by Daniel Black
“Oh! I’m sorry,” she said abruptly after turning. “I thought you might’ve been…”
“Lazarus? Were you looking for Lazarus?”
She smiled and sighed. “Yes. How do you know him?”
Elijah murmured, “He’s … well … my father.”
She scowled. “Your father? He’s your father?” Her eyes narrowed.
“Yes. The only one I’ve ever had.”
She looked away and asked, “Do you know where he is?”
Elisha nodded. “He’s in jail. They arrested him earlier for the murder of that white woman in Buckhead.”
Clutching the sides of the gazebo, Lizzie’s eyes grew large. “What! Arrested him?”
“Yes. He did some yard work for her, and they think he might’ve been involved.” Elisha relayed the details of the story as he remembered it. Lizzie fidgeted and squirmed. She obviously shared an emotional connection to Lazarus that Elisha knew nothing about.
“I have to go,” she said abruptly, clutching her purse beneath her left arm. To her back, Elisha asked, “How do you know Lazarus?”
She stopped but didn’t turn. As if dismissing the question, she proceeded without answering.
Elisha paced the inner circle of the gazebo, racking his brain for a solution. With no money and no friends, every idea dissolved before it materialized. Yet there had to be something or someone who could help. Once, when his mother was consumed in darkness, a neighbor had come and taken him home. She had a son his age and had stopped by only because she hadn’t seen him or his mother in a while. Just wanted to make sure everything was okay, she’d said. Elisha had opened the door, against his mother’s edict, and when the woman saw him, shabby and obviously starving, she pressed her way into the dark, rank dwelling place and found his mother passed out in a rear bedroom with nothing but a ragged mattress on the floor. There were no lights, no gas, no running water. The stench of spoiled food made her nauseous. She grabbed Elisha’s tender, frail arm and gently led him out the front door. He didn’t want to leave his mother and said as much, yet she assured him his mother would be okay. For now, he needed a meal and a bath, she said, so Elisha surrendered. After all, they’d be right across the street, so if his mother needed him he’d hear her calling, right? But she never called. After scrubbing away weeks of grime that left his bathwater muddy brown and eating enough spaghetti for three grown men, Elisha returned home and discovered his mother gone. He wasn’t surprised. She had left before. This time, though, she hadn’t promised to return.
Perhaps the nice woman still lived there, Elisha considered, the one who had fed and clothed him in her son’s clean garments, and, if so, maybe she could help. She had cared once. It was the only thing he could think of.
Exiting the gazebo, he paused with uncertainty. Where was The Comforter? Hadn’t she been at the station initially? Where had she gone? Only now did he recall her sudden disappearance. Maybe she knew where to find help, he thought. Certainly he hoped so, although he wasn’t confident since, like himself, she, too, slept on the streets. For now, though, he played with the dimes in his pocket and headed toward his old neighborhood.
Chapter 7
Legion paced the railroad tracks near the West End, just east of the corner of Abernathy and Metropolitan. It was a world unto itself, shielded on both sides by thick bushes and trees of every green conceivable. The wig dangled from es right hand like a heavy mass of sadness. E’d wanted to replace it, but what was the point now? E’d been exposed to the world, humiliated before The Family, and couldn’t foresee the absolute restoration of es carefully guarded self. “Fuck it,” e murmured, and put it on anyway. “This is my life. I ain’t livin’ it for nobody else!” E had to admit, though, if only to emself, that es shame was rooted in how others saw em. Or how e believed others saw em. E’d thought e’d passed that milestone years ago, caring what other people think, but apparently not. Maybe we never do, e considered.
The last time e’d felt so debased was when es father barged into the bathroom and beheld es nakedness. Legion had just stepped from the shower. “What the hell?” the man declared, gawking at his son’s irregular form. “Is them titties?” Legion covered emself quickly with a white towel barely long enough to conceal es privates. “What you doin’ with titties, boy?” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, a declaration of es weirdness, es freakishness, es abnormality. It was es father’s way of announcing his son’s deformity, his spoiled masculinity, which, under no circumstances, the father would tolerate. Since age eleven, Legion had bound budding breasts with an elastic band so tight e could hardly breathe. Layers of T-shirts and button-downs, big enough for men thrice es size, further veiled unwanted lumps, which, in their exposure, contradicted the male self e’d promised. This was before es freedom, e’d told Lazarus and the family. Before e learned e could create emself all by emself.
Legion walked the tracks for miles, kicking stones and tossing twigs to the air. For some reason, e thought of Jesus and the woman at the well, the one people almost stoned for adultery. What had Jesus said? “Ye without sin cast the first stone”? Legion half-smiled and murmured, “Jesus read those muthafuckas! Goddamn hypocrites. She certainly wasn’t doin’ it alone!” E imagined the whole scene, faces of pity and self-righteous judgment, eyes of wonder and curiosity, guilty hearts begging, hoping she wouldn’t tell what she knew. All the while no one comforted her. Fearful of rejection by association, they left her to bear alone the weight of sexual indiscretion, although someone in the crowd must’ve been a participant. Jesus knew. That’s why he dared them to say a word. And they must’ve known Jesus knew. No one was stupid enough to try him.
What happened to the woman after that day? Legion pondered. She probably disappeared from Samaria or wherever the hell they were. E knew the feeling—of wanting to vanish, to just walk off and leave a place. To erase one’s entire being from record. Sure, e was bold now, but deep within e couldn’t quiet the child no one had wanted. E remembered being whispered about in public—“That boy looks mighty soft”—and hiding behind es mother’s flowing dress tail even though, upon discovery, es father would make em pay for not being boy enough. It didn’t matter years later that e wasn’t a man. E was beaten because e didn’t want to be one. This was why they were prepared to stone the woman at the well. She’d exercised privileges reserved for men. Now e understood es father’s rage. He’d had a son who’d been given the gift of maleness and rejected it. There could be no greater sin.
Legion sighed and mumbled, “Whatever.” Lazarus needed em now, so Legion shifted attention to the only man who’d ever embraced him. Those policemen would get their due. E’d make sure of it. And wig or no wig, e was still the baddest muthafucka on the street. No one could take that from em.
Descending the slope on which the railroad tracks rested, Legion pondered how to get a lawyer. E knew lawyers, lots of them. But most encounters found Legion upon his knees or bent over in BMWs and Mercedes in dark alleys throughout the city. A sexual favor in exchange for money was not beneath em. What was beneath em was the loathsome act of begging. That e couldn’t do. E didn’t have the humility for it, e believed, or perhaps e bore too much dignity. Whatever it was, e was never able to hold handwritten signs before automobiles at stoplights or busy intersections. Or to ask suspicious pedestrians, Got any spare change? E hated that shit. How it made one look helpless and pitiful and how, when people ignored them altogether, it left them feeling worthless. No, e’d earn every penny e got, even if e had to fall upon es knees to do it.
Passing the West End MARTA station, e remembered a guy who seemed different from the others. What was his name? He was a husky fellow, broad shouldered and thick hipped, but surprisingly kind and sensitive. More than anything, it was the man’s dimples Legion remembered, cratered in the center of his cheeks, shifting like dancing basins of flesh whenever he smiled. And his smile begat Legion’s smile, and in the man’s presence Legion felt safe, although in their unprotected exchange t
here was no safety. The first night they met, after handling business, the man asked Legion es name. Legion froze. No one had ever done that before. E’d never been a person, a human to be respected. E’d always been a thing, a source of people’s pleasure. Es name had never been relevant. Then, the man told Legion that e was beautiful.
“What?”
“Yes. You’re gorgeous. Anyone can see that.” He smiled.
Legion scrambled from the car. The man lowered the passenger window and said, “I’d like to see you again.”
Wanting desperately to believe what e was hearing, Legion paused and studied the man’s soft, pleading eyes. They were as sincere as a newborn kitten’s; still e didn’t trust him. Not with his quivering heart. “Just leave, man.”
He wasn’t dissuaded. “I mean it. You’re not just a good—”
“I ain’t got time for no bullshit. I got what I needed, you got what you needed, so let’s just leave it at that and go home.” Legion turned.
The man followed. “I’m serious. I’ll be back Saturday night, right here, same time, if you wanna see me.” Then he left.
Legion didn’t return. Es heart couldn’t bear the truth either way. What if the man meant what he’d said? Legion couldn’t love him. Not the way normal people love The man would discover Legion’s difference and retract his admiration and Legion would be devastated, right? That was the only possible outcome. Still Legion couldn’t forget having been called beautiful. Beautiful? Really? It was a song, the man’s declaration, that never stopped ringing in Legion’s head. What exactly had he meant? That es face was pleasant to behold? Or that es spirit felt kind and comforting? Suddenly Legion considered that it was all probably a game the man had played, a tactic to lure Legion into providing pro bono services to a slick-talking corporate lawyer. Yet in es heart e wanted to believe precisely what the man had said. E liked the feeling e got each time the man’s sweet baritone echoed in his brain. You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful. It became a mantra e sang aloud on difficult days. The man was the only person who’d ever wanted to touch Legion. And hold Legion. And smile into Legion’s eyes. And Legion had been too afraid to let him.
Perhaps the man would remember em, Legion thought, and be willing to help. If e could find him.
Chapter 8
Home felt lonely and empty. Cinderella sat upon Lazarus’s bed, looking at sprouts of grass and wildflowers struggling for life between cracks and crevices of immovable concrete. Even a dandelion had found its way up, standing alone, proud, where obviously other seedlings had failed. Its yellow head swayed slightly with the breeze, and Cinderella thought to pluck it and place it in her limp hair but then considered the price it must’ve paid to bloom and decided against it. What would it mean to end the life of a thing that had found a way to live where life had been uninvited? It would be cruel, she decided, to interrupt such progress, so instead she drizzled a final sip of water over the dandelion and returned gratified to her seat on the bed. In the distance other wildflowers stood together, supporting one another’s beauty, amidst a sea of manicured green grass and square-topped shrubs. But that was public land. City maintained. Lazarus’s hill, The Upper Room, was undiscovered territory, with no one’s investment in its maintenance. No one but The Family. Cinderella returned to the dandelion and plucked the few blades of grass surrounding it. At least she could improve the yellow bloom’s chances of survival if she couldn’t guarantee it. After all, whose life could be guaranteed?
Reclining slightly, she retrieved the scarf from her pocket and, after unfolding it, placed it in the center of the bed. With her fingers she fondled the borders of each embroidered flower, imagining the meticulous skill necessary for their creation. Then, lifting the cloth to her nose, she smelled faint whiffs of lavender and rosemary and saw, in her mind’s eye, the petite white woman dressed in formal black evening attire, accented by a string of delicate, expensive pearls. Almost smiling, Cinderella wondered if she’d ever be invited to such an affair. She’d never owned anything formal, not as an adult, and her only thing of value was her bright red shoes. Sometimes, when attendees at the mall weren’t looking, she’d spray perfume across her inner arms and dream of queendoms and princess carriages from which she’d emerge admired. Yet no sooner had the dream begun when a cashier would spot her and rush to snatch precious bottles from her worn, emaciated, graying hands. Too embarrassed to object, she’d flee, seemingly agreeing that she had no right to be there, and collapse behind a building from the sheer weight of indignity. Yet for now, with the scarf in hand, she could dream again, uninterrupted, about a life she’d never have.
Returning the scarf to the center of the bed, she wondered what Lazarus thought of the lady. Did he love her? Had he known her long enough to know? Had something transpired, something intimate and bonding, that they vowed never to tell? Not even if their lives depended upon it? Cinderella considered every possibility until concluding she was being silly. What wealthy woman—black or white—would find a homeless man, black or white, appealing? Lazarus was handsome to her because she knew him and could see past his unkempt mound of dreadlocks and coarse, scraggly beard—things that, besides his eyes, inhibited most viewers’ aesthetic appreciation. And, more than that, she knew his heart. The thought engendered pride and a sense of privileged exclusivity. She knew his rhythm, his movement, his anxieties. She’d heard of the legacies of Lazaruses and the joys and pains they evoked. She knew (and loved) that his nostrils flared when he laughed, causing nose hairs to tremble like tentacles. She knew the man. The other lady had not. She couldn’t have. If she’d found him alluring, Cinderella decided, it was only because she’d made assumptions about him. Cinderella needed no assumptions. She knew the truth.
Still, she wallowed in envy. Lazarus had never said she was pretty, although he’d brought her flowers and sweets. To have taken the scarf, he must’ve thought the lady pretty, right? Why else would he have kept a memento? It reminded him of her, Cinderella concluded, as any relic of a lover would, and perhaps at night it comforted him when nothing else could. Nothing and no one. Not even Cinderella, who certainly would’ve given her life for him. To him. Occasionally she beautified herself, applying used red or plum lipstick and sky-blue eye shadow to a slate-gray face far older than its days, but Lazarus seemed unmoved. In those moments, he told her to be herself. That was enough. She needn’t add anything. So she stopped trying.
Now she wished she hadn’t. If she’d persevered, Lazarus would’ve grown to like the enhancements. Of course he would’ve. Every man does. But, trying to please him, she’d obeyed him and diminished her own power. She’d never make that mistake again, she promised herself.
After folding the scarf and stuffing it into her pocket, she conceived an idea that just might keep Lazarus alive. She rose, brimming with confidence and determination. If this didn’t work, nothing else would.
* * *
The sudden emergence of the police at the precinct sent The Comforter into hiding. She eased away, one miniature step at a time, sure that what Lazarus needed was not in this realm. Not all of it. Like Cinderella, she wept, though softly, praying for Lazarus’s covering. She could’ve fought, at least could’ve tried, she knew, but nothing would’ve come of it. Nothing except the feeding of more black flesh to raging beasts. Perhaps they wouldn’t’ve handled a woman with the violent brutality they used on men, but The Comforter took no chances. She’d read and heard about black women being raped, slapped, and fondled—in broad daylight!—by uniformed officers of the state, so she knew better. And, anyway, weren’t these people the descendants of those who’d perfected human bondage? Hadn’t they picked up the scent of black suspicion? Surely! So they couldn’t be trusted. The black ones, either. Many of them wanted nothing more than the privilege to be like whites, so they, too, were to be avoided. And that’s what The Comforter did—she withdrew into the shadow of the world. That’s where she dwelled, what she knew, the place her soul thrived. So that’s where sh
e went. Some distance away, passersby saw her, clapping softly and shuffling as if dancing in a trance, but they ignored her, deeming her either crazy or cracked out. Had they been in the spirit, they would’ve understood that she was bypassing human frailty and connecting soul to soul that Lazarus might survive. With each clap of hands, she whispered, “Lazarus, oh, Lazarus … you’re gonna live, dear Lazarus!” or, “Oh, sweet Lazarus, it ain’t over, dear Lazarus!” or, “Ha, ha, ha, Brother Lazarus, wait till you see what God does, dear Lazarus!” until convinced his spirit heard her.
With no money or means of legal assistance, Lazarus had to rely upon the unseen. The Comforter beckoned a chorus of angels to calm his anxious heart, and they came. He needed to know he wasn’t alone. That was the job of The Comforter—to conjure company for one who had been stripped of the family he’d made. So she called everyone she knew: her grandmother, who’d told her to pray without ceasing; Uncle Remy, who died at seven from polio because no white doctor would see him; Aunt Lucille, who raised eleven children but birthed none and died on her knees; Great-uncle Big Shot, who got killed because others thought he was gay and he was; and the Comforter’s mother, Gloria Mae Spears, who taught her that Jesus is simply a metaphor for the way a person oughta walk. The Comforter asked them to go and sit with Lazarus and keep his head clear. She knew them personally and knew they’d go. She called others, too: Moses, Abraham, Elijah, Sarah, Obadiah, Haggai, John the Baptist. All of Granddaddy’s lambs. They’d come. She had no doubt. Jesus she placed at the door of the cell that no one would harm Lazarus again. Sure, weapons would form against him—they already had—but they wouldn’t prosper. That’s what The Comforter believed. That’s what God had promised her.