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Authors: Bettye Griffin

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BOOK: If These Walls Could Talk
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“Milo, I make over fifty thousand dollars a year, and so do you. Our household income is over six figures. I've read financial guidelines that say it's considered correct to spend up to twenty-eight percent of your annual income on rent or a mortgage. That comes to more than $25K, or something like seventeen or eighteen hundred a month. Surely we can find something with carrying charges in that vicinity.”
“That would be fine if we lived in Atlanta or Houston, but”—Milo quoted the title of a Roy Ayers tune—“we live in Brooklyn, baby. Besides, there's more expense involved in home ownership than a mortgage payment. We'd have to buy a lawn mower, a water heater, a washer and dryer, all that stuff. And if it's a condo, there's a bunch of fees for maintenance and stuff. You wouldn't be able to go clothes shopping for a very long time.”
She cast her eyes downward. All those things added up to thousands. If they had to pay an additional thousand dollars just to keep a roof over their heads, plus buy all that stuff Milo talked about, she'd be wearing the same clothes for ten years. She'd never get to the manicurist again. And forget about going on vacation or trading in their car for a newer one once they made the last payment and received the title. Damn it, Milo was probably right.
“We need to stay right here, Dawn,” he said firmly. “I'm as distressed as you are about Hazel, but in a month or two we'll have a new neighbor, and life will go on.”
Chapter 5
The Currys
October 2001
“R
euben, I don't know.” Camille's voice was low with doubt and disappointment as she and Reuben sat at the dining table studying the real estate listings in the Sunday
Times
. “Look at these prices.”
“I thought we were doing pretty good financially until I saw these numbers,” he said, equally mournful. “Together, we have an income of about $75K a year, Camille. A lot of people living right here in this neighborhood are getting by on a lot less. But these people want more than a quarter mil for houses right here in the Bronx!”
“It's even worse in Long Island and Westchester.” She twirled a lock of newly relaxed hair around her index finger and sighed. “I hate to say this, but our apartment is looking better and better to me all the time. I just wish we could pick it up and move it to a different location.” She wasn't thrilled about their children having to share a bedroom, but the unpleasant surroundings truly made her unhappy. She felt Mitchell and Shayla deserved better than the junkyards with their barking dogs, used car lots, and the noisy elevated train. She wanted them to have someplace decent to play, unlike her own childhood, when the only times she got away from the concrete jungle of sidewalk hopscotch games and could actually play on grass were the ten days she spent at camp in Pennsylvania each year.
“It's not fair,” Reuben muttered. “Back in the day your average working man could afford four walls and a roof. People who work hard are supposed to be able to get somewhere. I'd like to get more out of life than just having a decent apartment, and I want to give Mitchell and Shayla something to strive for from life. Too many black kids today have no goals other than to drive a nice car. I don't want our kids to start thinking that's all they can achieve.”
“Well, let's not give up. I'm sure that somewhere out there is the perfect house for us.”
But even as she said the words, she wondered if they were pursuing an impossible dream.
“Camille, c'mere!”
Camille sensed the urgency in Reuben's voice. She rushed to their bedroom, toothbrush in hand and her mouth still full of toothpaste. “What is it?” she asked anxiously.
“Look at this.” He reached for the remote control and raised the volume on the TV.
She stared blankly as the camera scanned a neighborhood of well-kept, new-looking homes, all with immaculate front lawns. She felt a pang of wanting in her chest at the shot of children riding bicycles along wide sidewalks bordered by thick, lush grass. Those should be
her
children....
The announcer's voice played as the camera continued to scan the pretty neighborhood. “Arlington Acres, a taste of paradise in the shadow of the Pocono Mountains. Enjoy life surrounded by graceful mountain peaks and peaceful valleys. Swim in our community pool, and indulge in boating and fishing in our lake. Come out to visit us today and arrange for your new home. Why wait? It's affordable. Get rid of your landlord and become a home owner in lovely Arlington Acres, Tobyhanna, Pennsylvania.” The picture changed to a dark background with the address and telephone number written across the screen.
She shrugged. Most of her childhood friends had left the city years ago, settling in places like Ohio and Maryland, some alone, others with boyfriends, eventually settling down and purchasing homes in an affordable market. She envied their becoming home owners, but the time had passed for her and Reuben to make a cold move like that. They had careers to think about and two children to care for. “It's too bad they don't have anything like that here.” Damn New York for being so expensive.
“Why don't we check it out?”
“What for? Seeing it will only break our hearts.”
“I don't want to just look at it. I want us to
consider
it. Let's see what it's really like, see how long a commute would take. It's not that far, Camille.”
She stared at him skeptically. “Not that far? It's in
Pennsylvania,
Reuben. I went to camp in the Pocono Mountains when I was a kid. That ride took forever.”
“Camille, you missed the first part of the commercial. That man might as well have been talking to us. He asked if we were frustrated over being priced out of the New York suburbs. He asked if we wanted better neighborhoods and schools for our children. He said that hundreds of New Yorkers are moving to eastern Pennsylvania and enjoying the finer things in life while commuting to work. And the best thing of all, he said we can have a beautiful, brand-new home for as little as $740 a month.”
Her apprehension melted away quicker than butter on a steaming hot baked potato. They paid more than that for rent now. “Really?”
“I don't know much about what it's about, other than what I saw on the commercial. Maybe there's a catch. But I think that if there's a chance we can buy a brand-new house for less than we're paying in rent, I think we owe it to ourselves to find out.”
“So do I, Reuben.” Camille made a face, suddenly aware of her taste buds objecting to the gooey toothpaste that lingered in her mouth. “I've got to rinse my mouth.”
She rocked her head jauntily from side to side and made little singsong noises in her throat as she finished brushing her teeth. A house note for just a little over seven hundred dollars? They could definitely afford that. They could take what remained of the fifteen thousand dollars Aunt Mary had left them and live happily ever after....
No, she shouldn't get so far ahead of herself. They didn't know a thing about what living in Pennsylvania involved. Regardless of what Reuben said, it was still a long way from New York.
But then again, maybe that bus ride to the Poconos wasn't as long as she remembered.
After all, she'd been only a kid then, who'd never been out of the city.
And if other people could make it work, why not them?
Chapter 6
The Lees
November 2001
“N
ow, remember, girls,” Norman cautioned the children, “Mommy and I are just going to look at a few houses. Nothing is definite, so don't go telling anyone that we're going to be moving, all right? Not even your grandparents or your cousins.”
The girls nodded and replied affirmatively. “But I hope we do move here, Daddy,” Lorinda said. “I like it. It's pretty.”
“I think so, too,” Veronica added softly, so that only Norman could hear. He smiled at her and reached for her hand, giving it an affectionate squeeze before returning it to the steering wheel.
They'd seen a commercial last weekend for the Arlington Acres housing development, and it seemed as though the announcer spoke directly to them. They'd both gotten excited at the prospect of affordable housing in what appeared to be a lovely suburban environment. Norman pointed out that nothing really held them to New York, that since they both worked in health care, they should be able to get jobs locally to avoid that long and expensive commute to the city. But Pennsylvania wasn't so far away that they'd feel too isolated from their family members in Washington Heights.
They found themselves talking of nothing else, and before the weekend ended they decided to take off the next Thursday and Friday from work, take the girls out of school for two days, and spend the weekend checking out the area. Their first stop was the human resources department of the local medical center, where they each filled out applications and attached their resumes.
Then they went to the development they'd seen advertised on television, Arlington Acres. It looked just as it had been described: rows of neat houses, some larger than others, with lush lawns of thick green grass, and swing sets and trampolines visible in some of the backyards. In the center of the development sat a large lake, the water looking almost blue in the sparkling sunlight, even though Veronica knew that close up it would appear brown. This was, after all, the Mid-Atlantic, not Martinique.
Lorinda and Simone leaned against the windows of the backseat eagerly. “Mommy,” Simone said, “if we move here will we have our own yard to play in?”
“Yes, we will. But remember, girls, we're just looking. We're not sure if this will work for us yet. I wouldn't want you to get your hopes up.” Still, Veronica knew how they felt. One glimpse, and she already wanted to live here. This neighborhood came right out of one of those Lifetime Network movies set in Middle America. Amsterdam Avenue seemed a million miles away instead of a mere hundred.
They made their next stop the sales office, which had been set up in the finished garage of a furnished model of one of the larger homes. Prospective buyers sat at each of the three desks. “Let's look at the model while we wait,” Veronica suggested to Norman.
His whistle as they walked adequately expressed her own feelings. The exquisitely furnished model contained no shortage of upgrades—extra-long kitchen cabinets; a huge sculpted bathtub plus an oversized shower in the master bathroom; high, gracefully curved faucets; two fireplaces. “It's a cinch this house is more than $125,000,” he whispered.
“But it's beautiful,” Veronica replied wistfully.
“It's probably the largest model they've got. That makes sense when you're trying to sell houses, to make everyone want the one that costs the most.” He watched as Lorinda and Simone inspected a large rag doll that sat on one of the beds in the children's room. “All right. There's no way we can afford this one, but let's go see how they react to a black family expressing interest in one of their smaller houses.”
“I don't think it'll be a problem. They showed black people in their commercial, remember?”
“Actors, Veronica. We're about to find out how they
really
feel. They may well be two different things.”
She shared his apprehension, in spite of the living-side-by-side harmony displayed in their advertising. Even in the twenty-first century (and, she suspected, it would be the same in a thousand years from now), black people were simply not welcome in certain neighborhoods.
Their salesman, a young blond man who introduced himself as Eric Nylund, certainly seemed friendly enough. He shook their hands and offered lollipops to Lorinda and Simone, “if your parents say it's okay.” Veronica liked his methods. She hated it when personnel in doctors' offices or at car dealerships offered sweets to her daughters without first getting her permission. Her own mother always turned down the lollipops they used to offer her at the dentist's office, choosing instead to buy candy at the corner store. When Veronica asked why she did that she said, “Because I don't trust those lollipops in the dentist's office. You just had a cavity filled, and I think they get extra sugar put in their candy to guarantee you'll be back with another.”
She, Norman, and Eric spent a few minutes chatting about the differences between city and suburban living, then moved on to their particular needs. Eric gave them floor plans for homes in their price range. Norman and Veronica studied them, and Eric answered their questions, excusing himself twice to take incoming calls on his cell phone. She guessed from hearing his end of the conversation that the first was a social call from a young lady, whom he quickly brushed off with a promise to call back later. The second call, from a client, sounded much more interesting.
“I'm sorry, but I won't be able to hold that lot for you much longer,” he said politely. “It's first come, first serve. We're running out of lakefront lots, which means someone will want it soon. We tried to work with you while you sorted out your finances, but we just can't deny it to another buyer on the strength of a maybe from you. I'm sorry.”
Eric disconnected the call and looked up at them apologetically. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I had someone who wanted us to hold one of the best lots we've got for him while he tries to get someone to finance his loan. He must be crazy.”
“How much is a lot on the lake?” Milo asked, adding, “Just out of curiosity. I'm sure it's more than we can afford.”
“Oh, they begin at about six thousand dollars.”
Norman and Veronica looked at each other, both shaking their heads, before Norman replied, “Like I thought, that's more than we're willing to spend.”
“I'd be happy to show one of them to you,” Eric offered. “The one I was holding for the buyer who just called is seventy-five hundred, but it's one of the absolute best.”
“No, thank you,” Veronica echoed. She looked at Norman again, a frown on her face. Hadn't Eric heard them the first time?
“We do have models of all of these within walking distance,” Eric said. “We find that buyers prefer to look on their own without feeling pressure from a salesperson. But I want to make sure you understand that we're rapidly running out of home sites in Phase I, and construction on Phase II won't begin until the spring. Putting down a deposit today will guarantee you'll get in Phase I.”
“Kind of pushy, wasn't he?” Veronica remarked as they set out to look at the models.
Norman shrugged. “He's in sales. They have to be aggressive to a certain degree. But I did find it ironic that in one sentence he talks about no pressure, and in the next suggests we consider putting down a deposit . . . today.”
“Do you think that was a real phone call about the lot on the lake?”
“Hell, no. It was really his mother calling. It might have even been her the first time. Telling people that he'll get back to them might be code for them to call back in a few minutes and let him rant about how he can't hold their lot any longer, like he's talking to a real client.”
Veronica nodded. With a smile, she said, “He certainly wasted no time trying to sell it to us, did he?”
“Well, I did nibble a bit. But that's what he was banking on. If he thought we'd be an easy sell, he was wrong.”
The smaller furnished models they viewed paled in comparison to the larger one by the sales office, but nevertheless were bright and appealing, decorated with equally stylish furnishings. Still, put off by Eric's tactics, overly aggressive at best and devious at the worst, they decided to look at other developments in the area as well, the ones that hadn't been advertised on New York television. The homes there were just as nice, but the salespeople demonstrated the same buy-fast-or-lose techniques as Eric Nylund that had made them uncomfortable.
“You know, Veronica, the key here is affordability,” Norman remarked. “No one says we have to get a brand-new house.”
“I guess you're right, but there's something so fresh about a new house where you can still smell the paint on the walls. It's like that smell of a new car.” Not that she'd ever had one of those, either—she and Norman always bought used—but she'd ridden in vehicles of friends and relatives shortly after they left the showroom.
“We might be able to find an existing house with an asking price a lot less than what we'd pay for something new. I've got to tell you, I'm not impressed by any of those salespeople at the new developments. I'm glad they treated us well and made us feel welcome, but I don't like all the high-pressure techniques.”
“I know what you mean.” She mimicked one of the salespeople. “‘A price increase is scheduled to go into effect in just two weeks. You can beat it if you sign a contract today, lock in the current price.'” She rolled her eyes. “Why don't we check a newspaper?”
“Better than that. Let's go to a real estate office. Maybe they can set us up to view a few prospects tomorrow. If we don't see anything we like at least they'll be able to watch the market for us and set up appointments to view good prospects.”
“We might have to come out here a few times, huh?”
“Yes, but I think that's a good thing. We'll get to know the area better, get a feel for the people. Just don't let the long ride discourage you. We shouldn't have to do it very long.”
“This is nice, Norman.” Veronica looked approvingly at the bright little house. Just two bedrooms, but it was all brick, and the asking price was just eighty-five thousand dollars—forty thousand less than the smallest new homes they'd seen. She could hardly believe the price—this same house in New York would probably be over two hundred thousand. They could manage just fine with a two-bedroom house. Lorinda and Simone could continue to share a bedroom, especially since the bedroom in this house had considerably larger dimensions than the room they shared in their Manhattan apartment. The house, built in 1928, had three working fireplaces, one in the living room and in each of the bedrooms. A sly smile formed on Veronica's lips as she entertained the possibilities of having a fireplace in her bedroom. She'd buy one of those bearskin rugs and lay it down a couple of feet away from the fire, and she and Norman would make love on it on a cold night, heat from the flames and from within keeping them warm.... Mmm.
A pull on her hand from Simone, eager to show her something, jolted her out of that pleasant thought. The house had plenty of other appealing features. An abundance of windows kept the house light, yet it felt well insulated from the brisk early-November weather. The kitchen and bathrooms had been modernized, and the wall-to-wall carpeting still looked new. The house had just one full bath upstairs, but it was accessible from the master bedroom through a pocket door, as well as from a regular door to the hall. The current owners had added a powder room under the stairs. And it had a full, finished basement. Veronica pictured a family room down there, with one of those rectangular flatscreen TVs and big, comfy chairs.
“I like it,” Norman said.
“But it does seem to be missing something. I can't put my finger on it.”
“I know what it is. It's not furnished, like the models at the new developments, filled with expensive furniture and fixings we can't afford. But it's immaculate, and it's large enough, and it's affordable.” He turned to Lorinda and Simone. “What do you think, girls?”
“I like it,” Lorinda said.
“Our room is real big,” Simone added.
“Only one thing concerns me,” Norman said. “I didn't see any black families on this street. It makes me worry a little about how the neighbors will react.”
“We know there are black people in town, so if there aren't any on this block I'm sure there's some on the next block,” Veronica said.
“I'm going to ask the agent.”
She sighed. “Oh, Norman. I think you're making too much of this race thing.”
“It's important, Veronica. We know nothing about this community or its people, and I don't want any fanatics burning a cross on our front lawn or throwing bombs through our windows. This isn't Washington Heights.”
The Realtor, a middle-aged white woman, knocked discreetly as she entered the house, having given them time to walk through it and discuss it among themselves. “It's a great house, isn't it?” she asked proudly, like it was her own home being offered for sale.
BOOK: If These Walls Could Talk
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