A Time to Stand

by Robert Whitlow

  Adisa knew Aunt Josie’s financial status to the penny.

  “For a while.”

  “You don’t have to decide tonight, but you and your sister will need to have a plan in place by the middle of the week.”

  Adisa nodded. “That gives us time to discuss it.”

  Dr. Dewberry left. It was after 11:00 p.m. when Shanika returned. She’d changed clothes and was wearing light-gray workout pants and a red top. Adisa told her about the conversation with the neurologist.

  “Aunt Josie can afford a private sitter at home for months,” Adisa said. “I know she’d prefer that, even if Medicare would pay for a skilled nursing center.”

  “Yes, but we should ask her,” Shanika replied.

  Aunt Josie stirred in bed but didn’t awaken.

  “Did you go by the cemetery?” Shanika asked.

  “Yes,” Adisa replied, taking out her phone to show her the pictures she’d taken of the flowers and graves.

  “That should satisfy her,” Shanika said. “Send those to me. You can take off now. I’ll spend the night with her.”

  “She’s resting well, and the nurses check on her regularly. Are you sure you need to stay?”

  “Probably not,” Shanika replied, looking down at Aunt Josie. “But it makes me feel better to be close by.”

  “Okay, but I’ll be here early in the morning.”

  “See you then. Love you.”

  Adisa slept in the bedroom she’d shared with Shanika. The twin beds the girls used as teenagers were still there. A five-drawer chest rested between the beds. Once a battlefield of underwear, socks, shirts, and pants, the chest was now empty. After changing into pajamas and brushing her teeth, Adisa crawled into bed. The room had a familiar, pleasant smell, a mixture of fragrances released by the plants in the house and Aunt Josie’s favorite air freshener. Before she had time to think about anything else, Adisa drifted off to sleep.

  When she awoke in the morning, it took her a split second to realize where she was. She glanced at the twenty-year-old digital clock, whose raucous buzz could force the most reluctant teenager out of bed, and realized she’d overslept. Hurriedly taking a shower and getting dressed, she left for the hospital, only stopping long enough at the Westside Quik Mart to pour a cup of black coffee from the coffee service beside the cash register. A large black man with a bandage on the right side of his neck swiped her debit card with a hand wrapped in gauze. His name tag read “Stan.”

  Adisa remembered the connection between the robbery of the convenience store and the shooting of Deshaun Hamlin on nearby East Nixon Street.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked. “I live in Atlanta, but I read about what happened in the newspaper. I’m sorry.”

  “It was in the Atlanta paper, too?” the young man asked with a surprised expression on his face. “Nobody told me that.”

  “No, I saw it in the local paper when I was visiting my aunt at the hospital. You may know her, Josephine Adams; she lives on Baxter Street.”

  “Older lady who goes around town carrying a big walking stick?”

  “That’s her.” Adisa smiled.

  “She’s in the hospital?” Stan asked. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Stroke, but we’re praying she’ll be able to go home soon.”

  “I spent the night in the hospital after they stitched me up,” the clerk replied, touching his bandage. “I’m going to have a bad scar, but it could have been a lot worse.”

  Adisa turned to leave.

  “Hey, while you’re praying, would you please pray for me?” Stan asked.

  Adisa faced the young man and saw the sadness in his big brown eyes. “I will,” she said.

  Stan hesitated and then spoke again. “And pray for Deshaun Hamlin. He’s the boy who got shot. It was partly my fault.”

  “I thought a police officer shot him.”

  “Only because the cops believed I told them Deshaun was one of the people who robbed the store. I don’t remember what I said. I’d passed out, and when I came to, I must have mumbled Deshaun’s name because I know him so well. Anyway, Deshaun didn’t have anything to do with the robbery, and a crazy white cop shot him in the middle of the street.”

  “I’ll pray for you and for Deshaun,” Adisa said and then paused. “And one of the things I’m going to pray is that you can forgive yourself.”

  Aunt Josie was sitting up in bed when Adisa entered her room.

  “Good morning,” Adisa said. “Where’s Shanika?”

  “She went to the hospital cafeteria for a proper meal,” Aunt Josie replied. “I offered her five dollars to bring me a sausage patty and a biscuit, but she turned me down.”

  “How are you?” Adisa asked.

  “Fine, if I could go back to sleep and continue dreaming,” Aunt Josie said with a faraway look in her eyes. “I was walking down Morgan Street where it crosses Poplar Avenue near the fire station. I had my stick in my hand, and I was shouting to the Lord at the top of my lungs, but nobody seemed to be paying attention. The people kept passing by as if I were invisible. In the dream it didn’t bother me. I just kept yelling. What do you think that means?”

  “You were talking to God, not to the people,” Adisa answered.

  “Yes and amen!” Aunt Josie replied with a slightly crooked smile. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “You would have figured it out,” Adisa replied. “Even when you’re praying under your breath the sound echoes when it gets to heaven.”

  Aunt Josie reached out with her left hand. Adisa took it in hers.

  “Child, you can preach to me anytime you want. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  Adisa sat at the end of the bed. “I took the flowers to the cemetery late yesterday afternoon,” she said.

  “Oh, good,” Aunt Josie said as she relaxed her head against the pillow. “Tell me all about it.”

  Adisa took out her phone and scrolled through the photos. As she did, Aunt Josie engaged in a monologue.

  “That’s Uncle Joe’s grave,” she said. “I’m named after him because Daddy wanted me to be a boy.”

  Adisa had heard all this many times before but didn’t mind the repetition because it revealed a high level of mental health. She pointed to a photo of the area of unmarked graves.

  “Do you have any idea how many of our relatives are buried in the slave section?”

  “That’s one of those questions we’ll never be able to answer until we get to heaven,” Aunt Josie replied, shaking her head. “But there has to be at least twenty or thirty. The church that used to be by the graveyard was founded by a former slave named Adams who started preaching at brush arbor meetings after the war. I’ve got notes about all that written by my grandmother. They’re someplace at the house.”

  A reference by members of Aunt Josie’s generation to “the war” had only one meaning—the Civil War.

  “What was your grandmother’s name?”

  “Adelaide Adams. Isn’t that pretty?”

  “It’s kind of old-fashioned.”

  “Well, it wasn’t old-fashioned in the 1870s when she was born. Her mother and father were born in slavery. They lived on a farm in the east part of the county.”

  “And it was Adelaide’s father who founded the church?”

  “Or her grandfather; I’m not sure about all that. In slave times our people couldn’t have their own gatherings and had to go to the white churches where they sat in the back of the sanctuary or in a balcony.” Aunt Josie paused and looked directly at Adisa. “What time is it? It’s Sunday. Aren’t you and Shanika going to church?”

  Before Adisa could answer, the door opened and Shanika returned. Shanika’s hair was disheveled, and her eyes betrayed lack of sleep.

  “Where’s my sausage biscuit?” Aunt Josie demanded.

  “In my stomach where it belongs,” Shanika replied.

  “If you’re not going to get me a sausage biscuit, you and Adisa need to leave and get ready for church.”


  Shanika glanced at Adisa. “I didn’t bring any church clothes,” Shanika replied.

  “Me, either,” Adisa added.

  Wearing a nice dress on Sunday morning wasn’t optional at Woodside Gospel Tabernacle. God deserved the best, which included the clothes worn by the members of the congregation.

  “There’s no use arguing with you girls,” Aunt Josie said with a yawn. “I haven’t been able to make you do anything for years. When did I brush my teeth? My mouth feels bad.”

  “I brushed them right after you ate breakfast,” Shanika replied. “Do you want to brush them again?”

  “Yes, please.”

  As soon as Shanika finished, Aunt Josie closed her eyes and within seconds was fast asleep.

  “It’s almost like she passes out,” Shanika said to Adisa.

  “Yes,” Adisa replied. “Let me tell you about her dream.”

  After Adisa finished, the sisters settled into chairs on opposite sides of the bed. Aunt Josie snored softly and then let out a series of louder snorts.

  “Remember the night you put a hand towel over her face to muffle the sound?” Adisa asked.

  “That didn’t work,” Shanika replied. “And the next morning she wouldn’t let us leave our room until one of us confessed to the crime of trying to smother her.”

  Shanika yawned.

  “Why don’t you go to her house and take a nap?” Adisa suggested. “I’d like a little alone time with her, and you get grumpy when you’re tired.”

  “Okay,” Shanika said, yawning again. “But let me know if anything changes.”

  TWELVE

  LUKE HUNG UP the phone and sat down next to Ashley’s high chair. Jane was putting the little girl to bed for her afternoon nap. Ashley’s food tray hadn’t been cleaned following supper the previous evening. Bits of macaroni and cheese were already beginning to turn dark orange and congeal on the white plastic surface.

  Luke took off the tie he’d worn to church. He and Jane had sat at the back of the sanctuary and left immediately at the end of the service so he wouldn’t have to answer questions from well-meaning people. Luke was finding it harder and harder to be in public settings. Even though he hadn’t done anything wrong, the urge to isolate himself was gaining the upper hand.

  Turning on the kitchen sink faucet, he dampened a dishrag and started scrubbing the dried food from the tray. Once it was clean, he got down on his knees and attacked bits of chicken, pieces of macaroni, and tiny globs of applesauce on the floor. Some of the applesauce was at least two days old.

  “I meant to mop the kitchen floor before we went to bed last night,” Jane said, entering the room.

  “I don’t mind,” Luke said. “But I didn’t know applesauce had glue in it. This stuff has become a part of the tile.”

  “Let me help.” Jane grabbed another rag and wet it. “You should have changed out of your church clothes before doing this.”

  “I took off my tie.”

  Jane, who was wearing an exercise outfit, crawled under the table and began cleaning the floor in a circular motion.

  “I don’t know how that child can toss food this far under the table,” she said. “It’s like she drops it on her foot and kicks it.”

  Luke moistened his rag again and moved toward the refrigerator. Jane turned her head and saw him.

  “We don’t have to do this by hand,” she said. “We own a sponge mop and a bucket. And soap is an amazing substance.”

  “I need to do something I can control,” Luke answered. “Chief Lockhart left a voice mail on my phone saying the DA has completely taken over the investigation. It’s out of the chief’s hands.”

  Jane came out from beneath the table and sat up. Luke dislodged a stubborn piece of a gray substance from the refrigerator door and leaned against it. Jane pointed up at the ceiling.

  “Then we know whose hands it’s in.”

  “But there are people at other churches in town praying that I’ll be indicted. What if God listens to their prayers instead of ours?”

  As soon as he spoke, Luke regretted his words. Jane’s reliance on divine intervention on his behalf had been unwavering.

  “Sorry,” he added quickly. “It’s just that I’m disappointed.”

  “The Lord has to sort that out,” Jane answered. “I’m praying that every person on the grand jury will hear the evidence and realize you didn’t do anything except your duty to the best of your ability. Being on our knees doing more than cleaning the floor is where we need to be.”

  Jane closed her eyes and began to pray. Luke watched her for a few moments. Two thoughts hit him. He didn’t deserve such a godly wife. And he was thankful he had one. He bowed his head, too.

  By the middle of the afternoon, Adisa was getting restless and decided to take a walk around the hospital grounds. When she stepped outside, the grass was wet from a rain shower. She hoped the rain hadn’t interrupted the dedication service at the cemetery. Reentering the hospital, Adisa saw a group of people wearing their Sunday-best clothes. In the center was Reverend Reynolds. Adisa started to slip around to the right on her way to the elevator, but the minister saw her and called out.

  “Adisa Johnson!”

  Adisa stopped. There were six people standing with the minister. Even though it had been several years since their paths had crossed, Adisa immediately recognized Thelma Armistead. Deshaun Hamlin’s grandmother was wearing a large white hat with a green feather stuck in the side band. She gave Adisa a tight hug.

  “How’s Josie doing?” Sister Armistead asked when she released her.

  “We’re optimistic,” Adisa replied. “She may be able to go home without spending time in a nursing home. And I’ve been praying for your grandson.”

  “That boy needs a miracle,” Mrs. Armistead said, sadly shaking her head. “We just left his room where we talked to the specialist. They’re waiting for the swelling of his brain to go down so they can take out the bullet that’s inside his head.”

  “Is he in a coma?” Adisa asked.

  “Yes, which the doctors say is a good thing. But it’s awful seeing my grandbaby lying there with a big bandage on his head.”

  Sister Armistead touched her right eye with a tissue she was clutching in her hands. “I don’t want to burden Josie, but does she know about Deshaun? She’s such a mighty prayer warrior.”

  “No, ma’am, but I’ll tell her. She’s just now coming around so she can handle news like that.”

  One of the men in the group touched Sister Armistead on the arm. “We need to get on home,” he said.

  They moved away, but Reggie lingered.

  “That’s a tragic situation,” Adisa said when they were alone. “This morning I stopped off at the Westside Quik Mart for a cup of coffee and met the young man who mistakenly told the police Deshaun was involved in the robbery. He’s blaming himself for what happened.”

  “He didn’t pull the trigger,” Reggie replied. “The white officer did.”

  “I told him that. Would you consider going by the store to talk to him? His name is Stan. I told him I’d be praying for him.”

  “Sure,” Reggie said and paused for a second. “You’re a lawyer; what do you think will happen to the officer?”

  “It’s hard to predict. As a general rule, it’s tough to get an indictment against a police officer and even harder to obtain a conviction. Most people are willing to give the police the benefit of the doubt because of the difficulty of the job.”

  Reggie shook his head. “I think they should be held to a stricter standard. A group of us are trying to rally community pressure to make sure Nelson has to answer for what he did in a court of law. And if Deshaun dies—” The minister stopped.

  “The officer could be charged with murder.”

  “You worked as a prosecutor, didn’t you?”

  “How did you find that out?” Adisa asked in surprise.

  “A man in our church mentioned it to me when I told him I’d met you.” Reggie was quiet for a m
oment. “Would you consider serving as a special prosecutor to make sure justice is done for Deshaun?”

  “Have you been talking to Walter Broome?”

  “I don’t know Walter, but a lawyer friend in Birmingham brought it up when I told him about the shooting.”

  “My experience as a prosecutor is limited to a couple of years right after I graduated from law school. Recently, I’ve been working for a big law firm in the corporate merger area. They’re not going to give me time off to work on a criminal case here in Campbellton. And I’m about to move to Boston. I’ll be leaving the state within a couple of months.”

  “Oh,” Reggie replied, deflated. “That changes everything. I guess I’ll have to forget it.”

  “I’m not the only lawyer who could step in,” Adisa said. “And thanks for standing up for justice. It would have been easy to use your ministry as an excuse not to get involved.”

  “Standing up for justice is part of my ministry.”

  Adisa’s respect for Reggie increased. “I’m sure Aunt Josie would love to meet you,” she said.

  “I would like that. I’m here almost every day.”

  Adisa left at 4:30 a.m. the following morning to return to Atlanta. Departing any later would have pushed her into the vortex of Monday-morning rush-hour traffic. She arrived at the office after a quick detour to her apartment for a shower and a fresh change of clothes.

  Before turning on her computer, Adisa checked the status of her schefflera. The dirt was dangerously dry, and Adisa went to the break room for a pitcher of water. As she waited for the water to reach the top of the container, one of the women who worked as a transcriptionist on the third shift came in for a cup of coffee. The young woman often handled Adisa’s dictation.

  “I hope you weren’t bored last night,” Adisa said. “I was out of town and didn’t send you anything.”

  “No,” the woman replied and gave Adisa a puzzled look. “I wasn’t expecting anything from you.”

  Adisa returned to her office and carefully poured the water into the pot so that it didn’t splash onto the carpet. The plant was thirsty. Adisa then turned on her computer and entered her password. An error message appeared. Typing more slowly, Adisa received the same error message. No one from the IT department would arrive at the office for another forty-five minutes. She went to the kitchen for a second pitcher of water. This time when she returned to her office, Catherine Summey was waiting for her.