Of Things Unseen Read online

  It took us close to a year to find our house, which isn’t unusual, but in our case, it was because we had specific criteria with which our realtor wasn’t familiar. Well, Tony did, anyway. The neighborhood needed to be majority black and the surrounding community had to have all the amenities we liked. Simple things that others take for granted in their neighborhoods, like grocery stores, thriving shopping centers, and restaurants. Tony made it clear that by picking a black neighborhood, we would likely be making a tradeoff when it came to the school systems but it was worth it to us. Neither of us had attended majority white schools growing up and we didn’t want that for our kids either. Thankfully the schools in our district are still okay. For now.

  “Do you remember how to get there?” I asked him.

  “I think so. We’re close, right?”

  “Mm-hm, about five more minutes and then make a left on Manns Pass.”

  The images passing by my window were haunting. Pawn shops here, liquor stores there. Fast food, but no whole food. Big chain grocery stores with second-rate produce and prices that were a little bit higher than they were on the north side, but not high enough for the average shopper to notice. Such a fall-off. It was so unfair.

  I took a sip of water and stared. My eye for detail was a blessing and a curse. The curbs in front of the shopping plazas were bordered with tall, jagged wisps of grass and insolent weeds, overgrown and long forgotten. It was something most wouldn’t notice, but I saw it clearly. It contributed to the overall blighted look of the area, but the businesses didn’t seem to care.

  Growing up, I’d always hated how the closest good mall was at least half an hour away. Sure, we had South Harriston mall nearby but everyone knew it was low-rent and rundown and smelled of greasy General Tso’s and had only one anchor store and a bunch of tiny shops that sold oils and Payless shoes and cheap church hats. We went there to meet boys and be seen, not to buy anything good. It wasn’t always like that but by the time I was a smart-mouthed teenager with allowance to burn, the good stores had closed.

  Tony had explained it to me the first time I took him to meet my mother. He’s a historian who studies African American migration patterns. He’s always been self-conscious about his work because academia isn’t all that friendly to black scholars, especially those who study black folks. But with me, he felt free to ramble on and on about what he did. I was happy to listen. I found it fascinating.

  He had gone on at length about the history of black suburbs and why most eventually depreciate in value, tossing around official-sounding words like residential segregation, redlining, economic disinvestment, unfavorable zoning practices, and some others I couldn’t remember. He’d also talked about the laws that governed discriminatory housing practices; they had changed for the better, sure, but they left the specter of racism behind, and it continues to hover over black neighborhoods. You can’t see it at work, but it’s always around, an invisible hand molding your environment into something that’s profitable for its owners without any regard for you, the one who has to live in it every day. How do you fight an enemy you can’t see?

  We pulled into the driveway, rolling over its well-worn cracks and grooves, and I had a flashback of the chalk from my hopscotch games and footprints from the neighborhood dance contests, remnants of a fun and carefree childhood. That all changed, the carefree feeling, after that summer. I wrote on the sand and watched the tide come in. It worked this time.

  Our Lexus came to a stop right on top of the big oil stain, a memento Andre’s old Camaro had left behind many years before. The trees surrounding our old brick house had gotten taller and more intimidating over the years. They loomed large, and I craned my neck to see the tops.

  Tony walked around and opened my door. “You ready?”

  I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’m ready.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.” Another lie, but I was tired of talking about how I felt.

  I surveyed my surroundings. Mr. Miller’s house next door still looked nice, and that wasn’t surprising because he had always been the Mr. Fix-it of the block. He had repaved our driveway once and even fixed his own roof after Hurricane Opal sideswiped us. For years, not a day went by when we didn’t see or hear him working. His wife passed away about six years ago, right around the time me and Tony got married. My mother said he hadn’t been the same since.

  The other homes on the street hadn’t held up as well as Mr. Miller’s. Faded shutters adorned most of them, and missing shingles created a winking effect on some of the homes. Bent blinds on windows made it seem as if someone was standing there, peeking out. Watching us.

  The neighborhood had once been so vibrant, where now it just seemed quiet and still. But it was an unsettling quiet as if its boisterous, playful children had been plucked out of thin air. We hadn’t, of course. We had grown up, moved away, gone to college or work, and for a few, jail or the cemetery. But the absence was palpable. Heavy. Almost creepy in its corporeality.

  I was around four or five when we first moved here. Our family was the 13th family to move in, and the sixth black family. The homes were new construction, beautiful four-sided brick homes with small lawns and big bay windows. We moved in on a Sunday, after church of course, in the middle of March. The unfinished homes in the rest of the neighborhood always reminded me of skeletons, with their bare bones and hollow wood structures. By the end of that year, the subdivision was completed and all but one of the white families had moved.

  My mother preferred it that way. She’d spent the years following her divorce holed up in a small apartment with three children, and the judgment she’d received from the white families in the complex had made her bitter. It must have come as quite a shock to her when some of the folks in our new neighborhood were just as judgmental. I once heard her remark to my aunt Sharon that being divorced gave her “credit” in the eyes of the Buppies we lived around. There was only one other single mother on our block and she had two adopted daughters. She probably got the same credit. It’s too bad judgment didn’t put money in the bank; those Buppies were up there in age now and most were barely getting by.

  Tony rang the doorbell and my mother opened the door immediately. She had been in the window. Of course. “Oh my gosh, welcome! It’s so good to see you two!” she said as she grabbed me in a polite hug.” I couldn’t resist smelling her hair. She still used pink oil.

  “Mom, it’s good to see you too. Happy Mother’s Day,” I said as we stepped inside.

  She hugged Tony, but it was a less affectionate hug. Stiff, but cordial. “Dr. Johnston, so good to see you again,” she joked, and Tony let out a monotone chuckle.

  “Mom, I told you not to call him that. He doesn’t like that.”

  Sheila gave a little head shake. “He knows I’m just playing with him. Lighten up!” She smiled warmly at Tony and he smiled back. “It’s fine,” he said. “Happy Mother’s Day, Sheila.”

  I handed her a bouquet of pink roses and a card. My horrible experiences with picking gifts led me to become one of those evil gift card people. Sheila buried her face in the roses, inhaling their fragrance. “These are beautiful. Thank you,” she said with a smile.

  The decor hadn’t changed a bit. Gold and brown everywhere. Black folks loved gold and brown. “Mom, do you think you’ll ever redecorate?”

  She frowned at me. “Why, what’s wrong with my decor?”

  “Oh, nothing, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just you haven’t changed it since we all left.”

  “I like it how it is. If you don’t like it you’re welcome to pay for a remodel,” she said with a smile.

  I was annoyed already.

  “Come on in the family room and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll get the coffee.”

  I spotted a familiar photograph on the end table next to the couch. “Oh my God, why do you still have this picture out? Last time I was here I told you you could throw it away.” It was Jamal, my first real boyfriend,
styling with his S-curl, white tuxedo, and matching cane. I wasn’t much better in my slinky black sequined dress. Bright pink lipstick and brown lip liner coated my lips and six-inch high freeze curls sprouted from the top of my head. Dear God, we were tacky.

  “Please, you know I keep everything,” she said as she handed Tony his coffee. “You don’t mind, right Tony?”

  “I’m ain’t worried about him,” he said, handsome and cocky.

  Sheila laughed and shot me an I-told-you-so look before recoiling. “Oh no, what happened to your makeup?” she asked, staring at my face as if it was her first time actually seeing me.

  “I’m not wearing any,” I responded.

  “Hmm, okay,” she said pointedly. She was bothered, as she had always been when I didn’t put in any effort. She had taught me all about makeup when I was thirteen and would remind me every morning before school to put on my lip gloss and clear mascara. I eventually grew to love and appreciate cosmetics but I didn’t want her to know that.

  “So what’s new with you two?”

  Tony looked at me in deference and I rolled my eyes back at him. “Nothing much with me.”

  “Nothing?” she asked.

  “Nope, nothing.”

  Sheila raised an eyebrow. “What about...your illness? Are you still dealing with that?”

  Great. I picked at my cuticles and looked at Tony for help but he was engrossed in his coffee. He had never stirred so intently in his life. “Yep, still dealing with it. Remember how I told you there’s no cure?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  Then why did you ask?

  “Have you prayed about that? Because my God can heal anything. I’ve been praying for you but you have to pray on your own behalf too,” she said. “What’s it called? Fiber...Fibric—”

  “Fibromyalgia.”

  “Right. You need to claim your healing in the name of Jesus.” She looked at Tony. “It works, right Tony?”

  He chuckled and avoided eye contact. “If you say so.”

  I took a deep breath and counted to five. “I’ve prayed about it.” I should have counted to twenty.

  “Good, good.” We sat in silence for a moment, but I knew more was coming. Sure enough... “But are you praying every night?” She raised her eyes quizzically as though she was actually waiting for an answer. I should have counted to fifty.

  “Not every night but I pray about it a lot. Can we just leave it at that?”

  Sheila opened her mouth, then closed it quickly. It was for the best. You can’t argue with your mother on the consecrated day for mothers.

  The front door opened just then and a familiar voice rang out. “Ma!” it called from the front hall. Deep, hoarse, and gravelly from years of smoking. It was Andre.

  “We’re in here, Dre!” called Sheila. I was surprised she didn’t jump right up and run over to the door to greet her baby boy, overgrown man-child that he was. Tony put his coffee cup on the table, probably relieved he could stop pretending to drink it. We stood in anticipation of the reunion.

  It was our first time seeing Andre in a long time but I hadn’t missed him. Val and the boys were everything to me but I could take or leave my brother.

  “Hey little sis, what’s good?” he asked me as he came in for a hug. I hugged him back gingerly, not really wanting to touch him, and turned my head slightly to avoid the smell of weed. It encased him like a cartoon cloud. “Hey, Andre. It’s good to see you. Where’s Val and the boys?”

  “Oh, they’re coming. I brought the bags in first cuz Zay is knocked out.” He turned to Tony. “What’s up man, how you doing?” They did the man hug with the clasped fists in the middle, taking great care to maintain the manly social distance between them.

  “Good to see you man, you look good,” Tony said. And it was true, Andre did look good, especially compared to the last time we’d seen him. He had been scarily skinny at Corey’s fourth birthday party and his frequent disappearances had been unnerving. He could barely hold his head up when the cake came out. It was shameful.

  But there was no trace of that man today. He was at least 30 pounds heavier and his eyes were bright white, not the dull yellow they had been back then. His lips were still stained dark gray and his skin was much too wrinkled for a man his age, but he seemed to be doing better. It was a relief. Maybe it meant things were looking up for Val.

  “You need some help getting everybody inside?” Tony asked. Ever the gentleman, but I knew he was really looking for an escape. He was always more comfortable when other men were around. He would sooner carry Val and the boys into the house on his back than sit another minute with me and my mother.

  “Nah man, I’m good. I’ll be right back,” said Andre as he turned back toward the front of the house. Tony stepped outside anyway, and I turned back to my mother and smiled, genuinely happy. “I can’t wait to see the boys.” Sheila perked right up. “Oh my God, they are the cutest little boys you ever did see. And so smart!”

  Unlike their father.

  I saw Val and her large pregnant belly before the boys. “Val! Happy Mother’s Day! Oh my goodness, how far along are you now?” I asked, rushing over to hug my sister-in-law.

  Val laughed. “Just six months along. Tamara, I missed you so much!” she said as we embraced affectionately. She and Tony were the only ones in my family who called me Ta-MAR-a. Everyone else called me TAM-ra. To be fair, the latter is how my name is supposed to be pronounced.

  Long story short, I envied my friends when I was younger because most of them had names like Lakisha, Fatima, Shamika, Diante, and the like. Good, complicated African American names with the emphasis on the second syllable. My given name sounded bland to my ears, so sometime during fifth grade, I changed it. It only took a few months to stick, too, and when it did, I felt like I belonged. But my family thought I was full of it and has refused, for over 20 years now, to honor my wishes.

  Val and I hugged a long time, rocking side to side.

  “I missed you too,” I told her. Like Nikki, Valencia Satterwhite was like a sister to me. She had been a sophomore in college when she met Andre, who was 15 years her senior. When he brought her home to meet the family, I was immediately struck by her sweetness. She was absolutely adorable, all dimples and bouncy reddish-brown hair and a full-lipped smile she constantly flashed at everyone. It annoyed me that she would bother dating a man like Andre but she was clearly smitten with him.

  The biology major had made it to the first semester of her junior year and was looking into nursing programs when she became pregnant, and what should have been an uneventful pregnancy for a healthy 21-year-old woman was marked by severe morning sickness. I cried when Val withdrew from school, but there was nothing to be done about it. The girl was violently ill every day. The thing is, I’ve seen far too many promising futures derailed by surprise pregnancies, although how surprising could it really be if you’re having unprotected sex? Val was a biology major, for God’s sake. She should have known better.

  But it didn’t matter now. “You still haven’t given me a date for the shower,” I reminded her.

  “T, I told you, you don’t have to do that!”

  “I know, but I want to.” Because lord knows we couldn’t rely on her family to do it. The last time we were all together was their wedding day and it was...eventful. Andre showed up late, his best man showed up high, they ran out of food halfway through the reception, and the DJ cursed every time he was on the microphone. My mother and I had our noses turned up the whole night and one of Val’s cousins on her white side called me an uppity bitch. Nikki was ready to fight but it didn’t bother me. I’ve never had any quarrel with the truth.

  As far as I was concerned, Val was my sister and I was planning the most uppity shower I could on my budget. Despite the friction, I was happy to invite her family. Maybe they would learn something.

  “Okay,” Val said. “If you really want to then okay. Any time next month is fine.”

  “Yay, I’m so excited! I
already have some stuff in mind.”

  “Oh, I know you. Everything’s already done, right?” she asked with a laugh. She knew me well.

  The truth of the matter was this: whether there was a shower or not, the rest of us were going to be buying what she needed because my brother was unreliable. He had been in and out of jail for years.

  I thought he would get his act together after he married Val, and he did. For a time. But by the time Corey was two, he was back in jail. It was the drugs that time, upsetting but not at all surprising.

  My mom and I both stepped in to help Val out with money, but the emotional toll of Andre’s incarceration was worse on her than the financial. I had wanted desperately to tell her to leave him, and that it would only get worse from there, but I kept my thoughts to myself. I didn’t want to lose Val’s friendship, and besides, it would have been an exercise in futility. Women never leave their husbands on the say-so of other women.

  I finally convinced Val to go back to school and at least finish her undergraduate degree, promising her assistance with childcare. She agreed but Andre was released from prison shortly before the semester started. They quickly got pregnant again, at which point I threw up my hands. I couldn’t want more for her than she wanted for herself. Besides, she really did seem happy with her family.

  Val looked around. “Where’s Erica?”

  Sheila walked up and put her hand on Val’s protruding belly. “She’s on the way. You know her, always late. Come sit, let me get you some food.”

  “Don’t you start fussing over me, Mama,” said Val, and I felt the tiniest pang of jealousy.

  “Girl ain’t nobody thinking about you. I’m thinking about my grandbaby. Go sit down,” said Sheila with a laugh.

  The door opened again and Andre jumped up. It was Erica. The two hugged and laughed in the doorway. They were close, way closer than either of them had ever been to me, but I was fine with that. Not much to be done about it now. Besides, I had no desire to be any closer to Andre. Not after everything he’d put me through.