“You really think they killed that brother?”
“I’m more sure of it than I was before. I just don’t have any proof. If I could find somebody who saw the man who went to the pool with Ray-Ray, somebody who knew who he was…”
“Let me check it out,” Othello said, then sat forward in his chair. “Look, there’s something you got to understand. We don’t half step. When you get help from the Ex-Cons for Community Safety, you get a hundred and ten percent. You know what I’m sayin’?”
It was exactly what Blanche wanted to hear. She only wished she’d called him sooner.
He took a small notebook and a pen from his shirt pocket. “Okay, then. What school your kids go to?”
Blanche told him.
“We already got somebody working around that school, keeping an eye out for dealers and other punks. The brother who does the school can pick ’em up and bring ’em home. We’ll come by early tomorrow morning so I can introduce him. Somebody’ll be taking you to work and picking you up. Name of Roger. I’ll bring him around tomorrow, too.”
They agreed on six-thirty the next morning. She could easily get to work by seven-thirty with a ride.
“A brother’ll be stationed outside your house. Round the clock. It’ll always be the same car, so you’ll know he’s your man.”
“Oh! My cousin’s granddaughter is staying with me until her grandmother gets back to town. She’s in METCO, the suburban school program.” Blanche talked really fast, embarrassed at having been so focused on Taifa and Malik that she’d forgotten about Shaquita. “She gets the school bus.”
“What time does she leave and get home?”
Blanche told him.
“No problem. The brother who’s taking your two to school can take her to the school bus. The brother outside your place can take a break and meet the school bus and bring her home.”
He reached in his jacket pocket. “Here, take these whistles and leave ’em around the house. Anything goes down, use ’em. Otherwise, just leave the brother to his job.”
Tears of relief sprung to Blanche’s eyes. “I really appreciate this, Othello. Can I make a donation to the Ex-Cons?”
“Thanks. We got our expenses like everybody else, so anything you can give will help, but we know about tight money, too, so don’t stretch yourself out of shape. Anyway, who knows? We may need a favor from you someday.”
He wrote down the license plate number of the car that would be stationed outside and also jotted down her work and home phone numbers. She was tempted to ask him to stay a little longer when he rose to leave. He looked down at her for a few seconds then excused himself to make a phone call.
“Brother Warren will be outside your house in about half an hour,” he said. “Dark blue Accord. You got the license number and your whistle. Now try to get some sleep.”
Blanche thanked him again and dragged herself upstairs to the bathroom. She fell asleep in the tub and woke up only when the water turned cool. She looked out her front window before getting into bed, and was comforted by the sight of the blue Accord in the parking space closest to her house.
TEN
DAY NINE—FRIDAY
She woke before first light from a dream in which whoever she was running from kept getting in front of her, forcing her to run backward. When she tried to stand up, her scraped knee buckled, which triggered a series of aches and lightning-sharp pains along her back and thighs. She sat on the side of the bed, gently massaging her legs and fighting the strong desire to roll back into bed and pull the covers over her head. She didn’t try to stop the tears that made hot channels down her cheeks and chin to her nightgown. She also didn’t try to stop the flash of Samuelson’s grinning face as his car sped off, or the feel of his pig-boy’s hands squeezing her breasts and ass. She let herself imagine that car careening into a telephone pole and exploding while she watched and listened to their screams. But this only made her cry harder. She was never going to be able to make them feel the fear that had socked her in the gut so hard she’d nearly soiled her pants when they’d thrown her in that car and threatened Malik and Taifa. Tendrils of fear inched across her chest at the thought of what Samuelson and his shitheads might have done to her, might still be planning to do to the children. She eased herself off the bed and went to the window to check on the blue Accord. There it was. At least that, she thought, at least that. She turned to her Ancestor altar and lit a stick of incense.
“Ancestors of the blood, the spirit, and the heart, ancient to infant, known and unknown, I salute you this morning, thanking you for the goodness you have brought to my life, for the goodness you…”
She couldn’t go on with her usual salutation. Yet she believed asking the Ancestors for something directly was risky—as though, “Be careful what you ask for, you just might get it” was the Ancestors’ motto. So she clamped her lips on asking them for her children’s safety. There was nothing safer than death. But she also couldn’t talk to them as though everything were fine. She took another direction:
“Ancestors, you saw what happened to me. You heard what those lice said about hurting Taifa and Malik. I know they’re your young, too, so I know you look out for them, just like you protected me from getting hurt worse than I did. I light this candle in thanks for your protection of all of us.”
She lit the candle and watched the flame grow steady before she went to the bathroom.
A hot shower eased her aches and loosened her joints. She dressed, started the French toast and bacon, then woke the children early. They tumbled into the kitchen, so drawn by the scent of a Sunday breakfast on Friday, they didn’t complain about being roused extra early. Blanche waited until they were sopping up their last drops of syrup to begin talking.
“Something happened last night,” she said, and wondered what there was in her tone that brought all three of the children to silent attention.
“Some men tried to…it has to do with this job I’m working for Miz Inez. Something’s missing and they think Ray-Ray took it and gave it to me. He didn’t give it to me, but they don’t believe me. Last night, some men tried to…”
“What, Moms?! What?” Taifa was out of her chair. She threw an arm around Blanche. “Are you all right? Did they hurt you? What…”
“Hurt! Who said anything about hurt? You always jump to conclusions!” Malik shouted, but he sounded like he might cry.
Shaquita stared at Blanche with fear in her eyes.
“No. I’m okay, honey.” Blanche put her arm around Taifa’s waist and kept it there.
“And everything’s gonna be fine. Some people are going to be looking out for all of us for a while, until this is all over. Othello Flood with the Ex-Cons for Community Safety. He…”
“Aminata’s boyfriend,” Malik said.
Blanche nodded. “That’s right. Somebody from the Ex-Cons will be taking you to school in the morning and bringing you home.”
“Aw, Mom! No way! I can look out for myself, and I got things to do after school that…”
Blanche sighed. That guy thing again. She let Malik talk on about soccer practice, his class mediation committee meeting, and basketball practice with his Y team—all things she was supposed to believe were more important than his safety.
“I’m sorry, Malik. You’re going to have to come home with your ride. And stay home. Both of you. It’s only for a few days, I promise,” she said, and hoped it was true.
“But, Moms! They’re criminals!” Taifa shrieked.
“They committed crimes. Just like you were a baby with shitty diapers. They’ve changed, too,” Blanche said.
The doorbell saved her from further argument.
The sight of Othello called to mind a snug house and a full cupboard—things she associated with security. She also conjured up a big, firm bed lit only by a candle or two in a room filled with music—things she associated with go
od sex. Even last night, in the middle of her fear, she remembered that melting feeling in her crotch when he’d held her hand. She wondered how much her attraction to Othello had to do with her Aminata thing. Maybe it wasn’t just Malik’s relationship with her that rankled. And how horny was she that she’d think of sex at a time like this? But when did a person need to be held and stroked as much as when things were going to hell in a hurry?
She wasn’t the only one with an open nose: Taifa’s objections to being guarded by a convict seemed to dissolve at the sight of the muscular, almost pretty-faced young man assigned to drive her and Malik back and forth to school. Roger, Dennis, and Louis, the three men with Othello, were all polite, quiet, and formal. After they were introduced, they went back to their respective cars to wait for their charges. Blanche liked that, too.
Before she left the house, she decided to call Bea Richards one last time. She was almost tongue-tied when Bea answered the phone.
“Yes, this is Bea Richards. Who is this?”
Blanche untwisted her tongue enough to explain that she’d gotten Bea’s name from Cousin Charlotte. “She thought maybe you could give me some information that might help a friend of mine.”
“What kinda information?”
“About Maurice Samuelson.”
“What about him?” The curiosity in her tone was replaced with something that sounded more like suspicion.
“Well, my friend’s thinking about joining his Temple and…”
“Who you say give you my name?”
Blanche told her again.
“She shoulda told you I ain’t much for talking business on the telephone. Certain people round here might be trying to find out what I’m sayin’ and who I’m sayin’ it to.”
Blanche kept quiet. The woman sounded a little bit like a lady she’d known in Harlem who thought the FBI was trying to take nude pictures of her to sell to Playboy. On the other hand, she sounded a lot like Blanche was beginning to feel, as though her life and world were on the verge of being seriously invaded.
“Let’s meet somewhere,” Blanche said.
They made a date to meet in the Tropical Foods market off Dudley Square on Saturday.
“I’ll be wearing a red sweater,” Bea told her.
Blanche’s ride to work with Roger was something she could easily get used to—complete with a cup of tea to sip on the way. She thanked him and said she’d see him at seven-thirty.
The air inside the Brindle house felt moist and wild. Blanche moved slowly and quietly around the kitchen, careful to stay relaxed and in the center of herself, as though her calm and quiet could be a model for the house.
Carrie almost leapt into Blanche’s arms when the front doorbell rang. She burst back into the kitchen and pointed toward the front of the house. “It’s Mr. Marc.”
Blanche grabbed a pair of flower shears from the utility drawer. She went out to the front hall to the table between the breakfast room and the library, where she began grooming the fresh flower arrangement. All the while she eyed Marc Brindle. He looked like a person who’d given up sleep a long time ago. The heavy shadow of his beard was long past five o’ clock. His pants and jacket hung from his body in folds and creases. Even from this distance she saw the dirt on his shirt. He looked in her direction, but she wasn’t sure he saw her. She gave him a good-morning nod but didn’t speak. She was right behind him when he opened the breakfast room door, and she caught the door just before it clicked shut. Then she peered into the room with her left eye.
The forces Blanche had felt in the house gathered in the breakfast room. She could feel the electricity in the air and something else—something like a fast train coming that couldn’t be stopped.
Felicia rose from the table. Allister didn’t move. Felicia flung her arms wide. She had a look on her face that Blanche sometimes sensed on her own—that combination of relief and irritation when Taifa and Malik came home after being gone long enough for the worst possibilities to begin whispering in her ear.
Marc held out his arm to ward his mother off.
Felicia stopped halfway between him and the table, her arms still partially outstretched.
“Marc, darling. I’m so glad to see you!” Felicia took a slow step toward him. “I was so worried. I—”
“Don’t, Mother, please don’t!”
“But, darling, I just want to…”
Marc grasped his hair with both hands. “Why, Mother? Just tell me why him? Why?”
“I didn’t mean to, Marc. It was an accident. He—”
“An accident?! An accident?! How do you seduce someone by accident, Mother?”
Felicia looked confused for a few seconds. “Oh, I thought you…but you mean you think I…No, Marc. Darling, no! You can’t think I’d do such a thing! I didn’t know! I swear I…”
“He loved me! I know he loved me! Until you…”
Something crumbled in Felicia’s face. “No, no, it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t just me! He had other…He was just a…I swear I never knew about you. Never knew he even liked…”
“Liar! We were happy until you—”
“Marc! I would never have…never do anything to hurt you, darling, you know that. You must know that.”
Blanche had forgotten about Allister until he rose from his chair. “What the? Both of you? Both of you were fucking that trainer? Jesus Christ! If this gets out, I’ll…”
Marc and Felicia ignored him. Felicia took another step toward her son. “Marc, please, I’m telling you the truth.”
“Oh, God, Mother!” Marc reached for Felicia with one hand and cradled his face with the other.
Felicia rushed to him and threw her arms around him, murmuring motherese and hugging him hard.
Marc put his hands on Felicia’s upper arms and gently put her aside. He murmured something to her that Blanche couldn’t hear. Felicia smiled even though there were tears in her eyes. Marc turned to Allister.
“Dear old Dad.” Marc made the title sound like the worst possible curse. “You and your fucking political career and your fucking family name! I might have had a norm—”
“Get a grip on yourself, boy! No son of mine…”
“Son of yours! Son of yours! When did I graduate to being your son? I thought I was her son. That’s what you always—”
“Don’t speak to me in that tone of voice, boy! I can’t stand hysteria in a man, especially a Brindle.”
“What do you like in a Brindle, Dad? Handcuffs? Leather underwear? Blonds with big tits and whips? What makes you better than me?”
Allister’s eyes bucked. “You! You have it!” He banged his fist on the table. The dishes rattled like chattering teeth. “Where is it? Where’s the tape?” He leaned across the table toward his son. “Your black fag boyfriend stole it for you, didn’t he? You told him about the safe, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”
“I told him where to find the combination, you filthy, lying hypocrite!” Marc screamed at him. “ ‘Don’t be such a sissy, boy! Get yourself in the missionary position with a fast tart and forget this homo business,’ ” he said, imitating his father’s clipped voice. “And all the time you’ve been…” Marc shook his head, as if he couldn’t go on.
“Where is it? Where’s the tape?” Allister sounded as though he were being strangled. “That rotten nigger stole it for you, didn’t he? After all this family did for him! He wrote me. Did you know that? Threatening to—”
Marc interrupted him. “Fuck you! What about me? Standing there listening to a drunken prostitute talk about how you liked your spanking was bad enough, but that tape! God, it made me vomit.”
Felicia looked from her son to her husband.
Marc’s shoulders were heaving. Blanche couldn’t see his face, so she didn’t know if he was gulping for air or crying. But she was all too sure of the gun Marc pulled from his jacket pocke
t. The house quivered when the gun appeared.
Felicia squeaked like a mouse under a cat’s paw. Allister looked at his son with widened eyes.
“It’s you I should have killed instead of Saxe,” Marc said to his father. The gun was dead steady in his hand.
Felicia’s body jerked. Her mouth worked, but no sounds came out.
Allister sat back down. “You don’t have the balls to kill a rabbit.” Allister spoke as though Marc hadn’t said anything about killing Saxe. He leaned back in his chair. “Remember the time Uncle Randolph and I took you hunting?” he went on. “You couldn’t even…”
Felicia turned on him. “Shut up, you fool! Didn’t you hear…?” She turned back to Marc. She held out her open right hand as if she expected him to lay his troubles in her palm.
“Listen to me, Marc, please.” Felicia sounded calm, but Blanche didn’t believe it. “Don’t do this. Don’t ruin your life for him. Allister’s not worth killing! And I know you didn’t kill Saxe. I killed him.”
Allister’s mouth fell open. Marc lurched forward. Allister recovered first.
“What are you saying?” he shouted at Felicia. “What are you talking about?”
Neither Felicia nor Marc seemed to hear him. Marc touched Felicia’s cheek with the back of his free hand.
“I almost wish you had killed him,” Marc said. The sadness in his voice filled the room and oozed out into the hall. “Then I wouldn’t know how it feels to…Then I could sleep, think, I wouldn’t have this…this…”
Allister looked from his son to his wife. Marc let his gun hand fall to his side. He was looking at Felicia.
“He was rubbing ice on the lump you’d raised on his head when I got there. He told me you’d hit him. He said everybody in my family was crazy. I asked why you had hit him. ‘A lover’s quarrel,’ he said. And laughed. He asked me if it turned me on, knowing he was screwing my mother.”
Felicia flinched and reached out to touch Marc’s sleeve.
Marc kept talking. “He said he didn’t give a damn about me, that he’d rather fuck a sheep than…I laughed. I knew he loved me. He told me! He showed me! I thought he was making it all up because he was angry about something else. He was so moody, and he didn’t always tell the truth. I figured he’d be all right if…
Blanche Cleans Up: A Blanche White Mystery (Blanche White Mystery Series Book 3) Page 23