Evicted_ Poverty and Profit in the American City - Matthew Desmond Page 0,62

good. There’s a lot of money there.”

—

Quentin pulled the truck onto a dark and deserted street. There was one more stop to make: Terri on Cherry Street. This was Sherrena’s most far-flung property, located on the West Side of Milwaukee, near Washington Park and a fifteen-minute walk to the colossal Miller Brewery. Sherrena pounded on Terri’s door, loud the first time and even louder the second. The porch light flicked on and shone down on Sherrena. She was in the fur-lined Coach boots with matching purse she had bought in Jamaica.

“Who’s that?” a gruff voice barked.

“It’s the landlord.”

“Oh,” the voice said, resigned.

“That’s right,” Sherrena whispered to herself as the locks came undone.

Inside, the house was warm and smelled of dinner fried in grease. A single, small lamp was on, stingy with its light and leaving parts of the room veiled in shadow. Sherrena found Terri in the company of some elderly kin and older children. Terri was a plump and pretty woman, with dark skin, long braids, and an empty stare. She was mentally slow and received SSI for her condition. Her boyfriend, who had answered the door—Antoine, a bony man with slicked-back hair—leaned against the wall, just beyond the edge of the light.

“Um, what’s going on?” Sherrena asked Terri.

“I ain’t got any money with me and—” Terri’s voice trailed off.

Sherrena leaned over Terri with her hands on her hips. “Terri,” she began, using her stern-teacher voice.

“I know.”

“Just give me the money….I’ll give you a receipt.”

A moment passed, then Terri said, “All right,” and reached into her pocket. Seeing this, several of the older children left the room.

Sherrena accepted a thick roll of cash. “Who did your hair?” she asked, reaching out and spinning one of Terri’s braids. “You like her hair, Antoine?”

Antoine was bringing a cigarette to his mouth. The lighter’s flame momentarily brought his face out of the darkness. It was a face creased with humiliation.

Lifting herself into the Suburban, Sherrena said to Quentin, “We got fourteen—fourteen hundred….Why I can’t get rid of her.” Terri rented a four-bedroom apartment for $725 a month. She still owed $350 plus a late fee but said she’d have the rest of the money tomorrow.

“Well, all right!” Quentin congratulated his wife.

Sherrena felt accomplished if unsurprised. On multiple occasions she had taken a tenant’s entire paycheck. Once, a young mother had offered Sherrena her debit card.

—

On Eighteenth and Wright, Mikey was trying to do his homework at the kitchen table. Math. He wasn’t confused, just distracted. There was so much noise. Ruby, who could fly through her homework before the bus pulled up to their stop, was practicing the Stanky Legg in front of the television. Patrice’s middle child, Jada, was banging on different things with an empty Mountain Dew bottle. And Natasha was trying to comb Kayla Mae’s hair, typically a three-hour war.

Natasha’s belly was growing. The ultrasound had revealed only one baby, a bigheaded boy, just as Doreen had guessed.

Doreen and Patrice sat around the table, opposite from Mikey, and debated what to do about Sherrena’s eviction notice. Doreen had had no luck finding another apartment. When she called one number listed in the RedBook, she heard a recorded message that listed prequalifications: “No evictions in the last three years. No money owing to a landlord. No criminal arrests in the last three years.” Even though Doreen had withheld her rent after the incident with the plumber, they didn’t expect Sherrena to start the court process so quickly. Patrice thought it was Social Worker Tabatha’s fault. When Doreen told Patrice the reason Sherrena had given for the plumbing being neglected—Quentin had lent someone his truck for a month—Patrice rolled her eyes. “You’re in Jamaica,” she said, “and we can’t even take baths….All that money they got, she sound dumb. If I believe that, then slap me dead.” Her hand fell hard on the kitchen table, and Mikey’s head snapped up from his math problems.

Mikey took his papers to Jada and Kayla Mae’s mattress. Before he got back to work, he pulled out a small American flag from its special hiding spot. His teacher had handed the flags out the day Obama was inaugurated. Before that, the North Side had been covered in political posters, those dark-blue signs planted firmly in lawns, taped to cracked windows, tacked up in people’s bedrooms, and lining littered sidewalks. Wright Street had erupted in cheers the night Obama won. Neighbors had unbolted their doors and stepped out on their porches just to look at one another.