“That is good news!”
They walked in silence another half a block, each seemingly thinking their own thoughts. Even the children seemed lost in their own heads.
Then Mrs. G said, “There’s a band somewhere playing the steel drums. Do you hear that?”
But Raymond didn’t. He looked over at Isabel but saw no sign that she heard.
“I hear it!” Esteban shouted.
And then, half a block later, so did Raymond.
They turned the corner onto Luis and Sofia’s street. There were a good thirty people out in the street. Maybe more. Not on the sidewalk, either. In the street. At both ends of the block someone had placed the wooden barricades police use to cordon off a street from traffic.
The steel drum band was playing in the middle of the block. Smoke rose from a commercial-size barbecue just behind them. People milled about with red paper cups, sipping. Two little girls in fancy dresses danced to the band.
Sofia spotted Raymond and his friends, and hurried to where they stood taking in the unexpected scene.
“Welcome to our block party,” she said.
“You put on a block party?” Raymond asked. “For who?”
“Well, for all of you,” she said. “Who do you think?”
Sofia came by their table and hovered. Someone had set up a folding table for them on the sidewalk in the middle of the block. It even had a bright blue paper tablecloth, taped down so the breeze couldn’t take it away, and helium balloons tied to all four corners.
“Right now it’s a little lightly attended,” Sofia said. “But we have free hot dogs and hamburgers, and when they start cooking, I think the smell will bring more people down.” She was clearly stressed by the light turnout, and Raymond couldn’t help picking up that stress. “And one of our neighbors contributed two kegs of beer from his work. So that’ll bring ’em out, I think. Right now people are looking down from their windows and trying to decide. Everybody wants a crowd to blend into. But I think the more people come, the more people will come.”
“You mustn’t worry,” Mrs. G told her gently. “It’s a lovely thing to do no matter how many do or don’t attend.”
“We’re taking up a collection,” Sofia said. “All day. For the children. And a lot of people gave when we first invited them, too. A lot of people said they couldn’t come, but they kicked in for the collection. So even if we don’t get a big crowd, we have a good start on that.”
Then she hurried away as though she couldn’t bear the pressure a moment longer.
A man in his thirties approached the table. An African American man with a shaved head and a beard but no mustache.
“You’re the widow,” he said to Isabel. It didn’t sound like a question.
“Yes,” she said.
“I just wanted to come tell you I’m sorry for your loss. And I’m sorry the jury didn’t get it, but I just wanted you to know that a lot of people get it—what a loss it was to you and how wrong it was that it ever happened that way.”
He reached out for Isabel’s hand, and she reached out in return. The man didn’t shake her hand exactly. Just held it and gave it a squeeze.
Isabel opened her mouth, but no words came out.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know that. And I put a check in the collection jar. Not a lot, but it’s what I can do. You know. For the children.”
He let go of her hand and turned to walk away.
Raymond looked up to see an older woman and a young couple standing behind the man. Waiting their turn to talk to the widow.
The older woman stepped up first.
“I just want to say how sorry I am. Your husband might not have mattered as much as he should have to everybody, but he did to me. Even though I never met him. But I have three sons just about your age. His age. So I get it.”
“Thank you,” Isabel said.
Then the last couple stepped up, but by then they were no longer the last. The line had grown behind them. There were probably closer to fifty people out in the street now, and a good twenty of them had lined up to talk to the widow. To offer their condolences and make it clear that they cared, even if the jury hadn’t cared nearly enough.
“Somebody should tell them it was your loss, too,” Raymond whispered to Mrs. G.
“Absolutely not,” she whispered back. “This is Isabel’s moment. You let her have it. This has nothing to do with anyone but Luis’s widow and his children. I’m glad to know so many people care, too, but today is not about me.”
An hour into the party, the band changed. The steel drums were replaced by a four-piece band with a vocalist, who played modern pop songs and asked for requests before each one.
“Something slow!” Isabel called out.
Then she handed the baby to her eleven-year-old daughter, Maria Elena, and reached a hand out to Esteban.
“Esteban likes to slow dance,” she said.
Mother and son rose hand in hand and joined three other couples who danced together in the middle of the street.
Esteban’s head only came up a little higher than Isabel’s waist, but they looked sweet together in spite of that. Or maybe because of it. Raymond noticed that several of the people watching took photos of them with their cell phones.
“Oh,” Raymond said suddenly. Seized with a sudden thought. He held a hand out to Mrs. G. “Would you care to dance?”
“I would be delighted,” she said.
She had downed two half-full cups of beer on top of her one hot dog and half a hamburger. Somehow the combination of food and drink seemed to have done wonders for her mood.
He rose, and took her hand, and led her out into the street.
“I should warn you,” he said, “I’m a terrible dancer.”
“I hardly think it matters. You will be the best dancer I’ve had as a partner in nearly twenty years. You can’t lose.”
She placed her left arm at his waist, and took his hand with her right. They stood with a good foot of air between them. Raymond tried, pathetically, to lead.
“Sorry,” he said in a moment when he had missed the beat badly.