When No One Is Watching(47)

Sydney sighs, then stands. “I’m so sorry that’s happening. Thanks for taking the time to speak with us.”

“Yes! Thank you.” I nod a few times and shove my hands into my pockets.

Kendra hands Sydney the file folder. “We’ll find a way. We always do. I’m excited to come see this tour of yours, though! If you need help with anything else, just call me, okay?”

When we get outside, Sydney stops at the top of the stairs while I keep walking.

“You can go ahead,” she says numbly. She’s looking out at the neighborhood, but not really. Her gaze is unfocused, and the dark circles smudged beneath her eyes seem even deeper.

“Did you forget something? I can wait.” I shouldn’t be worried about her. Especially when I need to figure out where I’m going to be living instead of playing historian.

She shakes her head. “You’re off the clock. See you later.”

“I can—”

Her gaze lifts to meet mine, and when they connect, I see the woman I caught glimpses of through the window over the last few months, the woman who radiated a despair that made my own problems look like nothing, but would slap on a smile when she stepped outside her front door.

“Theo, do you know how many people have told me they’re being forced out of their home, job, church, whatever, in just the last few days alone? Wait, don’t guess. Don’t.” Sydney’s chest rises slowly, then falls. “The shitty part of all this research is that it’s like . . . finding all these instances of people burying land mines in the past, finding them right as they’re blowing up under our feet in the here and now. This isn’t about you. I just need to be alone.”

“I understand. Thanks for breakfast,” I say. I want to add something else, something that will make her feel better, but I can’t even help myself in that department.

I walk off, Kendra Hill’s words echoing in my mind. Sydney’s mom has both a house and the garden plot, so she’s not in a bad position, but the situation overall is sobering. Even if she stays, the people she knows are leaving one by one.

I never lived in one place for too long as a kid. I’ve never had lifelong neighbors and friends. Sydney’s losing all of that, and in return she gets people like Kim, and Josie, and Terry, who either ignore the people who’ve lived here forever or think they’re plotting against them.

I think back to the process of buying our house, which had seemed so arduous and overwhelming at the time. In retrospect, everything had worked out easily. The realtors had been eager for us to move in, and the bank had preapproved a loan that we didn’t even need.

No one had second-guessed whether we belonged or were a good investment. The realtors had talked about how we were part of a wave of new people coming in to enrich the neighborhood, make it better and more valuable, without knowing a damn thing about us.

No, that’s not true. The realtors had known one thing, that I was starting to see was more important than I’d realized.

Us.

Them.





Gifford Place OurHood post by Jenn Lithwick:

Hey everyone, I know things have been pretty somber, but are we still having the block party this weekend? I’ve been calling Mr. Perkins, but he seems to still be out of town.

Candace Tompkins: The block party is still on. Nothing short of the second coming could stop it.

Josie Ulnar: Fantastic! I’ll be making the potato salad. I’m using this recipe I’ve been looking forward to trying. Link: Carly’s Raisin-tastic Potato Salad.

Fitzroy Sweeney: Frightening!

Derek James:





Chapter 12

Sydney

THE TIGHTNESS IN MY CHEST DOESN’T LOOSEN AFTER THEO leaves. It doesn’t as I walk toward the train station, even though it’s hot enough to feel like I’m in a sauna. Isn’t that shit supposed to relax you? Instead I just feel like I can’t breathe.

I spend three hours of my afternoon in the waiting room of a nonprofit that helps with situations like mine, one I looked up after Ms. Gianetti’s secretary had told me she couldn’t help. The waiting room is packed with people, mostly Black and brown, most sporting either a numbed-out, hopeless expression or one of annoyance. I spend another two hours waiting at the next nonprofit after the first one tells me they can’t help, either. When I finally sit with the poor overworked and harassed advocate, she apologetically tells me I need to come back on Tuesday and to bring my mother with me if possible, or something that shows I have power of attorney.

By the time I get back to Gifford Place, I’m exhausted to the marrow and craving nicotine, alcohol, a few snuggles from the bodega cat—anything to make the shit circling round and round in my head just stop. The block feels off—there are no kids playing in the street. Len, Amber, and LaTasha sit on a stoop, but they look hunched in and sad instead of like kids enjoying the last days of summer. A police car slows as it passes on the street, and maybe I’ve watched too much Animal Planet but it reminds me of a predator scanning a herd, looking for a weak youngster to pick off.

The bodega has its gate down during the evening for the first time ever, maybe, when I stop in front of it. It’s stayed open through nor’easters and hurricanes, through blackouts and water main breaks, and of course now it’s closed. As I stare in annoyed disbelief, I hear a clanking noise coming from the metal cellar door embedded in the sidewalk outside the store. There’s been everything from a number hole to a social club down there over the years, but this isn’t the sound of people gambling or shooting the shit. There’s scraping along with the clanking and then abrupt silence.