Devon’s neighborhood was older, a mix of small, squat concrete shack-looking structures and singlewides, more than one house with a “foreclosure” sign. The cars were older, too, and rundown, some parked in the front yards.
“Baker Street.” Granny read the sign aloud, pointing, and Rebecca turned left, counted the numbers dropping. There, on the right.
“Two-twenty-one. Like your birthday, Granny,” she said.
The house looked well-kept and lived-in, with a front window open to let in the breeze. A clay pot with flowers stood on the porch with a cheerful mat proclaiming “Welcome.”
She and Granny approached the door, and she knocked before she could lose her nerve.
A kid just a little older than Devon answered the door. He had pale skin and shaggy brown hair, a blue Dahlia Baptist T-shirt,and only one sock. In his hand was a bowl of what looked like corn puffs.
“Well, hello there, CJ,” Granny said.
“Uh, hi, Miz Helen.”
Rebecca peered past him. “We’re looking for Devon. Devon Robinson?”
“CJ, who’s at the door?” a woman’s voice called, and CJ yelled back, “Nobody, Ma!”
He turned back to them. “Sorry, you got the wrong house.” He looked uncomfortable. “Devon lives up the road a ways.”
He pointed, and Rebecca and Granny stared in that direction, confused.
“Is this two-twenty-one?” Rebecca asked.
“Yeah.”
Granny frowned. “CJ, honey, do you happen to know Devon’s house number?”
A guarded look came over CJ’s face. “Uh, I don’t remember. It’s that way somewhere.” He glanced behind him. “Gotta go. See you Monday, Miz Helen.”
They got back in the car, and Rebecca looked over at Granny.
“I know Devon said two-twenty-one.”
Granny pursed her lips. “Let’s call Rev Bryant, see if he knows the address.”
But Rev didn’t answer. They cruised slowly up the street, watching the numbers rise. Three-fifteen. Four-hundred-one.
“There!” Granny pointed.
A small black sign with silvery lettering read “Robinson.”
Rebecca pulled into the driveway slowly, took it in, as if trying to piece together bits of the real Devon.
The house wasn’t terrible, a modest concrete one-story with a little yard. The yard was overgrown, and a brown Cadillac was parkedin the carport. But unlike CJ’s house, this one had an empty look, quiet, like no one lived there and hadn’t for ages. The curtains were drawn, and in the back, she could barely glimpse what remained of an old chain link fence.
“Looks like someone’s home,” Granny said as Rebecca pulled in behind the Cadillac and turned off the ignition, mouth dry.
“Maybe it’s the uncle.” Rebecca made a face. “And surely his Memaw’s here. I don’t imagine she gets out much. Devon said she has problems with her legs, I think from arthritis.”
They got out of the car with the soup, walked to the tiny front porch. From somewhere not too far away, a big dog barked. Pit bull, maybe, or Rottweiler. The kind that probably liked to attack defenseless women and their grannies who showed up unannounced and uninvited.
This is a bad idea. Her head and heart pounded in sync. Devon clearly didn’t want her coming around the house, had made excuses every time she’d offered a lift home, had even given her a fake address. She was going to make him feel awkward, pressured, maybe push him away entirely.
But Josh popped into her mind then, and his words. God gives us instincts for a reason.
She bit her lip, gathered her nerve, and knocked quickly on the front door.
