ut she was right. There was a lot at stake here, either way. I was the one with the restraining order, and they were doing whatever they could to protect me—but also Ava.
Under other circumstances, I might have also still been caught up on the loss Guidice himself had incurred, back in 2007. But he’d trumped that issue the minute he’d started messing with my family.
So instead of saying anything else, I just stood up from the table and started back inside.
“I’m going to finish helping Jannie with her homework,” I said. “You two come on in when you’re done talking.”
CHAPTER
72
BY THE END OF THE NEXT DAY, WE WERE FINALLY PERMITTED TO GO VISIT Ava. Sampson’s wife, Billie, was nice enough to come over and watch the kids, while Nana, Bree, and I drove up to Quarles Street in Northeast.
The home where Ava had been placed was on the fringes of one of the city’s worst neighborhoods. It was a converted single-family house, called Howard House now. They had twelve girls living there, along with a house manager, a pair of overnight staff, and a couple of part-time counselors.
I don’t expect miracles from the city, and I’ve got plenty of respect for the job these people are up against. Still, I had to keep my feelings in check as we walked up the cracked sidewalk and rang the bell.
Inside, the place reminded me of a few of my college apartments. The furniture was old and mismatched, with a threadbare wall-to-wall carpet that looked like it had been new sometime in the seventies.
Several young women were hanging out in front of the TV in the living room, watching Judge Judy on a wall-mounted TV. I could hear cooking sounds from farther back, and half of a phone conversation, at full volume, from somewhere upstairs.
“Yes, I did. Nuh-uh! Don’t start, Lamar. Don’t even start with that shit!”
The truth was, Ava could be just as street as the next girl. I had no doubt she could stand up for herself, and even hold her own in a fight, if it came to that. But it made me sadder than I could say to know she was living here now. Just looking at Nana and Bree, I could tell they felt the same way.
Eventually, a middle-aged woman in braids came out from the back, drying her hands on a dish towel. The T-shirt over her enormous bosom had a portrait of James Baldwin, one of Nana’s favorites. I chose to take that as a good sign—our first one of the day.
“Can I help you?” she said.
“We’re here to see Ava Williams,” I told her.
The woman threw the towel over her shoulder. “And you are?”
“We’re her family,” Nana said. There was a little edge of stress in her voice.
“Her foster family,” Bree added quietly.
“Stephanie Gethmann from Child and Family Services said we could see her today after five,” I told her.
The woman nodded and took a deep breath. I imagine she took a lot of deep breaths, in her job.
“Ava’s had some issues today,” she finally said. “Now’s not a good time. Maybe you could come back tomorrow.”
“Is she here?” Bree eyeballed the open staircase, where the loud phone talker was on her way down.
“Damn, Lamar, what you want from me?” she said into her cell, but then stopped between us and the woman we were talking to. “Can I go to the store?”
The woman held up five fingers, as in, you’ve got five minutes to be back. The girl continued out the door and down the steps, cursing Lamar the whole way.
“Sorry,” the woman said. She stepped out of the foyer and into the empty dining room, which I guess was the closest thing to privacy around here. “Anyway—no. Ava’s not here right now.”
“What kind of issues are we talking about?” Bree said. “Is she hurt?”
“She’ll be fine,” the woman said.
“Is she high?” Bree asked.
At that the woman paused, and looked me in the eye instead of Bree. “I really can’t talk about it,” she said.