The Marriage Lie(37)
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it’s impossible to trace the number. Sorry.” He moves down the counter to help an old lady clutching a laptop to her chest.
Disappointment, sharp and instant, stabs me between the ribs. “Now what?” I say, turning to my brother.
Dave sighs, watching the geek go. “Now you owe me a hundred bucks.”
*
I bribe Dave with the rest of my Chex Mix and an eight-thirty reservation at Atmosphere, which, according to Zagat, is one of Seattle’s best French restaurants overlooking the Puget Sound. With minimal griping, he steers the rental back across the lake to Rainier Vista.
“Are you sure this is it?” he says, slowing in the middle of the street. “The way Coach Miller described it, I was expecting something much slummier.”
I check the street sign against the address in my notebook. “This is the right place, but you’re right. It’s way nicer than I thought it would be.”
Rainier Vista is not Beverly Hills, but it’s no slum, either. To our right are small but colorful houses with sweeping front porches; to our left are townhomes and a block-sized park, empty but for a pristine basketball court and a long line of trees. The setting sun lights them up from behind, bare limbs reaching into the leaden sky. I twist on my seat, searching for the promised view, but if Mount Rainier is visible from here, it’s tucked behind a thick layer of red-tinged clouds.
Dave pulls over, hitting the button to roll down my window.
“Hi, there,” he says, leaning across me to speak to the young couple on the sidewalk. Two kids, barely out of high school, their features hidden under thick hoods. His arm is slung around her shoulders in a gesture that hits me as more possessive than protective. “Do you guys live around here?”
They don’t stop walking, don’t even turn their heads our way. The girl flicks her eyes in my direction, but her boyfriend hustles her along.
Dave eases the car forward, dialing up the dazzle on his smile. “We’re new to the area, and we were hoping you could give us a little bit of direc—” The pair makes a sharp right, veering away from us down a footpath bordering an empty park. “Or maybe not.”
“Friendly neighborhood.”
Dave puffs an ironic laugh, then looks around, taking in the neighborhood. He points past me, out the passenger-side window and beyond, to a hulking block of what looks to be apartments. “See that simple design and cheap materials? How much you want to bet that’s HUD housing, and this neighborhood is a HUD redevelopment?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, if I’m right, HUD would have made provisions for the former residents, either to move them to a new neighborhood or guarantee them a spot in the low-income housing here. We’ve got a fairly decent chance of finding someone who was here before the redevelopment.”
“Okay, smarty-pants. So where do we begin?”
“One of those apartment buildings would be our best bet, but judging by the reception those kids just gave us, I’m guessing residents won’t take kindly to strangers coming in and asking questions. We’d be better off starting at some sort of community center. If we make friends with the staff, they might be able to tell us who’s lived here since before the developers came to town. We can funnel our questions through them.”
Dave drives on, making a slow loop through the neighborhood. We pass more of the same, houses of all sizes pressed between parks and playgrounds, with an occasional high-rise jutting out over the rooftops. He points out a sign for the city’s light-rail system. “Proximity to public transit, plenty of ramps and open space, and have you noticed all the urban artwork? Definitely a mixed-income neighborhood.”
“So where’s the community center?”
“If I’m right, it’ll be pretty smack in the middle of the development.”
We drive around a little more. Dave charts our progress on the map on his phone, driving up and down streets until he swings a sudden left, pointing the rental at a modern glass and stucco building at the end of a one-way road. A Plexiglas sign above the double doors announces it as Neighborhood House. “Bingo.”
Dave finds a spot along the street, and we power through a stiff wind up the sidewalk. A glass-enclosed bulletin board to the left of the door announces an adult financial planning seminar, a jobs lab and the annual literacy drive under a United Way logo.
“Boom,” Dave says as we pass. “Social services. Told you it was HUD.”
I roll my eyes. “Such a cocky Realtor.”
He grins and opens one of the double doors, stepping aside to let me pass.
Inside, Neighborhood House is spacious and bright, a two-story windowed space flooded with natural and LCD light. Two women sit behind the reception desk in the very center, chatting with an elderly black man on the opposite side of the counter. They’re young, midtwenties or so, their faces fresh with eager smiles and philanthropic optimism.
“Welcome to Neighborhood House,” one of them says, her accent nasal and Midwestern. “Do you know the way or would you like a little direction?”
I step up to the counter, give her a friendly smile. “Hi, and thank you. I’m looking for information on a former resident, and I was hoping you could put us in touch with someone who was well connected in the community back before it was redeveloped.”