“Morning, Duff,” she said, like she did every morning.
“Morning,” I said.
She winked at me and went right back to her desk. I got the sense that though Trina was young and hurtin’ over Lou, our late-night rendezvous wasn’t going to be a Fatal Attraction deal. It was something she needed-hell, who am I kidding-it was something I needed. Neither of us regretted it, but we probably wouldn’t make a habit of it. That was okay with me, very okay.
I decided to play around on the computer. I’m no geek, but I know my way around a little bit. I decided to do some searches on the key words I’d gotten from Walanda and the jail. I went to Google and typed in “Webster.” It yielded 3,803,000 hits. Even I didn’t have that much time to goof off at work. Next I entered “Web.” That got me 1,803,000 hits-significantly less but way too much.
I tried “spider”-1,706,000 hits.
This wasn’t going to work. I was going to need some help. I knew where to go, but it was going to have to wait until after work.
It dawned on me that through all of this I knew very little about Shondeneisha, Walanda’s kidnapped, or at least allegedly kidnapped, stepdaughter. I got out Walanda’s file and looked for next of kin information and anything else that might tip me off. It was one of the few times I ever wished I had taken copious notes.
The face sheet on Walanda’s file listed six relatives. Four were men and were added as she went from relationship to relationship. There was also a half sister that came in for a couple of sessions early in Walanda’s treatment but ultimately gave up on her. She got into Al-Anon, which told people to “detach with love.” It made sense for the relatives of addicts to detach, otherwise they’d wind up going down with the addict. What the therapy books don’t tell you is that in real life an overinvolved relative who never gives up is often exactly what an addict needs.
The self-help groups call that “enabling” and insist “tough love” is the way to go. Maybe, but I’ve seen my share of lives that were saved by what they call an enmeshed family member who just couldn’t let their addicted loved one go. They followed them around, bailed them out of jail, and even threatened dealers-whatever it took. Often it failed, sometimes it didn’t, but telling someone to “detach with love” always felt a little too simple for me.
Jacquie Turner, Walanda’s half sister, lived across town from the ghetto Walanda lived in. She was an office manager at an accounting firm and took classes at the local business college. From what I remember, she had managed to create a life for herself that Walanda couldn’t. It wasn’t clear whether she received the same abuse as a kid, but it was possible. Sometimes abusers focus on only one child, sometimes they don’t. Just the same, Jacquie had a career, lived in a nice apartment, paid her bills on time, and seemed to be what us social workers called “functional.”
I tried her at the accounting office.
“Good morning, Noonan, Malinowski, and Platt Accounting Offices, Jacquie speaking. How may I direct your call?” She had that professionally efficient tone to her voice. Not quite cheerful but certainly pleasant.
“Jacquie, this is Duffy Dombrowski at Jewish Unified Services. Do you have a minute?”
“Good morning, Mr. Dombrowski,” she hesitated. “I’m the receptionist, so I can’t really talk for long. How can I help you?”
“First of all, I’m very sorry about Walanda,” I said.
“I am too, but Walanda made her choices,” she said.
“Before she died, she spoke to me about a stepchild named Shondeneisha. Can you tell me anything about her?”
“Only that she’s the daughter of a man named Bertrand, another addict she lived with. They had the son together that got murdered.”
“Do you know where Bertrand is now?”
“I have no idea. He was also an addict. The last I knew, he was drifting from city to city looking for welfare benefits.”
“Walanda thought Shondeneisha had been kidnapped by someone named ‘Webster.’ Do you have any idea what she was talking about?”
“No, I don’t. Look, Mr. Dombrowski,” Jacquie’s tone changed almost imperceptibly. “I loved my sister, but years ago I had to detach from her. I tried and tried and she kept going back. I really didn’t know much about her life for the last three years. I don’t mean to be difficult, but I really should go.”
“I understand, Jacquie,” I said. “Thanks for speaking with me.”
Jacquie was no help. In some ways I don’t blame her for distancing herself from the cesspool of a life that Walanda lived. She was doing something positive, and maybe her way of changing things meant being the best she could be. Honorable, even if your sister winds up dead, I suppose.
After work I got Al, and we took a trip over to Walanda’s old house. I hoisted Al onto his side of the Eldorado and we headed out. I threw in some Elvis from ’56. It was the original rockabilly sound that changed the face of music forever. To me, listening to Scotty Moore play the guitar riff to “When My Blue Moon Turns to Gold Again” was just about as good as music got-simple, with feeling.
I was singing along, curling my lip in the exact right spots and adding the bass to my voice when it was needed, when Al started to mess up my rhythm by playing with the power windows. He would plop a fat paw on the switches and then marvel at the hum of the descending window. He did it over and over again, paying absolutely no attention to my interpretation of the King’s music. Eventually, Al allowed the window to go all the way down and he stuck his head out the window. The wind blew his ears back as he surveyed the passing landscape with a watchful eye.
I parked in front of Walanda’s old place, hooked Al up to the leash, and took a walk. Al’s tail started wagging, and he started barking when he realized where we were. I hadn’t thought about Al returning to his old home, and it was kind of sad.
It was the kind of neighborhood where people interacted from stoop to stoop, porch to porch, or up and down the sidewalk. Back in the late sixties, urban planners started building high-rise projects in this neighborhood in an attempt to homogenize the poor. That way they could be kept out of sight and up in the air, and they wouldn’t be on the street being offensive to the eyes of the suburbanites. The projects removed the way people from the inner city interact, and that’s why they were destined to be a failure from the start. Sure, high-rises were a tad more antiseptic, but they took away the humanity of everyday life and attempted to compartmentalize lives. If you don’t believe me, go to the projects in your town and see how they’re doing. Most are abandoned or turned into something else.
Walanda’s neighborhood was always full of activity. It wasn’t all positive activity, but the idea that everything going on in the streets of urban areas is drug traffic, crime, or drug use is ridiculous. The street can be a wonderland of personal interactions, both positive and negative.
Kids create playgrounds in their imaginations, using what the city has to offer for their amusement, and it seldom has to do with slides and swing sets. Mothers catch up on hairstyles, recipes, and childcare. Adolescents play hide-and-seek with their hormones as packs of girls and boys spy each other up and down the streets in coming-of-age rituals. Old folks go to church or go through their daily routines in the neighborhoods they’ve spent their whole lives in.
A group of women were gathered three houses up from Walanda’s old place, chatting in a circle. Usually, when a white guy approaches a group of black people in an almost all-black neighborhood, there’s a guarded resistance and for good reason. White people usually mean police or some sort of other authority who seldom venture into these neighborhoods to pass out sweet potato pie. I had some slack because I was known as a decent guy who did social work and as a fighter. Most of the local boxers were brothers and I had some respect there as well.