by Daniel Black
“I’m sorry to ask this of you, but someone I love, a dear family member, is in serious trouble.”
They asked what precisely she needed.
“I need you to stand with me in protest of his misguided arrest.” They didn’t understand, so she relayed details until things became clear. “We’re gonna picket the precinct at Pryor Street until we gather enough attention to put the city on guard. It’s the only way he’ll be treated fairly. Otherwise, he’ll drown in the system.”
They nodded.
“I know you don’t know him, but he’s a wonderful man. And he’s innocent. I swear. And, really, that’s the point. It’s just the right thing to do.”
A few touched her hand and shoulder, aware that although she was fighting for justice, she was also fighting for someone she loved.
The pretty lace scarf rested in her pant pocket. She began to extract it, prepared to tell them everything—even the part the police didn’t know—then she reneged, deciding not to burden her friends with her own personal baggage.
“We wanna meet every morning at eight. I know it’s a lot to ask, but this is so important!”
Her pleading proved pointless, since most acquiesced without a struggle. Those who frowned gave in after discovering they were the minority. Cinderella distributed awkwardly shaped pieces of cardboard and asked each protester to create his or her own caption. Some asked for more details that they might be clearer about the injustice at hand and thus protest sincerely instead of merely as a favor to a friend. Cinderella appreciated their authenticity. After the exchange, they transferred their anger onto homemade placards, each with its own creative twist: “FREE LAZARUS NOW!,” “EVERY MAN IS A MAN!,” “JUSTICE FOR THE HOMELESS!,” “POOR DOESN’T MEAN CRIMINAL!,” “BLACK DOESN’T MEAN GUILTY!,” “LAZARUS IS A HUMAN BEING!,” “NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE!,” “INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN OTHERWISE!,” “EVERY AMERICAN DESERVES HONOR!,” and “LOVE IS NOT A COLOR!” This final sign excited Cinderella most. Regardless of Lazarus’s outcome, it had been her lifetime motto. She’d said it to The Family, over and again, and she would continue saying it, she declared in her soul, until her dying day.
“Thank you. All of you. This means so much.”
Participants then bored small holes in the top and bottom of the cardboard and ran six-inch pieces of string through each hole and around the sticks Cinderella provided. Thereafter, they hoisted signs in the air. She nodded approval. She’d collect signs each night, she said, and redistribute in the mornings. That way, signs wouldn’t disappear or get damaged. The protestors agreed. Then, one by one, they said good-bye and vanished underground.
The man left last, hoping to spend time with Cinderella and perhaps birth something between them. All she spoke about, however, in dreamily sensual language, was this man named Lazarus whom apparently she adored. The white man listened, more out of respect than interest, as Cinderella constructed images of a black superhero anyone would revere. Her admiration for Lazarus increased the man’s admiration for her until an impending erection left him aroused though disappointed. She’d never be his. He knew that now. Even if she didn’t get Lazarus, she wouldn’t want anyone else. So he left her, basking in thoughts about a black man whose freedom was her only desire. The shriveling of his heart went unnoticed.
Cinderella knew the black woman from a church they once attended. She remembered her name because it sounded like a title: Empress. She was head of the Saturday-morning Feed the Homeless effort, and, back then, Cinderella had been a desperate recipient. For weeks, with head bowed, she’d extended the plastic bowl and the lady had filled it with watery tomato or chicken soup. One rainy Saturday morning, Empress suspended the dripping ladle and asked, “What’s your name, baby?” Cinderella didn’t answer, assuming Empress to be addressing someone else. However, like a loving mother, she repeated the question: “Honey? You. What’s your name?” With no hiding place, Cinderella looked up and into the woman’s eyes. They were droopy but not disconsolate. She was a pretty woman, Cinderella thought, short and round like a barrel with an evenly cropped Afro and large hoop earrings. Empress smiled as if she knew her, so Cinderella brightened and murmured sweetly, “Cinderella.” From the rough whisper of her voice one could’ve thought she’d been silent a lifetime. Empress repeated the name with the same sweetness: “Cinderella.” Then added, “How majestic.” That’s all she said. Cinderella proceeded, looking back continuously at the woman who kept looking at her. It was strange, Cinderella thought, that the woman had said majestic. What exactly had she meant? The word applied to royalty, didn’t it? Cinderella knew that much. Had the woman meant to mock her? Surely not! Her tone wasn’t belittling. In fact, she’d said it with such elegance, such unsolicited grace, that Cinderella recorded the voice in her memory and replayed it on trying days. In weeks to come, she and Empress—her friends called her The Empress—became acquainted and chatted like girlfriends, relieved to have found laughter again and overjoyed that their lives had intersected. Like the women at the shelter, Empress promised Cinderella her loyalty if ever she needed it. The day police beat Lazarus unconscious, Cinderella replayed Empress’s declaration—Cinderella! How majestic!—and knew she had a reliable ally.
Monday morning, protesters met beneath the bridge for final preparations and instructions. Things could get violent, Cinderella warned, although she didn’t think they would, and regardless of officials’ desire to suppress protesters’ effort, she reminded the group of its constitutional right to assemble. The indigents were clear. And, Cinderella continued, no one could promise this would work. They understood. All potential risks had been considered.
Except the one in Cinderella’s heart. How in the world would Lazarus know what she was doing? Of course whether he knew wasn’t supposed to matter, but it did. Surely if he saw her now, Cinderella surmised, he’d love her. He’d think of all the people who’d been good to him, who’d stood loyal in tough times, and she’d lead the list. But how, sitting in a jail cell, would he know of her actions? Could he hear the commotion from there? Or would some nice policeman—nice policeman?—tell him about a group of derelict women who marched the sidewalk, demanding his freedom? Cinderella didn’t know. She had no answers. Her plan rested upon mere possibilities, which, even if realized, didn’t mean he’d love her. He’d thank her, surely, for her sacrifice and tell her how central she’d been to his release—if he got released—but none of this translated into what Cinderella wanted. Even she wasn’t sure where her sense of social justice ended and her love for Lazarus began. She would’ve protested had she had no feelings for him at all. That’s what she believed. That’s what she tried to believe. Treating people fairly, regardless of difference, was a conviction she lived by. Yet she didn’t know if she’d have been so diligent without the yearning in her heart. Was that wrong?
Cinderella distributed respective picket signs and led marchers to the Zone 5 police precinct at Underground. Midway, Empress began singing “Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Round!” Others joined in once they learned the words: “I’m gonna keep on walkin’, keep on talkin’, marchin’ up to freedom land!” By the time they arrived, everyone knew the song and was singing full throttle. Most pedestrians never noticed, except a few who found them exotic, until protesters hoisted signs and began marching in a circle. Then, a crowd gathered, pointing and frowning at what appeared to be a legitimate, organized protest.
Just as before, policemen burst through precinct doors. “What the hell’s going on here?” one shouted to no one in particular.
Marchers held their ground. Fright stiffened a few, but they never broke stride. Policemen shuffled forward, reading slogans aloud.
“Oh! So that’s what this is all about!” They waved dismissively and reentered the building.
“We won’t go away!” Cinderella yelled, proud that, in the moment, her tongue could not be pacified. “We’ll come back every day until someone takes us seriously!” The last thing she wanted was a confrontation, but offi
cials needed to know that she and her comrades meant business.
“I don’t give a fuck what y’all do!” a lean white officer huffed in a heavy southern drawl, “long as you stay out of my goddamn way!” Rage seethed in his eyes. Cinderella said nothing more. Within seconds, he was gone.
Each hour brought more attention until, somewhere around noon, marchers noticed reporters interviewing bystanders. Cinderella and the others looked about as their adrenaline increased. Soon media mobiles arrived and pandemonium erupted. Camera personnel, along with reporters and news anchors, hurried about, fighting to be the first to break this obviously original story. Cinderella shouted to the circle, “Stay focused! Don’t let them distract you! This is the attention we want! But remember it’s about Lazarus—not us!” They nodded and Empress led them in “We Shall Overcome.” Their voices were neither harmonious nor melodious, but they were full of conviction and compassion. Cinderella wept as her vision came to pass.
“Black and white together!” Empress screeched, and the others repeated, “Black and white together now! Deep in our hearts, we do believe, we shall overcome someday!” She created other verses, more germane to the immediate cause: “Lazarus must be free! Lazarus must be free! Lazarus must be free … today! Oh, deep in our hearts, we do believe, Lazarus must be freed today!” Marchers didn’t care what they sounded like. They’d become part of something important, something historical, something the nation would remember forever. Their only concern was making their message clear.
“Free Lazarus now! Free Lazarus now!” they chanted between songs. Cinderella wondered if somehow he heard the uproar. At times, she glanced up at the upper windows of the jail, mere slits in concrete slabs, hoping he was watching or at least listening as his name billowed from their souls. She wasn’t even sure he was there. Perhaps they’d moved him to some maximum-security facility for murderers. Oh well, she thought. She’d come too far to turn back now.
A reporter from Channel 2 approached the circle and shouted, “Who’s the organizer here?”
Anxious eyes glanced toward Cinderella. She’d hoped not to garner personal notoriety, but it seemed inevitable.
“Can we speak with you, ma’am?” he asked, followed by crewmen on either side.
She waved them away, trying hard not to break the continuity of the circle.
“Just for a moment. We wanna get this right! What is this about? Who is this man to you?”
Empress said, “Go on and talk to them. It can’t hurt. Might even help. They’ll make stuff up if you don’t.”
Cinderella broke stride and stepped aside. The media were hungry for something sensational, but she worked hard to keep them centered.
“Is this man of special interest to you?”
“He’s a human being who’s done nothing wrong! He deserves fair treatment!”
“How do you know him?”
“How does that matter? It’s about justice! And fighting for the rights of the poor.”
“Why are you so sure he’s innocent?’
“Because I know him! I know the kind of man he is. And I know he would never do something like that. Never!”
“Do you know where Mr. Love was the night of the murder?”
“Yes, I do! He was with me.” Suddenly she heard the implication. “And the rest of The Family.”
“What do you hope to gain from this demonstration?”
“Awareness! Fairness! I want him to have the same chance as anyone else in this country. Black men usually don’t get that.”
The reporter wrote frantically. “And how long do you plan to keep this up?”
“Long as we need to!”
She resumed marching as other questions drifted into the atmosphere. Media swarmed now, snapping pictures and talking to people who had absolutely no personal interest in the case. Shortly after one o’clock, marchers paused for a short break. They were tired but exhilarated. Whether this freed Lazarus or not, their faith in the idea had been made whole.
Out of nowhere Legion appeared, carrying a large, open cardboard box. “Girl, don’t you ever doubt my love for you!” e teased, resting the carton in the center of protesters.
Everyone gawked. Cinderella asked, “What’s this?” peeking into the container as if she weren’t supposed to.
Legion wiped sweat from es brow and huffed, “Shit! What you think it is? Y’all gotta eat somethin’, chile! Marchin’ in this hot-ass sun all damn day!”
The “ooohs” and “ahs” elicited Legion’s smile. Marchers scrambled through the box, extracting homemade turkey and ham sandwiches, LAY’s potato chips, and cold cans of Big K soda.
“I could only get cola and grape, so I hope everybody drinks that.” E winked at Cinderella.
Thank you, she mouthed, restraining tears. They hugged and held tightly. Into es ear she whispered, “I’ll never forget this.”
“Neither will he.”
“You’re the only family I have.”
“We’re the only family we need.”
Upon release, Legion said, “You’re all right with me, girl—even if you are white!” They cackled together. Then, to the group, he added, “Help yourselves. I gotta go!”
To es sashaying rear they shouted sincere thank-yous. Legion’s head swayed with deep personal satisfaction. This would be one of only two times e ever felt truly important. The other was about to come.
Chapter 22
Doubt dwarfs imagination. It eats away at ideas from the inside out, leaving only hollow possibilities and vague notions of once-revolutionary thoughts. This The Comforter discovered as she wrote the note to connect, or reconnect, the third and fourth Lazaruses. Finding the boy hadn’t been difficult—how many Lazarus Loves could there be?—but choosing what to write, what might move son closer to father, proved nerve-racking. Sometimes words sat on the page lazily, doing no work at all, and other times the tone droned along with absolutely no power to heal. Never the two in transformative harmony. Countless drafts forced her to settle upon Your father’s in trouble. Only you can save him. He needs you now. And he’s sorry. The final sentence she added as an afterthought, an invitation to mend a breach borne far too long. She’d left it in his mailbox, at 2412 Windsor Street in Buckhead. He’d bought the house not because he liked it, but because he believed, in his venomous heart, that it insulted a father who’d left him with nothing. Too angry to love, Quad found himself alone with Hatred as his only companion. Occasionally Lizzie brought the kids by, a boy and a girl, who adored their uncle’s grumpy though playful nature, but, otherwise, he brooded in silence, unable to purge what his mother promised would one day kill him.
The note lay folded in a business envelope with Quad’s name drawn in calligraphic letters across the front. That’s what caught his attention, the remarkable penmanship, written in a style so ancient it appeared out of time. When he read the words, he didn’t shudder or curse. He simply smirked and returned the note to the envelope. But he couldn’t forget it. All day, he extracted it and read it again and again, as if the next read might miraculously say something different. By nightfall, his spirit was totally consumed with his father’s future. He’d dreamed for years of beating the bastard, of screaming in his face about all the pain he’d carried, but now all Quad wanted was for the man to be all right. Quad cursed himself for being unable to hate him. “Shit!” he mumbled all night until, staring at the rising sun, he, too, rose and received the invitation to a new life.
He knew where his father was. Quad had read the paper and seen news blasts. He also knew his father hadn’t written the note. Lazarus’s penmanship was awkward and unsure, like that of a child just learning to write. Still, Quad felt the urgency, the fullness of his father’s need, so he knew the note represented the man’s heartfelt sentiment. But after all these years, why didn’t he simply let things be? Quad had found a groove, a comfortable rut, a deep hole in which to dwell, and, for all intents and purposes, this note had come to destroy it. He’d channeled Hatred into a tai
lored suit and worn it, whether out or at home, until it became his everyday attire. The morning he prepared to see his father again, it didn’t fit the way it once did. Jacket sleeves too short, shoulders too tight. Pants gathered in his crack far short of his shoes. “Dammit!” he murmured, and traded the worn, ragged suit for new black slacks and a baby-blue and black polka-dot shirt that Lizzie and the kids had given him. He’d never worn these before and he promised he wouldn’t again. His aim was to have the original suit adjusted for the weight he’d obviously gained but refused to recognize.
In the shower, he considered his opening line: Where the hell … No, that was too dramatic. It suggested he cared. I’m only here because … No, Lazarus wouldn’t believe that. If Quad hadn’t wanted to come, he wouldn’t have. His father knew that. Quad decided, instead, to stare his angst. Yes, that would work. Lazarus would be forced to decipher his son’s emotions, to figure out what twenty years of neglect feels like, and surely everything he considered would be correct. Lazarus would be confused and unsure, guilty and lost—everything Quad had been—and perhaps he’d know, finally, the cost of his decision all those years ago. It was spiteful, Quad knew, and although this was the last thing his father needed, it was the first thing the son believed he deserved.