Once in a Blue Moon

by Vicki Covington

  Sam opened his eyes and tilted his head. “Isn’t that from the Bible?”

  Poppy looked at Tanya. “See how good this boy is? He knows his scripture.”

  Tanya smiled and nodded.

  “Yes, Sam, I borrowed a bit from the book of Ephesians. Hard to improve on the classics. Oh, I hope they have enough security tonight.”

  Tanya took his hand. “They will, Poppy.”

  After dinner, Tanya took up the plates. There was no dishwasher, so she’d have to wash them by hand. Sam and Poppy went back to the living room. Poppy turned on the TV. The stands at Invesco Field were full of people, and so was the field. The crowd shook American flags to the beat of Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA.” Digital signboards flashed “America” and “Obama.” Roving spotlights sprayed the audience. People were shouting, “Yes, we can!” Signs read, “Change We Can Believe In.”

  “The time is growing near,” Poppy said, looking at his watch.

  Sam looked at Poppy sitting in his chair, watching the TV set that had not always brought good news. He had told Sam about how he watched Bull Connor’s dogs and fire hoses used to break up protests. He had also told Sam about watching TV when the message was delivered that JFK had been shot and killed, when RFK had been shot and killed, when Medgar Evers had been shot and killed, when Dr. King had been shot and killed.

  “Are you nervous?” Poppy asked.

  “I’m excited,” Sam replied.

  The crowd was already wild. It seemed that everyone had a flag to wave, making for a sea of red, white, and blue. The thing that was most striking to Sam was all the white folks standing with the black people, visible whenever the camera closed in on clusters of the audience. Sam wanted to know precisely what Poppy was feeling, but he didn’t want to disturb the moment.

  Poppy was leaning forward in his chair. He had moved the ottoman aside so he could plant his feet firmly on the hardwood floor. Jennifer Hudson sang the national anthem. Poppy put his hand over his heart as she delivered the song.

  Sam called out to Tanya.

  “I’m right here,” she said softly from the doorway.

  Obama finally took the stage, and the crowd roared for what felt like an eternity. Sam felt goosebumps rise over his arms and up his neck. When he could be heard, Obama started thanking people, and then he did his thing. He delivered his speech, pausing from time to time to let the crowd roar.

  Sam recalled how much crap Michelle Obama had gotten when she said that, for the first time in her life, she was proud of her country. He felt that way, too. He remembered how cynical he had been when Jet and Abi first appealed to him to get involved in the campaign. How scared. But now his conflicted heart was resolved.

  “This campaign has never been about me,” Obama said. “It’s about you.”

  Sam felt the knot in his throat growing.

  “‘We cannot walk alone,’ the preacher cried. And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back. America, we cannot turn back.”

  “Tanya,” Poppy called as the speech ended, to a swell of cheers.

  “I’m here,” she said again.

  “Come in here, sugar. I want to tell both of you something.”

  She walked in and sat beside Sam on the couch. Poppy leaned forward. Sam watched his eyes. He had something spiritual to say. His eyes always changed when this was the case, as if he were looking not necessarily through you, but more like behind you or above you. He got his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow.

  “Did you hear what he said in that piece of scripture at the end?”

  Sam and Tanya nodded, waiting.

  “‘Hold firmly, without wavering, to the hope that we confess.’ Not ‘the hope that we profess.’ No, it’s the hope that we confess. Anybody can profess to having hope or faith. But not everybody can confess that they have it. To confess this is to make yourself exposed, malleable, and human. Some people say they don’t need God. We confess that we do. We profess when we’re standing up. We confess when we drop to our knees. And so, when people ask us if we believe, we are brave to be willing to confess that we follow after something we cannot yet see. But we will in time. Remember, Sam, that verse from the second chapter of First Corinthians: ‘Now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face.’ And to quote another bit of scripture, Jesus said to Thomas, ‘Because you have seen me, you have believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.’ So, when Mr. Obama told us, ‘Hold firmly, without wavering, to the hope that we confess,’ we realize that we do walk by faith, not by sight.”

  On the way back to Birmingham, Tanya and Sam were quiet for the first few miles. It was a hot, muggy August night. But instead of using the air conditioning, Tanya rolled the windows down as they drove along the two-lane road that, in a few minutes, would connect them with the interstate. She let her hair blow in the wind. She was driving barefoot. Sam held his arm out the window like he used to as a kid, trying to keep it straight against the force of the wind.

  That night, he had felt something he’d never felt before. He understood the historic gravity of what had happened and was still happening within them and between them. Sam felt like Poppy had married the two of them right there in the living room. They were in love, but it encompassed so much more. Rather than looking at each other, they were looking together in the same direction. Sam wasn’t sure where all this powerful energy would take them, though he was going to begin with Engineers Without Borders.

  Tanya finally broke the silence. “I think I’m going to quit my job. Go back to school.”

  “For what?” Sam asked, understanding exactly where Tanya was coming from.

  “International relations.”

  It stunned him. He put his hand on her leg and squeezed. The night was dark. All they could see was the headlights before them. But that was all they needed to see because what was illuminated could carry them all the way home.

  LANDON

  October chilled quickly that year. The last day of the month brought with it first frost. The dogwood trees were lit up by red berries. So were the hollies, nandinas, and winterberries. The leaves from the maple, oak, hickory, elm, and poplar trees that grew along Red Mountain showed off fiery reds, deep golds, burnt oranges, and sunny yellows. It still puzzled Landon that most people would choose spring as their favorite time of year. In autumn, the leaves danced in the wind right before they landed, then carpeted the earth with warm color. One of her favorite memories of Nick was walking home with him from school, the two of them skipping through piles of leaves. Sometimes on weekends, they raked the leaves into a tiny hill into which they then dove.

  She and Nick were born in October. Their mother had always insisted on separate, simultaneous parties, so no one had to buy two gifts. Nick had boy parties; Landon had girl parties. The girls had the front yard, where they could play hopscotch or jump rope; the boys were in the backyard, where the configuration of the trees allowed first, second, third, and home for their games of whiffle ball. Then their mother would call them all inside to open gifts and eat cake and ice cream together. Mother had to make sure they were all cleared out by five o’clock because that’s when Daddy came home from work. The sight of too many children in one place made him jittery. By five, their birthday gifts had to be tucked away in their bedrooms, their party clothes removed and replaced with clean pajamas, their sticky hands and faces rinsed. But despite this, year after year, their mother made the celebrations work. When they got older, there was no way to keep the boys separate from the girls. Nick and Landon and all their guests spent those later parties chasing each other from the backyard to the front in a hormonal, disorganized game of tag.

  Landon remembered the rare joy of those birthday parties as she and Alejandro returned from their afternoon walk. When she got close to her house, she noticed Mr. Kasir’s truck. But it wasn’t Mr. Kasir at the wheel. Landon squinted. Instead, the driver appeared to be a boy around the ag
e of her daughters. Landon realized this was Jason and felt a chill in her gut. Something wasn’t right.

  And then it hit her, even before Jason stepped out of the truck, even before she stopped in her tracks, even before she saw his face up close, his red eyes moist, his hands trembling. She knew why he was there.

  They stood on the sidewalk. He was having a hard time getting the words out.

  “He’s gone,” Jason said. “Went to sleep last night and just didn’t wake up. My grandmom wanted me to come see you. She asked that you tell the others, said you were special to him.”

  “I need to sit down,” Landon said.

  They sat on the sidewalk in their agony. Landon unleashed Alejandro to allow him to play in the grass, but the dog stayed right by her side, as if he knew she needed him.

  “I really loved him,” Jason said.

  “Oh, I know you must have. We loved him, too, and we weren’t even kin.”

  She was torn in different directions. On the one hand, she wanted to be calm for Jason. She guessed it might be his first death. It had happened to her around his age, when she lost Nick. On the other hand, she felt weak, wanted to cry. There had been many deaths in Landon’s life since Nick, both family and friends. But this was different. It was different because she was different. This was her first loss in her new life.

  “Thank you for telling me,” Landon said. “It’s a comfort. Just like Mr. Kasir, always taking care of tenants in distress.”

  Jason allowed himself a small smile. He picked at a clump of weeds. “Granddad told me these things are so strong they can break through concrete.”

  The two stared at the weeds as Jason twirled them between his fingers, as if they were a kaleidoscope, as if one turn could change everything.

  Landon didn’t ask about Mrs. Kasir because she knew that Jason was already taking on more responsibility than he needed. Instead, she took his hand in hers.

  “You will get through this.”

  Jason nodded.

  “Do you have friends or a girlfriend you need to call? I’ll tell the rest of the tenants on the street.”

  “I have a girlfriend. I called her before anybody, Mrs. Cooper.”

  “Please, call me Landon.”

  He looked around the neighborhood. “I want to remember people’s names. It’s Abi who lives upstairs?” he asked.

  Landon nodded.

  “And Jet across the street? And Sam two houses up? Roy across the street, who grows vegetables in the front yard. Tina, who has the problem with window jumping. And Sid, who subs and is into vitamins. And who else? Oh, and Nicole, who works at the bank.”

  “That’s right,” she replied. “You covered it all.”

  “He had other property in Southside, but my grandmom said those renters would learn about it later. She just wanted me to tell y’all face to face. He loved this street more than the others.”

  Landon smiled.

  “I like that,” Jason said, gesturing to the Obama ’08 sign in the yard.

  “I’m glad.”

  “Granddad would have voted for him.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. Do you know where our church is?” he asked her.

  “I do.”

  “It will be there, but I don’t know yet what day or what time.”

  Landon guessed Mrs. Kasir’s neighbors or church friends were helping her make the arrangements for burial and for an obit in the Birmingham News. She was glad that Jason wasn’t handling everything alone.

  She squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll find out.”

  “Will you come to his funeral?” he asked, looking into her eyes.

  Landon found the question disarming. As if she needed to be asked. Maybe he didn’t know yet just how many people truly loved his granddad.

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  Landon and Jason continued to sit on the sidewalk. Her mind was racing now with the story of the girl Mr. Kasir had entrusted to her. The story the clergy would deliver as a eulogy might include the Silver Star he received for his valor on Omaha Beach. But Carissa would be missing from it. It was something she would keep inside, never telling a soul.

  Jason stood and held his hand out to help her up from the sidewalk.

  “I guess I should be going,” he said. He paused, then added, “I’ll be overseeing the properties for my grandmom. I want to be like my granddad. I want you to tell the others on Cullom not to worry if their rent isn’t on time, and to call me if other problems come up. I brought this card with me.” He pulled it out of his shirt pocket. “This is my phone number and address. This is where you mail your check to me at the first of the month.”

  Landon saw that he was standing tall, perhaps allowing his newfound sense of responsibility to override his grief.

  “I’ll make sure the others have it,” she told him.

  After Jason left, Landon went inside and threw herself on her bed like a fitful child. Mr. Kasir was almost ninety years old. People would say something simple like, “He lived a good, long life.” Not long enough! Landon thought. And she knew Jason and Mrs. Kasir must feel the same way.

  Alejandro jumped onto the bed with her. She petted him and told him what had happened.

  She wasn’t ready to tell anybody else yet. Instead, she went to the kitchen and saw that she had all the ingredients for a Veg-All casserole—a day-of-the-funeral food most Southern women knew how to make. She opened two cans of Veg-All and poured the contents—carrots, potatoes, celery, sweet peas, green beans, corn, and limas—into a pan. She grated two cups of cheddar cheese and mixed that in, then a chopped onion and a cup of mayonnaise. She topped it with Ritz cracker crumbs, then poured melted butter over the top. She set the oven at 350 and the kitchen timer at thirty minutes.

  Landon wondered what men did with their grief, if they couldn’t hide their tears in the preparation of food. She searched the internet for florists in the city and chose the first one that came up. She used to order flowers from a shop in Homewood, but it didn’t feel right to do so now. Landon requested the card to read, “From all of us on Cullom Street.” Landon wondered who would have the hardest time and knew it would be Abi.

  She went back outside to see who was home. Abi’s car was there. So was Jet’s. Sam didn’t have a car, so she had no way of knowing, but she was pretty sure he had morning classes. She’d get Jet or Sam to help her tell the others.

  She went upstairs and knocked on Abi’s door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Landon.”

  “It’s unlocked. Come on in.”

  All the windows were open. The afternoon sun warmed Abi’s apartment. She was on the couch studying. She had a big textbook in her lap and a yellow highlighter in her right hand.

  “What’s up?” she asked Landon.

  Landon sat on the couch. “Well . . . ,” she said, searching for the right words.

  Abi must have understood that something bad was contained in that pause because she put her book aside, got a cigarette, and walked to her kitchen for the ashtray. She didn’t sit down.

  “I have bad news,” Landon told her.

  “What is it? Who is it? Who died?”

  Landon nodded. “It’s Mr. Kasir.”

  Abi dropped her cigarette into the ashtray and collapsed onto the sofa next to Landon. They wrapped their arms around each other and held on the way lovers did, face to face. Landon put her fingers in Abi’s hair and brushed away the tendrils from her face. For a long time, Abi said nothing. She just held on. She didn’t ask what had happened or how Landon found out. None of that mattered. The thing that mattered was that he was gone. Landon held her tight.

  Then Abi released from the hug and stood. “So Daddy gets to live, but Mr. Kasir has to die. Is that the way God works? Who told you?” she asked, wiping her face on her sleeve.

  “Jason, his grandson. You’ve met him, right?”

  “Yes,” Abi replied, retrieving her cigarette.

  “He told
me his granddad went to bed and never woke back up. And don’t worry, I’m not gonna say, ‘At least he didn’t suffer.’”

  “I’m glad you know better than that.”

  “Believe me, I know all the stupid things people say when somebody dies. I’ve been at this business since I was twenty-five and lost my brother. The funereal platitudes, all the clichés.”

  “I’ll get it together here in a minute,” Abi said, wiping her face again. “I suppose the service will be religious. Where do you believers think we go after we die?”

  “I don’t know. People have different ideas of heaven.”

  “But I’m asking you.”

  They had been over this before, but apparently Abi wanted to do it again. Landon could see that Abi wasn’t sad over Mr. Kasir. She was mad.

  Landon didn’t say what she was thinking—that to be angry with God was to acknowledge his existence. Abi went over to the mantel and returned with the metal cross from her daddy. She threw it toward the kitchen.

  “Fuck that!” she shouted. She whirled back to look at Landon. “If there were a God, I’d have a word or two to say to him. Like, ‘What the hell is this all about?’ Life, I mean. If there is a better place where we go when we leave here, why wouldn’t he just tell us?”

  “Probably because everybody would end it if we knew there was something better than this incomprehensible place.”

  Abi ignored this. “My daddy was happy when he got saved. He wasn’t even afraid of dying. Why can’t I feel that way?”

  “Are you afraid of dying?”

  Abi ignored this, too. “Couple weeks ago, I asked Daddy if he believed in the virgin birth. You know what he said back? He said, ‘If my God can fling a handful of stars over the night sky, he can surely get a virgin pregnant.’ He wasn’t trying to be funny. He meant it. And then there are those reincarnationists. They are real strange. Like, when Mr. Kasir breathed his last breath in the middle of the night, did he suddenly reemerge as a baby, born to some woman on the other side of the world? Or is he a butterfly in the backyard? Soul migration is a cop-out for people who know better but have to hang on to some kind of belief. Like, when we put Mr. Kasir six feet under, his soul—whatever that is—will have escaped his body, and God will have to make a quick decision about where it will go, depending on what lessons Mr. Kasir failed to learn. I mean, really. Mr. Kasir? How could a man so kind be forced to do this life thing all over again? Surely, he finished all his lessons, all his homework. If God isn’t in charge but there is reincarnation, we might find Mr. Kasir at the Humane Society, at the mercy of people who will pass by him and either reject him or adopt him.