“Yes, ma’am. As in any shade of the color yellow.” Brenda nodded seriously. “And my dark chocolate skin looks so nice in bright lemon, too. But Frank can’t stand it. The boy will go out of his head if he sees so much as a yellow polka dot. We can’t serve him yellow squash or corn or anything butter-colored. Sweet potatoes is as yellow as we dare go.”
Cooper swallowed. Volunteering for the route seemed like an especially bad idea at the moment. “Why does he hate that color so much?”
Brenda shrugged and hefted one of the coolers onto a rolling cart. “No one knows, honey, save the Lord and He ain’t tellin’. Mr. Crosby ain’t a big talker, either, so don’t expect him to explain himself to you. Hasn’t got much sense left in that old head of his, I’m afraid. Half the time, he answers the front door wearin’ his underwear and not a lick else. And the underwear’s usually on backward.” She giggled again.
“What does he wear the other half of the time?” Cooper asked fearfully.
“Nothin’ but his birthday suit!” Brenda answered and then roared with laughter. “Come on, baby! It ain’t a pretty sight, but it won’t kill you. Now, help me roll this cart on outside.”
Gulping, Cooper pushed the cart down the ramp. “Which stop is Mr. Crosby’s?”
Brenda halted the cart in front of a dark blue Cadillac peppered with dings and scratches. “We save the best for last, sug. Figure it gives him all morning to find a pair of tighty-whities.” She flashed a wicked grin at Cooper.
Lord, give me strength, Cooper hurriedly prayed before sliding into the cracked leather passenger seat of Brenda’s car.
Brenda rolled down the windows, cranked up the radio, and began to bob her head from side to side as she hollered out hip-hop lyrics.
“Hope you don’t mind if I smoke!” she shouted as they paused at a four-way stop. Before Cooper had a chance to respond, Brenda popped the fat stump of a partially smoked cigar into her mouth, ignited the end with her car’s lighter, and then shoved the gas pedal to the floor. Blue smoke billowed out from the muffler as the Caddy shot through the intersection.
Brenda drove past Richmond’s minor-league baseball stadium, the Diamond, at such a breakneck speed that the giant structure passed by before Cooper had the chance to get her bearings. “Where are we going?”
“We’re headin’ to Highland Park,” Brenda explained. “Bet you don’t get over to this part of town too much, do you?”
Cooper shrugged. “My boss used to take us all to two baseball games every season. That is, before the Braves moved to Atlanta.”
“That’s not what I mean, sug.” Brenda barely paused next to a stop sign before driving over the curb as she made a sharp right. After passing by a dozen run-down houses, Brenda parked in front of a tiny bungalow with a cracked cement path and chipping paint. Brenda pushed a weekend food box into Cooper’s arms and, carrying the black cooler in her right hand, pounded on the metal security bars covering the front door with her left.
“Mrs. Donaldson!” Brenda called out. “It’s Door-2-Door! We got some lunch for you!”
Brenda dropped the cooler on the porch floor, which was littered with brown leaves and coupons for goods and services Mrs. Donaldson could never afford.
“How often do clients get their yards or houses cleaned?” Cooper asked softly.
Kicking a crooked stick away from the threshold, Brenda clucked her tongue. “Not often enough, honey. Folks only have so much time to give, I reckon.”
As the two women gazed at the layer of flaking paint over the wood siding, the door opened several inches and the wizened visage of Mrs. Donaldson peered at them from behind smudged glass.
“I’m Brenda!” Brenda held up the cooler for the client to see. “And this is Cooper. She’s got your weekend box, ma’am.”
Wordlessly, the old woman unlocked a bolt, removed the chain with shaky, age-spotted hands, and then backed away from the door. Brenda opened it slowly and gestured for Cooper to go in ahead of her.
The home was so dark that Cooper could barely tell which way to turn, so she simply scooted to the right and allowed Brenda to push past her and take charge.
“You watchin’ I Love Lucy?” Brenda cackled. “Lord, that is one funny redhead. I always liked Fred the best, myself. Now, let’s get your lunch heated.” Brenda prattled on while Mrs. Donaldson shuffled behind her, mumbling something unintelligible. Cooper admired Brenda’s calm, noting that her mentor acted as though she was an old friend of Mrs. Donaldson and had just dropped by to say a quick hello.
In the dingy kitchen, Cooper couldn’t help but focus on the stained and cracked linoleum, the peeling wallpaper of white daisies on a field of blue, or the threadbare curtain covering the tiny window above the rust-rimmed sink. The refrigerator made churning noises as though it had been worked beyond its abilities and the stovetop was covered with a pile of dishes crusted with old food. Several flies buzzed around the fractured ceiling light
Cooper looked back and forth from the flies to the dishes to Mrs. Donaldson’s lined and weary face. “Brenda? Do we have time for me to clean those dishes?” she whispered.
Brenda swiveled her massive head around toward the stove. “Ew!” she squealed and then wagged a finger at the old woman standing meekly beside her. “You need to let those soak in the sink, ma’am, if you don’t feel like cleanin’ them. You gonna get bugs! Now come on, sit on down in front of the TV and eat. We’ll tidy up for you real quick before we go.”
As Brenda served their client her lunch, Cooper began scrubbing at the dishes with a tattered sponge that disintegrated piece by piece as the friction of Cooper’s efforts wore it to a nub. Using her fingernails instead, Cooper chipped at the food under scalding water. Her hands quickly became red and raw, but she barely noticed her own discomfort.
“We ain’t really got time for this, sug,” Brenda scolded when she returned to the kitchen, but she rubbed vigorously at several dishes with Mrs. Donaldson’s only dish-towel until the chipped plates gleamed in the weak light.
After the dishes were laid out neatly on the countertop to dry, Brenda asked Mrs. Donaldson if she needed anything else. The old woman looked up at her from her faded green recliner and shook her head, as though she knew that she had already received all she could expect from the pair of women standing before her.
“All right, then. Don’t forget to lock up after us, ya hear?” Brenda smiled and suddenly they were back in the car, heading for the next stop. “You okay over there?” she asked Cooper as she gunned the Caddy’s engine beneath a traffic light that had just changed from yellow to red. “You’re awful quiet.”
“I’m fine,” Cooper mumbled, unable to keep from dwelling on the state of the old woman’s house.
“I know what you’re mind’s fixin’ on, but that’s what poor looks like, honey,” Brenda said cheerfully. “Most of our clients are scrapin’ by on ten grand a year. Now, we’ve got some like this next lady in Ginter Park, who pays for meals ’cause she don’t wanna cook no more and she ain’t got anybody to cook for her. They’re not all poor, but at least half of ’em are livin’ just like Mrs. Donaldson. Some worse.”
Cooper followed Brenda into three more houses. After Mrs. Donaldson, they made a delivery to Mrs. Gates. Mrs. Gates had a tidy, light-filled home right near the park and hobbled to her front door using a walker. She barked a series of orders at them the entire time and then seemed disappointed that they had to leave again. “But aren’t you going to water my plants?” she called after them as they trotted back to Brenda’s car.
Next, they visited a brother and sister living in a small home a few blocks away from Mrs. Gates and then delivered to a Mr. Sears, who was nearly deaf and smelled as though he were in desperate need of a bath. Even though they still had one stop to go, Cooper felt totally spent.
“Still got Mr. Crosby!” Brenda chirped. “Wonder what he’ll be wearin’ today?” She wiggled her black eyebrows suggestively.
Mr. Crosby’s house wasn’t much larg
er than Mrs. Donaldson’s. Like hers, Mr. Crosby’s home had been painted white many years ago and was now stained with mold and had lost at least half of its outer layer of paint. A chain-link fence surrounded the property, and patches of parched grass intermingled with loose dirt served as the front lawn. The house had two windows flanked by blue shutters so camouflaged by cobwebs that they practically blended into the rest of the house.
“A little early for Halloween, huh?” Brenda giggled and removed the mail from Mr. Crosby’s mailbox. She jabbed at the illuminated doorbell with a long, plum-colored nail and then shouted, “It’s Door-2-Door, so you’d best be puttin’ some clothes on, Mr. Crosby!”
Cooper picked up a newspaper from the top step as they waited for Mr. Crosby to appear.
No one answered. Brenda rang again and then asked Cooper to peer in the front window. “You see him?” she asked and Cooper shook her head.
“Damn,” Brenda muttered. “We’re supposed to call Lali when nobody answers, but Mr. Crosby does this from time to time. I’m gonna go in. You can stay out here if you want.”
Without waiting for Cooper to reply, Brenda pushed Mr. Crosby’s door open and then gasped. “Oh, sweet Jesus!” she wailed and then lunged forward to where a shriveled old man sat, upright but inert in a brown leather chair. Her purple fingernails pressed against his throat and she exhaled in relief. “He’s alive. He’s got a pulse and he’s breathin’.” She then took a step back and examined Mr. Crosby with her eyes.
“Could he be asleep?” Cooper asked as she watched the rise and fall of the man’s bare chest. Mr. Crosby wore a filthy red and white striped robe, a pair of ratty underwear, and black ankle socks riddled with holes. She thought she detected the scent of urine rising from the chair.
“Looks more like a skinny bear hybernatin’ than an old man takin’ a nap.” Brenda was still panting over her fear that Mr. Crosby had expired in his chair. After fanning her dewy face for a moment, she prodded Mr. Crosby’s arm with her hand and spoke his name loudly into his right ear. “Go wet a cloth in the kitchen, Cooper. We may need to shock him outta this daze.”
Cooper hustled into the kitchen, which bore a sad resemblance to Mrs. Donaldson’s. Seeing no paper towels or wash rags in sight, she filled half of a plastic tumbler with water and brought it back to the front room.
Brenda eyed the glass, shrugged, and then splattered the contents into Mr. Crosby’s face. He jerked awake with a start, but only opened his eyes for a second before squeezing them shut again as though the daylight was painful.
“He was yellow,” he muttered. “Didn’t deserve no honor. Yellow, yellow, yellow.” Mr. Crosby’s bald head swiveled from side to side in agitation. He gripped the arms of his chair until the blue veins on the tops of his hands throbbed in exertion. “You can’t have it. It’s our secret! He was yellow, but it’s our secret!”
“Mr. Crosby,” Brenda said his name firmly in an attempt to fully wake him.
“It’s our secret. Yellow, yellow, YELLOW!”
Brenda leaned over the old man’s thin frame. “Mr. Crosby!”
“Whatdoyawant!” he shouted in return and opened his eyes wide. His gaze focused on the Door-2-Door sticker over Brenda’s large left breast and recognition flooded over his pallid features, replaced almost instantly by an expression of irritation.
“Did you spill somethin’ on me?” he demanded angrily.
Brenda stood up, squared her shoulders, put her hands on her expansive hips, and pursed her full lips. “You looked like you was a goner for a minute, but we fixed you up all right. Now, how about some lunch?”
That perked him up. “Yeah, yeah. I’m starvin’. Feel like I haven’t eaten for a week. But there’d better be no corn in there. Somebody brought me corn in July.” Mr. Crosby craned his neck in order to peek into the black cooler.
“There’s nothing yellow on your tray,” Brenda answered softly. “Now, are you feelin’ okay or should I call somebody?”
Mr. Crosby looked confused. “What day is it?”
Brenda and Cooper exchanged nervous glances. “Saturday, sir,” Cooper answered and handed Mr. Crosby the newspaper that she had removed from the front stoop. He anxiously turned the pages until he had reached the section containing the comics and crossword puzzle.
“Blank,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Last thing I remember, I was sittin’ right here doin’ the puzzle. Now you tellin’ me it’s a day later?”
“What time do you usually do the crossword?” Cooper inquired as she pushed a folding tray table closer to the elderly man.
Mr. Crosby scrutinized her carefully, as though searching for any indication that she might be concealing a hint of the dreaded color yellow. Satisfied, he accepted the fork Brenda handed him with a grunt and began to shovel mashed potatoes into his mouth. “I only get the paper when the neighbor lady’s done with it,” he answered Cooper after several swallows. “She’s got a son who buys her stuff. Guess she feels sorry for me with my boy bein’ in jail and all.”
He stabbed a green gelatin square and pushed it in his mouth. “She spends most of the mornin’ drinkin’ that fancy coffee that comes outta a bag. Wish I had some of that coffee,” he murmured crossly. “I don’t get the paper ’til she’s done. Least she never does the puzzles.”
Cooper stared at Friday’s newspaper, which seemed to have fallen from Mr. Crosby’s lap and landed in a loose pile next to his chair. “So you were probably working the puzzle about this time of the morning?”
Mr. Crosby paused in order to sip some iced tea. “Yeah. I was waitin’ on you folks. That’s the last thing I recall. I was waitin’ for my lunch. Next thing I know I wake up to find it’s a whole ’nother day.” Suddenly, he shoved the tray away from him. “And I gotta go!”
Brenda helped the old man stand. As he hastened away, Brenda winced. “I think he’s gone in that chair already. Good thing this cushion’s covered with plastic.” She sighed. “I’m gonna see if there’s anythin’ to clean this up with.”
After Brenda disappeared into the kitchen, Cooper examined a black-and-white photograph of a young man standing in front of the barracks at Virginia Military Institute’s campus. She was so absorbed by the handsome soldier that she didn’t hear Mr. Crosby reenter the room.
“It’s gone!” he cried and Cooper spun around to see that his wrinkled face was streaked with tears. “Gone, I tell you!”
Cooper took his arm and led him to an upholstered wing chair. He sank down into the floral material and covered his face with his hands. He made pitiable sounds that sounded like a mewling cat.
“What’s gone, Mr. Crosby?” Cooper prodded gently. “Is something missing from your house?”
“Now everyone will know,” Mr. Crosby moaned. “Yellow, yellow, YELLOW! Someone stole our secret. Someone was in my bedroom. I can tell.” He covered his face with quivering hands and cried like a child. His shoulders shook as he whimpered, “It’s gone. It’s gone,” over and over.
He fell silent and no matter what questions Brenda or Cooper asked, he would say nothing more. Brenda wiped off Mr. Crosby’s plastic-covered leather chair, put him in a clean T-shirt, and washed his face as tenderly as a mother would clean her own child’s. All the while, Mr. Crosby gazed unseeing at a football game on the television screen.
Back in the Caddy, Brenda was worried. “I’ve never seen him like that. He hasn’t got any memory problems—somethin’ happened to him yesterday.”
“And I’m going to try to find out what,” Cooper declared angrily. “I don’t think he just lost track of time, Brenda. And now he says something’s missing, too. I overheard Lali say that there have been several robberies from client homes this summer. It looks like the thefts are still going on.”
Brenda stared at Cooper in shock, even though the traffic light had turned green. As the car behind them laid on the horn, Brenda frowned in thought. “You mean . . . it’s one of us? A volunteer is messin’ with these folks?”
Cooper nodded
. “Seems that way.”
“Lord in heaven! What is this world comin’ to?” Brenda waved at the driver behind her and gunned the engine. “You just tell me how to help and I’ll do it. I’m not gonna stand for folks givin’ our program a bad name. I’m mild as a kitten most days, but I got claws and a big, strong body, and I’ll use them both if I find out that someone I know is dopin’ up old folks just so’s they can rob them blind.”
“Doping them?” Cooper asked and then fell silent. “That would explain how Mr. Crosby lost a day, I guess. But how would someone drug the clients?”
Brenda clucked her tongue. “Are you listenin’ to yourself, girl? We’re the ones packin’ and bringin’ them their food, right? Now, I ain’t no college professor, but I can put two and two together and figure out how easy it would be to stir a little somethin’ into the mashed potatoes.”
“I need to figure out what that something is, but my experience with drugs doesn’t go past Robitussin.”
“Go see Mr. Crosby’s son, then,” Brenda suggested as she merged into the next lane without using her signal. “That’s why the boy’s in jail. Probably knows more about drugs than anybody in Richmond. Just wasn’t smart enough to figure out he was sellin’ heroin to an undercover cop.”
“Jail?” Cooper swallowed hard. She tried to envision the members of her Bible study sitting across from a convicted drug dealer in an attempt to elicit information from him. Not one of them seemed fit for the job at hand.
“But if you’re gonna go, you’d better take somebody,” Brenda advised as she pulled into the Door-2-Door parking lot. “And you’d better pick wisely. Those prison boys don’t see many women and that Crosby boy might wanna talk to you about things you don’t wanna talk about. You hear what I’m sayin’? Take someone with you.”
“I hear you,” Cooper replied aloud. In silence, she prayed, Lord, can you send me someone who can interrogate a man wearing an orange jumpsuit?
8
For sighing comes to me instead of food;
Path of the Wicked Page 11