
Shirley Rose wiped a tear away and laughed. Her eyes flashed like crushed diamonds in the sun.
“Wait and see, sister,” Akinwole said, “this is food for your soul.”
He stirred the pot. He bobbed his head and hummed along to the jazz that floated through the house.
Theo appeared in the kitchen.
“I’m hungry. When’s dinner?”
“Young man,” Akinwole said, “you are about to have the best risotto of your life.”
Theo shook his head. “I don’t like that.”
Akinwole said, “I bet you have no idea what risotto is.”
“I don’t care,” said Theo.
Akinwole handed the kid the wooden spoon and drew him in. “Some of the finest Italian food in the world is cooked in Africa.”
“It is?” Theo said.
Akinwole took the kid’s hand and made him stir.
“
Sure. Africa is filled with homesick Italians who spend their lives perfecting the foods of their childhood. Like risotto.”
The kid stirred a while and glanced up at Akinwole from time to time before he said, “You’re full of shit, mister.”
Shirley Rose jolted out of her grief.
“Theo,” she said, “that’s no way to talk. Apologize to Mr. Mulumba.”
Akinwole chuckled. “That is all right,” he said. “The boy has good instincts.” He tousled the kid’s hair. “I am serious, Theo. Africa is full of homesick gangsters who spend a lot of time and money getting their food right.”
Theo was interested now.
“You mean like The Godfather?”
Akinwole nodded. “Yes. Except for real.”
“And that’s where you learned to make this?” Theo nodded at the simmering pot.
“My first girlfriend. Her father was the Godfather in Africa. Not New York. We lived in Nairobi. Where is that, Theo? Nairobi?”
“In Africa?”
“Africa is a big place with many countries. After dinner we can find a map and I will show you where I come from.” Akinwole grinned at the kid.
“You said you were from Kinshasa,” I said. With two wives and a pack of kids. I stayed mute on that part because Akinwole was spreading peace.
“Yes, I lived there.” He looked at Shirley Rose. “I was born in Nigeria. Grew up in Kenya. Raised in England by a British family. Moved to the Congo to seek my fortune. Shall I go on?”
If Shirley Rose was listening, she hid it well. She stared into her glass, adrift, while Akinwole chopped, stirred, and chatted. I guessed Hornsmith remained under her skin. Louis blasted his horn into the night.
We ate a simple supper: mushroom risotto and a tossed green salad. Not much was said, a true compliment to the chef. Akinwole had created magic from the meagre ingredients he could muster. The kid seemed to like the meaty mushrooms steeped in pepper and butter. At least, he didn’t complain. Afterward, Shirley Rose invited us back into the living room for coffee and black sambuca.
She said, “I rarely drink it myself.” She took a bottle from the cabinet where the fan still whirled. “But I always keep it on hand because he liked it. Funny, he’d usually complain of a headache the next day.”
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