When No One Is Watching(57)
My stomach twists.
“We’re here because the rightful owner of this land has reclaimed it from illegal usage,” one of the officers says. He’s wearing the same reflective aviator lenses Drew the Uber driver sported and sweat is beading up on the pink skin of his face—the garden is in direct sunlight at this time of day.
“The rightful owner?” I repeat. “This lot had no owner that could be traced. My mother checked several times. It had become a dumping ground and the city gave my mother a deed because she cleaned it up, made it better. The city said—”
“The city is not the owner,” the man with the lock says, slipping the key into his pocket as he saunters up. He has the face of a guy who would stand behind you on the subway and accidentally brush against your ass every other time the train took a sharp turn. “I’m the owner. I tracked down the relatives of the woman who originally owned this lot, and I bought it from them.”
“No. That doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” the man says. “You people just decided you could do whatever you wanted, without the guarantee of the law. I have the guarantee of the law.”
“I have a deed,” I say, the pressure in my head increasing. I’m not smart enough to be scared in this moment as he smiles smugly at me, his gaze flicking to the police officers.
This isn’t a ten-dollar bill.
It’s my mother’s garden.
Rage, pure rage, pulls my shoulders back and forces me to take a step closer and look down at this man. “Show me the proof of what you said.”
“I don’t have to show you anything,” he replies, amused.
I turn to the officers, not expecting help but having no other recourse. I cannot let this garden be taken. It’s the cornerstone of everything I have left.
“Please. This has been our community garden for years. There are trees. Do you know how long it takes a tree to grow? Please tell him he can’t do this.”
“Just show her the deed,” one of the cops says, though he doesn’t seem moved. “If you don’t, we’re gonna have a bunch of these people getting angry and I don’t feel like doing any paperwork before Labor Day weekend.”
The guy smiles and hands me a paper that was folded up in his back pocket. It’s a smudgy photocopy that supposedly shows proof of land purchase for five thousand dollars by 24 Gifford Place Real Estate Management, from . . .
“I can’t even read these names,” I say, the copy crinkling in my hand. “Who approved this?”
“The Brooklyn housing authority.”
My gaze fixes on the amount paid and any composure I had evaporates.
“Only five thousand? Do you think I’m fucking stupid? I could whip up something better in Photoshop.” My voice is rising but I can’t help it. He’s just here trying to take everything. Everything. No. “I could find out where you live, make a fake deed and say it’s mine, if that’s how this works. You wanna wake up and find me in your damn living room with my feet on the couch? This is bullshit.”
The man’s smug patience suddenly snaps, and he lunges toward my face until his nose is almost up against mine. “Look, bitch, I don’t want any problems from you. The lot is ours. If you wanna fuck with us, if you wanna try to hold things up, you’re gonna regret it. I will make you fucking regret it.”
“Bitch?” My face is hot, and I reflexively pull my braids back into a ponytail with the hair tie on my wrist in one smooth motion. “Who are you calling a bitch?”
“What are you gonna do, bitch? Hit me?” He lifts his face toward mine so his nasty breath blows in my face. His eyes are flashing with an anger disproportionate to the fact that he’s the one who started this shit. “Try it. Try it. I’ll have your ass locked up so fast your fucking head will spin.”
“Officer, sir, are you going to let this man threaten her like that, sir?” Len asks, distress in his voice. The officer looks in his direction and takes a step toward him.
“Officer!” I call out, and his attention shifts back to me. “Officer, please. At least let us get our things. This is some kind of misunderstanding, but until it’s resolved, let us please just get our equipment and whatever we have—”
“No,” the man says from behind them. “No entry to the property.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” the officer says, shrugging with a slight grin. “I have to adhere to the property owner’s wishes.”
The second officer turns to the crowd and starts shouting. “Everybody disperse! You, put that phone away! Nothing to see here! Nothing to see here!”
“But—”
Behind him, two of the men inside start pulling up plants. The others start piling up gloves and buckets and gardening tools, overturning the wooden benches Mr. Perkins and some of the other neighbors made at the beginning of the summer to replace the old rotten ones.
“Why?” I croak out. “Why are you doing this?”
“Ma’am, are we going to have a problem?” The second officer rests his hand on his holster and my stomach turns.
Yes! I want to scream. I want to scream until my throat is raw and bleeding. Instead, I stand there silent and shivering even though it’s so hot that my shirt is soaked through with sweat. I’ve failed my mother again. I imagine her face when we toured the retirement home, how she’d looked at me and said, “You know you’re going to have to take over the garden for me if I come here, right? You better watch some YouTube videos so you don’t kill my plants.”