Sweet Bye-Bye

by Denise Michelle Harris

  He smiled and said, “What a wonderful question. People can change and they do change all the time. You can change because God will allow you to change. Second Corinthians 5:17 states very clearly, ‘Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away: behold all things are become new.’ You just have to believe God, and want to change.”

  That was good to know. I thought maybe I wanted to make some changes.

  Then there was a small chime of a bell, and he said, “Well, that’s our time for today. I think that you’ve done a lot. What do you think?”

  “I think I agree,” I said.

  It didn’t feel like a whole hour had passed. “Thank you, Dr. Brown.”

  “You’re quite welcome. Would you like to make another appointment?”

  I thought for a moment. “Maybe.” I needed to absorb all of this. “I’ll call you.”

  “I sure hope you do.” Looking at me, he added, “And remember, through Him, anything is possible.”

  I left the big old house and walked down to the Church Street intersection to hail a cab.

  30

  Go Fly a Kite

  I had to walk out of the residential neighborhood to find a cab. On the way, I saw a homeless man. San Francisco had a serious homeless problem. There were homeless people everywhere.

  The man had on a beige tweed hat with a snap in the front that reminded me of a duck’s bill. He had on a dirty tie-dyed T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. Clearly the shirt once had been bright purple and blue and yellow. His long straggly brown hair hung wildly past his shoulders. He had a stocky build and he wore black sweatpants and no shoes.

  He pushed a shopping cart that was filled to the rim with stuff. In it, I saw a Hula-Hoop, and five or six different pieces of cardboard that were smashed up against the wall of the cart. The most visible one read, “54 cents will make my day. God Bless.” He also had a rolled-up sleeping bag, a smashed painting that was missing the top side of its wooden frame, a bag of cans, and a worn brown leather shoe. I wondered if its match was in there somewhere among the stuff.

  We walked down the tree-lined street, and eventually we crossed paths. He looked straight ahead, rambling on to himself. Then, like a town crier, he yelled deliriously at no one. He spoke passionately, as though he was sent by a royal family from a faraway land to awaken everyone and bring them to their senses.

  He said, “Dear Fellowmen: It is with great pleasure that I inform you that you all must carry kites. Carry your kite with you, and fly it on windy days. We have a wise king who knows what is best. This simple pleasure will make a world of difference in your lives. As simple as using your son’s picture as a bookmark or holding on to your daughter’s childhood toy. So take heed I say, and have your kite near, for it is the law!”

  He yelled, “So again, everyone, everyone must carry a kite! . . .”

  Once we’d passed each other, I looked back at him. He pushed the cart with one hand and made big gestures and hand motions with the other. Each time he took a step, I could see the bottoms of his oily feet.

  I walked a few more paces, then stopped. My dad and I have always had a thing about the homeless people. I reached into my purse and took out some money from the side pocket. I put my shoulder bag over my head so that it hung crossways like an old-fashioned newspaper boy would carry his papers. I turned and ran back to the babbling man.

  “Excuse me, excuse me,” I said, panting like I’d run a marathon. “Here you go.” I handed him two twenties. “Go eat,” I said, “and buy yourself a pair of shoes.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “No sir, thank you.” I turned around and continued back down Church Street to the busy intersection.

  “Come now,” he called after me. “It’s an order. Everyone must carry a kite!”

  31

  What Is Love?

  I pulled into the residency dorms behind the Oakland Children’s Hospital and blew the horn. Keith came out of the building wearing a pair of antiqued faded jeans and a white button-down shirt with a blue pullover sweater. He opened the door and got in.

  “You ready to do this?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s roll.”

  We arrived at the Faith Center a few minutes early. We walked into the church arm in arm and found seats in the back center pews.

  “It feels good to be back in here,” Keith said.

  I had to agree. The church filled up quickly, and in no time at all, we were shoulder to shoulder with other members. A little girl, maybe a year old, was in front of us. Her mother held her so that she stood up in her lap and faced Keith and me. She had little brown chubby cheeks and four black, cushiony ponytails. She smiled at us and babbled. Keith smiled, and I waved my index finger at her.

  “Look, there’s Pastor Fields!” he said excitedly. “I want to say hello.” It seemed he had no inhibitions. He looked at his watch and said, “After church.”

  Keith was so much more open than I was. He didn’t care if people saw his emotion, be it happy or sad. He just put it out there for the whole world to see. I loved that about him.

  A gentleman announcer in gray slacks, a gray shirt, and a black plaid tie walked up to the microphone and welcomed everyone. “Are there any first-time visitors here with us today?” he asked.

  Several people stood up. Keith whispered, “Maybe they’ll ask for members who haven’t been here in fifteen years to stand next, huh?”

  I laughed. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  The greeter told them that they were welcome and asked if anyone would like to say a few words.

  One man said, “Praise God. I am Charles Mathers here visiting from Missouri. I belong to Missionary Zion Baptist Church in St. Louis, and I just wanted to say that I saw this church on my way to my hotel on Friday morning, and the Spirit led me here. I’m very happy to be here with you all today.” Another lady spoke: “I bring you greetings from Love and Friendship Community Church in Sacramento . . .”

  A few more people commented while the little girl in front of us kept reaching over and trying to pull the flower off the hat of the lady next to her. Her mother was busy listening to the speakers and hadn’t noticed what the baby was trying to do. The mother listened and rocked from side to side. The baby’s eyes would light up with excitement as she drew near the flower and the netting that sat on top of the lady’s hat. Her little fingers would open and close as if she were practicing how she would grip it if she just got her hands on it. But her mother always seemed to pull in the other direction just in the nick of time.

  Pastor Fields got up and began to give the sermon. Everyone was quiet. I was still a little shocked by the number of young people who were present. They took in every word like each one was a vitamin or a nutrient. There were young ladies with blue braids and tattoos on their backs, and rings in their lips and eyebrows. There were guys there with their pants four sizes too big, with cornrows, and twists, and Afros, and dreads. The scenery was a far cry from the frilly dresses and the polyester-pant-wearing church days that I remembered.

  The pastor spoke about the twelve disciples of Jesus, and how He chastised them about keeping their faith, and not doubting. The message was helpful, practical, and for me educational because I’d always thought those guys were near-perfect.

  Pastor Fields asked us to turn our Bibles to Jeremiah 29:11. I swished the pages of my Bible with an expression on my face that said I knew where all of the books were.

  She read it aloud:

  For I know the thoughts that I think of toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you an expected end.

  “Did you hear that? Read it with me.” And the people did.

  “Memorize that, and get it in your spirit,” she said. She told us that God wanted good things for us, and that he gave us what we expected. I found the right page too late to read along, but I heard the message just the same. Well, actually, Keith set his Bible down and showed me where t
he passage was, and I bookmarked it.

  The baby girl in front of me smiled and made a little gurgling sound while eyeing the bright cloth flower. Her mom swayed to the left a bit too much, and before anybody realized it, the toddler had a red cloth flower in her hand and was munching on it. The mother immediately apologized and tried to get the flower out of the little girl’s grasp. The baby refused. The mom had to pry the flower out of her baby’s tight little grip.

  The choir stood up and sang a gospel song that sounded like reggae. In a really deep voice, the tenor sang, “Clap ya hands for Je-sus. Give him all de praise! Clap ya hands for Je-sus. Oh ya, clap ya hands. Bouyaka! Bouyaka! Bouyaka! Whoooo!” The congregation clapped their hands, and everyone was up and praise-dancing, including Keith and me. It was spiritual. It was exuberant. It felt great. And it made it very easy for me to close my eyes and talk with God.

  After church, when everyone was leaving, Keith went over to Pastor Fields and reintroduced himself. Her eyes lit up when she recognized him. She gave him a great big hug. I smiled, remembering how she used to love little Keith Rashaad. Then he pointed over to where I was sitting, and I waved. They motioned for me to come over. I’d been back at the church for over a week, but I had been too ashamed to go up and say hello. I walked over to them.

  “Hi Pastor Fields,” I said with a huge grin.

  She looked at me above her glasses, then pulled me to her. “Little Chantell, oh my goodness! Look at you! It’s so good to see you. It’s so good to see the both of you. I am just overwhelmed with happiness.” We talked a bit more before we left the church.

  Keith and I strolled down the sidewalk and talked.

  “Keith, church was great. When did church get like that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, all the young people that go to church nowadays, it’s amazing. I remember church being for grandparents. A place where kids went because their grandparents forced them to go.”

  Keith chuckled. “Yeah, I know what you mean. It seems there are lots of churches these days that are reaching out to young people. It’s like there’s a spiritual revolution going on or something.”

  “Yeah, and it’s pretty cool.”

  I opened my car door, put my Bible in the backseat, and said, “So, where are we going now?” I surprised myself with how comfortable I was getting with him. I guess I just assumed that we’d hang out together a while longer.

  “Wherever you want, princess,” he teased. He knew that Dad used to call me that. I smiled.

  He didn’t go over to the passenger side, but stood near the door of the driver’s side with me. He stared at me. “I want to put my arms around you.”

  I looked down at the cement.

  “Remember when I asked you if you trusted me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I asked you that because it’s important to me that you do. I love you, and I have loved you all of my life.”

  I didn’t know where he was going. “You love me how, Keith Rashaad?”

  “I love you enough to want to build up our friendship, and nurture the connection that we share.”

  I told myself that I didn’t know what he was talking about. I was trying to remember the oath that I had made to myself, so that I wouldn’t get confused. What the heck was it?

  Keith said, “What I am saying is that I don’t want to lose you again, Chantell. And I’m wondering how you feel about me.”

  I thought Keith Rashaad Talbit was the most real, most grounded, most handsome, and most loving man that I’d ever seen.

  But then it came back to me, my oath that I’d taken. I didn’t intend to be left again. Keith Talbit was the third great loss of my life, and I had absolutely no intention of being left again. Period dot. And with careful planning, I wouldn’t be. I had a boyfriend, and things wouldn’t get any more serious than they had when we were kids.

  So I said, “Let’s see, how do I feel about you? I feel we are tried-and-true friends.”

  “Hmm” was what he said, and I thought he might have looked a little disappointed. But he put his arms around me and hugged me just the same. And, for just a moment, I lay down the oath and felt his arms around me, and life was good.

  32

  The Key

  Even though the ride wasn’t the smoothest, riding with the top off of the Jeep always relaxed me. The sun was going down, and the breeze from the Pacific Ocean was making the temperature in the Bay Area nippy. I drove up and down along the familiar San Leandro streets where I’d grown up. There were children playing on sidewalks and in driveways. There were houses that had lights on in the kitchen, and you could see mothers making dinner for their families. I parked in the cul-de-sac on the sidewalk in front of my parents’ house.

  There, four teenage boys played basketball with a hoop on a large black pole maybe as high as an official court. They played hard. They seemed unaffected by the cold. They were running and sweating intensely. Their shirts were off and their backs were shiny. Two teenage girls stood nearby on the sidewalk watching. One had all of her hair pulled back into a ponytail that swung each time she laughed. The other had her hair parted and pulled into a ponytail at the top and let loose in the back. They wore short jean shorts that barely covered their little behinds. And they had teenage figures and little white tops on, which matched with their clean white sneakers.

  One girl stood with a hand on her hip, yelling things to the boys in the street.

  “Dunk it, Anthony!”

  “Uh-ohh, Taj, here it comes. Here it comes!”

  “Ahh, that was tight!”

  “Y’all tight! Do that at the game, Anthony.”

  I watched and listened. Then someone said to me, “It’s cold out here. You coming in?” It was Charlotte.

  “Oh, hi, I didn’t even hear you walk up.”

  Her expression was stern and serious as usual. “I see, come on in. Your dad is upstairs.”

  I got out of the car and headed past Charlotte’s Ford Tempo toward the door. Her backseat was full of groceries. She opened the door on the driver’s side and I went around to the door on the passenger side. She filled her arms up with bags and said again, “Your daddy is upstairs.” I opened the door, wrapped my arms around three bags, and closed the door. I wondered if she knew that my daddy and I were going to talk about my real mother.

  “Okay,” I said.

  We came into the house through the garage. I stepped onto the marble floors, headed into the kitchen, and set the bags on the counter. Their kitchen was always immaculate. Never any crumbs on the counter. Never any tomato sauce splashed on the can opener. Never any dust between the stove and the refrigerator. I’d never say it, but Charlotte was excellent at cleaning. I wasn’t this way. While I did what needed to be done, I was far from the perfect homemaker. I grabbed the bananas out of the bag and placed them in the fruit bowl. Then I rinsed off the apples and put them away too.

  She must have thought I was stalling because she asked, “Are you going to go upstairs?” She didn’t say it in that “I’m trying to start a fight with Chantell” tone that she sometimes used, the one that got on my nerves so badly. No, her voice sounded cracked and an octave deeper, like she wanted to cry.

  I put the fruit down and followed the shiny marble floor to the front door. I looked around the living room at all of the white French provincial furniture that never got sat on. I looked down the hall toward the den area, where everyone who came over relaxed. Then I looked up to where I was supposed to be headed, up the stairs.

  I took off my shoes and put them near the front door next to the big wicker basket that housed new socks for visitors who didn’t want to walk around barefoot. I didn’t know what to expect. I headed up the stairs slowly. For a moment, my mind went back to the day I found my father collapsed in his room. I looked down at my newly pedicured feet. My toenails were powder blue, and I’d had white butterflies painted on the nails of both of my big toes.

  I tried to ignore the rapid pace
of my heart. I put one foot in front of the other, and I looked at the white butterflies. I imagined them flapping their wings and flying up the stairs as I walked.

  I peeked in and there was Daddy. He lay in his bed half asleep and half watching the news. I gave him a kiss on the cheek and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked good. I said another quick thank-you to God as he sat up and turned down the volume. Daddy had a big, strong voice and so my suspicions were aroused by his lowering the television’s volume. He was really making me nervous.

  “Hey, Daddy.”

  “Hi, Chantell. I am glad you finally made it. I really want to talk to you.”

  He reached over to the nightstand, grabbed his water bottle, and took a sip. He removed the eyeglasses that he always wore and looked at me very seriously. Daddy always tried to make everything okay for me, and this demeanor was one that I rarely saw. We were going to talk about my mom, but was he going to tell me I’d hurt her? If I’d done something to her, then I was sorry.

  “Daddy, what is it?”

  Daddy held up his hand at me as if to say, Don’t speak.

  “After your mom died, I used to pray for strength and knowledge as to what to do.” He looked away from me and at the dresser in front of the bed. “You was a girl, and I used to worry if I was doing the right things for you. Did I hug you enough? Did I comb your hair nice like the other little girls? Would your mother agree with the bedtime that I’d set for you? But you turned out real good, so I must have did okay.”

  I smiled and nodded. “You were a good parent, Daddy.”

  He held up his hand again. “Please, baby, let me finish. I’m trying to say, I’m so very proud of you, baby.”

  He paused and chuckled. “I worried about you, though. I had reason to be concerned. Some of the things that came out of your little mouth sometimes made me nervous.” He laughed.

  It felt like Dad was going to drop a bomb on me. Like maybe my mom hated me, or maybe his checkup at the hospital didn’t go so well.