Beyond Summer (46 page)

Mama didn’t have a clue about all that, of course. “Cody wants you to call him back,” she said. “As soon as you feel up to it.”

“Is Cody mad?” I scratched my forehead, wishing I could claw through to my brain and root out all the worries racing through it.

Mama sidestepped and held me by both shoulders. “Mad about what? He just wanted to know that you’re all right. That boy loves you, Shasta Marie.”

“I know.” Of course Cody loved me. Nobody’d ever loved me like Cody did. I didn’t deserve that love. I wasn’t honest with it. “But I did it on purpose, Mama. I meant to get pregnant. Cody said he didn’t want—”

Mama lifted a finger and pressed it to my lips. Her jaw went stiff, and she shook her head. “Don’t,” she said, and I felt a twinge in my heart. “That’s
your
private business. Yours and Cody’s. You need to talk about it with him. You’re a grown woman, Shasta Marie.”

You’re a grown woman. . . .
I looked into my mama’s eyes, and I felt the two of us turning a corner. “I guess I am,” I whispered, and we started down the hall again, Mama wrapping her arm around me, and me resting my head on her shoulder. Grown or not, I felt good having her here. Sometimes you need your mama, no matter how old you are. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear you say it, though.”

Mama laid her head over on mine. “We’re all growing up a little, I guess. Just remember we’re here when you need us, all right? You and Cody don’t have to do everything on your own.”

“I know.”

“Guess you heard that you’re going to have a new sister-in-law,” she said. I nodded, and she ponytailed my hair between her fingers. “You and Cody and the boys are coming home for the wedding, no matter what. You hear me?”

“We will.” When Mama took that tone, I knew better than to argue.

She gave my shoulder a squeeze. “See? I can still boss you around when I need to.”

I nodded, swiping my eyes with my fingertips. I wanted to tell her how good it felt to have her with me, but I couldn’t. Sentimental words didn’t come easy between Mama and me. “I know you can. I probably need it.”

“Oh, shush.” Mama wouldn’t stand for anybody criticizing her baby girl, even me. I realized we’d made it to the end of the hall and were stalled out in front of the boys’ door. “I love what you’ve done with this house,” she said, and I felt myself swelling inside. “I can’t wait to see the boys’ room.” She reached for the door handle, and I cringed. The boys’ room was a plaster disaster.

“I hadn’t quite gotten to . . .” The door creaked open, and I stopped in the middle of the sentence. Where there had been cracks and chips of missing plaster, and water stains in the paint, now the walls were alive with vines, and flowers, and thumbprint butterflies in all colors and sizes. In their beds, the boys were sound asleep, their rainbow-colored fingers splayed against the covers.

Above Benjamin’s bed, in the corner where the headboard had been pulled away from the wall, a little brown rabbit crouched among cane stalks, his coat so freshly painted it glistened, his small blue sweater and mittens perfectly matched to the storybook sitting on Benjamin’s night table. In case there was any question, underneath the painted rabbit, the name was written.
P-E-t-E-r
, in the careful, round print of someone who was new to letters, but who had put them there very carefully. Dangling from the boys’ bedposts, Sesay had left tiny carved rabbits as companions for little Peter.

“Seems like you’ve got some real nice neighbors here too—the way they took care of you and the boys last night,” Mama said quietly, and Benji stirred in his bed, then drifted off again.

“We do,” I agreed. “We really do.”

“Don’t get neighbors who look after each other, just everywhere in the big city,” Mama pointed out. “You and Cody found a nice little spot here.”

“It found us.” The darkness inside me lifted as I took in the boys’ newly painted room—the front bedroom of our first real house. The house where my dreams had changed, and I had changed. Without this place, without all the baggage that came with it—the neighbors, and the Summer Kitchen, and the challenges that were behind us and those still ahead of us—I wasn’t sure who I’d be. I wouldn’t be the person I was now. I wouldn’t be Shasta Marie Reid-Williams, who could paint, and fix plaster, and repair tiles, and teach someone to read, and build a life for her boys, and face the giants, if she had a mind to.

In spite of all that had gone wrong, or maybe because of it, Red Bird Lane had grown me in ways I never knew I could grow—taken away the little girl who was waiting for her daddy to come home and replaced her with a woman who could build a home of her own and keep the people she loved safe inside it.

It happened because of a house, but not just any house.

A special house.

The little yellow house where my family lived.

The formative meeting of the Blue Sky Hill Neighborhood Coalition was held one week after Shasta came home from the hospital. The crowd of interested residents, business owners, and community activists filled the Summer Kitchen and spilled onto the porch, where Teddy and Pastor Al were handing out questionnaires and proposed bylaws.

My father, Barbie, and I drove over from Highland Park. My father had managed to move us into a house belonging to a friend who could afford to keep houses he wasn’t living in at the moment. Now that Dad was becoming the force that turned the tide in the growing corruption case surrounding Ross Burten and several city councilmen, Paul “the Postman” Lambert was an odd sort of folk hero—someone willing to speak out against the rampant executive greed and reckless speculation that had led to widespread economic meltdown. Overnight, the image makers and the spin doctors had redrawn my father, morphing him from an example of abuse of power into a symbol of repentance and retribution—an honest man who was willing to come forward, admit his mistakes, take his lumps, and help in the government’s efforts to unearth Ross Burten’s hidden millions, so that the money could be redistributed to his victims.

As quickly as a media image can be destroyed, it can be rebuilt, and Dad was rising from the ashes. As for Ross Burten, he’d fled to Europe, where he and his wife were reportedly living the high life in a comfortable chalet in Switzerland. His Swiss bank accounts would keep him well supplied for the long term. The future of Ross Burten’s other corporations, including Householders, was uncertain, but as my father addressed the crowd, he warned them that this was only a temporary reprieve.

“Rest assured that the properties in Householders’ cache represent valuable assets intended to come together as part of a future development plan,” he told the crowd, his gaze sweeping sternly from one side of the room to the other, taking in money-strapped residents from streets like Red Bird Lane and wealthy homeowners of historic estate properties on Blue Sky Hill. “This is an issue that affects all of you, regardless of location, or property value, or financial resources. If you want the neighborhood to resist an overabundance of new multifamily housing complexes and retain its historic look and character, then existing residents must take action while there is still time. There are numerous avenues through which current residents can retain a voice in how the area changes, and exert power over new development. In general, these processes begin with the formation of a neighborhood coalition of homeowners, small business owners, and groups with vested interests in the preservation and quality of life in the area. The coalition should be organized with a clear mission statement, governing officers and/or a council, and bylaws. Property owner signatures must be gathered on letters of support. Typically, this sort of effort begins with door-to-door footwork, but the results can be powerful. The neighborhood coalition can accomplish many things individual homeowners cannot, including petitioning to have the area declared a historic district, fighting zoning changes, soliciting press coverage, making the city planning and zoning commissions aware of residents’ interests and quality-of-life issues, such as lot sizes, traffic congestion, and other questions of environmental impact. Currently, Householders’ stake in the neighborhood is approximately twenty-five percent, so gathering the majority of the remaining independent property owners into one force is essential.”

Elsie half stood in her chair. “I’ll sure as heck do whatever it takes. My husband and I built our house with GI money when he came home from the war. Put our blood, sweat, and tears into it. The whole street was built by GIs. We all worked together to put up them homes, back when folks had some morals and neighbors looked out for one another. Somebody like Householders is gonna tear the place down over my dead body.”

“Edward’s father built our home,” Teddy’s mother, Hannah Beth, added from the back of the room, where she was leaning on a walker. “Blue Sky Hill had row after row of lovely old homes, and now we have condominiums right around the corner from us on Vista Street. Our daughter, Rebecca, and her husband are lawyers. They’ll help us draw up the legal paperwork for this coalition. They’ll pitch in any way they can.”

“My sister gone come take ’way them con’amimums! No more con-a-minamums!” Teddy added, striking a fist in the air and receiving a round of applause. A murmur of agreement circled the group.

“Nobody’s getting our house without a fight,” Shasta piped up.

“We might be new here, but we’re not leaving. This is our place. Our neighborhood. If we have to sell everything we own, we’re not letting Householders take over our house and force us out. We’re going to figure out how to bring a class-action suit against them for the way they do their contracts. In fact, if there’s anybody else here who’s in a Householders home, we’ve got a list by the door, and you need to sign it, so we can get in touch with you. I’m still looking for a lawyer to take the case, but I’ll find one. What Householders does to people is wrong, and we need to stand against it.” Beside her, Cody nodded and slipped his hand into hers.

“I agree,” Mrs. Kaye offered from the kitchen, where she, MJ from the bookstore, and Cass were putting out coffee and cups. “My uncle Poppy lived in this neighborhood all of his adult life, and while it may have its issues, the solution isn’t to take advantage of existing residents, tear down the houses, and destroy the historic character of the neighborhood. If downtown workers want to move to this area to be close to their jobs, let them buy the existing houses and renovate them. There are empty commercial buildings and warehouses all around here. If developers want to put in multifamily housing, let them rehab those properties. Part of what always made this neighborhood special was its sense of identity. People were proud that they lived in Blue Sky Hill. This neighborhood has always been diverse. Within a few blocks, you could find small single-family homes like the one my uncle built, and then just uphill, the estates of doctors and lawyers. There’s still enough room here for everyone, but new construction needs to be planned and controlled, so that it doesn’t displace existing residents or destroy their quality of life.”

“Exactly,” my father agreed, taking command of the crowd the way he once took command of a football team. “And I can promise that none of you, on your own, have the resources to fight off developers like Householders. Your defense, your ability to preserve this neighborhood lies in banding together”—to illustrate, he linked his fingers, forming a double fist—“in creating a neighborhood coalition to prevent wholesale rezoning and rebuilding. Developers, quite frankly, recognize the power and political pull of an active, vocal, united neighborhood. As a coalition, residents have the power to negotiate such things as community benefits agreements, in which community groups have a voice in shaping development projects, and are able to press for benefits tailored to the community’s needs. Developers use this community support to help in getting the permit approvals, rezoning, and abatements necessary to go forward with a project. For many projects, the amount of community support or opposition determines whether the project makes it through city hall. Developers and the neighborhood coalition working together can provide a win-win . . .”

I let my mind drift as the conversation and the planning of the Blue Sky Hill Neighborhood Coalition went on, the hammering out of details, drafting of a mission statement, and election of officers lasting well into the evening. For her part, Shasta had done her homework, both on the Internet looking up bylaws and organizational structures, and through speaking with my father and a lawyer friend of his. The necessary paperwork for the formation of the coalition was typed, copied, collated, and ready to be handed out, which may have been why Shasta was unanimously elected to the office of secretary, serving beneath MJ, who’d been elected president, and several board members hailing from various portions of the Blue Sky Hill area.

By the time the meeting ended, it was dark outside. As residents finished paperwork and wandered to their cars, Shasta and I stood on the sidewalk next to the memory garden, watching my father and Barbie walk to the children’s building to pick up the kids.

“They may have to wrestle Benji and Ty to get your brothers out of there,” Shasta commented, smoothing her T-shirt self-consciously as she watched Barbie and my father cross under the streetlight. “My guys sure miss having friends across the street.”

“The sibs miss them, too—even Jewel,” I said, but my mind was still back in the meeting. My father had taken a bold step tonight— one worthy of the Superman suit on the commercials. “We’ll get them all together to play soon.”

Shasta flashed a doubtful frown, staring glumly at the memory garden.

“Sure.” The word was flat, open to interpretation. She crossed her arms and bent forward, seeming cold despite the balmy night air.

The conversation faded. The lack of things to say felt awkward and strange, given all the times we’d sat in the car after driving somewhere and talked until pandemonium finally broke out in the backseat. Those conversations seemed distant now, as if too much had happened for them to be relevant anymore.