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Authors: Bettye Griffin

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BOOK: If These Walls Could Talk
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“We like it very much, but we were wondering,” Norman began, “what's the racial mix of this neighborhood?”
“About the same as the general population. Mostly white, with a small percentage of blacks and Latinos. A lot of families are moving here from the city because they're priced out of the market there. Plus, we have better schools, cleaner air. . . .”
“And this probably isn't a preferred terrorist target,” Veronica said flatly.
“I'd have to agree.” The Realtor looked at them curiously. “Were either of you affected directly by the attacks?”
“No, we were lucky,” Norman said. “The medical center where we both work is within walking distance of our apartment. It made for a long walk, about twenty blocks, but at least it was doable. A lot of folks who lived in the Bronx or Queens played hell trying to get off Manhattan Island.”
Veronica nodded. “A lot of folks slept right there in the hospital.”
“We can still see the dust cloud over lower Manhattan,” Norman added, “although I predict they'll be finished with the cleanup by spring. They're working really fast.”
“Our children didn't sleep well for weeks afterward,” Veronica stated, saddened by the memory. “They were afraid someone would crash a plane into our apartment building, even though it's just a walk-up. Their fears are just starting to recede a little.” She sighed. “No, I don't think any of us will miss the city at all.”
“But yet it's not so far where we can't drive in for dinner and a concert on a Saturday night, or to visit our families,” Norman said.
Veronica smiled. “I've got a feeling they'll be wanting to come out to see
us
.”
Chapter 7
The Youngs
November 2001
D
awn couldn't believe it. All this, for a price just twenty dollars more than the rent they paid every month? She knew that the source of wealth for many people was the home they lived in. Real estate appreciated ; everyone knew that. Mortgage payments, unlike rent, stayed the same year after year provided you had a fixed-rate loan, while your income rose. And look how comfy they'd be in a brand-new house while their net worth soared.
Much as she loved New York, after seeing this lovely suburban neighborhood she couldn't help feeling a little cheated. Living in the world's most exciting city shouldn't mean having to give up on green grass and blue skies unless you were wealthy enough to live in a building with a rooftop garden. Here she was thinking that she and Milo had it so good just because they lived in a spacious apartment, took annual vacations, and traded in their old car for a new one every four years.
Now she imagined Zachary running free on their own property with the pet dog he'd always wanted, or riding his bike with the dog trailing behind him. Her next thought was of how impressed all their family and friends would be when they learned she and Milo were buying a house. Not just buying, but building a brand-new house from the ground up, with new appliances, new carpeting . . . She and Milo would throw a big housewarming party after they moved in.
How fortunate that they'd happened to see that TV commercial last weekend. Living here would be like stepping into one of those TV shows or books that showed black people living on lovely, tree-lined streets, where everyone over eighteen had their own car, the kind of settings that prompted so many people to say scornfully, “Black people don't live like that.”
“You guys are in luck,” the salesman, a handsome young man in his twenties named Eric, told them. “We're offering an incentive. Anyone making a deposit today gets a free deck and fireplace.”
“Really?” Milo exchanged glances with Dawn. “Sounds like a good deal to me.”
“But which house do we want?” Dawn hadn't even been this excited the last time they bought a car, three years ago.
“We don't need anything too big,” Milo said, “since we only have one child. We probably don't even need three bedrooms.”
“Even our smallest model has three bedrooms,” Eric answered. “It's the most popular size for a house. You want to think of resale value. Many of our residents telecommute and use the third bedroom as a home office.”
“I wish I could do that,” Dawn said wistfully. “But my job requires me to be on-site, and so does Milo's. It would be great if we didn't have to make that long trip to New York every day. It's nearly a hundred miles one way.”
“One of the politicians has proposed a passenger train to go into New York for our growing population of commuters,” Eric said. “It would be only ninety minutes from here to Penn Station.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Dawn said. “A lot quicker than the bus. You're not at the mercy of traffic patterns.”
“Well, why don't I give you two some time alone to look at the models,” Eric suggested, handing them a map. “They're all unlocked, and they're all within walking distance, so feel free to go back and forth. And then the available lots we have are on the map of the property in the sales center.”
With eyes shining in excitement, Dawn clutched Milo's arm. “Let's go.”
Chapter 8
The Currys
November 2001
“I
t's beautiful here, Reuben,” Camille said as they passed a man riding what resembled a small tractor that she quickly realized was actually a riding lawn mower. “I never got to see any residential areas when I came to camp out here. Not that this would have been built up like this back then, anyway.”
“All the New Yorkers coming in is making this a fast-growing area. Hey, look at that.”
Her gaze followed his pointing finger. A jacket-clad black man puttered around inside the open garage of an attractive, part-brick, part-siding two-story house. The open garage door revealed garden utensils neatly hanging from a wall-mounted holder, a large chest freezer, and various supplies neatly arranged on metal shelving. He even had a small TV on the highest shelf.
Camille breathed softly through her open mouth. To think she and Reuben thought they had it good because their apartment had a few upgrades. Compared to this they had nothing. How many times had she watched a TV sitcom or a movie featuring black people residing in lovely homes in the suburbs and said to herself,
Black people don't live like that
. At least they didn't in New York City and the surrounding areas.
The hundred-mile distance suddenly seemed like less when she considered the change in lifestyle. Here they would have all the wonderful comforts suburban life offered: a lake, tennis courts, a pool.... She could picture Mitchell riding the bicycle he wanted so badly along these smoothly paved sidewalks. Mitchell and Shayla would get much better educations here than they would in the city. They would go on to college and begin successful careers. They'd be able to afford to buy homes on their own, not because someone died and left them money.
That's how it was supposed to be. Children were supposed to do better than their parents had. Mitchell and Shayla would do her and Reuben proud, but she and Reuben would make their bright futures possible by moving them out here.
Reuben took a few minutes to drive around the well-kept streets of the development, getting a better look at the grounds and the people. The adults they saw all appeared to be in their thirties and forties, and there was no shortage of children of all ages in the neighborhood. Eventually he parked in front of the model home that also housed the sales office.
Camille tugged on his arm. “Reuben, I already know that I want to live here. I want our children to know that hard work does pay off, that we're getting somewhere instead of living where nothing ever changes, and having life stop for twenty seconds every time the El goes by.”
He chuckled. “Ah, the El. I could definitely get used to living away from the El.”
They went inside, where they were greeted by a receptionist, offered bottled water and coffee, and given a brief form to fill out.
Within two minutes of returning the completed form, a toothy young blond man joined them, introducing himself as Eric Nylund. He shook their hands, then invited them to his office. “Ah, you're from the city. Did you have a nice ride out?”
“Nice, but a little long,” Reuben answered. “It's about a hundred miles. I'm a little concerned about the commute. That's a long way to travel every day.”
“I'm told it's not too bad. Many of our residents have come to us from the city because our homes are affordable. There's a commuter bus that begins running at 3:45 AM, and an express train service is being considered, which would cut your commute to a more manageable ninety minutes each way.”
“That's not too bad,” Camille said.
Reuben nodded. “I guess I can live with that.”
“Did you get to look at the floor plans?” Eric asked, gesturing toward the framed drawings with dimensions plus outdoor views.
“Yes,” Camille said. “We liked The Ellsworth.”
Eric nodded. “Three bedrooms, two and a half baths.”
“Let me ask you this first, Eric,” Reuben said. “Your ad on TV said payments of $740 a month, yet you've got different-sized houses with different costs. How does that work?”
“Actually, the figure of $740 is based on the smallest model. But it's all a matter of financing,” he added quickly at their crestfallen expressions. “We work with the bank that provides most of our buyers' financing to get them the best deals possible.”
He named a major bank, and Camille noticed that Reuben's tense look immediately dissipated. The whole idea of owing six figures to anyone made her nervous, too, but she felt better knowing they would be in the hands of such a prominent lender.
“But of course that's just an average figure,” Eric concluded. “I can take you to the model. It's right around the corner.”
They got in a golf cart and drove down the street a ways. Camille gasped as she entered the house. The living room actually had a fireplace, a real wood-burning fireplace. Of course, they had to pay extra for that feature, but she felt it would be worth it. They could decorate the mantel with family photos in those expensive ceramic or silver frames....
The kitchen was a dream, all open and airy, with another room connected to it. From the furnishings, it appeared to be what all those TV shows called a den, a place for the family to gather to watch TV and play games. She especially liked the way the decorator furnished this area, with that six-sided card table, a desk with a computer—well, a cardboard creation of a computer—plus a cardboard big-screen TV and a loveseat. To think this was actually someone's job, to simply pick out furnishings and artwork for model homes, right down to picking out place settings for the dining room table and toasters and blenders for the kitchen.
She'd never really thought about the managers and directors at the pharmaceutical firm she worked for, but if a normal working person could live like this for $740 dollars a month, how must someone making big bucks live? She suddenly felt as if she'd been swindled. She and Reuben had been missing out all this time and, even worse, so had Mitchell and Shayla.
Eric discreetly left them alone, excusing himself with the explanation he was going outside to smoke and return a few phone calls.
“Reuben, isn't it wonderful?”
“Not bad. But I always liked the idea of having stairs.”
“That's because most private houses in the Bronx are two stories, not that we've ever actually been inside one. But those houses are old. It's a whole different type of architecture out here.”
“I've seen houses here that have a second floor.”
She knew he was thinking of the black man with the TV in his garage. “Yes, but those are larger houses. They're going to cost more, probably out of our financial league. Besides, isn't this basic model big enough for us to be comfortable in?” She never thought she'd get to live in a house with its own laundry room, tucked away between the kitchen and the garage. She always thought home owners did laundry in their kitchens.
“Let's look at a larger one, just for G.P. Eric said the house next door is a model, too.”
Camille broke into a smile. “I guess it won't hurt to just look.”
“Wow,” Reuben said, whistling. Now,
this
is a house.”
“It's lovely, all right.” She looked around in awe. This two-story model, which resembled the one where they'd seen that black man in his garage, had a huge master bedroom and bath, with a shower and the largest bathtub Camille had ever seen. The laundry room was upstairs with the bedrooms, which at first struck her as silly before she realized that, except for kitchen dishcloths and towels, everything that got washed would go in the bedrooms or the linen closets.
“This one is a lot nicer,” she said, “but I don't think we can afford it.”
Eric, apparently through with his calls, joined them inside. “It's a beauty, isn't it? The second floor is especially nice when you're on a lake front lot. You can get out of bed in the morning and see the sun rising over the water.”
Camille began to panic. Reuben, normally so sensible, clearly had gotten carried away by the loveliness of their surroundings plus Eric's aggressive sales pitch. She feared he was about to get them in over their heads. Even the man with the nice garage didn't have a lakefront lot. “I'm sure it's lovely, Eric, but with us having to commute to the city we'll be long gone before the sun rises.”
“Eventually we hope to be able to get jobs locally,” Reuben explained to Eric. “I manage the grocery section of a supermarket, and my wife is a secretary. I know there's not a lot of industry around here, but they have to have supermarkets, plus some kind of offices, like lawyers or something.”
“I'm not a legal secretary, Reuben,” Camille pointed out nervously.
He merely shrugged. “Can we see one of those lakefront lots you were talking about, Eric?”
Camille watched, forcing a smile, as Reuben signed a thousand-dollar check and handed it to Eric. “This will hold our lot, won't it?” he asked.
“It sure will. Now we'll work on getting you financed. You wanted the second model we looked at, right?”
“We'd like to see the numbers for both that one and the first house we looked at,” she said quickly. “Just so we can decide which one will be best for us financially.” The last thing she wanted was for Reuben to commit to a house they couldn't afford. Whatever choice they made they'd have to live with for thirty years, and that was a long time.
“Sure, Mrs. Curry.”
“Reuben, the way I see it, we can either go for the smaller house on the lakefront lot or the larger house on an ordinary lot, but not both,” she said when they were back in the car on their way back to New York. “That model had a lot of bells and whistles that cost extra, like that Jacuzzi tub in the master bathroom. We'd be better off getting the basic model with a fireplace. We could probably swing having it built by the lake, but I don't see us in anything more than that.”
“Camille, stop being so cautious. We have our savings, plus fifteen thousand dollars.”
“Our savings isn't all that much, and that money from Aunt Mary is more like thirteen thousand now, after we pay for the trip to Disney. And I don't want to use every dime we have to buy this house. What if the water heater breaks down or something?”
“It's a brand-new house, Camille. It'll come with a warranty.”
“Well, what if we have expensive car repairs? We have to have cash available in case of an emergency.”
“That's what credit cards are for.”
She rolled her eyes. “Reuben, you know good and well that we've always tried to not use our credit cards.”
“But that hasn't stopped us from having a balance, does it? You never seem to worry about using our credit card when there's a suit on sale, do you?”
Heat rushed to her face like a home spa treatment. It was true that she dressed well to go to work, but her employer insisted on professional dress, reserving casual Fridays for warm-weather months only. Most of their Visa balance, currently $3,300, came from her wardrobe, with the rest from car repairs and other unexpected expenses.
“I have to look nice for work, Reuben,” she said weakly.
He reached for her hand and gave it a quick, reassuring squeeze before releasing it. “I know, baby. I'm not criticizing you or anything. I'm just trying to make a point.”
Well, he'd made it, all right. “I just don't want us to get in over our heads,” she whined.
“Will you stop worrying, Camille? It's going to be fine. But now that you mention it, it might work out better if we drive to work ourselves than to take the bus, since I can park for free at the store.”
She considered this possibility. “Maybe we can take on a couple of carpoolers,” she suggested.
“There you go. That's the way to think. We'll get everything to work out just fine. And won't the kids be surprised when we tell them they have a house in the country!”
“Yes, but let's not tell them yet. No one needs to know our plans until we have them finalized ourselves.” She couldn't help smiling. “Just think, you and I are going to have a home of our own.”
“It's the American dream,” he said. “And for us it's a dream that's going to come true.”
BOOK: If These Walls Could Talk
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