In the last few years, many good things have happened in Newark and East Orange, the small neighboring city where I live. NJPAC, the arts center that they built a couple of years ago, has changed the mood here forever. Despite naysayers who swore that nothing decent could come out of this city, music, art, and poetry are bringing people back. Property values are rising, carjacking is down, and there's pride in people's voices when they say where they live. There are, of course, still those folks who have their doubts. I took it personally when they tried to change the name of Newark Airport, which it had been for years, to Liberty Airport. People raised so much h.e.l.l, they ended up calling it Newark Liberty Airport. It's a mouthful, and it still rankles. At least we had the power to raise some h.e.l.l.

However, there are ominous signs here, too. A few months back, a child's battered body was found in the closet of a filthy bas.e.m.e.nt. His two little brothers, also starved and beaten, had been left for dead. It was a kick in the face of the city, and everybody felt the city's shame. It doesn't say much for a place when children are starved to death and n.o.body notices. There was a big funeral for the boy, and hundreds of people showed up. Funerals, though, are always for the living, and this one was held to a.s.suage people's guilt. A death like that leaves its mark on a city like mine; it's a reminder that we have a long way to go.

There is also graffiti on walls and abandoned buildings that remind those who know how to read it, that gangs are back-if they ever left. They were around when I was a kid, and for a hot minute, my brother Johnny belonged to one. But weapons have changed, and a "beef" between boys-or girls-can mean a funeral.

I can't afford a private school for my son, and there's no controlling who he comes into contact with in the public school he attends. He's the kind of kid who makes friends easily, and his friends run the gamut. Some like sports and are into computers like he is. They're headed for college and know they have a future. But those are the boys who always seem to end up getting shot over nothing, standing in the way at some rally, strolling down the street on a Sat.u.r.day night. The good ones always seem to be the ones who end up with a bullet in the back.

There are also kids in Jamal's life who I'd rather he didn't know. He's been friends with some of them since grade school, when they didn't seem too bad. He's always been able to see the good in people, to find gold glimmering in dirt. But that ability, to peer into somebody's soul and see something worth saving, can get you into trouble and for a young black man, trouble will get you dead.

Some nights I can't sleep for worrying about him. Black boys can't make a false move because second chances are hard as h.e.l.l to come by. I worry about him knowing kids on their way to jail or the graveyard; I don't want him going along for the ride. Even in death, I didn't want Cecil Jones anywhere near my son.

It was time to fire that opening shot.

"So you know Cecil Jones from school? I don't like to hear that, Jamal. Was he one of your friends?" I raised my voice loud enough to show I meant business and to get his attention from behind the paper. He folded it and laid it down on the table.

"CJ didn't go to my school, but he knew guys who do, so he used to hang out there a lot."

'And CJ, as you call him, was a friend of one of your friends?"

He hesitated just a tad too long. "No, Ma, Cecil was not a friend. He was just a dude I knew. Everybody knew him. He hung with a bunch of guys that I definitely try to avoid. So don't worry about me."

"Of course, I worry about you! This kid has been stabbed by who knows what and you know the kids he hung with! Why shouldn't I be worried?"

"So he was stabbed?"

"Yes."

He shook his head sadly and said in a subdued voice, "Ma. Here's the deal. You don't want guys like CJ and his boys thinking you you think you're better than them, right? So you stay out their way, you watch your back when you're around them, you don't get too tight with them, but you still acknowledge them and stuff. You give them their props and show them you have respect for them. You're cool with them." His face took on a weariness that I'd never seen before, and in that instant I could see him as a grown man, laying down the truth as he knew it to somebody who needed to hear it. think you're better than them, right? So you stay out their way, you watch your back when you're around them, you don't get too tight with them, but you still acknowledge them and stuff. You give them their props and show them you have respect for them. You're cool with them." His face took on a weariness that I'd never seen before, and in that instant I could see him as a grown man, laying down the truth as he knew it to somebody who needed to hear it.

'And you were cool with Cecil Jones?"

"Yeah, I was cool with him. I used to be cool with one of his boys in fifth grade, but not anymore. Now it's just enough to get me by. Like I said, he didn't really go to my school, but he was around. I think he dealt drugs or something."

"Oh G.o.d! So you know guys who deal drugs?"

"Ma, what do you think?" He gave me a look that was at the same time helpless and incredulous, reminding me again just how grown he had become.

'And who were his boys?"

He avoided my eyes, and then said after a minute, "This guy named DeeEss, the kid I used to know."

'And don't anymore, right?"

He nodded. 'And another one called Pik, dudes like that."

'And they deal drugs, too?"

"I don't know. I told you, I avoid those guys. They probably do. Yeah, they do. Enough of the third degree! I'm not a suspect, okay?" There was a hint of annoyance in his voice that I ignored.

"Do you know his girlfriend?"

"Cristal?" His eyes lit up when he said her name, which, I knew from observing men, wasn't so much recognition as acknowledgment of a certain kind of woman. I started to say something about his att.i.tude, but decided to let it be.

But I did add as innocently as I could, "So her name is Cristal, like the champagne?"

"I guess so, Ma, that's what they call her anyway. I don't know!" He threw up his hands in a dramatic gesture of helplessness and picked up the sports page again, which told me I wasn't going to get anything else out of him.

"Thank you, Jamal."

"For what?"

"For being honest with me."

"You're my mother, I have to be honest with you."

"Have you ever tried drugs?" I asked after a moment, my eyes piercing his.

"No, Ma. Do I act like I do drugs?" He did a half-a.s.s imitation of somebody high on something that made me smile despite myself. "There's no way I'm going to be into drugs living with somebody who's always in my business."

'And you know I'll stay in your business."

"Yeah, how well I know," he said with a smile that told me that despite his att.i.tude he was glad I was. "Now tell me how you you know Cecil Jones?" know Cecil Jones?"

'A case."

"What kind of a case."

"He came to my office."

"Why?"

"He had something he wanted me to do for him."

"What?"

"It doesn't matter now, he's dead."

'Are you going to find out who killed him?"

"I don't know yet."

"Ma, just be careful, okay? Promise me?" he said with so much concern it made me smile because they were exactly the words I always said to him.

After our talk, I decided I'd better make it my business to attend Cecil Jones's funeral later on that day. I was certain his friends-this Pik guy, DeeEss, and Cristal-would show up, and I needed to check them out, for Jamal's sake as well as for my own. But first I had to attend to the "car situation" as Jamal put it. After last night's experience, I had no intention of waiting for a bus. I showered, dressed, and splurged on a cab to Rayson's Used Cars.

CHAPTER FOUR.

The day was clear but cold, and I didn't want to spend any more time than absolutely necessary strolling around a used-car lot. Drawn by my fond memories of the Demon, I immediately walked to the section marked pre-used Volkswagens to start my search. Buying a car is a bit like falling in love: You know it when it happens. The Demon's replacement had to be worthy of its predecessor; I knew what I was looking for. and I didn't want to spend any more time than absolutely necessary strolling around a used-car lot. Drawn by my fond memories of the Demon, I immediately walked to the section marked pre-used Volkswagens to start my search. Buying a car is a bit like falling in love: You know it when it happens. The Demon's replacement had to be worthy of its predecessor; I knew what I was looking for.

A thin, aggressive man descended on me the moment I walked into the lot. His name tag said "Frank," and his suit, a bright blue number with an odd shine to it, was a size too big. His pug nose seemed a bit too small for his face, and his fingernails were bitten to the quick. With a patronizing grin and one of the worst cases of halitosis I'd ever experienced, he began running down the "virtues" of each of the ugliest cars in the lot. The losers he was pushing couldn't hold the Demon's hubcaps.

"How about a Yugo?" he finally asked, after detailing the "winning points" of the last of the sorry group. "Considering your limited price range-" he stopped midsentence when he saw the expression on my face. My "limited" price range was the very best I could do. The insurance on the Blue Demon hadn't amounted to squat, and I'd had to go into my home equity loan, which I'd taken out to help pay for Jamal's college tuition, to give me the extra edge.

Poor as I was, though, I had my pride. As I tried to come up with a pithy response that would put him in his place, I spotted the the car, tucked away in a far corner of the lot. It was parked midway between a ten-year-old Volvo and a two-year-old Chevy. It was a newer, sleeker, cherry-red version of the Blue Demon. I was in love. car, tucked away in a far corner of the lot. It was parked midway between a ten-year-old Volvo and a two-year-old Chevy. It was a newer, sleeker, cherry-red version of the Blue Demon. I was in love.

"How much is that one?" I said to Frank as I pointed toward it in a trance.

More than you've got was written on his face, but he didn't respond to my question. was written on his face, but he didn't respond to my question.

"How much did you say it was?" I asked him again.

When he told me, I took a deep breath and began calculating what I would need to cut out of my life. No more manicures, pedicures, or trips to the Biscuit; I'd have to depend upon the kindness of Wyvetta Green. No more ribs or apple pies from Costco. No more trips to Red Lobster or Chinese food from the restaurant down the street. McDonald's would be out of my range. Bath oil and foot ma.s.sage lotion from the Body Shop would be luxuries of the past. Was I really willing to give it all up?

Yet there was something about the way it gleamed in the late morning sun, the windshield sparkling without a chip or nick, the antenna arrow-straight and tall on the hood. The pa.s.senger and driver's side windows shining with nary a crack, the door handles unbroken and polished.

"So how about those Yugos?" Frank took his cue from my silence. Beaten down by reality, I headed with a sigh toward the Yugo section. But then a hand-a strong, sure masculine one-planted itself firmly on my shoulder.

"So what stroke of luck has brought you back into my life?" he said, repeating nearly the same words he'd said to me years before.

And here was my past, slapping me square across my face once again.

Larry Walton wasn't drop-dead gorgeous like Jake Richards. He didn't possess that make-your-panties-wet sensuality that marks Basil Dupre, who can quickly quickly make you forget the good sense grandma and make you forget the good sense grandma and her her mama taught you. But he had a carefree kindness accentuated with an impish dimple in his chin that hinted there was more to him than you saw at first glance. He made you smile even if you felt like c.r.a.p, which was how I felt the last time I saw him. mama taught you. But he had a carefree kindness accentuated with an impish dimple in his chin that hinted there was more to him than you saw at first glance. He made you smile even if you felt like c.r.a.p, which was how I felt the last time I saw him.

I had just left DeWayne Curtis, my fool of an ex-husband, and was discovering how tough it was to raise a kid by myself. My half-a.s.s job as a cop in Belvington Heights was kicking my b.u.t.t daily, and nightly bouts with Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream had added thirty pounds to my frame. I was a menace to society and to myself. Sorrow seemed to be my lot in life.

It was Thursday night and I was on my way home after a grueling day. I had just picked up a fried whiting sandwich and a side of fries from my favorite fried fish place on Central Avenue and was hugging the greasy bag to my chest like a talisman. In my other hand, I grasped a plastic shopping bag br.i.m.m.i.n.g with a six-pack of beer, a box of super tampons, two jumbo bags of Oreos, and a carton of orange juice. I'd tucked the Cherry Garcia into my handbag for safe-keeping. I was sweaty, smelly, and unfit for human encounter. The last thing I needed to hear was some tired-a.s.s Negro rap, so when those words tumbled out of his mouth, my eyes ripped through him like razors. But then he smiled with that cute little dimple and suddenly "stroke of luck" didn't sound so corny.

He had always been a fit, good-looking man who wore his clothes like he was headed somewhere special, as he probably was that night. DeWayne Curtis routinely dressed better than me, so I knew an expensive shirt when I saw one. He gave me the kind of hug that makes you feel protected and desirable all at the same time, and told me how good I looked (which I knew was a lie) and how glad he was to see me (which may have been the truth). We talked about nothing for fifteen minutes-what we'd been doing, what we wanted to do. As he turned to leave, we both noticed the greasy stain, courtesy of my fish sandwich bag, left on his shirt. He just laughed about it and said it was worth every greasy inch just to run into me again. He walked me to the Demon, kissed me on the cheek, and watched from the curb as I pulled away. I went home that night with a grin on my face and felt better about myself, life, and everybody in it for the rest of the week. I never forgot it.

The years had treated him well. He'd grown into his looks the way some men do. The dimple was still there, of course, and he was still dressing good. He hugged me for old times' sake, and the hug hadn't changed either. I hoped he didn't remember the fish sandwich.

"I'm here to buy a car," I said.

'And I'm here to sell one. I own this place now. Bought it five years ago from Rayson."

For the next five minutes, he filled me in on the particulars about buying and selling cars. Things had gone well for him, he said, which was plain to see. Frank, bad breath, nasty manner, and all, took the boss's unspoken hint and faded quietly into the background.

"So this is the car you want?" Larry patted the hood of the red Jetta with affection. "Good car, this one. Get in, take a look around, see how it makes you feel." He opened the door and I climbed behind the wheel.

It felt good, like I had always been there. The upholstery was black, the same color as the Demon's, and I had a thrilling moment of deja vu. It was a manual, too, which I like. Jake, who loves to drive almost as much as he loves to cook, says that driving a stick is like cooking with gas; you have control and the car will tell you what you're doing. He puts an automatic car in the same category as electric stoves-don't need it. At this point in my life, I wouldn't drive anything else.

"Feels good." I pressed down on on the clutch and shifted the gears, which were as smooth as silk.

"You like the color?"

"Love it. I never thought I'd like a red car, but I do," I said, suddenly remembering that red was Celia's color; it seemed fitting.

"How about a test drive?"

"I can do that?"

"Never buy a car without one."

The reality of my pocketbook brought me back to earth. "No, that's okay," I said as I climbed out of the car. "I really don't think this one is for me."

"How will you know if you don't try it? Hey, Frank, get me the keys to this thing, we're taking it out. Come on, Tamara, we're out of here." He handed me the keys Frank had promptly delivered.

As I sped on to the street, I felt the sheer pleasure of driving a car that yields to your every command. The Demon, with its stalls and quirks, had gotten me out of many a sc.r.a.pe, but there was always that dreadful moment when I had to claim it at parking lots, all those times I prayed it would start and spare me the humiliation of calling AAA for the fifth time that month. There would be none of that with this one. It glided onto the Garden State Parkway as if it were on skates. With a touch of the accelerator, I was in the left lane, leaving bigger, fancier cars in my wake. I whizzed past exits on the Parkway, barely slowing down for the toll gates. With style and panache, I finally rolled onto Route 280 and back into the streets of Newark, vaguely hoping that somebody I knew would spot me. When I drove into Rayson's Used Cars, I didn't want to return the keys.

"Great car," I mumbled as I handed them back to Larry.

"Your car. I can tell by the way you handle it."

"No, I'd better look around some more." I tried not to sound like a disappointed kid.

"How much you got to spend?"

"Not enough for this." I looked him in the eye for the first time since I'd gotten out of the car. "I can't afford this one, Larry. I didn't get much for my other car, which was totaled, and I can't afford to take anything else out of my savings."

"I didn't ask you all that, Tamara, I just asked you what you can afford to spend."

I told him and for the briefest moment, disappointment flashed in his eyes, but he recovered quickly. "I think we can work with that."

'Are you crazy?"

"Yeah, maybe, a little bit. Hey, it's a beautiful day, you're a beautiful lady, and we go way way back." back."

He was right about that. We went further back even than the leavings of my fish sandwich on his lapel, and the irony of confronting my history with Celia struck me again.

He had been one of three popular seniors headed places most of the kids in my school would never see. They were all smart, athletic, fine, with the pick of any girl they wanted. The three of them ran the school, never held back by the boundaries that limited the rest of us. They called Larry "Chessman" because he loved the game and had won some hard-played matches with players from richer, better schools, bringing fame and pride to our city in the pages of the Star-Ledger. Star-Ledger.

He was the friendliest of the three, the only one who would look down from his perch to acknowledge me and Celia, although I suspected Celia had other dealings with one or all of them; there was something secretive about the way she acted when she was around them. But she never admitted to anything, and I never asked her. Even as kids, we respected each other's privacy. It wouldn't have surprised me, though. Like every other girl in the freshman cla.s.s, we had crushes on all three. "Chessman" was my favorite, though. Maybe it was because he always remembered my name.

"High school was a long time ago," I said.

"Not as long as you might think." I wondered if something in his past was catching up with him, too.

"So whatever happened to your friends, those two guys you used to hang with? I'm sure you all went to college and did great, important things with your lives." I hadn't meant to sound cynical, and the look that shadowed his eyes made me wish I'd altered my tone.

He paused before he answered. "Clayton ended up a big-time judge. I used to see him and his wife a couple of times a year. He died a year ago last August. Drew and I are still very good friends. I see him at least once or twice a week. He went to pharmacy school and has ended up rich as all h.e.l.l. Me, well you see where I am in life. All of us got married, had kids, me and Drew did anyway. Clayton and his wife weren't as blessed, and life goes on." His shrug of indifference didn't match his words. He wasn't good at hiding things, and I wasn't sure yet if that was good or bad.

"You have kids, then?" That was always a common point of entry to any conversation.