When No One Is Watching(14)
Newes from America. 1638. By John Underhill.
I shall according to my abilitie begin with a Relation of our warre-like proceedings, and will inter-weave the speciall places fit for New Plantations, with their description, as I shall find occasion in the following discourse, but I shall according to my promise begin with a true relation of the new England warres against the Block-Ilanders, and that insolent and barbarous Nation, called the Pequeats, whom by the sword of the Lord, and a few feeble instruments, souldiers not accustomed to warre, were drove out of their Countrey, and slaine by the sword, to the number of fifteene hundred soules in the space of two moneths and lesse: so as their Countrey is fully subdued and fallen into the hands of the English: And to the end that Gods name might have the glory, and his people see his power, and magnifie his honour for his great goodnesse I have indevoured according to my weake ability, to set forth the full relation of the Warre from the first rise to the end of the victory . . .
It takes a bit to make out the wacky spelling, but this seems to be a straight-up Check out how many indigenous people we killed and stole land from brag, like an old-school version of a terrifying online confession. I start to put it away, but a second underlined phrase catches my eye.
The truth is, I want time to set forth the excellencie of the whole Countrey.
Underhill—it strikes me that this is probably the man Underhill Avenue, a street I’d meandered down countless times in my life, is named after—goes on to list all the attributes of the lands from New England down to New Jersey. The good soil, the perfect places for docking English ships, the beautiful land that isn’t appreciated by its inhabitants, though sometimes as he rambles on about how move-in ready it is, he speaks as if it isn’t inhabited at all.
Goose bumps spread in a wave down my arm and I quickly tuck the booklet back into the accordion folder and place it on my lap. This isn’t the kind of thing I’ll be talking about on the tour, but every bit of history is useful in some way.
I try to imagine how Gifford Place must have looked to the people who lived here back then. Big-ass trees and thick underbrush. Darkness unbroken by streetlights. And in that darkness, the sudden arrival of men who’d decided the land was theirs . . .
. . . slaine by the sword, to the number of fifteene hundred soules in the space of two moneths and lesse . . .
“Hey.”
I jolt, shaken from my thoughts that had been segueing into a dream because I’m so damn tired.
When I look over, Ponytail Lululemon’s man is standing in the doorway, his hair messy, short beard trimmed neatly, and blue eyes bright with a particular kind of curiosity.
“Hi.” I imbue my voice with every ounce of don’t even fucking think about it I can muster.
He sits down on the old plastic-covered couch across from me, seemingly not picking up what I’m putting down because he smiles at me. He’s kind of odd-looking, with several prominent features instead of one or two, but it works for him. “Ugly-fine” is what Drea might call him.
“We meet again,” he says.
“We’ve never actually met before. You’re a strange white man who wandered into my friend’s house.” I tap the folder in my lap. “Given what I’m reading about your people, maybe you’re here to claim it as your own.”
He shrugs. “The only thing I’m trying to claim is unemployment, and I’m barely managing that.”
I press my lips together to avoid giving him the satisfaction of my smile.
“Let’s officially meet now,” he says anyway, then holds out his hand and leans forward, stretching his arm and body long so I don’t have to move from my seat if I choose to meet his hand. “I’m Theo. I live across the street from you. I haven’t been very neighborly, and I’m looking to change that.”
I reluctantly reach out to give his fingertips a quick shake, but he closes his hand over mine, holding on for a bit longer than is necessary. I almost let him, because the attention-starved part of me has the nerve to enjoy it, but then I pull my hand away.
No more panning in Fuckboy Creek, and most definitely no climbing Cheating White Guy Hill.
“Is your delightful wife coming? Or is she busy threatening to call the cops on other innocent Black people?”
“We’re not married. It’s—complicated.” He leans back into the couch and runs his hand over his beard. When he speaks again, there’s wry humor mixed with frustration in his voice. “Kim isn’t coming. I do want to apologize about what happened in the store yesterday. She’s not . . . not usually like that. Things have been weird since we moved here, I guess.”
“Mm-hmm” is all I say in response. I’m not his therapist and don’t care about his relationship.
“Maybe I can make it up to you somehow?” His eyes brighten. “Do you like coffee? There’s a new place a few blocks down.”
I stare at him, trying to discern if this dude is really trying to shoot his shot while discussing his wild-ass significant other who already tried to call the police on me.
“Neighborly coffee,” he adds, leaning forward in a way that’s somehow nonthreatening even though it brings him closer to me. “Nothing more. When we did that tour you—”
“Um, hi.” I look up to find Drea glancing speculatively between me and Theo. Her hair is slicked back into a puff ponytail, and she’s changed from her work clothes into a T-shirt and shorts.