Page 54 of The Five Year Lie

Before I can climb the three steps to knock on the door, a man appears around the side of the building. He’s Black, wearing a Hawaiian-style shirt and creased khaki trousers. And he gives us a wide smile. “Hello, friends,” he says. “Can I help you?”

“We’re looking for Mr. Ossman,” Larri says. “Would that be you?”

“Thatisme.” He spreads his hands in a gentle way. “Come around back, ladies. I will pour some tea, and you can explain your business.”

Larri squeezes my hand and nudges me toward the backyard. And I follow the man who might have known the real Drew.

18

The backyard is a little urban oasis, with a modest patch of grass. But much of the space is given over to a patio with a metal table and four chairs. There’s a shiny library book on the table, plus a teapot, steam rising gently from its spout.

“Let me just get two more cups,” he says in a lilting accent that I can’t quite place. He starts for the back door.

“Oh, don’t go to any trouble,” I say quickly.

He laughs, ducking inside anyway. When he returns with two more mugs, he gives me another big smile. “That is almost like a Somali refusal,” he says. “We refuse the tea twice, though, and accept on the third offering. Or you can save me the time and just have a seat.”

Larri chooses a chair and plops right down. I take the seat beside her, and Mr. Ossman begins to pour.

The tea smells spicy. “Is that cardamom?” Larri asks, sniffing the air.

“Good nose,” he says. “Also ginger, cinnamon and cloves. Here you go.” He places a cup in front of her. “Now tell me how I can help you.”

It’s time for my command performance. I take a breath and hope that my expression is as innocent as Larri claims. “I’m here about Ernie from across the street. I met him once. And I recently learned that he passed away. I wanted to pay my respects, but I don’t know where he’s buried.”

“Ah.” His dark eyes drop to his mug. “That was a sad business, the kind of thing you never quite forget. I still miss him.”

“He was a lovely man,” I say, and the sour feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me that I’m the worst kind of fraud.

“How did you know Ernie?” the man asks.

Larri raises her eyes to me. She doesn’t smile, but I know her well enough to feel her amusement. She’s wondering how the hell I’m going to answer the question.

I consider who this man was to Drew, and my lie forms easily. “I was studying social work in college. And I had an externship—just a couple of weeks—with the county social workers’ office. I met Ernie at a meeting, and he taught me more than any of the social workers I met there.”

Mr. Ossman tilts his head to the side, as if allowing himself a memory. “That sounds like Ernie. He had so much wisdom, and a big heart. He brought up many difficult boys in that house. Not all of them made it. I know of one who is in jail. But they all got a real chance with him.”

I nod slowly, as if in agreement. “Can you tell me what happened? The newspaper article was short on details.”

His eyes drop. “The paper did notlistento the things we told them after Ernie died. Nobody listened. There was trouble with the police, and it ruined the block for me. I don’t trust people like I used to.”

“I’m so sorry.” It’s hard to get the words out, because I’m sitting here lying to him, too. So I take a sip of the tea and let him keep talking.

“Ernie filed a complaint against a policeman. For harassment. That is how it started.”

“Oh no,” Larri says softly. “What kind of harassment?”

Mr. Ossman waves a hand in the direction of Ernie’s house. “Those boys they placed with him—they were difficult. There were incidents—shoplifting, vandalism. One boy—Omar—he was a tough case. Ernie used to say that all his new wrinkles were from Omar. But they were really from hiking in the sunshine.”

He smiles to himself before continuing. “The year before he died, he had his hands full. For the first time in twenty years, they placed a girl in his home. Amina. She was sixteen. He said—Ossman, I don’t know how to raise a girl. Send help.”

He laughs, so we laugh, too.

“But Amina was a good girl. Quiet. I thought maybe they sent her because Ernie was getting older, and the social workers thought he deserved a break, you know? And Omar ran wild. One of the police—he had a lot of hate inside him. Lowden has changed a lot in twenty years.”

He pats his chest. “I was one of the first Somalis to come, twenty years ago now. I was new to America. It was winter, and they put me in this apartment with another family.” He points at the first floor of his house. “Ten years ago I bought the whole building. But back then I was a scared young man in a strange place. I was the only one in our group who had some English, but it didn’t help much. I didn’t know how to dress for the cold, and we did not even know how to light the stove in the kitchen. It was Ernie who knocked on the door our second day here. He brought a vegetable casserole—because he said he didn’t know what we liked to eat. And he showed me how to use the burners on the stove, so I could make my first pot of tea.” He looks down at the mug in his hands and swallows hard.

Neither Larri nor I so much as breathe while he masters himself.