When No One Is Watching(35)
“That works for me,” Theo says, walking over with a wad of cash. “I’ll pay the entry fee. And how much are those T-shirts?”
HALF AN HOUR later Theo is decked out in an olive-green T-shirt with the old houses screen-printed onto it in black, courtesy of the gift shop. We’ve gone through the exhibitions, which actually were useful.
The first exhibition room we entered was an overview of how Weeksville had been founded—by Black men buying property during the Panic of 1837 so that they could be afforded the right to vote. It also talked about laws that hampered the Black community in Brooklyn, like an eighteenth-century law preventing Black people who managed to buy property from passing it on to their descendants.
I’d taken pictures of useful stuff, like a map of the old neighborhood and information about some of the historical figures who had been part of it.
The next exhibition was an overview of historic race riots in New York, starting with the slave uprisings of 1712. Apparently, fires kept breaking out in Manhattan, and instead of dealing with the reality that a town made of wood structures was gonna have some fires, someone decided they were being set by enslaved people fomenting rebellion—leading to death and dismemberment for dozens of Black New Yorkers, free and enslaved. I’d immediately thought of Kim threatening to call the police on me because I didn’t let her cut me in line, and wondered if all those people died because of the historical equivalent of a Bodega Becky.
The final part of the exhibition talked about the Draft Riots of 1864, where the Irish began hunting Black people through the streets of New York, killing indiscriminately and burning down an orphanage. The people of Weeksville had taken in and protected Black New Yorkers who’d made it across the East River.
Theo’s face had been pale during that exhibit, and we had split apart at one point, the awkward historical fact that white people really seemed to enjoy hunting Black people whenever the whim struck them making chitchat just a bit strained.
We’d reunited at the last exhibition; it featured photographs of people from the Weeksville neighborhood over the course of its history. Black families posing in front of fireplaces. Black teachers teaching at the African school. Barbershops and restaurants and a whole thriving nineteenth-century neighborhood, and it had just . . . disappeared.
Now I sit on a bench while Theo snaps photos of the old houses outside, and I scroll for answers to a nagging question that none of the exhibitions answered.
“Where did the people of Weeksville go?” I ask. “They’d worked hard to buy property and gain the right to vote. They’d spent decades building a community, only to pick up and leave?”
“Maybe there were better opportunities someplace else?” Theo guesses, turning his camera on me and fiddling with the focus on his lens.
“Some people would leave because of that, but not everyone. It’s not like it was easy for them to just move. They weren’t welcome most places and had a hard enough time holding on to what they already had,” I say, trying to keep the snap out of my tone, because it’s not him I’m frustrated with. “You don’t just give away everything you busted your ass for.”
I’m scrolling blindly now, trying to maintain my cool.
“But, look at our neighborhood—”
“I’m gonna go sit in the AC.” I head back toward the reception area, fighting against the sudden pressure at my tear ducts.
I head to the bathroom, splash water on my face, then grab a cold water from the vending machine and a seat at one of the round tables scattered around the lobby. After taking a few sips, I hold the water against my neck and just breathe. I can’t keep going off on Theo. It’s not fair to use him as my emotional punching bag—I know what it feels like, everything you say pushing some invisible button in a person you’re just trying to get along with.
He isn’t even getting paid for this shit. And even if he is pushing my buttons, even if his presence does make things awkward sometimes, it’s nice to have some company. It’s particularly nice that said company can ask questions about my past but doesn’t actually know anything about it. I can breathe a little more freely with him, even though he probably thinks I’m an uptight heifer, mostly because even while feeling freer I’m acting like one.
The door from the outside opens and Theo strolls over to the woman at the desk. I watch as he makes goofy small talk, the way she slowly looks away from the computer screen and turns her attention to him. Smiles. Gets drawn into conversation.
It’s not flirtatious, exactly, it’s just Theo. There’s something about his openness that makes you want to let him in.
After a few minutes he strides over and sits down next to me, but I keep my eyes averted since I still feel foolish for storming off.
“Eastern Parkway,” he says.
When I glance at him his gaze backflips away from where condensation is running from the water bottle down into the valley between my breasts. I pull the bottle from against my neck, take a sip, and try not to look smug. Drea was right—this shirt does make them look great.
“They built Eastern Parkway through the Weeksville cemetery,” he says, then moves his hand in a horizontal motion. “Just kind of razed right through it, apparently. Some people left after that. Others left after they started putting the streets onto a grid system, which again meant more razing and change.” He sighs and starts fidgeting with the camera. “And then white—well, white now—immigrants started moving in. So maybe I wasn’t so wrong about it being like our neighborhood. But you were right, too. People don’t just leave en masse for no reason.”