Chapter 5 #3
He lowered his gaze then and picked up his fork. His movements careful and slow as though he was figuring out how to answer my question. As he fiddled with his food, I wondered just how much it meant for Patrice to be sharing all this with me. “No. My father helped us.”
“Oh,” I said quietly, unsure how to respond.
The way he said “father” made me think there was a lot more to that story. I waited to see if he was going to say something else, but then he scooped up some of the couscous and took a bite.
I guess we were done talking.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. I glanced at Patrice every few seconds, observing him.
He moved like a prince. His back straight, those big hands holding the flatware delicately, placing small bites of food in his mouth and chewing slowly and deliberately.
There was nothing that, in my eyes, Patrice Denis couldn’t turn into an erotic experience.
“This is really good. Thank you,” he said with appreciation.
“Anytime. Seriously, I always make too much and I’m not a fan of leftovers. I end up just throwing stuff out.” I smiled at him. “Now I’ll know what to do when I make too much.”
He lifted a shoulder and went in for another bite.
“It’s nice to not have to eat alone. That’s one of the things I’ll miss about having roommates.
I like my space, but living with Nesto all those years, I got used to sitting around a table.
” There was a real wistfulness in his face and I wondered how much he was missing New York City.
“Do you miss the city?”
Another shrug. “I do, but having Nesto here is great.” He picked up the napkin and wiped his mouth. “And living in New York City on a graduate stipend isn’t the easiest. So the job and better income goes a long way in helping with the homesickness.”
I nodded, not sure what to say. No matter how much I tried to claim some independence and step out on my own, I always had a pretty massive safety net.
Going to Buffalo instead of letting my parents pay for me to get into Cornell was more symbolic than anything.
I still had full access to my trust fund, if I ever decided I wanted to stop working.
I was still thinking about what to say when he smiled at me. “Besides, it’s not too bad in Ithaca.” He paused then, and the smile evaporated from his lips. “For now, at least.” He looked like he wanted to say more. Instead, he grabbed his glass and took a long drink.
I wondered if he was thinking about the stops. If he wanted to say something, but wasn’t, because of how I might react. I wanted to know though. I wanted to hear his thoughts on how this was being handled.
I knew I was probably playing with fire, but I asked anyway.
“I saw your tweet about the traffic stops.”
He put his glass down as I said that; his attention fully on me and I could almost see his hackles go up.
“You mean the sheriff’s department’s practice of stopping young men for essentially driving while black?”
There was not much I could say to that, other than agree.
“You’re right. It’s a problem.” I wanted to say more, tell him I was feeling like my hands were tied. That I thought we were not doing enough to address the incidents that had already happened and nothing to prevent new ones.
Patrice’s face turned thunderous, like he couldn’t believe this was my explanation. He put down his fork and pushed his plate forward, half of the food still on the plate.
“If you know it’s a problem then why hasn’t the DA’s office made a public statement?
Why has there not been a single word on this in the media?
Because so far, it’s just been black and brown boys getting hassled a little bit, and that doesn’t even escalate to the level where anyone in law enforcement even deems to talk about it? ”
He looked disgusted and it took everything I had not to get defensive. To start parroting out excuses.
Patrice’s words brought home once again that we weren’t doing nearly enough. I pushed my plate away, practically squirming under Patrice’s stare. I debated with what to say next. There were so many ways I could go here, but I would not bullshit him on this.
“Honestly, I’m out of my depth here.”
Patrice looked at me like he was trying to figure me out.
“No one’s saying dealing with any of this is easy, but acting helpless or acting like it’s out of your hands is not a good look. It’s irresponsible.”
I ran a hand over my face and sighed again.
“I’m realizing I know a lot less about dealing with this situation than I thought I did.
” I let out a tired laugh at that. “I’m not even sure why I would think I was equipped for any of it.
It’s not like I’ve had to deal with this particular issue before. ”
Patrice raised an eyebrow, but he was not giving me anything.
As I started coming up with a response, things became clearer for me, too.
“Domestic violence, sexual assault…those are black and white things. It’s not hard to go on a righteous rant about someone hurting their loved ones.
As far as I’m concerned anyone who’s out there defending rapists can fuck right off.
With this, every step of the way I feel like I am fucking it up, or worse, trying to get people I thought shared my views to admit that there’s even an issue. ”
Patrice looked at me for a few moments as if calculating what I wasn’t saying, but when he spoke the understanding in his voice felt like grace I didn’t deserve. “Not ignoring it, letting the public know you’re addressing it, is a first step.”
I made a noise between resignation and frustration.
“I’m going to talk to Sheriff Day. I’m not anywhere near done with this.” I sounded more sure than I felt and Patrice looked like he was reading right through me.
“So are you going to ask him to hold the deputies pulling that shit accountable?”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
Patrice just picked up his fork and kept eating.
After a minute, he spoke again. “I’m glad you’re talking to the sheriff but, I’m just going to give you this to think about, and then I’d like to get off this topic.
It’s never been ‘a couple of bad apples’ issue, it’s a systemic issue.
Removing one or two guys may be a temporary solution or appease a few people, but’s it’s not what will fix things in the long run.
That fix involves a lot more discomfort and painful conversations than getting the two guys who can’t keep their shit in check in trouble. ”
He was right and yet I knew that it was probably as much as I would get from Day. It was hard to hear, and even harder to acknowledge, that the best solution I could come up with was not going to fix anything.
“I don’t want to fuck this up or make it worse by trying to help.”
Patrice stared at me so intensely, like he was trying to figure out what I was about.
If I could really be trusted. “This sort of thing always gets to a place where you need to pick a side.” He laughed humorlessly as he played with the stem of the wineglass.
“And the side I’m on, the one you have to pick if you’re going to really make a change here—it doesn’t get a lot of wins. ”
I groaned feeling that truth sink into my bones like lead.
He raised his gaze from the table up to me, his eyes less hard now. “I’m glad you’re not acting like you have an easy fix for this, or that you even have any answers.”
“Thank you for saying that, and for understanding. I can’t imagine how frustrating this all must be for you.” This time his lips turned up, and it was almost a smile.
“Frustrating is a mild way to put it, but again, hearing you say that you get none of this is simple helps.”
I kind of marveled at the fact that we were able to talk like this. That he wasn’t making demands or ultimatums. Before I knew it, I was blurting it out.
“Why aren’t you pissed at me right now?”
He really took his time on that and I found that I wasn’t nervous about his answer; we’d somehow reached a place where we seemed to be on the same page.
“If changing things was up to just you, up to any one of us, I would not be sitting here. I’d be fixing it.” He let that last part sit there between us; what else was there to say?
After a moment, he glanced around the room, his eyes landing on my enormous wine rack, which was mostly filled with bottles from my family’s vineyard. “Are you going to the Fall Wine Festival this weekend?”
I almost got whiplash from that sudden shift in conversation, but I went with it.
I’d promised my mother I’d take her for a little bit, since she felt compelled to attend any event Archer Vineyards—my family’s business—was sponsoring.
She had no interest in the business—never had—and my father barely let her in on anything going on.
But he did require that she make an appearance and perform her duties as the Mistress Archer, and I usually let her drag me along when I could.
I sighed and looked over at Patrice, who was still waiting for my answer.
“I will probably stop by. I always go with my mom for a little bit. Are you going?”
He looked like he wanted to ask something, but after a moment, he took a sip of champagne and shook his head.
“No, I’m driving down to the city tomorrow.
My mom always makes this traditional Haitian dish called soup Joumou this time of year to mark the start of the Holiday season.
Soup Joumou is traditionally made on New Year’s Day to celebrate Haitian Independence Day, but at some point in college, my mom started making it in the fall. All the guys and their families go.”
I assumed by guys he meant his three best friends, Nesto, Camilo, and Juan Pablo. They’d all grown up together in the Bronx and now Patrice and Nesto had coincidentally ended up here, but the other two were still in New York City.
I looked over at him and smiled, noticing that his expression lightened just from the mention of his friends. “Sounds like fun. Are you staying for the whole weekend?”