by Daniel Black
Elisha thumbed pages, hoping subconsciously for a clue to Lazarus’s whereabouts. He’d never been a reader himself. Life hadn’t presented leisure time the way he imagined it had for others, sitting in comfortable armchairs with cups of steamy coffee, lost in To Kill a Mockingbird or Invisible Man. He’d heard of the books. He was no dummy. But he’d been too consumed with survival to spend time in fictional places. His reality was real enough; he lived the impossible. He didn’t need to imagine it.
Elisha went to kindergarten having never held a book in his hands. He knew his ABCs because his mother beat him one day until he repeated the letters in perfect order. “I ain’t got time for this shit, chile!” After which, exhausted, both went to bed, one believing she’d done her job as a mother, the other believing he’d been an obedient son. With hardly enough money to keep the lights on, books were simply an unnecessary luxury. So instead of words, Elisha learned numbers, and began to interpret the world numerically. Two pairs of pants to be worn intermittently over seven days. Three different men in Momma’s bed, depending on whether she needed money on the fifteenth or intimacy by the thirtieth. Ten dimes that equal one dollar and help Momma get what she needs so she doesn’t scream at and beat Elisha for no reason. Some weeks, long before he entered school, he walked the neighborhood until the sun disappeared, searching like an eager gold miner for abandoned dimes. Nickels were shunned, since it took twice as many to make a dollar, and pennies were simply out of the question. Who could find a hundred anyway? Quarters were best, of course, but they could hardly be found anywhere. And to think it only took four! The hope for quarters, too infrequently rewarded, left Elisha disappointed and subject to his mother’s rage. So he settled for dimes, the smallest coin, the one that kept his mother happy and home. Sometimes.
When he glanced down, after tossing the book aside, there it was—a brand-new dime, shimmering in all its glory. Elisha chuckled, then remembered bygone days when such a discovery would’ve elicited unbridled joy. For now, though, he bent low and studied it, wishing only that he’d found enough as a child to heal his mother. Reaching for it, Elisha hesitated with the disturbed conscience of a reformed thief. Perhaps someone had dropped it and would soon come searching. Sure, it was only a dime, but for the homeless a dime went a long way. Then, returned to his senses, Elisha grabbed the coin and stuffed it in his pant pocket. Maybe this was just the luck he needed, to find and save a savior.
Before now, Elisha had never contemplated who Lazarus was. Not really. Not who he was to him. He’d been grateful, certainly, that someone, especially a black man, had found him worthy of his attention, but Elisha had not realized the internal voids Lazarus had filled for him. Not until now. How Lazarus had destroyed or at least allayed a longing that once threatened to kill Elisha. How Lazarus had seen past the hunger and hatred in the young man’s unforgiving eyes and surrendered to him, countless times, his last piece of bread. What do you call such a man? Friend felt weak and insulting; Uncle, impersonal and detached. Brother, too peerlike. Of course Father could’ve worked had Elisha known what a father was. He had an idea, floating around in his head, but it never materialized. And anyway, even more than a father, his heart’s yearning was for a daddy—isn’t there a difference?—yet somehow this hope felt selfish and undeserved.
Marching north on Courtland, he crossed North Avenue, then Ponce de Leon, headed toward Piedmont Park. He had no inclination Lazarus would be there; he simply didn’t know where else to look. Fifth Street, Sixth, Seventh, Eighth until he reached Outwrite Bookstore on the corner of Tenth and Piedmont. He’d wanted to go in there before, even stood at the window a time or two, but he didn’t want others to think he was one of them. The gays. Not that he had a problem with them, but he hated how they were perceived. He also hated that people sometimes beat them for who they were.
Elisha turned right on Tenth and pressed toward the park. At the entrance, he paused and surveyed the area. No Lazarus. He entered nonetheless, prepared to scour the grounds until he found Lazarus. If Elisha didn’t find him, he hoped to find someone who might’ve seen him.
It made sense to circle the lake first. Lazarus sometimes walked the path, skipping stones and talking gibberish to ducks. He’d told Elisha about his time in Arkansas as a kid, feeding farm animals and learning their language. Every species of life has a language, grandpa Lazarus had declared, and we can know it if we take the time to listen. Never had Elisha taken the prospect seriously, of actually communicating with beasts, but he liked the notion, wondering, at times, what it might be like to sit about with a deer or squirrel and have a conversation. But then what would you talk about? Where did human and animal life converge? Don’t you need common experiences to sustain a conversation? Elisha watched ducks, swimming in community, and realized suddenly what he might say: Did y’all lose anyone today? I did. And I need to find him. Did you happen to see a black man, six feet tall, dreadlocks, heavy beard? He laughed at himself. Surely ducks had no conception of dreadlocks or any of the other descriptors. But who knows? Maybe if he’d listen and learn their language, as Lazarus had suggested, he’d discover that they understood far more than he thought.
At the gazebo, on the north end of the lake, he saw Lazarus finally, talking to a woman Elisha didn’t recognize. He thought to sprint toward them, then hesitated, sensing a serious air about their exchange. Like the ducks, he approached cautiously, not wanting to interrupt, but needing Lazarus to know that something was amiss. Something that demanded his immediate attention.
Lazarus caught Elisha’s desperate gaze. Their eyes said what their mouths could not, and Lazarus hugged the woman, then sent her away abruptly. Elisha’s steps quickened.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to run your friend off.”
“She was leaving anyway. What’s going on?”
Elisha didn’t know how to begin. “Um … there’s a problem.”
“A problem? With what?”
He handed Lazarus the article. Mortal fear constricted the old man’s face. “Oh my God…”
“I know. We gotta get home. The others are waiting. They already know.”
Clearly distressed, Lazarus leaned upon the railing of the gazebo. Elisha touched his shoulder reassuringly and said, “Come on. We can’t wait.”
Elisha led the way. Lazarus’s lips moved in utter confusion, but he said nothing. They exited at Tenth Street, just to the right of Grady High School, and walked to Ponce before Lazarus spoke. “I … I … I was just doing some yard work. I met ’em at Whole Foods a few weeks ago. They said if—”
“Not now.”
Elisha didn’t feel safe. He imagined people studying them, wondering, Is that the man? Is he the one?
“We can’t go the usual way,” Elisha said. “Someone might see us.”
They dodged intersections and walked behind buildings, holding their heads low. At one point, their walking evolved into a jog, which evolved into a light sprint, leaving Lazarus winded and worried as he approached The Upper Room. He knew his life would never be the same again.
The others stood when the frazzled men arrived. Sweat streaked Lazarus’s forehead although Elisha hardly panted. Everyone paced The Upper Room—and moaned until Lazarus caught his breath and spoke: “It was about three weeks ago. I was in front of Whole Foods, sitting at those outside tables, minding my own business, when I overheard a white couple talking about making a flower bed. The woman said she needed help getting the ground ready, so the man suggested they hire a gardener. She told him she didn’t need a gardener; she wanted to do it herself. She just needed a little help. He huffed and said, ‘Suit yourself.’ That’s when I got the idea to offer my services. I could use the money, and apparently she could use the help. They were rich. I could tell that much.”
The Comforter nodded. Her eyes had been closed since Lazarus began. In her mind, she saw this young, spunky, spry couple—the woman sporting a cute little yellow and pink floral-print spaghetti-strapped sundress with white flip-flops while the
man wore khakis, a short-sleeved gray Led Zepplin T-shirt and dark-burgundy loafers—pushing a basket of melons, fresh flowers, and broccoli spears, making a fuss over who would bear the labor for their aesthetic pleasure. Of course their privilege was neither a fault nor an achievement, but The Comforter harbored anger nonetheless that some people, certain people, lived that way. And some were black.
Rubbing Lazarus’s hands sensually, Cinderella waited for the remainder of the story. She wanted details, all of them, to see if and where Lazarus might’ve gone wrong. Certainly she believed in him, but she also believed the possibility that he’d said or done something to invite this misery. She hoped she was wrong.
Legion knew Lazarus was innocent; that wasn’t a question. But why is this happening to him? Is this payback for something he did years ago? Something tragic and awful he’d never apologized for? Lazarus’s trembling left Legion uneasy. Legion’s goal was to find the truth, whatever and wherever it might be, and to do so before someone came and took Lazarus away.
Elisha whispered, “Go ’head, Daddy.”
Lazarus bit his bottom lip, glanced at Elisha, and continued, “So I got up and walked toward them and said, ‘Hey. I can help you. I grew up on a farm with my grandfather. He taught me about soil and planting. I overheard you say you need some help.’ At first, they looked at me like, Who the hell are you? The woman eased back, almost imperceptibly, clinging to her husband, whose fake smile made me sorry I had said anything. The man said, ‘No thank you. We’re okay.’ So I turned and walked back to my seat in front of the store. A few minutes later, I looked up and there they were, both of them, smiling as if to apologize for something they’d said. The woman spoke first: ‘Excuse me, but what kind of work do you do exactly?’ I lied and said I was a contractor. They nodded. The man said, ‘My wife wants a garden and she needs a little help. I’m no good with physical labor.’ They cackled while I stared: ‘How much would you charge to help her out?’ I stood. I told them I didn’t know. ‘Depends on how much work needs to be done.’ ‘It’s a pretty big yard,’ the lady said, ‘so I’ll probably need you a few hours. But no more than that.’ The husband added, ‘We can pay by the hour or the day. Whatever works.’ I nodded and told them I’d take whatever they offer. ‘Okay,’ the man said. ‘How about ten dollars an hour? That sound good?’ Not wanting to seem eager, I said, ‘That’ll work.’ They glanced at each other and nodded. ‘Good. Then it’s a deal. Here’s my card,’ the man said. ‘Meet us Saturday morning at, say, nine?’ I agreed, and they left joyful, as if having bought the finest slave at the auction.”
Cinderella frowned, then inquired impatiently, “What happened once you got there?”
“Well, nothing really. I arrived a little early, so I sat under a tree down the street and watched Mercedes and BMWs roll by. Then, right at nine, I rang the doorbell and the lady opened the door, dressed in a man’s shirt, a big straw hat, and bright yellow gloves that told me she’d be doing very little work. She led me to a toolshed where I got a shovel, hoe, and rake, and we returned to the front yard. She told me where she wanted the flower bed, so I started digging.”
“But did anything unusual happen between y’all? You know, did she touch you or anything?” Cinderella asked.
“No. She gave me instructions and I followed them. Simple as that.”
The Comforter opened her eyes. “Where was her husband?”
Lazarus shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him. I never went in the house.”
“Why would he suspect you of killing his wife?” Cinderella asked.
“How the hell would he know?” Legion interrupted. “You act like he’s guilty already. Like he ain’t sayin’ something he knows.”
Cinderella snapped, “I didn’t say he was guilty of anything. That’s not fair!”
“But you questionin’ him like he is!”
“Am not! I was just asking if he might know why the man—”
“Don’t get distracted,” The Comforter said.
“She always thinks the worst of people before she knows why—”
“I do not! You can’t speak for me! You don’t know what—”
“Do not get distracted!” the Comforter repeated vehemently.
They fell silent. The two became antagonists days after Legion arrived. Cinderella was too white for Legion; Legion, too ambiguous for Cinderella. It was loving at first, their friendly banter, but over time it evolved into outright tension. Both wanted the other’s trust, but neither was willing to lead the way.
“We can’t fight each other right now,” The Comforter said. “We gotta prepare to fight the world.”
Parallel tears streaked Elisha’s cheeks. “What are we gonna do?”
“What can we do?” Legion asked.
Cinderella answered, “He needs a lawyer.”
Lazarus shook his head. “I can’t afford a lawyer!”
“I know, but you still need one.”
“That don’t make no sense!” Legion retorted. “How is he s’pose to get a lawyer when he ain’t got no money?”
“I don’t know!” Cinderella confessed. “But he needs one. To represent him in court. If it ever gets to that.”
Legion huffed. “This is why you get on my nerves, ’cause you always talkin’ crazy shit.”
“Okay, okay, you two. Calm down.” The Comforter exhaled slowly. “We have to figure this out. And y’all gotta help.” She stood, walked some distance away, and paced, frustrated both at the situation and her inability to fix it. Lazarus chewed his fingernails, trying to believe that, somehow, this would blow over without incident. Yet he felt turmoil, brewing in his chest, and he knew, without doubt, that this would be the fight of his life.
Chapter 5
Then he heard the lambs. Crying, bleating, moaning in his head, a message indecipherable yet soothing, comforting yet confusing. The sound echoed, like a lost refrain returned to remind him of his past. He listened with the ears of a man now, searching for meaning and clarity in places that, as a child, he’d ignored. Memory took him back, way back, to Granddaddy’s front porch, stretching the length of the house, where the young and old sat together in the dark swatting mosquitoes and listening to the whimper of God’s chosen ones. Granddaddy had always said the child would one day seek the interpretation of the song, and apparently the day had come. Stumbling about, squeezing his head like a crazy man, Lazarus listened to the lambs and wondered, What does it mean? What are they trying to say?
Amidst the discordant fray, Elijah’s voice assumed the lead. It was loud and harsh, like a blaring freight train, relegating other voices to the background. Lazarus remembered Granddaddy saying, “Elijah was sent to save the world, but the world received him not.” Lazarus didn’t know what the old man meant. He hadn’t cared. But now, in his heart, he believed the lament of the lambs was his answer, his sense of how to move forward, his clarity of what to do next. If only he could know what it meant.
Soon the melody faded without Lazarus’s understanding. He returned, jarred, to the natural world, more convinced than ever that his past was his future. The family had waited, once Lazarus stumbled away, worried that the accusation had pushed him to the edge of despair, but now, at his return, they marveled. He looked settled, though not calm. There was something they didn’t know. Not about the crime, but about the man.
Without segue, Lazarus began: “There were ten of them. Granddaddy said he knew God because he knew them. I didn’t understand. Every night, during the summer, we’d sit on the porch and listen as they wept. That’s what it sounded like to me—children crying. I didn’t like it, but Granddaddy made me listen. He said I’d understand one day. Said the crying of the lambs would save my life. I hadn’t heard it in forty years, but I heard it just now.”
Legion frowned. “I don’t get it. Ten what?”
“Lambs,” The Comforter whispered before Lazarus could respond. “He’s heard the song of the lambs.”
Lazarus’s eyes widened.
“I’ve heard of this,” The Comforter said. “They’ve returned to help you, Lazarus, to tell you how to save yourself.”
“But I don’t know what it means.”
“I don’t, either.” The Comforter’s head shook a long while. “But you will.”
Elisha asked, “Can we ask your grandfather? Is he still living?”
“No. He died years ago. Then the remaining lambs died, too. One by one, as if Granddaddy had summoned them into paradise. A few passed away before him, and he buried them on a hill called Golgotha. It’s all very strange, I know, but he loved those sheep like they were people.”
Cinderella smiled. “What’s his name? Your grandfather?”
Lazarus smirked and cackled. “Lazarus.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Legion hollered. “You ain’t the first!”
“The second, either. I’m the third.”
“But not the last,” The Comforter added.
Lazarus turned and studied her eyes. She knew things about him he’d never said.
Elisha asked the question Lazarus had hoped to avoid: “Where’s your father? The second Lazarus?”
Again, The Comforter intervened: “Lost in the wilderness, unable to find his way home.”
Lazarus hadn’t meant to cry, but the feeling rushed him and he wept like the bleating lambs. The more he thought of his father, the man he’d tried to forget, the greater his wailing became until, like a helpless infant, he lay upon the earth, convulsing and confessing pain he’d never acknowledged. The Comforter laid hands upon his head. The others, knowing nothing else to do, joined in, touching and rubbing Lazarus from head to toe, anointing and healing a man whose life, now, could go either way. Thinking of his father dazed and stumbling from one crack house to another, Lazarus sobbed with guilt for having not tried harder, although, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what more he could’ve done. Or perhaps he wept for the fissure between Granddaddy and Daddy that had breached a sacred union and left generations irreconcilable. Or maybe he wept for himself, having lost both Lazaruses, the man he’d loved and the man he’d wanted to love, and now, more than ever, he needed them. Men who understood life’s battles. Men who knew how to replace painful memories with reconstructed history. Men who, even in their failings, had discovered the secret of survival. And men who, in their sleep, could interpret the song of the lambs. He needed them now. Yet they were nowhere to be found.