But I know what’s up. You see, Mama’s pretty. And since she is so pretty, we can be anywhere—walking along the Road Less Traveled or amid The Madness or just sitting right here on our front stoop—and all the men just stop and stare. Sometimes, they’ll say a few kind words like The Doctor. But I know these men are not noticing her beautiful smile or the nice clothes she always wears. They look at other things. They see her slim waist. They whisper about her “killer ass”. They gape at her firm chest. I don’t like the way men stare at Mama. It’s the hungry gaze of a wolf—a big, bad wolf.
But Mama knows how to tame the beast. She offers The Doctor a half-smile and acknowledges his compliment with a softly spoken, “Thank you.” He still lingers by the gate for a moment. He says something about how Mama looks so much like her mother. He talks about how people used to shout out ‘Pretty Lady’ to her as well. He’s made this small talk before, so I take Mama’s hand and hold it tight, and then I sit closer to her. It’s my way of telling Doc that she belongs to me.
The Doctor finally waves goodbye and continues on his way. I keep my eye on him until he turns into his gate, and disappears down into his basement office. Mama doesn’t give the Doc much thought. She goes about her business of adding touches of pastel colors to her sketch. Thanks to Doc, Mama has forgotten that she was asking me what I think about her drawing. I would remind her, but she seems at peace finishing up her work and humming a song. I leave Mama alone.
∏
Once upon a time, there was a wolf, and this wolf was all alone. All of the other wolves had been caught or killed or driven off. But this last wolf stayed. And he did all of the usual wolfish things. He lived in a cave high up in the hills. He raided the flock for an occasional stray sheep.
He would appear from time to time, late in the evening, on a trail from the fields running down to the village to frighten some milkmaid or herds boy coming home a little too late from the watch. And this gave rise to the stories of his great, gnarled, bloody teeth, and his wet, long, lolling tongue, and his fiery, red, hungry eyes… the wolf had quite a reputation in the village.
But that was not the worst of it. The most horrible thing of all, the thing that froze the souls of the old men, caused the red faces of the young people to blanche, and the heads of the children to go deep under bedcovers at night, was what the wolf would do from time to time in the cold, crackling air of the frosty-silver moon, high on the stark peak of the stony mountain near the village. He would sit up there and howl with the sound of a thousand midnights. Those who heard it, swore it was a sound that only a beast whose soul was tortured and lost forever could make. And it chilled to the marrow everyone who heard it… everyone, that is, except one person.
∏
Right after dinner is the start of what Mama calls the Quiet Hour. For at least sixty minutes, Mama says the TV has to be off. She says I can play no video games nor can I listen to any music. No internet, either. It’s just Mama and me, together in the living room. Sometimes, we’re there talking about our day or about what’s on our mind. But most of the time, we don’t talk. We just sit in silence. Being quiet is not a problem for me. I like what Mama says about silence—that it connects you to God. She says God reveals His love through silence. You just have to be still and listen. And so, when the Quiet Hour arrives, Mama and I make sure not to fill the quiet with noise and empty talk.
Mama is sitting on the ledge of our huge windowsill, just staring out into the distance. Mama’s tired now. Perhaps all that work we’ve been doing, cleaning up the basement apartment, has finally gotten to her. But Mama could also be a little sad. I can’t really say for sure. Her moods seem to change so quickly these days.
But Mama soon breaks the quiet, and softly asks, “What book are you reading?”
I tell her Wolf and Boy.
“I notice that you like books about wolves. Didn’t you just finish reading that Chinese folktale called The Wolf’s Ghost?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why do you like wolf stories?”
I kind of shrug my shoulders. I don’t really know what to say. But when you have a mom who’s a teacher, saying, “I don’t know” is not an option. So, I say, “Wolf stories are never boring.”
“And what makes them never boring?’
“It’s just interesting how in all these stories people never seem to understand the wolf.”
“What don’t they understand?”
“They don’t understand that a wolf never needs to prove that he’s not a beast. He is not ashamed of what he is.”
“The wolf accepts the truth about itself?”
“Yes, that’s what I like about the wolf.”
“That’s a lesson we can all learn from the wolf, always accept your true self. Always seek to know and understand who you truly are.”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
A soldier holds onto a quote during The War. It is stuffed deep inside the pocket of his jacket. It contains two simple lines, well-known and handwritten on a card that never crumbles, in ink that never seems to fade:
There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.
The soldier likes to steal a look at the quote during moments of deep silence that come between assignments.
The soldier hears a voice calling out to him from somewhere in The Jungle’s shadows. It’s the voice of a friend, the boat pilot, who says, “You won’t be able to hold onto that forever. You will have to give up being the hunter one day.”
The soldier tells his friend, “You are wrong about that. No one can ever transcend who he is.”
“So, you’re defined by the label of hunter?” asks the boat pilot.
“I’m defined by my actions. I’m defined by what I do.”
“Change what you do, then.”
But the soldier knows that in The Jungle there’s no turning away from one’s true nature. You cannot change what you do. Not during war.
Yet, despite this truth, the friend says confidently, “I know I won’t be a hunter forever. These journeys up and down The River will end one day. There will be no more need for warriors like us.”
The friend tells the soldier that he will leave it all behind; he will return home and go into business for himself, no longer be a slave to the government or any other institution. He’ll find some neighborhood store, take it over and live out his days in peace and quiet.
The soldier is amused by his friend’s dream. “You’re going to be a regular Candy Man.”
“Yes. No more killing once I leave The Jungle.”
“A far cry from this life now.”
“You can come join me in that new life, when you’re ready,” says the friend. “My door will always be open for you.”
∏
At the end of The War, there is no home for the soldier to return to. No family who remembers him or knows who he is. So, the soldier pays a visit to the one who is now called the Candy Man. He travels north to The City to see if the promise still holds true. When he arrives at his friend’s house, he finds a woman sitting on the front steps of his friend’s home. She is quietly reading a book under the fading light of dusk. She is a beautiful woman, of soft, precise features made more pronounced by short, curly hair set under a red bandana. The pretty lady looks up at him with a gentle and pleasant gaze. Before he can ask if this is the home of his friend, she says, “I know who you are. Welcome home.”
The pretty lady extends a hand and leads him inside her home. She offers him a seat at their dining room table, and she brings him a cold drink and a meal. She speaks to him about the new life available to him. They have been waiting. The small apartment downstairs in the basement will be his. And so will a job working at the shop.
The pretty lady goes on to say, “I know much about you
. Don’t feel ashamed about the things you and my husband did during The War. I don’t judge. I just want you to feel at peace here.”
And with a knowing glance and a mischievous smile, the pretty lady assures the soldier, “There is no need for hunters here.”
∏
The soldier tells the pretty lady that he won’t have trouble finding the Candy Man’s shop. Her directions are simple enough, “Stay along the path for a few blocks. Turn right. You can’t miss it.”
The soldier does as he is told. He finds the Candy Man’s shop exactly where the pretty lady said he would, beyond a grand row of majestically-built brownstone homes that quickly fade into a chain of battered and bruised, white stone row houses. The Candy Man and his shop are found at that point where a quiet one-way street intersects with the noise and bustle of a two-lane avenue.
The Candy Man is out in front of his store with a broom in his hand. He is gently sweeping dirt and discarded papers to the side of the curb. The soldier barely recognizes his old friend. Perhaps it is the weight and the muscle he has lost. Maybe it’s the way he is hunched over while sweeping that makes him look much older than he is. He looks weak. But when the Candy Man looks up and finally notices his friend, the truth is obvious to the soldier. It’s his eyes; they’re the eyes of the weary. They lack the fire and intensity of a fellow fighter. They are not the eyes of a hunter.
Still, the Candy Man smiles and walks over. He warmly embraces the soldier. “You’ve come home.”
∏
The soldier follows the Candy Man into the shop. His friend closes the door behind them and locks it. He places a sign in the door window that reads: CLOSED — WILL RETURN IN TEN MINUTES.
“Money is not my master,” says the Candy Man, with a smile. “I can close shop for a few minutes to catch up with an old friend.”
The Candy Man offers the soldier a seat on the high stool behind the counter. “It’s the best I can do for you.”
The soldier smiles and acknowledges the offer in silence. He takes his seat and looks around the candy shop. It is an inviting place. The walls are brightly painted in shades of white and yellow. There’s a glass encasement that runs nearly the length of the store. He peers through a glass smudged with the tiny fingerprints of small children who must lean against it as they gaze in wide-eyed wonder at the candy stocked inside. The soldier is himself amazed at the array of candy in different shapes and sizes. The soldier glances up and sees comic books and magazines hanging in bins against the walls. The Candy Man walks to the back of the store and opens up a brightly lit refrigerator and pulls out two bottles of soda pop—one orange, one cola. The soldier smiles when his friend extends the orange bottle to him.
“Here’s to forgetting what we once were.”
The two friends clink the necks of their bottles. They drink in silence. Finally, the soldier says to the Candy Man, “I had no home to return to. I had no place where they knew me… at least not those people who should.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m just glad you took me at my word.”
“You’re a lucky man,” says the soldier.
“You’ve met my Pretty Lady Dame.”
“Yes. Like I said, ‘You’re a lucky man’.”
“She’s a blessing. Met her along a promenade overlooking the East River, not too long after I came back. I liked to go down there and look out onto the water. Alone. One day, she saw me and told me, “It’s OK to smile.”
“It began as simple as that?”
“Yes. She asked if she could have a seat on the same bench. And we just began to talk.”
“What it is it about her that you value most?”
“She doesn’t force me to talk about what I once was. She doesn’t force me to talk about the things that happened in The Jungle.”
“You get that enough from others.”
“Yes, and I get weary of people asking, ‘What was it like over there?’”
“What do you tell them?”
“I tell them, ‘As long as you have your nice, comfortable life of indulgence with your big TVs blasting mindless shows, and your bellies full from eating three meals a day plus snacks; as long as you have gas for your cars… you can’t ask me what is it like over there. You have no right to know’.”
The soldier nods knowingly, “Ain’t that the truth.”
“And what’s the burning question the world wants to know from you?’
“They ask me, ‘How many people have you killed?’”
“And what do you say?”
“I tell them, ‘That’s between me and the dead’.”
The Candy Man walks over and looks out the front door window. “I’m happy, my friend. But I’m tired, too. I’m not looking to fight anymore.”
He motions for the soldier to come next to him. He points to a group of men hanging out on the other side of the street. There are in front of a social club called Illusions. “There are people who want this store. The neighborhood is changing. There won’t be a use for dirty pool halls and social clubs like Illusions. But the corner store, though, will always be a haven for the type of business they want to do. They talk about partnership and needing protection. But this store belongs to me. They have another thing coming if they think this will turn into some dope house.”
“The Pretty Lady Dame knows about this?”
“Yes. She’s not oblivious to the greed that exists in the world.”
The soldier takes a long look outside, and then he turns to the Candy Man. “No more worries, my friend. I’m here now for you and your family.”
CHAPTER
NINE
Our church is a huge cathedral of once-white stone that’s now slowly turning gray. It’s only two blocks from where we live. Mama and I rarely miss service. We have to be out of town for that to happen. Or there has to be a blizzard. Or a tornado. Only something out of the ordinary like that can keep us away.
Sometimes, I think our going to church all the time has nothing to do with God and hearing the Word. I think it’s more like we just don’t want to seem lazy. We don’t want to break a life routine. Whenever I take forever to get out of bed or when I beg to sleep in just this once, Mama is quick to say, “How is it going to look for us to miss church when it’s just right down the street?”
And so, here we are, another Sunday at church. And today, they’re talking about Mama.
Pastor is telling a story about a woman named Hannah—that’s my mama’s name. Pastor is young with a youthful spirit. He is athletically built and is a man with a flair for large, dramatic gestures and expressions at the pulpit. It’s easy for him to have my attention now because he is acting like he is all exasperated when he says my mama’s name.
Pastor is getting the church riled up, “Say ‘Aaaah’ for me. Hannaaaah! She couldn’t appreciate the blessing that God had bestowed on her. Aaaah!” Pastor reaches for a silk hanky from his finely-tailored suit, wipes the sweat from his brow, and says, “Hannah has a fretful spirit. She is in serious need of a pivot point.”
That he’s mentioning Mama’s name is probably the only reason that I’m even remotely paying attention. I’m so comfortable. I’m resting my head on Mama’s lap. I have soft, kinky hair that is now braided into long cornrow braids that go down the back of my neck. And Mama’s gently fingering my braids and massaging my temples. I’m practically purring like a kitten. The Pastor’s voice sounds so far off. But I hear enough, and so I know that he’s really talking to the adults. I should be in the Sunday school for the kids.
But Mama lets me stay with her during the grown-up service. She says after being cooped up in school for five days, I don’t need to spend even more time in a classroom. Mama is allowing me, a kid, the privilege of being around adults. I’m happy because the grown-up service has more life than the Sunday school program. I like the praise part at the beginning of th
e service because we get to sing. When the music’s working, I’m there clapping my hands in the sanctuary and dancing. I forget that a half-hour before, I didn’t even want to come to church. Praise time is party time. It’s the best time. I imagine that’s what heaven is like—one big party of singing, dancing, praising and glorifying God.
Lately, though, Mama’s been kind of a party pooper. She’ll stand like everybody and she’ll clap her hands. But she doesn’t really sing or dance. I guess the spirit doesn’t move her to do anything more than to just stand and silently move her mouth to the words. I think Mama prefers the part when she can sit down and just listen to the pastor preach… especially when it seems like he’s talking about her.
“Hannah reached a point where she was tired of doing the same thing over and over… she needed a pivot point…”
I lose track of where Pastor is in his sermon. But soon I hear him talking about how a person’s pivot point begins with prayer. Pastor talks of how God’s wonders are produced by prayer. He speaks about how a person’s prayers may go on for many years before their life changes for the better. This seems to make Mama slow her soothing touch. She motions for me to sit up.
I can hear Pastor a little better now and what he’s talking about doesn’t seem to make much sense. To have your prayers go unanswered for so long, especially when you’re a good person—a good person, say, like Mama—well, there’s something not right about that. Where’s the joy in receiving God’s favor when you’re old and busted?
I look up at Mama, who is sitting a little straighter and is leaning forward slightly. It’s like she wants to ask him, when will my pivot point come?
“A Man of God interceded for Hannah and that was her pivot point...”
Pastor is talking about a priest who comforted and gave strength to Hannah at her pivot point. Mama leans back in her seat, kind of uninspired-like. I guess she’s thinking, that’s why people come to church in the first place… so that men like the pastor, a Man of God, can comfort them and give them hope. I don’t think Mama has come to church for easy, obvious answers. It’s really like getting no answer at all. Church is supposed to be the place where you learn The Truth.
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