Mama won’t admit this: she’s a fearful person.
But it’s summer, and school is done for the year. It’s really beautiful outside. I’m willing to take the chance that Mama will set me free. And so, I decide that I’ll plead with Mama to let me to go take my bike for a spin down the block. I’ll beg Mama to give me five dollars to buy two slices of pizza and a soda. “Can I eat it there… Maybe I’ll see some of my friends… I’m a big boy now… I just turned ten… Please, pretty please.”
I’m expecting Mama to give me the same sad-eyed look she always does whenever I ask her to go outside on my own. It’s that ‘sad to see my baby growing up’ look. Sometimes, I think it’s about trying to catch her at the right moment.
I approach Mama’s room. She’s lying on her side in bed. It’s almost noon, but she’s still in her pajamas. Mama’s eyes are closed, but she’s not asleep. Mama seems deep in thought. I hate to disturb her. But I do.
“Mama, can I take my bike for a spin down the street to get a slice?”
Mama opens her eyes. But does she really see me? It’s almost like she’s looking past me, her mind elsewhere. Mama doesn’t put up much of a fight, she just tells me, “Yes, yes, you can go. I’ll be outside on the porch watching for you.”
Who’s this woman letting me spread my wings?
∏
The pizza shop is only one and a half short blocks from our home. The owner of this pizzeria is an old, roly-poly Italian man who has been in the neighborhood forever. I don’t even know his name. He just kind of comes and goes as he pleases. One week he’ll open up at ten o’clock in the morning. The next week, his little shoebox of a pizzeria will open at noon. The shop is right across the street from my school, and he does a lot of his business when school is in. But when class is out for the summer, he likes to go see his people in the place he calls the Old Country. The owner has a laid-back attitude about his business. Mama says, “Money is not his master.”
I ride up to the pizzeria and find the iron front gate has been drawn down. Perhaps I am early. After all, it is just noon. The streets are mad quiet except for Pharaoh, who has a hose out and is spraying mists of water along the side of the curb. Pharaoh’s shoe repair shop is right next to the pizza joint. Pharaoh is nice. I like him. He sees me and smiles.
Pharaoh calls out to me, “He’s away visiting family. He’ll be gone another week.” Then, with a little wave, he heads back inside his shop.
Suddenly, I hear bike tires screeching behind me. I turn around and see this boy from my school, Tum Tum. He’s the only kid outside for miles around, and he has come out of nowhere. Tum Tum doesn’t say ‘hello’. He just nods ‘What’s up?’ He’s being real cool. Tum Tum sees that the shop is closed, and says, “You’ll have to go to Injun Rah’s instead.”
I don’t know about that. Injun Rah’s Pizza is not along the Road Less Traveled. It’s in a part of the neighborhood that Mama says is off-limits. It’s located in The Madness. Any friend of mine would know this. But Tum Tum is no friend. We were in the same fifth grade class, but that’s all. We didn’t sit at the same table. We didn’t stand near each other in line either. I was the second shortest boy in class, so I was near the front. But Tum Tum was the last boy in line—almost a half foot taller than the kid in front of him and about fifty pounds heavier too. But what do you expect from somebody who is twelve years old? You’re not supposed to be twelve and be in the fifth grade.
Tum Tum doesn’t have many friends. He’s on the quiet side. But it’s not the shy kind of quiet. It’s more like the sneaky kind of quiet. It’s his eyes that give him away. Tum Tum has these cold eyes that are windows to a gangsta’s soul. They’re icy, brown eyes that are always sizing someone up. Always plotting to get over on someone. And whenever he’s not churning a plot over in his head, then he’s talking about getting his big brother on you. If Tum Tum loses a pencil on his own but thinks you took it, “I’m going to get my brother on you.” Accidentally spill milk on him at lunch, “I’m going to get my brother on you.”
And so everybody is not only scared of Tum Tum, but they are frightened of his big, bad brother—the big, bad wolf as well. However, no one has ever seen him. But that’s because it’s said he’s always in and out of jail, even though they say he’s only like twenty years old. It’s also said that Tum Tum’s brother has a deep, “smile now, cry later” scar that runs across the right side of his face from when some gangbangers rolled up on him a few years back. Tum Tum’s brother goes by the name of Scarface.
I’m not afraid of Tum Tum or his brother Scarface. I tell him that going to Injun Rah’s isn’t happening, and that I don’t want to get in trouble. Tum Tum pretends to be looking out for me and says, “Don’t be such a baby. Nobody’s going to know. I won’t sell you out.”
Tum Tum’s pleading with me because he’s unaware of a truth that only I know: Mama really hasn’t allowed me to spread my wings. The pizza shop is so close to my house that Mama only has to walk five steps away from our home, and take a long, hard peek down the street to see what I’m up to.
“Let’s race over to Injun Rah’s. Come on, kid.” Tum Tum calls everyone ‘kid’. I guess that’s what you do when you’re bigger and older than everyone else. “Last one there buys.”
There’s a part of me that knows I ought to listen to Mama more. There’s a part of me that knows if I am to keep it real, Mama knows what’s best. She knows a little something about the world. Why be out in The Madness having to deal with people like Tum Tum? I glance back in the direction of my home to see if perhaps Mama is looking this way, checking up on me. She’s not. But I don’t need Mama’s protection. I can handle Tum Tum on my own. I tell him, “I’m not racing you. End of story.”
“You’re just scared you’re going to lose.”
“I’m not scared. I just know that you don’t have money for slices if you lose.”
“I got money. I’ve hidden it down on the side of my sock. Trust me, it’s there.”
That’s hard to believe. Tum Tum’s a Section 8 baby. Free breakfast, free lunch at school. The teacher pays his way on class trips. He never has money. I should feel a little sorry for him, but I don’t. I never feel sorry for people who try to get over on me, no matter how poor they are. That’s why I decide to tell Tum Tum, “OK… OK… you’re on.”
Tum Tum is slick. He takes off without giving me the chance to get back on my bike. Tum Tum darts down the main avenue. It’s littered with so many cars that he’ll have to ride on its bumpy sidewalks. That is going to slow him down. However, there is more than one way to get to Injun Rah’s. I choose a side street with fewer cars and less traffic. At first look, it appears to be the longer way, but I can ride my bike down the middle of a nice, smooth street with no problem.
Tum Tum takes a peek over his shoulder. He realizes that I am not following him. He sees that I have chosen another path, and this surprises him. Tum Tum stops pedaling for a second and I can see this weird look on his face. A light suddenly goes off—he knows I have him.
I don’t even pedal fast. The block I choose to ride down is so quiet. I pass my schoolyard—nobody is out there. An old, silver-haired lady is sweeping out in front of her carriage house. She stops sweeping for a moment and I can feel her eyes on me. She is watching me. I don’t like being under some stranger’s gaze. But I am not stressing it too much. I have a slice of pizza to win.
∏
It’s been a long time since I was last at Injun Rah’s—with Mama, of course. Injun Rah’s place has booths for you to sit in, and a large four-seat table in the middle of it all. Like the pizzeria I’m allowed to go to along the Road Less Traveled, it has that real strong smell of garlic, and sausages, and the pie-crust baking. And it hits you in the face the moment you enter, just like it does at the other spot. But something’s not right.
Maybe it’s because the owner is from the Land of Gandhi or perhaps the N
avajo Nation. I don’t know. People just call him Injun Rah. Kind of ignorant, I know. Mama says it’s not right. She says he has a name. But Injun Rah never says anything. He’s a short, string bean-sized man with a few limp strands of black hair atop his head. Injun Rah takes your order—or should I say ‘your money’—with a smile. He’s always smiling. Mama says it’s because he’s at peace. I think it’s because he knows it’s funny for someone like him, from the Land of Gandhi or Navajo Nation, to be selling pizza. Who knows?
What I do know for sure is that I am, who I am—and that’s a winner. I have made it to Injun Rah’s first. When Tum Tum finally does come racing into the shop, he is all out of breath. I know he is getting ready to sell out on the bet.
“No fair… no fair. My asthma.”
I pay him no mind. I have no time for ghetto kids claiming asthma when all they are is out of shape. I make my way to the counter while Tum Tum trails behind me. “Come on, kid. Hook me up. My asthma… I had to stop… lost my money… it fell out of my sock.”
Then a voice, harsh and deep, calls out from somewhere nearby. “Stop lyin’. You didn’t have no money. You know you a broke nigga.”
I look around and I see someone I’ve never seen before standing in the corner. He looks too old to be from the high school. He is light-skinned… real light-skinned. Probably somebody Mama would call ‘redbone’. He has cornrows that are neat and tight, and go way down to the back of his neck, almost to his shoulders. He has a thin goatee. The dude is smooth, sporting a baggy, bloodred polo shirt, and denim jean shorts.
“Wha… what’s up, Fox,” stutters Tum Tum.
“You ought to stop lying.”
“Stop lying? About what?”
“You don’t have asthma. And you know that you have no money.”
“I was just playing.”
Injun Rah approaches the counter with Fox’s slice of pizza on a paper plate. Fox grabs it and starts eating quickly. Just before he heads out the shop, Fox turns his dark eyes on me and says, “I’ve been watching you, little man. I like how you don’t let people get over on you.” And with that, he is gone.
Tum Tum can’t even look me in the eye. Tum Tum mutters something under his breath like, “Wait until my brother gets back home.” It’s brave talk. But I know the truth and the hurt behind the talk. Tum Tum is just shaken up because he got called out. Now, I begin to feel kind of sorry for him. I know that he really is broke, that he doesn’t have the money. I shouldn’t have raced him.
I give Injun Rah my order. He looks at me knowingly. Perhaps he remembers me from the times I’ve been in the shop with Mama. And if he remembers Mama, then I imagine he knows that my grandpa used to own the candy shop just a few doors down. All I know is that when I go to pay Injun Rah, he shakes his head.
“Put your money away,” he says.
Maybe he feels bad for Tum Tum. I don’t know. I don’t ask. I just tell Injun Rah, “OK,” and I ask him to cut one of my slices in half and put it on a separate plate. That is the most I am going to do for Tum Tum. At least I have one-and-a-half slices of pizza and a soda. And it’s free. All is right with me.
Tum Tum and I eat in silence until near the end, when he asks me, “What are you going to say when your mom asks where you been?’”
I just shrug. I don’t know what I am going to say. I don’t like the idea of lying to Mama. I’m hoping she won’t ask me. Hopefully, she’ll just assume that I had a slice from the pizza shop I’m allowed to go to along the Road Less Traveled. I should be more concerned about something happening on the way back home. But I have faith. What’s the point of going through life scared? I have to believe God’s got my back. He won’t let anything bad happen to me. I have to believe that I’ll get back to my house without getting caught up in The Madness.
CHAPTER
SIX
The Old Man stares out the train window. He keeps a steady gaze on a burnt-orange sun poised high and bright in the sky above. His thoughts drift and he hears a little girl ask, “Why do we dream, mama?”
The voice that follows is familiar—the voice of a mother willing to indulge an inquisitive child. The mother tells the little girl, “When people are awake, they’re not so concerned with God. Therefore, in order to get our attention, He speaks to us through our dreams.”
“But what about those who say they don’t dream, mama? Doesn’t God speak to them?”
“He can’t speak to those who don’t know Him.”
What follows is quiet. The Old Man imagines the child being sent on her way. But the voice of the mother remains. She speaks almost in a whisper and seemingly to herself. “Such talk sounds silly….”
The Old Man interrupts her in his thought, No, it’s not silly talk. They are just safe and simple words used to explain away the unknowable. They’re half-truths spoken in order to comfort a child or those who think like one. Why not tell her how it is written that God once spoke to men—all men—with great clarity.
The Old Man hears the mother say, “…but she wouldn’t understand a God that is now silent.”
The mother says no more. Her voice no longer emerges from the radiant light just outside the train window. The Old Man thinks back on those times when he sat in the rear of the candy shop and listened to a mother shape a daughter’s view of faith. The mother would glance his way and wait for him to offer an opinion, but the Old Man never did. A glance is not a question, nor an invite to share his truth, so he kept his beliefs to himself. But the Old Man can’t help but wonder now what that little girl has grown up to deem the truth. He can’t help but wonder if after all that has happened, is she a believer?
CHAPTER
SEVEN
“A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning…. weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.”
—Matthew 2:18
Patient—real quiet-like— is how Mama sits on the front stoop of our home. She has a pad on her lap, and a few coloring pencils in one hand. Mama doesn’t hear me ride up. How can she? Her head is down, and she is deep in thought, engrossed in whatever it is she is creating. I don’t call out and disturb Mama. I simply lay my bike softly against the front gate and run up the steps to cuddle beside her.
I’ve made sure to come back by way of the Road Less Traveled, the path she expects me to take. I have no reason to believe that Mama thinks anything is off because when she looks up from her pad, her mood brightens and she manages to give me that warm, quiet smile of hers. She no longer seems as weary or as sad as she had looked earlier. I rest my head upon her shoulder and get a better look at what she is working on. She’s sketched together some soft colors like powder blue and light green.
Mama leans over and gives me a kiss on my forehead. “So, the prodigal son returns.”
Because Mama likes to talk with a little flavor, I don’t always understand what she means, so I ask, “What’s a prodigal son?”
“It’s a son who’s been out in the world and returns home to a warm greeting.”
I say nothing. Maybe she knows where I’ve been. But I give nothing away. I just nod my head as though I understand.
“How was your lunch?”
“Fine.” At least I’m not lying. My lunch was fine.
I watch Mama take out a velvet red pencil to use for her sketch. Mama is not one who draws portraits or a still life. She likes to do more weird stuff. Weird stuff that requires you to make up your own meaning as to what you are seeing. What I see is always something gentle, like her. Mama is tiny, like an angel. You see her face and notice right away these real delicate features. Not sharp or pointy, just fine and soft. Her skin is cocoa brown. Not nearly a mark on her except for a small, slight, discolored scar by her left jaw. She has jet-black hair that flows nearly down to the middle of her back. It’s naturally curly. And Mama has these eyes—light brown eyes—with las
hes that are long and soft and delicate like butterfly wings. But there’s a faint, black scar on the bottom of her left eye, whose eyelid flutters gently every now and then all on its own. I have heard people say that Mama has cat eyes. Mysterious eyes hiding secrets. They’re wrong. Her eyes are warm and caring. It’s just that quiet people get accused of keeping secrets. And that’s what my mama is—she’s a quiet person. She gives thought to everything she says. Mama doesn’t talk just for the sake of talking.
Mama finishes her little sketch and shows it to me. “Do you like it so far?”
Before I can even answer, a man’s deep voice calls out, “Nice drawing, Pretty Lady.”
Mama and I both look up. It’s The Doctor. He’s the neighborhood dentist who lives and works two houses down from us. And now Doc has stopped by our front gate. He’s big and cuddly—he looks like a fat doughboy. The good doctor seems harmless because he is quick with a nice smile and polite words. Having known my grandparents, he acts really familiar with our family. That’s why he calls my mama ‘Pretty Lady’ because that’s the short version of what people around the neighborhood used to call my grandmother. They called her the ‘Pretty Lady Dame’. Still, no matter how friendly and real familiar the Doc acts, he still looks at Mama kind of weird—like with an evil eye. The thing is, Doc would never come out and say what is truly in his heart—or his mind.
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