by Ben Sciacca
“Be safe, Malik,” his grandmother said, placing a hand on his face. “It’s cold and dark out there. Keep your eyes open and—”
“And mind your surroundings,” Malik said with a grin. “I know. I’ll be careful. You know I will.” He stuffed his grandmother’s money up under his stocking cap. “Thank you, Grandma—for everything . . . You think mom will come on Thursday?”
Malik’s grandmother sighed. “I got no idea what your mother’s gonna do, Malik. She’s welcome to come for some food if she wants. If there’s any meal that brings family together, it’s Thanksgiving.”
Malik’s lips tightened, and he nodded slightly. “Aight. Well, I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Okay hon. Be safe.”
Malik walked slowly down the stairs and exited the apartment. The screened door swung shut behind him with a bang. He winced as the cold evening air stung his face. The streetlights buzzed and started to flicker on, like lightning bugs roused from a deep sleep. The temperature had forced almost everyone inside. Tendrils of smoke curled slowly from a few chimneys. The smell of burning wood met his nostrils. He loved that smell.
Malik hoisted his pants and tightened his belt. The gun in his back waistband gave him a sense of assurance as he started walking down the sidewalk toward the small convenience store at the end of the street. The cold and the darkness were antagonists he neither liked nor welcomed. The store was four blocks away, but on a night like this, it felt more like four miles to him. He hunched his shoulders slightly but held his head high.
4
THE DELIVERY
5:37 p.m., Monday before Thanksgiving
JIM GRIPPED HIS STEERING WHEEL with both hands as he drove down I-39. He glanced at the clock on his dashboard: 5:37. He hadn’t been to the other side of town more than a few times as a kid. His dad had grown up there, but like a lot of white folks, his dad’s family moved out once the neighborhood started to change.
Jim’s grandfather had been a manager at the steel plant back when business was booming. His dad used to talk about the “good ole days” when Edgewood was a proud community. Now his dad spoke of the place with disdain, shaking his head about the crime. “The community has gone to the dogs,” he’d say. Jim’s dad wouldn’t approve of this errand he was running.
In fact, none of his friends or family would. Jim recalled playing a basketball game against one of the schools in the area when he was in high school. None of the fans from his school made the trip. He still remembers his dad leaning into the bus and lecturing the coach before they left for the game. “Make sure these boys come home immediately after the game ends!” Most of Jim’s friends spoke of Edgewood in the same way they spoke about third-world countries. Edgewood, to them, was “dirty,” “unsafe,” “poor.” The evening news offered a similar message, with regular stories on crime, house fires, and violence.
Jim’s trunk was loaded up with two boxes of groceries. His Sunday school class had “adopted” the custodian at their church, Wilma Thompson. Jim, like most people in his class, had never met her or even seen her before, but those who knew her there said she was a wonderful old lady. News had circulated that she was going through some hard times, and the story of her taking in her four grandkids was compelling. So the class began collecting a weekly ration of groceries for her. Wilma rode the bus to work, so she couldn’t carry the groceries home with her from work. The class had to bring them to her.
This little ministry had gone on for almost two months now. Pat and Sally, the couple who had started it, even created a Facebook fan page—“Westside Hope”—where they posted pictures of themselves delivering food to Wilma and her grandchildren. The page had more than two hundred likes, and friends and church folk gave the Sunday school class consistent kudos for the small operation.
Pat and Sally were in their late thirties. They couldn’t have kids, so they had a lot of time on their hands—at least that’s what Jim and Mary Beth told each other. Members of the Sunday school class faithfully brought canned goods or contributed some cash each Sunday, but few volunteered to drive the groceries to Edgewood. Jim finally signed himself and Mary Beth up as backups to the backup. He never figured he’d actually have to make the trip. If it weren’t the Thanksgiving holidays he probably would have waited for another time, but his conscience wouldn’t let him.
Jim drove down I-39 and noted the change in landscape as he rounded the downtown and headed toward the west side. The hard brick buildings loomed along the road like monsters. The trees beside the interstate were naked and brown, standing like skeletons against the fiery backdrop of the sunset along the horizon. To his right he noted a tall mountain of gravel and the yawning vast hole beneath it. His GPS alerted him that his exit was just a little over a mile ahead.
As he drew closer to Edgewood, the houses along the interstate became smaller and more tightly clustered. They appeared to be tucked into the hill like hobbit holes, where dim orange lights shone behind drawn curtains.
Just then a flash on his dashboard caught his eye.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Jim shouted. His gas light had come on.
Jim’s car was only two years old, but he had learned from experience that when that light came on, he had only ten to fifteen miles before he’d be completely out of fuel. He pressed the button on his dash: 4.7 miles left until empty. The light must have been on longer than he thought.
“Stupid!” he said through gritted teeth. “Where am I going to get gas down here?”
Jim’s GPS notified him that his exit was just ahead. He threw on his blinker and merged down the exit ramp. The light at the end of the exit was red, and he had to wait for passing vehicles before he could take his turn onto the street. He looked out the window and noticed that the curb along the edge of the street was littered with cans, bottles, and bags. Beyond the curb was an abandoned field with random patches of dead grass. Three small children were walking through the center of it with plastic sacks in their hands. On the corner, just eight feet from his vehicle, a man sat against a pole in the ground. “Help. I need food,” read the cardboard sign in his hands. His face was hidden behind a gnarly beard, and his clothes were dirty.
Suddenly, the two men made eye contact. Jim slowly raised his hand and depressed the door lock.
Directly in front of Jim was a strip of stores. He noticed a nail salon, a tattoo parlor and a Seafood Express restaurant. Farther down the road he spied three gas stations. He checked the GPS: 1.8 miles to Wilma’s. He’d have to fill up somewhere along this road if he wanted to get home.
The way finally cleared for Jim to take his right-hand turn. He drove slowly into Edgewood. Under the dim streetlights he could see the houses. They were surprisingly small—old shotgun houses from the steel days. Many of them had bars on the windows. A few were boarded shut.
A dark-gray Cadillac passed Jim on the left, blaring bass that caused Jim’s rearview mirror to vibrate. He swallowed nervously and took another look at the light on his dash. Another turn was coming, just a mile up the road.
Jim was bothered by his nervousness. He wasn’t used to feeling like this. As a lawyer defending big-name companies from criminal charges, he was familiar with high-pressure situations. But when was the last time he had felt this afraid? How could delivering groceries in Edgewood be scarier than speaking in a courtroom full of angry millionaires?
A few light drops of moisture started to stick on his windshield. Jim instinctively threw on his wipers. They squealed and dragged the drops across the glass in long streaks.
“I hope Wilma is home,” he said glumly. “Wouldn’t that be my luck . . .”
GPS told him to take a right. Directly across the street from his turn was a brightly lit Shop n’ Snack. A few young men were loitering on the sidewalk outside. They turned their heads and watched him as he made his turn. The street, 42nd, was unusually dark—the streetlights softened the night only slightly.
Cars were parked on either side of the road, so Jim
proceeded slowly. He craned his neck forward, looking for 917. A young man in a black jacket shuffled along the sidewalk in the opposite direction. “Come on. Come on,” Jim hissed through clenched teeth. “Where are you, Eastbrook?”
He was nearing the end of the road when his navigation system announced, “You have arrived at your destination.” To his left was the Eastbrook apartment complex. The nearest streetlamp was partially shielded by the limbs of a large oak tree. Many of the windows were boarded over with plywood. The paint on the outside was an olive green, but it was peeling and torn as if shredded by the claws of a massive animal. The chain-link fence was broken in various places, with a thin layer of paper and trash trapped and accumulated at its base.
Jim squinted and tried to find 917 somewhere on one of the buildings, but it was too dark. He swallowed. He had come this far. Now it was time to complete his mission.
He popped his trunk and stepped out of the car. Needles of cold pricked his face and hands. A screen door banged loudly to his right, causing him to jump. An older fat man stepped out onto his patio, a sack of garbage in his hand. He stared at Jim for a moment, then stepped into the yard and tossed the bag onto a garbage heap on the other side of the fence. Jim watched as the man ambled back into his apartment.
Jim stacked the boxes of groceries on top of one another and hoisted them out of the trunk with a grunt. He attempted to close his trunk with his elbow, but the trunk snapped back up. He tried again; this time the trunk stayed closed. He placed the groceries on the back of his car and pressed the “lock” button on his key. His car lights flashed twice; the isolated chirp of his car alarm ricocheted down the block.
Jim kept his eyes on the pavement as he moved briskly across the street and into the yard. The front door to the apartment complex was old and rusted. He secured the boxes under his chin and leaned forward to open the door before lurching awkwardly to the side as it opened swiftly on its own. A massive Hispanic kid walked through. He looked Jim up and down for a moment while talking on his cell phone, then glanced over Jim’s shoulder at his Lexus.
“What’s up?” the kid asked.
“Uh, I’m here to drop off some groceries for Wilma Thompson.” Jim felt awkward. “You know where she lives?”
The kid studied Jim for a moment, and then mumbled slowly, “Yeah. She’s on the third floor. Room G.”
Jim lowered his head and moved out of the way so the kid could pass by. The teenager brushed by him and out into the yard, chuckling something into his phone about a “crazy white dude.”
Jim had to adjust his eyes to the dimly lit hallway as he entered the apartment building. A small sign in the middle of the hall pointed to the stairs. He plodded slowly to the stairwell and began to go up. As Jim neared the second floor, his face soured. A pungent odor filled his nostrils. He exhaled loudly. Down the hall, a baby was screaming, and a mother was shouting at her children. The stairs were sticky. Jim tried to guide his leather shoes to a clean spot on each step. From down below him he heard someone yelling in Spanish. He quickened his pace.
The boxes of groceries were cumbersome, and Jim longed to find apartment 3G. He fantasized about simply ringing the doorbell and leaving the groceries at the front door. Finally he reached the third floor and rounded the corner. The hall was dark, aside from two small lightbulbs at each end. Directly in front of him was 3D. He shuffled down the hall until he spotted 3G on his left.
The G on the sign was dangling conspicuously on a peeling and scarred white door. Jim twisted his body with some effort and managed to rap his knuckles on the door. He waited for a moment. No answer. He was stooping to lower the groceries to the floor when he heard soft footsteps approach. Fingers on the other side of the door were fumbling with the locks and latches. Then the door was pulled back slightly, and two eyes peered out at him curiously.
“Uh, hello,” Jim said softly. “I’m Jim. I’m here to bring some food to Wilma Thompson. Is she here?”
The set of eyes continued to stare up at him. Jim tried a smile. “Is Wilma here?” He was getting impatient.
The door opened further revealing the small, brown face of a little girl in a long, pink dress. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She looked like she was ten or eleven years old. From behind her appeared another little face, forcing its way under her arm and out into the hallway. The small girl finally managed to squeeze past the first girl and offered Jim a wide grin. She was missing several teeth, but her eyes were beaming with life. Two little trails of crusted snot ran from her nose to her lips.
Jim offered the little girl an awkward grin and cleared his throat. The older girl turned her head over her shoulder and hollered. “Grandma! There’s a man here!”
From somewhere back in the apartment Jim heard slow and deliberate steps. The two children parted ways as Wilma emerged and opened the door. Her face was kind, and as she smiled a furrow of wrinkles rippled around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. She was dressed in a light sweater.
“I’m so sorry, hon,” she said as she sighed. “My granddaughter doesn’t know her manners. Are you from the church?”
“Yes . . . I brought you guys some groceries . . . for Thanksgiving.”
Wilma smiled again. “Oh wonderful! I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Wilma Thompson.”
“I’m Jim,” he replied. “Jim Dawkins.” He shifted his weight to manage the load in his arms.
Wilma stepped to the side and placed a callused hand on his. “Please come on in, Jim.”
Jim hated the strong urge he had to shake free from her grip, drop the food on the floor, and run down the stairs. He hated even more the color he could feel flushing around his neck and his ears. It emerged whenever he was nervous or embarrassed. Reluctantly he followed Wilma down the short hallway.
He couldn’t believe how cold it was inside. The pictures on the wall jumped out at him: A young man wearing military clothing. A smiling young man in a white tuxedo, standing next to a young woman in a short purple dress. It looked like a prom picture. The last frame featured a young lady in a graduation gown.
It didn’t take long to reach the living room, where the two girls who met Jim at the door had returned to watching cartoons on a small television. A little boy sat with them. Every few seconds the screen would jolt into static. The volume was too loud. Jim noted the sagging brown couches and, just above them, a painting of a black Jesus.
On the other side of the couches was a shiny brown table with six chairs. Jim turned his head and spotted a tiny restroom and two bedrooms. The apartment was very clean, but there was a slight smell of mildew. And so cold!
Jim rounded the corner into the kitchen, where he nearly collided with Wilma, who was waiting on him. An old refrigerator buzzed behind her in the corner. A tiny pantry space was situated just above a white stove. On the opposite side of the kitchen was a small sink; next to it was some counter space with a large metal bowl full of dough on it.
“Please set those down here, hon.” Wilma pointed to the space beside the stove. Jim lowered the groceries. In the cramped space his movement felt slow and exaggerated.
“Could I get you some coffee, Jim?” Wilma asked. “It’s freezing outside, isn’t it?”
“Uh, no, no,” Jim mumbled. He whipped his wrist up in a quick motion and shot an imaginary glance at his watch. “I need to be going soon.”
Wilma had begun rummaging through the first box. Slowly she surveyed the items before turning to the pantry. It was barren, Jim noticed, aside from two cans of chicken soup and a package of ramen noodles. A pleasant grin emerged on Wilma’s face as she replenished the empty cupboard with canned beans, corn, and some boxes of instant mashed potatoes and stuffing. A small freezer bag contained broccoli, cauliflower, and celery.
“Do you need any help?” Jim asked as he stood there. He regretted asking such a stupid question the minute the words left his mouth.
“No, sweetheart. Thank you,” Wilma said. She emptied the top box and moved on to the seco
nd one. In another freezer bag she discovered a turkey.
“Oh! Thank you,” she exclaimed. “This is wonderful.”
Some items Wilma placed in an otherwise empty fridge; others she added to the pantry. Toward the very bottom of the box was a small tub of hummus and a box of crackers. A curious twinkle emerged in her eyes as she put them in their proper place.
Finally she was done. She turned to face Jim and placed her warm hand on his.
“Jim, this is really a blessing. Lord knows I prayed that we’d have something to eat for Thanksgiving.” She lowered her voice slightly. “But honestly, around five o’clock I started losing hope on it. The church has been good to us. My grandbabies and me appreciate the help. I wish my oldest grandson, Malik, was here to meet you, but he’s gone to the store for me.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Jim said, taking a slight step backward. “I wish we could have done more.”
“Before you go, let me introduce you to my babies.” She called to her grandchildren as she moved toward the living room. “Y’all come here and say ‘thank you’ to Mr. Dawkins.”
The three kids got up from the floor and shuffled slowly over to where Jim was standing. The oldest held her head down and looked slightly annoyed. Wilma put her arm around her and pulled her close. “This is Monique,” Wilma said proudly. “She’s eleven and she looooves basketball, don’t you, baby?”
Monique offered a quick half-smile and nodded slightly.
Wilma placed her hand on the other little girl’s head. “This little toothless thing is Janae. And Janae loves her some candy.” Wilma chuckled as Janae let out a snorting laugh and nestled her head into her grandmother’s leg.
“Then finally, there’s our little man, Jamal.” Wilma said this with a fake frown. “Jamal stays busy. Little man won’t sit still for nothin’.”