Greg hadn’t bothered to look up Demetrius Freedman’s address on a map, but he was not surprised to find his GPS taking him out of Bloomfield and into the Hill District. It was, after all, a historically black neighborhood, and precisely the sort of place Demetrius Freedman would choose to live. He was driving along Bigelow, the spectacular road that ran halfway up the bluffs that rose steep and fierce from the brown depths of the Allegheny River. To his right, the landscape plunged down hundreds of feet through Polish Hill and the Strip District to the wide water below. To his left, a vertiginous wall of rock marked the lower shoulder of Upper Hill. He followed the instructions on his screen and made a hard left onto the road that appeared there, climbing so steeply he briefly imagined he was driving a fighter jet instead of a Mini Cooper.
What brought his imagination crashing back to earth was the bleakness of his surroundings. Climbing up the lower slopes of Upper Hill, the houses, swallowed up by woodland, and some of which must once have been something to behold, were rundown to the verge of collapse. Signs of poverty were everywhere: broken-down cars; a decrepit general store with every window barred; bus stops the Port Authority had never bothered to repair. Sidewalks appeared and disappeared seemingly at random, quite possibly consumed by the weeds that forced their way through uneven flagstones. And of people, there was no sign. For a city neighborhood, it was dispiritingly quiet. The world, after it had ended.
And yet, as he wound his way higher and higher, the air seemed to be getting fresher, the light brighter. The Appalachian ridges and hillsides that hemmed in the city’s other neighborhoods had no place here. Upper Hill rose above it all, surrounded by nothing but boundless winter sky. Greg, a child of the great wide open, who found the city’s deeply notched valleys vaguely claustrophobic, was suddenly breathing a little easier.
When his Mini Cooper finally leveled out, Greg found himself in a beautiful green square overlooked by a massively impressive water tower. The square – a little park, really – with large mature trees, was faced on four sides by grand, three-story houses; some dilapidated to the point of ruin, others rehabbed to a standard that would have fetched vast sums of money in Squirrel Hill or Shadyside. It was one of the latter, festooned with black-and-gold flags, and other Steelers regalia, that turned out to be the home address of one Dr Demetrius Freedman.
‘Come in, brother. Make yourself at home,’ Demetrius said, ushering him inside. Greg caught a brief glimpse of a bright living room, dominated by a huge, plate-glass window affording spectacular views across the Allegheny. He was gently shooed downstairs and into a luxuriously furnished den. No plate-glass windows here, just a TV screen so big it wouldn’t have looked out of place in a movie theater. Half-a-dozen men and two teenage boys, all African American, were already present. Demetrius pressed a near-freezing bottle of Iron City into his hand and introduced him around, finishing with the two teenagers.
‘And these are my boys,’ he said, proudly. ‘Caleb and Malik.’ Caleb, the older of the two, was sixteen, if Greg remembered correctly. He was a sophomore at the Upper School, shaping up to be tall and thin like his father and, unsurprisingly, a dominating presence on Calderhill’s basketball team. Malik, the younger, was thirteen and more stoutly constructed than his brother. Both of them greeted him with polite smiles.
‘OK!’ Demetrius exclaimed. ‘It’s time to play some football!’
Greg settled at one end of a deep leather couch, next to a giant of a man called Aundray Oates. Greg was not surprised to learn that Aundray had once played college ball before transitioning into adult life as a dentist. Armed with the contents of that morning’s Post-Gazette, Greg was able to make some not-stupid observations, while Aundray expounded on what the Steelers were doing wrong and – very occasionally – right, during a low-scoring first half.
As the second quarter wound down through the two-minute warning, Aundray asked, ‘So, Greg, do Brits like American football?’
‘Some do.’ Feeling a sudden upwelling of mischief, he added, ‘Even if it’s not really a sport.’
‘What do you mean, it’s not a sport?’ Aundray waved good naturedly at the television. ‘Look at it! A big stadium, loud crowds, incredible athletes, points on the board. I can’t think of anything that’s more like a sport.’
Greg shook his head, an impish smile tugging at his lips.
‘It’s very athletic – for sure. But it’s not a sport. It’s more like … going to the ballet.’
‘The what, now?’
‘The ballet. Lots of young, lithe people in tight-fitting clothes prancing about doing pre-arranged, choreographed moves. It’s dancing with a ball. Unless you’re a cheerleader, of course. Then it’s just dancing.’
The whole room was staring at him now. Greg just grinned.
‘I guess you think soccer’s more manly?’ Oates asked. There was a faint edge to the question.
‘Well, they don’t stop every thirty seconds to take a rest,’ Greg pointed out. ‘But no, you want a man’s game, it’s got to be ice hockey. Those guys go at it a hundred percent up and down the rink without stopping, in armor plate and holding an actual weapon. And they do it on skates. Did you guys see Friday’s game?’
‘You’re a Penguins fan?’ Aundray asked, any previous hostility wiped away by surprise.
‘Big time,’ Greg admitted. ‘Got taken to a game when I first came here and been in love with it ever since.’
The whole room, Greg noticed, was nodding with approval. This was Pittsburgh. Anyone who loved Penguins hockey couldn’t be all bad.
‘Well, man,’ Aundray said at last, ‘you just keep watching. We’ll make a Steelers fan of you yet.’
‘Happy to be one,’ Greg assured him. ‘They already play in Penguins colors anyway.’ He raised his beer. ‘Go Steelers!’
That raised a chuckle. The first half expired with a whimper on the Steelers forty-yard line. Drinks and snacks were refreshed. Conversations turned to other matters. Greg, discovering that the basement level of Demetrius’s house opened onto the backyard, took the opportunity to step outside for a breath of fresh air. The yard was mostly thick grass bordered by low shrubs and a couple of bare-leaved trees. It sloped precipitously downward from the back of the house but afforded a view that stretched for miles across tree-lined ridges and lesser hills, all of them clothed in white snow and the gray-brown of winter woodland. It was crisp and chill, with a hint of sun behind the thinning cloud. Greg breathed deeply, reveling in the cold.
‘Are we having fun yet?’ asked a voice from behind him. Demetrius.
‘Very much so,’ Greg said, without turning around. He was enjoying the scenery, the openness of it. ‘This is simply … spectacular.’
‘Isn’t it? My ex and I fell in love with the view. It’s why we bought the place. It was a complete wreck when we first moved in, but it was worth all the effort to get it the way it is now.’ A slightly edgy laugh. ‘Even if it did cost me my marriage.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t be. It’s for the best. I have my boys, and she has whatever man she’s shacked up with this month.’
The edge to Demetrius’s tone was still there. Greg thought it safer to change the subject.
‘Is the view worth the neighborhood?’
Demetrius snorted.
‘The Hill District isn’t a tenth as dangerous as white people think it is. And it’s where our people are. If people like me don’t invest in it, who else is going to? The city? Give me a break.’
Greg, realizing he was treading on dangerous ground, kept his counsel.
‘The Hill District wasn’t always like this, you know,’ Demetrius continued. ‘You’ve seen the houses? The architecture?’
Greg nodded.
‘Up through WW Two, the big one, this place was really something. Jazz, blues, culture, you name it, the Hill District had it. But when African Americans started moving out of the South during the great migration, the only place in the city they were allowed to live was here. More and more people crammed tighter and tighter into a limited amount of housing. And no permits to build more, and just try getting a loan to fix things up … Well, you can imagine how that went. And then in the Fifties, the city basically wiped out Lower Hill. And for what? A bunch of parking lots and what’s now the Penguins’ stadium. Conveniences for white people and fuck everybody else. The whole neighborhood was cut off from downtown, the economy collapsed, and the Hill District is what you have today. But it’s ours, and we gotta do the best we can to get it back to what it was.’
‘Makes sense,’ Greg said. Though, truth be told, he wasn’t sure it did. Life was too short to be some kind of urban pioneer, even if the view out the back was unbelievable. He much preferred the ersatz counterculture of Bloomfield, with its white hipsters and Asian students; its tattoo parlors and trendy coffee shops. It’s life.
‘Demetrius, can I ask you something?’
‘Shoot.’
‘Last Monday night, you told the police you were in your classroom all evening, prepping sulfur hex … hexa …’
‘Hexafluoride.’
‘Hexafluoride, thanks, until you went home?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, have you thought about what will happen if the police look at the school’s keycard logs?’ Greg was still staring out at the distant hillsides. He couldn’t see Demetrius’s expression, but he could hear the shuffle of feet as the chemistry teacher shifted his stance.
‘What are you getting at?’
‘The glass doors that lead to the science department close at night. You need a card to get in and out.’
‘I know that, dammit. I do work there.’
‘Exactly. So there’s a log entry every time the doors get opened. You opened the doors from the science department side at eight twenty p.m. You didn’t come back in until about eight forty. And then you left for the night, just after eight fifty.’
‘How the fuck do you know that?’
‘I’m an incorrigible gossip. What are you going to say if the police ask you to account for twenty minutes you didn’t tell them about?’
Demetrius laid a hand on Greg’s shoulder and turned him around with a considerable display of strength.
‘Are you accusing me of fucking murder?’
‘No. I’m asking you to think very carefully about what you’re going to tell the police if they come asking.’
‘Jesus Christ, Greg, I don’t remember! I don’t even remember leaving my classroom. Maybe … maybe I needed something from the faculty lounge, or I went there because the restroom is nicer, or I just needed to stretch my legs. I don’t fucking know. And why does it matter? Po-po’s going to stick it to the Velasquez girl.’
Greg shook his head.
‘I heard they’ve got real doubts she has anything to do with it.’ He stared intently into Demetrius’s angry, confused face. ‘I also heard that Bryan or Lindsay Delcade did some real harm to your career.’
Demetrius stiffened.
‘Where’d you hear that?’
‘From Bryan Delcade. He wants his son off the hook for the “n” word thing. Threatened to ruin my career the same way he ruined yours.’
‘Sonofabitch!’
‘So it’s true, then? Because if it is, the police are going to be giving a black man with a grudge and a twenty-minute window a much closer look.’
Demetrius glared at him, and then sighed, the sound deep and tremulous. Taking Greg by the elbow, Demetrius led him to the side of the house, away from anyone who might come out of the basement behind them. The chemistry teacher leaned in until his face was only inches from Greg’s, the expression bitter. His dark eyes glittered bright with anger.
‘How many white chemists with PhDs from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology end up teaching high school, Greg? How many?’
‘Very few, I’m guessing.’
‘Damn right. I’m a good chemist. Top of my class in undergrad, great doctoral program, the whole world at my fucking feet. African American. Couldn’t get a tenure track job in academia to save my life, even though white classmates with way less talent and more connections did. I bummed around in a few associate faculty positions, but I couldn’t make ends meet, so I ended up teaching high school. I ended up here, where I got passed over for the Head of Science position. Twice.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. But someone with a résumé like yours? There are other schools, surely?’
‘Not many.’ Demetrius nodded in the direction of his house. ‘At least, not many in Pittsburgh that can give my sons a great education. Calderhill picks up their tuition. It’s one of the perks.’ A sardonic smile. ‘One of the handcuffs.’
‘And what does that have to do with Bryan Delcade?’
‘Nothing. But he and his lovely wife fucked up my one chance to step up.’
‘How so?’
‘There was a Head of Science opening at the Edgeworth School.’
‘The suburban Calderhill?’
‘They wouldn’t thank you for calling them that, but yes. Private, like Calderhill; great rep; free tuition for the boys. I applied for the position, everything went great, and I heard on the down-low that the job was mine.’
‘So, what happened?’
‘Lindsay fucking Delcade is what happened. I gave her daughter a B-plus. Lindsay hit the roof, stormed into my classroom, and demanded I regrade her. Called me an “undercover black panther” who wanted to stop her kid getting into Stayard. Stayard! Vicki’s a good kid – and a genuinely talented actor – but there’s no way. Anyhow, I was as polite as I could be and said no.’
‘And then she went to Principal Ellis, I suppose?’
‘She sure did. Ellis held the line, though. The three of us had a meeting in her office. Man, that woman ranted and raved like you would not believe. Finished up by telling me that I would regret it. And I did.’
‘Really?’
‘Turns out Bryan Delcade is an alum and trustee of the Edgeworth School. He kicked up a stink about my appointment to the Head of Science position. All of a sudden, it was “Head of Science offer? What Head of Science offer?”. A “terrible misunderstanding” for which they were “so very sorry”. Fuckers. They gave the job to some white guy from Chicago.’ Demetrius kicked angrily at a piece of gravel stuck to the flagstones. ‘And now, like you said, I’m a black man with a grudge who can’t account for his time. It won’t look so good for me, will it?’
‘It’s not great.’
‘Yeah, but the cops don’t know about the Edgeworth thing.’ Demetrius’s expression brightened a little. ‘Most they’re gonna get is that I was out of my classroom for a minute or two. That ought not to be enough, even for them.’
Greg shook his head.
‘Bryan Delcade knows about the Edgeworth thing. And if he knows, chances are the police will, too. Sooner or later.’
‘Goddamn sonofabitch!’ Demetrius exploded. ‘Hasn’t that smug, fascist bastard done me enough harm?’ He leaned into the side of his beautiful house, pressing his forehead against the cool brickwork. He took a series of deep breaths, loud in the sudden silence. ‘Is there no end to this shit?’ he asked. ‘Doesn’t it ever … just stop?’ His voice was low and cracked, as if on the verge of tears.
Greg gave his host a sympathetic smile, placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘Think really hard about where you went, OK? And if they ask, don’t lie to them about the Delcades. Lying is what got Andrea Velasquez into trouble in the first place.’
Aundray, the dentist, stuck his head around the corner of the building.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Game’s started and your beers are getting warm. Get on in here!’
Demetrius straightened up and followed Aundray back inside. Greg, even less interested in football than usual, lagged behind.
Looking at the chemistry teacher’s tall, rangy frame, he was dragged back to another, earlier conversation.
I’d like to line the lot of ’em against a wall, and just pull the fucking trigger.
Demetrius Freedman was a powerfully built human being. One who’d had to run the race of life knee-deep in water. There was a lot of anger there. A lot.
Maybe, in that MIT brain of his, Lindsay Delcade was a good first step.