One morning while Noah was at school, she pulled up the list of groups and decided to start calling them one by one. First up: St. Luke’s Community Center. She plugged the number into her phone and called. A receptionist picked up after the third ring.
“Hi, could I please speak to Leroy Harris?”
“I don’t think he’s . . . oh, wait, let me check, hold on.” The woman covered the phone and after about a minute returned to the conversation. “He’s here. Let me transfer you.”
A few moments later, a man with a deep and slightly hoarse voice picked up the line. “Leroy Harris, how can I help you?”
Amy explained who she was and how she was helping Julian with his upcoming fund-raiser.
“Oh, sure, sure. Food Fight. They’ve helped us put on some great programming.”
“That’s why I’m calling. I figured if he includes more specifics in some of the reading materials—what kinds of programs you’ve been able to offer, what kind of difference it’s made—people might be more inclined to donate.”
“Makes sense.”
“Tell me a little more about what you do.”
“Well, we do a lot of things. Obviously we have a religious affiliation, so we provide spiritual counseling to those in our community. But we also offer activities. We have a basketball court where kids come to play. We bring in speakers to talk about issues relevant to our neighborhood. We have celebrations and gatherings. Our main purpose is to enrich our community, in any way we can.”
“Where does Food Fight fit in?”
“Julian and his group have provided us with funding and resources to offer cooking classes a few times a month. A lot of people in our community eat a lot of fast food, mostly because it’s quick and cheap, but also because a lot of them don’t really know how to cook for themselves. So our classes have shown people how to take cheap, fresh food and turn it into a meal quickly. A lot of our people are on food stamps, but thanks to work by Julian’s group and some others, most of the farmers’ markets in the city accept SNAP benefits.”
“And you’ve seen a change in the way people are eating?”
“Yes and no. It’s definitely empowered people to cook for themselves, but the truth is, a lot of the healthy food is still far from home. After a busy day, it’s still easier to do Burger King. One thing I’m trying to work on with Julian is to bring a farmers’ market into our own community. We’ve even laid the groundwork for St. Luke’s be the site. But of course implementing that kind of stuff takes resources and money.”
“Which I’m guessing is where this fund-raiser comes in.”
“Exactly. For a lot of these things, we have the space and the interest. We just need the money and know-how to make it happen.”
Amy typed furiously on her laptop as she tried to get down everything he was saying.
“So Julian’s got you working like crazy on this event, huh?” he asked as Amy typed.
“It’s not too bad. I volunteered. It’s nice to be actively involved with a nonprofit again. I used to work in education policy in DC before I moved here.”
“Ah, so you were messing around with those clowns down in Washington, is that right?”
Amy smiled. She didn’t want to get into a political discussion, but it seemed inevitable these days. “Something like that.”
“Well, welcome to Philadelphia. It’s a little different up here.”
“So I’m learning,” she said. “Anything else you want to tell me about Food Fight or what you have planned?”
“Not really. We just really could use the help. The cooking classes have been popular, but we can’t continue them without some extra funds, and the farmers’ market won’t get off the ground without some additional resources. I’m not taking millions of dollars here—any small amount would help.”
Amy typed away. “Well, if all goes according to plan, Julian should raise more than a small amount to pass on to you.”
“That would be much appreciated. So let me ask you—you working for one of them education nonprofits up here now?”
“No, I’m sort of . . . freelancing at the moment.”
“I see, I see. I guess that’s where Food Fight fits in.”
“Sort of. Like I said, I’m just volunteering.”
“We know all about that over here. Couldn’t survive if it weren’t for some good volunteers. I’ll make sure I tell Julian you’re doing a great job. You’re a kind soul, I can tell.”
“I must have said something right.”
He laughed. “I’ve been around a long time.”
“Hey, listen, I’ll take it.”
“You take care, all right? Hopefully we’ll speak again after the fund-raiser.”
Amy hoped so too and said, “Thanks, Mr. Harris. I truly look forward to it.”
* * *
Amy made her way through the rest of the list, and minutes after she finished her last call, Grace phoned. Amy stared at the screen with some amount of trepidation. She hadn’t mentioned to Grace that she’d run into Julian at urgent care—she wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the encounter herself—but now every time they talked she felt as if she were hiding something. Grace hadn’t once mentioned Julian being sick, but then why else would he have been there?
“What’s up?” Amy said as she answered the phone.
“We’ve run into a babysitting issue. For the night of the fund-raiser no less.”
“Uh-oh.” Grace had offered to let Noah come over that night, while Kara babysat the two of them, so if her babysitter plans fell through, that meant Amy’s had as well. “What happened?”
“Turns out Kara is out of town that weekend. I swear I asked her and she said she was free, but apparently there was some sort of miscommunication.”
“Oh boy. What about your parents?”
“They’ll be at the event.”
“Oh. Right. Duh.”
“I tried a few other people I know, but for some reason everyone on the planet already has plans that night. Do you happen to know of anyone?”
“Honestly? The only people we’ve used since the move, other than Kara that one time, are Rob’s parents.”
Grace hesitated. “Would they sit?”
“Oh—I don’t know. They have a pretty busy social calendar. But assuming they’re free, I’m sure they would. They love spending time with Noah, and Ethan is so easy.”
“I don’t know about that, but he’d be good for your in-laws. We’d make sure of it.”
“Why don’t I call Sherrie and see what she says, and I’ll let you know ASAP.”
“Perfect. Sorry to pile one more thing on your plate. You’re doing so much already.”
“Not a problem at all.”
“No, really. I feel so guilty. You’re doing all this stuff that someone else should definitely be doing, and it just seems . . . I don’t know. Like, I don’t want Julian to take advantage of your generosity, you know?”
“He isn’t. Don’t worry,” she said, even though in her heart, she kind of thought he was.
* * *
Amy called Sherrie. Even after all these years, she still didn’t love calling Rob’s mom. They got along fine—quite well, actually—but no one could get out of a conversation with Sherrie in under fifteen minutes. It wasn’t possible. The woman had the gift of gab and sometimes Amy didn’t feel like losing a chunk of her day over a minor request. Sherrie was exactly the kind of person texting was made for. But Sherrie didn’t text. Or at least not in any sort of timely fashion. By the time she saw the message, days had possibly passed, and by then the matter was moot. If you needed an answer right away, you had to call.
“Hello?” Sherrie always answered the phone in a singsong voice, as if she were serenading you with her greeting.
“Hi, Sherrie, it’s Amy.”
“Amy, hi. Is everything okay? Are you feeling all right?”
Amy realized now that the last time she called Sherrie, she was feverish and semi-delirious on over-the-cou
nter cold medicine.
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for asking. The antibiotics worked wonders.”
“See? I told you that’s what you needed.”
Amy didn’t remember her saying that at all, but then she wasn’t exactly in the best state of mind to remember anything that happened over the course of that week.
“Oh, but Rob told me about that urgent care. Horrible. They should be put out of business.”
“I think Rob is trying. He’s filing complaints all over the place.”
“That’s my boy! Always a go-getter.” Amy could hear her smile through the phone. “So what’s up?”
“I have a babysitting request. Are you free Saturday, November 5?”
“Hang on. Let me check my calendar.” She rustled through some papers. “Okay. What did you say? November 5?”
“Yes.”
“It looks like we’re free . . . hang on. Bruce? BRUCE! Oy, I’m telling you, his retirement is killing me. BRUCE!”
A faint voice replied in the background. “Yes?”
“I love how you sound so defensive when I’ve been shouting your name at the top of my lungs. Anyway, Amy wants to know if we can watch Noah on November 5. There’s nothing on the calendar, but I want to make sure you haven’t concocted one of your plans that you haven’t told me about.”
“When do I concoct plans?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Like two nights ago when apparently we were having dinner with the Goldsteins? Some little get-together you and Bill came up with at tennis, and I ended up having to talk to Marsha all night.”
“Come on, you had fun.”
“Did I? Because that isn’t how I remember it.”
Amy cleared her throat to remind Sherrie she was still on the line. There was definitely a chance she’d forgotten, and Amy felt a little uncomfortable listening to her in-laws partake in a marital spat.
“Anyway,” Sherrie continued, “we’re free on the fifth, right?”
“What, like a month from now? If there isn’t anything on the calendar, then we’re free. I don’t plan that far out.”
“Of course you don’t . . .” Amy could almost hear the eye roll. “Okay. We’re free.”
“Great! Thank you so much. Oh, and is it okay if Noah’s friend Ethan is there, too?”
“The kid who used to live in your house?”
Amy felt a twinge of guilt. She’d said she wouldn’t invite Ethan over until enough time had passed that he wouldn’t feel sad about not living at 120 Sycamore anymore. But Grace had suggested the plan in the first place, and at this point, Ethan coming to their house seemed like the only option left.
“Yes,” she said. “They can’t find a sitter for that night. Ethan is a really good kid, so he won’t be any trouble.”
“Oh, it’s fine. Of course. It’ll be fun! I’ll have to bake something special.”
“You don’t have to go through any trouble. Honestly—we’re just grateful that you’re willing to give up your Saturday night.”
“Please. For my grandson? It’s a pleasure. I couldn’t live with seeing the disappointment on that little face if I came empty-handed.”
“If you’re sure . . .”
“Of course I am. So where are the four of you going that you’re planning this far in advance?”
“Julian’s nonprofit is having a big fund-raiser that night.”
“Remind me what he does?” Sherrie asked.
“He runs an organization called Food Fight. They promote access to healthy foods in poor neighborhoods.”
“That’s wonderful. Would Bruce and I be able to contribute, even if we don’t attend the event?”
“I could ask. I’m sure he wouldn’t turn down your money. They have a bunch of exciting new programs they want to launch this winter and could use the extra funds.”
“Find out for me, would you? We’d love to help.”
“Will do. I’ll mention it to him or Grace next time I see one of them. I’ve actually been helping a lot with the event, so it’s not the kind of thing that would slip my mind.”
“That’s nice that you’ve found something to keep you busy.”
Amy wasn’t sure if Sherrie intended to sound so condescending, or if it just came out that way. She suspected it was a combination of the two. Her career had always perplexed Sherrie, even when she worked in a proper office five days a week. Part of that was because she didn’t fully understand what Amy did, and part of that was because once Noah came along she thought Amy should stay at home. When Amy ultimately left her job, Sherrie didn’t bother to hide her relief.
“You made the right choice,” she’d said at the time. “For your family.”
Amy didn’t disagree (she wouldn’t have done it if she’d believed otherwise), but there was something about the way her mother-in-law said it that rubbed her the wrong way. Sherrie had quit her job to raise Rob and his sister and knew that Amy’s mom barely took maternity leave. She didn’t know all the details of Tim’s problems, but she knew enough. All of that combined, it seemed a little smug when she suggested leaving the workforce was the right decision. It was almost as if she were saying, Your mom kept working, and see how that turned out?
“Trust me, I already have plenty to keep me busy,” Amy said.
“Well, sure, with a little one running around. Kids are a lot.”
“They are. And with this fund-raiser and my work projects—”
“Oh, are you still doing that . . . grant writing stuff or whatever it was?”
“Yep, still at it,” she said. Amy had to laugh that even after all these years, Sherrie still didn’t understand her work.
“Oh. Well, that’s good. As long as it isn’t too much. It’ll be nice to have something to go back to someday.”
“That’s the idea.”
But the truth was, Amy wasn’t sure what, exactly, she’d be going back to, and when that someday might be.
* * *
The gala-related chores continued. There were seating arrangements to finalize and silent auction vendors to confirm. Did they want a signature cocktail, or just an open bar? How much could they realistically afford to spend on centerpieces? Amy felt as if she were planning her wedding all over again. She knew it was for a good cause, but part of her felt Julian cared a little too much that the event look a certain way. If this was truly for charity, who cared if the centerpieces were balloons and not flowers? What did it matter?
She ultimately convinced Julian to save money on flowers and go with balloons and other décor, but in return she got roped into filling out place cards. She could have said no, of course, but then she could have said no to any of it—to all of it—and she hadn’t. What made place cards any more over-the-top than the other chores and requests? I finalized the menu, called every one of your community partners, drafted a summary of your work with them, and picked up programs from the printer, but this—this is where I draw the line.
That said, Amy wondered if she was even capable of saying no, and not just to the Durants. She’d taken that poorly paying freelance gig because she wanted to keep her résumé current and fresh, but part of her also feared saying no would reflect badly on her. Maybe word would get around that Amy was just the sort of can’t-do person you shouldn’t even bother calling about potential work. Growing up, she took any work she could get—dishwasher, cashier, stock girl—because her mom had impressed upon her the need for her to develop a strong work ethic and contribute to the family till. Somehow Amy had internalized that so deeply that she was now doing work that didn’t even pay. Her mother would be horrified.
A little more than a week before the gala, Amy pulled out the stack of blank place cards and list of table assignments and got to work. She’d found a template online that she could use to do everything on the computer. There was no way she was going to fill out one hundred some place cards by hand. I guess I can draw the line, she thought, though she realized the line was so faint and far as to be nearly invisible.
/> As she cut and pasted the names for Table 1 into their respective spots, the doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone or any packages, so she hesitated. She didn’t love answering the door when she was home alone. It could be anyone—a friendly neighbor at best, a violent criminal at worst. If something bad happened, no one could help her. But it was midday on a Thursday, so she decided to take her chances. There were enough retired and nosy people in the neighborhood that if she screamed loudly enough, someone would hear and see her.
She crept toward the front door, but as soon as she spotted the man standing on her front stoop, she knew she’d made a mistake. He was a burly guy in a leather jacket and a pageboy hat, and Amy didn’t like the look of him. His jowls were covered in a stubbly beard, and he stood with his hands in his jean pockets. She considered turning around, but he clapped his eyes on her. It was too late.
She put on a polite smile as she opened the door. “Hi. Can I help you?”
The man looked over her shoulder. “Yeah, I’m looking for Julian.”
“Oh, sorry—he doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Says who?”
“We bought the house from him a few months ago.”
“Is that so?”
Amy nodded. “I’m really sorry. I think there’s been a lot of confusion regarding the change of address.”
He stared at her for a beat. She noticed his front tooth was chipped. “So you’re not his wife or nothing?”
“Me? No, definitely not.”
“Ex-wife?”
“No, like I said—my husband and I bought the house from him. He forgot to change his address. We’ve been getting a lot of mail for him, too.”
“Really.” He said it more like a statement than a question. “And what have you been doing with that mail?”
Amy was about to tell him the truth, but she caught herself. If she admitted to knowing the Durants and seeing them on a semi-regular basis, she could put them—and herself—at risk. She didn’t know who this guy was, but he seemed like trouble. The fact that he was looking for Julian at his old house and didn’t want to take no for an answer only added to this perception.
“I send it back,” she lied. “Sorry I can’t be of more help. Maybe the post office has an updated address. Good luck.”
The Last House on Sycamore Street Page 21