Say Nice Things About Detroit

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Authors: Scott Lasser
drop to forty below zero even if the sky was so blue it could break your heart. There was a reason why the Swedes settled here, the Finns. Sure, the French had founded the place, leaving place-names mispronounced all over the state, but it was the others who’d cut down the forest primeval and filled the factories: Scandinavians, Eastern Europeans drifting east from Chicago, and, later, blacks coming up from the South. Now all were scattering.
    It was late in the afternoon when he drove to Shelly’s. She was a black woman of indeterminate middle age, tall and mildly plump with straightened hair and a gaudy wedding ring he suspected wasn’t worth much. He sat in her living room, lined with bookcases, the books without their dust jackets. It was an odd touch, and it seemed to mute the room’s light, just as the light outside was muted. It was a cozy room, and he felt comfortable in it.
    She poured him tea and thanked him for coming. He explained that he had once met her husband. He felt a smile twisted on his face. He was nervous, though he wasn’t sure why. She had that effect on him. It had something to do with her eyes, big and round and black, as if they could see through him. It was part of an idea he knew he had, namely that black people somehow had a better idea what was really going on in the world than he did. It was a silly prejudice, but he could never shake it. Odd, he thought, how hard it was to get beyond skin color.
    He told himself he had nothing to worry about here. Burton’s was an easy case—any new lawyer could have handled it.
    â€œDo the Evanses have any claim on the money?” Shelly asked.
    â€œNo, Dirk left everything to you, except for portions for your daughter and someone named Marlon Booker.”
    â€œA hundred grand for Marlon,” she said. He asked about Marlon. “Marlon was Dirk’s nephew—not by blood. Marlon is the son of the man Dirk thought of as his brother. That was Everett, but Everett died. So now Marlon is Dirk’s cross to bear.”
    â€œAny idea how I find Marlon?”
    â€œKeep checking here. He’ll come around, sooner or later.”
    â€œYou sure?”
    â€œIt’s part of Dirk’s deal. Marlon always has a place to go. The downstairs guest room is his.”
    â€œHow ’bout Marlon’s mother?” David asked. Mothers tended to know how to contact their children.
    â€œPatrice. You can ask her. I’m not sure she knows where her son is, but you can ask. If you can find her.”
    Shelly went to the kitchen, then returned shortly with an address book and read David the number, a 313, like everyone, whites and blacks, used to have. They spent the next ten minutes signing paperwork.
    â€œPlease, Mr. Halpert, let’s get this closed up as soon as possible,” she said.
    â€œI understand.”
    â€œI want to move down to Texas, to be close to my daughter. I’m ready to list the house.”
    â€œIt’s a lovely home,” he said, and he meant it.
    â€œWanna buy it?” she asked.
    VII
    S HE REALIZED THAT Marty was bulkier than David, slightly taller, with more hair. A happier, more satisfied version of a man. Her husband had grown up in Pasadena. He took his success in stride, something to be expected, like the pleasant weather.
    The first week back Carolyn allowed herself simply to fall into routine, to spend time with Kevin and catch up at work (287 unanswered e-mails waited upon her return), and to act deliberately, without desperation. She wanted happiness, not to settle. It wouldn’t be easy.
    She made love with Marty the third night back. It was his idea, and she was glad for it, a way to deal with her guilt. It started after she’d put Kevin to bed and was standing at the stove, boiling water for ginger tea. Marty came up behind her and put his hand on the small of her back. “I’ll be right up,” she said before he could speak. She didn’t

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