guessing this isn’t just to see your grandma.”
“No, ma’am,” Cree says.
“Turn the water on first,” Lucy says.
Cree goes over to the small cooker on a stand beside the door and turns on the flame underneath the kettle.
Lucy rubs and flexes one of her hands, massaging the spaces between her fingers. Then she takes off her necklace, a long chain with a brass ball at the bottom. She loops the chain around her fingers and soon the ball starts to rotate in close circles like a pendulum. She squints at the ball and clicks her tongue. “Hmm. So it is,” she says.
“What’s it say?” Cree asks.
“It’s telling me my business. And now you can tell me yours.”
Cree is used to his grandma’s cryptic divinations, her infuriating need to have all her questions answered by her pendulum. Not that she ever shares these questions or answers with anyone else.
They wait for the water to boil. Then Cree fills a mug for Lucy and brings it to her. She reaches into a string pouch attached to her skirt and pulls out a few sachets from which she sprinkles something that looks like burned confetti into the water. A smell like damp wood swirls up from the mug.
Lucy takes a sip. “Now tell me what’s so important that you had to take time to visit me. You haven’t applied to that college yet, have you?”
Cree’s eyes shift around the room. Grandma Lucy has none of the gentle patience of his mother and aunt. “You’ve been watching the news?”
Lucy takes a short breath, exhales through her nose, and tightens her mouth into a pucker. “You know I haven’t.”
“But you heard about that girl who disappeared in Red Hook?”
“I heard.”
“I saw her last night.”
“You came all the way out here to tell me that?”
Cree picks at the bedspread until Lucy shoos him off. “You think she’s dead?”
“It’s none of my business,” Lucy says.
“But maybe you have a hunch?” Cree looks at Lucy’s hand, but the pendulum is clenched in her palm out of sight.
“I might, but this whole thing is none of your business neither.”
“Is it my business if I could have helped her?”
“No,” Lucy says. “Let the white folks worry about the white folks. There’s plenty else you need to be doing besides bothering with someone else’s missing girl.” Lucy lowers her lips to her mug and blows, spreading the steam upward. “Acretius, is your mother still wasting her days on that bench?”
Grandma Lucy doesn’t approve of her daughters, Gloria and Celia, continuing to live in the projects when they could have lives elsewhere. She never tires of telling them that the whole reason she moved to the Houses in the first place was so that she could save up enough to live somewhere better. But her girls have attached themselves to the place in ways she can’t or won’t understand.
“Sometimes,” Cree says.
“She’s down there too much. Be thankful that your daddy’s ghost has sense enough to leave you alone. There’s a blessing in that.”
Cree takes his time getting home. By the time he reaches Red Hook, the light is draining from the sky. Coffey Park is full. Cree passes a crew who’ve taken over the benches near the basketball courts, perching on the backrests like birds on a wire. He catches sight of Monique surrounded by a bunch of older boys in oversized basketball jerseys. She holds Cree’s eye as he passes. He hurries off before she can call him out for being on his lonely.
He heads for the boat. A wind is coming off the water, lifting the litter and tangling it with the dried grass in the lot. Cree ducks and squeezes through a gap in the chicken wire fence. When he looks up, he sees someone sitting on the boat, legs dangling over the prow like a sloppy figurehead. Even though it’s a warm night, the intruder is wearing a sweatshirt with a hood that hides his face.
Cree pauses at the fence, preparing to turn around.
“You leaving because of me?” the guy on the boat
“No, ma’am,” Cree says.
“Turn the water on first,” Lucy says.
Cree goes over to the small cooker on a stand beside the door and turns on the flame underneath the kettle.
Lucy rubs and flexes one of her hands, massaging the spaces between her fingers. Then she takes off her necklace, a long chain with a brass ball at the bottom. She loops the chain around her fingers and soon the ball starts to rotate in close circles like a pendulum. She squints at the ball and clicks her tongue. “Hmm. So it is,” she says.
“What’s it say?” Cree asks.
“It’s telling me my business. And now you can tell me yours.”
Cree is used to his grandma’s cryptic divinations, her infuriating need to have all her questions answered by her pendulum. Not that she ever shares these questions or answers with anyone else.
They wait for the water to boil. Then Cree fills a mug for Lucy and brings it to her. She reaches into a string pouch attached to her skirt and pulls out a few sachets from which she sprinkles something that looks like burned confetti into the water. A smell like damp wood swirls up from the mug.
Lucy takes a sip. “Now tell me what’s so important that you had to take time to visit me. You haven’t applied to that college yet, have you?”
Cree’s eyes shift around the room. Grandma Lucy has none of the gentle patience of his mother and aunt. “You’ve been watching the news?”
Lucy takes a short breath, exhales through her nose, and tightens her mouth into a pucker. “You know I haven’t.”
“But you heard about that girl who disappeared in Red Hook?”
“I heard.”
“I saw her last night.”
“You came all the way out here to tell me that?”
Cree picks at the bedspread until Lucy shoos him off. “You think she’s dead?”
“It’s none of my business,” Lucy says.
“But maybe you have a hunch?” Cree looks at Lucy’s hand, but the pendulum is clenched in her palm out of sight.
“I might, but this whole thing is none of your business neither.”
“Is it my business if I could have helped her?”
“No,” Lucy says. “Let the white folks worry about the white folks. There’s plenty else you need to be doing besides bothering with someone else’s missing girl.” Lucy lowers her lips to her mug and blows, spreading the steam upward. “Acretius, is your mother still wasting her days on that bench?”
Grandma Lucy doesn’t approve of her daughters, Gloria and Celia, continuing to live in the projects when they could have lives elsewhere. She never tires of telling them that the whole reason she moved to the Houses in the first place was so that she could save up enough to live somewhere better. But her girls have attached themselves to the place in ways she can’t or won’t understand.
“Sometimes,” Cree says.
“She’s down there too much. Be thankful that your daddy’s ghost has sense enough to leave you alone. There’s a blessing in that.”
Cree takes his time getting home. By the time he reaches Red Hook, the light is draining from the sky. Coffey Park is full. Cree passes a crew who’ve taken over the benches near the basketball courts, perching on the backrests like birds on a wire. He catches sight of Monique surrounded by a bunch of older boys in oversized basketball jerseys. She holds Cree’s eye as he passes. He hurries off before she can call him out for being on his lonely.
He heads for the boat. A wind is coming off the water, lifting the litter and tangling it with the dried grass in the lot. Cree ducks and squeezes through a gap in the chicken wire fence. When he looks up, he sees someone sitting on the boat, legs dangling over the prow like a sloppy figurehead. Even though it’s a warm night, the intruder is wearing a sweatshirt with a hood that hides his face.
Cree pauses at the fence, preparing to turn around.
“You leaving because of me?” the guy on the boat
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