Matt and Tariq run toward the parking lot, their shoes gripping the asphalt. Matt sprints ahead between the cars, high on adrenaline. He weaves in and out of the packed parking lot toward the wood line. He slips into the forest edge behind some briars. He turns to look for Tariq. He’s gone. Police officers still track the runners. Matt sees an old pickup truck hop the curb, trying to make a getaway. A police car speeds behind, with its siren blaring and lights flashing. Matt continues through the woods, along the roadside, hiking toward the first limo in the queue. He sees a tall man with dark hair standing in front of a Lincoln Town Car. Matt walks from the woods to the front passenger door.
“Let’s get going,” Matt says, as he opens the door and slips inside.
The driver sits down behind the wheel. “What’s goin’ on here, kid?”
“I paid your company to take me anywhere I wanted to go today.”
“There was a riot at the school, kids runnin’ all over the place, cops. I don’t wanna be involved in this.”
“Then why are you still parked here?”
“Because I was paid a pile of money to sit here and pick up anyone who wanted a ride.”
Matt shakes his head. “Am I not anyone?”
“If the cops pull me over, I don’t know anything.”
“Fine. Can we please get out of here?”
“Where to?”
“Philly.”
[ 20 ]
Green Street
Matt scans the endless sea of forgetful redbrick row homes from the front seat of the town car.
“I think it’s on Green Street, Chuck,” Matt says.
“Do you have the house number?” Chuck asks.
“No.”
“Well then, I don’t know how you’re gonna tell which one it is.”
“It’s the only one with a tree. It’s a sickly eastern redbud, about the size of a man. It’s the only thing green on Green Street.”
“Like that one.” Chuck points to the opposite side of the street.
“That’s it. I thought it was on this side.”
Chuck double-parks the black Lincoln in front of the row home. Matt opens the passenger door and steps from the vehicle. He turns around, his hand on the door.
“I’m not gonna find a space,” Chuck says. “I’ll just drive around the block, until you’re done. How long do you think you’ll be?”
“Not more than thirty minutes.”
Matt stands on the stoop of the brownish-redbrick row home. Black burglar bars protect the windows and the door. Matt reaches his hand between the vertical bars and knocks. A curvy black woman opens, the barred door still shut. She smiles wide, a single gold tooth glistening among the ivory.
“George’s little brother, right?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You wanna get yer lil’ cherry popped?” She laughs. “I gots some young white girls that I bet you be feenin’ fo.”
“I need to talk to Jimbo for a minute.”
“Now, if you wanna work, you gotta go through George. Jimbo ain’t gonna have nuttin’ to do wich you. You best go on home now.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with that. It’s family stuff. Jimbo might be able to help me.”
“You think Jimbo just help anyone, like he some kinda charity? Ain’t nuttin’ goin’ on but the rent, sugar.”
Matt removes an envelope from his pocket and hands it to her. She opens the envelope and smiles at the contents. She grabs a hundred-dollar bill and shoves it inside her bra.
“Well, come on then, sugar,” she says, as she opens the barred door and steps aside.
Inside, the TV blares in the living room. Jimbo sits on the plastic-enclosed sectional, his hands propped up on his gut, mesmerized by the bickering guests on a talk show. The woman hands him the envelope. He ignores her, transfixed on the screen, where one woman pulls another by the hair. He laughs, his belly jiggling like a bowlful of jelly. The black woman smacks him across the face with the envelope.
“I know you see me standin’ here,” she says, with one hand on her hip. “I don’t know why you be watchin’ this trash anyway.”
Jimbo looks at the envelope in her hand, then looks at Matt, standing behind her.
“Tell him to go through George,” he says.
“It ain’t about that.” She hands him the envelope. Jimbo looks at the contents. “He said it’s a family matter. He thinks you can help.”
Jimbo looks up at Matt. “Have a seat, youngin.”
Matt sits down on the sectional.
“Just so we’re clear—I keep this money, whether I help you or not. Got it?” Jimbo says.
“I understand,” Matt says.
“Is this about George?”
“No, it’s about my parents. They used to live here. I lived with them until I was five. I remember seeing the eagle tattoo you have on your calf. I think you might have known my parents.”
“George not your brother?”
“We’re foster brothers.”
Jimbo nods his head, stroking his beard. “A lotta guys in Philly got eagle tattoos.”
“I know, but it’s just you remind me of someone. I can’t place it exactly, but I’ve seen you before.”
Jimbo frowns. “So how long ago was this?”
“Twelve years.”
“Well, twelve years ago, I was livin’ in this here spot. Not a lotta white folks around. What did your parents do?”
“My dad was a civil rights attorney.”
Jimbo chuckles, his massive belly moving up and down. “Not too many white attorneys in this neighborhood. I woulda certainly remembered that.”
“He may not have been an attorney. That’s just what I was told. Did you know anyone with the last name Moyer? My uncle’s name was Jack, and my mom’s, Ellen.”
Jimbo shakes his head. “I definitely don’t know any Moyers.”
“My dad’s last name was Byrd, with a Y.”
“Shit, kid, I don’t get a lotta last names in my line a work.”
“I keep remembering this gaunt young blond woman. In my memory she’s pretty, but sad and sickly. I remember her saying something like, ‘He never wants to see me again.’ And then there’s this big man with a green Eagles jacket. And this man sits next to her, like he’s comforting her. Do you remember anything like that?”
“Listen, kid, the only white women I come into contact with are junkies. Do you know anything about what happened to your parents?”
“They died in a car accident.” Matt frowns. “Well, at least that’s what I was told.”
“I don’t wanna be disrespectful, but do you think it’s possible your mom was a junkie?”
“I guess anything’s possible. I don’t even know if Ellen was her real name. I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
“Hmmph.” Jimbo strokes his beard.
“What is it?”
“I do remember an Elle, but not an Ellen. I’m tryin’ to think of the timeframe. It was probably late eighties, I think.”
Matt sits up and scoots to the edge of the couch. “What did she look like?”
“Skinny white girl, blonde, … pretty, I think.”
“Did she have a child?”
Jimbo nods. “A skinny little kid, always dirty from that nasty apartment.”
“Was it a boy or a girl?”
“Hmmmm … you know, I’m not sure. I remember the kid had long hair.”
“What about a husband or a boyfriend named Mike or Michael?”
“I don’t remember anyone specific, but I do remember her havin’ trouble with someone. Junkies act like I’m their bartender. I hear all sorts a sob stories. But I couldn’t tell you about what. Then she was gone. I think she was arrested or she might’ve died.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, but it’s a good bet. You gotta understand, junkies up and disappear all the time. Sometimes they go to jail, sometimes they OD.”
“What about the apartment? Do you remember whe
re that is?”
“It was a row house. I know roughly where it is, but I doubt I could show you the exact one.”
“Could you take me there?”
“You gotta car? I’m not about to lose my parkin’ space.”
+++
Jimbo groans as he sits in the back of the Lincoln.
“Go down five blocks and take a right,” Jimbo says.
Chuck drives them into another section of row homes, much like Jimbo’s neighborhood, but with the occasional boarded-up home to go along with the general blight of satellite dishes, concrete front yards, clashing brick colors, and mold growing on the north-facing homes.
“It’s in this area here.”
“Do you know which one?” Matt asks.
Jimbo shakes his head.
“Can you let me out here and give Jimbo a ride back?” Matt asks.
“Sure,” Chuck says. “How much time do you need?”
“An hour or so.”
“I’ll pick you up then. I might have to circle the block again.”
Matt watches the town car drive away. The row homes cast perpetual shade on the front sidewalk. Matt searches systematically from left to right. The first several homes yield nothing but doors slammed in his face or no answer. An older black woman steps out onto the sidewalk with a tied-up trash bag. She opens the lid on her metal can and dumps the bag inside, replacing the lid with a clang.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” Matt says.
The woman continues toward her front door. Matt moves closer.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
The woman turns and squints.
“Can I ask you a question about someone who used to live here?”
“Whatever you sellin’ child, I ain’t buyin’,” she says.
“I just wanted to know if you knew a young white woman who lived here named Elle, about twelve years ago.”
“Elle … Oh, yes, I remember. So sad what happened. She lived in that boarded-up house.” The old woman points to the house, five units down.
“Do you know what happened to her?”
“It was so sad. She died right in that house. Someone choked her, and her little boy was in there too.”
Matt leans against the railing of the stoop, the color drained from his face.
“You okay, child?”
Matt nods and pulls himself upright. “Did they catch the guy?”
She shakes her head. “Nope, and nobody lived in there since. Even the downstairs neighbors moved out. That place been boarded up this whole time. You oughta talk to the lady who lives over there, Mrs. Whitney. She knew her. I think her son used to date Elle.” The old woman points to a house three doors down from her. “See that house there with the red door?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
Matt staggers toward the red door, each step an act of defiance against anxiety. He takes a deep breath and knocks. A cacophony of barking erupts. A diminutive, wrinkled shrew of a white woman answers the door, amid continuous barking. Her wig is curly and black and slightly off center. She wears a light blue frock of a nightgown at 1:30 in the afternoon. She talks through the screen door.
“What the hell you want?” she says.
“I wanted to ask you about Elle.”
“I don’t know nothin’. I never did like that little bitch.” She slams the door.
Matt knocks again. The dogs bark with renewed vigor.
“Go away,” she says.
“I think Elle’s my mother.”
“Shut up, stupid dogs.” She opens the door and speaks through the storm door. “How old are you?”
“Almost seventeen.”
She places the glasses hanging around her neck on the bridge of her nose.
“You might could pass for her son. But I ain’t talkin’ anymore unless you got a warrant.”
Matt exhales. “I’m not the police. I can’t get a warrant. I think what you mean is proof or evidence that I am who I say I am.”
“Yeah, that.”
“Did you know Jack Moyer? He was my uncle. He raised me.”
“Yeah, I know that ole bastard. He put my son in the hospital. Whupped him real good, and the police didn’t do nothin’.”
“Why did he do that?”
“Don’t know. My son was a good boy. I raised that boy right.”
“Where is your son now?”
She shakes her head. “Upstate on some cockamamie charges. I told the cops, I raised my David right. One a them lawyer groups workin’ on his case, tryin’ to get him out. They don’t do cases where the person done wrong.”
“What about Elle? What happened to her?”
“She was choked to death. Never did catch the guy, but I know who done it. That ain’t goin’ be free.”
Matt grabs two hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and places them against the screen. She opens the storm door just enough to fit her boney fingers between the door and the jamb to snatch the bills. She looks at the money and grins.
“You got any more? If Elle was your mother, this is worth more than two hundred.” Matt hands two more bills to the reverse ATM machine.
“It was the cop. The one busted my son. I seen him going up there all the time. She was supposed to be datin’ my son, but that two-timin’ bitch was seeing this cop at all hours. People around the neighborhood said that cop liked to strangle girls when they’re … you know … in bed.”
Matt rolls his eyes. “Do you happen to know the cop’s name?”
“I’ll never forget it, because his first name’s the same as my son’s. Detective David Campbell.”
Matt clenches his fists. “Are you sure?”
“Course I’m sure. That bastard put my baby away.”
“What about my father? Do you know who he is?”
She shrugs. “Hell if I know. Don’t think your momma knew neither. I ain’t tryin’ to be rude, but your momma was loose.”
“I gotta go.”
Matt jogs down the street toward the boarded-up row home, his heart racing. A lower window has a loose board, wedged between two others. Matt pulls off the loose board and looks inside. It’s dark and dingy. He sees broken bits of furniture, plaster and paint peeling off the walls, and exposed wood framing. A scorched brick fireplace sits just beyond the front door with brick and mortar bits sitting in front. He climbs through headfirst. He smells a concoction of dust, sweat, urine, and feces.
He brushes glass from the floor, before using his hands to support his weight. He pushes through and hears a glass vial crunch under his knee. He stands up and shakes the glass off his jeans. He wanders through the lower floor, hypnotized by the crumbling structure. An old refrigerator, stripped of its parts, is turned over in the kitchen, used as a makeshift table. Empty spaces exist between the counters, appliances long since gutted. Beyond the kitchen is a staircase without a railing leading to the second floor. He climbs the stairs using the crumbling wall for support.
At the top of the steps, a door lays in the hallway. Holes are still in the doorjamb for the handle and the two deadbolts. He remembers he wasn’t strong enough to open the sticky lock. The bathroom is directly ahead. He sees pieces of broken porcelain and remnants of tile. A pile of hardened human shit sits where the toilet once sat. He remembers that the feet on the shattered bathtub looked like lion paws. He remembers his mother bathing him every day. Then the water went dry, and the baths stopped altogether. The tub became his hiding place and his bed.
He walks to the large room at the end of the hall. More paint chipping, plaster hanging, and exposed wood framing. Tiny bits of sunlight stream in between the boards on the windows. He squats down and remembers every inch of the room. He remembers exploring every crevice, every imperfection, every object, trying to find something of interest, something to keep his mind off his crumbling world.
He walks back down the dank hallway, toward the bedrooms. He staggers into the tiny room, with one window. He peers between the boards of the window. There’s nothing green
outside, only brick, concrete, asphalt, satellite dishes, and burglar bars. He remembers lying on an itchy mattress, before moving his bed to the tub. He remembers collecting toys out of Happy Meals. He rubs his temples to quell his headache.
He moves next door to the master bedroom. A stained double-size mattress sits naked in the middle of the room. He remembers his mother dancing around a canopy bed with a man. She’s healthy and radiant, wearing a yellow dress with red flowers. The man is stocky, with curly blond hair, wide nostrils, and wide-set eyes.
Matt steps from the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He sits on the floor and looks at the door. He shuts his eyes tight. He sees the man go into the bedroom and shut the door. Shadows move in the light underneath. He hears moaning and groaning, then gasping and elation. He hears banging and screaming, then silence. The man appears again, but his face and form are blurry, the moon and streetlamps providing dim light from the windows.
“You should get some sleep, little slugger,” the man says. He winks and flashes a small grin.
Matt remembers falling asleep in the bathtub. In the morning, he feels hungry. He opens the master bedroom that doubles as the pantry. The canopy bed has been replaced by a dingy mattress, and his healthy, radiant mother has been replaced by a gaunt, sickly woman with a still expression, her blue eyes wide open. Her neck is red. Her face is pale. He shakes his mother, then searches for food. He finds none and shakes his mother some more, begging.
“I’m hungry, Mom. Wake up. I’m really hungry.”
He remembers going back to the bathtub and trying to sleep. Sometimes food and soda came after he woke up. He waits as long as he can, checks for food, and tries to wake up his mother. He remembers thinking that she’ll wake up if he just lets her sleep a little longer. He remembers feeling so thirsty and weak.
Matt opens his eyes; they’re wet. He pulls his knees to his chest. His head sags; his tears drop on the dusty hallway floor, like raindrops in the desert.
Against the Grain Page 24