Listen to the Lambs

by Daniel Black

  Lazarus smirked. “What makes you think I can? I ain’t got nothin’ most black men ain’t got!”

  Moses shook his head. “You’re blind, brotha. You got everything. Everything you need.” He nodded confidently. “I hear it in your voice. You can think. You been to school. Most of these brothas can’t think, man. They can respond, but they can’t create. That’s the difference between you and them. You can imagine something that don’t exist; they can only see what already is. So they try to take shit they think they oughta have, and they end up in here. But that ain’t why you here. You here ’cause you bold enough to think you good as anybody else. You don’t need their shit! Hell, you don’t even want it!” Moses laughed at the realization. “And ain’t nothin’ more dangerous in America than a black man who knows he don’t owe nobody nothin’!”

  The guard returned and called, “Moses Johnson!”

  He scrambled to his feet. “Remember what I said, brotha Lazarus. Don’t let ’em get you. If you ain’t careful, they already have.”

  Chapter 10

  When Elisha turned the corner at McDaniel and Fletcher, his hope disintegrated. Most houses were boarded up and abandoned or filled with crack zombies too zoned to be of any earthly good. His house, or rather his mother’s house, or rather the house they’d rented, sat at the end of the block—a dead end next to a small field of weeds. Its sides slouched like the shoulders of a pouting child. The nice lady who’d saved him that day lived directly across the street and shared the field of weeds, which, far as Elisha knew, the city never cut. It was home, he remembered, to rats and other rodents that scampered throughout the neighborhood, as if they belonged there. Now, lost in nostalgia, Elisha surveyed each home and imagined the outcomes of those who once dwelled there.

  At the first house, nearest the corner, an old man once sat on the porch and smoked a pipe. Whiffs of weed wafted through the air as he exhaled. Children loved him although they never spoke to him. He had a gray Afro, Elisha recalled, and a long gray beard. He was a small man, thin and short, but his face bore a continuous frown, as if his soul was haunted by a painful memory. Mr. Weed Man, as they called him, looked aged and worn. He never entertained visitors, although he transacted lots of business. Folks met him on the porch, whispering and glancing over their shoulders, and soon dashed away. Far as Elisha knew, no one ever saw inside his house. It was either immaculate or filthy, people said, but no one could corroborate either way. As a kid, Elisha looked for him daily as a kind of spiritual guard over the neighborhood. Yet now he wasn’t there. He’s probably dead, Elisha thought. The windows of the house were covered with plywood, but the rocking chair remained, moving with the breeze. If Mr. Weed Man ever had a family, Elisha never saw them. All he recalled were rings of smoke rising like a halo higher, higher above the man’s head as he helped the hopeless get high.

  Most other houses sheltered single mothers with any number of children. At one point, the block rumbled with the feet of twenty or thirty brown kids skipping rope or shooting dice against the curb or playing basketball with a plastic milk crate nailed to a lamppost. At ages five and six, Elisha roamed, unsupervised, among them, longing, one day, to become the admired kid of the neighborhood. He never knew others’ names; they never knew his. But he recalled joyful faces screaming in both victory and defeat. He loved most watching one particular girl, with long pigtails, double-Dutch so precisely other girls screamed with delight and envy. Her legs moved with mechanical efficiency as ropes engulfed her in a womb of twine and youthful energy. Elisha remembered smiling as she twirled, often on one leg, barely avoiding ensuing ropes yet dancing all the while in victorious defiance. He wondered what happened to that girl. Surely she’d become something.

  The house in the middle of the block, the one painted sky blue with white shutters, was the only other house with a man. He was a mechanic, Elisha recalled, bearing a navy-blue uniform with his name etched in a white patch on the front. There was always some dilapidated vehicle resting sadly in his driveway. Saturdays found him beneath cars and trucks, with his legs sticking out, performing surgical magic on vehicles that never should’ve run again. But, after weeks, he’d lower the automobiles, hoisted upon cinder blocks and other makeshift jacks, and drive them away as others marveled with disbelief. The other thing for which he’d been known was his unmitigated willingness to beat his sons. They were young teenagers then, and they could be heard screeching with each strike of a belt or two-by-four or steel pipe or whatever instrument the man grabbed. Neighborhood women praised his behavior as that of a good, caring father. Kids feared him. Whatever his faults, the family went to church every Sunday morning, rain or shine, and those boys never spent one night in jail. So however tough he was—black people didn’t use the word abusive back then—his children’s obedience seemed to justify his means.

  Elisha stood before the man’s house. It was one of two that appeared occupied. It was a different color now, some strange, depressing shade of brown. A decent-looking ’97 Ford Taurus sat in the rear of the driveway and an older-model BMW squatted in front of it. The BMW was clearly out of commission. All tires were gone and body parts rusted badly. It had obviously been sitting for years, deteriorating in its abandonment. Elisha wanted to knock on the door, just to see if the man still lived there, but if he did, what would Elisha say? The man wouldn’t remember him, and when he asked Elisha what he wanted he wouldn’t have an answer. So he moved on.

  Closer to his and his mother’s house, which wasn’t their house, Elisha remembered a woman called Flossy. Her ostentatious attire drew attention every time she left home, and grown people said she should be ashamed of herself for living that way. Her makeup was always excessive—sky-blue eye shadow covered the entire area between her brows and lashes, ruby-red lipstick clashed with beige foundation applied so heavily she looked dead—but children loved her. She loved them, too. Having none of her own, she thought of others’ kids as hers once removed and treated them that way. Sometimes she’d return in the evenings or early mornings with shopping bags of clothes and school supplies bought specifically for individual children. She was perceptive that way. She could tell a child’s size simply by looking at him, and she reprimanded kids for poor grades, especially if they played outside on school nights.

  If she returned during the day, children would run to greet her and receive peppermint balls or spearmint gum along with tight, intimate hugs. Miss Flossy had no inhibitions, and that’s what children loved about her. Adults warned them to leave her alone, not to assume her worldly ways, but her freedom hypnotized like the sweet aroma of a rising pound cake. Kids surrendered to it willingly. She called Elisha her pretty boy, and he remembered the overbearing scent of her perfume, lingering in the air like smoke. She was far older than she looked, adults enjoyed saying, pointing out the layers of flabby flesh gathered at her neck and the crow’s-feet framing her eyes. Still, children adored her. Elisha didn’t care for the candy—he was never one for sweets—but he craved her touch, and now he would’ve sacrificed days of his life to know it again.

  Her house had apparently caught fire. It was striped in black char and all its charm, the pretty floral curtains and green plants that once stood at every window and door, was gone. Elisha walked onto the porch and, with hands cupped around his eyes, peered into the living room window. Everything was disarrayed, as if she’d been robbed. The off-white furniture was marred and torn, and the hardwood floors, once brilliant and dust-free, were half-burnt and rotting. Elisha hoped she hadn’t died in the fire, but if she had, she was certainly in heaven. If she wasn’t, there was no heaven at all.

  Without hesitation, Elisha returned to the sidewalk and pressed his way to the house he remembered so well. The small yard was overgrown, as was the field beside it, and white paint peeled from the siding of the house as if it were shedding one coat for another. For the most part, it had not changed. It was a small house—three bedrooms but really two, a tiny kitchen, a medium-sized living room, a bath and
a half—that really should’ve been condemned before Elisha and his mother moved in. The plumbing rarely worked, there was no air conditioner, most of the windows lacked screens, and the carpet was soiled and stained. It emitted a putrid odor reminiscent of indoor cats and dogs with no litter boxes. He and his mother had taken the house because it was cheap, Elisha believed, and in their desperation they made no demands. No one in the neighborhood ever entered their home, as far as he knew, except the nice lady across the street who’d saved him that day.

  And when he beheld her house, his eyes smiled. There it was, newly painted white, like a little throne of heaven. Golden marigolds stood guard along the walkway, leading from the street to the front door. The lawn, yellowy green from a scorching sun, was freshly mowed and even, like a black boy’s recent flattop fade. Staked rosebushes stood on either side of the door, although there were no blooms. Flowers had apparently come early that year, and they did not stay. A small weeping willow, which Elisha did not remember, slumped as if on punishment in the far right corner of the yard. Its limbs sagged and swayed with sadness. It looked forlorn, as if bearing the weight of the community’s decline. Beneath it, circling the base of the trunk, green and white hostas attempted to lift its spirit by waving boldly with the least summer breeze. All in all, life had abandoned the neighborhood except for this place. Elisha nodded, encouraged. There was still hope.

  He approached the front door and suddenly thought to look in the mail holder. This was a violation, certainly, but he needed to know the woman’s name. The metal box was filled with junk stuff: newspaper excerpts, wax sheets of coupons, official-looking business envelopes, and personal cards addressed to Miss Harriet DeQueen. That was her name. He’d never known it before, but that must be it. He stared at the words, etching each letter into his fragile brain. One of the envelopes had been sent from the Division of Family and Children Services. She worked for them; he remembered that. That’s why she’d come that day. To see if, directly across the street, a child shivered in distress. He’d lived in foster care from age five to sixteen, when he checked out and never returned. He recalled social workers casing him at one location or another, scrutinizing parents as if they too were children. He stuffed everything back into the mailbox and repeated her name: “Harriet DeQueen.” He needed to find Miss Harriet DeQueen.

  Chapter 11

  At the merger of Abernathy and Cascade, Cinderella waited for the weekly Kroger delivery truck, which brought boxes of items someone would spend hours unpacking. It was the boxes she needed, having conceived an idea she hoped would work. It had worked fifty years prior, so, yes, it could work again. She had committed to the idea anyway, so, in her mind, there was no turning back.

  The truck arrived later than usual. Cinderella roamed the parking lot, rethinking the stages of her plan, trying to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. It was a bold idea, she knew, one that involved many risks, but Lazarus’s freedom demanded it. Surely folks would criticize her, a white woman, for spearheading such a thing, but in her heart Cinderella didn’t mind. If the attention helped the cause of Lazarus, her Lazarus, it would be worth it. She simply needed ten or twelve others to stand with her and declare their rights as American citizens. Homeless didn’t mean “non-American,” did it?

  As the truck approached, she followed it to the rear of the store and waited, off to the side, as three young men unloaded, then emptied boxes and tossed them aside. Cinderella flattened as many as she could carry and scurried toward home. She’d need a black marker, too, but one thing at a time, she told herself. Halfway down Cascade, the boxes became heavy, slipping through her weary hands, and she stopped long enough to readjust them. Sweat drenched her dusty gray forehead, but she wasn’t discouraged. This was all part of the price. This was what it meant to stand with someone in need. Sure. She nodded. She understood. There was no other choice. Of course she would stand. The prospect made more sense as she thought about it. It felt right, righteous, complete. There was no doubt, no hesitation, no second-guessing. She smiled. It had been a long time since she’d felt needed, significant, vital. In some ways, as she carried those bulky flat boxes, her life gained new meaning, new importance, and nothing could make her compromise the mission. Not now. Plus, if she did it right, perhaps Lazarus’s eyes might be opened and he’d see her for who she really was and he’d realize who had loved him all along.

  She passed Q-Time Restaurant on her right and rested in the vacant lot on the corner of Abernathy and Lawton. Only now did she count the boxes—ten in total, so she’d make twenty signs. She’d need fifty sticks, too, but that wouldn’t be a problem. Sticks were everywhere. She thought of going into Long John Silver’s and asking for a cup of water, but the stares and possible refusal might dampen her spirit, so she swallowed hard, gathered up the boxes, and pressed on. Sometimes when she asked for water in such places people raised their voices and denied her, as if they’d made the water themselves and couldn’t believe she wanted it for free. The last time that happened, Cinderella considered how funny it was that now blacks refused her belligerently when only a few years ago they would’ve served her in wretched silence.

  She rested again at Howell Park, the little playground across from Willie A. Watkins Funeral Home. Her breathing had become heavy and labored. The battered sneakers she’d found weeks earlier were her greatest comfort, although they clashed violently with the thin candy-striped pants that now clung to her moist legs. Her shirt, a large man’s button-down, was more burgundy than red, and it, too, dripped with sweat, beneath the armpits and down the center of the back. She’d stopped wearing bras years ago, both from an inability to find them and from recognition that she didn’t need them. The last she’d owned, a 32 B, she hadn’t filled, so once it faltered she saw no need to continue suffocating what little she had. Most couldn’t tell anyway. Her shirts were always men’s shirts, simply because of comfort and abundant supply, and even the women’s blouses she found were usually for those far bustier than her. Her mother had been petite, as had her grandmother, so regardless of diet, there was no expansion of flesh. It was the only gift Cinderella believed God had given her.

  Parched with thirst and practically spent of strength, she nestled the boxes beneath her arms once again and headed toward home. She’d have to stop somewhere else along the way and conjure power to proceed, but she wouldn’t quit. She couldn’t. This was her one chance and she meant to make good of it.

  Walking through the parking lot of the Mall West End, she found a half-full bottle of Dasani water and, refusing to care whose lips had touched it, gulped it down as if Jesus had drawn it from a living well. It was warm and slightly salty, but it was wet and satisfying, so she received it as a heavenly blessing. She dropped the plastic bottle where she found it and wiped her mouth against her sleeve. The water, in microscopic streams, massaged her throat and restored her energy. She was grateful. Now she knew she could make it home.

  Mounting Lazarus’s slope, she dropped the boxes midway, and they slid to the street below. Cinderella huffed and retrieved them, a few at a time, until they lay beside Lazarus’s bed. Against her better judgment, she reclined and panted until her breathing eased. She’d meant simply to rest a moment, then go in search of a black marker, but exhaustion ushered her into a deep, lulling sleep. Within moments, she was standing tall, dressed in a long white gown, surrounded by admirers who applauded excitedly. The occasion wasn’t clear, but her beauty was. That’s the life she should’ve had. Yet, for now, she settled for the illusion. The place was decorated in crimson and cream, her favorite colors, and, as she walked, the crowd parted as if afraid someone’s touch might tarnish her. It was the shoes they admired most, those sparkling red heels her father had given her that, now, hoisted a queen. And the people never stopped clapping. They were spellbound, entranced, trembling with admiration. She surveyed the room, and from every direction shouts of praise lingered in the air. Women wept in wonder. Men bowed in deference. All conceded her insufferable sp
lendor, her magnificence so glorious they couldn’t stop staring. Her mother was there, too, beaming with pride and delight. Cinderella hadn’t seen her since the funeral, so seeing her now, cheerful and ecstatic, healed wounds unspoken and reminded her just how much she’d adored her mother. Again, Cinderella didn’t know why people had gathered and why she was the center of attention, but she loved it all the same. The Family was there, too—Elisha, Legion, The Comforter—clad not in others’ hand-me-downs, but in brand-new blazers and dresses that made them look like different people, important people, desirable people whom the world respected. Lazarus’s absence felt curious, but Cinderella refused to compromise the joy of the moment. Then suddenly, along with the crowd, she saw him, standing regal and secure in the corner of the room. His appearance elicited “oohs” and “ahs.” As he stepped forward finally, she discerned the occasion. His black, long-tailed tuxedo coat fell gracefully from broad, strong shoulders, and as he moved she moved toward him until, without touching, they stood face-to-face. Extending his right hand, Lazarus bowed slightly, and Cinderella laid a delicate, gloved left hand upon it. Then with Lazarus’s left he encircled her waist as her right hand rested upon his shoulder, and together, in harmonious synchronicity, they waltzed to a love ballad whose title she didn’t know, although the melody she couldn’t forget. Without beard or locks, Lazarus looked almost childlike, thin and clean-faced, but no less mesmerizing. He danced with the grace of an elegant black swan, smooth and easy, fluid and supple. She followed with equal skill, mimicking each movement as if Lazarus danced with a mirrored self. And while their beauty overwhelmed, it was their choreography that rendered the crowd speechless. She and Lazarus were one soul. Inseparable. Several inches shorter than Lazarus, Cinderella peered up and into his golden eyes, which never left hers, and without the limitation of language they promised to love forever. When Lazarus lowered his head for a kiss, the rumbling roar of an 18-wheeler dissolved the dream and awakened the would-be queen.