Three Nights In Mannford

by Cynthia Conner Goyang

  She ignored Marquise and screeched on. “Haven’t you all heard what happened? Probably on the news by now! It’s a cryin’ shame!”

  “What news?” Marquise scratched his head irritably and pointed toward the football game, indicating to Aunt Mable that they hadn’t heard anything during the sportscast.

  “Well, turn on the news, boy, and you all will see what’s going on.”

  Marquise pursed his lips but then picked up the control and turned to the news.

  CNN news anchor, Fredericka Whitfield, appeared on the screen. “Early this morning, the mother of Darrelle Moseley collapsed at her home. Family members claim that the 9-1-1 dispatchers did not respond and send an ambulance after the emergency call. CNN has obtained the taped conversation between the emergency dispatcher and Mrs. Moseley’s daughter-in-law.”

  Fredericka stopped talking as the recorded conversation took full attention. “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  “Please, please . . . can you send someone over? My mother-in-law has fallen on the floor. She couldn’t get her words out a minute ago. Please send someone quick! Oh, hurry! We lost Darrelle; we can’t lose his mama, too.”

  “Ma’am, ma’am, is she breathing? Check and see if she’s breathing.”

  “Oh no. Mama . . .” The voice trailed off, as the sounds faded to a distant background voice and some rustling movements. Then the line went dead.

  The screen returned to Fredericka Whitfield. “The police dispatcher said that the call dropped and that 911 could not determine the location. They had no way of knowing the address. The family alleges, however, that the call was disconnected once the dispatcher knew who they were. Felicia Moseley suffered a massive stroke. The family states that she was transported to the hospital by private vehicle. Mrs. Moseley is now in the Critical Care Unit at Mercy Hospital.”

  “Didn’t I tell you, boy?” Mabel said. “Didn’t I tell y’all? They tryin’ to kill us all.” She went to cussin’ again.

  “Auntie Mabel!” Marquise said, putting his hands up to stop her. “Auntie Mabel!”

  She threw her hands onto her ample hips. “What you gon’ do ‘bout it, boy?”

  “I’m gonna make it better,” Marquise said, staring directly into the old woman’s eyes.

  She stared back, nodded her gray head, then turned and left the barbershop.

  Marquise steeled his jaw. I’m gonna make it better.

  Night Two

  Chapter

  16

  At 6 p.m. Al stood up from the altar, trembling, his hands raised. “Praise You, Lord! Thank You, Jesus!”

  Looking forward to getting home to Misty, he locked up and headed to the parking lot. In that moment — in the still-bright evening sun — his beat-up, olive-green Crown Victoria seemed to stand out with ugliness. Al unlocked the driver’s side door, got in, and turned his key in the ignition. Nothing happened. Each time he again turned the key, he was met with silence — not even a clicking to show that the engine was trying to turn over.

  Discouragement washed over Al. Just as he was about to get out and pop the hood, his cell phone rang. Expecting the call to be from Misty, he saw instead the 206 area code of his old hometown of Seattle. “Who can that be?” Al muttered.

  He answered the phone, putting it on speaker and laying it on the console so he could concentrate on cooling down the inside of the car. Since the electric windows wouldn’t work, Al had to open the car door to let in some fresh air.

  “Hello, Mr. Shepherd,” came a deep voice through the speaker. “Stan Wickford here. I am the director of information technology at CalCast Industries. I’m calling because your name has been circulating around here. Several of our associates have highly recommended you as an applications analyst. Can I get you over here for an interview, say, next Wednesday?”

  Al’s mouth dropped open, and he scratched his head in surprise. He hadn’t worked as an analyst in more than five years. Where had this come from? And why now?

  “Mr. Shepherd?” The voice said again.

  Al cleared his throat. “I’m here. Sorry about that. You’ve just caught me off guard. Mr. Wickford, I appreciate your call, but I am no longer working in the computer industry.”

  “Oh? What business are you currently in?”

  “I am pastoring a church here in Mannford.”

  The man on the other end of the call fell silent. Finally, his voice filled with incredulity, he repeated, “Pa-pastoring?”

  Lord, help me, Al prayed. “Yes, Mr. Wickford. I am honored to serve as pastor of Mannford Christian Fellowship.”

  “You must have a pretty sizable congregation for them to afford to match your salary at Glaskin.”

  “It’s not the size of the congregation that matters,” Al said, as an uneasiness fell over him, “but being what God has created you to be and going where He leads you. That what matters, Mr. Wickford.”

  The man chuckled. “Well, that’s all well and good, but all that religious stuff doesn’t buy you a new car, get you a house, or pay for trips for you and your wife to Hawaii. Heck, or even a trip to Vegas by yourself, old boy — if you know what I mean.” He chuckled again, grating on Al’s nerves.

  At the ridicule, a stream of discouragement washed over Al, quickly replaced by righteous indignation. “My God has and will always supply all my needs. I can’t say that I am free of problems, but I can honestly say that only in Christ am I truly free. I pray your eyes will be opened to see the truth and to see God, as well. Everything you spoke about is temporary. None of those things brings lasting peace or joy. All we truly need comes in and through a relationship with Christ.”

  “That’s foolishness!” cried Mr. Wickford. “Good day to you!” Then he hung up.

  “Wow, what was that?” Al asked. He felt shaken but victorious. A verse from First Corinthians popped into his mind, The message of the cross is foolishness to them that are perishing 1 Corinthians 1:18 (NKJV). He sat for a moment to regain his wits. Something had just happened; he knew it in his soul. He put his hands and head on the steering wheel of his disabled Crown Victoria and thanked the Lord over and over again.

  His cell phone rang again. He hesitated to answer it just in case it was Mr. Wickford again or some other person who wanted to cause him trouble. This time, it was Misty.

  “Al! Co-co-come home. Please, co-co-come home.” Her voice was choked with fear and tears.

  Al’s heart nearly stopped. “Misty, what’s wrong?”

  Misty answered with whimpering and crying. Al had never heard his wife sound that way before. His pulse raced, and beads of sweat broke out on his brow. “I’ll be right there, Misty. I’m coming!”

  Al turned the key over in the ignition. Nothing. “I forgot!” he cried, pounding the steering wheel, and then jumping out of the car. Not the best at auto repairs, he glanced around, hoping to see someone who could help. No one! With shaky hands, he checked the fluid levels and made sure the battery connections were secure. Then he got into the car and tried again. Still nothing. He got back out of the car.

  “You better start up, car. You better start, in Jesus’s name!” he shouted, kicking the car’s bumper, and banging the hood with his fist. Salty tears trickled down his face. He got back in and slammed the door. Breathing in deeply, he turned the ignition.

  The engine rolled over and fired on.

  For a brief moment, Al lay his head in relief on the steering wheel. Then he put the car in gear and sped out, wheels squealing. “Thank You, Lord! Thank You!”

  Breathing hard, Al prayed as he floored the accelerator then began to zigzag in and around traffic. “Help, Lord, help. Please keep this car moving. Help my Misty, please help my Misty Girl.” Driving on and praying hard, he made it to their apartment in record time. A couple of police cars, their revolving lights on, sat near the apartment building. Once again Al’s heart raced. He
parked and sprinted toward the building. The elevator doors stood open, as though waiting for him. He rushed in and smacked the button for the seventh floor. The squeaky elevator doors slowly closed, and the elevator crawled upward. Floor 1 . . . floor 2 . . .

  “Come on!” he said to no one. At floor 3, the elevator stopped, its doors slowly opening. Al squeezed past an elderly couple trying to get on and took the stairs two by two up the remaining floors. Breathing hard and with sweat pouring from him, he finally made it to his apartment door — only to be stopped by a police officer.

  “Slow down, man,” the officer commanded.

  “I’m Al Shephard. That’s my apartment. Where’s my wife? What happened?”

  “Can I see some ID?”

  Shakily, Al pulled his wallet from his back pocket and presented his driver’s license to the officer.

  The policeman laid his hand on Al’s shoulder. “Your wife walked in on a burglary. Everything’s a mess in there, Mr. Shepherd.”

  “Is she okay?” Al asked, his heart nearly beating out of his chest.

  “Sorry to say, she’s been a bit roughed up and is very shaken.”

  “Oh my goodness!” Al exclaimed rushing toward his apartment, toward his wife — with the officer close behind.

  “We’ll get the guy, though, we’ll get him,” the officer assured. “As soon as you can, bring your wife to the station to fill out a police report. My name’s Officer John Holyard,” he said, handing Al a business card. “Please call if you need any assistance,” and patted Al’s shoulder.

  “Thank you,” Al nodded tersely and continued past the policeman to enter his apartment. A female officer stood close by.

  “It’s the husband, Sarg,” Holyard said to her.

  “Good,” she said and shook her head. “Take good care of her sir,” she said to Al before exiting and closing the door behind her.

  Al entered their ransacked apartment. Broken eggs, spilled milk, a splattered jar of spaghetti sauce, and other groceries — apparently dropped in the scuffle — were strewn haphazardly across the floor.

  Al’s eyes sought his sweet Misty. Unhearing, incredulous, and staring mouth agape, he gazed at her — propped up on their couch and trembling. Both her eyes were bruised and swollen, her lip bloodied. His heart pounding, Al rushed to his wife and took her gently in his arms. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” Al held Misty, stroked her hair, and together they wept.

  Chapter

  17

  5:30 p.m.

  Councilwoman Lisa Ann Nobles impatiently tapped her freshly manicured nails on the large oval conference table. She, councilman James Lyles, and the eight other council members — all formally dressed for the evening’s upcoming awards event — sat waiting for Mayor Truman Henderson who was thirty minutes late to a meeting he had agreed upon.

  “He’s at it again, gentlemen,” she said, not bothering to hide her displeasure. “How about this? Let’s just get him through this night and then we’ll think about an intervention later.” Lisa glanced up at the wall clock as the minutes slipped away.

  “Yeah, that’s probably best for now, but we’ve got to stick to our guns this time,” James said.

  “You bet we’re going to stick to our guns.” Lisa Ann rubbed her forehead and sternly eyed the councilmen. “After walking into Monday’s council meeting with his pants unzipped, smelling as if he hadn’t had a shower in days, coke dust in his nostrils . . .” She paused to exhale heavily. “Let’s at least see how he’s dressed. We may need to —”

  “Wow! Lisa Ann, gentlemen!” the mayor exclaimed, bursting through the council-chamber doors. “You all look, mah-ve-lous!” He smiled most charmingly. “How do you like me?” He turned around slowly to show off his black tuxedo and perfectly coiffed hair. Moussed and combed stylishly back, it was quite a departure from his usual boyish dressed-down style. His stock-in-trade was to turn on his charm and win people over. But this time, it wasn’t going to work. Lisa Ann wasn’t amused. When the mayor turned his back to them, she had noticed that he gave his nose a quick wipe.

  Those around the table exchanged furtive glances but then breathed sighs of relative relief at the mayor’s apparent efforts to look the part.

  “Looking great, Mayor,” James said, “but you’ve got something right — there” he said, motioning toward the tip of his nose.

  Truman looked chagrined as he quickly wiped his nose but just as quickly recovered with a wide smile. “To what do I owe this pleasure, council-peeps?” he said, his glance sweeping the circle of city council members.

  “Mayor Henderson, you’re late . . . again.” Lisa Ann sighed. “We’ve got to get going now. The awards event is in thirty minutes.” She tossed her thick dark hair. Standing, she smoothed down her elegant black evening gown, paying scant attention to the men’s appreciative wide-eyed glances at the curves it revealed. They were used to seeing her in business skirts, button-down blouses, and low-heeled shoes.

  The other members stood as well, some crossing their arms.

  “We’ll have to meet later. Can you give us a few minutes tonight — after the event?” Lisa Ann asked the mayor, barely keeping the contempt from her tone.

  “Sure deal! Of course, Councilwoman Nobles,” Mayor Henderson answered amiably. He shrugged his shoulders and motioned his hands with all the flourish of a fancy butler. “And now, lady and gentlemen, this dance?” Truman opened the council chambers doors and led the group out to a waiting stretch limousine.

  Lisa Ann clenched her fist, looked back toward the other council members, and mouthed, “Remember! Stick to your guns.”

  The councilmen nodded in agreement.

  By 6 p.m. black stretch limousines had lined the circular cobblestone drive to Mannford’s Crystal Ballroom for the event of the season, the Livingston Heights Philanthropists of the Year awards. Attendants stood ready to open limousine doors for all the invited guests. Dressed in tuxedos and the latest fashions from Paris, New York, and London, distinguished guests stepped onto a red carpet for photos and then were escorted into the grand ballroom.

  High ceilings hung with shimmering chandeliers set a tone of class and elegance, preparing guests for the room’s centerpiece: a sparkling water wall. A full bar with bartenders was set up and ready to serve, alongside a staff of smiling and friendly waiters all dressed in black and white and bow ties. Each greeted the attendees while a string ensemble played in the background. Everyone grabbed their drink of choice and joined in the convivial conversation. Laughter, chatter. Chatter, laughter.

  A smiling maître d’ opened wide a set of tall, white double doors and ushered everyone in. “Dinner is served,” he announced with a decidedly Parisian accent. Everyone took their seats at tables laid with the most exquisite china and crystal. A repast of prime rib, veal scaloppini, sautéed mushrooms, mixed mango summer salad, mini strawberry mousse in honey tuiles, and a lovely Frambroisier cake added to the ambiance of sophistication and grace.

  At the appointed time, a smiling Mayor Truman Henderson stepped onto the platform at one end of the room to address the crowd. “A community thrives and grows because of a special kind of people. They are the ones who build bridges that lead to opportunity for those less fortunate in our community. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you our philanthropists of the year.”

  As he announced each name, the recipient stood, made his or her way forward, and received an elegant gold embossed plaque. Each one remained on stage with Mayor Henderson for a photo while the audience responded with thunderous applause.

  After Mayor Henderson had recognized all the recipients, he energetically rubbed his hands together. “Now, for everyone’s enjoyment, please put your hands together for our evening’s entertainment — our deejay, V.I.C.”

  On cue, loud dance music filled the room as V.I.C.’s vibe increased in tempo and decibels over the classical selections that the string ensem
ble had played softly. The crowd refreshed their drinks and went to the parquet floor to dance the night away.

  As the guests entertained themselves, Mayor Henderson quietly removed himself outside to a parked black sedan where he tapped lightly on a window to get the driver’s attention.

  “You ready, Mayor?”

  “I’m ready,” Mayor Henderson said, sliding into the backseat. As the music blared inside the grand ballroom, the vehicle silently drove away.

  Deshaun strutted out of the House of Fade, jumped into his lime-green Escalade, stroked his goatee, and assessed his reflection in the mirror. “Smooth,” he said nodding in approval. He patted the steering wheel and turned his rap up until it was loud, banging. Well satisfied with both his image and his brand-new ride, he put it into drive and sped away.

  Not long afterward, he parked the Escalade at his nondescript house on Cherry Street. Three slow knocks and five fast announced his arrival. As he waited, Deshaun glanced back and forth along the block, rubbed his clean goatee, and admired his Escalade. Someone inside slowly slid metal against metal. He listened as one door opened, then once again metal sliding against metal and a second heavy door open.

  Vivian backed up and stood with three other scantily clad women.

  “Hi, Daddy,” the four said in unison.

  “Hello, my beautiful bimbos,” he said with a smirk, motioning them over and offering his cheek for kisses.

  All four surrounded Deshaun to kiss him on his cheeks.

  “All right, that’s enough,” he said, waving them away. “You gon’ mess up my clean goatee.”

  “Lookin’ smooth, Daddy,” one said. Two others nodded in agreement.

  But Nina, the youngest and newest member of the clan, just smiled icily and walked away.

  Deshaun noticed and crossed the floor in two strides. He grabbed her by her arm. “Oh, you don’t wanna play with Deshaun? I will . . . ooh wee!” He then pulled her hair and forcefully pushed her down.