What Simon Didn’t Say

by Joy Copeland

  “Who knows? Maybe he did. Maybe that’s why we never saw him again.” Frances Woods shrugged her shoulders and gave a quizzical look.

  “But how?” Zoie said, unable to utter the complete question.

  “Some things just never make our kind of sense. The older I get, the more I know that everything doesn’t get a logical explanation. Some things are best left in God’s hands, and he works in mysterious ways.”

  Frances Woods turned back to the muted TV and its fuzzy picture. Zoie’s eyes followed. A channel-four newscaster was discussing the man whose picture was plastered on one side of the screen. The person in the picture was a good-looking brown-skinned fellow with dreads. For a second Frances Woods thought she might have seen him on TV before but couldn’t place him.

  “Grandma! Turn it up! I want to hear what they’re saying.”

  “Oh,” said Frances Woods, fumbling for the TV remote in the bed covers. “Zo, is he someone you know?” She patted the covers without success.

  Anxious, Zoie reached across her grandmother, almost overturning the dishes on the bed tray.

  “My goodness, Zo. Calm down.”

  “Sorry, Grandma,” Zoie said, coming up with the device. She canceled the mute, but it was too late. “Ahhhhhhhh! I missed the story. I know that guy.”

  “Is he a criminal or something?”

  Zoie took a deep breath. “I hope not. I sure hope not.”

  Chapter 28

  Capital Happenings

  It was Jahi’s face that had filled her grandmother’s small TV screen. Despite the sullen pose and blurred picture, his sculpted cheeks and mounds of locks were unmistakable. In the confusion of the moment, Zoie missed the words accompanying his image. What could put Jahi on the news? Had he been arrested or in an accident? There were less-dire reasons for his being in the news. There was the Shelter. After all, he was a public figure. It could be anything, not necessarily something bad—though her suspicions about him had grown by the hour.

  She needed to find out what was going on with Jahi. He was certainly linked to the Shelter and Ray and possibly the shenanigans. “What’s really going on?” she asked out loud as she walked home. Folks on Connecticut Avenue ignored her. They couldn’t answer her question. She’d have to find the answer on her own.

  Over the past two days, Jahi hadn’t returned her calls. She was going to ask him about the Shelter’s accounting again, but that was before Ray asked her not to talk to him. With Ray’s nonappearance last night, all bets were off. She left another message, asking that he make contact. “It’s urgent,” she said. “It’s business.” She understood he was busy, but then she was too. Not returning her call wasn’t like the Jahi she knew, the Jahi who cared about the Shelter and, so it seemed, about her. In the days when they were discovering each other, she came to count on the sound of his voice, if not his presence. Her logical brain pushed aside her romantic folly. The several nights they spent together gave her no rights to know his every whereabouts. She really didn’t know Jahi that well—certainly not well enough to trust him without question.

  A half block from her apartment, Zoie stopped at the little coffee shop. She placed her order for iced coffee and picked up a copy of The Washington Post. There’s bound to be a story in there about Jahi, she thought. Its banner headline blasted the Iraq War. She turned a cold eye to the story and scanned the page. Nothing. Before she could open the Metro section, the young woman signaled that her coffee was ready. Zoie was about to turn away to retrieve the coffee, when the Washington Times, a paper she’d never bothered to look at, caught her attention. It wasn’t that she had anything against the Times, but why get a copy of it—a paper known for its right-wing leanings—when the Post was available?

  “I’ll take this and this one too,” Zoie said, paying for both papers and her coffee.

  At the entrance to her building, Zoie pulled her cell phone from her pocket and checked the missed-call log. Nothing from Jahi. Disgusted, she stuffed the phone back into her pocket.

  Steps away, a woman exiting her building held the heavy door as her small dog passed under her arm. Zoie thought of the previous night’s dog drama—the one that had left Nikki angry at the world and, most of all, angry with her mother. Zoie watched as the proud short-haired pooch trotted by as if it owned the place. Yes, indeed, the Madison House accepted dogs. And when Nikki came home in a couple of weeks, there’d be plenty of pet-owning tenants going to and from the building, which would point out that fact.

  Zoie passed the reception window and glanced in. Head bowed, the desk clerk was hunched over a magazine. There wasn’t the usual greeting—“Hello, Ms. Taylor.” Zoie wasn’t even sure whether the mop of dark curls belonged to the building’s regular guy or some replacement. Wanting to read the papers, Zoie headed straight to the waiting elevator, not stopping at her mailbox. On the ride to the sixth floor, she had an uneasy feeling. She’d entered the building without keying in or even being seen. That wasn’t good.

  Once in her apartment, she kicked off her shoes, gulped her iced coffee, and opened the newspapers on her coffee table. In a quick review of the Post’s Metro section, she found nothing about Jahi or the Shelter. Unfamiliar with the Times’s layout, she approached checking it with more care. The Times carried more local stories than the Post. Again her search came up short. She considered calling the TV station to ask what the story was about or simply checking online, until she spotted a small picture of a familiar face on page K-2 of the Times. It was Lena Christian, her “friend” of sorts and certainly a friend of Jahi’s. Her last encounter with Lena had been at a DC charity dinner, earlier in the summer, the event where she first met Jahi. The column Capital Happenings carried Lena’s byline.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Zoie, her mind working to make sense of the Lena-Jahi connection. Lena Christian surely could answer questions about Jahi. She’d know why he had made the TV news. With a few well-placed calls, Zoie could find out what she needed to know. But what she really needed from Lena was more than this latest Jahi story. She needed someone who knew Jahi and who could explain missing pieces about him. She’d have to be careful in how she approached Lena. Lena was definitely a Jahi fan, as evidenced by the scene at the dinner.

  But first she tried calling the Shelter, one more time.

  A gruff voice answered, chewing the name Mahali Salaam as if it were a piece of gum.

  “Jahi Khalfani, please,” Zoie said.

  “I don’t think he’s back there, but I’ll connect you with his voice mail.”

  “No, that’s okay,” she answered. “Do you happen to know where he is?”

  “I just heard that he’d be out all day. He keeps his own schedule.”

  “I see,” she replied. “Well, do you know anything about this morning’s news story about him?”

  There was a long pause. She heard the guy she was talking to call out, “Hey, Boots. You know anything about Jahi being on the news? This woman on the phone here wants to know.”

  The response was faint, but she heard it clearly. “He’s on the news all the time. We ain’t no press room. We’re here to shelter the homeless. Take a message, and tell her he’ll get back to her.”

  Before the man could repeat the message, Zoie said, “I heard.”

  Her frustration mounting, Zoie tried to reach Lena at her at the Washington Times’s office but was told that Lena Christian was off on Thursdays. So far Zoie was batting zero.

  The Lena Christian lead was too important to let a little “Thursday off” thwart Zoie. She checked the DC white pages, but there was no listing for a Lena Christian. As was the case with many single woman, Lena’s number was probably unlisted, just like Zoie’s. She wasn’t even sure that Lena still lived in the district. Zoie recalled that Lena’s aunt was a longtime member of her grandmother’s church, Calvary Cross Baptist. In fact, Zoie and Lena had first met at the church long before high school. Perhaps she could get Lena’s home phone number from her aunt.

  Zoie called h
er grandmother and asked for Lena’s aunt’s phone number.

  “Child, what are you up to?” her grandmother asked.

  Zoie gave her a story about a friend knowing a friend and how she needed to catch up with Lena, a mostly true story, but one designed to hide her real intention. Her grandmother said, “Okay. Queen, hand me my address book on the bureau.” After her grandmother gave her Blanche McCarthy’s phone number, Zoie wasted no time in making the next call.

  “Oh, how sweet of you,” cooed Blanche McCarthy in a light southern drawl, more syrupy than her grandmother’s, though both women hailed from North Carolina. “I heard you moved back. It’s so nice that you’re thinking of my Lena. You know my Lena’s a reporter now. She’s at the Washington Times.”

  The pride in the woman’s voice gave Zoie a twinge of guilt. She’d have to lie. “Yes, I saw her column this morning, and it made me think of her.” That part was true. “You must be proud.”

  “Yes, I am. She made something of herself, after all.”

  The qualified compliment caught Zoie off guard. How could someone be proud but then cancel that pride with an after all?

  “You know that I always wanted you two to be friends,” Blanche McCarthy continued.

  “Well, I’m calling because I need her address and phone number. I want to send her an invitation to a get-together I’m having in a few weeks. A housewarming thing.”

  “Wonderful!”

  “Wonderful!” Zoie mimicked after the call ended. Having secured Lena’s address, Zoie took a moment to reflect on the comment of Lena’s aunt about wanting her to be friends with Lena. At the charity affair, Zoie hadn’t even recognized Lena. Lena had been just another woman, a tipsy one clinging to Jahi. That night Lena was what her grandmother called a “brazen hussy.” Still, Lena recognized Zoie. And it was clear through all the alcohol that Lena despised her.

  The two girls had been thrown together on numerous occasions. They shared a church pew. They were dragged as a pair to see the Nutcracker ballet at the Kennedy Center. There had always been a stark contrast between them. Lena was tall and shapely. Her bosom and hips developed beyond her preteen years. Zoie was boyish and petite, the perfect candidate for Peter Pan in the middle school play. Mrs. McCarthy’s incessant push for their friendship achieved the opposite effect. She once committed the ultimate faux pas: complimenting Zoie on her glowing academic record and, almost in the same breath, saying to Lena, “Why don’t you try to be more like Zoie?”—insensitive words that, even at a young age, caused Zoie to cringe. She could only imagine how poor Lena felt. Yes, the chances for friendship back then were slim and shattered by an ignorant but well-meaning adult.

  Lena lived in the up and coming DC area known as the M Street Corridor, a Southeast neighborhood near the Navy Yard. A woman with a child in stroller exited the building and let Zoie catch the open door. Zoie slipped into the Stafford East Condos without using the buzzer or a key. She took a deep breath before knocking on apartment 707G.

  “Who is it?”

  “Lena, it’s Zoie, Zoie Taylor.” Zoie could see an eye behind the peephole.

  “Huh,” said Lena when the door swung open moments later. Standing guard at her threshold, she donned a silky yellow head wrap, matching halter top, and skimpy jean shorts. “My goodness! One never knows who or what one might find outside the door.”

  Zoie gave an innocent shrug.

  “What brings you here?” Lena asked, clinching her mouth in a tight smirk. “And how did you get in without buzzing?”

  Zoie was about to explain, but Lena waved her off. “Never mind, I know.” Lena quickly looked in both directions down the hallway to see whether other surprises awaited her. Satisfied that it was just the two of them, she opened her door wider and gestured for Zoie to enter. “I should have read my horoscope this morning. It would have warned me.”

  “Hello, Lena,” said Zoie as she stood in the apartment’s small foyer.

  “Let me see,” Lena said, holding her fingers to her chin. “Last time we saw each other, I was looking up, and you were standing over me laughing. Wasn’t that when Jahi and I landed on the floor at the Hilton?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. And that was rude of me,” Zoie said, thinking that Lena’s account of that night wasn’t quite the way it happened.

  “By the way, from here on it’s shoe-free,” Lena said, pointing to the shoe rack near the door.

  Zoie made up her mind: no matter how much Lena egged her on, she wasn’t going to succumb to trading insults. She was counting on Lena to be reasonable.

  Zoie placed her small heel sandals in the rack and moved to the plush carpet, following the lead of her hostess. The path before her was a spectacle in white, what she imagined a polar bear’s cave would be like, minus the chill. A white sectional sofa filled half the room. Without legs it was indistinguishable from the snowy carpet on which it sat. White lumps, probably pillows, were here and there like moguls on a ski slope. Zoie spotted a hint of pale pink in the form of a single flower in a glass globe, which seemed to float above the rimless glass coffee table. Other than the flower and a magazine opened on the table, there was little else to tell Zoie that she wasn’t at the North Pole.

  Through an opening in the gauzy white curtain, Zoie could see the Capitol dome. What a view! This place is prime real estate. Lena had done well. Good for her.

  Lena stood by with folded arms, watching her childhood acquaintance check out the apartment.

  “Nice place,” Zoie said in genuine admiration.

  “Thank you. I find it comfortable.” Lena’s face continued to show agitation. “But you didn’t come by to see my place.”

  “True, true,” Zoie responded. She was about to explain the reason for her visit, but an impatient Lena interrupted.

  “So tell me how did you find me? Did Jahi give you my address?”

  “No,” Zoie quickly replied. “Your aunt gave it to me, the one who attends Calvary Cross Baptist.”

  Lena let out a cynical laugh. “Dear Aunt Blanche. She’s still trying to hook us up. I don’t know what kind of game you were playing that night. Acting like I was some alien.”

  “Lena, I’m truly sorry. That night I had brain fog. I really couldn’t place you.” Zoie sensed Lena’s mood softening, the tension subsiding.

  “So to what do I owe this visit?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about Jahi,” Zoie said as she moved toward the couch to seat herself.

  “Want something to drink? I know I do.”

  “Yeah, sure. Why not.”

  Zoie was expecting water or iced tea. She hadn’t been asked to choose. Lena disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes and returned with a couple of drinks in tall frosted glasses on a red lacquer tray. She placed the tray on the glass table and sat at the far end of the sectional.

  It was early for alcohol, not even eleven. With her nerves frayed, Zoie took a sip of her drink, a vodka tonic.

  “So you want to talk about Mr. Khalfani?” asked Lena. “What did he do now?”

  “I’m trying to figure out whether he did anything.”

  “Look, I’m not that man’s keeper. I like Jahi, but he’s a big boy, and I don’t butt in.”

  That’s not the way their relationship seemed at the charity dinner that night, Zoie thought. She bit her lip and let Lena talk.

  Lena said, “Jahi and I went to school together. You know UDC. All I can tell you is that the brother is for real. He’s on a mission.”

  “You’re talking about the Shelter and fighting for the homeless being his mission?”

  “That’s right, as well as making sure the little guy gets a fair shake.”

  “You’ve confirmed what others have said about him.”

  “Sounds as if you have your doubts,” Lena said, peering over her glass to gauge Zoie’s reaction.

  “Maybe. I mean I don’t know.” Zoie explained some of her doubts without going into the intricate details about the Shelter’s financing through the
Foundation, holding back the most damaging information and not mentioning the Ray Gaddis connection at all. Lena listened intently, throwing in a question here and there to prompt Zoie to go deeper. It was dangerous talking to a reporter, especially one who was Jahi’s friend.

  “Mmm, doesn’t sound like the Jahi I know,” Lena said. “If you really want to know what’s going on, why ask me? Go directly to him. Be straight with him about your suspicions. I’m sure he’s got a reasonable explanation.”

  “I’ve tried, but he’s gone incommunicado.”

  “I’m sure everyone is after him. You know he was in the news today.”

  “I heard, but I don’t know why.”

  “He’s announced his candidacy for the city council. That search committee with the ministers finally talked him into it. They’ve been trying to get him to run for years.”

  Zoie looked surprised. During the steamy summer nights they spent at the townhouse of his friend, Jahi never mentioned political aspirations. When he talked politics, it was about politics pertaining to the homeless. She thought that he was totally committed to working on behalf of the homeless. The DC Council was so establishment. Not Jahi. But then what did she know? Obviously, he hadn’t confided in her. And what else of importance had he failed to disclose?

  “And you knew he was planning this?” Zoie asked.

  “Yeah,” she answered smugly. “Nothing was ever definite. He’s been thinking about it for a while. He was torn. This week he was going to decide. So I guess he did. He never said anything to you?”

  Zoie sat blank faced and silent.

  “I guess not,” Lena said, answering her own question. “Well, that’s Jahi for you. The strong, silent type—unless he’s preaching for his cause.”

  “Jahi is running for the DC Council,” Zoie said with amazement.

  “Yeah. And in regard to all that stuff you told me about the Shelter and the Foundation, you really need to talk to him. And do it right away. Bad press about this stuff could ruin his election chances. The primary is only six weeks away.”

  Zoie grimaced. “Damn. He’s not making it easy. I’ve tried to contact him.”