“James.”
“Is he around?”
“He’s alive, yes.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s out. Stumbled some, but he’s out now. Back in D.C., working. Yeah, James is doing good.”
Monroe offered his hand, and Alex shook it.
After Raymond Monroe had left, Alex sat in the quiet of the shop, thinking about the door that had just been opened. Picturing himself walking through it, and wondering what he might find if he did.
Thirteen
Raymond Monroe drove his aging, well-maintained Pontiac out into the County and north on the Boulevard, coming into the retail district, passing the big hardware store and the Safeway, the Greek-owned pizza parlor, and the old gas station where his brother, James, had worked, now self-service, a minimart having replaced the mechanics’ bays. He hooked a left at the end of the strip, before the split in the road, and rolled down the incline, along the B amp;O railroad tracks and into Heathrow Heights.
Adults were getting home from work, and kids were playing in their yards and riding their bikes down the sidewalks as the shadows stretched out in the dying light. Nunzio’s, the local market and country store, had closed long ago and been replaced by two split-level houses, one with turquoise siding. At the bottom of the street, bordering the woods, was the government barrier, painted yellow, telling anyone unfamiliar with the layout that the road had come to an end.
Raymond waved to an old man he knew and, farther along, a girl he’d once kissed down by the basketball court, now a grandmother. He still knew most of the people who lived here. He’d known their parents and now recognized their children. A few Hispanic families had moved into the neighborhood in the past five years, workingmen and women with many kids, but Heathrow was still a black enclave, its people proud of their struggle and history.
Many houses had been improved, and others were in the process of being renovated. There were a couple of homes being built from the foundation up, but the new structures looked to be as modest as the teardowns they were replacing. If folks wanted to flash, they went elsewhere. Many, even those who had markedly improved their standard of living, had chosen to stay in Heathrow Heights.
Rodney Draper, the Monroe brothers’ old friend, was one of those who had never left. Rodney still lived in his late mother’s house, though no longer in its basement. He had a wife and three daughters, one of whom was attending college. Rodney had gone into stereo sales, then major appliances, and had worked his way up in a small operation that became a ten-store chain in the 1990s. He was now the merchandising manager for the company, worked the sixty-hour weeks common to retail, and made a solid if unspectacular living. Raymond passed his house, expanded, well tended, and bright with a fresh coat of white paint. Rodney’s car was not out front. He always seemed to be at work.
Monroe parked in front of his mother’s house, not far from Rodney’s on the street parallel to Heathrow’s main road. This street, too, concluded in a dead end. Dogs, even those who knew his smell, barked at Monroe from the yards of the surrounding houses as he crossed his lawn.
His mother, Almeda, sat in the den of their two-bedroom home. Monroe took her cool arthritic hands in his, bent forward, and kissed her cheek.
“Mama.”
“Ray.” Almeda’s eyes went to the overnight bag he clutched in his hand. “You staying the night?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She was seated in her husband’s old recliner, which Raymond had re-covered himself. Her hair was white, the moles on her scalp visible through the cottony wisps, her thin wrists and forearms prominently veined. She wore a clean floralpattern blouse from Macy’s and black pants with an elastic waistband. She was well into her eighties. The hump in her back was most pronounced when she stood.
Almeda would need professional care soon if she were to live much longer. Raymond was determined to keep her out of a nursing facility. She wasn’t sick, just weak. Money was not an issue. The house was paid for, and Raymond took care of the property taxes and utilities, and performed most of the maintenance. Almeda received modest Social Security benefits, along with a check from the VA, reflecting Ernest’s service in the war. They got along fine. Most of the time, Raymond enjoyed his mother’s company. He liked living here.
Monroe went to the television set and turned down the volume. Almeda was watching Jeopardy, and like most elderly folks, she kept the sound up loud. He sat on the sofa beside her and leaned forward so she could hear him clearly.
“Something troubling you, son?”
“Not at all.”
“It’s nothing to do with Kenji, is it? Have you heard from him?”
“I haven’t. He’s busy, is all it is. Out on those patrols he goes on. I’m sure he’s fine.”
“Problems with your girlfriend, then?”
“Nah, Kendall’s good. The both of us, we’re good.”
“Running back and forth between two homes is going to take a toll on your relationship.”
“Trying to kick me out?”
“I’m saying, you might as well move in with her. Get a minister, have a ceremony. Do right by her and her son.”
“I might. If they’ll have me.”
“Who wouldn’t?” said Almeda. “Fine man like you.”
“Listen, Mama…”
“What is it?”
“I visited a man today. One of the white boys in the incident, back in seventy-two.”
The incident. All involved had always called it that. Almeda’s shoulders slumped as she sat back in her chair.
“Which boy?” she said.
“The one Charles Baker hurt.”
Almeda folded her hands in her lap. “How did you find him?”
“I ran into him at Walter Reed. Alex Pappas. I recognized his name and put it together with his face.”
Almeda nodded. “And how has life turned out for him?”
“He was at the hospital delivering food. He lost a son in Iraq.”
“Awful,” she said.
“He owns a diner downtown. He carries the scar Charles gave him, but other than that, I don’t know much about him. I didn’t stay with him long enough to find out. He was uncomfortable, like anyone would be. I came up on him quick.”
“What did you see in his eyes?”
“I saw good.”
“Why, Raymond? Why would you seek him out?”
“I had to,” said Monroe.
Almeda offered her hand. He took it, a tiny tangle of bones.
“I suppose I understand,” she said.
“Couldn’t be an accident that I crossed paths with him. I pray at night for my son, knowing that I’m still unclean inside. I can’t be like that anymore.”
“Will you talk to this man again?”
“I left the door open. It’s on him now.”
“You should include your brother if the man wants to take it further.”
“I plan to.”
“It was him who suffered most.”
