CORNELIUS CHRISTIAN CUNNINGHAM had somehow gotten the idea that the only way to truly ascertain the facts of Da’s situation was to see it with his own eyes. Somehow he found Mercedes’s detailed reports vague. Confounding and confusing. Not to mention puzzling and perplexing. Possibly phony and fake.
“The man can’t keep his big ugly nose out of our business!” Mercedes complained.
“Child, he’s married to your mother now. You and I are his business, like it or not.”
Da was on the couch again, a blank crossword on her lap. They made the puzzles too easy these days, she complained. Not enough of a challenge. She shifted, rearranging her legs, which, thank heavens, ended in a pair of closed-toe sandals. Da clenched her jaw.
“You okay?” Mo asked her.
“These poor old feet of mine itch up a tempest every night. And then just as I drift off to sleep, toe pain will shoot through me and startle me awake.” Da put a hand to her brow. “It’s always in a toe that’s not really there. Phantom pain, the doctors call it.” She let her crossword puzzle slip from her fingers. “Give me strength, I’m a walking haunted house.”
“How about some tea?”
“Tea’s for sick folk.” She ran her tongue over her lips and sighed. “Just a small cup. What would I do without you two? My crown is in my heart, not on my head.”
Mercedes and Mo slipped into the kitchen.
“I’m seriously worried,” Mercedes said, filling the kettle. “If Corny sees Da lying on the couch, muttering she’s haunted…” She gave the faucet handle a shove, but it kept on dripping. “Not to mention how much work this house needs.” She banged the kettle onto the stove. “Not to mention, did you notice Da’s not exactly protesting his meddling?”
Mo pressed her fingers to her temples.
“I’m having trouble thinking straight these days,” she said. “I-”
A commotion outside the front door cut off any possibility of thought whatsoever.
“Mo! Mercey!” Dottie shrieked. “Help! Save it!”
Mo ran outside. A crowd was gathered at the end of the street, where a yellow machine with thick rubber treads occupied the front lawn of the A.O.L. House. Its steel arm dangled an enormous, menacing claw over the roof.
“What’s going on?” Mo demanded.
Mr. Duong, the fix-it man, polished his glasses on the hem of his shirt. “My guess is they’re not here to landscape the place, Mo,” he said. At that moment, the claw rumbled to life. “Uh-oh.”
Crash. The closed claw punched into the mossy little roof, caving it with one blow. Shingles flew, wooden boards splintered. Who knew a roof was so flimsy? The claw reared up, landed another blow, and there were the house’s innards, splat, on display for all to see. Strips of bent metal, dangling wires. That was how fast things could change. With a whoop, Gem Baggott hurled a rock at the front door. Mrs. Petrone grabbed him by the neck of his T-shirt.
“Don’t you dare!” she scolded. “Show some respect!”
“It’s just a beat-up old rathole anyway!” he protested, wiggling free.
The claw punched the house again. Mo had to cover her eyes. It was as if they were watching a bully beat a helpless person to a pulp, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.
“Someone has plans for this property,” Mr. Duong told Mrs. Petrone. He crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. “We are witnessing capitalism at work.”
Mrs. Petrone scratched her head, which today was styled into curls that stuck to her cheeks like uppercase Gs.
“I get a very bad feeling about it, whatever it is,” she said.
Now Mercedes came rushing up, followed by Mrs. Baggott, her flip-flops going flop but not flip. Mr. and Mrs. Hernandez, who owned Tortilla Feliz, showed up, their hands covered with flour, and Ms. Hugg ran as fast as her tight red dress allowed. Before long, someone from every house but Mrs. Steinbott’s and the Kowalski house was watching.
“I wish Daddy was here,” Dottie said. “He’d make them stop, right? He’d stop those doo-doo heads, right?” She slid her thumb into her mouth, popped it back out. “Right, Mo?”
“Buckman.” Venom dripped from Mercedes’s voice. “He means business, all right.”
A dump truck backed down the street, inching between the parked cars. Its rear fender collided with the guardrail, adding yet another dent. The driver jumped down, scowling.
“Mister!” Mrs. Petrone waved him over.
The driver took off his yellow hard hat, as if out of respect for the crowd. He had a ponytail and kindly eyes.
“Sorry about your guardrail. Backing a rig in here is like threading a needle with a…” He scratched his head, searching for a good comparison. “A…a…”
“Never mind!” Mrs. Petrone waved a hand. “What we want to know is what’s going on here? What do you know about all this?”
“A hippo, maybe,” the driver said.
“You’re funny,” Dottie told him. She helped herself to his hat and settled it on her head.
“We’re demoing to the ground,” he explained. “Everything’s slated for teardown, that’s what I hear.”
A silence fell. They all stared at him. He scratched his head some more and nudged a rock with his boot toe.
“I hear office park.”
They continued to stare.
“Maybe a little light industry? But all green, you know. All nice and up-to-the-minute.” He tapped Dottie’s hard-hatted head. “Anybody home?”
“You been clobbered by a two-by-four, young man?” demanded Mrs. Petrone.
“Not that I know of.” He retrieved his hard hat. “You all have a nice day now.”
As he retreated to the truck, Mo chased after him.
“Does the name Buckman sound familiar?”
The driver swung up into his cab. He rubbed the space between his kindly eyes. “I’m not very good at names.” He smiled down at her. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, missy. These are grown-up matters! Whatever happens, your mama will take good care of you!” He shifted the truck’s gears and backed toward the growing pile of rubble.
Mr. Duong pushed his glasses back up his nose. Ms. Hugg murmured some inappropriate language. Mrs. Baggott ground out her cigarette with her flip-flop. Mr. and Mrs. Hernandez clasped each other’s hands. Mrs. Petrone voiced the question in everyone’s head.
“How come we haven’t heard a single word about this?” Her pillowy chest rose and fell. “Some big kahunas are after our property. Big-time! How can they have kept this a secret from every last one of us?” She looked from face to face and settled on Mr. Duong. Her eyes narrowed. “What was that you said about capitalism?”
Mr. Duong looked alarmed. “I was speculating, that’s all. I don’t know any more than any of you.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. Steinbott had her finger in this.” Mrs. Baggott flicked a bit of tobacco from her tongue. “She’s rich. And the rich only get richer.”
Mrs. Petrone peered at Mo. “Bella, you look like you saw a ghost. You don’t know anything about this, do you?”
Everyone stared at Mo the way they’d stared at the truck driver. The knowledge of her father’s two letters, and the meeting he’d had with B and B, surged up inside her and tried to blurt itself out. He thinks you’re dominoes! she wanted to say. If we don’t band together, he’ll knock us all down!
But they’d demand to know where she got that information, and she’d have to tell them her father was already dealing with Buckman. And how could she betray her father?
Mercedes clamped her lips together, as if she, too, had words trying to jump out of her mouth. But she didn’t speak. Instead she waited, watching Mo.
“How…how would I know about it?” Mo heard herself say.