by Alex Dean
It was 10:47. Ariel’s mother had asked Ariel and me to be home by ten whenever we were out. Or at least call if something caused us to be home later than expected.
Nervously, I ventured down the carpeted hallway.
Before I could turn the handle to open the condo door, it swung open wildly. Mrs. Evans was standing there, arms folded in a white bathrobe and slippers, Mr. Evans flanking her side, calmly glancing at his watch.
“Lula? It’s past your curfew. Do you have an explanation why you’re home so late?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. Well, actually, Marcus took me by his studio to see the recording equipment he uses to make his music. Time must’ve got by us. It won’t happen again.”
Mr. Evans stepped forward. “Come in,” he said. He went on. “Lula, there’s a reason why we ask that you and Ariel be home by ten. It’s a dangerous world out there. We just want you girls safe.”
“By the way, have you heard from Ariel?” asked Mrs. Evans.
“No, isn’t she home?” I said as I walked from the doorway into the living room.
Mr. Evans shook his head. “No. She’s late as well,” he said as he went behind the sofa and peered out the window, squinting to see whatever he could in the dark.
“I’ve talked to Ariel about this before. It apparently goes in one ear and out the other,” he continued.
Mrs. Evans went into the kitchen, where she made herself a fresh cup of coffee. Mr. Evans took a seat on the sofa and watched the last inning of a baseball game. Baseball. That was one more sport I’d learned about in school.
I focused on the TV’s fifty-five-inch screen as the relief pitcher wound up to deliver his pitch from the mound.
I guess you could say that I’d completely bypassed history in seeing Jackie Robinson, the first colored, or Negro as he was called at the time, ever to play in the Major Leagues.
“Goodnight,” I said as I walked into the room Ariel and I shared.
“Goodnight, Lula,” the Evanses responded. Despite their calm demeanor, I could tell they were on pins and needles waiting for Ariel to come through the door.
I kicked off my shoes and fell backward onto the bed. Although too tired to even take off my clothes, with a small burst of energy I sprung forward to hit the switch on the wall, turning off the lights.
I lay still in the darkness, staring out the window conveniently located near the top of my bed. I stared at the moon, the twinkly stars, wondering if Mama was somewhere out there. Wondering if somehow, God would see fit to unite us again.
A tear rolled off my cheek and silently splatted on the pillow beneath my head, as I got on my knees beside the bed and squeezed my eyes shut in a prayer.
Dear God,
Mama had always told me that all things are possible with those who believe, and in your majesty and divine power, God, should you see fit, it’d mean the world to me for you to somehow, someway, make it possible to see my mama again.
I honestly don’t know if she’s still alive, or maybe she’s in heaven with you, with Clarence, and my daddy.
But if she’s still here somewhere in time, I humbly ask with all my heart that you allow us to be as one again. Just as it always was. Ella Mae and her baby girl, Lula.
How sweet would that be!
I kindly thank you in advance.
Amen. No sooner than those words left my mouth than I heard Ariel come in the door. I got up from being on my knees and put my ear flush against the bedroom door.
I could hear Ariel and her parents speaking in harsh tones. After they’d finished, her parents told her goodnight and Ariel turned and headed straight to our room.
I jumped back from the door and was sitting on the edge of the bed when she entered. She smiled, tossing her purse on the bed.
“I guess I wasn’t the only one who stayed out past closing time. Anyhow, I had a good reason. Tommy had his older brother pick him up from work.” Ariel then sat on the bed next to me. “Well, turns out, his brother had a warrant out for his arrest for not paying child support. And the cops had us detained for over an hour until their parents posted bond. So, Lula, the moral of this story is: be mindful of the company you keep, including their family. Anyway, how’d your date go with Marcus?”
“It was okay,” I said, smiling.
“Just okay? Are you like kidding me? Marcus is one of the most popular kids at Chicago Prep. A major rap star in the making. Soon he’ll have more cash than he knows what to do with. And if you’re smart, which I know you are, you’ll be his first choice when he decides who he wants to take to the prom.”
“The prom?”
“Yeah.”
“But I can’t dance.”
“Sure you can. Anybody can. All it takes is a little patience and a little practice.” Ariel rose from the bed and activated her iPhone to play music.
Then she walked over to me and pulled me up on my feet. She stepped from side to side to the music—and I followed her, matching my steps with hers.
“Don’t worry if you make a mistake. This isn’t a Dancing with the Stars audition,” she said, and giggled.
I laughed. Ariel had not only become like a big sister to me, but she was also my one and only best friend. Always teaching. Always encouraging.
She grabbed my arms, and we whirled around in a circle, turning like a merry-go-round at a carnival. I grinned happily as we spun inside the room while barefoot on the carpet.
This was exciting.
This was fun.
It was exactly what I needed to take my mind away.
Chapter 19
By the end of the week, two important events had taken place in my life at once. First, I had been notified that I was proudly selected as valedictorian of Chicago Prep. All of the hard work and dedication, the support from my family, and friends, had finally paid off for me. It was an extraordinary dream to behold—for someone like me an absolute miracle in the making. So to honor my big achievement, Ariel, and her parents had been planning a huge celebration.
Second, Marcus had finally taken me to meet his grandmother, Mama D. She lived in a ramshackle two-story on South Michigan Avenue. I don’t know why Marcus took so long to introduce us. Maybe it was because he was ashamed of where he lived. But I knew that having the opportunity to meet the person most important in his life, the parental figure that raised him, meant the two of us had a good chance of becoming closer.
The steps to the old house were creaky and rotted, and Mama D. opened the door with a stern look like she meant business. She wore a brown paisley headscarf with an old frayed housedress and slippers that looked split at the seams.
She looked me up one side and down the other as we walked in.
“Well, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, young lady. I’m Mama D. The D is for Delores, Delores Whitaker.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” I said as we stood in the living room.
“This is Lula, Mama D., Lula Darling,” Marcus announced.
“Darling, huh? Now, what makes you such a darling?” Mama D. asked with a cackle.
Marcus shook his head. “It’s just her last name, that’s all. I’ll be back in a minute, Lula, I’m going to the bathroom.”
Marcus walked out of the room, and Mama D. raised a cane to point. “Have a seat,” she said.
I sat down on the sofa as Marcus disappeared somewhere into the back of the house. There were a lot of antiques in the room, a wooden rocking chair by a fireplace and mantel, a nonworking antique clock on the wall, and an old faded green carpet covering most of the hardwood floor.
Mama D. turned around to sit down herself. She shuffled to a big corduroy recliner that looked like it had seen better days. I quickly noted the slight hunch in her back and how she had to walk gingerly using the cane.
She stared at me for several seconds before she finally said something.
“I’m pretty good at sizing people up. You seem to be a lot different than the girls Marcus usually brings ’round here. Where you from?”
“I’m originally from the south,” I said. “Natchez, Mississippi.”
Mama D. leaned back against the recliner. “I hail from Montgomery, Alabama. Came up North when I was nineteen. Worked odd jobs trying to make ends meet. Life wasn’t too bad until Marcus’s mother ended up tangled with some no-good poor excuse for a man and got herself hooked on drugs.”
She leaned forward. “So I had to raise him by myself. This is a picture of him when he was a little boy,” she said, pointing to a photo on the small table beside her. I stood and walked over to take a closer look.
“And this here is a picture of my mother, God rest her soul. She was a slave on a plantation in Monroe County,” Mama D. added.
I turned my gaze to look at the framed black-and-white photograph she was holding. Then, without saying a word, I sat once again on the sofa.
Mama D. continued. “The slave owner that owned the plantation where my mama worked had left her a parcel of land when he died. It was supposed to be passed down to me. But my oldest sibling, who still resides in Alabama, made some sort of highfalutin’ deal with some shyster attorney and swindled it right out from under me.”
Mama D. shook her head. “In the midst of our darkest days of slavery, we didn’t do to each other what we do now.” She went on, “’Course, you wouldn’t know a thing about all that, I’m sure. The only thing you young people seem to know about these days is hip-hop—and violence.”
I countered in protest. “It’s still some of us good kids around,” I said.
Mama D. smiled at this and belted out another loud cackle. “Well, if that’s so, young lady, they seem to be outnumbered by the bad ones. That devil, he sure is busy. Yes, Lord, he really is.”
Through a hallway, I saw Marcus lift a plastic bag out of a trash can and go out into the alley. He’d left the back door open, and some kind of huge bug flew in.
“Did my grandson tell you about my special collection?” Mama D. asked, brightening.
“No, ma’am. He didn’t.”
“Well, let me be the first to show it to you. I usually don’t have company much, and even if I did, I probably wouldn’t bring them back here.”
Mama D. rose from the recliner and waved me back into one of the bedrooms off to the side. As soon as I entered, I noticed that each wall was filled with glass and wood display cabinets. Each cabinet had what looked like figurines of black people in different poses.
“This is my prized collection of art by the beloved legendary artist Annie Lee,” she said.
“This is very nice,” I said. “How long did it take you to put it together?” I asked, looking around.
“Oh, I’ve been collecting them for several years. It keeps me busy, you know. Instead of me spending all day watching that idiot box in the living room, I figure I might as well do something more productive.”
“Maybe one day I can have something like this,” I said as I examined each piece closely.
She nodded. “Well, you most certainly can.” Then she turned, leaned on her cane and put one leg forward. “We can go back up front now. These old legs of mine can only take standing for so long.”
I followed her out and back toward the living room, where she lowered herself in the recliner and then sucked in a big gulp of air deep into her chest.
Marcus suddenly returned from the back, brushing himself off, and said, “Mama D., you’re not giving Lula a hard time, are you?”
She shook her head. “We’re just sitting here getting acquainted, Marcus. I’ve shown her my figurine collection, and I’ve also been on my very best behavior.”
“Good. Because you weren’t all that nice to the other guests I brought here.” Marcus then kissed Mama D. on her forehead before grabbing his coat. “We need to be going,” he called out to me.
I rose and walked over to shake her hand.
“It was a pleasure meeting you,” I said.
She reached forward, extending her grip. I could look in her eyes and see that she had given me an initial mark of approval—but without actually saying it. She smiled at me then, and said, “No, honey, the pleasure was all mine.”
Chapter 20
Randy Evans had bent as far back as his body allowed before his usual morning stretch at the office was quietly interrupted.
Tom Kazarich, Executive VP of Cullen Industries and Randy’s boss, came in the room and shut the door, his face uneasy.
“Randy, there are some pretty important folks here to speak with you…privately,” he said, pointing a thumb at the door. “Three are from the NSA, and two are from the CIA. Is there something I need to know about going on here?”
“No. Not at all, Tom. I can assure you whatever they’re here to talk about has absolutely nothing to do with Cullen Industries.”
Kazarich stepped forward and gave Randy a pat on the arm. “Good. Because the last thing we need is any negative publicity. Especially with the new merger looming. Whatever the hell they’re here about, it’s better you take the conference room to keep things under wraps. I’ll send them up.”
Kazarich left the workspace, made the ground floor and gave the okay for the group of feds to go upstairs. The four men and one woman took the ride up, got off the elevator and headed straight into the meeting space.
The two CIA agents entered first, followed by the three from the NSA. Evans’s face flushed. He could feel his heart pounding all the way to the ends of his extremities. He didn’t know for certain but had a gnawing, sneaking suspicion as to why they were here.
His gaze quickly swept all five, registering their clean-cut appearance, dark suits, lanyards nestled around their necks, and the black shades just beneath the stare of the woman to his immediate right.
“Randy Evans?”
“Yes?”
“Bill Haupht, Central Intelligence Agency. To my left is agent Cheryl Del Priore, along with these gentlemen from the National Security Agency. We’re here, collectively, to follow up on a lead which found its way into our office, and that of the NSA, concerning a young girl named Lula Darling, currently holed up at your residence.
“Now, obviously, under normal circumstances, neither the CIA nor NSA would intervene in such matters. But we’re confident that this particular situation could be a matter of national security.”
Randy protested. “How so? She’s just a child. She hasn’t broken any laws, hasn’t hurt anyone. She and my daughter, Ariel, are quite close and ordinary and—”
“Let’s stop right there, Mr. Evans,” Haupht scolded, putting a hand up. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a small photograph with his right hand, pointing at it with his left.
“This child, as you call her, is most definitely anything other than ordinary. Otherworldly, perhaps. But not ordinary.” Haupht put the photo away. “We’re not at liberty to tell you how we know. Only that we need to talk to her.”
“Look, she’s obviously been through a lot. She’s been through enough shock and trauma, and my family is all she’s got. What do you want to do with her?”
Del Priore interceded. “Bill, may I?”
“By all means,” said Haupht.
Del Priore walked over to Randy and stopped just inside of his personal space. She wore a pantsuit over a white blouse, with heels on her feet and her hair pinned back.
“Mr. Evans, again, I’m Cheryl Del Priore, NSA Special Agent, and I want to assure you that Lula will in no form or fashion be harmed.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a black leather billfold, holding it open.
“See, I’m a happily married mother of two beautiful children,” she said, brightening as she held up a picture in front of Evans. “I love my kids, just as I’m sure you do yours.”
Randy turned away after staring at the photo.
Del Priore continued, “Again, I can assure you, our only intent is to learn more about how she got here. We’re interested in the process. The technology. Which, obviously, could have serious ramifications for society as we know it, including ou
r national security.”
Randy shook his head. “I really don’t know about this. I mean…like, what? You people plan on examining her like some type of lab rat?” he said.
Del Priore drew silent, then glanced at the other agents.
“Along with an in-depth interview, yes, a physical and psychiatric evaluation would be required, if that’s what you’re asking. The results of which will remain highly classified at the agency’s headquarters in Fort Meade, Maryland.”
Del Priore reached in her pocket and extended her hand. “Here’s my contact information, Mr. Evans. Our objective here was to approach this matter wisely and tactfully—without scaring the hell out of Lula.”
Randy reached for the business card and tucked it away.
“By the way…how has Lula been adjusting to life in the twenty-first century?” asked Del Priore.
Randy nodded. “Not bad. Me and my family, especially my daughter, have been slowly teaching her how to adapt. Even her speech has changed from her original southern dialect.”
“Good to hear it,” said Del Priore.
“Okay. So what’s next?” asked Randy.
“Well, we’ll need to get her on a plane and fly her out to D.C. as soon as possible,” replied Del Priore.
“A plane? Are you people nuts? That’ll scare the living daylights out of her! After several years, she’s just getting accustomed to riding in a car. And now you folks want to put her on a plane?” Randy spat.
“Good grief, we’re trying to be reasonable here, Mr. Evans! The federal government doesn’t have to be as congenial as we’ve been. If it makes the trip more tolerable for Lula, you and your wife can accompany her as well,” Del Priore countered.
“Mr. Evans, in all fairness, everything Agent Del Priore has said is true. But more importantly, we’re not asking,” Haupht scolded and then glanced at his female colleague.
“You’ll have exactly one week to prepare,” Haupht went on.
Randy shrugged. “All right. This evening I’ll break the news to my wife, and with Lula. Can I ask you a question, though?”