I stood at the foot of her bed, typing in a flurry on my phone while the tiny mass under the purple-flowered comforter spoke. “You doing a Starbucks run? I’d kill for a nonfat white mocha, no whip.”
If she hadn’t figured out by now this wasn’t a Starbucks neighborhood, I wasn’t going to break the bad news. “We can get it on the way,” I said. “I’m sure there’s one at a rest stop.”
She sat up. No one should look that good first thing in the morning. “Where are we going?” she said. “Even clubs are closed at this hour.”
“Northgate. There probably won’t be much traffic heading west on the George Washington Bridge, but we should still leave as soon as possible. Waze says it takes only two hours.”
“I have a meeting with a potential partner for the club Freck and I were working on. I’m not going to Pennsylvania,” she said and must’ve seen the true intentions radiating off me like steam. “You’re not either. Calling is bad enough. Going to someone’s house is stalking.”
“I won’t be hiding in the bushes. I spoke to her.”
Erin stared at me for a good minute. “And she invited you to stop by for tea?” She lay back down and pulled the comforter over her head.
“No, for a nonfat white mocha. No whip.” I inhaled. “She hung up. Maybe suggested I stop calling.”
The silence was heavier than she was. I spoke to the lump. “You’ve never done anything that you knew was ridiculous but you just had to do?”
I was two states and two hours away from finally coming face-to-face with Zor-El. The person who’d saved Desiree’s life two years ago and the person who might know who’d taken it last week. I didn’t just want to talk to her. I needed to. Though I knew it wouldn’t bring Desiree back, my life would feel on pause until I knew what had happened. And Karma Dodson was holding the remote.
Erin lowered the covers enough that I could see her face. We locked eyes. “I’ll even drive,” I said.
She looked away. Shook her head.
“You can sleep in the passenger seat,” I said.
Still nothing.
“I’ll have you back for your meeting.”
“You don’t even know what time it is.”
She reached a hand down the side of the bed, pulled that Birkin off the floor, and stuck one manicured hand inside it. She was proof that the old wives’ tale about leaving your purse on the floor was complete BS. “You’ll need to get gas.”
She handed me her key fob.
I quickly washed up, threw on the same clothes I’d worn the day before, and twenty minutes later was on the road. One hundred twenty minutes later I was in Northgate. One hundred twenty-one minutes later I realized my first mistake. Erin’s car. It probably cost more than Northgate’s median property value, even accounting for the immediate deflation when it was driven off the lot. Its sole purpose was to attract attention—one thing I didn’t want. Not at that moment. Not ever.
Northgate looked like the type of place where even the drug dealers were broke. It was all hills and red brick. The houses. The storefronts. Even the converted laundromat on the corner. This little piggy was not happy.
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.