by Daniel Black
“What was your original name? Weren’t they already calling you something by then?”
“I asked Momma that, too. Said Lazarus was my original name. She didn’t call me nothin’ before then. Didn’t know who I was.”
Lazarus, oh, Lazarus! Who are you, dear Lazarus?
Trey thought Deborah pretty enough, so he asked her out again. Without other suitors, she sighed and went. Eventually they laughed about things, but mostly Trey talked about Granddaddy. He was the only man the boy admired, so he spoke incessantly of him. Deborah asked about the second Lazarus, the obvious link between the young and the old, and Trey spoke of the man as if he were a comma—a slight pause between independent variables—whom the other two could live without. The involuntary twitching of Trey’s eye when he spoke of his father revealed an emotional connection that the son could never shake, so out of respect for his fragility Deborah stopped asking about the lone, lost Lazarus and instead inquired of Trey’s mother. He adored her, floating in his consciousness like a constantly recurring thought, and regardless of memories of his father, thoughts of Zeporah always segued Trey back to center. That was one thing for which Trey respected his father—the fact that, in one exceptionally insightful moment, he’d married Zeporah, and had he not, Trey was sure he could’ve forgotten the man altogether.
Trey and Deborah married a year later without fanfare. Her mother had wanted a big wedding, but since no one else did, she relinquished the fight and met them at the courthouse in downtown Atlanta. When she discovered Trey’s fiscal responsibility, she relaxed and apologized to God. Trey and Deborah bought a house—a very big house—because he wanted five kids. Deborah wanted only two but loved the house because others admired it. That was the first sign Trey ignored, he told himself the night he walked away, and it would be years before he could admit the others. But he’d loved her. He loved her still. Yet lying beneath the heavens, staring at stars thousands of light-years away, he realized that love doesn’t do a couple much good. The only thing that cements people beyond time and space is mutual admiration, and much as he’d tried, he’d simply never admired Deborah. She hadn’t admired him, either. So what real hope did they have?
Chapter 2
The space beneath the intersecting freeways belonged to another man until the day Lazarus III arrived. He squatted, Lazarus did, only feet away, and the man nodded as if inviting him to God’s Welcome Table. The next morning, the man was dead. Someone had murdered him in the night, leaving his pant pockets inside out. Lazarus was shocked but relieved they’d passed him by, glad some altruistic angel had marked him with the blood of the Lamb. He took the man’s death as a sign that God had made room for Lazarus, so he moved in, so to speak, and claimed the space as his own.
Slowly, intentionally, he settled into a life of nothing. At least nothing material. Soon he and four other vagrants formed The Family, having agreed that their lives meant something to them if to no one else. Like Lazarus, they, too, for one reason or another, lived on the streets and thus depended upon one another to keep desperation and loneliness at bay. So whenever possible, they dwelled together and shared what little they had. Occasionally, especially on holidays, The Family gathered and broke stale bread and prayed silently for the transformation of the world.
Cinderella came first. She, too, lived beneath I-20, across the way from Lazarus, in a dark nook hidden from view. Half-rotten front teeth hindered her willingness to smile, although her heart usually bubbled over, and grime had colored her once-white skin a dusty, pale yellow. With no access to water, her blond hair hung limp and greasy and heavy, like the strands of a wet, dirty mop. There was nothing particularly striking about her, except the discreet, obsequious way she slivered through the universe, almost apologetic for her presence. When she spoke, a hushed whisper ushered forth, as if her breath were limited and might, at any moment, run out.
She acquired the name, Lazarus assumed, because of the red pumps she wore. They glimmered in the Georgia sun and never felt a drop of southern rain. The moment dark clouds gathered, Cinderella removed the shoes and placed them in their original shoe box or, when away from home, sheltered them beneath her clothes until showers subsided. She’d walk the wet pavement barefoot before she’d let rain ruin her red shoes. She’d gotten them years ago, for her high school prom, from a poor peanut-farmer father in South Georgia who’d sent them as a gift. She and her mother had moved to Atlanta her sophomore year after her mother declared, in a heavy southern drawl, “This farmin’ shit ain’t gon’ get it. I want more for my child.” But Cinderella loved her daddy and she missed him deep in her belly. Within months her mother remarried another poor, alcoholic white man living in cabbage town, and once he began to beat her he never stopped. Cinderella’s mother wrote and told her daddy that their daughter needed shoes for her senior prom, so he sent the red pumps. When her mother saw them, she said, “Why the hell would Baxter send red shoes? He don’t know the color of your dress!” Still, Cinderella loved them, simply because he’d sent them, and since they fit perfectly, she found a red dress to match. No one else sported red high-heel shoes, so she felt special and admired. Actually, classmates mocked her subtly, but since she didn’t hear them, her fantasy went uninterrupted. Over the summer, her stepfather killed her mother—he said it was an accident, but Cinderella knew better—and that’s when things fell apart. Unable to feed herself, she began hooking for money and food. What was supposed to have been a temporary act of desperation evolved into a full-blown lifestyle. Most thought she was in her mid-forties or early fifties, but Cinderella was barely thirty-five.
The piece of land on which Lazarus lay was an incline, the top edge of the hypotenuse of a right triangle. Patches of grass grew here and there, but mostly dirt lay about, strewn with pebbles, stones, broken glass, and empty, dented Coke, Sprite, and Dr Pepper cans. In winter it was perfect for sleigh riding, but of course it rarely snowed in Atlanta. The few times it did, Lazarus and Cinderella, more googly-eyed than either had been as a child, slid down the incline on thick cardboard, screaming from the sheer fun of it all. Then, climbing back up the ramp, they did it again and again, until the inner child was satisfied. At the top of the slope, the land leveled, allowing Lazarus’s things to sit on even ground and allowing him to think of himself as king of the hill. Others could visit, but there was room for only one man to stay, and, for now, that man was Lazarus.
Over the years, he’d accumulated mismatched things with which he’d constructed a living space. An upturned blue milk carton, covered with a pink and yellow pastel pillowcase, served as a nightstand, holding whatever books Lazarus was reading at the time. When he finished them, he’d pass them on to Cinderella, who read in a day what took him a week. She gave him books, too, but far fewer, since her recommendations only included classics—Ethan Frome, A Separate Peace, The Color Purple. Neither kept them. Books were a liability to those with no permanent place. If they had to move suddenly—and they were always aware of and ready for that possibility—books would only hinder them. They lived on borrowed time, Lazarus liked to say, a mere loan of flesh and breath. And borrowed land, too. How much sense does it make to own land? Lazarus wondered. And if man can own land, can’t he own the sea? And if the sea, why not the air?
An off-white, stained plastic lawn chair sat to the left of Lazarus’s used mattress. The sides of the chair had been forced wide by someone’s massive form, so now it appeared to extend open arms to anyone who wished to dwell with an educated vagabond. Usually Lazarus occupied it, reading or tapping his foot to the rhythm of automobiles above. As Zeporah had taught, he made up his bed when the sun rose, smoothing wrinkles from the baby-blue comforter until it lay evenly, smoothly, like those in magazine displays. The kitchen, slightly above the head of the bed, consisted of two plates, two forks, two glasses, and a long-handle pot, enclosed in a brown milk crate. A ragged rectangular peppermint-striped plastic tablecloth lay folded beside it, spread upon the earth for special meals such as family members’ birthdays and
holidays without Hosea Feed the Hungry ministries. Yet such moments didn’t happen often, so the cloth’s main use was to cover Lazarus’s coveted comforter whenever it rained.
Upon first visit, Cinderella gave Lazarus a potted plant as an offering of peace. It was a perennial, she’d said, so, unlike people, it wouldn’t die. He loved it and named it Zeporah, after his mother, and promised to care for it just as she’d cared for him. They talked often, Lazarus and his mother-plant, feeding and comforting each other. Zeporah outgrew the original container, so Lazarus found a five-gallon bucket into which he transplanted her. Two years later, after having expanded in every possible direction, she was transferred to the earth. That’s when Lazarus claimed the area beneath the intersecting freeways as his own—when Zeporah became a permanent fixture, an extension of the land on which he lay. Of course he couldn’t own it, but he could squat there a lifetime, he thought. So in his heart he promised to kill anyone who tried to usurp his space, to come between him and his mother, but luckily no one did. He’d lost her once; he didn’t intend to lose her again.
Thanksgiving Day 2000, another family member arrived. Lazarus and Cinderella walked from dinner with the Hosea Feed The Hungry ministries, having been humiliated by a volunteer who told Lazarus that, no, they didn’t have a saltshaker and, anyway, he should be grateful simply to be eating. Cinderella had touched Lazarus’s knee beneath the table, cooling his boiling blood. A silent walk home restored his good senses and healed his wounded pride. When they beheld the young man, sitting proud and erect in Lazarus’s chair, they knew he belonged to them.
Like a prince awaiting coronation, he lifted his head and sang, “Hello.” It wasn’t the word that got their attention, but the tone, the plea, too desperate to ignore. They could tell he wanted to say other things, to explain, perhaps, who he was and why he was there, but his subsequent silence said his story could not be told at once; it could only be digested in pieces—microscopic, delicate, fragile pieces—which, if combined, promised to overwhelm any listener. Lazarus and Cinderella understood. They smiled and nodded his welcome. A gush of compassion billowed from Lazarus’s heart.
The young man was only twenty-three, the son of a crack mother who simply couldn’t get it together. He’d never known his father, although he’d heard the man’s name. His response to others’ inquiries about him was to shake his head slowly, warning people not to force an undesirable resurrection. He hadn’t spoken the man’s name in years, having determined that, as long as he didn’t, there was no paternal origin to respect, no obligation to honor. After all, there was no connection between them. There was, in fact, no them—there was simply him … and … well … the thing that happened to his mother. The Atlanta DFCS (Division of Family and Children Services) had found him, at five, in a house alone, with no running water or electricity. His mother came home, but only occasionally, and the last time she did he was gone. Shuffling from one foster house to the next only increased his desire to return home, to the place of neglect, regardless of what others thought about it, so, at seventeen, he did. One semester shy of high school graduation, he quit school and ran to the dilapidated house, hoping to see his mother and relive at least some of the good ole days. After a year in the dark, waiting, hoping, believing, he admitted to his aggrieved spirit that she wasn’t coming. That she’d given up on him. That he’d never been enough to make her stay. So he left the house—without locking the front door—and wandered the streets of the West End, stealing food whenever hungry and trying like hell to figure out where his mother might be. Tempting as it was, smoking crack was out of the question, but life on the streets revealed its allure. Moments of pleasure were as pure gold to one whom the world had erased. A crack high let you believe you were somebody or at least freed you not to care if you were nobody. It made sense. He understood. Still, he resisted, never wanting to succumb to the thing that took his mother away.
When he stumbled upon Lazarus’s place, he hadn’t eaten in days. It was the loneliest Thanksgiving he’d ever known. He hadn’t meant to stop and lounge in someone else’s space, but the blue comforter reminded him of the one he’d had as a child, so he paused and relaxed awhile. When Lazarus and Cinderella reached the apex of the embankment, the young man’s chin lifted easily, and a cautious “hello” issued forth. Several endearing seconds passed before he added sweetly, “I’m Elisha.” His voice hypnotized. It trembled with vibrato, as if, deep in his throat, words battled for escape. His language had a raspy, melodic timbre, more like music than speech. One was lucky to hear it once in a day. Elisha spoke only when necessary, and even then his words were severely limited. On the one hand, he epitomized silent contentment, having learned to survive by keeping his mouth shut. On the other, his countenance shone brightly with the joy of a man renewed. He apologized for the imposition—“Forgive me”—then Cinderella offered an apple and a sandwich she’d brought from the dinner. Elisha thanked her with a succession of sincere nods and grunts, and Cinderella knew they’d be friends. She and Lazarus watched Elisha inhale the sandwich whole and gnaw the apple until even the core disappeared. Then he stared, mouth trembling from the desire to trust although his instincts said, NO! But he needed to. Twin tears sleighed his high cheekbones, and, in an instant, Lazarus saw the face of his own son, bereft of love and in desperate need of a father. Nothing needed to be said. Lazarus understood the call. Elisha became his son; they, his caretakers. A family.
He was a slight fellow whom Lazarus guessed to be six five or better. With hardly any flesh, he looked slender, although not sickly. Actually, he was quite muscular. By all accounts he was more handsome than the average man, even in his current state, so on the streets people looked at him and smiled with admiration. His overgrown, curly afro shaded narrow eyes and thin, straight brows, causing a few to think of him as a 1960s leftover. His golden complexion matched that of the muddy Chattahoochee after a heavy rain, and a narrow brown scar, stretching from the right corner of his mouth to the bottom of his right ear, extended his smile whenever he smiled. The mark, which he thought of as a souvenir, resulted from a scuffle between his mother and a man who’d proposed exchanging him for a bag of weed. Her initial hesitation convinced the dealer she could be persuaded, so he dropped two dime bags on the floor and scooped the shivering child from a nearby corner. When her maternal instincts awakened, she leapt upon the man, screaming, “No! Not my baby! He’s all I got!,” at which point he dropped the child and slung her to the floor. After rising slowly, clearly wounded, she charged him again, only to meet a switchblade slicing through the air. Somehow, she dodged each swish of the blade, yet when little Elisha, committed to protecting and keeping his mother, rose and pounded the man’s back with miniature fists, the blade, like a field plow, burrowed into his right cheek and cut a horizontal line halfway across his face, releasing a river of blood. Together he and his mother drove the man away, although never from their memories. Physical and psychological reminders never let them forget that they were almost separated forever. Of course they soon would be, but Elisha’s recollection of the day his mother fought to keep him, the day she risked her life to make that bad man go away, became the basis of his love for her, his certainty that regardless of what happened in the future, she would’ve given her life for him, although, ultimately, she didn’t.
Some nights Elisha reclined with Lazarus; others, especially during the summers, he vanished into metropolitan Atlanta, sleeping on public benches or deep in Piedmont Park where no sensible person would ever go. No one really knew he was indigent. Unlike the others, his clothes weren’t tattered and holey, although he smelled his own funk occasionally. Over the years, he’d mastered the art of thievery, so every season he, like the rest of the world, boasted the latest styles in fashion. It was nothing for Elisha to walk the streets draped in brand-new skinny Levi’s and brilliant patterned shirts from Nordstrom or Macy’s. Only his wild, bushy fro made some take a second look, but, again, his beauty softened what would’ve been a harsh
critique of the undeserving.
When he did stay with Lazarus, Elisha snored louder than he ever talked. Not a growling snore, but a thick, heavy moan as if trying to expunge something deep in the caverns of his spirit. Often, Lazarus lay awake listening with pity to the private lament. All he desired was to help the boy. A few times Lazarus reached over and stroked Elisha’s smooth, brown forehead, the way a concerned father might do, anointing the young man under a full moon with hopes of a brighter, more prosperous future for him. If Elisha ever felt the touch, he never let on about it. At dawn he’d rise and tidy the area and share whatever Lazarus had scavenged to eat—if he’d found anything at all. If Lazarus had found nothing, Elisha would walk the streets and feast from others’ admiration of him, all the while rarely saying a mumbling word. People saluted and gawked in awe that such a tall, regal young man wasn’t the world’s leading model. His liquid, rhythmic stride, complemented by a chiseled, elongated, perfectly upright torso, was simply a joy to watch. With arms swinging like pendulums, his body glided with the gait of a giraffe. Sometimes people studied his form for blocks. The problem was that they thought far more of Elisha, deemed him far more majestic, than he ever considered himself. There were moments when he thought of people’s “oohs” and “aaahs,” their glares and open mouths, as mockery instead of genuine veneration, but the truth was that his features dazzled. And the scar seemed only to add to their delight.
The next family member arrived on a snowy January evening. It was the dry kind of snow, each flake falling individually and refusing to stick together although clearly descended from the same cloud. Lazarus, Cinderella, and Elisha, hovering around a barrel of fire, watched the figure approach, stumbling awkwardly in high-heel boots and a long plaid wool skirt. The upper half was clad in a ragged waist-length brown coat with an attached hood trimmed in obviously fake fur. A perfectly manicured black goatee elicited The Family’s surprise. The body was clearly female, or so it seemed, but the face was undeniably male. Round bulbous eyes blinked wide above high, pointed cheekbones, and with every step the family became clearer this was someone special. And unusal. E was so dark e seemed to materialize out of the night.