Say Nice Things About Detroit Read Free Page A

Mom,” the boy said. She was reminded of the Bluetooth, that the boy could hear everything.
    â€œHow’s camp?”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œDoing anything special?” She waited for the reply, but the call had been dropped. This was how it was in the cell age; so many conversations ended without a goodbye.
    â€¢ • •
    B ACK IN THE kitchen, her mother was still sitting at the table in her bathrobe, making no attempt to get up or even read the paper. Carolyn asked her if she wanted to go for a drive.
    â€œNo, but you go. I’ll be fine.”
    â€œIt would do you good to get out,” Carolyn said.
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    Carolyn considered whether to counter this challenge and decided against it. She could pretend her mother was always right until she went home to California.
    The day was bleached white, a high, bright cloud layer seeming to make everything fuzzy. The rental car was a Mazda—unfathomable in the old days, a rental agency in Detroit renting a Japanese model—and she drove it down Telegraph. Her knowledge of the area had faded; she’d left at eighteen for good. She decided to go to Hancock Street to see the place where her brother and sister died. She thought she might be able to move on better if she could see the spot. She hadn’t seen Natalie in almost two years, not since she and Marty had bought Natalie a plane ticket to L.A. On that trip they’d promised to stay in better touch, but it hadn’t happened. Carolyn should have made more effort, and now she wouldn’t get the chance.
    She crossed Maple, past the old Machus Red Fox, a different restaurant now but still the same building, a kind of memorial to Jimmy Hoffa. His disappearance was part of her history, another big milestone along the route of Detroit’s demise. Close to 12 Mile she exited Telegraph to the right—the car dealers were still here, though now you could buy a Nissan or Toyota, Saab or Volvo, and no one would shout at you or take a sledgehammer to the vehicle while you waited at a red light—and then followed the entrance ramp, first right and then left as the road curved south and east into the city. She felt conscious of her breathing, deep and a little rapid, as she was driving seventy-two in the right-hand lane, past the retaining walls, shredded tires, and trash, a splintered crib, on the shoulder. The seat beside her held a copy of the police report and a MapQuest printout. She flicked down the automatic door locks and drove on.
    She took the Lodge too far, then, realizing it, exited by the river, turning on a street called Randolph, then Gratiot. Soon she was skirting around the new Ford Field and Comerica Park (no more Tiger Stadium in Detroit). She headed back west to Woodward, then Hancock, the street on the report. Not much beauty here, but nothing sinister, just old and empty buildings under the drab sky, a sheet of newspaper cartwheeling down the street, crabgrass growing out of the sidewalks, not a person on them, an empty city street on a completely normal day.
    She approached Cass and the parking lot near the murder spot. Police lights flashed red and blue behind her. She eased the car to the right with two hands on the wheel, ten o’clock and two o’clock, just as she’d been taught as a teenager. The cruiser pulled in behind her.
    The cop and his partner sat in their car a long time; she waited, wondering what she’d done wrong. She hadn’t been speeding; she was sure of that. She had her license, assumed the registration and proof of insurance were in the glovebox. A second police car pulled up. The first policeman got out, walked to her window, and asked for her license, registration, and proof of insurance.
    He studied the California license for a long time.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” he asked finally. He was a large, middle-aged man with a bit of a paunch, evident as he stood at her window. His skin was