A Long Time Comin'

by Robin W. Pearson

  “Hey, Tarheel, you better give it up,” Jacko had warned. Tarheel was Little Ed’s name in prison. His slight drawl informed the inmates he was from down South. “Anyway. She won’t charge a lot, and the place really ain’t all that, but it beats this establishment.”

  “But not by much,” Little Ed observed as he stared at “Rita’s Rooms—$19.95 a night,” which squatted between two ten-story buildings. Bars covered all the ground-floor windows, and rust coated the fire escapes. He ignored the glares of the two men huddled on the bottom step who looked like they owned even less in the world than Little Ed, and trudged up the six steps to the door. He pushed the bell to the left of the cracked glass pane and waited. The door buzzed, and a lock clicked. Little Ed felt for just a moment that should he venture through, he wouldn’t make it out. At least not without losing a little blood or a few teeth. Feeling foolish, he stepped into the dark, musty foyer, but not before taking one more—last?—look at the sunny sky behind him.

  “You lookin’ for somebody?”

  Little Ed jumped at the deep voice. Behind a set of bars hunkered a woman of some unknown age and origin. Is this Jacko’s sister? Man! What does his mother look like?

  He walked over to the window. “Uh, I’m looking for a room.”

  “For how long?” The Yoda-like woman squinted up at him.

  “Uh, well, I’m not sure. Jacko just told me—”

  “Jacko? How do you know Jacko?” another, higher voice called out.

  A door that Little Ed hadn’t noticed opened beside the window where the first stranger glared out at New York like she’d rather spit on it than take a bite from it. Through it stepped a beautiful golden-skinned woman with auburn hair cascading toward her waist in long waves. Little Ed, who had been staring at bearded, bald, gruff masculine figures for the past fifteen years, offered a quick “Thank You” to God.

  “How do you know Jacko?” the vision repeated.

  Please, please let this be Rita. He fished out the plain white card from his pocket, flipped it over, and handed it to her. “Are you Rita?” He referred to the name on the front of the building.

  Her brown eyes studied the card. “There is no Rita. That’s Josefina, the owner. I’m Carolina . . .”

  Cah-ro-lee-na. His hope faded as his heartbeat quickened.

  “. . . Jacko’s sister,” she finished in the same singsong voice.

  Well, all right! Little Ed exulted, feeling the smile creeping back, the one that had practically swallowed his entire face the minute he’d stepped off the Number 15 bus. “Oh, you’re Jacko’s sister. He told me that you would give me—”

  “We’re booked up.” Carolina’s flat words abruptly ended Little Ed’s daydream of a shower and shave.

  “What? But Jacko—?”

  “Jacko was wrong, as he usually is.” Behind Carolina, Yoda snorted. “We are fully booked, so . . .” Carolina ushered Little Ed toward the large front door.

  “Okay, okay. Ain’t no problem here.” He picked up his bag and backed up to the door. “I’m not here to cause trouble.” Pressing against his back, the doorknob blocked his retreat. He fumbled with the door. “Jacko just told me that—”

  “Listen, I don’t want to hear about Jacko. He keeps sending his, his . . . bunkmates here. What do I look like? A warden? Does this look like some halfway house?” Carolina waved her hands in the air. “Get out, mister. I don’t know you from . . . from Adam. You could be some killer, some rapist—”

  “Hey, hey. Wait a minute now. Nobody here killed or raped nobody. I just came here for a place to stay while I look for work. But that’s okay. I’m gone. I’m gone.” Little Ed finally opened the door and quickly descended the six stained, concrete steps.

  “And don’t come back!” Carolina slammed the door.

  Little Ed ignored the laughter and pointing from the two wasting time on the stoop and hurried across New York Avenue. He stalked away. He couldn’t believe he’d punked out like that, letting some woman make him, a sixty-three-year-old man, run—run—from that rat hole. “I oughta . . . ,” he growled, pounding his huge hands together. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t do anything to go back to prison. Not today.

  So Little Ed walked. And he prayed. For blocks. The sun traveled across the sky and kissed the horizon before finally, sweaty and exhausted, he braced one hand against a light post that flickered to life at his touch, and Little Ed absorbed his surroundings. His wobbly legs had carried him to Empire Boulevard.

  And there, before him, stood Weisel’s Bakery.

  “Well, hallelujah! So Mr. Weisel ain’t dead after all.” Little Ed darted across the street and pushed open the heavy glass door. His mouth watered as he sucked in the smells of hot grease, butter, and sugar. His eyes raked the display case: crullers; powdered, chocolate-covered, cream-filled, and jelly doughnuts; twists; holes . . . apple fritters! He dug in his right back pocket for his wallet—and came up empty. He threw down his duffel and spent ten painful minutes searching his back and front pockets. He even discovered a tiny flap on the side of his jeans, but it barely held the lint he found in it. Investing heavily in a last-ditch effort, Little Ed unzipped the bag by his feet, right where he crouched in front of the doughnut display case, and tossed out his belongings: underwear . . . toiletries . . . shirt . . . but no wallet.

  “Sir?”

  Little Ed didn’t look up. He was “Inmate 34821” or “Hey, you” or “boy.” He most definitely was not “sir.”

  “Sir.” The unseen voice no longer posed a question. A grizzled gentleman behind the counter peered over the glass at him. “Sir, you must collect your things and move out of the way. You’re blocking my paying customers.”

  Things. All his worldly possessions, such as they were, were scattered about the floor between the display counter and the front door. For years, Little Ed had bought an apple fritter from this man three or four times a week. But it was obvious Mr. Weisel had no clue who Little Ed was. Fifteen years were fifteen years.

  Little Ed rose to one knee. With none of the care he had taken that morning to carefully fold and tuck each article, he shoved his things into his beat-up duffel. He forced his feet under him. “Uh, hi, Mr. Weisel.”

  The man stared at Little Ed suspiciously.

  “Mr. Weisel, I’m Ed . . . Edmond Agnew? I used to buy fritters from you every week? My friends called me Little Ed?” Little Ed sounded unsure about the veracity of his statements, but he was sure. Yet Mr. Weisel remained unconvinced.

  “Sir, are you going to order something?”

  “I’m not ‘sir.’ I’m just Edmond, remember? Little Ed?” He wanted—dared—Mr. Weisel to call him by name.

  “Sir—Ed—Mr. Edmond, please. If you’re going to order something, please do so. But I have other customers . . .” Mr. Weisel looked beyond Little Ed at the nonexistent hordes of paying people pressing their way to his counter. He walked around to stand at the corner of the glass-fronted display, just far enough that Little Ed saw the rounded top of a wooden bat. “Sir? Must I call—?”

  “Sir, you ain’t got to call nobody.” Little Ed knew where this was going. The New York Mets were either going to hit a home run against his head, or he was going to get arrested and then beat on the head. Either way, he was going down for the count—and he’d counted fifteen years already.

  “I’m going. I’m going.” Little Ed found himself backing toward the door for the second time that day, holding up his hands in surrender. After all, he was a strange man—some rapist or killer or armed robber—who would overthrow this fine establishment for an apple fritter. When the bar poked him in the lower back, he turned and, duffel first, stepped out into the muggy evening air.

  “Well, I’ll be a—” He planted himself on the sidewalk, contemplating his next move, recovering from his last. Finally he took one step and then another. But before Little Ed could get five steps away, he heard the same firm, accented voice call to him:

  “Sir?”

  Little Ed stopped, b
ut he didn’t turn.

  “Sir? You dropped this. Sir?”

  Little Ed hoped to see Mr. Weisel holding his wallet, but the bakery owner proffered an envelope—and a white oil-stained bag. Warily Little Ed retraced his steps. He froze two feet away and stretched to take the envelope and the bag.

  “Edmond.” He nodded and returned to his counter.

  Little Ed almost dashed the bag to the ground, but the smell—and the thought of being arrested for littering—stayed him. Ahh, that smell. It covered up the day’s indignities, humiliations, accusations. For a moment, just pressing his nose against the bag was enough. He didn’t need a job. He didn’t need a place to rest his head. He didn’t need real food. He didn’t even need his wallet. For a split second, all Little Ed really needed was a giant whiff of that apple fritter.

  Little Ed carried the bag in the direction he had come, back over the many blocks he had traveled after escaping Rita’s. Only this time, his load was significantly lighter: his tank of pride was running on empty. He hoped to spot his wallet somewhere along the way, and on some level, he hoped to discover his spirit, too. But he knew that neither a lost wallet nor a lost soul would last long on the hungry streets of New York.

  Nearly an hour later, Little Ed found himself back at the front steps of Rita’s. It was just as ugly and worn-out as he remembered. But now no one taunted him and accused him with their eyes and their fingers. Only the thin glow from a tired streetlight welcomed him back. Even the building was dark. Little Ed decided it was time to open his bag and rest his feet.

  As his fingertips released the bag, he remembered his mama’s letter. One hand dug in the bag for his fritter—Oh, man! Two!—while the other turned over the now-crumpled envelope. His teeth gripped the pastry as his fingers pulled out the pages, leaving greasy, sticky spots all over them.

  Edmond,

  Son, it’s your mama. You’re probably surprised to hear from me, since you usually don’t get more than a piece of my chicken after one of Sarah’s visits. This time, I thought I needed to send my own mail. I’d ask you how you’re doing, but you’re doing time. That’s how. And not in some little jail but a big old prison. I used to wonder about changing your name to Big Ed ’cause of all that big trouble you got yourself into, but I figure now we can call you Edmond since them days are coming to an end.

  I couldn’t keep you this time, Son. You didn’t have no woods to run to, and a good whupping couldn’t make it right. You seem to know that now by paying that price, and not just how to do what you done better the next time. I believe there won’t be no next time, Edmond. You know Jesus paid it all for you, and you ain’t got to steal it ’cause it’s all yours.

  Amen! Little Ed thought before perusing the return address once more. Yep, 57 Carrot Lane. Quizzically, he peered at the writing. It sounded like his mama, but then again it didn’t.

  I was hoping I’d get to see you, but the way things look, that ain’t going to happen. I can’t get to you, and you sure can’t get here no time soon, least not soon enough. Your niece Evelyn—you do remember Elisabeth’s youngest girl?—is helping me write this letter. You know me. I can say what I need to say with no help from nobody. She’s just helping me get it on paper so you can understand. Although you ain’t never had a problem understanding me, have you, Edmond?

  I know sometimes I had to run after you so I could shout right in your face, but you always understood what I was meaning—not like some of them children. You just chose to look the other way. I know you got a big brain to match them big hands of yours, and you can understand what I got to say, ’cause this ain’t some pep talk. Edmond, I’m writing this to tell you about some choices I made and some choices that been made for me.

  Doctors told me that I have acute myeloid leukemia. Now, ain’t that a mouthful? You’ll have to talk to Sarah and her doctor husband to get an explanation, ’cause that’s as much as I’m going to say about that. Now, Sarah might tell you there’s some things I could be or should be doing, but you just listen to me. This is the part where I make the choices. For me to spend my time stuck in some hospital somewhere to please y’all would be like doing time in a prison. And, Edmond, you know that ain’t no kind of place for a body. So the owner of this body will do just what she wants with it. I made my choice and I appreciate you respecting it. If I need something, Elisabeth is close by. Too close sometimes, like this bothersome child writing this letter.

  What you can do for me is learn, boy. Learn! And that don’t mean not getting caught. It means bettering your choices. You are smart and good, Edmond. And you know how I know? ’Cause I’m smart and good, and you are mine. What lives in me lives in you. Who lives in me is the same who lives in you. Yeah, you acted like one hardheaded thief—but that’s what you did, not who you are. Remember that thief who hung beside Jesus? He made the right choice in the end. Be like him: Don’t just make any choice, Edmond. Make the right choice. The good choice. Doors didn’t close in your face—you shut them. Slammed them and locked them. Then you tried to find a way to break in when you could have walked through easy and peaceful, the right way. Boy, look out for the open door. You know it when you see it.

  Take care of yourself there, Edmond, and I’ll do the same. Your mama loves you—you and them big hands.

  By the time Little Ed choked down the greasy mass in his mouth, he needed water—or something much stronger. His mama. He turned his hands over and over, but he didn’t see the wrinkles and lines, the greasy fingertips, the ashy, pecan-colored flesh. Little Ed glared at his hands and visualized all that he’d broken and stolen, what he’d defended and whom he’d offended—all with these hands.

  Suddenly he couldn’t stand it. A hurt welled up from his toes and worked its way up through his stomach and chest and into his throat until it exploded. Little Ed tried to catch the hurt, to cover it with his hands, but even they weren’t big enough. The pain escaped through his fingers with a gut-wrenching outcry. People passed Little Ed there on the stoop, but they ignored him.

  Feeling a presence, Little Ed whirled around. “Wh—!” Clumsily he jumped to his feet. He tried to gather all his stuff—the now-empty bakery bag, the letters, his duffel—and move away from the steps at the same time.

  “No—” Carolina extended a hand.

  “I’m going. I’m going. I-I lost my wallet. I thought maybe it was here.” He backed up.

  “No, Mr. Agnew—stop!”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “Stop!” Carolina’s voice had the peremptory tone she’d adopted earlier, inside the boardinghouse.

  Little Ed’s apology died on his lips.

  “Please.” Carolina approached him. In an outstretched hand she offered him a small, flat black object. “I believe this is yours.”

  “My wallet,” he breathed. Yet he didn’t reach for it.

  “It must have fallen out of your pocket today when you backed against the door.” Carolina continued to hold it out to him until finally Little Ed took it. “You left so quickly that I couldn’t tell you—”

  “You mean, you were so busy throwing me out.” Little Ed squared his shoulders and raised his chin a notch. Standing there on public property, he recovered his manhood along with his wallet.

  “Yes, I know. But I acted that way for a reason.”

  “Yeah, ’cause you—”

  “Will you allow me to talk, or are you just going to slam a door in my face?”

  In spite of himself, Little Ed quieted.

  “Thank you. Mr. Agnew, I couldn’t very well agree to let you stay here, not with Josefina sitting there. She’s the owner, and she’s not a very pleasant person. She’s very suspicious of everybody, and she knows my brother is in jail. But I had planned to follow you out here and whisper for you to come back later, but you left so quickly—”

  “Can you blame me?”

  “No, I can’t. But Jacko was supposed to tell you to pass me the card without mentioning his name. Usually I’m out front, but today J
osefina sat at the desk while I did some bookkeeping.”

  “So why are you telling me this? You can’t do nothing for me now.”

  The bald truth seemed to wound her. “No-o-o-o, you can’t stay here . . .”

  “Mmm-hmm, I thought so.”

  “. . . more than a week or two. You can stay just long enough to find somewhere else to live, and maybe a job.”

  “But what about this Hosa—Hosi—”

  “Josefina?” Carolina’s laugh tickled Little Ed’s much-abused eardrums. “She doesn’t come here often, and she’s going to Puerto Rico for a while. You’ll be fine here for a week or two—but no more.” She ascended the concrete steps more quickly than she had descended. She inserted a key into the lock and pushed open the heavy door. When Carolina glanced back to Little Ed, her mouth dropped open and her eyebrows furrowed together. She waved him up. “Mr. Agnew, come quickly. It’s not the safest part of the city, and I need to get you settled in so I can get to Bible study.”

  “Look out for the open door . . .” First Edmond, then Little Ed, then Tarheel. Now, surprisingly, Mr. Agnew watched Cah-roh-lee-na hold open the door to the ugly hotel squatting between uglier buildings. He again tucked his belongings under his arm and mounted the steps. Carolina closed and locked the door securely behind them.

  Chapter Thirteen

  RUTHENA, AGE 15

  “Come on, Ruthie, just one more.”

  “Shh!” Ruthena placed a finger over Luther’s lips.

  “No, I won’t be quiet until you give me one, right here.”

  “Shh, Luther Atkins! I ain’t gon’ give you nuthin’ if you don’t hush up. You gon’ get us caught,” Ruthena whispered furiously.

  “Ain’t nobody here but—”

  Ruthena clamped a hand over Luther’s mouth and peeked out from behind the pew of Calvary AME Zion Church. She cast a careful eye over the pulpit, the choir loft, and up and down the right and left sides of the church. Then she looked behind them at the vestibule. Satisfied that they were safe for the moment, Ruthena decided to give Luther a little heaven on earth. But I don’t think this is what the pastor meant by fellowship, she thought as she planted a soft—and quick—smooch on his waiting lips, both eyes open wide.