“Gammy!” she screams, gray powder bursting from the diaper’s edge. “Play! Play!”
The woman snatches the kid’s ankle, holding it tight as she hisses, “Stop.”
Like the dog, the kid stops immediately.
But unlike the dog, that’s not the end of it.
The little girl sticks out her lower lip. Eyes closed, she opens her mouth, bawling. The woman closes her eyes, too. The dog whimpers. The kid cries harder.
Slowly, the woman pats the diaper, rubbing the kid’s back until the crying slows. There’s a wet hiccupy cough, and then the woman whispers in the girl’s ear before setting her down on the porch.
“G’on,” she says softly. “You can play it.”
The tears, like magic, are gone. Her bare feet slap the porch floor as she disappears into the house.
I wait a moment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Then don’t ask me about that man.”
I’m now certain this is Y’landa Williams because without my saying another word, she unloads.
“Him and his brother, both no good,” she rants. “Left me high and dry. I wish to God I’d never met them. He hasn’t even called his daughter in a year—his own flesh and blood!”
“I’m sorry.” It’s all I can think to say. But the words don’t matter.
She barrels on.
“No child support, no alimony. Nothin’. Took off without one word, not one word. For all we know he’s in Timbuktu.”
“But he’s right across the river.”
She glares, stepping forward. “You seen him?”
“Yes.”
“Where—where’s he at?”
“In jail.”
Her mouth drops. “Timothy—the
Richmond
jail?”
It takes me a second. Timothy. The brother. He was in that photo. Titus’s brother.
“No,” I explain. “Titus. He’s in jail.”
Her expression is even more startled now, but it’s quick, evaporating in an instant. That tells me something. One, Y’landa doesn’t read the newspaper or listen to the radio or watch the news, and two, she didn’t expect to hear Titus was behind bars. “I know about the restraining order,” I tell her. “The one you took out against him.”
Her jaw juts forward, stretching the skin on her thick neck. A stubborn look, and scary enough to make the dog lay down with a whimper.
“I was protecting my daughter.” Her tone’s a low growl.
“I understand. And Titus broke that restraining order when he let my friend and me come into his restaurant.”
“So now he’s in jail. Good.” Her voice is simple, less passionate now. “Let him rot there.”
“But my friend is missing. Nobody’s seen her since Friday. The police think Titus did something to her. That’s really why he’s in jail.”
“Well, I’m right sorry for your friend.” Her voice is almost flat now. “Everyone’s luck runs out sometime.”
I don’t know if it’s her tone, or her words, or the clatter that comes clonking onto the porch through the open door—a bunch of discordant notes that sound like a piano being played with a fist. Whatever it is, I feel something flick inside me, like a smoldering ember sparking into flame.
“You’re wrong.” I raise my voice over the bad piano. “No disrespect, but luck’s got nothing to do with this situation.”
“Sure it does.” She tossed her jutting chin toward my bike, then me, letting her pale eyes land on the blue crest embroidered on my white blouse, the insignia for St. Catherine’s. “Luck’s got everything to do with it. You’re lucky to go to some fancy school. My girl’s unlucky because nobody’s paying child support.”
For a long moment we stand there. I don’t like the music, and I don’t like how she’s trying to shame me for going to a good school, even as she claims it all comes down to dumb luck. But more, my inner lawyer is arguing another point, the protests needling into my mind as the woman raises her voice to be heard over the music growing louder.
“Yeah, Mr. Nice Guy, that who you met? Played the sweet uncle to my girl. Took her shopping, taught her how to throw a baseball.” She sneers. “I wonder which base did he get to?”
The piano is being murdered.
And she keeps listing all the things Titus did wrong. Giving rich ideas to a girl with not two cents to her name. Had her worshipping at his feet. Uncle Titus-this and Uncle Titus-that. The woman’s every word lands as heavy as the manslaughtering fists on the piano, but as she rants on, something begins ribboning around every accusation, like a piccolo playing so high and off-key it harmonizes with the rotten music.
The sound of shifting blame.
I wait for Y’landa Williams to run out of steam. It takes a while. Then I ask: “So, that little girl, she’s your granddaughter?”
Our eyes lock.
“He led her on,” she says.
The child is black. And maybe Y’landa’s daughter is half-black. But every theory needs testing.
“Okay. But I need to know. Did he—” My voice almost cracks. “Is Titus the father?”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“Where you live?”
“Richmond.”
“Nice neighborhood?”
I nod.
“Where you come from,” she says, “you can’t understand. All we got is her and me. That’s it.”
“I do understand.” Those sad years after my birth dad ditched us, I will never forget them. And I never want to feel that bad ever again. “My dad left my mom, so I know.”
“Like hell you know,” she sneers. “I had nothing when Timothy left us. Not one dime!”
She starts ranting again, listing the hardships of poverty as I glance up and down the street. It’s clean. The houses look like people mostly take care of them. Except this one. When she stops talking, I look back at her.
“Did he buy you this house?” I ask.
“He gave her the idea he was gonna marry her.”
I nod—I nod toward the dying piano. “That’s not Titus’s child, is it?”
“Fourteen years old, she comes home and tells me she’s got a baby coming—and it belongs to Uncle Titus. I called the police. Right there, I called ‘em.”
“For a restraining order.”
“Hell yes!”
The piano falls silent.
She closes her eyes. Sucks in a deep breath. “Sugar pie?” she calls out.
There’s no response.
“Sugar pie. That was a right pretty tune. G’on and play some more.”
One high key slips through the air, tentative as a question.
“That’s right,” she calls to her. “Keep on.”
When the clatter starts again she leans toward me, her voice low but full of heat.
“I trusted that man. I left him alone with my daughter—”
“But what did she do to him?”
She pulls back. The clomping sounds gain strength, banging on the windows of the house. The house that Titus bought, I am sure of it. The house that he gave them to keep a roof over their heads when his brother abandoned them. The house that wouldn’t be falling apart if Titus were that kid’s dad because there would be DNA and a paternity suit and child support by court order.
There would not be just some restraining order.
“I saw him last night,” I tell her. “At the jail. He doesn’t have an alibi for when my friend went missing. So I need to know. Did your daughter tell the truth?”
She stares at me, eyes cold and bright as blue granite. “Like I said, everyone’s luck runs out. Sometime.” Dropping a hand, she snaps her fingers. The dog rises, pants, waits for her next command.
But she gives it to me instead.
“You best be leaving,” she says. “G’on back where you belong.”
Y'landa Williams is right--I don't belong on Southside.
But I really feel like I don’t belong here either, standing by the rich girl's lunch table, sweating from a long bike ride, waiting for Tinsley to reply after I say, "We need to talk."
She dips a stalk of celery into what looks like a thimble of oil-and-vinegar dressing. Tinsley's lunch looks nothing like my usual crumpled brown bag, stuffed with my mother's daily ballast. Tinsley brings a white square box. Inside, a small green bottle of Perrier rests on its side, as if bowing to her.
"Raleigh," she says, "can't you see I'm eating my lunch?"
"That's not lunch," I explain. "That's an eating disorder.”
She turns to her friends. "Did I tell y'all? The police called my house."
None of the girls reacts like that's news, which means Tinsley's already been down the gossip road. Probably a couple times. The news is being broadcast now for me, for an effect on me. So that when I walk away, they can snicker.
"The police called you for the same reason I want to talk to you. You're the last person who saw Drew."
"Unfortunately," she says.
I grit my teeth. "What did you tell the police?"
"The same thing I told you! After you ran through the dance like some crazy banshee."
"What did you tell me?"
"Raleigh, you know perfectly well what I said."
I do. But my dad's courtroom taught me that truth sometimes rises in stages. People say one thing, and when you press them, they say another. This is especially true if you're dealing with belly-dragging snakes.
"Tell me again, Tinsley."
She waves the celery. "Drew cancelled, I was thrilled, she ran away, that's the whole story right there."
"You're leaving something out."
Norwood leans forward. "Did you just call Tinsley a liar?"
"Pretty much."
"How dare you!" Tinsley's spine goes as rigid as the celery. "It's not my fault your weirdo friend ran away."
"That's true."
"See?"
"Yes, I see how I might be tempted to run away if had to tutor you. But Drew's stronger than me. She can handle extreme torture."
Her green eyes are glacial. "Do you know what your problem is, Raleigh?"
"I hate liars?"
"You lack nuance."
"Nuance."
"It means manners." The celery gets waved like a baton. "The art of diplomacy. It's when southern girls know how to act polite, not being rude. It's a subtle skill."
Norwood laughs. "And Raleigh's about as subtle as a sledgehammer."
The coven giggles.
"Remember in sixth grade," Norwood continues, "when she brought that giant rock for show-and-tell?"
"And her hammer?" Tinsley adds.
"And then smashed the thing open?"
They continue laughing about my geode.
But suddenly it stops.
I had been thinking things couldn't get worse, but that's usually a sure sign that they're about to. I can read the expressions on their beautiful faces, and they look like a car just plunged off a cliff. Followed by:
Bless your heart
.
"Miss Harmon."
I turn around. Parsnip looks like she could use a dozen stalks of Tinsley's celery, to help relieve her constipation.
"You were seen leaving campus this morning."
I glance at Tinsley. She smiles. It's a big and genuine smile. She is suddenly happy.
"And since we received no note authorizing your absence, I called your parents."
Like the crazed Rottweiler on its short chain, the ideas lunge at me: Parsnip. Calling my house. Telling my mother I took off from school. Or. She called my dad. So he knows I lied. To his face. After he made my all-time favorite breakfast.
Terrific.
"To the office." Parsnip points at the door. "Now."
***
Ellis's office is a shrine to higher learning. On the headmaster's mahogany desk, St. Jerome sits, one plaster fist tucked under his chin in the Thinker's Pose. On the windowsill, Socrates gazes out at the soccer fields, reminding the jocks that an unexamined life is not worth living.
Aside from those two, I sit here alone. Parsnip has left me to wait. This is what they do: leave you here to tremble in fear, recognize the error of your ways.
But I'm not feeling it.
Five minutes later, Ellis strides through the door, his concerned frown tight as his bow tie. He deliberately takes a seat so that Socrates is right over his shoulder. I think Ellis must be one of those grownups who never left prep school. Smudge away the gray hair at his temples, erase his paunch, and you'll find a private school kid who dreamed of becoming headmaster because it means he will never have to use a simple word because the big ones sound smarter.
"Raleigh,” he begins, “Our educators take their mission at St. Catherine's quite seriously. And when students sally forth into the streets—"
Sally forth?
Isn’t that a cartoon?
—it's a clear exhibition of utter disrespect for hard work and the rules, which clearly state campus parameters." He takes much-needed breath. "Miss Harmon, you've been with us for eight years. You are fully cognizant of school rules until—" he taps the desk, "you met up with Miss Levinson. As we all know, bad company corrupts good character."