“But what about all the harm she’s done? How can she be for us when she’s a part of the carceral state?” another woman asked Hallow.
“Are any of us beyond redemption, though? What if . . .” Hallow took a deep breath. “What if she’s sorry and she’s trying to make amends now? Is that too far of a reach?”
The women who huddled on the sofas and beanbags or sat on the sofa pondered the idea in silence.
Odessa nodded. “Accountability is important. It is.”
Everyone left Blessed Waters with more uncertainty than when they’d first walked in. A significant swath of women said that they would stay home if Amara Danville showed up, and others supported Odessa’s decision, even staying behind to help her figure out how to allocate the donation to what needed the most attention. As for Hallow, she did not return to the brownstone that night. She phoned Helena to see if she might be able to crash with her for a few days to clear her head, and much to her surprise, Helena agreed.
During that time, Amara was in conversation with Odessa over the course of multiple phone calls during which they exchanged information on how her appearance at Blessed Waters would proceed. Odessa requested a detailed breakdown of when Amara was coming and if she’d be accompanied, whether the meeting would be on or off the record, and the granularities of the speech to appeal to potential voters that she prepared. Afterward, Amara phoned Officer Evans to give him the logistics of when the event would take place and how long she would be there to collect intel.
When the day arrived for her to be in Spanish Harlem, she was unsettled by how many police cars were on both sides of the block where Blessed Waters was located. An officer rolled down his window, perturbed, but straightened up once he realized who was staring back at him.
“Excuse me. What is the purpose for all of this?”
The officers in the vehicle looked at each other, then at Amara.
“Hello?” Amara said. “I asked you a question. What is going on here?”
“You gave us the order.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’re supposed to be out here to ask the occupants of that building about their knowledge of the Melancons. Officer Evans conveyed the information to us.”
“But all of these cars? You aren’t busting some drug cartel here.”
“We can’t be too safe.”
“At least turn your fucking lights off, damn.”
The officers begrudgingly contacted Officer Evans through their walkie-talkies and did as commanded. She was beside herself that the officers would get clearance to leave from someone who was beneath her, but she didn’t have the time to argue. When Amara went into that building and up the stairs, Odessa greeted her with a handshake as the women, some twenty to thirty of them, abruptly halted their conversations and watched her. Amara nodded her head and smiled before Odessa walked Amara into the kitchen for a debriefing.
“Thank you again,” Odessa said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Thank you for coming, and for the donation. I know it came from the DA’s office, but I know that it must’ve come from you, since you’re the only one here and you have a campaign on your hands.”
“Oh. Well, you’re welcome. How long have the police been out there? Just today or . . .” Amara asked.
“They’ve been out there for a while.”
“Odessa, before we start, let me ask you a question.”
“Sure.”
“Do you know of the Melancons?”
“Psh. Yes, I’m familiar.”
“Have any of them been in here, by any chance?”
Odessa shook her head. “Not at all. They would have no reason to be. Besides, we’re not exactly big fans of them over here.”
“I see.”
Odessa leaned forward and whispered, “I know, you know.”
“Excuse me?”
“I know what those women did to your aunt years ago. My mother told me. She was one of the people in the crowd that day, and I’m sorry.”
Amara touched the side of her coat pockets that held her index cards scribbled with notes about her speech, in which she planned to cover her time at both Ivies and her current job, but now she found them useless. It was there within those walls, blue like primordial waters, that she suddenly felt protective of everyone in Blessed Waters—maternal, even. Pain revisited her pelvic area, and she cupped her hands over the most afflicted spots. When Odessa suggested tea or a heating pad, Amara calmly declined and stood to her feet. Side by side, the women returned to the main area, where the women shushed each other to a deafening silence. Amara walked up to the podium that had been set up for her at the front of the room near the fireplace. But when she approached that podium, she moved it to the side before grabbing a soft cushion and sitting on the floor with the rest of the attendees. She noted the different degrees of apprehension tinged with exhaustion and rage engraved on these women’s faces, how their bodies leaned slightly from her the farther she moved into the circle. And she deserved it. She closed her eyes and drew back into herself. When she opened her eyes and mouth, again she leaned into the audience.
“I apologize to each and every one of you. I am sorry for the harm that my colleagues have caused you. I am sorry for making you feel as if your concerns as mothers and as Black women have been ignored. I am sorry.” She didn’t want to cry so soon after her apology because she didn’t want anyone to suspect that she was pandering in any way. She lowered her head, and the pain from her pelvic area pierced through her. Was it all worth it? The yearslong thirst for revenge?
The crowd shushed themselves. Amara lifted her head and saw an elderly woman draped in various shades of undulating blue. Her stomach pain intensified, and she yearned for some kind of alcohol to calm her nerves. Amara knew this woman
