Dara looked at the photo gallery of pictures propped along the top of an antique stereo console that looked as if it had been brought in and never moved since the first day Ms. Bettye moved into the house.
“Oooh, Lord,” Ms. Bettye said, coming into the living room. Ms. Bettye didn’t walk, she swayed, slow and even like a pendulum, and most of the time her hands were stuffed into the folds of her hips.
“It feels better outside than it does in this house,” she said, fanning her face with a dry cloth from the kitchen. “Of all days, the air conditioning unit in the front window died.” She turned up one of the three fans that were blowing in the room.
Dara didn’t feel that it had helped any. “Are you going to be able to get another unit?”
“My brother’s coming sometime today. He has a spare one that needs a knob or something put on it, but he said it works fine. The children will probably break the knobs off anyway. Long as it blows cool air.” Ms. Bettye opened the door and went out into the small front yard.
Dara and Isaac followed her, and Isaac propped his size 15 foot up on the cement step. “How are things in the neighborhood?”
“I wish I could say things have changed, but it’s all the same.”
Dara noticed a group of five or six men that had congregated at the end of the street. It wasn’t hard to miss the orange bandanas hanging out of their back pant pockets. Which pocket the bandana hung from signified their supposed rank in the gang, Isaac had found out.
Ms. Bettye swirled her skirt around her legs as if it helped to keep her cool. “At least the police cruise the community more often since some of us went down to the city council meeting.”
“That’s encouraging,” Dara offered.
“Well, the hoodlums aren’t stupid. They wait until the police are nowhere to be found before they do their dirt,” she said, shaking her head. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Speaking of dirt,” she said. “These guys are scraped from the bottom of the barrel.”
“They just need a little redirection, that’s all,” Isaac said in his always optimistic way.
Ms. Bettye huffed. “Well, somebody can redirect them all up out of this community. It didn’t use to be like this, you know?” she said, cutting her eyes in the direction where the men were getting closer. “They’re in and out of jail as it is. Somebody should’ve had their three strikes by now and not been able to step foot on free ground again. That’s what needs to happen,” she said, crossing her arms in indignation.
With the gang members about ten yards away, Dara could smell the stench of alcohol and smoke. Dara felt safe with Isaac, but she still knew that they were people who shouldn’t be taken lightly. And they wanted everybody to know it.
Chapter 9
The foul language and disrespectful bander dripped like toxins from their lips with no regard for Ms. Bettye’s presence. Dara noticed how the group slowed their stroll. They were used to people tensing up whenever they walked by. But Dara didn’t flinch.
“How are you gentlemen doing?” Isaac asked. He stood upright, positioning his body as a barrier between the group and the women.
The man Dara knew to be one of the leaders used his tongue to move a chewed-up toothpick over his gold caps on his bottom row of teeth. She’d heard them call him Magnum.
“See y’all out again tryin’ to change the world. Can’t y’all find something else to do than passing out some Jesus tracts?”
Another stepped up beside Magnum and hoisted his sagging pants up by the crotch. “Look around. Don’t you see God don’t live here? This is hell on earth, not heaven.”
“Couldn’t be heaven.” Magnum chortled. “’Cause I’d be lining my pockets fat as hell with the gold off the streets.”
They laughed and gave each other high fives, but Dara took note of Magnum’s words. She’d learned in evangelism how important it was to listen. People would—knowingly and unknowingly—give glimpses into their lives.
Sometime in Magnum’s life he’d attended church, or at the very least been told something about God. How else would he know about heaven’s streets being paved with gold? It was a small seed to work with, but at least it was something.
“Jesus paid it all on the cross just for you, brother,” Isaac said.
Magnum sneered and spit the toothpick out of the side of his mouth. “Cross? A cross ain’t nothing. I got my man, Cross, right here.”
Cross stepped forward as if he’d been summoned to the front of the class by his teacher. It was amazing how much influence Magnum had on the others. They responded to his orders by the time he could finish his sentence.
“Lift up your shirt,” Magnum told Cross. And he did.
Under his New York Knicks basketball jersey was what most would’ve considered astounding artwork if it had been painted on a wall and not inked on somebody’s chest. An ornate cross was tattooed in immaculate detail starting at the top of Cross’s chest bone and ending under his navel. He turned around to show a similar tattoo stretched across the span of his back.
“My man right here is the only cross I need,” Magnum said, slapping Cross on the back.
Cross let his jersey fall down. While everyone else’s attention had been on Cross’s chest, Dara saw something she had in common with him.
Chapter 10
It was inked in the webbed skin between his thumb and forefinger. And it was identical to the one on Dara’s shoulder blade. Even down to the John 3:16 scripture. It made Dara wonder if they’d been in the same tattoo parlor on the same day. Had their paths met in time once before? It was the tattoo artist who suggested that Dara add a scripture to her tattoo. Was it because he’d tagged Cross’s body with the same thing?
If anybody could be reached, it would be Cross, Dara decided. When Dara looked back into Cross’s face, he was staring at her. She could see it in his eyes. He was trying his best to make sure a scowl stayed on his expression, but Dara could see past that. He had a greater vision pulling at his life, and he was in the grip of being yanked between light and darkness. All he needs is one encounter with God.
Cross winked at her, but the smile Dara gave him said, “I know your story.” He turned away and went to the edge of the curb to spit something out of his mouth.
Dara always returned home feeling empty after a day of evangelism. After leaving Ms. Bettye’s house, she and Isaac had mounted their motorcycles and cruised through the neighborhood in silent prayer. Later they’d joined Mario and the rest of the Kingdom Knights in praying for a group of women who were caught in the stronghold of drug abuse. But God was stronger.
Nelda wasn’t in that group. In fact, Dara hadn’t seen Nelda in a few months, and no one was aware of her whereabouts. Dara had prayed with Nelda before, and had even taken her to get the dust and dirt shampooed from her hair, which had started to lock in knots. The stylist had cut off most of the damaged hair and braided the rest into neat cornrows the way Nelda had requested. By the time Dara took her to buy her three new outfits and get showered, no one would have known Nelda was entangled in a web of drug use. Unless they saw her smile. She rarely parted her lips in happiness, but that day she did, having no embarrassment at her rotted teeth and infected gums. Dara was surprised to find out that Nelda was thirty-four, just two years younger than she at the time. She’d thought her to be at least in her midforties.
Dara checked Nelda into a halfway house and left her with a bag full of things that all women enjoy having, like fragranced lotion and body splash; a pocket-sized Bible; snacks; and Dara’s phone number. The next morning when Dara called the halfway house to check on Nelda, they said she’d checked herself out. She’d seen Nelda once since then.
Dara was devastated but not surprised, because she knew the cycle. Yet it pained Dara’s heart, and she continuously prayed and asked God what else she could do to make a greater difference in the lives of the entire community. This evening in particular, she felt like she’d get an answer to her prayers soon.
After tim
e to unwind and refill her spiritual tank, Dara prepared her clothes for church service. There was a cute yellow sundress she wanted to wear, but her mother’s discretion had worn on her choices of her Sunday’s best clothing.
“A woman shouldn’t bare her shoulders at church,” she’d been taught. Dara wasn’t sure how her mother had ended up with the conservative ways and India’s mother bucked most of the tradition that had ruled their household as children.
“I haven’t worn this since last summer,” Dara said to herself, taking a green dress off its hanger and throwing it across the ironing board in the hallway. When she looked on her shoe rack for the shoes that matched it perfectly—a pair of gold gladiator-style sandals—Dara realized India had borrowed and never returned them.
Dara called India to tell her to bring them over the next morning. They usually rode together to church, then went out for their customary Sunday brunch afterward.
“You have something at your house that belongs to me,” Dara said when India picked up the phone. Actually, she’d had to yell it because the music was so loud in the background that it was a wonder that India’s neighbors hadn’t called the police to report her being a nuisance.
“What?” India screamed. “Hold on a minute,” she said. India disappeared from the phone and returned after turning down the volume to the level for people who wanted to keep their hearing well into their elderly years. “Now what’s so important that you had to interrupt my praise party?”
“My gold sandals, that’s what. You know, the gladiator-looking ones.”
“Do I have those shoes?”
“Stop playing.” Dara dumped the contents of the three purses she’d carried that week out on the bed. Shoes, India could borrow. Clothes, she could borrow. But her cousin never had, and never would, be allowed to walk out of the door carrying one of Dara’s purses. She was a purse connoisseur. She wasn’t necessarily stuck on brand names, but she was a stickler for quality and uniqueness. “As a matter of fact,” Dara said, “you’ve got quite a few things of mine over in your inventory.”
“The way I figure, if you don’t ask for it back in three months, then you don’t want it.”
“That’s a good one. But the devil is a lie. So you and your stealing self need to bring my shoes when you come over in the morning.”
“I will. They hurt my little toe anyway,” India said.
While India complained about the fickle clients she’d been trying to please all week, Dara downsized the contents of her purse to the essentials she needed for church—her wallet, makeup compact, lipstick, lotion, and a tissue pack.
“Here’s my ticket to hell,” Dara said, picking up the lottery ticket India had purchased for her. It had only been forgotten in her purse for a week, but somehow a leaky red ink pen had stained the top of it. The numbers were still legible.
“Make sure it’s a round-trip ticket,” India joked. “But if it ain’t, make sure you leave a will and testament about everything you want me to have.”
“You know what?” Dara said, as her cell phone rang. “You need prayer.”
Dara knew it wasn’t anyone she knew. She’d assigned a specific ringtone to all the family and friends she talked to on a regular basis. Even all of her clients were grouped into a particular ring. “Let me see who this is,” she told India, grabbing the phone off the dresser and unhooking it from the charger. “Be on time in the morning. If you’re not here by nine thirty I’m leaving you.”
“Yada, yada,” India said, and hung up the phone.
Dara took her cell phone and walked into the hallway to iron her clothes. “Hello?”
“May I speak to Dara Knight, please?”
Dara hesitated before she answered. Who would ask for her by her first and last name on a Saturday evening? “This is she,” she said. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Zebulon. Remember the guy who was trying to pick you up on the side of the highway?”
Remember? How could I forget? “Hi, Zebulon. Nice to hear from you,” she said.
“I told you I was going to call. I’m a man that keeps my word,” he said.
That’s what they all say, Dara thought before chastising herself. She wasn’t going to lump him in the category with the men she’d been encountering lately. “And I appreciate you keeping your word,” Dara said.
“I wanted to call and check on you. See if you’d made it in okay.”
“After a week?” Dara teased.
“Charge it to my head, not my heart,” Zebulon said. “It’s been a crazy week.”
“I know how it is,” Dara said, leaving her dress to finish ironing later. “I’m just teasing you.”
“So what made your week so busy?” Zebulon asked. “Tell me about yourself. By what’s on this card, you must be a woman who knows how to handle business.”
Dara stretched out across her bed. “I can’t say you’re wrong about that,” she said. She picked up the lottery ticket that was lying on her pillow and folded it into a paper airplane. “Hello?” Dara said, when there was nothing but silence on the other end of the phone.
“I’m here,” Zebulon said. “Waiting for you to tell me about your week. Or about you.”
“Oh, you really want to know? Because if you get me started I’ll talk all night.”
“And I’ll listen all night,” Zebulon said. “Well, not really. I need to get at least a few hours sleep so I won’t fall asleep in church.”
“I feel you,” Dara said.
Dara didn’t expect her conversation with Zebulon to flow so easily—and for such a long time. They’d covered a whole gamut of topics from their preferences in food to their careers, future aspirations, and their mutual affinity for crime and forensics television shows.
From how Zebulon talked, he sounded like he’d been raised in a home much like Ms. Bettye’s house, but instead of foster children, his home was a revolving door for family members who needed help while they got back on their feet.
“Can you believe it’s after midnight?” Dara said, looking at the clock on her end table for the first time since she’d gotten on the phone with Zebulon. “It’s past my bedtime,” she said.
“I don’t want to hold you,” Zebulon said. “But I would like to see you sometime soon if that’s okay.”
“That would be nice,” Dara said. “I’ll wait for your call.”
“You won’t be waiting long,” Zebulon said. “Good night.”
“Good night, Zebulon,” she said, and then hung up the phone. Zeb. Zebbie. Lon. She went through his possible nicknames.
Dara flipped on the switch for the ceiling fan. Even though she faithfully ran the air conditioning during the summer months, she enjoyed the feeling of the soft breeze over her head while she slept. After turning back the sheets, Dara picked up the miniature paper airplane and unfolded the lottery ticket.
She picked up her phone and called the automated line listed in tiny print on the back of the ticket, following the prompts that the computerized voice gave her. Dara figured she might as well put India’s mind at rest, because if not, she’d get hounded until she found out she hadn’t won.
Dara listened to the numbers from the Mega Millions. She didn’t think much of the match with the first two numbers, but when the third number was the same—she took a deep breath and tried to stop her heart from turning over in her chest.
Chapter 11
One in a billion, Dara thought. The fourth number matched. And the fifth.
Until that moment, she’d never known what it was like to feel as if she was about to faint. Dara sat down on the edge of the bed and steadied herself.
There’s no way I heard what I thought I heard. No way. I’m just tired.
Ministering in the streets had taken a lot out of her, and evidently it had affected her hearing, too. Dara disconnected the line and dialed the lottery’s automated number again. Followed the same prompts. Heard the same numbers. Her numbers.
One more time, she said to
herself, hands trembling. She pushed the keys on the phone slowly and said each number aloud. And again, everything was the same.
Dara wanted to call India, but anxiety paralyzed her from doing anything but sitting on the couch.
What if the automated line had the ability to track her phone number to her address? She always thought technology far surpassed the capabilities that the average citizen thought about. She wouldn’t be surprised if she was on the radar of some authority somewhere. Her phone could very well already be tapped.
Not knowing what else to do, Dara folded the ticket into fours and slid it into the side of the box of her granola crunch cereal on the top shelf in the pantry. She sat down on the couch in the middle of a stunned silence. She jumped at the slightest sound.
“This is crazy,” Dara said, turning on the television. She was in her own home, and yet she’d never felt this fearful. She evangelized on the streets in one of the roughest parts of Atlanta and had never been this nervous.
For hours she watched television and the clock, yearning for daybreak when she could call India. Dara watched a man trying to sell a microfiber towel that could supposedly soak up a bucketful of water without dripping. After fifteen minutes’ worth of hands-on demonstrations, he had her convinced. Right about now Dara believed anything was possible. She picked up the phone and ordered two of the towels.
He even made Dara believe the putty he pitched in the next segment could aid in helping a pickup truck pull a tractor trailer truck fifty yards. Dara picked up the phone again, then her rationale kicked in. She was turning into her father’s sister, Aunt Charlene, who watched only home shopping programs. The UPS driver on Aunt Charlene’s route came to her house so much that she had invited him and his family to Thanksgiving dinner. They’d squeezed into the dining room with Dara’s cousins and the ceiling-high stacks of unopened boxes.
Dara could see how a person could be seduced by the promises of the products. Before she was cast under the spell again, Dara turned to the twenty-four-hour Christian channel. At four o’clock in the morning, the only thing playing was a track of instrumentals behind rotating video of nature scenes.
A Million Blessings Page 18