nodded as she popped a couple of fries into her mouth. “It’s a hell of a rough neighborhood.”
“Because it’s black?” Ellie asked. Teresa was surprised to hear a note of challenge in her voice.
Bernie must have heard it, too. “No. Because it’s poor. Most of our kids are being raised by their grandmothers because their teenage mothers are still screwing around somewhere or they’re strung out on drugs. And fathers are scarcer than white people in that neighborhood.”
“Bernie!” Teresa scolded.
“What?” Bernie refused to look abashed. “It’s true. The only white people there are a few of us teachers and the nuns.”
“So they need more white people to come in and save them?” There was no doubt now about the challenge in Ellie’s tone.
Bernie smirked. “They need someone to step up. Don’t get all righteous. I don’t give a fuck what color they are. The mothers and fathers sure as hell aren’t doing it. Listen to the news. After screwing the girls, the only thing the men do is get themselves shot. Every night there are two or three murders in Homewood or the Hill District. No one with any sense wants to go into that war zone. It’s just the way it is. Our unemployment rate is double what it is for the rest of the city, so we’ve got too many bored people hanging out doing nothing productive with their time. If it weren’t for our kids’ grandmothers giving them some stability, I don’t know what they’d do. Those grandmothers are the only thing that makes it possible for us to teach those kids anything. We have just as many black teachers as white ones, and they say the exact same thing.”
A tense silence followed.
Louise came over as they finished off their sandwiches. “Dessert, ladies?”
“No, I couldn’t—” Teresa started.
“We’re splurging tonight,” Bernie cut in. She looked at Ellie. “You said the pies here are good?”
“The best.” Ellie passed them the dessert menu, and Teresa recognized that a truce had been called.
“I’ll have coconut crème,” said Bernie, giving Teresa an imperious look.
Teresa gave in with a sigh. “Chocolate.”
“Cherry?” Louise said to Ellie.
Ellie nodded, smiling.
Louise was back in a moment, carrying three plates filled with large pieces of pie and a large paper bag for Ellie.
“What’s with the bag?” Bernie asked.
“Some extra grilled cheese sandwiches,” Ellie said.
“Who for?”
Ellie shrugged. “Friends.”
CHAPTER 6
Teresa lay in the dark, listening to the night sounds of the house. She could hear her father’s snores coming from down the hall. Gianni wasn’t home yet. She might or might not hear him, depending on if he came home at all. Above her bed was a crucifix. Every room in the house had a crucifix on some wall. Her room was still furnished very much as it had been when she was a girl—the same twin bed and matching dresser and chest of drawers, the same mirror on the wall.
“Why don’t you at least buy a double bed?” Bernie used to ask.
“Why?” said Teresa. “To remind myself that I’m sleeping here alone?” Except she never said that part aloud to anyone, not even Bernie. She had bought new bedding and curtains several years ago, and had freshened the pale yellow paint on the walls, but there was nothing else—“nothing of me,” she could have said—no photos, no posters, no anything on the walls. If she died or moved out, someone else could move into this room without having to change a single thing other than the clothing in the drawers and closet.
Restlessly, she rolled onto her side, her mind racing around like a squirrel, just as it had the past few nights—ever since the evening with Bernie and Ellie, and she knew it wasn’t Bernie that was keeping her up.
“She’s full of herself,” Bernie had muttered as they left Ellie outside the diner that evening. “She seems young. How old is she anyway?”
Teresa thought. “I don’t know. She never said, and I
“Because it’s black?” Ellie asked. Teresa was surprised to hear a note of challenge in her voice.
Bernie must have heard it, too. “No. Because it’s poor. Most of our kids are being raised by their grandmothers because their teenage mothers are still screwing around somewhere or they’re strung out on drugs. And fathers are scarcer than white people in that neighborhood.”
“Bernie!” Teresa scolded.
“What?” Bernie refused to look abashed. “It’s true. The only white people there are a few of us teachers and the nuns.”
“So they need more white people to come in and save them?” There was no doubt now about the challenge in Ellie’s tone.
Bernie smirked. “They need someone to step up. Don’t get all righteous. I don’t give a fuck what color they are. The mothers and fathers sure as hell aren’t doing it. Listen to the news. After screwing the girls, the only thing the men do is get themselves shot. Every night there are two or three murders in Homewood or the Hill District. No one with any sense wants to go into that war zone. It’s just the way it is. Our unemployment rate is double what it is for the rest of the city, so we’ve got too many bored people hanging out doing nothing productive with their time. If it weren’t for our kids’ grandmothers giving them some stability, I don’t know what they’d do. Those grandmothers are the only thing that makes it possible for us to teach those kids anything. We have just as many black teachers as white ones, and they say the exact same thing.”
A tense silence followed.
Louise came over as they finished off their sandwiches. “Dessert, ladies?”
“No, I couldn’t—” Teresa started.
“We’re splurging tonight,” Bernie cut in. She looked at Ellie. “You said the pies here are good?”
“The best.” Ellie passed them the dessert menu, and Teresa recognized that a truce had been called.
“I’ll have coconut crème,” said Bernie, giving Teresa an imperious look.
Teresa gave in with a sigh. “Chocolate.”
“Cherry?” Louise said to Ellie.
Ellie nodded, smiling.
Louise was back in a moment, carrying three plates filled with large pieces of pie and a large paper bag for Ellie.
“What’s with the bag?” Bernie asked.
“Some extra grilled cheese sandwiches,” Ellie said.
“Who for?”
Ellie shrugged. “Friends.”
CHAPTER 6
Teresa lay in the dark, listening to the night sounds of the house. She could hear her father’s snores coming from down the hall. Gianni wasn’t home yet. She might or might not hear him, depending on if he came home at all. Above her bed was a crucifix. Every room in the house had a crucifix on some wall. Her room was still furnished very much as it had been when she was a girl—the same twin bed and matching dresser and chest of drawers, the same mirror on the wall.
“Why don’t you at least buy a double bed?” Bernie used to ask.
“Why?” said Teresa. “To remind myself that I’m sleeping here alone?” Except she never said that part aloud to anyone, not even Bernie. She had bought new bedding and curtains several years ago, and had freshened the pale yellow paint on the walls, but there was nothing else—“nothing of me,” she could have said—no photos, no posters, no anything on the walls. If she died or moved out, someone else could move into this room without having to change a single thing other than the clothing in the drawers and closet.
Restlessly, she rolled onto her side, her mind racing around like a squirrel, just as it had the past few nights—ever since the evening with Bernie and Ellie, and she knew it wasn’t Bernie that was keeping her up.
“She’s full of herself,” Bernie had muttered as they left Ellie outside the diner that evening. “She seems young. How old is she anyway?”
Teresa thought. “I don’t know. She never said, and I
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