Sam turned from the window, hoping some coffee would clear her muddled head, until a rat-tat-tat filled the air, loud enough to send Fido into a trot, ears up, eyes wide. While Sam had never heard an actual gunshot before, this sound was the closest she could imagine to it. She peeked outside, watching the kids scamper. Had the neighbor shot at them?
Throwing off her nightgown and stepping into a shift dress, Sam ran outside, gaze darting as she gauged the situation. The kids had all scattered in different directions, but no one appeared hurt.
This community crisis had to end. Now.
She crossed her lawn and headed next-door. Sam knocked until the front door of the neighbor’s house, freshly painted with a gray clean slate, swung open. A little Black boy stood on the other side of the screen door, young enough that his eyes barely peeked above the aluminum bottom. The whistling and honking sound of cartoons blared in the background.
The moment he waved and greeted her with, “Hi, I’m Awonzo Junow!” Sam wondered what kind of criminal family raised friendly toddlers who watched cartoons.
Sam knelt on the concrete stoop. “Hi, Awonzo Junow. My name is Sam. I live next door. Is your mommy home?”
The little boy wordlessly nodded, his smile a row of chiclet-white baby teeth, then he pointed into the dark interior of the house. His tiny, dimpled fingers fiddled with the locked handle until it turned, then he pushed the door open for Sam.
Sam lifted her foot to step inside, then she hesitated, knowing nothing other than what the neighborhood had warned her: Dangerous criminals. Violent thieves. Then she walked right in behind the little boy, letting the screen door slam shut behind her.
“Hello?” Sam called out.
A moment later a woman came scurrying into the living room, hands clutching a towel.
“Who are you, and how did you get in my house?” the woman demanded.
Sam held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Sam Stanton. I live next door and your son let me in.”
The woman glared at Sam’s outstretched hand. “What do you want?”
“I heard a sound… it sounded like gunshots. I just wanted to make sure everyone was okay.”
The woman seemed to soften, only slightly. “Those were firecrackers that the neighbor kids threw at our house. Again. And yeah, we’re okay, so you can leave now.”
But Sam, not all that good at reading irritated verbal cues, didn’t budge.
“Why were they throwing firecrackers at your house?” Sam asked, oblivious to the way the Black woman inched toward her, pressing in on Sam, subliminally urging this strange white woman to leave.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No. Should it be?”
“Uh, I’m Black. And I just moved into a white old-lady neighborhood.”
“And…?” Sam asked, genuinely confused.
“Are you serious right now?” the woman asked, uncertain if Sam was actually that stupid or just playing dumb and exceedingly good at it.
“I’m sorry. Am I missing something?” Sam could sense she was a beat behind, as she usually was when it came to reading people and situations, but this felt like she was singing a whole different tune.
Shifting to the wood-encased black-and-white television console, the woman turned down the obnoxious sounds of Looney Tunes. She propped her hands on her hips.
“Your uppity neighborhood wants me out because of the color of my skin.”
“No, that’s ridiculous. While I admit I’ve gotten my own fair share of judgement for being a single woman and owning a pony, the people here are harmless. Truly.”
“Maybe for you, but you’re like them.”
“I’m nothing like them.”
“I meant you look like them, honey. You fit in.”
“I’ve never fit in. Anywhere. But isn’t that what makes us exceptional?”
The woman cracked a slight smile. “Exceptionally good at standing out.”
“You just made my point. We stand out. Who wants to fit in when you could stand out?”
“Those who don’t want a target on their back,” the woman exclaimed, growing exasperated at explaining something that Sam would never deeply understand.
“A target means you’ve made waves,” Sam said. “I’d much rather spend my life making waves than drowning in them.”
“Then I guess we understand each other, don’t we?” At this point the woman gave up trying to make Sam leave and decided maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if she stayed. “So why are you standing in my living room?”
“As I said, I heard what I thought were gunshots, which now I know were firecrackers, so I guess I’m still standing here to offer friendship. Woman to woman. Target to target.”
Only now did the woman accept Sam’s still extended hand, which she shook slowly, as if waiting for the punchline, or for Sam to zap her with a hand buzzer.
“Okay, then it’s nice to meet you, Sam Stanton. I’m Bernadette Breedlove. And this,” she pulled the child who couldn’t be much older than four, to her hip, “is Alonzo Junior.”
“And all this time I was calling you Awonzo Junow and you didn’t correct me,” Sam teased him with a light poke to his rib, which made him giggle. “Breedlove. Any relation to Sarah Breedlove?”
Bernadette’s jaw stiffened as she remembered what the neighborhood kids had painted across her front door. She wasn’t used to people recognizing her husband’s family name, especially not a white person. “You’ve heard of my husband’s grandaunt?”
