Ronald always asks me why I don't play basketball. I couldn't really tell him why; I didn't want to think about it, or talk about it. Instead, I told him the same stories I told you about our mother and father. He didn't want to listen, and I guess he was right because I wasn't going to tell him the whole story anyhow. I think you suspected, too, that my story wasn't complete. That's why you kept asking me questions about my father and my parents' accident.
The reason I don't play basketball, baseball, or any other kind of ball is because I never learned how to play. And the reason I never learned how to play is because I was always busy. All those stories I told you about my parents and the things they said to us and the fun times we had were true, but I didn't tell you the other side—when things began to change. That happened when I was about eight or nine years old.
First, my father got sick. But it wasn't a hospital or doctor kind of sick. He stopped playing music.
My mother stopped growing her geraniums and making pretty dresses for my sisters. She started working in a factory, and then in a restaurant after the factory closed.
We moved around a lot because after a while my father couldn't work—not because he was a musician, like I told you. He was too sick to work, so my parents kept moving to find cheaper places to live. Each new place was worse than the one before.
My mother, though, enrolled us in school, and I made sure we got there. My mom and dad insisted on that. Neither of them wanted truant officers and other people coming around asking why we weren't in school.
I was perfect in every school I attended because I didn't want anyone asking me questions. Also, I didn't want my mom and dad to get in trouble, and it was warm in school—not freezing like in some of the places we lived in. I got free breakfast and lunch, too.
The other kids always looked at me funny when I first went to a new school. Guess I was funny-looking—like Charlene and her sisters. But I'd draw good pictures and give them away. And they'd end up liking me. A teacher got me into a special after-school art program. 1 started it, but 1 couldn't continue because we moved again.
My aunt would always visit no matter where we lived. She argued with my mom and dad. One day I heard her say, "You're going to lose all of your children." I got so scared, I felt sick. My sister Olivia heard her say it also, and she started to cry. The other children saw Olivia crying, and they cried, too. I forced myself not to show that I was afraid, because I had to quiet them down, but I cried inside. That's where I still cry. But I made a promise to myself that I would keep our family together.
I always found a store to work in, or some old person to run errands for—things a kid could do. I used to bag groceries at the supermarket so that I could get tips. The store manager would give me Cheerios, Kool-Aid, and milk to take home. Sometimes we couldn't drink the milk because it was spoiled.
My sisters and brothers depended on me. I had to be there to take care of them. So you see, I didn't have time to play like other kids. I was sorry, though, that I couldn't take the special art class, but I still drew every chance I got. I'd draw on any kind of blank paper or napkin. One of the store clerks saw me drawing on the back of a match cover. A tiny drawing of a geranium. "Boy, you a genius," she said, and gave me a box of crayons.
I kept thinking that the bad times would only last a short while. My parents would get better and our life would be like before. That's what kept me being perfect in school and doing everything I could to help.
But everything kept getting worse no matter what I did, or how much I tried to help. First Ronald was taken away. My parents said it'd only be for a short time, until they got on their feet. We lived in one smelly room with all of us in it. No more paintings and music and flowers. The whole building was stinking. It was a shelter for homeless families. That was the last place we lived in and the last time my aunt visited us.
I almost stopped going to school then, because the first day I went, another kid pointed at me and said, "That's one of them homeless kids." But I was determined not to let them get to me. If I messed up, what would happen to the younger children?
I didn't feel homeless, not as long as we were all together. My parents watched over us and took good care of us. They weren't bad people, even though other people said that they were bad. They always told us, "We're sorry. We love you." Over and over again. " We're sorry. We love you. This isn't forever." They couldn't take care of us, but they worried about us all of the time. The memories crowd my head. This is not what you were writing to me about anyway. I'll finish later.
Later,
12 midnight
Dear Doris,
I'm back. I had to stop writing you because I was getting a terrible headache, but I want to finish telling you my story. My dad died first, and it wasn't a car accident. I made that up. He got so skinny and weak, he looked like a living skeleton. My mother told me that his health broke down and that he died of pneumonia. Then Olivia was taken away one day screaming and crying. My aunt and my mother argued over the other children, but they stayed for a time because I knew how to take care of them.
My mother used to tell us a story about when she was a girl in her home in the South. One day she was walking home from school with her friends. She'd stopped to pick flowers for her mom, and a goat started eating her notebook. All the kids tried to chase the goat, but it would butt its head at them and just continue chewing. We'd laugh so much.
She told the story every time we were having problems and had to move, or my father was ill. We'd add to the story to make it funnier. Olivia said that the goat ate the whole book and then started talking instead of bleating. One of the twins said the goat ate the book and started saying its abc's.
The last time my mother told the goat story, only I was with her, and she was in the hospital. She was so sick that she could hardly talk She wanted to tell me the whole story, but I couldn't laugh. I started to cry inside when I saw that she was trying so hard to make me laugh.
The last thing she said to me was "You're my little prince, Amir. You're blessed. Don't lose your brothers and sisters."
After that the children were taken away, and I went to live with my aunt Gloria and her husband. But I didn't stay there very long. I started playing hookey from school, because now even the teachers looked at me strange. One day a kid asked me if I was dying of AIDS. Why would a kid say that to me? I was real skinny, but I wasn't sick. Maybe he'd heard a teacher say something about my family. Or maybe he'd heard rumors. A foster kid like me has official records and memories following him everywhere.
Doris, I could never say this to anyone but you. (I guess the social workers, counselors, caseworkers, etc. etc., know. I'm not even sure how much the Smiths know.) Both of my parents died of AIDS. They were drug addicts. Junkies. Druggies. Dope Addicts. I can't believe I'm writing this about my own mother and father. Junkies and druggies. Maybe the more I write it, say it, the more words will just be words. Junkies, Druggies. Dope Addicts. Junkies. Druggies Dope Addicts. Junkies Druggies Dope Addicts I tell myself that these are words that don't matter.
I stopped going to school after my mom died and the children were put in foster care. I ran away from my aunt and went to live with my parents' friends in Brooklyn. I blamed my aunt for getting all of us kids separated. I blamed her for my parents' getting sick. I blamed her for everything. I wouldn't talk to her when she called me, and I ran wild in Brooklyn. I felt like some other person was inside of me. We never lived like that, even when my mom and dad were sick. I didn't draw anymore.
Then one night I dreamed that I saw my mother crying. That dream brought me back to my real self. I missed my brothers and sisters so much. How could I take care of them if I was all messed up?
Do you see why your letter about Charlene brought back bad memories? Do you understand, Doris? I hope you don't look down on me. My mom and dad weren't bad people. Sometimes I get angry about what happened, but I fight it because I don't want to hate the mother and father I love.
T
he Young Battle-Ax in the office said to me, "You are the most patient teenager with kids that I've ever met. Where did you learn how to be so helpful?" My mother and father taught me how. They were good parents. That's what I want you to know and believe.
Love,
Amir
P.S. I won the best counselor award. And I sent out more letters last week. That takes care of all of the names I had.
An owl hooted in the distance—a lonely sound. Amir felt as if he could fly to wherever the owl was and keep it company. Ronald snored lightly in the next bed. It was a comforting sound. Amir put his letter in an envelope. Maybe his memories were like vampires; once they were exposed to Doris's light, they'd be dead forever. Amir glanced at Ronald again. His little brother was in a deep sleep. Amir opened his sketchpad to a clean page. He began to draw a picture of the lake and hoped Doris would understand.
10 A.M.
Thursday
September 3rd
My Dear Amir,
I felt so bad when I read your letter this morning. How could you think I'd look down on you because of your parents? Our friendship is like steel, not glass. I'm sorry that my letter about Charlene made you think of such bad memories.
Your letter touched my heart so deep, I sat down and cried when I read it. You know I can cry easily. All I have to do is, like i always say, put myself in your sneakers, and that's what I did. I kept thinking, "Suppose it was me?" I know you were frightened by what happened to your family. I'd be.
I tried to think of some wonderful words I could say to make you feel better, but I can't. There are no words, only a feeling I have inside of me. All I can say is no matter what happens yesterday, today, or tomorrow, we're friends to the end.
Amir, I can't even picture how you tried to take care of everyone. Also, your letter proves to me that I was right all along: You are a hero. I couldn't have done what you did. Maybe I would've tried, but I would've fallen apart like an old dress. I would help my mom and dad and take care of them and Gerald if I could, but I don't know. Maybe I'd get mad sometimes, because it would be like I was the adult and they were the children. But I'd love them and worry about them, because they'd still be my mother and father.
Amir, no matter how they got ill, they were ill, so that's all you have to say. If you introduced them to someone, you wouldn't say, "Hi, meet my junkies, my dope addicts, my crackheads." You'd say, "Meet my parents." That's all you ever have to say. My parents. Nothing can change that. I will never breathe a word of this to a living soul.
I have to make another point. I don't think it would matter to the Smiths what happened to your parents. They probably know anyhow. Like you said, the records follow you.
Please don't be sad.
Love,
Doris
Amir read Doris's letter a second and a third time. Her words were a gift. The unhappiness could settle back in that little corner of his brain and stay put.
He had just started to answer Doris's letter when the screen door downstairs banged loudly.
"Alvin? What's wrong? You'll break the door," Grace said, her voice raised enough for Amir to hear.
Alvin's voice was muffled, and Amir could make out only a word here and there. "Why?...After everything we did..."
He couldn't hear Grace's words at all, only the soft, murmuring sound of her voice.
"Amir!"Alvin shouted from the foot of the steps. He sounded as if he was standing in the bedroom with Amir. "Come down here this minute!"
part four
Friends and Family
Amir was startled. He was accustomed to Alvin Smith bellowing, but it was usually with a loud laugh and a noisy "Big Papa's in the house." Taking two steps at a time, Amir rushed down the stairs to the kitchen.
Alvin held up a letter. "What's this all about?"
Amir flinched and backed away from him. Was he now seeing the other side of this man? Anger had twisted and distorted Alvin's face.
"Why did you do this?" Mr. Smith asked, thrusting a white envelope in Amir's face. "Why? Answer me."
"Do what, sir?" Amir asked. He held up his hands, protecting himself from the blows he thought Mr. Smith was getting ready to land on his face. Amir glanced for a moment at Grace Smith, his eyes frightened like a child's. She turned away.
"You sent a letter to a stranger. After I told you not to. How many of these have you sent out?"Alvin Smith's hands shook as he tore the letter out of the envelope and began to read it aloud.
"Dear Amir Smith,
"I just received your letter and would like to meet you so that we can discuss this matter. I know where your aunt and your brothers and sisters live. I would like to take you to them immediately. Write to me at the above P.O. number and give me your telephone number and/or e-mail address so that we can arrange a time and place to meet in Syracuse, NY, or anywhere you wish. Also, your artwork is beautiful. I can help you sell some of your drawings too.
"Contact me as soon as you receive this letter.
"Sincerely,
"G. Jones"
Alvin threw the letter on the kitchen table. "He or she has the nerve to give an address. I'm contacting the police. I can't understand why you did this!"
"I wanted to find my brothers and sisters. I had to do something." Amir's lips trembled as he gazed at the letter. "Maybe this person is okay."
Grace stood between Amir and her husband. "Alvin, your pressure," she said.
"It was a dangerous, foolish thing to do." Alvin's voice rose, drowning out the sound of Ronald's basketball hitting the backboard in the yard. His angry breath overpowered the sweet smell of his wife's red-velvet cake.
"Calm down, Alvin. Amir meant no harm."
He turned to Grace. "Meant no harm? He disobeyed us. And was fixing to bring danger to himself."
Shame and anger warred in Amir's heart. He had no right to open my mail. How did he find the letter? Amir's head felt light. "But Mr. Alvin, maybe it's not a fake. Maybe the person knows something about them...." He hesitated as tears welled up in his large eyes.
"It is a fake!" Alvin shouted.
Be determined. "But—but how do you know this person's lying? The letter doesn't say anything bad." His father's voice ringing in his head strengthened him. He reached for the letter.
Mr. Smith snatched it off the table. "This is junk from a sick person who wants to molest a child!"
Amir looked on with disbelief as Alvin tore the letter into small pieces and threw them to the floor like confetti. Amir dropped to the floor and tried to put the tiny pieces together. "It was my letter. Why did you open my letter?"
Alvin shook the empty envelope in Amir's direction. "The mailman accidentally put the letter in the neighbor's mailbox. Bruce's mother handed it to me as I walked in. This nut wrote A. Smith on the envelope." He threw the envelope on the floor. "God is good. Made sure I got this letter. God takes care of children and fools, Amir. And you're both!"
"Alvin, please, that's enough." Grace clasped her husband's arm and shook him slightly. "We can finish this discussion at family devotions this evening."
He jerked his arm away from his wife. "I'm too angry for devotions. It ain't working no way."
Amir saw Alvin's face; it looked like rough brown tree bark. He saw his eyes drooping as he wiped them with the back of his hand. He heard his voice—low, scratchy, and drained of anger now.
"Why didn't you trust me, son? I told you I'd find them."
Finally, Amir was able to see Alvin Smith not only with his eyes but with his heart, and the tears rolled down his face, too. He tried to push them back, but he could no longer keep them inside. "I ... I'm sorry, Pops. I didn't want to upset you. This person might know where they are."
Grace gasped slightly, and Alvin looked stunned.
"Don't push it, Alvin," Grace said firmly.
Amir sobbed as he still tried fruitlessly to piece the letter together.
Grace bent down on one knee, put her arm around Amir, and handed him a tissue. "This person
is lying, Amir."
"But we ... we could've checked."
Alvin's shoulders slumped. He slowly shook his head as he stood over Amir and Grace. "We don't need to check. Your aunt called me at work today. That's how I know this fool is lying."
Saturday morning
September 12th
Dear Doris,
When I received your letter last week I was so happy. First, I like the things you said about my mom and dad. Your words helped me. Maybe you have some words for Charlene. Maybe all she needs is a friend, Doris.
There has been so much excitement around here. That's why it took me so long to write you back. I have some unbelievable news. I spoke to my aunt Gloria last week! She was crying so much at first that we could hardly talk. She'd spent the last two years, she said, "Gathering up the little ones, taking them out of foster homes," and she and her husband adopted them. She tracked down Ronald, too, and was real happy to know that we lived together. She thought I was still living with a foster family in the Bronx. Seems like Mister Alvin and my aunt were tracking each other.
At first I thought that my aunt would yell and fuss like she used to do with my mother and father, but she just said that she was happy to hear my voice and know that Ronald and me were okay. She didn't even ask me why I wouldn't talk to her in the past, or why I ran away.
I wanted to say, "Auntie Gloria, I'm sorry for the way I acted," but I felt too shy, nervous, and embarrassed to say anything except "Hello, Auntie Gloria. How are the children?"
She is coming here today with her husband and all of my brothers and sisters. They'd been living in Virginia, but they just moved back to New York City and live in Brooklyn!
We have all been busy cleaning. Miss Grace's been cooking and baking, getting ready for their visit. I've never seen her act so nervous. She even yelled at Ronald this morning!
One True Friend Page 7