Like a Sister(58)

It was a city but not the type I was used to. This was a place that had mini-marts versus bodegas and so little traffic the side roads didn’t even bother with yellow lines. I stopped by the lone Rite Aid as soon as Waze told me I was five minutes from my destination. It was Monday morning. I didn’t know if Karma would be home, but I was more than prepared to wait. I just needed water and maybe some chips to keep me company since I certainly wasn’t paying an Uber driver to stand guard with me. I had Erin’s car, not her bank account. I parked and headed into the Rite Aid. Of course it was red brick.

I have a theory that you can tell the number of Black people in a neighborhood by the number of ethnic hair care products in a drugstore. Judging by the selection here, I was not with my people. They were probably minding their business in their own neighborhood. One with Shea Moisture and a big vat of green Eco Styler gel.

First wrong car, now wrong skin color. This wasn’t exactly a stealth mission, but I sure as hell wasn’t driving back. I paid for my Deer Park and my salt-and-vinegar Lay’s, promised the friendly cashier I’d have a good day, and went off to find Karma Dodson.

She lived in what was probably considered a nicer area. The houses duplexes and single families, all close enough you could see in your neighbors’ windows if you squinted. The lawns mowed probably by owners, not gardeners. The cars clean, if not new. Her two-way street wasn’t narrow but was clearly from a time pre-dating the cars that lined both sides. Now it was effectively one-way for whatever car was lucky enough to get there first.

I made it to her house without playing chicken, then counted three US flags and two FOR SALE signs on her block. The Dodson house had neither. What it did have was a bright red door to go with the red brick and white shutters—and it was a duplex, the entrances on opposite sides of the house like a couple in a fight. There was a car in both driveways, a Tercel that looked past its expiration date on the Dodson side. Their neighbor drove a late-model Buick.

Erin’d made me promise to reach out when I got there so I texted her as soon as I parked. Then I noticed the text from Omar. I’d blanked on even having Grant Writing today. A first. I texted back. Gonna miss class but should hopefully be at Strategic Management on Wednesday.

If things went like I hoped today, I could swing by campus tomorrow.

Text sent, I got out and walked up the slight incline to the door. I rang the bell but got nothing. It was still midmorning, which meant no telltale lamps or lights to let me know if someone was inside. Even if Karma wasn’t home, her mother, the property owner, should be. Stu had also texted me her name. LinkedIn claimed she worked at a senior facility.

I decided to wait. Maybe she was asleep, but she’d have to get up sometime, even just to pee. I knocked again and heard rustling. Unfortunately, it wasn’t from her side of the house. I was being watched. I just couldn’t see by who.

Figured this neighborhood would have their own Ms. Paterson.

Both duplexes featured large bay windows. Karma and Co. had gone with vertical blinds. Their neighbor had picked a gauzy white curtain designed for maximum spying. I waved and prayed the person hiding behind the curtain didn’t call the cops. I would have had better luck praying for world peace. The cop was behind me almost as soon as I’d gotten back into Erin’s car.

Every Black parent has had The Talk with their kids, especially their baby boys. It’s not about sex or drugs or why Mommy and Daddy will no longer live in the same house. It’s about what to do if you’re stopped by the police. I got The Talk at seventeen, the signature still fresh on my driver’s license. Like most, mine had come with a strict set of rules. Keep your hands on the wheel or at least in plain sight. No sudden movements. No back talk. Do what they say and only what they say. And never, ever, ever resist arrest.

I’d been stopped before—one time for rolling through a red light—but had never had to use my training. My tickets had come in the safety net known as South Orange, where I’d grown up riding around in a car that had a MY KID IS A COLUMBIA HIGH SCHOOL HONOR STUDENT bumper sticker. My mom hadn’t put it on because she was proud but because it let the cops know we were local.

I didn’t have the bumper sticker here. This was an eighth-of-an-aisle hair-product area, stuck in the back of Rite Aid like it was the back of the bus. And I was in a car with no idea where the registration or insurance was located. I’d been too distracted to ask, and now I was paying for it.

Karma indeed.

I ran down the rules, then temporarily replaced Super Black Woman with Perky Black Girl and hoped for the best. The cop took his time getting to me. If it was an intimidation tactic, it worked. I spied him in the rearview mirror, all white and bald but with the ruddy complexion of a redhead. I sucked at guessing people’s ages, but I pegged him for a well-kept white forty-five. (Black forty-five was a completely different thing.) He looked like he belonged to the Anytime Fitness I’d passed on my way in and viewed the name as a personal challenge.

My hands on the steering wheel, I counted Mississippis until he finally sauntered over. My window was already down so I heard the whistle. It was not directed at me.

“Santorini black.”

I said nothing, just pasted on that Perky smile while I wondered if I should be offended.

Another whistle. “A 2019 Jaguar F-Type First Edition R-Dynamic. Only comes in three colors. Zero to sixty in four point nine seconds. I’ve never seen one in person before.”