«An hour. I’ll see you then.»
Aunt Mabel lived in a suburb outside Newark. West Orange was one of those «changing» suburbs, the percentage of white families sinking bit by bit. It was the spreading effect. Minorities scratched their way out of the city and into the nearest suburbs; the whites then wanted out of said suburbs and moved still farther away from the city. In real estate terms this was known as progress.
Still, Mabel’s tree-lined avenue seemed a zillion light-years from the urban blight that Horace called home. Myron knew the town of West Orange well. His own hometown of Livingston bordered it. Livingston too was starting to change. When Myron was in high school, the town had been white. Very white. Snow white. It had been so white that of the six hundred kids in Myron’s graduating class, only one was black – and he was on the swim team. Can’t get much whiter than that.
The house was a one-level structure – fancier folks might call it a ranch – the kind of place that probably had three bedrooms, one and a half baths, and a finished basement with a used pool table. Myron parked his Ford Taurus in the driveway.
Mabel Edwards was probably late forties, maybe younger. She was a big woman with a fleshy face, loosely curled hair, and a dress that looked like old drapes. When she opened the door, she gave Myron a smile that turned her ordinary features into something almost celestial. A pair of half-moon reading glasses hung from a chain, resting on her enormous chest. There was a puffiness in her right eye, remnants of a contusion maybe. She gripped some sort of knitting project in her hand.
«Goodness me,» she said. «Myron Bolitar. Come in.»
Myron followed her inside. The house had the stale smell of a grandparent. When you’re a kid, the smell gives you the creeps; when you’re an adult, you want to bottle it and let it out with a cup of cocoa on a bad day.
«I put coffee on, Myron. Would you like some?»
«That would be nice, thank you.»
«Sit down over there. I’ll be right back.»
Myron grabbed a seat on a stiff sofa with a flowered print. For some reason he put his hands in his lap. As if he were waiting for a schoolteacher. Myron glanced about. There were African sculptures made of wood on the coffee table. The fireplace mantel was lined with family photographs. Almost all of them featured a young man who looked vaguely familiar. Mabel Edwards’s son, he guessed. It was the standard parental shrine – that is, you could follow the offspring’s life from infancy through adulthood with the images in these frames. There was a baby photo, those school portraits with the rainbow background, a big Afro playing basketball, a tuxedo-and-date prom, a couple of graduations, blah, blah, blah. Corny, yes, but these photomontages always touched Myron, exploiting his overtuned sensitivity like a sappy Hallmark commercial.
Mabel Edwards came back into the living room with a tray. «We met once before,» she said.
Myron nodded, trying to remember. Something played along the edges, but it wouldn’t come into focus.
«You were in high school.» She handed him a cup on a saucer. Then she pushed the tray with cream and sugar toward him. «Horace took me to one of your games. You were playing Shabazz.»
It came back to Myron. Junior year, the Essex County tournament. Shabazz was short for Malcolm X Shabazz High School of Newark. The school had no whites. Its starting five featured guys named Rhahim and Khalid. Even back then Shabazz High had been surrounded by a barbwire fence with a sign that read
GUARD DOGS ON DUTY.
Guard dogs at a high school. Think about it.
«I remember,» Myron said.
Mabel burst into a short laugh. When she did, every part of her jiggled. «Funniest thing I ever saw,» she said. «All these pale boys walking in scared out of their wits, eyes as big as saucers. You were the only one at home, Myron.»
«That’s because of your brother.»
She shook her head. «Horace said you were the best he ever worked with. He said nothing would have stopped you from being great.» She leaned forward. «You two had something special, didn’t you?»
«Yes, ma’am.»
«Horace loved you, Myron. Talked about you all the time. When you got drafted, I tell you, it was the happiest I’d seen him in years. You called him, right?»
«As soon as I heard.»
«I remember. He came over and told me all about it.» Her voice was wistful. She paused and adjusted herself in the seat. «And when you got hurt, well, Horace cried. Big, tough man came to this house and sat right where you are now, Myron, and he cried like a little baby.»
Myron said nothing.
«You want to know something else?» Mabel continued. She took a sip of her coffee. Myron held his cup, but he could not move. He managed a nod.
«When you tried that comeback last year, Horace was so worried. He wanted to call you, talk you out of it.»
Myron’s voice was thick. «So why didn’t he?»
Mabel Edwards gave him a gentle smile. «When was the last time you spoke to Horace?»
«That phone call,» Myron said. «Right after the draft.»
She nodded as though that explained everything. «I think Horace knew you were hurting,» she said. «I think he figured you’d call when you were ready.»
Myron felt something well up in his eyes. Regrets and could-have-beens tried to sneak in, but he shoved them away. No time for this now. He blinked a few times and put the coffee to his lips. After he had taken a sip, he asked, «Have you seen Horace lately?»
She put her cup down slowly and studied his face. «Why do you want to know?»
«He hasn’t shown up for work. Brenda hasn’t seen him.»
«I understand that,» Mabel continued, her voice set on caution now, «but what’s your interest in this?»
«I want to help.»
«Help what?»
«Find him.»
Mabel Edwards waited a beat. «Don’t take this the wrong way, Myron,» she said, «but how does this concern you?»
«I’m trying to help Brenda.»
She stiffened slightly. «Brenda?». «Yes, ma’am.»
«Do you know she got a court order to keep her father away from her?»
«Yes.»
Mabel Edwards slipped on the half-moon glasses and picked up her knitting. The needles began to dance. «I think maybe you should stay out of this, Myron.»
«Then you know where he is?»
She shook her head. «I didn’t say that.»
«Brenda is in danger, Mrs. Edwards. Horace might be connected.»
The knitting needles stopped short. «You think Horace would hurt his own daughter?» Her voice was a little sharp now.
«No, but there might be a connection. Somebody broke into Horace’s apartment. He packed a bag and cleared out his bank account. I think he may be in trouble.»
The needles started again. «If he is in trouble,» she said, «maybe it’s best that he stay hid.»
«Tell me where he is, Mrs. Edwards. I’d like to help.»
She stayed silent for a long time. She pulled at the yarn and kept knitting. Myron looked around the room. His eyes found the photographs again. He stood and studied them.
«Is this your son?» he asked.
She looked up over her glasses. «That’s Terence. I got married when I was seventeen, and Roland and I were blessed with him a year later.» The needles picked up speed. «Roland died when Terence was a baby. Shot on the front stoop of our home.»
«I’m sorry,» Myron said.
She shrugged, managed a sad smile. «Terence is the first college graduate in our family. That’s his wife on
