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“Boy! What did I just say?”
“That’s like saying ‘this smells bad’ and you know that the other person can’t help but take a whiff,” Kwame says.
“Like your hellacious farts?”
“Um, did you think yours came out smelling like cinnamon?” Kwame shoots back.
“I don’t fart, period. I don’t know what’s with you tonight, but it doesn’t sound like I’m the one who needs the self-care. Why don’t you go on down to Greg’s man cave and have some you time? He’s got enough of his electronic toys and gaming consoles down there. And there are three thousand vinyls. You could listen to some Carl Thomas and have a good cry or whatever you need to do to get whatever this is outta your system.”
“I just got a lot on my mind.”
“You always do, Kick, you always do.”
Jordan only uses his childhood nickname when she’s trying to say something neither of them says outright often enough.
“Love you too, Sis.”
Kwame tromps down the staircase to the finished basement, which looks like a thirteen-year-old’s fantasy of an adult’s house—Ping-Pong table, clear fridge packed with energy drinks, a TV bigger than an SUV. It’s the couch that beckons above all else; one of those deep-ass sectionals that’s more a bed than a sofa.
Before he settles in, Kwame makes his way to the record player attached to the state-of-the-art Bose speaker surround sound and puts on, well, yes, Carl Thomas, because why not lean all the way into this mood.
Carl’s crooning about being on the rebound is so loud that he doesn’t hear his phone chime with an alert. And stretched out on the sofa with his eyes closed, he doesn’t immediately see the text message from Sylvester that lights up the screen either.
Okay, I’ll talk to you. But only in person and not here. Never come looking for me here again. I’m coming to Chicago to see my youngest sister for her birthday weekend after next. If you’re around, I can see you then. Unless I change my mind. And I might. So don’t hold me to this.
It’s a long time to wait—and not even for a sure bet—but good journalism, like so much else in this life, requires patience. And a good bit of faith. That too.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN SIMONE
Simone shifts on the squishy couch, then shifts again, waiting for Marjorie to come back down from wherever she disappeared upstairs in the farmhouse. She’d said she needed a minute to get herself together, and she’s been gone for nearly fifteen.
“Should we check on her?” Taylor asks, looking downright regretful that she let Simone convince her to come on this mission.
Was it absurd to drive three hours to a random address you found on an envelope of old letters to try to track down and find out what happened to a stranger with an alarming connection to your father-in-law? And to keep it all a secret from your husband? Yes, absolutely. That’s precisely why Simone needed her best friend along, moral support. Also because people are drawn to Taylor; she’s the type of person random strangers stop to ask for directions or restaurant recommendations based on no other reason than her aura and smile.
“Wander up to her bedroom to say hey after we already barged in on her with no notice? Nah, I think we wait.” Simone shifts yet again and sinks into the same deep depression in the worn cushion.
“We only have like an hour or so, with that long-ass drive back. I love you, but I didn’t pay $450 to miss seeing Katt Williams at the Panther Arena to play Cagney and Lacey today.”
“We’ll get back in time.” Even with the clock ticking, they have to tread carefully. It was already miracle enough that they found Marjorie here, that she was alive… and home and that she let them in at all, given that she and Taylor had shown up unannounced, banking on the element of surprise. But two Black people turning up on a white woman’s porch like this… there’s a pile of headlines about how that can turn out. Taylor had murmured, “You think she’s gonna pull a shotgun on us,” only half joking.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Simone assured her, though she was thinking, maybe.
Marjorie was skeptical at first, and Simone had to essentially tap dance on her doorstep as she explained that no, they weren’t selling anything, and no, they weren’t “those Jehovah Witness people.” They just wanted to talk to her… about Larry Hartwell. That name was apparently the magic password. Marjorie swung the door open as soon as she heard it and ushered them to this sagging floral couch where they’ve been waiting for her.
Losing patience with said sofa and the waiting, Simone stands and walks over to the living room window. She’s taking in the view—rolling fields the color of old straw, a sagging barn, rusted equipment abandoned like forgotten bones that look oddly cinematic and Instagram worthy—when Marjorie finally returns.
“Sorry about that, I wanted to freshen up.” Marjorie had been wearing a simple plaid housecoat over pajamas when they knocked on the door earlier, but now she looks ready for a day out on the farm in mud-splattered cargo pants paired with a thick Fair Isle sweater. She’s a formidable woman, tall and strong despite her age, which has to be around the same as Larry. Her hair is an unnatural shade of red that suggests a drugstore dye job, but it’s well kept up and swept into a bun on the top of her head.
“No worries. I like your place. It’s lovely,” Taylor says, a little too brightly, doing her best to ease the tension with empty pleasantries, but Marjorie’s not having it.
“Thank you. Now, why are you here? How do you know Larry? And how did you even find me?”
Simone and Taylor exchange a look… here goes.
“Larry’s my father-in-law. I’m married to his grandson, who he raised.” Simone isn’t sure how much Marjorie knows about Poppy’s life over the past few decades.
“You’re married to Alex?”
