A Million Blessings

by Angela Benson

  Thelma adjusted one of her hairpins. “Everywhere but in my house. You know the Bible says a woman’s hair is her crowning glory.”

  “I guess some people have big crowns and other people have smaller tiaras,” India said. “And my hair is only a little shorter than Mama’s.”

  Thelma sat down at her desk and begin to divide stacks of papers. “That’s because my sister thinks she’s your age. One of these days she’ll realize that’s not the case.”

  Thelma slid her divided papers into colored file folders and moved to another stack on the assembly line known as her desk. Her mother was extremely organized, a trait that Dara had inherited and learned to perfect by watching her mother.

  Because the funeral business was integrated into the lives of the Knight family, Dara and James were expected to take care of their business—including homework and household chores—without constant prompting. Their mother made sure she handled that aspect of their lives, and the Reverend Hunter J. Knight ran a tight religious ship and made sure the family stayed financially secure. Whenever they questioned either of their parent’s actions, they were met with immediate discipline. Most things didn’t have an explanation other than, “Because I said so.”

  Dara untangled the ribbons of the balloons that had started to wrap themselves around each other despite her best efforts to keep them straight. “Where’s the birthday girl?”

  “She’s in the Peace Chapel watching a movie with Kendrick.”

  Dara lifted her eyebrows. “In the Peace Chapel? Is it empty?”

  “No,” her mother said, “but something’s wrong with the DVD player in the back office so I let them go in there.”

  Dara had to admit it. Their family was a bit strange. India didn’t realize why it seemed so odd, and Dara hesitated to tell her. And she definitely wouldn’t let India see it for herself.

  Chapter 6

  The funeral home’s viewing rooms had been named according to some of the fruits of the spirit. During recent upgrades to the services the funeral home provided, James decided it would be a nice idea to compose for the families a photo DVD that would commemorate the lives of the deceased. After a tug of war between James and his father, Hunter had finally given in, and James proudly added flat screen televisions to each viewing room. And Kendrick and Amber were enjoying the feature. In the company of a deceased body.

  “I’ll go and get them,” Dara volunteered.

  India stood up. Dara knew India couldn’t wait to see her youngest cousins in the family. It had been Christmas since she’d been to Augusta because her mother, Dara’s Aunt Latrice, found an excuse to travel to Atlanta frequently. She’d come more often if India could tolerate her in larger doses.

  “You might want to wait here,” Dara informed India with a knowing chuckle.

  India plopped back down in the seat and crossed her legs. “I don’t know why, but I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Smart decision,” Dara said.

  She walked out of the administrative offices and turned down the first hall on the left. She could hear the animated music for the kids’ movie immediately. It was loud enough to drown out that horribly depressing music that her father insisted be played at all times on the surround sound stereo system.

  Sure enough, Kendrick and Amber had company in the room with them. From the name placard on the outside of the door, it was Mr. Lloyd Persimmons.

  Dara stood back from the door and watched them. Kendrick looked up periodically between the movie and his handheld video game, pausing occasionally so he could recite the lines from the movie verbatim.

  He’s seen this movie way too many times, Dara thought, wondering what creative mastermind had come up with the personalities of the sarcastic and sometimes crude talking donkey and his best friend, the green ogre.

  Dara looked at her niece. Amber looked like her parents had given her the liberty to style her own hair that morning. When given the choice, she liked it to fly free instead of being tamed in ponytails. And fly it did. Some sandy brown tresses in one direction and some in another. Her creative expression would last only until it was time for the party. Dara’s sister-in-law, Demetris, would make sure of that.

  “Is somebody in here having a birthday?”

  Amber jumped to her bare feet and seemed to go airborne as she flew into Dara’s arms and latched her arms around Dara’s neck.

  Dara stumbled backward a few steps, surprised at how much force a forty-something pounder could muster. “You know you’re getting too old to do that, right?”

  “Auntie Dara, you’re too funny.” Amber’s feet dangled a few inches from the floor.

  Dara eased her niece to the floor and kissed her on the forehead. She took her hand and smoothed down the bang that was standing at attention in the middle of her niece’s head. Dara could tell she was spending a lot of time outside, because the sun had already kissed her usually pale skin to warm bronze.

  “Uh. Excuse me?” Dara said to Kendrick.

  “Hold on for a second, Auntie. I want to get to the end of this level. I’ve never gotten this far before,” Kendrick said. He chewed on his bottom lip in concentration.

  Dara looked down and noticed that Amber’s toenails were painted bubble gum pink. Dara was relieved James wasn’t as conservative as her father. Dara was thirteen before she’d been allowed to paint her nails, and even then it had to be clear or a very sheer color.

  “Where are your shoes, little lady?”

  “Over there,” Amber said, then skipped over to get her sparkly pink jelly shoes from the corner near the casket. “Aunt Dara,” she said, casually, “did you know that man’s not even sleeping? He’s dead.”

  “As a matter of fact he is,” Dara said, figuring that Amber was finally maturing to the age that she could define death, even if she didn’t completely understand it. Kendrick had been around the same age when he realized the bodies he sometimes saw in the embalming room weren’t asleep, either.

  “Aww, man,” Kendrick howled. She sprawled out on his back on the floor, making an X with his husky limbs. He let his handheld game fall to his side, then slapped his hands over his eyes.

  “That was the debacle of the decade.”

  Dara shook her head, wondering what other nine-yearold tossed around vocabulary words like that.

  Once Kendrick’s short-lived disappointment was over, he came to hug Dara, and she walked back to the office sandwiched between her niece and nephew. Her father and brother were there to welcome her.

  “What’s up with you sneaking up here, Cookie?” her dad said.

  “She came for my birthday party,” Amber proudly announced.

  “I don’t blame her,” Hunter, Sr. said, picking up his granddaughter as if she were still in diapers. “It’s the event of the century.”

  Amber scratched her temple.

  “Duh,” Kendrick said. “A century is the same as a hundred years.”

  James slipped his daughter’s sandals on her feet. “It’s a very long time,” he said to Amber. “It’s how long your mama is going to be mad at me if I don’t get home and start getting you ready for your party.”

  Hunter, Sr. passed his granddaughter off to his son. In their minds, Amber was still a baby, and it wasn’t anything to see them haul her around while she sat in the crook of their forearms like it was her personal cushioned throne.

  “And please make sure she looks like she was born into the Knight family and not into a flock of roosters,” Thelma said, using her hands to brush back the hair budding out like weeds around Amber’s hairline.

  “That’s your aunt,” Dara said to India.

  “But it’s your mama,” India said.

  James picked up his keys and waited for his kids to round up their stray belongings. “Do me a favor on the way to the house,” he told Dara. “Stop by that convenience store that’s across the street from the BP gas station and get a salted pickle. Don’t ask me why, but Demetris loves those things from there.”


  Hunter, Sr. looked at his watch. “You better hurry up and get in there before the gamblers get off work. They’ll have the line so backed up spending their money on lottery tickets that you can’t half get in the door.”

  India cleared her throat and cut her eyes at Dara. She placed her hands where no one could see and ran one index finger on top of the other. Shame, shame, her fingers signaled.

  By the mischievous look on India’s face Dara knew her cousin was about to stir up some trouble.

  Chapter 7

  “That’s a shame, isn’t it, Uncle H?” India pushed. “Buying lottery tickets.”

  “A crying shame. And you can get it from the saints and the ain’ts.”

  Dara knew she was standing on the edge of the line that she knew better than to cross. Why not? India had already started something.

  “Daddy, what would you do if one of your church members won the lottery and wanted to pay their tithes and offerings?”

  “My church members wouldn’t play the lottery,” Hunter, Sr. said, protecting his flock.

  There were other things Dara’s father thought his church members wouldn’t do, but Dara had seen some stuff with her own eyes. Deacon Troy shouldn’t have been lighting up cigarettes, but Dara had seen one dangling from his lips on more than one occasion when he didn’t know anyone was looking. Once he was supposed to be out behind the church washing the church van, but he’d also been taking a smoke break. He’d come back inside the fellowship hall sucking a peppermint and with breath that smelled as if he’d swallowed an entire bottle of mouthwash. Until then, Dara had thought he kept handfuls of candy in his pocket so he’d have some to divvy out to the children who behaved in Sunday School class.

  Dara wanted to use that story as an example, but Deacon Troy’s cigarette smoking habit was his business. That was between him and God.

  Hunter, Sr. was still ranting when everyone else had left the room, leaving him an audience of two—Dara and India.

  “Lottery money is the devil’s money,” he said. “I don’t want anything to do with it, and I definitely don’t want it in the collection plate. Not at my church.”

  Dara had forgotten how long it took to put out one of her father’s fires once she’d stirred up the embers and thrown sticks on it. But with this conversation, it was like she’d saturated it with gasoline and lit a match.

  “We’d better get going, Daddy. We’ll see you at the house this evening. We won’t be staying too late because we need to get back on the road.”

  “I’ll be home around five thirty. We don’t have any wakes tonight, believe it or not.”

  Dara and India couldn’t get outside to the parking lot fast enough.

  “More or less, your daddy just said you’re going to hell.”

  “Me? You’re the one who bought the ticket.”

  “You took it. Didn’t your parents teach you not to succumb to peer pressure? It’ll get you in trouble most of the time.”

  “You’re living proof of that,” Dara said, hitting the keyless entry for the doors.

  “Well, don’t forget to check your ticket tonight,” India said.

  “I haven’t thought anything about that lottery ticket,” Dara said. “I changed purses, so as far as I know I might have thrown that thing away.”

  “You could’ve thrown away a fortune,” India said.

  Right, Dara thought. What are the chances of that?

  Chapter 8

  Dara was in her element. She straddled the leather seat of her Honda Crossover and for a millisecond thought about what her mother had said about how ladies should sit.

  Oh well, she thought, letting the bike cruise forward with the help of its engine and her tiptoes.

  Isaac Reid, called by many as Sir Isaac, held his right fist in the air, signaling that he was ready to move forward. The others followed suit so he’d know everyone was ready to leave for the city.

  Isaac rode a classic Harley to which he’d added a loud muffler so he could make sure everyone was aware of his arrival. Kids especially got a kick out of the rumbling, and he got the most requests from young boys who wanted to sit on the seat and pretend they were old enough to fly down the highway at ridiculous speeds.

  If Isaac’s bike wasn’t the main attraction, it was Mario’s sleek red and silver Suzuki sports model. He’d customized the side with lightning bolts, and when Mario put on his matching helmet, not only did he look like a super hero, but Dara thought he tried to act like one, too.

  Dara received either the questioning look from the boys or an admiring look from at least one young girl who thought it was neat to see a woman riding a bike. An eight-year-old named Keysha always found her way to Dara whenever they visited the southside community.

  The area had once been a sort of community utopia for African Americans, but over the years it had become a mainstay as one of the top stories in the evening news. About five years ago the gang activity had started slowly and quietly. Residents speculated about activity more than they actually saw it with their own eyes. It was a game of sorts to figure out whose child was involved. At least that’s what Bettye Athena, the neighborhood watchdog, said. But those days were gone.

  Now, overworked frustrated mothers threw their hands up in surrender when forced to make a choice on trying to keep their job or staying in the streets to look for their wayward children. Many had given up. On their children. On life.

  Gang membership was a source of pride, and their not-so-silent threats had caused a dark cloud of despair to hover over the community. The police couldn’t get the residents to talk. They were forced into silence by their circumstances, because few had the means to move out of the way of danger after being classified as a snitch. They settled for sealed lips in exchange for their family’s protection.

  Isaac had been spurred to action after a sermon from Dara’s pastor, Reverend Sullivan. Everyone who had an interest in rolling with the Kingdom Knights was required to listen to that sermon. Dara always played it the night before there was an outreach. Her pastor’s words were still fresh in her spirit from last night.

  “How long are we going to sit back and let the enemy rule the streets? It’s something wrong when the elderly can’t rest on their front porches and watch our children play. It’s something wrong when our kids are recruited into gangs and compromising lifestyles and all we do is come to church on Sundays and go back into our houses that have three alarm systems and fourteen deadbolt locks. Somebody’s got to stand for something, because this generation is falling for everything.”

  With Reverend Sullivan’s blessing, Isaac started the evangelism team that their pastor lovingly dubbed the motorcycle missionaries. As she was the only female in the crew, and because of her custom-painted bike, Dara carried her nickname with pride.

  The Kingdom Knights pulled into the parking lot of a church building of four-sided brick that had been painted white. The burglar bars on the front door were latched for additional security with a padlock, a juxtaposition to the hand-painted sign tacked on the door that read ALL ARE WELCOME.

  The entire church could’ve fit easily into the gymnasium at Dara’s church, but what mattered most to Dara and the community was the size of the heart of their people.

  When the church’s pastor caught wind of the mission of the Kingdom Knights, he’d insisted that they use his parking lot to park their bikes when necessary. They also used his lot as a temporary distribution site when they had other outreach events.

  Dara dismounted her bike and circled up for prayer with the other Knights. They interlocked arms, a sign of strength and unity for themselves and anyone else who may have been watching.

  “I saw you hugging that road, P. K.” Isaac joked.

  “You all can’t go one time without picking on me,” Dara said.

  “That’s what big brothers do to their little sister,” Isaac added. “But we wouldn’t let anybody else mess with you,” he said.

  “For sure,” Mario echoed.

 
; “You roll with me today, P. K.,” Isaac said. “I want to go by Ms. Bettye’s house, and she seems more relaxed when you’re around.”

  That didn’t surprise Dara. Isaac had an intimidating presence that naturally came with somebody with his large stature. His dread locks looked like long, gray twisted ropes, and flared out like a lion’s mane when he didn’t have them tied down with a bandana. When he was twenty-five, he’d gotten his tooth knocked out accidently by a baseball and had never bothered to replace it.

  “Okay,” Dara said, hoping that Ms. Bettye had a fresh loaf of banana bread cooling on her countertop. She did all of her baking and Sunday dinner preparations on Saturdays.

  Ms. Bettye fed her foster children and grandchildren better than a five-star restaurant, and the banana bread was the most requested item. That and what she called her “slap yo’ mama” banana pudding. If the recipe called for bananas, Ms. Bettye could put her signature taste on it.

  And today Ms. Bettye didn’t disappoint. Dara stepped onto the screened-in porch and into a dancing mixture of baked goods that smelled like the oven door had just opened and they’d rushed out to do the tango with some Southern fried chicken.

  “I know why you really wanted to come here,” Dara said to Isaac. “You know Ms. Bettye won’t let you leave without taking a plate.”

  “I’m here to serve some spiritual food, but you ain’t never known me to turn down a meal,” he said, then rapped on the inside door.

  It didn’t take long for a child to open the door. Ms. Bettye’s home was a haven for foster children and the two grandchildren whose mother had been claimed by the street’s drug problem. Once the foster children became accustomed to her care, they were upset when the system came to take them back to their families.

  One of the children who came to the door announced who was on the porch and, after getting Ms. Bettye’s approval, unlatched the lock.

  Ms. Bettye peeked from around the kitchen wall. “Hold on a minute,” she said, “Let me wash my hands.”