LANDSLIDE

now

Police speculated that D’Lon Andrews fell asleep at the wheel and hit the cemetery wall at twenty-five to thirty miles per hour. He suffered head injuries as well as the gunshot wounds, the one to the abdomen judged to be fatal. Complete autopsy and toxicology reports were pending. Found in the dead man’s pocket was a wallet containing a photo of his two sons. Ages four and two.

This photo got a lot of screen time.

The weapon Anthony DeMarco Jr. fired was not registered. It was not issued to him by Vigilant Security, the company where he is employed.

Was employed.

It appeared to have been illegally obtained. So far it could not be traced.

Anthony’s court-appointed lawyer said her client didn’t know about the car accident. Her client acted on what he saw: a menacing figure, a terrified neighbor. Her client had no further comments at this time.

There was a new photo: Anthony being arraigned. He wore one of those orange jumpsuits. Handcuffs. A stony-faced jailer on either side of him, as if they were guarding a dangerous criminal who might attempt escape any moment. Nella studied his face, trying to recognize anything in it. His deep-set eyes and full lips had slipped beneath a veil. A screen had gone up between him and the world, and Nella couldn’t see in. She wondered if he could see out.

Zooming in, she could just make out the scar over his left eye.

Did handcuffs hurt?

“For the love of God. What was that kid doing with a gun?” Dad swore under his breath.

“He needs a good lawyer,” Mom said. “But how will they ever afford that?”

Dad was home from visiting Nonni. The smell of the hospital clung to him—strong soap, gross food. After a visit there, he spoke the foreign language of doctors. He used mysterious abbreviations and quoted numbers and scores on tests. Dad tried to sound like an authority, but Nella could tell: he was just repeating what they told him. Nobody, maybe not even the doctors, could predict what Nonni’s brain was going to do.

Mom looked so tired. When she frowned, she got a wrinkle that came to a point just above her nose, like the marking on some exotic bird.

“His bail’s sky-high,” Dad said. “They’ll never be able to post it.”

Vinny climbed into Mom’s lap. It had been a long time since he’d nursed, but he patted her breast like they were old friends. Mom took his hand and pressed it between both of hers.

“Do you want some cereal? Do you want a banana?” Her voice was a little desperate, like she was talking to someone who spoke another language. Which she was.

When Vinny grinned, his eyes closed right up. His hair, which Mom still didn’t have the heart to cut, was a tornado of curls. When he replied in gobbledegook, Dad echoed it back to him.

“We’re supposed to talk in slow, clear English!” Mom scolded. “The doctor said.”

“He’s saying he loves you.” Dad’s face softened. He touched Mom’s cheek. “It’s clear as day to me.”

“Ba-na-na,” said Mom, holding one up. “Ap-ple.” Bobby bounced into the room and grabbed the banana.

“Bobby,” said Dad, “do you love Vinny?”

“Mostly.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Bobby looked suspicious.

“Try and say.”

Bobby flattened his nose with his palm. “I just do, that’s all.”

“I rest my case.” Dad pushed back his chair.

“What case?” said Mom.

“The things that matter most?” Dad paused in the doorway. His eyes met Nella’s, then flicked away. “You don’t need words. You just know.”

Since Clem had left, Nella hadn’t once gone on CRAPP patrol. Plastic bags lodged in the sidewalk trees, and bad thoughts in her mind. She couldn’t pluck them out, not the bags or the thoughts.

Everyone was still on Anthony’s side, but whispers started. Who really knew the first thing about him, after all? He had that girlfriend, remember. Maybe he got mixed up with people from her neighborhood. Maybe it was a gang thing. Gangs, drugs, crime—that’s what went on down in that part of town. That’s where you went when you wanted a gun with no questions asked.

Janelle lived up the hill in the Heights, Nella knew. She wasn’t from that part of town.

And now they heard there was going to be a vigil at the Manzinis’. D’Lon Andrews’s church and some other organizations were sponsoring it. By early evening, cars circled the streets, looking for parking spots. The neighborhood watched, uneasy. Why did they have to have the vigil here? What was wrong with their own neighborhood? What were they trying to prove?

Late that afternoon, on the way to Nonni’s house, Nella stopped at Franny’s. A jar on the counter was labeled ANTHONY DEMARCO JR. BALE FUND. It held a few bills and some change. Nella dug quarters and dimes out of her pocket and dropped them in. She trailed back out, behind two guys wearing muddy work boots and Hilltop Cemetery shirts. Probably summer hires, the college kids who drove Dad crazy.

“Who’s Anthony DeMonte, anyway?” one of them asked, reaching in his bag for a doughnut.

“Some butthead from the neighborhood. He shot an unarmed black guy. Trying to be a hero!”

“Christ!” The guy shoved half the doughnut in his mouth. “What’s wrong with these people?”

“Plenty. But they got doughnut making down.”

Nella glared. The Fury of Nonni pulsed through her. She turned on her heel, immediately tripped, and hit the pavement. One of the guys offered her a hand.

“You okay?”

Nella got to her own feet. “He’s not a butthead! And since you’re so superior, why don’t you do us all a favor and go away!”

The boy tucked his chin against his neck and stared. “Sor-ree!”

“She told you, loser,” said the other one, grinning.

Nella dusted herself off and charged away, heart thudding. She couldn’t believe she did that. She never told people off. But she was still furious.

And then it came to her: the stupid things those stupid guys said about Anthony—they were no different from the stupid things her stupid neighbors were saying about Janelle.

Nonni’s house was like a crime scene. The broken coffee mug still lay on the kitchen floor. A crusty dish and glass of curdled milk still sat on the table. The garbage reeked. Nella swept, washed the dishes, and scrubbed out the can.

When she hauled the garbage to the curb, Hairy Boy and Turtle Girl were coming down their front steps. Turtle Girl stopped and called to Nella.

“Hey. The lady who lives there? Is she your grandma?”

“No,” said Nella, technically not a lie. She hurried back inside.

She gathered the things on the list Dad gave her: underwear, lipstick, photographs, rosary beads. Every drawer she opened had a bag of candy stashed in the back, and Nella took some Laffy Taffy, in case the rehab center where they were transferring her didn’t serve sweets.

Next Nella went to Clem’s. She watered the tomatoes, though they didn’t need it, and worked Mr. T’s program. By now he let her scoop him up, and never spurted green poop on her. Tonight he made a sniffing sound that sounded like You’re okay. When she fed him, he grunted like a minuscule pig. This is delicious. Even hedgehogs, it seemed, yearned to communicate.

Nella sat on Clem’s bed. The glow-in-the-dark stars looked innocent and hopeful, like a remnant of some happy, ancient civilization. If only you could store up happiness. Dig a hole or keep it in a happiness piggy bank.

Clem’s digital clock blinked forward. She jumped up.

Outside, Nella didn’t recognize the sound. The wind, maybe? Except the trees behind the stone wall didn’t move. A flock of birds with heavy wings? Except the sky was empty. Ghosts? Except of course that was ridiculous. A girl who’d lived her whole life across from a graveyard did not let herself believe in ghosts.

The July night was warm, but she shivered. Until a few days ago, Nella knew every sight and sound, smell and taste of her neighborhood. The steep hill and narrow houses, the cheesy music at Mama Gemma’s, the supernatural perfume of fresh doughnuts, and the zing of lemon ice. She and Angela used to love— No. Don’t think about Angela. Just don’t.

The world tilted and went blurry.

“You okay?” asked a soft voice at her elbow.

A stranger. A woman with long dreads and dark, anxious eyes. Nella had almost reached the street where it happened, and suddenly she was surrounded by other people, all intent on getting to the source of that sound. Looking into the woman’s concerned face, Nella at last recognized what that sound was. Voices. Voices singing.

“I’m all right,” said Nella, and then, who knew why, she said thank you in Italian. “Mille grazie.”

The woman hesitated, but the sound, the singing, was pulling her too. She reached up—Nella was taller than she was—and gave Nella’s head a motherly pat. Then disappeared around the corner.

Police cars blocked off the street. Cops leaned against them, arms folded. Maybe they were here to protect people, but they scared Nella. There were news vans, men with cameras on their shoulders. She looked around, recognizing no one. A tornado snatched up every person she knew and spun them away. An earthquake gobbled them down. A landslide pulverized them.

She slipped between the barricades. A sea of strangers overflowed the narrow street, spilling onto the sidewalks and little front lawns. Nella kept searching for a familiar face, but the only one she found was Father Gomez, who stood near the Manzinis’ front door. The family was gone—they left the day after it happened, to stay with relatives in the suburbs. Next to Father Gomez was a man in a big-brimmed black hat, and other men and women with somber faces. A short black man in a robe led a choir that swayed as it sang. All around her, people joined in, but Nella didn’t recognize the hymn. It was mournful and beautiful, making her think of a river. For a moment she fell under its spell, but then she was afraid. These strangers had to hate Anthony. Invaders, she thought, just as someone put a hand on her arm. Nella spun around, heart racing. A woman with a round, sad face was holding out an unlit candle.

“Here, sugar,” she said.

“Oh,” said Nella. “Thank you.” Then heard herself repeat, “Mille grazie.”

Father Gomez took the microphone. His accent was heavy and the microphone squealed, so it was hard to understand most of what he said, but people nodded politely, and when he called on Our Heavenly Father to heal us in our suffering and pain, the round-faced woman beside her whispered, “Amen.”

Nella stood on her toes, hoping Sister Rosa was here too. But no. She was banished to the rest home. The other white people looked like they were from up the hill. Some held signs. STOP THE VIOLENCE and HATE BREEDS HATE and pictures of guns with red lines through them. Near a bed of flowers with a statue of St. Francis in the middle, Hairy Boy had his arm around Turtle Girl. She was crying, and so were other girls Nella could tell were students.

The landslide. People from up the hill had come sliding down. Against the laws of physics, people from down the hill had come surging up. Nella’s neighborhood had gotten scraped away.

Father Gomez gave the microphone to a woman who introduced herself as their city councilwoman. Her voice was as clear as Father Gomez’s was muddled.

“My friends, we gather here tonight to mourn a young man who had all his life ahead of him. D’Lon dreamed of graduating from college. He dreamed of marrying the woman he loved, and making a home for the two little boys who meant more to him than life itself. He dreamed of a future shining with possibilities.

“But those dreams have been cruelly snatched away. Now we will never know who D’Lon Andrews could have become, or what he could have accomplished.”

A man near Nella lowered his head into his hands. Someone behind her whispered a prayer.

“Yet another young, promising black man has gone to a violent, premature death. My friends, tonight we gather here in deepest sorrow and pain.”

A young woman and two little boys stood off to the side. D’Lon’s fiancée—Nella recognized her from TV. And those were the boys in the photograph shown so often. The older one, wearing a too-big football jersey, gripped his mother’s skirt. The younger, Vinny-sized one crouched to pick up something bright lying in the grass. A toy—it must have belonged to the Manzinis’ daughter. He looked at it with surprise and delight, like it fell from the sky just for him.

“We gather here tonight in sorrow, but not entirely in shock. We have seen tragedies like this far too many times before. Each time we hope and pray it will be the last time, and yet here we are again. How can we let this keep happening? How can we refuse to learn?” The councilwoman held out her arms. “This is a question we cannot afford to continue asking. This is a question that we need to answer.”

All around Nella, people murmured. The bag of Nonni’s underwear and candy tried to slip from her arms but she caught it.

“My friends, D’Lon is gone, but tonight, I can hear his voice. While we falter and fumble for words, I hear him calling out to us. I hear him begging us to work together to eradicate prejudice and misunderstanding, and to replace them with equality and compassion.”

“Amen,” voices answered. “Amen!”

“I hear him asking us to mend these terrible divisions between us, and put a stop, once and for all, to violence. I hear him calling out, Bury the hatred! Promise your children this will never happen again.”

“Anthony doesn’t hate anyone,” Nella whispered.

Another hand touched her and made her jump, startled and afraid. But it was just a girl about her age, who held her lit candle to Nella’s unlit one. “Pass it on,” she said as the flame bent and leaped.

Nella turned and touched her candle to the next person’s. The flame passed from hand to hand, flickering in the dark, and now the choir was singing again, and everyone was joining in, voices rising and blending. Nella heard the voice of the girl beside her, and behind her another voice that twisted and twined upward till it burst on the air like some great, fragrant flower. All around her, people sang.

This hymn Nella recognized. She could sing too, but her throat had gone dry. Instead, she turned around. Candle in one hand, Nonni’s underwear and candy in the other, Nella stumbled through the crowd. The singing was a powerful river rising all around her, trying to sweep her up. Looking back, she saw the Vinny-sized son playing with the toy he found. His Bobby-sized brother put a finger to his lips and frowned. Nella’s heart thunked against her ribs. Tears dimmed her eyes. Her feet pretzeled and she bumped into a man who caught her elbow.

“Sorry,” she said. “So sorry!”

She finally made her way out of the crowd, and there stood Angela. The streetlight fell across her face. Her skin was the color of a plant trying to grow where no sun reached. But most disturbing of all was her hair. It fell in a single uneven braid down her back. Her part was crooked. She stared at Nella’s candle.

“I . . .” Nella wanted to explain, but how could she? She didn’t understand herself. “I . . . I didn’t mean to go. I just, somehow I did.” She blew out the candle. “It’s not like I think . . . I know he didn’t mean it, Angela. I know he’d never.”

Angela looked tired, too tired to argue. Or maybe she didn’t care anymore what Nella thought.

“Are you . . . are you okay?” Nella asked. Even for someone whose specialty was the wrong question, this was awful.

The singing faded away. Silence took over. People bowed their heads. The candles shone in the dark. The silence had a solid, impenetrable shape. Nella and Angela stood on the outside of it, looking in.

Or Nella did. When she turned around, Angela had disappeared.

At home, Mom and Dad were watching the news. They didn’t notice Nella hovering in the doorway, where she viewed the vigil all over again, this time through the eyes of the camera. It zeroed in on the fiancée’s stricken face, the son gripping his mother’s skirt. It showed the councilwoman raising her hands to the sky and saying she heard D’Lon’s voice still speaking. It showed an old man with tears rolling down his lined face.

It showed what it chose to and left out everything else.

“This neighborhood’s decades-old history of segregation and racial strife has come back to haunt it,” said the reporter, who tonight wore a black suit. Behind her, the crowd started to sing. “Meanwhile, civil rights groups are calling for stiffer charges against Anthony DeMarco Jr., who remains in jail.”

Dad clicked the remote. He sat rigid, staring at the blank screen, till Mom slipped her arm around him.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m here. I’m always here.”

Dad leaned into her and let his head rest on her shoulder. Mom rubbed his back and said soft, soothing things, the way she did to Nella and her brothers when they were scared or hurt. Seeing her father like that made Nella’s heart twist, and she was back in that crowd, surrounded by people she didn’t know, their beautiful, aching voices rising up to heaven, trying to push away what couldn’t be moved.