He knew it wasn’t wholly true, though, this just a kid, not a black kid assertion. He knew she didn’t believe it, either. There were a lot more folks nowadays who tried not to differentiate their treatment of others based on skin color, yes. Then there were the ones—mostly older white folks—who scowled at him or avoided him or watched him, hawklike, when he was in a store, as if he was going to stuff his pockets or pull a gun. Once he’d asked his mom, “Why doesn’t half white equal white the way half black equals black?” Her answer, i.e., the history of the one-drop rule, etc., made sense but didn’t satisfy him. Factually he was just as white as he was black.
He said now, “Your issue is with the things the Whitmans did, not who they are. Every complaint should be evaluated on its merits, period.” She’d taught him that, too. Use logic. Be fair. Demonstrate your humanity and integrity the way Dr. and Mrs. King had always done, the way John Lewis still did.
“Yes, but I have to tell you, Zay, this kind of antipathy is new for me. I’ve had preconceptions of people and things lots of times—it’s impossible not to, right? But I can’t think of a time when I’ve been so predisposed to despise something or someone this way.” She shook her head. “It’s the situation, I guess—the fact that it’s so personal to me.”
He looked over at her and said, “Don’t be too hard on my mom. She’s a good person.”
This brought a smile. “Thank you, sweetie,” she said. “How about you?”
“How about me what?”
“What do you think of them? The Whitmans.”
“If you don’t count them being fine with the clear-cutting and all, then, like I said, they seemed okay to me. Neighborly, for sure. Can’t say I’ve really thought about it since the other day.”
“No, of course. You’ve got plenty of more important things on your mind.”
“I do,” he said. He’d been thinking—too much, he already knew that—about just the one Whitman. Juniper.
5
Though there were other big new homes and new residents in Oak Knoll, we were especially curious about the Whitmans. Their house was the largest, had cost the most, and had upscale details that most of us hadn’t seen except on homes in Hillside or in the movies or on TV. For example: copper gutters and downspouts; landscape lighting; a double-sided fireplace between the family room and screened porch. A butler’s pantry. A steam shower. It also had Brad Whitman, who, as he’d indicated to Xavier, was a minor celebrity in the region. He did his own commercials for Whitman HVAC, so a lot of us had seen him on our screens. We’d heard him on the radio. There wasn’t a more charming man in the region. Warm. Affable. In every TV spot, he looked right into the camera and said, ““You are my favorite customer and that’s a fact.”
We’d used his company to service and repair and replace our aging heating and cooling systems. We felt privileged—some of us did—that he’d chosen to make our neighborhood his new home. We wanted to get to know him and his beautiful family, see up close how the other half really lived. We were keenly interested in the wife, Julia. She seemed so lovely, so young, so fortunate.
* * *
“What’s on your schedule today?” Julia Whitman asked her husband as he left their bed and headed for the shower.
“The usual,” he said. He reached into the shower to turn on the water, then stepped out of the silk shorts he slept in. “You?”
“Same. Except tonight.”
Her evening promised a change of pace: she’d been invited to attend Oak Knoll’s neighborhood book club. Tonight she’d be just a visitor, since she hadn’t read this month’s book, a historical novel. Usually she read contemporary fiction—legal thrillers and woman-in-peril stories and British cozy mysteries. But if the group liked her and the discussion was good, she might pick up tonight’s book along with the one for next month’s meeting, “a beach read,” neighbor Kelli Hanes had told her when she’d invited Julia to come. They always did a beach book for the June meeting and everyone was supposed to dress accordingly. That would be fun.
Julia said, “I’m going to Valerie’s—the neighbor behind us?—for a book club meeting. You’ll be home, right?”
“Yep,” he said, entering the shower. “Got a Chutes and Ladders date with Lily.”
Julia watched him for a moment. He was still a handsome man, everyone said so. That sandy hair and impish grin, those startlingly blue eyes. But he’d gained at least fifteen pounds since the first time she’d seen him naked. He was doughy and pale every place the sun didn’t reach. His hair had thinned atop his head, though he combed it in such a way that it was hard to tell. Middle age was settling onto him, even if he wasn’t settling into middle age—his newest car being a vivid example of his resistance. Did men never stop being teenaged boys?
She went to her closet. “Omelet?” she called to him.
“Scrambled. Throw in a couple of sausage links, too. Thanks.”
The Whitmans’ weekday morning routine was systematized: Julia and Brad got up at six; he showered while she dressed in the appropriate clothing for her morning fitness activity, be it tennis or Pilates or barre or spinning; she had a hot breakfast for Brad on the table at 6:20 and woke the girls right afterward; then the girls came down and she ate with them—something light for her, yogurt or a hard-boiled egg, and she encouraged Juniper to eat light, too; she cleaned up the kitchen while the girls got dressed (uniforms made that easy); Brad left for work at 6:35, and she had the girls in the car by seven. Being in the new house wouldn’t alter this routine, since they lived as near to the school as they had before, just in another direction. Though she thought she might need to nudge their departure time up a little, depending on the in-town traffic. An unremarkable routine? Yes, which was why it pleased her so much.
It was now 7:05 on this, their first Monday morning here, and Julia was still waiting on Juniper. “Come on, we’re late,” she called from the mudroom at the bottom of the back stairway, where Lily was joining her now. The house smelled of wood stain and fresh paint and putty, but she loved it, loved every spotless, solid inch of the place. Reclaimed oak floors. Six-inch baseboards. Marble countertops, marble backsplash tile. A pantry as large as Juniper’s first bedroom had been. Heated bathroom floors. A bathtub in the master so deep you could almost swim in it. Their previous house had been large, and nicer than any place she’d lived before, but in terms of quality and luxury it had nothing on this one. If I’ve dreamed this, no one pinch me, she thought, not for the first time.
To Lily she said, “What’s taking your sister so long?”
“Teenagers are slow like old turtles. Except at cross-country. Juniper is fast at that. Maybe that’s why she’s slow now. She used up all her fastness in her races.”
Julia smiled at Lily, then yelled, “Juniper, come on!”
“I am,” Juniper called.
The sound of footsteps assured Julia that her daughter was in fact on her way—and slow. Juniper took her time coming to the stairs and then down the stairs. Julia assessed her: tired for sure, and something else she’d been seeing these past several months. Sadness? Anger? Whatever it was, it pained Julia to see that it still had a hold on her here. Their life was so good!