“Sorry I messed up your car.” Reheema sipped some water, then eased back onto the pillow.
“It’s okay.” Vicki flashed on the bloodstained door on the TV news. She wasn’t sure she wanted the Cabrio back, even if they could clean it up. “Lucky for me I already own an Intrepid.”
“I get the Intrepid.” Reheema eased back onto the pillow. “You take the Sunbird.”
“I can’t drive a stick.”
“Then I got something… to teach you, Harvard.”
“I could’ve told you that,” Vicki said, and smiled. She set the cup on the bedside table, reached for Reheema’s hand, and cradled it, which they both pretended wasn’t happening until Reheema started to drift back to sleep.
And only then did Reheema’s hand close around hers.
FIFTY-ONE
It was an August afternoon, and a nectarine sun shone on tall, leggy cosmos, their flowers neon orange, chrome yellow, and vivid magenta. Next to them sprouted a bunchy row of zinnias, in dusty pinks and lemony hues, their heads like pompoms. Honeybees landed on the flowers, then buzzed along. A young mother in jeans shorts and a red Sixers T-shirt stood with a toddler, picking black-eyed Susans with breakaway yellow petals and an unlikely black button at the center. The air felt humid as a hothouse, but it smelled sweet, earthy, and clean.
“This is amazing!” Vicki said, delighted.
“Nice, huh?” Reheema beamed. She looked relaxed and healthy in a white cotton T-shirt and khaki shorts that showed long, muscular legs. Bits of soil caked her knees and covered the beat-up toes of her white Nikes, and only an occasional stiffness in her movements suggested that her healing process wasn’t yet complete.
“Very nice! It’s great!”
“We’re proud of it.” Reheema tugged a curled brown leaf from a mass of tiger lilies, which formed an exotic backdrop to a grouping of lovely golden flowers, each one shaped like a sunny star.
“What are those yellow cuties?” Vicki asked, pointing.
“Coreopsis.”
“Listen to you! Coreopsis! You feelin’ the coreopsis?”
“I know, right? I’m a black girl with a green thumb.”
Vicki laughed. “But no gardening gloves.”
“Please. I’m not crazy.”
Vicki laughed again. They were standing in the new community garden on Cater Street, which was located in the vacant lot that used to be the crack store. The neighbors had cleared the lot, built raised beds out of railroad ties, and created a garden on the right side of the lot, which got full sun almost all day. The left side was cleared, too, though beds had yet to be constructed. Vicki was thrilled to finally see the garden in bloom; she’d stopped by on her way to Devon, since it was time for an obligatory Sunday dinner with her parents.
“Now which plot is yours?” she asked.
“We don’t do it that way. The way we do, the people like me who want to grow flowers, we sign up and plant the flowers together. We planted ’em in May, and now we all pick the ones we want.”
“Sounds good.”
“I made the rules, of course.”
“Of course. You’re the Block Captain.”
“I’m the Block Diva,” Reheema corrected, and they both laughed. “People who want to do vegetables, they sign up for vegetables. The vegetables are behind the flowers, over there.”
Vicki shielded her eyes from the sun and looked against the brick wall, in the back bed. Tomato plants stood in neat green lines, tied to stakes by brown string, and an older woman in a sleeveless housedress and orange flip-flops picked ripe beefsteak tomatoes. A row of red and green pepper plants lined up in front, and on a patch of tilled soil lay thick furry vines with large, light green leaves and striped clubs of zucchini, one as big as a Louisville Slugger.
“That zucchini’s a lethal weapon,” Vicki said.
“Mrs. Walter’s pride and joy. She grows so much damn zucchini, she’s making bread every day, then relish. You ever eat zucchini relish?” Reheema wrinkled her nose. “S’nasty.”
“Now you got suburban problems. You thought it was easy, being rich?”
“Ha! Be careful what you wish, right?”
Vicki laughed, and Reheema did, too, at the ridiculous notion. The neighborhood had begun a comeback, in only two seasons. The town watch patrolled regularly, rarely wanting for volunteers. Neighbors repainted the trim on their houses, replaced asphalt shingles that had fallen off, and put new Astroturf on the porch floors. Trash was stored in cans, not strewn on the street anymore, and the sidewalks had been swept. Best of all, people were outside without fear. This afternoon, mothers hung out on front stoops, talking while little girls jumped rope and boys practiced break-dancing on a flattened refrigerator box. The sight taught Vicki that, however hard-won, justice wasn’t an end in itself. Instead, it was a beginning, enabling people to be safe, happy, and free. The rest was up to them.
Reheema cocked her head. “So how’s work?”
“Way too busy. With Steptoe cooperating and Bale pleading, I got a boatload of new cases.”
“But you love it,” Reheema said, and Vicki nodded happily.
“And Dan says hi. And how about you? Did you get that coaching gig you wanted?”
“Yeah, a traveling team, a nice group of girls.” Reheema smiled broadly. “Now I’m at city services by day and a track coach on the weekends.”
“Take it easy, with the running so soon.”
“I’m fine.” Reheema waved her off.
Rring! Rring! Vicki’s cell phone rang in her shorts pocket and she pulled it out and checked the display. MOM CELL, it read. “Excuse me, I should get this.” She opened the phone and said, “Hey, Mom. Are we still on for dinner?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What’s up?”
“There’s been a slight change of plans. We’re here.”
“What? Where?”
“Your father and I. We’re parked in front of your father’s old house.”
“You and Dad? Here?” Vicki’s eyes flared in horror, and Reheema stifled a laugh.
“Yes, dear. You left a message that you were stopping by a community garden in Devil’s Corner before you came home, so we thought we’d take a ride down and meet you here. Where are you, exactly?”
In shock. “Wait there. I’ll come to you.”
FIFTY-TWO
“Mom, Dad, it’s great to see you,” Vicki said, as she walked over to her parents.
“Isn’t this fun, dear?” Her mother came toward her smiling, chic in white Capri pants and a turquoise knit shell, with tan Tod loafers.
“Really fun.” Vicki hugged her scented mother, whose sleek hair and skin felt refrigerated from the car’s air-conditioning. Her father was standing on the sidewalk and frowning up at his old house, his hands resting on his hips. He wore a white Lacoste shirt and khaki pants, and hovered protectively near the front bumper of their silver Mercedes. The sedan gleamed like a flying saucer, and the Allegrettis looked as out of place as aliens, or at least, lawyers.
“I wanted to see the community garden,” her mother said, looking around. Two little girls on their bicycles, their stiff braids flying, stared as they rode past.
“It’s around the block, on Cater. I was just there with Reheema.”
“Oh, your friend? I’d like to meet her. Is it far?”
“Not really.”
“Wonderful, I’ll take a little walk. It’s good exercise.”
NO! DON’T LEAVE ME HERE WITH THIS MAN! “Mom, why don’t you wait? We can walk over together.”
“But your father wants to look at his old house.”
“He’ll want to meet Reheema, too.”
“Then he will, later. He wants to look at his house now. This trip was his idea. Go talk to him, go through the house with him, then walk over to the community garden.” Her mother gave her a discreet shove toward her father, but Vicki had faced loaded Glocks with more enthusiasm.
“Mom—”
“Go!” Her mot
her turned on her expensive heel and walked away.
“It’s on the left, down the middle of the block,” Vicki called after her, and her mother waved, though she didn’t turn back.
“Where’s your mother going?” her father asked, coming over, as lost as Vicki, as if they were two baby birds.
SHE LEFT US ALONE! “To see the community garden.”
“Where is it? I thought it was on Lincoln.”
“No, it’s on Cater. Right around the block.” Vicki had grown so used to filling the air with words, she did it reflexively. “I’m sure we can catch up with her. She can’t go fast on foot.”
“She’s a great gardener.” Her father kept frowning, but maybe the sun was in his eyes. “She’s been talking about that garden all week. This drive was her idea.”
Really. “Mom said you wanted to go inside your old house.”
“No.”
No? “We could.” Vicki gestured at the front door, which had been repaired. “A new family moved in, I heard from Reheema. We could just knock and ask, I’m sure they’d let us. Everybody knows Reheema.”
“No, it was my father’s house, not mine. I don’t have any happy memories here. Let’s go find your mother.”
Ouch. “Okay.”
Her father walked back to the Mercedes.
“You’ll never get a space on Cater, Dad.”
He turned. “I can’t leave it here.”
“Yes, you can. It’s safe.”
“It’s an S class.”
Vicki smiled. “It’ll be fine.”
“You’ll indemnify me?”
“Up to thirty-seven bucks.”
Her father pulled out his car keys and chirped the car locked, twice. Vicki turned and they fell into step, walking around the corner, where her father stopped, examining a brick wall. “Funny. I used to play stickball here, against this wall, with a broom and a pimple ball.”
“A pimple ball?”
“They were white rubber balls with little raised dots. A pimple ball. We’d play for hours, with a half ball.”
“Why half?”
“After the ball was dead, we didn’t throw it away. We were too poor to throw it away. We cut it in half.” Her father ran his fingers over the wall’s soft bricks and came away with soot on his fingerpads that surprisingly, he didn’t seem to mind. “We’d mark the wall with chalk for a single, a double, a triple.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It was.” Her father resumed their walk. “Played with the kids from the block. Mimmy. Squirrel. Lips. Tommy G.”
Vicki looked over again, and her father was smiling.
“Nicknames,” he explained, needlessly.
“Your friends.”
“Right. We didn’t play on Lincoln as much, because of the traffic.” They turned onto Cater and walked two doors down, where he slowed his pace in front of a row house. An African-American man stood on a metal ladder, hanging new red shutters on the windows. Her father stopped in front of the house. “My buddy Lips lived here. Leon DiGiacomo. We used to shoot craps in front of this house.”
“That’s illegal.”
“Tell me about it. I got picked up once, by the cops.”
“You?”
“Yes, me.” Her father sounded almost proud. “They picked us all up for, what they’d call” — he thought a minute, his head cocked — “‘gambling on the highway,’ that was it. Must’ve been an old ordinance. They took us into the station and they made us buy tickets to the thrill show.”
“What’s a thrill show?”
“Like a circus. The PAL put it on, I think. Motorcycles and dancing bears.” Her father laughed, and so did Vicki, surprised. She had never heard him talk about his childhood, and now she couldn’t shut him up. He was walking again, pointing across the narrow street to the other side. “And we used to play knuckles in the street, right there.”
“Knuckles?”
“A card game. And over there we played Pig and Dog. Basketball. We nailed a trash can to the telephone pole for a hoop.” He mused as they walked, the sun shining on his head and shoulders. “I played outside all the time. We all did.”
“Sounds like you have some happy memories, after all.”
“Nah.” Her father stiffened, suddenly. “You can’t go home again, Victoria.”
“I know people say that, but I disagree. I think you never really leave.”
“What?”
“I’m Devon, Dad. I’m Devon, wherever I go. Some people are pure South Philly, and a New Yorker is always a New Yorker.” Vicki never thought out loud in front of her father, but didn’t stop. It was time to stop editing herself, even with him. “Think about it, Dad. There’s Jersey girls and Valley girls. Chicagoans and San Franciscans, Texans and Bostonians. Steel magnolias and Southern gentlemen. And Reheema is so West Philly, when you meet her, you’ll see it. She’s great.”
Her father was frowning, but maybe the sun was in his eyes again. Maybe the sun was always in his eyes, even indoors. Someday he would realize they had therapy for that, but Vicki wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.
They reached the garden, where her mother was talking with Reheema. More neighbors were hard at work, weeding the pepper beds, restaking the tomato plants, and cutting cosmos for their dinner tables. Vicki introduced Reheema to her father, who shook her hand stiffly.
“So this is the community garden,” he said, eyeing the lot. “Very pretty.” His gaze fell on the unfinished left side, in the shade. “What are you going to plant there?”
Vicki cringed. It never failed, his always seeing the negative. She’d bring home four A’s and a B, and he’d ask, Why the B?
“We’re not planting anything there,” Reheema answered. “We voted to make a place for the little kids. Put in one of those nice wooden playground sets and some wood chips underneath, so they don’t get hurt if they fall.”
“When are you going to install it?”
“When we get the money. Those wooden sets, they cost like two grand. The neighborhood’s tapped out, after the dirt and the railroad ties, but we’ll get it.” Reheema nodded. “You know, this garden wouldn’t have come about without your daughter, Mr. Allegretti. I was just telling your wife, Vicki’s the one who got the crack dealers out of here.”
“Please,” Vicki said, reddening, but Reheema ignored her.
“Vicki saved this block, this whole neighborhood. She should get all the credit.”
Her mother smiled, tightly. “We were so worried about her, we didn’t appreciate the good she was doing. Maybe we were too worried.”
“No, you shoulda been worried!” Reheema laughed. “If she were my daughter, I woulda been worried sick! You wouldn’t believe the trouble we got ourselves into, the newspapers only had half the story. She’s a real badass, your daughter!”
Hoo boy.
“She gets it from me,” her mother said, her smile relaxing, and Vicki laughed, surprised.
But her father didn’t reply and kept looking at the garden. Reheema seemed to run out of steam, uncharacteristically speechless. The moment was so awkward that Vicki stepped in to fill the silence.
“Thanks for the tour,” she said. “We should probably get going. Congratulations on the garden.”
“Thanks, take care.”
“Yes, congratulations,” her mother said, hugging Reheema briefly. Then she looped an arm around Vicki and they walked onto the sidewalk.
Her father didn’t join them but lingered at the entrance to the garden.
“Dear?” her mother asked, and Vicki turned.
“In a minute,” her father said quietly, then looked at Reheema. “I’d like to help you with the playground.”
“I don’t understand,” Reheema said, and neither did Vicki.
“I’d like to send you a check, for the playground. I’ll make it out for three thousand dollars, to cover the cost of the playset and the mulch. If you need more, you’ll let me know.”
“You don’t have to do tha
t, Mr. Allegretti,” Reheema said, with a puzzled smile. “You don’t have any responsibility for the garden. You don’t even live here.”
“I did once, and Victoria’s right, part of me always will.”
Whoa! Vicki thought, astounded. She would have hugged him but she wasn’t sure he’d taken his Pravachol.
“Well. Okay.” Reheema broke into a grin. “Mr. Allegretti, thank you so much, from the whole neighborhood.”
“You’re welcome,” her father said, turning to Vicki with a new smile. “Come on, Devon. I’m taking my girls out to dinner.”
“You got it,” Vicki said, happily surprised, and the three of them turned to walk up Cater Street.
“That was a wonderful gesture, Victor,” her mother whispered, taking her father’s hand, and he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
Vicki felt her spirits lift, walking behind the two of them. Maybe Dan had been right that night in the hospital. Maybe she just had to accept her father the way he was. And think out loud at every opportunity. Like now:
“Dad, I can’t get over it. You said I was right. In front of witnesses.”
Her father turned, smiling. “I won’t make a habit of it.”
“I hope not.” Then Vicki got an idea. “Hey, now that we’re all in the love mood, can we go to an Olive Garden for dinner?”
“No,” her parents answered, in unison.
And Vicki laughed.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I don’t know what other authors do for fun, but I eat saturated fats, ride Buddy the Pony, and watch trials at the federal courthouse, where, in my ex-life, I worked as a lawyer. Not long ago I wandered into a courtroom and found myself watching a jury trial for crack-cocaine trafficking against members of one of the most violent gangs in Philadelphia history. I had seen only five minutes of the testimony before ideas and characters started to flow, and I knew I had a novel. In fact, the next morning I woke up with the first line of Devil’s Corner. That has never happened before, and I’m hoping it happens again. Every year for the next ten years.