A Long Time Comin'

by Robin W. Pearson

  But I know different. And you know different, too. I know you know because of who you are today. You’ve made it. By your estimation you found you a nice man, built a beautiful home, and raised four good children. While all praise got to go to God who made you, some of those crumbs got to fall on my table.

  No, I didn’t coddle you. I didn’t say, “There, there, that’s all right” when you broke something or made a mess. I let you know how the world really works. I gave you something you could take in and pass on. That’s what He charged me to do. It’s what my mam didn’t do enough of for me, and it hurt me in the long run. If you look deep in yourself, you’ll see I’m right, and one day you’ll appreciate it.

  Well, Elisabeth, that’s it. This girl says I need to end this properly, so I will tell you I’m proud of you, and yes, I love you. I think you’ve done right smart by yourself. I don’t see why people need to waste time sitting around getting paid to watch other people sitting around. But you’ve done good, and I’m happy for you. Let that be some comfort for you, if you need it. I trust you to let me handle my own business. I think I’ve done fine for myself by myself for a while now. Let it be.

  Your mama

  Lis stroked Hattie Mae, who now sported hair extensions that draped well past her shoulders. Hattie Mae’s knowing eyes still looked out at crazy angles, and her mouth was still a wide, straight line, but she wore an updated dress and shoes, and she had a whole wardrobe to choose from. Her hair still drank in all of Lis’s tears—the ones that fell when her husband died and the bitter ones she shed now, as the three pages ripped from the envelope slowly drifted to the floor, one by one.

  Chapter Twelve

  EDMOND, AGE 11

  “Okay, Mary, when I say the word, you ask Booker for one of them squash, the ones he keep way in the back. And just in case he moved them to the front, you pick somethin’ else. Just make sho’ whatever you pick is way in the back of the truck.”

  Four-year-old Mary nodded, her eyes big. She drew eighteen-month-old Sarah closer to her.

  Little Ed could tell Mary was too scared not to listen. He stroked the baby’s curls, playing the role of the kind, fun-loving big brother. He winked and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “And when you see Booker go up to get what it is you ask for, I want you to pinch Sarah—”

  “Pinch—?”

  “Shh! Not enough to hurt her. Just so she’ll scream and I’ll know it’s time. You got it?”

  Sarah must have heard him because she parted her lips as if she would scream right then and there.

  Little Ed clamped his hand over her mouth, nearly covering her entire face.

  “No!” When her eyes welled up, he rubbed her hair and smiled. Then he softened his tone. “No, baby girl, not right now. Only scream when you see Booker go get that squash. Now, Mary gon’ be standin’ right there ’side you. She’ll let you know when it’s time. Okay?”

  Sarah rubbed her eyes and pouted.

  “Y’all ready?” He looked from one to the other. While the toddler stared at him with wide eyes as if she was counting his teeth every time he opened his mouth, her older sister hesitated just a bit before she nodded.

  “What is it, Mary?” Little Ed pretended to be patient, but he wanted to yell. Booker would be moving on to the next street soon.

  “Well . . .”

  “Well, what?” A bit of impatience oozed through his clenched teeth.

  “I’m gon’ ask Mr. Booker for the squash. And then Sarah gon’ scream . . .”

  “Okay . . . ?”

  “Where you gon’ be? Whatchyou gon’ be doin’?”

  “Don’t you worry none ’bout that. You just do yo’ job, okay? Now it’s an important job—prob’ly the most important.” He trained his eyes on Mary’s. “So I can count on you?”

  This time, she bobbed quickly.

  “Good. Let’s go.” He noted that Booker’s truck was idling by the Moore house. “Okay, you take Sarah here,” he directed Mary, “and walk up there natural-like, just like Mama sent y’all to get some veg’ables fo’ dinner.”

  Little Ed trotted off, looking back once to make sure Mary and Sarah were following his plan. By the time the girls got to Booker’s truck, Little Ed was peeking out from behind the big maple across from the Moores’ front yard. He saw the rusty truck pause in its slow trek up Carrot Lane as Mr. Booker waved to the girls in the big rearview mirror. Little Ed grinned when the driver’s door creaked open.

  “Hey there, Mary, little Sarah!”

  “Hi, Mr. Booker.”

  “Hi, Meestah Bookah,” Sarah echoed.

  “Y’all need somethin’?” He pushed his hat back on his head and smiled really big and friendly.

  “Well . . .” Mary glanced in the direction of Little Ed’s tree.

  Behind it, Little Ed wished she would speak up.

  “Your mama send y’all for some beans or . . . ?”

  “Squabs!” Sarah piped up, seemingly proud of her new word.

  “Squash?” Mr. Booker looked at Mary. At her barely perceptible nod, he let down the back door and climbed into the truck bed. He didn’t have to go too far. The squash sat in baskets right in front.

  From Little Ed’s lookout spot, everything was going according to plan. Or close enough.

  “How many?” Booker’s fingers tapped on the yellow squash without moving them.

  “Uh—” Mary said woodenly.

  “Your mama didn’t say how many she wanted? That don’t sound like Beatrice.”

  “Uh . . .”

  Sarah beamed. “Twenny hundwed!”

  Booker laughed. “Twenty hundred? How about a dozen?”

  While Sarah clapped her hands with excitement, Mary began to wail for real. Little Ed ran to the truck and grabbed two handfuls of the first things he saw: half a dozen glossy red apples. He snatched them up.

  But Booker seemed to be waiting for him. As he brushed by him, Little Ed noticed the farmer’s hands were empty, free of that yellow squash he was supposed to be counting out. Little Ed heard Booker mutter, “Excuse me” and the sound of pounding feet as he took off running. Little Ed winked at an openmouthed Sarah. Mary shut up in a hurry.

  His long thin legs carried him far and fast, but not farther or faster than Mr. Booker’s. Soon enough, the vendor snatched Little Ed’s dingy, white T-shirt. It gave somewhat, but the threads held long enough for Booker to wrap five of his long, thick fingers around Little Ed’s scrawny neck and drag him back.

  He banged on the door until Beatrice answered it, then related the details of Little Ed’s latest escapade, mercifully omitting the parts that Sarah and Mary had played. Booker shrugged off her gruff apology—which was more an acknowledgment of what a sorry so-and-so Little Ed was—and stomped back to his truck.

  Little Ed took one look into his mama’s face . . . and took off again. He didn’t expect her to tear off after him.

  She was eight months pregnant.

  But when he chanced a look back, there she was, on his heels. Little Ed deliberately slowed his pace. He didn’t want to get beat, but he didn’t want his mama to get hurt either. Strong, fast, devious—and considerate.

  In minutes she caught up with him and with a whop! sent him flying. “Do I got yo’ ’tention?” she hissed.

  “Yes, Mama,” he heaved.

  “And you got the nerve to ‘yes, Mama,’ me after what you done? Caught stealin’ from Booker’s truck. You know I got to see that man every week?”

  “Yes, Mama.” Little Ed knew it was better to give the wrong answers than give no answer at all.

  “I cain’t believe you!” Mama was hot as fish grease. Anger sizzled and popped from her. She took another swing.

  Little Ed ducked.

  Beatrice grabbed him by his shirtfront and brought him close enough he caught a nasty whiff of the grits and corned beef hash she’d had for breakfast.

  “What I tell you, Ed?”

  “Uh—”

  “What I tell you?” She shook hi
m with every word.

  “You said—”

  “I said you bet’ not get caught stealin’. You ever hear me say that?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But—”

  “No buts, Ed. You thank I’m gon’ have folks sayin’ I ain’t raisin’ nuthin’ but thieves out here?” Beatrice shoved him from her.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, you must, to let Booker catch you with yo’ hands wrapped ’round a half-dozen apples.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I-I-I mean, no, ma’am.”

  “Yes? No? Say what you mean, boy.”

  “I mean—”

  “You don’t mean nuthin’. And you’d have Booker thank you ain’t worth nuthin’.”

  “No, Mama. I just—”

  Beatrice shook her head. “Six apples. That what yo’ freedom worth?”

  This brought Little Ed up short. Up to now, he’d thought all he’d have to do was wait Mama out, let her have her say, maybe get whacked once or twice. What’s this about freedom?

  “Yes, boy. Yo’ freedom. You decided you just gon’ throw it away for some fruit. How you feel now? You feel like celebratin’?”

  “Whatchyou talkin’ ’bout, Mama?” Little Ed’s voice rose to a high-pitched squeak. “Booker gon’ turn me in? For some apples? I can make it up. I—”

  “How you gon’ make it up, Edmond? You gon’ give him some money you done stole from somebody else? You gon’ give him back the apples you dropped in the dirt when Booker dragged yo’ ragtail behind back to the house? They ain’t nuthin’ you gon’ do ’cause they ain’t nuthin’ you can do to make it better. Maybe you learn somethin’ at that trade school they got for boys like you.”

  “For some apples? They wan’t nuthin’ but apples!” Little Ed grabbed his mother by her hands. His eyes pleaded with her. “Mama. Them apples didn’t cost more’n a few cents. If Booker gon’ let it go, why you gon’ turn me in?”

  “That ’cause Booker ain’t got no sense. He don’t know that you gon’ be right back in his truck bed next week, stealin’ somethin’ else. And this time, you gon’ do better ’cause you prepared. At least I can say that: you learn from yo’ mistakes. You can use that up at that school.” Sighing one of her this-gon’-hurt-me-more’n-you sighs, Beatrice withdrew her hand from Little Ed’s grasp and turned away from him. She started trudging toward town.

  “But, Mama . . .” Little Ed danced along beside her.

  “Save yo’ breath. You gon’ need it tomorrow.”

  “I got some money hid! I’ll go get it and give it to Booker right now. Please, Mama!”

  Beatrice stopped short. “You got money, Ed? From where? Who lookin’ for it?”

  “Nobody! It’s mine! I got two dollars, and I ain’t never had a chance to use—”

  “That’s ’cause you just take what you wont.”

  “No, no. I just ain’t found somethin’ I wonted to buy, is all. But I’ll just give it all to Booker, and I know them beat-up, sour apples ain’t worth all that.”

  “It don’t matter what you thank them apples worth. It matter what Booker thank they’s worth.”

  “Yes’m.”

  Beatrice put her hands to her hips. For a time, she studied the long road stretching toward town. Then she gave equal time studying the short road leading toward their little house before she closed her eyes.

  Little Ed held his breath, figuring his mama was praying over his future.

  She sighed. “Well, by my figure, it’s a longer way to town. And I suppose it really ain’t worth that kinda walk.” She waved a finger at him. “But you better watch yo’self, Ed. Do what you say you gon’ do. Better yet, do what I say you gon’ do.”

  “Yes, ma’am! Yes, ma’am! I’ll go get my money and take it to Booker!” He took one step before she snatched him back with a hand. His thin shirt gave way completely this time and ripped all the way to the seam at the bottom.

  “You just wait a minute, boy.” Mama turned Little Ed around, his shirt flapping, hanging from his back. “Ain’t no use throwin’ good money after bad. You just give me that two dollars. Booker done washed his hands of all this, and it don’t make no sense to brang it all up to mind when I see him again. He just gon’ gamble it away. Now, remember what God say in Ephesians: Steal no more. Get to work. Do good with those big hands of yours so you can share it with your family.”

  “Uh . . . okay.” Little Ed’s forehead wrinkled at her interpretation of the Scriptures.

  Mama turned toward the house. Halfway there, she called to Little Ed, whose feet remained rooted to the spot, “You gon’ steal somethin’, make the beatin’ worthwhile. Then you better run like the devil you is. Next time—and don’t tell me they ain’t gon’ be no next time—next time, you bet’ not get caught stealing.”

  ——————

  Edmond,

  I hope this letter cach up wit you afor too long. How you doin boy? You lernt to stay out of trubble yet? It sure can find you. That trubble new ware I lived too—least it did for I moved. I aint got no trubbles now. I aint got much els ether, cep this bed I sleep on an this job. But thats ok wit me. I hope you dont have to give up all you got like I did but findin peace is worth it. Wen I lef, I culdn’t see wat was ahead. It was more bout wat I was leavin behind me. Ther aint no scusin my leavin yall like that but we all wulda ben sorry had I stayd one more day.

  You need to look after yo famly now. Thays all you got. You like the wind blowin in and out from any direcshun. An I hope you dont never stop blowin. Thay need somthin like you. But you blood. You gotta stick by and thay gone stick by you. No matter wat trubble find you. So treat em rite. Speshully them sistas. I wish I could say look after my babe boy but ther aint no helpin him now. Thats all on B.

  I hope to hear from you won day. I live rite here at 23 Reedy Creek in Jasper if you need somware to run. And dont you worry. Trubble dont know me no more.

  Henton Agnew

  “Well, Henton Agnew, trouble sure knows my name.” His mind engorged, Little Ed folded the letter and stuffed it into his duffel bag. When he’d opened the large envelope from his mama and discovered the two enclosed letters, his hands had unfolded Henton’s first, almost of their own volition. But now . . . now, he couldn’t handle any more. He set aside his mama’s letter for later, when he could savor her words alongside a fritter at Weisel’s Bakery. At that moment, he could only chew on Henton’s memory like it was a stick of red licorice. His daddy had written him a letter. “If I had gotten this then . . .” But it wouldn’t have made a difference, this trouble-free place Henton had offered. Little Ed had had a new address for the past fifteen years, away from everything and everybody, but he definitely wouldn’t have considered it a safe place. Trouble had found him anyway. Yet so had salvation.

  Beatrice seemed to tuck his news under her cloth belt when he’d called her at the beginning of the year. It was like she’d always suspected the prison gates would swing open just as Jesus opened his heart.

  “I guess I won’t get no mo’ collect calls then,” she’d commented dryly. “Yo’ bill been paid fo’.”

  Little Ed pictured her sitting on the faded-green velour sofa in the front room, looking through the open door at the street, one hand holding the phone, the other in her lap. Somehow, he’d known she wasn’t talking about the charges from the telephone company.

  “I know, Mama. Paid in full,” he’d responded, smiling into the phone as he ignored the tap on his shoulder warning him there were others in line. Little Ed determined then to save up and return to Spring Hope, maybe by Thanksgiving. It had been too long since he’d been with his mama, and it was time he stepped up as the oldest son in the family and reconnect with his own grown children. And not because Henton had said so.

  Little Ed stepped off the Number 15 bus onto the sidewalk running along Fulton Street. He dropped his scuffed green duffel onto the steamy concrete square at his feet. It contained a few pairs of underwear; two crew-neck undershirts; a pair of black slacks; three sets of so
cks; a toothbrush and a travel-size tube of Crest; a red- and white-striped shirt; his hairbrush; and the Bible, compliments of the Gideons, the State of New York, and Jacko, a zealous inmate.

  Inside the Bible, along with his mama’s letter, he had hastily stuffed the last two or three pieces of mail he’d received just that day before they’d released him, a full three months earlier than expected. In the right front pocket of the only pair of jeans he owned crouched $122.00, all the money he had in the world. Unshaven, nearly broke, homeless, Little Ed squinted up at the sun and grinned broadly. Then he picked up his bag and snuggled it right under his left armpit. He wouldn’t let some other homeless New Yorker steal his life’s possessions, test his newfound faith, and force him to do something that was sure to land him right back in the joint.

  Little Ed strutted down Fulton. He stared at the buildings he passed and the people who passed him. Lou’s Odds and Ends. Bibi’s Hair and Nails. You Rent, You Own! The more things changed, the more things . . . changed. Little Ed’s good mood faded as his stride evolved into a plod. Nothing was really the same in his old neighborhood. He ticked off missing pieces as he passed familiar corners, alleys, and streets. Nope, no more Mr. Weisel and his greasy apple fritters that were so good first thing in the morning. Little Ed licked his lips at the thought. And oh, man, what had happened to that old lady over on Bushwick who used to sell flowers and papers? And crazy Al? Who would sell him his weekly paper and daily breakfast burrito?

  At the corner of Fulton and Nostrand Avenue, Little Ed reached into his right front pocket and retrieved the small white card Jacko had pressed into his hand after he’d prayed for him.

  “Here, man. My sister runs this small hotel, and she’ll give you a place to stay. Just show her this, and she’ll know you know me.”

  “And she’ll let me stay anyway?” Little Ed had laughed.