by Daniel Black
Lazarus rose. He had to think this through, get on his feet, devise a way to stay out of prison.
From his pocket he extracted the article and read it again. The family waited, hoping for a new revelation.
“I don’t get it,” Lazarus murmured. “I just don’t get it. Why would he think…” Then suddenly he screamed, “Shit! Shit!” His right fist pounded his left palm. “Dammit!”
“What? What is it?” the others asked.
“The scarf. She wiped my brow with a scarf.”
They frowned.
“So what?” Legion said. “There’s nothing strange about that.”
The Comforter understood. “She wiped your brow? She didn’t hand you the cloth?”
“No, she didn’t.” Lazarus shook his head, reliving the moment. “She knelt in front of me and wiped my forehead. I didn’t think anything of it. Sweat drenched my face, so I was grateful. I didn’t even see it coming! She startled me at first, to tell you the truth; then I relaxed and let her do it.”
“How did she do it?” Cinderella asked, failing to conceal her jealousy.
Lazarus sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know. Softly, I guess.”
“Sweetly?” Cinderella looked away.
The Comforter closed her eyes.
“Yeah. You’d certainly think so.”
It was a strange response, Cinderella thought, as if she were somehow guilty of something. Now she felt stupid: for loving Lazarus the way she did and for having planted seeds of hope in such arid soil.
“I remember the scent of her perfume. Spring lilac. My mother used to wear it. It made my daddy smile and touch her.”
“Did you touch her? The lady, I mean?”
Lazarus peered into Cinderella’s covetous eyes. “No, I didn’t.” He paused. “But I thanked her.”
Cinderella nodded. She understood his confession.
The Comforter said, “There’s more to the story, Lazarus. Something you’re not saying.”
His bottom lip quivered. “She gave it to me. The scarf. And I took it.” He retrieved the cloth from his pocket. The family gawked. “I didn’t see the harm.”
“Do you see it now?” Cinderella smirked.
Lazarus ignored her. He stared into the distance. “It was so pretty and delicate. It smelled like her perfume … like my momma.”
Cinderella reached for the scarf, which, reluctantly, Lazarus forfeited; then she unfolded it carefully, not wanting to appear resentful or desirous. Even if her love for Lazarus was unrequited, which obviously it was, she refused to expose sorrow. No, she’d never had a boyfriend, but instinctively she knew better than to become one of those grief-stricken, bitter women whose entire joy dissipates the moment they realize they’re in a one-sided love affair. She’d seen those women. Read about them. And they never came out victorious.
Holding the scarf to her nose, she inhaled deeply and lost herself in regret. She’d never given Lazarus anything so precious. She’d never had anything so precious to give. The scarf was bordered with pink, purple, and lavender flowers, and in the center was an embroidered rose. Cinderella grazed her fingertips across it, wishing the scarf had been hers yet understanding now more than ever that what Lazarus wanted she did not possess. Still, she believed she loved him more than some rich white lady in Buckhead. Hell, the woman didn’t even know him! Not like she did. Yet for Lazarus to see that, Cinderella feared, she’d have to plead with him, and although she was poor and homeless, she was not prideless. Her daddy had assured that.
It looked brand-new, Cinderella thought, or at least rarely used. Heavy creases divided it into four equal quadrants of soft, silky material. Brown smudges, from Lazarus’s sweat no doubt, lay smeared against perfect whiteness. Perhaps the scarf had been a family heirloom. Or, once upon a time, a lover’s sentiment. Either way, for Cinderella the implications were damaging. And intensely hurtful.
She handed it back as if surrendering her soul. Tears came, and Lazarus knew what they meant. He wanted to explain that it wasn’t what she thought; in fact, the scarf didn’t mean anything at all. But the look of dejection and indignation Cinderella wore kept him from saying anything at all. The others, especially The Comforter, bowed with disappointment. They weren’t sure what this meant, but they feared it meant something unfavorable.
“What are we gonna do?” Legion asked. “We can’t just sit around and do nothin’.”
“What can we do?” Elisha whispered. “We don’t have any money.”
Lazarus closed his eyes and sighed. “Granddaddy’s farm. That’s all I have. He left it to me.”
“You can’t sell the farm, Lazarus,” The Comforter cautioned. “It’s your inheritance. It belongs to every Lazarus. Don’t ever barter your birthright.”
“I know. I just don’t have anything else. How am I going to defend myself? That takes money!”
The Comforter saw into another place. “Not always. We give money too much power. Real power is in people.”
Elisha smiled. He knew The Comforter had a plan. Or was conceiving one. She nodded. “Jesus never had a dime.”
Cinderella added, “But he saved the world.”
“Wrong. He didn’t save the world. He showed people how to save themselves.”
“But he died! How did he save himself if he died?”
“’Cause you don’t save yourself by living. You save yourself by choosing how to die. That’s why he rose again. ’Cause he earned everlasting life. That’s what he was trying to teach the world—how to earn everlasting life. We praise Jesus for dying for us, but he didn’t die for us. He lived for us! Then he died for what he thought was right. And that’s what he wants us to do—live for each other. This situation is our chance.”
Unsure of exactly what The Comforter meant, Lazarus bowed and began to pray aloud. He sounded like Granddaddy, he later thought, asking a True and Living God to do for him what He’d done for Daniel and the others in the fiery furnace. “I ain’t nothin’ without you, God! You govern the cattle on a thousand hills, so I know You can fix my situation. Meet me where you met Nicodemus, in a high place, and cover me while the demons of hell seek my life. I ain’t always done the right thing, Lord. I’ve made so many mistakes. But I’m asking for grace and mercy right now. I won’t make it without it.” Legion joined in, screaming for God’s assistance and favor. Slowly, one by one, each family member added their voices until, huddled together in utter invisibility, the muffled cries formed a chorus of pleading that, they hoped, would make God move.
After The Comforter said “amen,” Lazarus announced, “I’m gonna turn myself in at sunrise. It’s the only thing to do.”
Cinderella moaned sadly. Legion suggested he wait a few days. The Comforter had no response. Elisha reached for Lazarus’s hand and squeezed it.
“If I wait,” he said more to Legion than the others, “they’ll be looking for me, and that makes me look guilty. I’m not guilty. Of anything. And I’m not hiding. From anyone.”
“You’ve got to have a lawyer, Lazarus,” Cinderella whined. “It’s the only way you’ll survive in court, especially being … um … black and all.”
“No, she didn’t!” Legion shouted.
Lazarus intervened. “She’s right. All she said was that I’m black, which is correct, and that the law won’t be on my side, which is also correct.” He extended upturned palms. “No need bein’ mad at her. She can’t be banned from telling the truth just because she’s white. It is what it is.”
Legion huffed, tempering es rage. “Where the hell we gon’ get a lawyer from? Huh? Somebody know one who’ll represent a poor, homeless black man against a”—es tone turned sarcastic—“wealthy, upper-class white woman?”
Cinderella’s shoulders slumped. She took his cynicism personally.
“Stop it, Legion,” Elisha admonished softly. “She’s only trying to help. That’s all any of us can do.”
Legion shook his head and fell silent. He loved Cinderella, but he believed whites wer
e not to be trusted. Even the homeless ones.
“No, I don’t know any lawyers, but I still think he needs one.”
Well, of course he needs one! Legion thought, rolling es eyes. We all know that! We ain’t stupid!
“I’m just gonna press on without it. What else can I do?”
There were no answers. Lazarus began walking away.
“Hold up! I’m coming with you!” Elisha ran to Lazarus’s side. Cinderella and Legion sat still, staring in opposite directions. The Comforter, searching for clarity, paced the barren earth at the foot of Lazarus’s bed as the moon smiled upon them.
Chapter 6
The following morning, tattered, exhausted, homeless disciples set out on a pilgrimage, marching single file to the rhythm of Lazarus’s steps. It was a quick, heavy pace, punctured occasionally by Legion’s audible breathing and Cinderella’s forced two-step. As the shortest among them, she struggled to keep stride, doing so only by doubling her steps every few feet. Of course the last thing she needed was Legion’s massive palm on her back, pushing her to keep tempo with the group. They’d quarrel, she knew, and this simply wasn’t the time. Lazarus led the way, not out of strength and personal resolve but fear and uncertainty. He wanted to get it over with, to face the authorities once and for all, but as they neared the station he felt instinctively that this was a bad idea.
On the corner of Peachtree and Forsyth, Elisha found another dazzling new dime. It lay slightly beneath the curb, as if hiding from a lender. He scooped it with the stealth of a thief and let it fall to the depths of his right pant pocket. Only he heard (or perhaps he imagined) the faint, quick clink of one dime meeting another, and he hoped its discovery brought good luck. Like it once did. A fleeting smile accompanied his memory of collecting dimes and presenting them to a happy, grateful, relieved mother. If she’d been there now, she would’ve helped them, he believed. That is, if, by some miracle, the drug men hadn’t taken her away.
The Comforter met them at the police station on Pryor Street. She knew Lazarus would be coming. They embraced, The Family, like grieving relatives at a wake, then whispered, “Good mornin’.” Lazarus was visibly shaken, hands trembling and all, but the thought of living in fear compelled him to stand his unsteady ground. His only wish was that his son, the fourth Lazarus, could see him now, prepared to fight the world with nothing, standing boldly in the face of evil, presenting himself—not being dragged—before the court of Pontius Pilate. Surely that would make Quad proud.
An officer appeared at the door and frowned at the gathering of vagabonds. He nodded several times, then retreated inside.
“You be careful, Lazarus,” Legion said, sensing more than e was saying. “Sometimes these folks—”
Suddenly a rush of uniformed bodies, with drawn guns and raised billy clubs, poured from the precinct. The yelling of officers who obviously recognized Lazarus and had dreamed of capturing him muted Cinderella’s cries of, “No! Stop it! He didn’t do anything!” Like a pack of starving wolves, they descended upon him, mutilating black flesh in hopes of satisfying white suspicion. With each blow, they released grunts of pleasure, for taming a beast that had apparently terrorized their consciousness and for now being able to reassure Atlanta of its safety. Lazarus tried to fight back, at least to stand in the midst of it all, but the billy clubs broke him down. Whack! Blow! Bam! The strikes echoed through the air and reminded Lazarus that although he was homeless, he was also black and that was his first and greatest crime. It was as if the officers—there were at least ten of them—believed Lazarus the carrier of some deadly disease, which threatened the human race. If they could destroy or at least subdue him, they could save the planet. Maybe even the world. So, with all their might, they beat the man accused of murdering Elizabeth Dupont. When blood spewed from Lazarus’s left eye, they cheered and beat him more vigorously, proud that now they had this danger under control. Elisha would’ve fought the officers except that two of them held him at gunpoint, swearing and cursing to God that, if he moved, even an inch, he’d never move again. Elisha believed them. “He’s not a dog!” he screamed. “He’s a man! And he didn’t do anything!” Three others had wrestled Legion to the ground, having pinned es neck to the hard, grainy concrete. “Get the fuck off me! You ain’t got no right to treat him like that! I’ll beat y’all’s muthafuckin’ asses!” With each twist and squirm, they bound Legion tighter, sure that if they let em go e’d be uncontrollable. One bellowed to the others, “Is this a fuckin’ drag queen?” Legion shouted, “I’m the king and the queen, bitch, and you muthafuckas gon’ pay for this! I promise you that!”
One of them snatched es wig and dangled it in the air. Es resistance ceased. Under the weight of colossal shame, Legion’s eyes closed momentarily as e nodded slowly. “Oh, okay! All right! Y’all done fucked up now. You don’t know who I am, but you’re going to.” Elisha looked at Legion, but Legion turned away as crocodile tears darkened the sidewalk beneath em.
Somehow during the scuffle, Lazarus managed to extract the scarf from his pocket. He’d meant to ask The Comforter to keep it for him, one who could do so without emotional attachment, but that didn’t happened. Instead, Cinderella grabbed it, lying on the ground near Legion’s frozen, winded form. Both Legion and Lazarus were still now, having spent the entirety of their energy attempting though failing to defend themselves. Cinderella, the only family member unaccosted, continued to plead, “Don’t hurt him! He didn’t do it! I know he didn’t! He’s not that kind of man!” Exhausted and satisfied, the uniformed mob calmed and panted over Lazarus’s limp, bleeding body. Cinderella reached to touch him, to assure she’d do everything possible to secure his release, but one of the officers grabbed her wrist and told her to stay back. With smooth, subtle ease, she stuffed the scarf into her pocket but never stopped screaming. “You don’t know what you’re doing! He’s not the one! He’s not a killer! I’m telling you! You’re wasting your time! Leave him alone!”
Lazarus, oh, Lazarus! Remember who you are, dear Lazarus!
Two officers, one white, one black, raised a semiconscious Lazarus from the earth and dragged him into the station. Those holding Legion lifted their hands and jumped back as if cautious of a tranquilized beast. Legion didn’t move. If es stomach hadn’t expanded and deflated slightly, others might’ve assumed em dead. Then, in slow motion, e looked around and lifted emself from the sidewalk. Cinderella moved toward em, intent to help straighten disheveled clothes, but the look in es eyes stopped her. She trembled. She’d never seen black rage. Not up close. Not face-to-face. And it left her shivering with fear. Legion’s pupils were flames of fire dancing wildly in the center of es eyes. Elisha whispered, “Let em be. Legion’ll be okay. Just give em some time.” So Cinderella backed away but remembered forever the look in es eyes. Even after Legion left, with the limp of a wounded lion, Cinderella couldn’t shake the image of es red eyes, burning with humiliation and indignation. She stood there, in the middle of the sidewalk, with Elisha’s hands upon her shoulders, and watched her antagonist, her friend, her brother, shuffle down Pryor Street like some exiled refugee, suddenly dispossessed of his land. Once e disappeared, she breathed again and turned to face Elisha. There, in his eyes, was the same dance of fire. Stumbling backward, she covered her mouth and wept. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I didn’t know!” she cried. Elisha assured her, “It’s not your fault,” but she wasn’t apologizing for the incident; she was apologizing for the country that bred it. She’d never seen police pounce on human flesh as if to devour it. She’d never imagined public servants could be so cruel, so vile, so violent, to the people they were paid to protect. Of course she’d heard of it—police brutality—but she’d never been in the midst of it, and certainly the victims had never been her very own family.
Covering her face with her hands, she wept in repentance for her own ignorance, for the weight of the lash upon black backs, for police who’d obviously been trained to attack them, and for not knowing how to fix it. Her sobbing,
loud and angry, became a soulful lament for the world in which she lived. Only in the midst of tears did she realize she had been spared. Yes, they had held her back from touching Lazarus, but they had not assaulted her as if she were guilty by reason of blackness. Now she knew the source of the rage, or at least a small impetus for it, and she wept louder. Who started this bullshit? But there were no easy answers. Only revelations and recognitions in her heart that, although people were just people, as she always said, they weren’t treated that way. She knew that now. She’d seen it for herself.
Engulfed in fury, Elisha left Cinderella purging on the sidewalk. He vanished in the direction opposite Legion, needing his mother now more than ever. Unafraid to cry, he let streams of water drizzle his cheeks without wiping them away. Citizens frowned at this young man, clearly bruised but refusing to break. Still they offered no comfort. He wouldn’t have taken it anyway. He didn’t want sympathy; he wanted change—a reexamination of the human heart and the sources of its hatred. A social movement to teach Americans how people of color always suffer at the hand of whites. Or the hand of power, which isn’t always white. Maybe, like Cinderella, they’d actually be moved. Or perhaps one day someone might beckon an interfaith gathering of clergy and debunk finally the notion that God has “chosen people.” How ridiculous is that? But Elisha knew that wouldn’t happen anytime soon.
So he walked until finding himself, once again, in Piedmont Park. There had to be something he could do, someone who could help the only man who had ever helped him. At the gazebo on the lake, he saw the woman he’d seen the day he was searching for Lazarus. She seemed to be expecting him.