Zach parked his tool-laden, scratched and dented carryall truck on the side of the road between Mrs. Brackett’s house and her neighbor toward the paved road. As on all his calls to Becca’s charges, Zach’s beaten-up vehicle fit right into the neighborhood. Except for the color of his skin, no one would distinguish him from the locals. Recalling John Griffin’s book, Zach sometimes wondered what it would be like to take that final step and turn his skin black, to experience the full impact of racism. But he always closed that line of thinking by concluding that his struggle to finish school and enter adulthood was already all he could manage without the added burden of being the victim of racial injustice. He could work to remedy that, and learn its ills, as a white man helping where he could—like today.
He slid out of the truck and quietly locked its door behind him before crossing the gravel road in the early afternoon heat, headed not to Mrs. Brackett’s but to the decrepit house with its empty falling down porch across the way.
He dodged wilting weeds and several broken liquor bottles on the overgrown path before climbing the wobbly steps with a rot hole on one side and a detached handrail on the other. Once on the shallow porch, he avoided a soiled carpet pulled over a hole in the flooring. He wasn’t sure if that carpet was intended as a patch or a trap designed to catch inattentive police or the fool-hardy bill collector—or an idealistic white writer on summer break. In any case he circled around it, testing each floor board as he made his way to the front door with one of its two glass panes replaced by a piece of cardboard.
Zach took a deep breath then rapped loudly on the door.
The house returned only silence.
Zach counted to ten then rapped hard again. The door rattled under his knocking, the one glass pane shaking in its frame.
Still no answer.
Zach looked up and down the porch, then turned to face the road with its waves of heat rising from the oiled gravel.
From behind him and to the left a voice barely above a whisper hissed, “Lucky you ain’t dead, white boy.”
Zach turned slowly, keeping his hands in plain sight. He wasn’t sure where the voice had come from so he spoke to the door in as calm a voice as he could muster. “You well know people up and down this street saw me walk over here, are watching my every move now.”
“They can look all they want, but they won’t talk. You a damn fool if you counting on them to have you back.”
Zach realized now that the voice came from a window to his right, raised just a crack and the shade behind pulled ever so slightly to one side, revealing only a black slot, whatever weapon that might be pointed his way well hid. “You’re the fool if you do anything to bring the law back here—won’t leave empty-handed next time.”
“What you want, white boy?”
“I want to help you.”
“Snake don’t need no help, least of all from a punk like you.”
“My friends at Building Inspections tell me different. They say this house is one violation away from being condemned, warnings all used up.”
“Don’t threaten me, white boy.”
“I told you—I’m here to help.”
“Just how you plan to do that?”
“I do home maintenance, for the Ministry. Fix up houses just like this one, so folks can stay in them.”
“Don’t got no money to pay you.”
“Don’t want your money.”
“Don’t take charity from no one.”
“Not offering charity either.”
“What you getting at, white boy?” The voice behind the blind was still menacing but had lost the hiss of animal intimidation.
“I’ll ask the inspector in charge of this end of town to delay his next inspection of your residence. In the meantime, with your approval, I’ll make the repairs required by the city to keep this house from being condemned.”
“In return for what?”
“In return for you convincing Latonya to enroll Jonah in a summer school program that will give him a stable environment and a better education.”
“Latonya ain’t my bitch; don’t even know where she at.”
“I trust your resourcefulness and your powers of persuasion.”
“What if I don’t?”
“I walk away. The city inspectors do their thing. You have to find a new place to peddle your goods.”
“Ain’t got no goods to peddle.”
“Look, Mr. Snake—I don’t care what deals you’re doing here or elsewhere. I don’t care who you’re getting hooked or whose habit your encouraging or who you’re ripping off. I don’t care about Latonya. And while I like Jonah and wish for him a better life, I’m not all that sure our intervention is a path to that better life. But my girlfriend is sure of that and I’m sure of her. That’s the only reason I’m here. You leave Jonah alone, you get Latonya to enroll him in that summer program and keep him there, and I’ll fix your house. After that, I’ll be glad never to see you or this falling down shack again.”
“You crazy, white boy. You messing where you don’t belong.”
“I know. Ain’t life a bitch?”
“Dead worse.” Despite the statement, the voice had lost its threat, offered the words as a simple and indisputable truth.
“I don’t mean you any harm. Becca and I are just trying to help.”
“White man say that all the time, just before he bring the hammer down.”
“Only hammer I got is to fix your house, which I’ll start soon as Latonya signs the consent form at her grandmother’s house and leaves Jonah in Mrs. Brackett’s care.”
“How soon?”
“By tomorrow afternoon.”
Snake laughed behind his screen. “You a crazy motherfucker.” The shade fell back into place.