Eyes of the Innocent Page 19

  Yet the two worlds almost never collide. It’s not about race—South Orange is actually thirty-five percent African-American. It’s about caste. The Newark–South Orange line might as well have a sign that says, “Now entering upper middle class.”

  So Tamikah was now a long way from Baxter Terrace. I Googled her address, then clicked on the satellite view. I zoomed in as close as it would go and, I swear, I could see a plastic Santa in one of the neighbors’ yards.

  Then I typed the address into our property-tax database. The house was owned by Ryan and Tamikah Dunwood. It was 2,250 square feet, four bedrooms, one and a half baths, set on a 50-by-150 lot, and assessed at a very nonprojectslike $549,500.

  And it was soon going to be visited by at least one Eagle-Examiner reporter. Maybe two, if the other one ever recovered from a potentially terminal case of Twitter-induced mortification.

  * * *

  After a few more minutes of document snooping on Tamikah Dunwood revealed little more of use or interest, I was revisited by Sweet Thang, who returned from her brief sojourn looking refreshed, considerably less flushed, but chastened.

  “Let’s not talk about it,” she said quickly.

  “Fine with me,” I said, to her visible relief.

  I knew, at some point, we would have to deal with the fallout from my accidental discovery. You didn’t just drop a bomb like that into the middle of an acquaintanceship—let’s not call it a relationship—and expect everything to magically reassemble itself as it had been before. There were now bits and pieces of emotional shrapnel all over the place. Cleaning up the mess could take a while.

  Still, for the time being, it seemed only pragmatic to ignore the eight-hundred-pound tweet in the room.

  “So, moving on,” I said. “It turns out our friend Tamikah lives in South Orange. Would you like to pay her a visit?”

  “Does South Orange mean we can take Walter this time?”

  “Yes,” I said. “South Orange is definitely a more Walter-friendly kind of atmosphere.”

  “I’ll grab my keys.”

  “Meet you out front.”

  Two minutes later, we were waiting for the elevator, staring at the numbers as they ticked toward our floor, stewing in an uncomfortable conversation lag where neither of us knew what to say. It was awkward, but I discovered there were benefits to having Sweet Thang in sheepish mode: it was much quieter.

  We rode down the elevator. In silence. We walked out to the car. In silence. And we made it to South Orange with only the smallest of small talk—a few passing comments about traffic and weather.

  We pulled up outside the house, which appeared to be your basic side-hall colonial with yellow clapboard siding and neatly clipped shrubbery. The driveway was short and led to a detached two-car garage. I could see a hint of a swing set in the backyard.

  I disembarked from Walter’s passenger door. With Sweet Thang trailing, I walked a few paces on a concrete pathway, then up four steps to a small front porch. I rang the doorbell.

  It was answered by, of all things, a white guy. He wore the unofficial business-casual uniform of the greater New York metropolitan area: black shoes, dark charcoal gray pants, light blue button-down shirt.

  I instantly wondered how he and Tamikah met. I was even more curious how the rest of the Dunwoods felt the first time Ryan brought her over for dinner.

  “Hi! Can I help you?” he asked. He said it to me but wasn’t looking at me—he was too busy giving Sweet Thang a thorough up-and-down.

  “Hi, we were hoping to talk to Tamikah Dunwood,” I said.

  He turned and shouted, “Tammy, honey, there are some people at the door for you.”

  Oh. So she was Tammy now. I guess she left Tamikah back in the projects.

  The guy turned his attention back toward Sweet Thang, his eyes shifting busily back and forth between her legs and torso. Then a little girl who was maybe four or five ran up and grabbed his thigh. She was unmistakably mixed race, with the light chocolate skin of a black girl but the straight brown hair of a white one.

  “Daddy, I’m hungry,” she said earnestly.

  “I know you are, sweetie, so why don’t you eat your chicken?”

  “But I’m hungry for brownies.”

  “After you eat your chicken, then you can have brownies,” he said, ever the model of fatherly patience.

  He patted her head as she ran away, gave a “what can you do?” shrug, then cleared out of the way as his wife came to the door.

  “Hi, how are you?” said Tammy/Tamikah in a tone that was friendly but not overly so.

  Instant first impression? It was Clair Huxtable from The Cosby Show. And no, I’m not the kind of white person who thinks any African-American they meet looks like a black celebrity (because, as the whispered saying goes, “they all look alike”). No, Tammy Dunwood really did look like Clair Huxtable.

  She certainly didn’t look like Akilah. I know they had different fathers, but there wasn’t even the slightest resemblance from their shared mother. Tammy was at least half a head taller, and while certainly not overweight, she was more rounded, without all Akilah’s sharp angles. Her hair, also straight—though perhaps straightened—was just below her shoulders.

  She was dressed like she had spent her day in an office cubicle somewhere on the other side of the Hudson River.

  “My name is Carter Ross; this is Lauren McMillan. We’re reporters with the Eagle-Examiner.”

  I waited for her to have that flash of recognition, like she knew why we were here. But it wasn’t forthcoming.

  “Okay?” she said, drawing out the y until it sounded like she was asking a question.

  “We’re working on a story about Akilah,” I said.

  And that’s when I got the reaction, the one that seemed to ask, Oh, Christ, what is it this time? Her face went ashen and her voice dropped an octave.

  “I have two young children and I don’t want them to hear this,” she said in a low voice. “Can we please talk outside?”

  * * *

  She didn’t wait for an answer, just closed the door behind her and folded her arms, mostly for warmth. The temperature was in the thirties and she wore nothing beyond a thin silk sweater over her blouse.

  “What is it?” Tammy asked.

  “Have you seen the stories about her in the paper?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry. We get the New York Times. What stories?”

  Sweet Thang and I shot each other looks. Tammy had no idea what had happened to her two nephews. It seemed impossible: it was in our paper, it was on the local news; even if she did not consume any of those media sources, someone she knew did. Even if her mother hadn’t called her—and, apparently, she hadn’t—wouldn’t her neighbors or coworkers have said something? Then I remembered there was no way for an outsider to know that Tammy Dunwood from South Orange was in any way related to Akilah Harris from Newark.

  Especially if Tammy never mentioned she had a little sister. Or that her real name is Tamikah. Or that she grew up in the hood.

  I considered the best way to break the awful news about her nephews but concluded there was no good way. So I dumped it on her. I dumped it like the big steaming, stinking load it was.

  “There was a fire at your sister’s house Sunday night,” I began. “Your sister wasn’t home, but your nephews were.”

  Tammy’s hand flew to her mouth, but an “Ohgod” escaped before it got there.

  “I’m sorry to say they didn’t make it out,” I said as Tammy’s eyes went misty. “We spent some time with Akilah the morning after the fire, and she told us she was an orphan with no family and had no choice but to leave the children at home alone because she couldn’t find child care.”

  “Oh, Akilah,” Tammy moaned softly.

  “We didn’t know she was making up parts of the story, so my partner here took pity on her and let your sister spend the night,” I said, gesturing to Sweet Thang as I talked about her. “But Akilah ended up running off in the middle of the
night with Lauren’s jewelry.

  “Then we located your mother, who obviously confirmed Akilah wasn’t an orphan,” I continued. “Your mom told us about Akilah’s affair with Windy Byers and about the house he bought for her. She said Akilah might still be in contact with you and gave us your number. We were hoping you could fill in some blanks for us or possibly even help us locate Akilah.”

  The dumping complete, I let Tammy have a moment to sift through it. I glanced over at Sweet Thang, only to become aware she was shooting me a dirty look. I cocked my head quizzically, which only made the look dirtier.

  And then I got it: maybe, possibly, I had been a little brusque. You don’t just waltz into someone’s otherwise fine life, introduce yourself, and then add, oh, by the way, we heard your sister is a big sloppy mess and, oh yeah, you’ve also got two fewer nephews to shop for at Chrismastime.

  Tammy was reeling from the news, more in shock than anything.

  “I … I’m not sure, I … I don’t know…” Tammy began, and I sensed our time on her porch was about to become quite short. But before Tammy could fully get the sentence out of her mouth, Sweet Thang leaped to my rescue.

  “I’m so sorry you had to hear it like this,” she said, shooting me one more disgusted glance. “We thought you already knew. You must be just devastated right now.”

  Tammy turned her attention to Sweet Thang.

  “You … you let … you let my sister stay with you last night?”

  Sweet Thang nodded.

  “It wasn’t a big deal,” she said. “He shouldn’t have told you.”

  “No, it’s just I…”

  Tammy closed her eyes, brought her hands to her temples, and began massaging them. There was some kind of unseen battle going on between her ears. I didn’t know what exactly it was about. But I could tell she wasn’t winning.

  Finally, she looked up at us.

  “The last time my sister and I spoke—this was a week or two ago—she told me she was in danger of losing the house and asked me if she and her boys could come stay with us. And I told her no. Can you believe that? A perfect stranger”—Tammy waved toward Sweet Thang—“was willing to take her in, but her own sister wasn’t.”

  Sweet Thang started rationalizing for her. “In some ways it’s simpler for a stranger. You must have a lot of history with her I don’t have.”

  “Oh, we’ve got history,” Tammy said. “I don’t even want to start talking about that. You’ll be bored to tears, but I’ll be the one crying.”

  “It’s not easy with family,” Sweet Thang said. “Sometimes you’re harder on your own family than you are on a stranger. It’s natural. We judge the people we love a lot harsher.”

  “No, that’s not it. You know what it is? And, I’m sorry, I don’t even know you, but I’m just going to tell you this. What did you say your name was? Laura?”

  “Lauren, yes.”

  “Lauren, here’s how it is when you grow up where I did and then you leave. People back home—my family, everyone—think that because I went to college and live out here now, I must be living in some rich la-la land. Well, you know what? This isn’t Shangri-la. It’s South Orange. My husband and I have two children and we’re struggling to make ends meet just like they do back home, we’re just doing it in a place that doesn’t smell like piss.

  “But anytime someone gets in trouble, it’s always, ‘Go to Tamikah, talk to Tamikah, she’s got money, she’ll help you out.’ But I don’t. And I can’t. I’d have half of Baxter Terrace sleeping in my basement if I didn’t draw that boundary. And even though I know I need to draw it, I still feel guilty.”

  “But you’ve got your own family to worry about,” Sweet Thang countered. “You have to do what’s right for them. I understand that completely.”

  “I bet you understand a lot right now. My sister stole your jewelry. So, congratulations, you’re part of the club now.”

  “It’s nothing, really,” Sweet Thang said. “Honestly.”

  “I still feel terrible about that and … you know what? It’s cold out here. Would you like to come inside?”

  Sweet Thang smiled pleasantly. In less time than it had taken me to completely screw up this interview, she had completely unscrewed it. Like I said, the girl had a gift.

  “That would be delightful,” she said.

  * * *

  Tammy walked inside ahead of us, asked us to sit in the living room, then went into the kitchen for some quick negotiations with Ryan the Devoted Husband with the Wandering Eyes. Within moments, there were excited noises and suddenly two little girls were scrambling into their jackets, rushing past us out the front door. Dad trailed close behind.

  “Cold Stone! Cold Stone!” the younger one sang as she ran out into the driveway for what was obviously an impromptu trip to a nearby Cold Stone Creamery.

  “Bribery,” Tammy explained as she reentered the living room. “I just wanted us to be able to talk without those little ears around. They don’t know about any of this sort of stuff and I want to keep it that way.”

  “How old are they?” Sweet Thang asked.

  “Emma is four and Gracie is six.”

  Which meant they were the same ages as Alonzo and Antoine. They were cousins who lived perhaps three miles apart. Yet their lives could scarcely have been more different.

  “They’re adorable,” Sweet Thang said.

  “They’re also a handful, but thank you,” Tammy said, sitting down and smoothing her pants. “So I think I’ve figured out why you’re here. It’s Windy Byers, isn’t it? I heard about him. You think Akilah has something to do with his disappearance?”

  “We’re not sure,” I said honestly.

  “You don’t think she kidnapped him or something, do you?”

  “No, nothing like that,” I said. “If anything—and this is just a hunch at this point—I think Windy’s wife may be involved. It’s possible she learned about the affair and went out for revenge, burning down Akilah’s house and having her husband killed.”

  Tammy put on a confused face.

  “But why would she do that now? She’s known about the affair for years.”

  “She has?” I asked. Now it was my turn to be confused.

  “Oh, sure. I don’t want to say she condoned it. But Akilah made it sound like she knew about it and was more or less okay with it. Or maybe resigned to it is a better way to say it.”

  “Huh,” I added, ever the eloquent speaker.

  “But, in any event, I don’t even think it matters anymore. They broke up. Or, I should say, Akilah broke it off with Windy. So why would Mrs. Byers go after Akilah now?”

  Why, indeed.

  I stared stupidly around the Dunwoods’ living room for a moment, as if the answers were somehow tucked neatly behind their Pottery Barn furniture. If Windy and Akilah weren’t an item anymore, that might suggest these two events—a bonfire on Littleton Avenue and a kidnapping on Fairmount Avenue—were not connected after all. But if that was the case, why was Akilah running around Newark saying everyone was after her?

  “I’m still trying to sort all this out, and I know you are, too,” I said. “So do you mind if we start at the beginning?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Okay, your mother told us Akilah and Windy met about six or seven years ago, is that right?”

  Tammy looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “That sounds about right,” she said.

  “And, I’m sorry, but I have to ask: what exactly would bring a fifty-something-year-old councilman and a teenaged girl from the projects together anyway?”

  “I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve asked myself that same question,” she said. “I think for her it was the power—and the money, of course. I mean, he got her a job. He gave her nice things. She called him ‘Boo’ or some ridiculous pet name like that. She felt special that someone so important would sneak around to be with her. And for him? Who knows? I mean, you know that family comes from the projects, too, right?”
/>   “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah. The Byerses and Baxter Terrace go way, way back. Both the boys were raised there. I think their mom, she’s dead now, but she kept living there right to the end. So I think, I don’t know, this is just me guessing here, but for people like us—people who made it out of the projects—there’s a lot of different ways to deal with it. Me? I got out and stayed out and I don’t particularly like to go back.

  “But for some people—maybe it’s just guys, I don’t know—it’s like a point of pride. They still want to keep coming back around the old neighborhood. They say it’s to keep it real, but I think they just want to show off. And I think some of them also keep a taste for project girls. Windy, he married up—I think Mrs. Byers’s daddy was a doctor or something—but the word around Baxter Terrace was that he always liked to have a girl who was a little more down home that he could visit. So there he is, the big shot, coming back to Baxter Terrace. And there she is, the pretty young girl. It happens.”

  And Windy was far from the first politician in our nation’s history to have it happen to him.

  “So that’s how it started. How did it end?” I asked.

  “Well, he cut her off,” Tammy said. “She broke up with him after he told her he wasn’t going to pay for that house anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if he was suddenly having money problems or if his wife wasn’t letting him do it anymore or what. But one day he just came over and said, ‘You have to leave.’ ”

  “Even after he had two children with her?” Sweet Thang interjected.

  Tammy looked at Sweet Thang for a long moment, then cast her eyes downward and said softly, “They weren’t his.”

  Oh.

  “She told everyone they were his. I think she even tried to convince herself they were his. She liked the idea of the boys having a councilman for a father. But even before they split up, I started making noise about how she should go after him for child support. Make it legal, you know? She said she didn’t want the fuss, but I was going to hire a lawyer. Then she finally told me they’d never pass the paternity test. I guess Windy wasn’t always around, so there were other men. Please don’t tell my mother. She’s ashamed enough as it is.”