“How long has he been gone?”
“A little over a week. I tried calling him and everything. I can’t get ahold of him.”
“Do you know where he could’ve gone?”
“Don’t you think if I knew that it would be because I actually spoke to him?”
“Point taken. I can’t believe he just up and left.”
“Wherever he is, he’s probably with his mistress now. They probably rode off into the sunset, as they say.”
“Mistress?”
Valerie squinted. “How old are you, girl?”
“Forty.”
“Exactly!” Valerie interrupted. “You full grown. If a woman told you her husband left, what you think he done did? Vanished into thin air? Come on, now. You were legally an adult when you laid up in here for months; you ain’t stupid. I know you saw or heard him creep down the steps several times a week.”
“Oh,” Amara said. Valerie was right. Amara immediately recalled the times when Landon would leave at night and wouldn’t return till morning, a detail that she’d thought nothing of when she’d stayed with them, but now his affair became clear.
“Do you understand where I’m coming from?” Valerie asked.
“I do.”
“Now, is there anything else you need to ask me? Because please believe the boys in blue out there already tried.”
“No. That’s it.”
Amara left Valerie’s home and saw Officer Evans leaning against the side of his cop car. She approached him and said, “So it was you who’s been here this whole time. I couldn’t hardly see you. What are you doing here?”
“Come take a ride with me. I’ll explain.”
Amara and Officer Evans took seats at the table in the farthest corner on the second floor of Amy Ruth’s. At Sylvia’s, they would have drawn more attention to themselves, and anywhere on or around West 125th and Lenox they would have as well. The waiter brought out two glasses of water with lemon wedges and corn bread with butter to start. As Amara combed through the menu of plates named after Black celebrities, she sensed Officer Evans’s eyes on her. To break the awkward silence, she looked up and asked, “You know what you want?”
“The Nate Robinson with a side of potato salad and collard greens,” Officer Evans said. “The usual. I come here a lot.”
“Enough small talk. You said you wanted to talk business while on the ride here but wouldn’t say a word. So what is it?”
“I know you’ve heard about Robert Epelbaum’s wife, haven’t you?”
“Yeah. Tragic, huh?”
“Yeah, very tragic. Well, no sooner after his wife died did I get a tip from my colleagues about the Melancons again and their activity, and apparently said tip came from Robert. Now, how would he know anything about them like that?”
Amara took a moment to think and finally said, “They rejected him.”
“Boom. He talked about the interior of the brownstone, what they served him when he went there, Landon—”
“Landon?” Amara and Officer Evans stared at each other before she said a long-drawn-out “Fuck.” She placed her face in her hands and said, “I don’t believe this. That’s just incredible.”
“Believe it.”
“So that’s why you were outside Landon’s place?”
“Yeah, and seeing as how he skipped town, that makes him look even more guilty. Amara, we got ’em. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”
Amara took a bite of her corn bread and dabbed at the sides of her mouth with her napkin.
“So what do we do?”
“Keep watching them. Following them. We know how they move and where they are.”
“They don’t move much, though. They don’t have the bodega anymore.”
“Ah, but there is one place.”
“Where?”
Officer Evans grinned and leaned forward. “Blessed Waters Doulas.”
“Blessed Waters Doulas?”
“Mm-hmm. Some of the Melancon women have been seen there. It’s very connected to the community. Very leftist-heavy, pro-Black women.”
“And you do realize those are the same people who can’t stand me right now, right?”
“But money talks. You have your donations, yes?”
“Yes, but . . .” Amara stopped herself. An idea came to her like a flash of lightning. She didn’t have to say a word. Her mouth opened in awe at the clarity of what Officer Evans was insinuating, and she rubbed her hands together with excitement over how the plan was coming together.
25
After Hallow felt the water beads on her forehead on the ground floor, she waited for someone, anyone, to complain about how badly the brownstone was deteriorating. She stared out her bedroom window to see if a repairman would come walking through the gates, waiting to see if Maman had appointed one to fix another thing like she used to do. But no one came besides the neighbors, who walked past and scaled the brownstone with their eyes. Not too long after Hallow saw the leaks, the smell began to disturb her nose and stomach. The faint mildew smell amplified into a deeply entrenched funk, and there was no diffuser or spray that could get rid of it.
So Hallow took matters into her own hands and found the names of some construction companies in one of the kitchen drawers. Once she was able to get one on the line, she urged them to come as soon as they could. For long stretches of days, they replaced parts of the ceilings and inspected the roof for any flimsiness before they removed their glasses and told her that that was the best that they could do. She didn’t feel the beads upon her brow anymore, but there were noticeable bubbles in the ceiling that were a shade darker than other areas that she assumed to be dry. To see if the changes were amenable overall, Hallow knocked on both Josephine’s and Maman’s doors, but no one would open. Josephine cried for her to go away, and Maman croaked that she didn’t want to be bothered.
And then one day, Hallow heard a firm knock on the front door and opened it to see a white man in a navy-blue uniform.
“Can I help you?”
“Are you the owner?”
“No.”
“May we speak to the owner then?” The
