by Daniel Black
“Do any of you hang out in Buckhead?”
No one responded. They moped about like zombies in a horror movie.
“I’m trying to see if someone might’ve heard or seen something the day the rich white lady in Buckhead was killed.”
Again, nothing. A few shook their heads slightly, but no one spoke. They seemed drugged, Lazarus thought, devoid of consciousness and reason. Or perhaps they feared getting involved. The last thing a homeless person desires is public attention, although they live in public view. Most bore slumped postures, as if perpetually giving homage, and only now did Lazarus notice that everyone looked old. Graying, unkempt hair; haggard faces; disheveled clothes; sad, hard expressions. There was no youthfulness among them. Yet there were youths. Their eyes exposed them. A few had the sparkle, the glow, of adolescence, and Lazarus guessed them to be twenty or twenty-five. One young man, thin and bright eyed, made Lazarus chuckle. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one. His jet-black skin looked shellacked and buffed, as if waxed, and Lazarus wondered who in their right mind had forsaken this onyx beauty. Yet, from the looks of things especially among this group, a right mind was hard to come by. The young man sat on the sidewalk, alongside others, waiting for the shelter to open and to offer a few lucky ones a meal and a bed. He had already been inducted into the life of debauchery and begging. His long, narrow, crusted toes, encased in dirty white sneakers bound by masking tape, extended far past the edges of the shoes and made Lazarus think of bunched twigs. The young man’s blistered hands only confirmed what Lazarus suspected—he was one of them for life.
Most troubling was that no one appeared lucid. Haze lingered about them like clouds of semi-conscious mist from which they could not escape. Some were totally zoned out of reality, others murmured incoherently, and one or two stared as if they understood no English at all. Lazarus gave thanks that, in all his years on the street, his mind had never declined. At least not yet.
The vast majority of people sat far off, in an empty, garbage-strewn parking lot. They smoked all brands of cigarettes and drank the last bit of whiskey from discarded bottles. They certainly wanted food from the shelter, but they were content outdoors. Nice weather provided one less thing to beg for.
“Anybody hang out in Buckhead? Near the big Catholic church or Cheesecake Factory?”
Lazarus seemed to be talking to himself. Then a man said softly, “You the one they accused of killing that white woman, ain’t you?”
Lazarus nodded. The man nodded in return. There was no fear between them. Only recognition of mutual distrust of the world.
“I’m trying to find out whatever I can. Anything would help me out.”
A few turned away with regret. Yet the man and Lazarus forged an allegiance that would prove very helpful in the days to come.
“I go up there sometime. That big church serves dinners on Thursdays and Saturdays. They give meat.”
Lazarus understood. Most places only served soup or meatless spaghetti.
“Do you remember anything strange around the time that woman was killed? Like did you hear any rumors or see anything or anyone unusual?”
The man shook his head.
“There’s a big house on Andrews Avenue sorta looks like a castle. It has pinkish-lookin’ bricks with a circular driveway and—”
“I know the house.”
He stared at Lazarus, not meaning to be curt or impatient but simply to assure him they were in accord.
“Did some carpentry work a year ago or so for a family down the street.”
Lazarus’s countenance brightened. “Did you know the family that lives in the house I’m talkin’ about?”
He shook his head. “No. Used to see ’em sometime, though. Look like regular white folks to me.”
“Nothin’ weird or strange about ’em?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Lazarus turned, wiping his forehead.
“Well, except that I saw the man’s car one night over off of Metropolitan.”
“What’s strange about that?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “It was three o’clock in the morning.”
Lazarus frowned.
“Now of course everybody got a right to go wherever they want to. This is America. That’s what folks say. But ain’t nobody white got no business in that part of town after sundown. Am I right about it?”
“You right.”
They eyed each other.
“That’s all I know.”
“You sure it was him?”
The man smirked. “How many cars like that you see in Atlanta?”
Lazarus scoffed.
“I don’t know what he was doin’ over there, but it was him. Might not mean nothin’, but I guess that’s for you to figure out.”
Lazarus extended his right hand, and the man grabbed it quickly.
“What’s your name, brother?” Lazarus asked.
He released Lazarus’s hand. “Ain’t got no name. That way, you can’t never say I said nothin’.”
The man folded his arms and assumed the dazed expression of his peers. Lazarus turned and walked home. The information wasn’t much, but it was something. For now, it was all he had.
Chapter 31
While Lazarus met with Aaron, Cinderella and her team continued marching. Only one person had proved unreliable, but even she came half the time. No one complained or found their efforts useless. They enjoyed the attention, actually, and became more invested in the myth of the man than the man himself. Each day, the media camped out and reported on live TV that a protest had ensued over a poor, deranged—deranged?—black man’s fate. They asked questions to justify their own positions—“Isn’t it true that Lazarus might’ve been careless in going to the Duponts’ alone?” and “What do you think about black men’s historical desire for white women?”—and told the world that this case was the twenty-first-century O. J. Simpson trial. For the most part, protesters ignored them except when their fury boiled and they felt compelled to say things like “Just because Lazarus is homeless doesn’t mean he’s crazy!” and “How would you feel if someone accused you of a crime you didn’t commit? Huh?” The favor to Cinderella evolved into a demonstration for social justice as marchers watched media mold the ordeal into a squabble between the despicable and the desirable. Every inquiry implied an error on Lazarus’s part, as if his presence upon the earth were an intrusion. And marchers didn’t like it. They were not black, most of them, but they were poor and they knew the feeling of being reduced, in the public eye, to nothing. They’d never stood for a black man before, and now they witnessed what Cinderella called the Zero Coefficient of Negroes. She coined the term the day police assaulted all the black men she knew. Their expressions had left her wounded, jaded even, until she conceived an explanation for what really happened. Each swing of the billy club, accompanied by disgust and vehement disdain, sought to render Lazarus, Elisha, and Legion insignificant. Officers wanted them to disappear, to vanish out of sight, to discontinue occupying space in white folks’ consciousness. It was as if police hoped that they could drive black men, like a nail, into oblivion. Or at least abject silence and obedience. Either goal required black male thrashing, which police were more than willing to do, along with public passivity, which Cinderella and most of America had achieved so well. She’d never been so ashamed. And when marchers arrived and saw what she saw, their motive for participation changed from simple consent to active desire for a new social order. They knew it wouldn’t come overnight, but they also knew it wouldn’t come at all if they didn’t fight for it. So they marched like King, hoping their efforts proved as fruitful.
From the pocket of battered pink jeans Cinderella half-extracted the scarf with which to wipe her sweaty face, then quickly stuffed it deeper into the pocket, frustrated that she’d almost exposed her and Lazarus’s secret. And what exactly was the secret? Did the scarf mean Lazarus loved her? He hadn’t said that. But then why did he give it t
o her? He knew what she would assume. Which means it’s what he meant, right? Cinderella didn’t know and didn’t want to know. Too afraid of truth, she refused to ask Lazarus what he’d meant. She rather preferred the bliss of ambiguity. It allowed her space to construct her own theories and let her dream things that couldn’t possibly be real. All she needed, to believe in love, was a hint, a mere intimation of feelings, and she was convinced. To hell with knowing!
Once again, Legion provided lunch. It wasn’t as glorious as before, but it was food and the others were grateful. Pimento cheese sandwiches, tomato-lettuce-and-onion burgers, broken sugar cookies, two gallons of tap water. E apologized for the slight nature of the meal, but everyone assured em it was divine. It was certainly more than they had, they said.
Cinderella knew something was wrong. She saw it in es eyes. Usually they sparkled with confidence and pride, but today they were cloudy and moist, like air after a heavy rain. At first she said nothing, smiling the while, wanting not to expose Legion before the people, but after e disseminated the food she led em aside and whispered, “What is it, Legion?”
“What are you talking about?” E tried to frown, to throw her off es scent, but she wasn’t easily deceived.
“I know you, and you know me, so don’t lie,” she said sweetly, motherly, as Legion swallowed a heavy gulp of spit.
“I’m fine, Cinderella. Don’t worry about me. You have enough to handle right here.”
“Don’t push me away, Legion. You’re important to me.”
Vulnerability crept through es chest, but Legion suppressed it. “I told you I’m fine!” Es tone changed from kind to keen. “Just got a lot on my mind. Like all of us.”
She knew better, but she also knew that, if pushed hard enough, Legion might explode, so she touched es arm lightly and whispered, “I’m always here for you. Always. We’re family. You know that.”
Legion nodded. E wanted to apologize, but had e opened es mouth e feared that every thought in es head would’ve taken voice and betrayed em. So, turning abruptly, Legion escaped behind an abandoned warehouse and, muting a desperate cry, crumbled against a grainy outer wall. E’d wanted to tell Cinderella about last night, but e couldn’t. Shame begot silence, so e surrendered. E even approached The Upper Room but at the last minute turned and wandered Turner Field and Grant Park, watching crackheads beg for change or a touch. In a perfect world, e would’ve gathered them together, fed them, and granted them permission to love one another. But in this realm, all e could do was observe and hope it had been a good night.
It had not been for Legion. Aaron had requested that they meet and talk through a few things. Yes, he had taken the case because Legion had asked him to, and, yes, Aaron was thrilled that, somehow, Legion had found enough money to pay the retainer, but what about the rest? Before it was over, the cost would be three times the down payment.
“I understand,” Legion said. “I’ll find it somehow.”
Aaron didn’t believe em. “Listen, you’ll never come up with that kind of money. I know that, and so do you. But we’ll work something out. Something that works for both of us.”
Legion knew what Aaron meant, and, if it were the last thing on earth, e didn’t intend to pay that way.
“You can play like you love me. For starters.”
Legion studied his eyes to see if he was serious. There was no humor in them.
“And make love to me whenever I want.”
“I can’t do that. I already told you that.”
“Why can’t you? I keep asking, and you never answer me! You say some ole vague bullshit that don’t make any sense, and I’m supposed to be okay with that? After all I’m doing for you? Come on, man!”
They sat in Aaron’s car, with V-103 playing softly in the background. Legion knew e’d have to say something direct or concede to Aaron’s wishes. There was no other way.
“I’m really grateful for what you’re doing. I really am.”
Aaron wasn’t moved. He wanted something he’d dreamed of, and Legion didn’t know how to tell him e didn’t have it.
Suddenly Aaron kissed Legion sensually and slid his hand into the back of Legion’s jeans. Legion wanted to stop him, to say, No! I can’t!, but e needed him, so e let Aaron proceed. When, in an instant, he flipped Legion over and began fondling his backside, Legion locked palms around his privates and let Aaron have his way. Within minutes, he was on Legion’s back, doing what no man had ever done to him, while Legion’s screeching went unheard. Into his ear Aaron whispered, “Shhhhh. Just relax.” Legion tried to squirm enough to dissuade him, but Aaron’s thick, heavy torso disallowed resistance. Tears came and fell as Aaron satisfied himself. When he finished, he rolled back into the driver’s seat and said, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Aaron cleaned himself with a tissue from the glove compartment as Legion’s quivering hands jerked his pants up.
“You okay?”
Legion nodded and wiped murky eyes.
Aaron’s expression had softened into something human. “Hope I didn’t hurt you.”
“I’m fine,” Legion murmured.
Aaron offered Wrigley’s spearmint gum, but Legion denied it. All e wanted was to die.
Before exiting, Legion asked, “Does this make us even?”
Aaron stared and saw sorrow in Legion’s eyes. “No. It gets us started.”
“What would make it even?” A tinge of frustration laced Legion’s question.
Aaron blinked and glanced into the night. “For you to want it.”
Walking away, e noted that Aaron had never reached for Legion’s privates. Aaron didn’t want anything in front of Legion—only that which followed em, which had the capacity to envelop him and make him warm and secure. And all this time Legion had been shielding what the man didn’t even desire. That’s what hurt most—that Aaron didn’t really love em or want to know em. Aaron wanted, instead, a repository for his filth, a place into which he could transfer frustrations and dreams unfulfilled. Legion hated it. E’d been the garbage receptacle for the world—their curses, snares, frowns—and e didn’t want to be that for Aaron. E’d wanted to be Aaron’s companion, his trusted friend, his vulnerable lover, but, as always, e walked away bearing someone else’s grime.
That’s why Legion couldn’t go home. The Comforter would know. Cinderella would smell the residue of smut on em. Elisha would stare until Legion would have to explain something. And Lazarus would look with that sympathetic, fatherly gaze that would make Legion feel worst of all. It wouldn’t matter that e’d done it for him. For them. Only that no one would be proud if they knew, although they might be grateful. So e lingered from Capitol Avenue to Boulevard and back until the sun rose. Daylight allowed him to resume the façade of strength and unbreakable fortitude.
Yet Cinderella’s inquiry earlier that day deteriorated Legion’s pretense. E’d thought e could dismiss her, as usual, but es heart proved far more fragile than normal. Perhaps the consistency of the marchers softened Legion’s veneer, e thought, or maybe Cinderella’s touch cracked the walls of es heart. Whatever it was, e barely held the teary overflow before, safely out of sight, purging the nastiness Aaron had deposited within em. Legion couldn’t do this a lifetime. E knew that now. But could e do it long enough to get Lazarus free? E wasn’t so sure.
Chapter 32
Only a homeless man knows a sunset. Others are too consumed with tomorrow and the disappointments of today to watch God close His eyes and bed down for the night, but one with nothing and no worries can stand still and stare into the western sky as the sun creeps into the deep. It’s magical really, the disappearing sun, the fading of light from the earth in exchange for darkness. The sky goes from red to yellow to magenta to lilac to deep purple. Elisha stood atop the tallest hill in Piedmont Park, studying the handiwork of twilight. For twenty minutes he didn’t move, shuffle his feet, or cough. He simply stood still and watched the glory of the heavens be revealed. Everything and everyone else around seemed
obsessed with themselves—birds chirping in trees, squirrels scampering for nuts, men and women lost in each other’s deceitful eyes—and thus overlooked the majesty of sundown. But had they paused long enough to look into the sky, they might’ve seen a wondrous display of God’s imagination. At times, clouds looked like people or animals, then suddenly faded into shapeless things. The sky was God’s canvas, Elisha discovered, and only when all color disappeared could night fall.
He waltzed to the gazebo and waited. She’d said she’d come and he believed her. Elisha had an idea he hoped would further Lazarus’s case.
“Let me first thank you.”
Lizzie unwrapped the thin, transparent pastel scarf from her head and neck. One might’ve thought she was a Muslim prepared to make prayers. “There’s nothing to thank me for. I didn’t do anything.”