بخش 02 - فصل 04

4

Hodges parks his Toyota in the sheltering overhang to the left of his house that serves as his garage, and pauses to admire his freshly cut lawn before going to the door. There he finds a note sticking out of the mail slot. His first thought is Mr. Mercedes, but such a thing would be bold even for that guy.

It’s from Jerome. His neat printing contrasts wildly with the bullshit jive of the message. Dear Massa Hodges, I has mowed yo grass and put de mower back in yo cah-pote. I hopes you didn’t run over it, suh! If you has any mo chos for dis heah black boy, hit me on

mah honker. I be happy to talk to you if I is not on de job wit one of my hos. As you know dey needs a lot of work and sometimes some tunin up on em, as dey can be uppity, especially dem high yallers! I is always heah fo you, suh! Jerome

Hodges shakes his head wearily but can’t help smiling. His hired kid gets straight As in advanced math, he can replace fallen gutters, he fixes Hodges’s email when it goes blooey (as it frequently does, mostly due to his own mismanagement), he can do basic plumbing, he can speak French pretty well, and if you ask what he’s reading, he’s apt

to bore you for half an hour with the blood symbolism of D. H. Lawrence. He doesn’t want to be white, but being a gifted black male in an uppermiddle-class family has presented him with what he calls “identity challenges.” He says this in a joking way, but Hodges does not believe he’s joking. Not really.

Jerome’s college professor dad and CPA mom–both humor-challenged, in Hodges’s opinion–would no doubt be aghast at this communication. They might even feel their son in need of psychological counseling. But they won’t find out from Hodges. “Jerome, Jerome, Jerome,” he says, letting himself in. Jerome and his chos fo hos.

Jerome who can’t decide, at least not yet, on which Ivy League college he wants to attend; that any of the big boys will accept him is a foregone conclusion. He’s the only person in the neighborhood whom Hodges thinks of as a friend, and really, the only one he needs. Hodges believes friendship is overrated, and in

this way, if in no other, he is like Brady Hartsfield. He has made it in time for most of the evening news, but decides against it. There is only so much Gulf oil-spill and Tea Party politics he can take. He turns on his computer instead, launches Firefox, and plugs Under Debbie’s Blue Umbrella into the search field. There are only six results, a very small catch in the vast fishy sea of

the Internet, and only one that matches the phrase exactly. Hodges clicks on it and a picture appears. Under a sky filled with threatening clouds is a country hillside. Animated rain–a simple repeating loop, he judges–is pouring down in silvery streams. But the two people seated beneath a large blue umbrella, a young man

and a young woman, are safe and dry. They are not kissing, but their heads are close together. They appear to be in deep conversation. Below the picture, there’s a brief description of the Blue Umbrella’s raison d’être. Unlike sites such as Facebook and LinkedIn, Under Debbie’s Blue

Umbrella is a chat site

where old friends can meet

and new friends can get to

know one another in

TOTAL GUARENTEED

ANONYMITY.

No

pictures, no porn, no 140-

character Tweets, just

GOOD

OLD-

FASHIONED

CONVERSATION.

Below this is a button marked GET STARTED NOW! Hodges mouses his cursor onto it, then hesitates. About six months ago, Jerome had to delete his email address and give him a new one, because everyone in Hodges’s address book had gotten a message saying he was stranded in New York, someone had stolen his wallet

with all his credit cards inside, and he needed money to get home. Would the email recipient please send fifty dollars–more if he or she could afford it–to a Mail Boxes Etc. in Tribeca. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I get this mess straightened out,” the message concluded. Hodges was deeply embarrassed because the

begging request had gone out to his ex, his brother in Toledo, and better than four dozen cops he’d worked with over the years. Also his daughter. He had expected his phone–both landline and cell –to ring like crazy for the next forty-eight hours or so, but very few people called, and only Alison seemed actually concerned. This didn’t surprise

him. Allie, a Gloomy Gus by nature, has been expecting her father to lose his shit ever since he turned fifty-five. Hodges had called on Jerome for help, and Jerome explained he had been a victim of phishing. “Mostly the people who phish your address just want to sell Viagra or knockoff jewelry, but I’ve seen this kind before,

too. It happened to my Environmental Studies teacher, and he ended up paying people back almost a thousand bucks. Of course, that was in the old days, before people wised up –” “Old days meaning exactly when, Jerome?” Jerome had shrugged. “Two, three years ago. It’s a new world out there, Mr.

Hodges. Just be grateful the phisherman didn’t hit you with a virus that ate all your files and apps.” “I wouldn’t lose much,” Hodges had said. “Mostly I just surf the Web. Although I would miss the computer solitaire. It plays Happy Days Are Here Again’ when I win.” Jerome had given him his patented I’m-too-polite-to-

call-you-dumb look. “What

about your tax returns? I

helped you do em online last

year. You want someone to see

what you paid Uncle Sugar?

Besides me, I mean?”

Hodges admitted he didn’t.

In that strange (and

somehow

endearing)

pedagogical voice the

intelligent young always seem

to employ when endeavoring

to educate the clueless old, Jerome said, “Your computer isn’t just a new kind of TV set. Get that out of your mind. Every time you turn it on, you’re opening a window into your life. If someone wants to look, that is.” All this goes through his head as he looks at the blue umbrella and the endlessly falling rain. Other stuff goes

through it, too, stuff from his cop-mind, which had been asleep but is now wide awake. Maybe Mr. Mercedes wants to talk. On the other hand, maybe what he really wants is to look through that window Jerome was talking about. Instead of clicking on GET STARTED NOW!, Hodges exits the site, grabs his phone, and punches one of the few

numbers he has on speed-dial. Jerome’s mother answers, and after some brief and pleasant chitchat, she hands off to young Mr. Chos Fo Hos himself. Speaking in the most horrible Ebonics dialect he can manage, Hodges says: “Yo, my homie, you keepin dem bitches in line? Dey earnin? You representin?”

“Oh, hi, Mr. Hodges. Yes, everything’s fine.” “You don’t likes me talkin dis way on yo honkah, brah?” “Uh . . .” Jerome is honestly flummoxed, and Hodges takes pity on him. “The lawn looks terrific.” “Oh. Good. Thanks. Can I do anything else for you?”

“Maybe so. I was wondering if you could come by after school tomorrow. It’s a computer thing.” “Sure. What’s the problem this time?” “I’d rather not discuss it on the phone,” Hodges says, “but you might find it interesting. Four o’clock okay?” “That works.”

“Good. Do me a favor and leave Tyrone Feelgood Deelite at home.” “Okay, Mr. Hodges, will do.” “When are you going to lighten up and call me Bill? Mr. Hodges makes me feel like your American History teacher.” “Maybe when I’m out of high school,” Jerome says, very

seriously. “Just as long as you know you can make the jump any time you want.” Jerome laughs. The kid has got a great, full laugh. Hearing it always cheers Hodges up. He sits at the computer desk in his little cubbyhole of an office, drumming his fingers, thinking. It occurs to him that he hardly ever uses

this room during the evening. If he wakes at two A.M. and can’t get back to sleep, yes. He’ll come in and play solitaire for an hour or so before returning to bed. But he’s usually in his La-Z-Boy between seven and midnight, watching old movies on AMC or TCM and stuffing his face with fats and sugars.

He grabs his phone again, dials Directory Assistance, and asks the robot on the other end if it has a number for Janelle Patterson. He’s not hopeful; now that she is the Seven Million Dollar Woman, and newly divorced in the bargain, Mrs. Trelawney’s sister has probably got an unlisted number.

But the robot coughs it up. Hodges is so surprised he has to fumble for a pencil and then punch 2 for a repeat. He drums his fingers some more, thinking how he wants to approach her. It will probably come to nothing, but it would be his next step if he were still on the cops. Since he’s not, it will take a little extra finesse.

He is amused to discover how eagerly he welcomes this challenge.