“The janitor?”
Ariyeh nods. “We’re hearing rumors that he confessed to murdering the other missing kids. He’s leading cops, one by one, to the bodies. I don’t believe it.”
All the teachers are angry. Johnson’s a good man, they say. He wouldn’t commit these atrocities. Why would he snuff so much healthy black promise? I remember him at the flagpole, swinging his broom at a little boy’s butt. Classes have been canceled, arrangements made to send the children home safely.
I stand out of the way while Ariyeh phones parenrs, bundles homework into backpacks, soothes a few weeping girls. Near me, two boys, apparently unruffled by the commotion, pore over a thin purple book. “What’s that?” one says, tapping the page.
“That’s is, is what it is.”
“Iz-iz?”
“Is. ‘He is happy.’”
“I don’t get it.”
Finally, Ariyeh says to me, “Let’s get out of here.”
“Where can I take you?”
“Reggie.”
At the Row Houses, things are nearly as hectic. Reggie is sitting in his office, holding Sasha, Natalie’s baby girl, on his knees, while surfing the Net on a laptop — compliments of Rufus Bowen. Michael and three other boys are helping Reggie reorganize his files. They’ve scattered papers and folders all over the floor. Michael looks cool toward Reggie. “Hey, it’s the ‘bout it ‘bout it chick.” He winks at me. Sasha’s crying. Natalie’s at work, Reggie explains. He starts to tell us about a news site he’s found on the Web that claims America’s tobacco giants colluded with the old apartheid government of South Africa. “Blood money, blood money, all of it. You were right,” he says to me — when Ariyeh interrupts him to tell him what’s happened. “Oh, sweetie,” he says. He hands Sasha to me then pulls Ariyeh into his arms. The child squirms against my chest. I’m reminded again of Sarah Morgan and the baby that changed her life.
“Got a quiet corner?” Ariyeh asks.
Reggie suggests the last Row House on the block. “Go on down,” he says. “I’ll be there soon’s I log off and give these boys their next set of instructions.”
She nods and steps out the door. I pace the office, trying to calm the baby. “What’s with Michael?” I whisper. Playfully, Sasha pulls my hair.
He sighs. “You heard me the other day, dissing rap. On top of that, now he’s upset with me for letting his mom work for Rufus. I guess I’m with him on that one. Turns out, between school and this new job, we hardly ever see her anymore, and when we do, she’s beat.”
“But you got your computers?”
He clicks the mouse. “Yeah, but she seems so unhappy. And Michael … well, I used to be his hero.” A pained smile. “Maybe it takes too many compromises to keep a place like this running.”
“You’ve done much more good than harm.” The baby burrows into my shoulder.
“I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.” He tells the boys to separate pink and green pages. Michael just sneers. I wonder if Rue Morgue has been mentoring him. I wonder what “mentoring” means.
Sasha has spent herself and is hovering now near sleep. Holding her, I follow Reggie to the sharecropper house. It’s cool, dim as evening inside. Ariyeh’s sitting on a butter churn. Reggie walks over and slips his arms around her. They whisper together. He kisses her cheek. My limbs grow weak, and I tighten my grip on Sasha. “Shhh, shhh,” Reggie goes, his mouth in Ariyeh’s hair.
The baby is limp in my arms. Light, moist, the color of angel food cake. I lean against a saddle on a wall. A kerosene lantern sits on a barrel; across the room, a pair of high-topped leather shoes. I imagine plucking a rooster in the corner, washing it for supper, calling my children, hearing shouts of alarm in the street… what’s that? what are they saying? a riot in the white part of town?… oh Lord, oh Lord, this can’t be good.
Hold me … I squeeze Sasha tight …
“Oh shit,” Reggie says, pulling away from Ariyeh. He checks his watch. “I have to pick up Natalie. She’s got afternoon classes. The buses have been running late all week, so I promised her — ”
“I’ll go,” I say right away, watching his hands on Ariyeh. “Stay with her.” Hurriedly, I hand Ariyeh the kid. I’m too aware of my skin, my longing for touch. It’ll be a relief to step into the sun. Motion. Distraction. Escape.
Reggie gives me directions. I kiss Ariyeh’s cheek, then leave the little house.
In the car I rub my arms until my skin begins to sting. I don’t want to want. Need. Be. I’d like to wipe myself clean. Sexless. Skinless. Free. “You’re an asshole,” I whisper. “Right? I’m not attracted to you. Not in the least. I’m not attracted to anyone.” I slip on my shades.
E-Future Systems is on Kirby Street, in a two-story glass building near a couple of barbecue chains and a Tex-Mex place advertising “Heaven-on-Earth Cabrito.” The receptionist, behind a glass-and-marble counter, tells me to take a seat in the red-tiled lobby. The chairs resemble mousetraps ready to spring. The backs are low; my legs ride high. A fake fern spills from a pot beneath granite stairs. The receptionist speaks into a phone stem attached to her head. It looks like a carrot just out of her reach. She’s a pretty honey color.
Rufus Bowen enters the room, laughing into a cell phone. “Dude, what’s your burn rate?” He’s wearing a sleek gray Armani suit, the kind most of the Dallas mayor’s boys wear. He punches off the phone, leans over the counter and exchanges a few words with stem-lady. Then he turns to me. “Miss Washington. Good to see you again. Natalie will be ready in a few minutes. She’s with one of our clients right now.”
I picture her straddling a guy in a big leather chair. I have no idea what her job is.
“Would you like some coffee or tea?”
“No, thanks.” Crazy: I feel the baby’s warmth, again, in my arms.
He spreads his hands. A casual gesture of power, the kind Rue Morgue might make. “What do you think of our little operation here?”
“Very impressive. I’m not sure what you do, exactly.”
“You’ve heard of the Nielsons? The TV ratings system?”
“Yes.”
“We provide a similar service for Interner users. We rank the most popular sites, keeping tabs on them so investors can judge where to put their money. It’s been quite lucrative. Just last month, we made our first public stock offering.”
“Congratulations.”
He sits next to me and actually manages to look comfortable in one of these chairs. “I hoped we’d get another chance to talk sometime. I was fascinated by what you said that night in the gallery. ‘Human scale,’ was it?”
“Right.”
“Does our building qualify?”
“Well, two stories, no problem,” I say. “Anything over four is getting out of hand.”
He laughs. His breath is warm and smells of chocolate.
“I’m serious.” I watch him. He seems to want a serious answer. “Bedrooms, kitchens — the rooms we actually inhabit, for our private comfort — are built to human specifications. What makes us think public buildings — community spaces — should be any different?”
“Yes, but the population is so large”—is he humoring me? flirting? — “we need to accommodate — ”
“Size isn’t the answer.” I’ve made this point time and again in planning sessions — usually to no avail. “We build multilane superhighways to ease traffic congestion, right? But they entice even more people to abandon mass transit, so the new highways become glutted. Local circumstances. Hand, foot, eye. Always the best measure.”
“So you’d tear down all the skyscrapers?”