Sorrow's Anthem

CHAPTER 13

Clark Rec had been a special place to me as a kid. Even then, it had been a relic from another time, but that was what made it special. There’s an indoor pool, which is damn exciting to a Cleveland kid during the winter, but it isn’t the stainless-steel tank and glaring light of your modern YMCA pool. It’s a narrow lap pool, the floors tile and the walls painted with murals, everything lit with a sort of mellow aquamarine glow, skylights filtering in some natural light from above. I learned how to swim there, and, when no adults were looking, how to do one hell of a cannonball.

There’s a basketball court, too, and it seems like a cage in a way, the court sunken and bordered closely on every side by stone walls. There aren’t any bleachers for spectators alongside the court, but a balcony rims it, and that’s where you’d sit if you wanted to watch, looking down on the action. CLARK WARRIORS is painted across the side of the balcony, a nickname that probably used to apply to the rec league team, even though I always connected it to West Tech High School’s Warriors when I was a kid. I learned to shoot in that time warp of a gym, learned how to watch the offensive player’s midsection to avoid being faked out on defense, how to box out for a rebound, run the fast break.

Out in front of the court is a room filled with picnic tables and games like air hockey and Ping-Pong. This is the room I entered from the street when I came from my talk with Jeff Franklin. Kids were coloring with crayons and construction paper at one of the picnic tables, a trim black woman standing over them. I moved left, looking for a less occupied adult, and then I couldn’t resist walking down to peek in at the old pool. Brightly colored fish were painted on the walls now, along with two signs declaring that it was illegal to carry a firearm into the building. There was also a photograph of a young girl, the word MISSING written above her head in bold, black font. I took a deep breath of the chlorine-scented air, shook my head, and walked back into the front room.

It was surprisingly quiet. Maybe a dozen kids were huddled around the tables, but there wasn’t the jumble of voices and loud laughter that you usually hear when kids are gathered together. The black woman was kneeling beside one of the children, a girl of maybe eight who had tears on her cheeks. The woman whispered soothingly to her, and the girl nodded and sniffed. She had long brown braids and big eyes and she looked tired. There’d probably been some sort of an argument or fight between the kids. The woman had probably responded to it by ordering a silent period. That would explain the odd quiet in the room.

Killing time till the woman was available, I walked over to the table and stood a few feet behind the group, glanced over the shoulders of the kids, at their artwork. What I saw made me raise my eyebrows and step closer. One of the girls had drawn a group of people with frowns and big blue teardrops on their faces. A child’s rendition of anguished, grieving people. Above that group she’d drawn clouds, a woman hovering in them, a halo on her head. The boy beside her was working with a pencil instead of crayons, and he had some real artistic ability, more talent at nine or ten than most adults would ever have. His sketch was of a graveyard. A cluster of small headstones surrounded a larger monument. All of the stones were drawn with hard, dark lines, the earth beneath them and the sky above them shaded a light gray. The only color on the page was on the petals of the few flowers he’d drawn near the large monument, their bright hues standing out stark against the black and gray background. It was a hell of a good picture for a child of that age, and I was captivated by him as he worked, handling the pencil so naturally and confidently. He’d probably never had any formal training.

I looked back and forth at the two pictures, then at the weeping girl at the far end of the table. The room was as silent as the empty gym I’d been in a moment earlier. The black woman finally spotted me, whispered a few final words in the girl’s ear, then walked around the table to talk with me. Her nametag identified her as Stacey, and her face was about as cheerful as the artwork on the table.

“Welcome to Clark Rec,” she said in a low whisper. “What can we do for you?”

I forced a smile, which felt out of place in the room. “I used to spend a lot of time here, growing up.”

“A nostalgia visit then?” she said, no return smile.

“An unintended one,” I admitted. “But the real reason I’m here is to ask about a guy named Mitch Corbett. I heard he does some volunteer work around here.”

“That’s right.” She was looking with concern at the girl she’d just left, who was now wiping at her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Mitch is a big help with the basketball leagues. Has been for years. These kids would tell you he’s also the best air hockey player in the world.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Her expression immediately became alarmed. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing’s happened. I’m a private investigator, and Mitch Corbett might have some background information that could help me in a case. I’ve been hoping to catch up with him, but I haven’t had any luck.”

She folded her arms across her chest and took a step back. “I see. Well, I don’t know what to tell you. He isn’t scheduled to he here until next weekend.”

“When did he work last?”

“Saturday.”

Saturday was four days ago, before the fire on Train Avenue.

“So that was the last time you saw him?” I asked.

“Yes. Are you being honest, sir? Are you sure nothing’s happened to Mitch?”

“I don’t know of anything that has,” I said, which was as honest as I could be.

“Thank goodness.” She laid her hand over her chest. “The last thing I want to have to tell these children is that something happened to Mitch.”

I nodded my head in the direction of the picnic table. “It’s none of my business, but the mood over there looks pretty somber. So does the artwork.”

“It’s a sad day. The children just found out they lost a friend. I had to tell them about it. I suggested they draw some pictures to express how they feel. It’s good for them to have a way to release what they’re feeling. At this age, they sometimes do that better through pictures than they do verbally.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But the picture idea sounds like a good one.”

“They seem very involved with it.”

I was looking at the girl with the brown braids. She had finally picked up a crayon and returned to her picture. Her lower lip was pinched between her teeth as she steeled herself against further tears.

“Was the child who died especially close to the girl you were talking with?”

Stacey shook her head. “Lily has a family situation to deal with, as well. I think she just got overwhelmed by it all today. And the friend wasn’t a child.”

“No?”

“No. It was an adult. You might have heard about it on the news. The poor woman who was killed in the fire?”

I stared at her. She watched me with raised eyebrows.

“Have you heard about that?” she asked.

“Anita Sentalar? The woman who died in a house fire on Train Avenue?”

“Yes. It was awful, wasn’t it?”

I looked away from her, back at the kids and their pictures. “Anita Sentalar worked here?”

“No. But she came by one day last week and spent an afternoon with the kids. She was very sweet. They all loved her. She was supposed to come back today. That’s why I had to tell them.”

“Why was she here?”

“Well, actually, Mitch brought her by. The kids love Mitch. He’s always around. That’s why you scared me so much when you asked about him. I couldn’t bear to have to tell them something had happened to Mitch, too.”

In the pauses of our conversation, I could actually hear the squeak of crayons and pencils on paper. It was that quiet.

“Do you know why Anita Sentalar was with Mitch Corbett?” I said. “Were they a romantic couple?”

She shook her head. “I’m fairly certain they weren’t. He said he was showing her the neighborhood.”

“Showing her the neighborhood,” I echoed.

“Staaaacey.” A long whisper, this from the girl with the brown braids.

Stacey started back around the table and motioned for me to follow. The girl with the braids asked if she could go to the bathroom. Her face was flushed and streaked with dried tears. Stacey told her she could go. When the girl left, we stood at the edge of the table where she’d been seated. I looked down at her picture. This one was perhaps the most disturbing yet. It showed a tall house with almost a dozen windows, carefully drawn, gleaming with bright colors. At the top of the house, though, a ragged black hole had been drawn in the roof, orange flames around it.

I frowned and pointed at it. “You told the kids how Anita Sentalar died?”

Stacey shook her head. “No. I thought it was a bit too scary for them. I’ll leave details like that up to the parents. I just said she was dead, and that we should all be grateful we got to spend a day with her.”

“Then how’d this girl know to draw a fire?”

“Like I said before, Lily has had a family crisis this week. They were all set to move into a new house by the end of the month. She was so excited. Then their house burned down.”

“It wasn’t the house on Train Avenue?”

“No. It was right here on Clark. Just a block down the street, actually. But it was one of Anita’s houses.”

“Pardon?”

Stacey held up a finger, indicating that she wanted me to wait, then walked across the room to a rack on the wall that held a collection of papers and brochures. Enrollment forms for various rec center leagues and activities, that sort of thing. She selected a brochure, crossed the room again, and handed it to me.

The front page of the trifold brochure showed two pictures of the same house. The photograph on top was of a crumbling building with faded paint and broken windows. The lower photograph showed a shining home, fresh paint, new glass, completely restored. THE NEIGHBORHOOD ALLIANCE it read. RESTORING PRIDE TO THE WEST SIDE.

“There’s a picture of her on the inside,” she said.

I opened the brochure and saw a few more before-and-after pictures of houses, and a small block of text explaining that the Neighborhood Alliance was a Cleveland community effort to improve housing options on the near west side with the aid of federal funding. Run-down houses were being restored and then sold to low-income buyers with the assistance of federally insured mortgages. There was no picture of a woman, though.

Stacey was leaning over my shoulder. “Maybe it’s on the back.”

I closed the brochure and turned it over and stared at a small headshot of Anita Sentalar. The picture was familiar—it was the same shot that had been on the front page of the newspaper the day Sentalar’s body was pulled from the ruins of the house on Train Avenue. Beneath the photograph was a caption labeling her the director of the Neighborhood Alliance.

“This is why Corbett was showing her the neighborhood,” I said. “Because she was involved with the urban renewal project?”

“Yes.”

“And Corbett’s working on the houses,” I said, remembering the Neighborhood Alliance sign outside the house where I’d found Jeff Franklin.

“Is he?”

“Yes.” I was still staring at Sentalar’s picture, thinking about her in this building with Mitch Corbett just a few days before she’d died.

“The fire on Clark Avenue burned one of this group’s houses down?” I said.

“That’s right. Lily’s family was working out the purchase details. They’ve never had a house before, always small apartments, and there are four kids. They were so excited. It broke my heart to hear what happened, but Anita promised them she would make arrangements for them to buy another house. That’s why Lily was extra-sad to hear Anita was dead. I’m afraid she thinks her family’s house died with her.”

The girl came back then, still long-faced, and pulled to a stop in front of us.

“Who’s this?” she asked Stacey, pointing at me.

“He’s Mitch’s friend,” Stacey answered.

The girl swiveled her head to face me.“Our friend died,” she said.

I knelt next to the table, bringing myself down to her level. “I’m very sorry to hear that. I know how sad that must make you. One of my friends just died, too. It’s tough.”

“How’d he die?” she asked, a child’s blunt curiosity getting the best of her.

“He got hit by a car,” I said, and then for some reason added, “It was right on this street. I’m still sad about it, so I know how you feel today.”

“I’m sorry. You have to be careful crossing streets.”

I nodded. “Look both ways, right?”

“Right.” She climbed back onto the bench seat and picked up a crayon. I straightened up, then noticed that Stacey was staring at me.

“Your friend was killed on Clark?”

“Yes.”

“Ed Gradduk?”

“Yes.”

Anger flooded her face. “Don’t you know? He’s the one—”

“Who’s innocent,” I finished for her. “Yes, I do know that. And I think you might have helped me start proving it.”