never knew these days and maybe that accounted for Sandy’s reluctance to broach the subject.
“For heaven’s sake . . . yes, a man and a woman. Married and everything. There’s also a young woman living with them, a daughter who’s about your age.”
“Have you met them?”
“Not yet, no.”
“But mother has?” I couldn’t imagine Cissy not poking her nose into someone else’s business, especially when they were fresh meat. Besides, someone had to be feeding Sandy her information.
“She has indeed.”
Ah, just as I’d thought.
So Cissy had met the new neighbors. Still, if there’d been anything truly scandalous about them, surely she would’ve filled me in.
Or not.
Cissy could be closemouthed when she wanted to be. When it mattered. Though she could toss off a catty remark as well as anyone, with a blink of a false-lashed eye, she could become a human Fort Knox, protecting reputations as weighty as bars of gold.
Sandy was another story. I could always get her to open up if I badgered enough.
“So what did Mother have to say about them?”
“Well, really, she didn’t stay there long, just took over some of her roses, because, of course, they’re still settling in, as you saw. They’d had their things in storage, but the second truck was delayed. It finally showed up this morning.”
Nothing yet explained the camera crew. And in Big D, the media didn’t turn out unless there were bona fide celebrities involved. Or two-headed cattle.
“What’s so special about them? Are they on the lam?” I asked. “Do they have leprosy? Dear God, they’re not Yankees?”
“No, they’re not lepers or Yankees, my word.” She fidgeted, plucked at the pillow beside her. “Cissy says they’re lovely people. Which is why your mother doesn’t want us making a fuss.” She sighed. “The Park Cities paper sent over a reporter yesterday, knocking on doors and asking how folks feel about having a family of color move into Highland Park. It’s ridiculous, really.”
Family of color?
The phrase sounded so odd, so antiquated, that I nearly laughed aloud.
I asked with mock gravity, “So what color are they? Magenta? Just tell me they’re not vermilion. Or ochre, God forbid. Those ochre folks look so jaundiced.”
“Don’t be a smart aleck.” She narrowed her brow. “They happen to be African American.”
Ah-ha.
I flashed back to the woman standing in the enormous doorway, gesturing at the moving men, and I realized that I’d likely glimpsed the homeowner.
“So the media’s interested in these people, not because they’re celebrities, but because they’re not white?”
Sandy clucked. “Crazy, isn’t it? They’re regular folk, Andy, just like anybody else. Their only distinction is bein’ the first black family to own a home in Highland Park since the 1920s when the neighborhood was legally segregated, or so that reporter told me. An overeager pup named Kevin Snodgrass. Probably thinks he’s gonna get the Pulitzer.”
Legally segregated?
Wow.
I didn’t know much about the neighborhood’s history, especially going back that far. But I had noticed the people I saw tended to be pretty monochromatic, so I wasn’t surprised at the revelation. But it bothered me nonetheless.
“Yeah, crazy,” I said.
It was the twenty-first century, and I wanted to feel like things had come a long way, baby. And they had, I guess, in many respects.
Maybe not so much in others.
“So did Cissy talk to that reporter . . . Mr. Snake in the Grass?”
“Snodgrass.”
“Yes, him. Did she give him a piece of her mind?”
Sandy shot me a Mona Lisa smile. “What do you think?”
Oh, the possibilities were endless. “Did she kick his booty out and slam the door in his face?”
Sandy laughed. “More like she told him it was about time they had some fresh blood on Beverly and new neighbors were welcome on her street so long as they paid their taxes, kept up their yard, and didn’t kill
“For heaven’s sake . . . yes, a man and a woman. Married and everything. There’s also a young woman living with them, a daughter who’s about your age.”
“Have you met them?”
“Not yet, no.”
“But mother has?” I couldn’t imagine Cissy not poking her nose into someone else’s business, especially when they were fresh meat. Besides, someone had to be feeding Sandy her information.
“She has indeed.”
Ah, just as I’d thought.
So Cissy had met the new neighbors. Still, if there’d been anything truly scandalous about them, surely she would’ve filled me in.
Or not.
Cissy could be closemouthed when she wanted to be. When it mattered. Though she could toss off a catty remark as well as anyone, with a blink of a false-lashed eye, she could become a human Fort Knox, protecting reputations as weighty as bars of gold.
Sandy was another story. I could always get her to open up if I badgered enough.
“So what did Mother have to say about them?”
“Well, really, she didn’t stay there long, just took over some of her roses, because, of course, they’re still settling in, as you saw. They’d had their things in storage, but the second truck was delayed. It finally showed up this morning.”
Nothing yet explained the camera crew. And in Big D, the media didn’t turn out unless there were bona fide celebrities involved. Or two-headed cattle.
“What’s so special about them? Are they on the lam?” I asked. “Do they have leprosy? Dear God, they’re not Yankees?”
“No, they’re not lepers or Yankees, my word.” She fidgeted, plucked at the pillow beside her. “Cissy says they’re lovely people. Which is why your mother doesn’t want us making a fuss.” She sighed. “The Park Cities paper sent over a reporter yesterday, knocking on doors and asking how folks feel about having a family of color move into Highland Park. It’s ridiculous, really.”
Family of color?
The phrase sounded so odd, so antiquated, that I nearly laughed aloud.
I asked with mock gravity, “So what color are they? Magenta? Just tell me they’re not vermilion. Or ochre, God forbid. Those ochre folks look so jaundiced.”
“Don’t be a smart aleck.” She narrowed her brow. “They happen to be African American.”
Ah-ha.
I flashed back to the woman standing in the enormous doorway, gesturing at the moving men, and I realized that I’d likely glimpsed the homeowner.
“So the media’s interested in these people, not because they’re celebrities, but because they’re not white?”
Sandy clucked. “Crazy, isn’t it? They’re regular folk, Andy, just like anybody else. Their only distinction is bein’ the first black family to own a home in Highland Park since the 1920s when the neighborhood was legally segregated, or so that reporter told me. An overeager pup named Kevin Snodgrass. Probably thinks he’s gonna get the Pulitzer.”
Legally segregated?
Wow.
I didn’t know much about the neighborhood’s history, especially going back that far. But I had noticed the people I saw tended to be pretty monochromatic, so I wasn’t surprised at the revelation. But it bothered me nonetheless.
“Yeah, crazy,” I said.
It was the twenty-first century, and I wanted to feel like things had come a long way, baby. And they had, I guess, in many respects.
Maybe not so much in others.
“So did Cissy talk to that reporter . . . Mr. Snake in the Grass?”
“Snodgrass.”
“Yes, him. Did she give him a piece of her mind?”
Sandy shot me a Mona Lisa smile. “What do you think?”
Oh, the possibilities were endless. “Did she kick his booty out and slam the door in his face?”
Sandy laughed. “More like she told him it was about time they had some fresh blood on Beverly and new neighbors were welcome on her street so long as they paid their taxes, kept up their yard, and didn’t kill
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