Lapeer County, October
“Is this too dressy for a movie?” I stood in front of Nora and pulled at the hem of my knee-length skirt. “What am I saying? Of course it is. No one wears a skirt to a movie.”
“They did in my day.”
“Well, they don’t anymore.”
Nora sighed. “Yes, it’s all blue jeans and hooded sweatshirts now, everywhere you look. You know, I blame John F. Kennedy. If that man would have just worn a hat . . .”
“So, you think I should wear it?”
She assessed me with a critical eye. “Yes.”
“But what if Tyrese is wearing jeans and a hoodie?”
“Run the other way.”
I couldn’t tell if she was serious.
“It’s not too dressy,” she assured me with a smile. “You’re wearing tights and boots with it, not nylons and stilettos. You look very well-put-together.”
“You’re the expert,” I said as I put on my wool coat.
She laughed. “I may have been long ago.”
“I don’t know what you mean. You’re the most stylish person I know. Of course, I was raised by missionaries, who aren’t known for their fashion sense. But still. I hope when I’m your age I look half as good.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
“It’s true. Every word.”
“Oh, go on,” she said, clearly pleased. “Have a nice night.”
Driving toward town, I couldn’t help but think of my first date with Vic Sharpe. I’d bought this outfit for Dana. It kept Vic’s attention throughout dinner at a swanky new restaurant I later found out he’d invested in. I made up a vague backstory for Dana and kept the conversation focused on him. I gave up so little personal information that at the end of the night he immediately asked me out on a second date while apologizing for monopolizing the conversation. I could hardly believe how easy it had been.
This time would be different. I had nothing to hide and no agenda. It would be nice to be completely in the moment instead of being preoccupied with playing a part and gathering information.
Looking over the people milling around the theater lobby, though, I regretted my apparel decision. Movie night in Lapeer was even more casual than in Detroit. I spotted Tyrese. He was in jeans, though not a hoodie. When I caught him do a little double take I changed my mind about my attire.
The movie was good enough, as far as movies go. But I knew before it was over that I would not remember it six months later. After the credits rolled, we walked out to the lobby.
“Give me a second,” I said. “Just have to use the ladies’ room.”
After washing my hands, I fixed a few stray hairs, straightened and smoothed my skirt, and pulled out my phone to turn it back on. No calls or texts. No notifications from any of my social media accounts. I’d been so out of touch that everyone forgot I existed. I guess in some way, I didn’t. If I wasn’t online, I wasn’t really anywhere anymore. For just a moment this hurt—until I realized that I hadn’t really missed anyone from my past life, my life before I became a rural eccentric who did nothing but garden and snoop around someone else’s house.
I was about to return the phone to my purse when my thumb grazed the Detroit Free Press app. Before I could shut it, the headlines caught my eye. They were all about the same thing, just from different angles. And that always meant it was something bad.
White Cop Kills Unarmed Black Teen
Police Chief Claims No Wrongdoing in Slaying of Black Teen
Death Threats to White Cop—“We know where you live . . .”
Protesters Dispersed with Tear Gas
Property Destruction at Site of Police Shooting
I popped back over to my Facebook feed and scrolled through the last twenty-four hours of news. Every other post was about the incident. I felt a small twinge of regret. I should be the one covering this story.
Out in the lobby, Tyrese was staring at his phone. In that moment I realized he was the only black guy in the theater.
“You hear about this thing in Detroit?” he said, more serious than I’d seen him before.
“Just saw it.”
I felt like I should say something else, but I didn’t know what. Were I back home, I’d know exactly what tone to take as a reporter relaying the news of a tragedy to my majority black city. But here . . . what was the right thing to say?
“They’re blaming the cop, of course,” said a guy standing a couple feet away.
“I didn’t read any of the articles,” I said. “Just saw the headlines, so I don’t know what happened.” I took Tyrese’s arm and started to turn toward the door.
“Here’s what happened,” the guy continued. “Another police officer was doing his job, just trying to stay alive in the line of duty. And now he’s going to lose his job because apparently you can’t shoot criminals anymore.”
Tyrese stopped my forward motion and looked at the guy with the unsolicited opinions. “How do you know that kid was a criminal?”
The guy straightened up, trying to match Tyrese’s height. “If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have been in the line of fire.”
“You don’t know,” Tyrese said forcefully. “You weren’t there.”
The guy took a step in our direction. “Neither were you.”
“Let’s go,” I said in Tyrese’s ear.
Tyrese shoved his phone into his pocket and muttered something indecipherable under his breath. He turned and headed for the doors. I followed, glancing back once to see the guy with the opinions watching us leave.
“I kind of wish we’d driven together,” I said to lighten the mood once we were out in the dark parking lot. “Then we could chat on the way home.” But really it was because I didn’t want Tyrese on the road alone.
He cracked his neck and seemed to shake off the ugly almost-incident. “How did your aunt end up way out in the middle of nowhere anyway?”
“I don’t know. She’s lived there a long time. But she’s from the Detroit area.” We sat down on a nearby bench and I tugged at my skirt. “Most of my family is from Detroit.”
“You too, eh?”
“Yeah.”
“Must be hard to get used to living out in the country.”
“I don’t know,” I said, looking up at the star-studded sky. “I like living here more than I thought I would. It’s quiet and green. It feels good to take a mess and sort it out and make it beautiful again. I feel like maybe I’m keeping something important from vanishing. I guess that’s a little silly, though. No one would care if that garden disappeared.”
He looked thoughtful. “Someone might. Someone obviously worked hard at it in the past. What if they can still see it from where they are?”
I considered this. Could the dead look down and see the living? Could Mary Balsam see me kneeling in the dirt by her grave? Did it bring her pleasure to see that someone was remembering her? Did it pain her that I didn’t know who the other grave belonged to?
Tyrese was looking at me with a half smile. How long had I been lost in my own thoughts? His eyes flicked down and then back up to my face. I almost laughed. How did any guy think a girl didn’t notice that?
“You look really nice tonight,” he said.
“Thanks. I feel a bit ridiculous.”
“Why?”
I gestured toward myself. “A bit overdressed, don’t you think?”
“Seems about right for someone who pulls weeds in a cocktail dress.”
“Har-har,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I told you I hadn’t planned on doing that when I went out there.”
He smiled and shook his head. “I’m kidding. Like I said, you look really nice. You looked good that day too.”
I stood up. “It’s late. I better get going.”
Tyrese got to his feet.
“Are you going to be okay?” I asked.
He screwed up his face. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I shrugged. “You’re not going to go back in there and argue with that guy, are you?”
“What would be the point? Anyway, I’ve got a business to think about.” He smiled ruefully. “And the customer is always white.”