"How may I help you, Raleigh?" he asks.
"Need a copy," I pant, "of this morning's paper."
"Your tunnel made the news?"
"Not that I know of."
"Ah," he nods. "Still expanding horizons?"
"You could say that."
"And I did." He lays the bookmark between the pages and once again puts the sick child to bed, his sigh full of regret.
I wipe my brow and follow Nelson to the back of the library's main room. He stops at some staggered dowel rods against the wall. Newspapers hang on them like drying laundry, and a man sits beside the whole lot. He is reading a newspaper from London, wearing a winter coat that is so dirty it's difficult to tell if it's blue or black or gray.
Nelson scans the rods, lifting the pages. He turns to the man in the chair.
"Gordo," he says. "Where's the
Times-Dispatch
?"
"How would I know?" The man replies.
"Stand up."
The man glares at Nelson, his eyes so cloudy he could be half-blind. "It's my paper," he says.
"The papers belong to the library."
"I was here first."
"Please," Nelson says. "You can't possibly read all the newspapers at once."
"I could too."
"And," Nelson says, "you could find yourself evicted from these premises in an instant."
"What for?"
"We could begin
with eating in the library."
"I didn't."
"Next time, brush the crumbs off your coat."
The man named Gordo looks down. His cheeks are angry red, the skin flaking in patches. He pinches the dirty coat's lapels, giving them a shake. He throws a haughty expression at Nelson. The crumbs fall into his lap.
"This is Raleigh," Nelson says, turning to indicate my presence. "She would like to read this morning's paper. Please give it to her."
"She can't read the whole thing either."
Nelson gazes up at the ceiling, speaking to the rafters. "Raleigh, is there something in particular you are seeking in the paper?"
"It's in the B-section." That's the section my dad kept folded tight by his plate this morning.
"Gordo, please. Be a gentleman."
The man stands, sending the crumbs to the floor, and puts one hand into his coat, searching. The gray pages come out, smooshed and crumpled. He scans them, handing out pieces of the B-section as he discovers them. Nelson puts the pages in order, aligning the original centerfold down the middle, then offers the section to me. It smells bad.
"Thank you," I tell him.
He nods, nearly bowing, then straightens and pivots toward the man.
"Gordo, winter is coming. The Farmer's Almanac says this year will be particularly frigid. Should you choose to exhibit any behavior other than your very best, you will feel the bite of cold this year."
Gordo plops down in the chair. "Blah, blah, blah,” he says.
Nelson watches him for a moment. "Raleigh, I expect you to notify me if any problems occur."
He turns and walks back through the stacks.
Since it's the only chair on this end of the building, I sit in the open chair beside Gordo. I feel his cloudy gaze, but after a moment, he leans to the dowel rods and snatches off
The Washington Post
. He tucks some pages into his coat then lifts the Want Ads, rattling them with as much noise as possible.
I find the story at the bottom of B-1. Headline:
Former Atlanta Brave Taken into Custody.
First paragraph explains the headline, but the second paragraph details the restraining order. Which means somebody leaked it to the press, since I know the order was sealed because it involved a juvenile.
The words are chilling: " . . . carnal knowledge with a child between the ages thirteen and fifteen." The order was filed by the mother of Titus's niece, his sister-in-law. But I read those first four paragraphs three times because whenever something appears in the newspaper, it automatically looks like fact. Even speculation looks like fact. That's why judges like my dad issue gag orders.
Gordo leans over. He smells like vinegar and cigarettes. "You done yet?"
"No, not yet."
The story jumps to B-8, I flip through the pages, for once appreciating how the newspaper smells like White-out mixed with ink—much better than Gordo's stink. On B-8, I also find two photographs, each marked "
Times-Dispatch
File." I pull the paper close. In the first, Titus is holding up a white Atlanta Braves uniform, grinning like I've never seen before.
"I want it back," Gordo says.
I look over. His skin is like some living lesson in forensics,
the way it flakes off his red cheeks, dusting the coat that is blue-or-black-or-gray.
"I'll be done in just a minute," I tell him.
"What's so important in there anyway?"
"Nothing." My nose stings from his vinegary odor.
Gordo leans toward me. My eyes water.
"That guy?" he points at Titus's picture. "You reading about him?"
I pull paper farther away from him but it only draws him closer.
"I know him!" He points at the photo, stabbing the page. His fingernail is chipped and dirty. "I know that guy."
I look up, searching the room for Nelson. But the shelves of books are blocking my view of the Reference desk.
He stabs the paper again. "What'd he do?"
"I don't know."
"He poison somebody?"
"What?"
"He brings us burgers, stuff like that." Gordo lifts chin, giving that haughty look again. "I'm homeless, for your information."
"Sorry."
"Give me the paper."
"I'm not done."
We stare at each other, me blinking away the stink-tears in my eyes. His mouth twists angrily before he leans back in his own chair. Lifting the Post want ads, he shakes the pages again for effect.
The second photo shows a group of people standing around Titus, who is still holding the uniform. The small print below identifies Titus first, then two coaches from the Richmond Braves who stand on his right. To his left is Timothy Williams, his brother. He's nowhere near as big as Titus but their faces look alike. The last person identified is a white woman who stands between the black brothers. Y'landa Williams, identified as "sister-in-law."
"How d'you know him?" Gordo asks.
I keep my eyes on the photograph, switching between Titus's face and the woman's.
"Hey," he says. "I asked you a question: how d'you know him?"
"Maybe I don't."
Gordo leans in. "Expect me to believe that 'cause I'm some dumb homeless guy."
"No," I turn to him. "Because maybe I don't really know him."
Gordo stares at me. I want him to go away, but he's not leaving. Not for years.
"Won't tell me, huh?"
I can't smell the vinegar-and-cigarettes stink anymore, which concerns me since that means the olfactory sensors in my nose are full of it, can't take anymore.
"It's a long story," I say.
He sinks back into his chair and makes a big gesture of opening the newspaper so wide it cuts off all view of him.
I go back to reading the story, but I can hear him muttering.
"If you're paying attention," he says, "everything's a long story."
When I bike away from the library, Gordo’s stink is hitching on my blouse. I hang a right on Ninth Street, bombing down the hill, hoping to lose his bitter smell. On the sidewalks, people hustle into tall buildings that tower with ambition.
At the bottom of the hill, the river glistens. I ride across the Ninth Street Bridge. The wind pushes off the river, pressing against me. My hands tighten on the handlebars, gripping a white scrap of paper that holds a name and an address. And a point of no return.
The moment my front wheel crosses into Southside, the world shifts. Gone are the smart buildings, replaced by boarded-up windows and broken glass lining the cracked curbs. A city bus groans past me, followed by a broken-down panel truck, and an old brown Lincoln—a woman blowing smoke out of the passenger window.
I ride up Semmes Avenue and stop at the red light. Jefferson Davis Highway crosses the road, and traffic is suddenly heavy again: cars zipping across this forgotten wasteland of Richmond’s south end, heading places where graffiti doesn’t smear brick walls and grown men don’t sit on the ground holding paper bags.
I have one foot on the crumbling curb, waiting for the light to turn green, when a car pulls up beside me. The paint was red once upon a time but has faded to a color like dead rubies. In the passenger seat, a man rolls down his window. His bloodshot eyes, matching the car’s paint, run up and down my bare legs, the stupid plaid skirt.
“Yo, baby,” he says. “What’s happening?”
I stare at the light, willing it to turn green.
“I got whatcha need right here.”
The wind, like some evil cohort, tunnels up the hill and ruffles the skirt, lifting the pleats. I slap one hand on my thigh, but the other can’t let go of the handlebars because of the paper under my palm.
“You lookin’ for some ice?”
I’m looking for a way to kick myself for not pulling on my P. E. shorts.
“Right here. Ice cold crystal.” His hand comes out the window.
I take off. Car tires skid. Horns blare. I zigzag across the road, squeezing the handlebars. My fingers ache. When I reach 24th Street, I hang a right. A small brick rambler sits on the corner, its lawn brown. I stop, check the paper, try to get my heart to slow down, then bike down the rest of the street. It’s not as bad as Semmes, but nowhere near as nice as Monument Avenue. Back off the road, I see a blue house. But that’s not it either.
It’s at the end of the road, right where I’m about to turn around and go back to the library, asking Nelson to double-check this address. I read the paper again, checking the address with the white plantation house. Nelson found it in the city census, because it’s not listed in the phone book. A woman lives here named Y’landa Jones Williams. The census noted another resident, a minor female.
I climb off my bike and wheel it toward the fence. A white picket fence, the paint peeling like the skin on Gordo’s cheeks. Greek columns line the porch, one of them used to chain a dog. A Rottweiler. He scrambles to a stand as I approach.
He snarls.
I open the gate.
He leaps forward, choking on his chain. Foamy slobber flings from his teeth.
For once, I’m wishing for the cell phone. But it’s in my backpack, in my locker at school.
“Drop!”
The dog hits the porch floor like he’s been shot.
“What d’you want?” Demands a husky voice.
I look around, trying to find the source. The front door is open four inches, a pair of eyes peering out above the chain.
“I asked you a question!”
I try to smile, like some Girl Scout here to sell cookies. “I’m looking for Y’landa Williams.”
“What for?”
“I need to talk to her.”
“What for?”
“It’s . . . ” I hear Gordo in my head, muttering about everything being a long story, if you’re paying attention. “It’s complicated. Are you Mrs. Will—”
“Here by yourself?”
I nod. The door slams.
Oh, great.
But suddenly it opens. The woman standing there looks almost like the person in the newspaper photo, except her blonde hair is longer, scragglier, and her body is wide, almost shapeless.
“That your bike?” She steps onto the porch.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t just leave it there.”
I stare at the bike, wondering where else to put it.
“What in the Sam Hill’s the matter with you?” she asks.
There will never be enough time to answer that, so I lift the scrap of paper and begin to say something else, but I’m cut off by a half-naked toddler. She bursts through the open door. When the Rottweiler sees her, he scrambles to his feet again, stumpy tail wagging.
The little girl flings herself into the woman’s thick legs.
“Gammy, play!” she cries.
Scooping up the kid, the woman pats her diaper. The contrast between them seems brighter in the sunlight. Bare black legs on the kid; the woman’s white hands.
She looks over at me. “You gonna tell me what you want?”
“Are you Y’landa Williams?”
“Depends who’s asking.”
“I wanted to talk to you about Titus Williams.”
She steps forward, still holding the kid, and yells. “Get off my property!”
The dog, catching the mood, lunges. Barks. Slobbers. Lunges again. And the kid? She starts kicking her heels into the woman’s sides, like she’s a rider on a pony.