The Cave Dwellers by Christina McDowell (top e book reader .TXT) 📗

or not he did it. And no one is talking about it. The information is sealed. But Anthony told me about the chemical dumping. Everyone seems fine with the fact that they think he’s guilty. So I want to be able to do something good with the money that I have, and I know Anthony doesn’t have a good lawyer, that’s what he said.… So that’s why I’m here, to talk to you—about giving you money for a good lawyer. And—and he told me about your father, I’m so sor—”

“You came by here to give us money?” Anthony’s sister laughs. “What else did my brother tell you? He sweet-talk you into giving him money? How much money?”

Bunny is taken aback by this. “Well, uh… like I said, he told me about your father and—”

“How much?” she interrupts.

“A hundred thousand dollars—but, really, he didn’t sweet-talk me.”

“Ohhh, this is too much. You got some nerve.” She hands back Bunny’s ID.

“Okay.” Bunny isn’t quite sure what to say. “So where should I send the money to? The bank said I should get your routing number.”

“Oh, sweetie, listen. You don’t know my brother, he’s no saint.… You don’t know the situation. Keep your money.” She steps backward to close the door.

“No, wait,” Bunny says. “I don’t understand. I’m serious. I don’t want or need this money. I want to give it to you.”

“Look, I don’t have time to unpack you right now, and the last thing I need is for the feds to be breathing down my neck as a respectable business owner because I got some handout from a stranger obsessed with my brother that I don’t need and that doesn’t coincide with the agreement with the chemical company.”

“I’m really sorry,” Bunny says. “I’m not sure I’m following—what agreement are you talking about?”

“Honey, you’re not following because you’re not on this road. You think it’s okay to insert yourself into another family’s business because you got money?”

“What? No, I—I think I’m confused. I just want to help. Did the Banks family make an agreement? Like… a financial agreement? Like they paid you?”

“You don’t have a right to be here. I have to get back to my day. I’m not interested in anything else you have to say. Get off my property or I’m calling the police.” The door slams.

Bunny stands alone on the porch; her lower lip and legs start shaking. As she takes herself down to the sidewalk, a German shepherd lunges from behind the neighbor’s chain-link fence with a snarl, his jaw snapping. Startled, Bunny throws her hand against her pounding chest, then quickly calls for an Uber. She waits, vulnerable in her skin, and tilts her head to the sky to see a government security camera filming her from atop its long white pole. She stares at it as if staring directly into the sun.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

You from around here?” Bunny’s Uber driver asks. A crucifix dangles from his rearview mirror.

“Uh, yeah,” Bunny replies, still shaken.

“A native! Wow. Don’t pick up too many of those. I was just dropping off a couple at the old Frederick Douglass Museum.”

“Yeah, well, the city’s changed a lot, or that’s what people tell me.”

“Oh, let me tell you…” he begins. “I don’t mind all the nice houses and buildings goin’ up. I’m a lot older than you, ha. I coach a baseball team, and I got people, kids I used to know, who are all comin’ back to town after maybe ten, fifteen years, you know, ’cause they got families now, and they’re complaining about how it’s changed! So this is what I say, I say the city that you left, once you could afford to, has not become the museum that you wanted it to be, the euphoric bullshit recall that you have of it now that you’re back. And on top of that, you’re complaining about the race of those who came in to buy the homes of the elders that you did not stay with. So let me make sure I get this straight—because if it wasn’t that, you would have stayed here, been here in a house that was already paid for—”

Bunny’s cell phone begins to ring. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I’m—”

“It’s all right, go ahead,” he tells her.

Bunny answers. An older woman’s voice says, “Hello? Is this Ms. Elizabeth Bartholomew?”

“This is she.”

“This is Ellen Rivkin with Bank of America calling about your recent deposit.”

“Yes, yes, I remember.”

“Well, I’m so sorry to have to inform you of this, but it appears that this check has bounced.”

“What? I’m sorry, I think you’re breaking up.”

“It appears that the check has bounced. It did not go through.”

“What? What do you mean, not go through?”

“Well, whichever bank the money is coming from, it appears to have insufficient funds. So what I recommend is that you contact the business or individual who issued you the check. I am here if you have any further questions.”

“I—I don’t understand, there should be money in that account.” Bunny’s universe is plunging into an unknown dimension. How is that possible?

“I’m so sorry,” the woman says.

“Thanks for letting me know.” Bunny hangs up. She turns back to the driver. “Sorry about that.”

“All good, all good,” the driver says, cruising over Key Bridge.

“Sorry, you were saying?” Bunny says.

“Well now, so you know, I said, let me tell you something, it’s not about color, it’s about culture. You know, I said, that’s what, you know that’s what it’s about, and I said, for some reason, we told these folks who didn’t have the opportunities or the skills that we had that they were supposed to stay like they were when that’s exactly what got these guys into the pickle that they were in. I said, you have to change, you, you have to change. And I said, if you notice, the people that are complainin’ about this are y’all. It ain’t all these elders who actually had to live through the