Invasion of Privacy

cannot hear you.”
    He punched his own voice above the rapper’s. “I said there’s a man here to see you.”
    “One minute.”
    I smiled politely at Jamey Robinette, but evidently he didn’t think that merited an invitation to enter.
    Ten seconds later a woman came to the door. About five-seven and slightly overweight, it was as though she were hoarding a dozen extra pounds in case her son decided he could use them. She wore aquamarine pants and a white blouse with a small scarf tied under the collar, like a cowboy’s bandanna. Her skin was a few shades lighter than Jamey’s, and you could see where he got his features. But her most striking aspect was the hair, almost an orange, yet somehow not unnatural.
    “Yes? Can I help you with something?”
    Reduced to a conversational level, her voice had a lilt and accent to it, maybe Caribbean , as Lana Stepanian had ventured. I introduced myself and showed her my identification.
    She looked up from the holder. “What is this about?”
    “I’m representing a condominium complex that’s thinking of retaining the Hendrix company as its manager, and I wondered if I could ask you a few questions about how you’ve found their services here?”
    A very slight flaring of her nostrils without taking a breath. “Yes. Yes, I believe I can do that. Please, come in.” I followed her, Jamey closing the door behind us. As we got to the now-familiar first-floor layout, he said, “So, Mom, okay if I disappear for a while?”
    “If you turn off that music first.”
    Jamey went by her, an affectionate hand on her shoulder. At the home entertainment center, he toggled a key, and the rapper stopped in mid-syllable. Over the shoulder again with, “You want something soothing?”
    “No, thank you.”
    Jamey turned to me. “Drink, maybe? We got iced tea and Coke that I know of.”
    “Iced tea would be great, thanks.”
    “Mom?”
    “Coke, please.”
    When Jamey moved toward the kitchen, I could see a rubber Halloween mask lying near the sound system. Pretty good likeness of the actor Tom Cruise.
    Mrs. Robinette noticed me looking at the mask. “For a party at his school.”
    I nodded.
    She said, “One of his Jewish friends is going as Denzel Washington.” Then a parental shrug, like a silent “Who can understand these kids today?”
    I shrugged back.
    Mrs. Robinette motioned me toward one of two tweedy chairs that matched a couch, she taking the middle of it. A dining room set bought for a larger space stood in front of the sliding glass doors, but I didn’t see any furniture on their deck. Bookcases held a couple of framed photos showing a younger version of Mrs. Robinette with a broad-shouldered, dark-skinned black man. One was a casual candid, the other a posed portrait from some formal occasion. Between them was a triptych of photos showing Jamey at roughly five-year intervals from ages three to thirteen or so. I looked back at the broad-shouldered man. “My husband.”
    I nodded.
    She said, “He died, some years ago.”
    I turned to her. “My wife too. I’m sorry.”
    The beginning of a nod from Mrs. Robinette, a pause, then the continuation of it as Jamey brought us our drinks and went toward the front door with the words, “Back for dinner, don’t worry.”
    “Your jacket.”
    “It’s hot out, Mom.”
    “Then just take it, even if you will not wear it.”
    “Okay, okay.”
    I could hear a closet open and close before the front door did the same.
    Lifting my glass, I said, “From the little I know about it, I’d say you’ve done a pretty fair job raising Jamey on your own.”
    That slight flaring of the nostrils again. “You did not have any children, then?”
    The iced tea was laced with lemon and just enough sugar. “No.”
    “They make a difference.” She regarded me a bit differently. “Since you know I am still alone, I assume you have been talking to some of my neighbors.”
    Sharp lady. “Yes.” Putting my glass down, I took out one of the forms. “I’ll be writing your responses on a copy here, but it’s sometimes helpful to have the questions in front of you too. I can assure you that all your responses will remain confidential with me.”
    Robinette looked up from her form. “Go ahead.”
    “FULL NAME?”
    “Robinette, Tángela.”
    “T-A-N-G-E-L-A?”
    A sip of her coke. “That is correct. My father was from Jamaica , and when he saw my hair, he said, ‘Why, she looks just like a tangerine.’ ”
    “You were born in