I take out a notepad from my desk and begin jotting a few lines to send to Pretty Lady Dame.
Dear Pretty Lady Dame,
How are you? Mama and I are good. School is over for the summer. I’m happy about that. Things could be interesting this summer. A man has come to visit. He is a friend to you. Do you know why he has come? Mama seems happy he has come here. Anybody who makes Mama smile can’t be bad, right...
∏
I ride my bike by Mama’s side. We are on our way to the market. We come upon my school’s playground. I stop my bike, and I ask, “Can I go to the playground while you’re in the store?”
Mama’s eyes begin to narrow, and she takes a hard look over at the playground. The supermarket is only across the street—like a hundred yards away. I want to tell Mama that I’m grown. That I’m getting to that age when she has to stop babying me. Though her hard stare never brightens, she says, “You can go. I’ll be inside for only a few minutes.”
∏
There’s a little girl alone by the swing set. I didn’t notice her when I first asked Mama about coming to the playground, but she is here now. I don’t know who she is, but I’d say she is a grade or two below me. She’s a sweet-looking girl, the color of milk chocolate. Her black hair is pulled back into one long braid, and she has eyes—brown, and almond shaped—that have a way of hypnotizing you. She also has a cute, little button nose. I think I’ll call her ‘Pretty Girl’.
Pretty Girl’s dressed in a pink top and a pair of green shorts. On her feet are plain, all-white sneakers. I notice she’s wearing a gold engraved anklet with fine diamonds. It’s a little too big for her, and so it hangs loosely on her ankle. There are two words written in script that is hard to make out. Still, it looks kind of nice even though I’ve never seen a girl so young wear one before.
Pretty Girl is not swinging very high. And she doesn’t seem to care either that she’s hardly moving. I ask her, “Do you want me to give you a push?” Pretty Girl nods OK.
So, I push. And as I do, she keeps going higher and higher. I hop on my swing and I get it going until I catch up to Pretty Girl and we’re swinging in unison. Pretty Girl glances over and smiles. But all of a sudden, she lets her swing come to a stop and runs away. I leap off my swing and chase after her.
“Why are you leaving?”
Pretty Girl points towards a man standing by the front gate. He is mad tall and is as skinny as a toothpick. The Thin Man. I can barely see a slender face hidden under his baseball cap. I ask Pretty Girl if that’s her father.
She says nothing. Maybe she can’t be seen talking to boys. But I still have to ask her something. “Hey, what’s your name?”
Pretty Girl just smiles, and then says, “Why do you ask me my name?
I tell her, “Because I don’t know you.”
Pretty Girl just smiles and skips away without saying anything. The Thin Man begins walking. Pretty Girl catches up to him and takes him by the hand. She and the Thin Man soon disappear out of sight.
I go back to the swings to pick up my bike. There’s no one else in the park for me to play with, so I figure I might as well head on over to the supermarket and wait for Mama there. But it turns out, I’m not alone.
∏
The Old Man is sitting on a wooden bench on the other side of the playground fence. He is looking at me with those intense eyes of his. The Old Man has on this crisp, red silk shirt. He’s still wearing jeans and his Tim’s. The Old Man has on a blue baseball cap.
When I ride up to him, the Old Man asks me, “How are you?”
“I’m good.”
He tells me that he was out for a little walk, but he stopped when he saw I was alone in the playground. He wanted to make sure that everything was all right.
“Mama said it was ok for me to play in the park while she shops. She’s only going to be a few minutes. You didn’t have to worry.”
The Old Man begins a slow walk, and I start to ride alongside him. He is seemingly headed in the direction of The Madness, probably to see what’s become of the Candy Man’s shop.
I ask the Old Man if he’s on a walk to see how much the old neighborhood has changed from when he and my granddad were friends.
“I guess you can say that.”
“What did you and my granddad do together?”
The Old Man doesn’t answer right away. He begins to laugh, almost to himself. Then he says, “We did what all good friends do together—have fun. Well, as much fun as war allows.”
I want to tell the Old Man that I wouldn’t know about that. I don’t really have friends. I only know some people and some people know me. But I don’t want to seem like Kid Lonely, so I say nothing. I prefer to stay on the subject of my grandfather, so I ask, “Were you and my granddad friends before The War—like friends in school?”
“We don’t go back that far. Met your granddad during The War, and then worked with him afterwards.”
“Doing what?”
“Like your mom said, I’d sit in the back of the store and just watch out for things.”
“Didn’t you get bored?”
“Being mindful of things around you… spending time thinking deeply on things… is never boring.”
We are getting closer to The Madness. You can always tell because you hear music booming from speakers perched on the sills of open windows. Wild, shirtless children, with no mamas or papas around to look after them, are darting between parked cars, playing tag. Half-naked bodies sit on open windowsills, looking out onto the action happening down in the street below. I tell the Old Man that I can’t go any further. I have to go back. Mama is expecting me.
“Little boys should always do as they’re told. Your mom knows what’s best for you.”
The Old Man nods in the direction of the park. He is sending me on my way. I pedal a short distance and stop. I watch the Old Man vanish into The Madness. As for myself, I turn around and head on back down the road I’m supposed to go down.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
“Wisdom will save you from the ways of wicked men.”
—Proverbs 2:12
The Old Man steps off the path that leads to the old candy shop, and finds himself on a quiet and lonely block. On one side of the street is a large, pebble-strewn lot, where a handful of cars sit parked behind a wire fence with a locked-gate. The lot sits next to a vacant warehouse that takes up the other half of the block. Across the street, where the Old Man now walks, is a small bread factory. It’s a nameless, red, brick building, three-stories high, where the sweet aroma of fresh baked bread floats out of large open windows on the second floor. Next to the bread factory, near the block’s end, is a print shop.
It is a small, narrow space, obscured by the bread factory on one side and a storefront church on the other. On display in each corner of the print shop’s dingy window are silkscreened T-shirts promoting neighborhood youth leagues, restaurants, and salons. Immaculately printed brochures, pamphlets, and glossy cards are spread out neatly on a ledge at the base of the window. This is the place the Old Man is looking for. Without hesitation, he steps inside.
The Old Man walks up to a chest-high counter where a sweet and studious looking young woman in frameless glasses sits. She has flawless, deep chocolate brown skin, and is neatly dressed in jeans and a gray T-shirt with the shop’s name printed on its front. The young woman is studying a stack of invoices. Behind her, three machines shake, rattle, and roar as they spew out copies at different speeds. The Old Man approaches and taps the counter to get the pretty woman’s attention. She looks up at the Old Man with innocent, yet playful eyes. The young lady greets him with a welcoming and pleasant smile. “I’m sorry; I didn’t hear you come in.”
The Old Man nods. He waits for her to say more.
“May I help you?”
The Old Man studies the beautifu
l young woman for a moment, and then he asks, “Do you know me?”
The young lady smiles softly. She unfastens the lock to the counter’s small door and swings it open. The Old Man passes through. The young lady leads him past stacks of boxes and three tall shelves filled with reams of paper. The Old Man is led to a locked door in the rear of the shop. There is a buzzer that the young lady presses twice. The door opens slightly on its own. There are steps leading to the basement. The pretty young lady tells the Old Man, “You know the way.”
The basement is dark. The main source of light comes from a row of computer monitors set along the bank of a long, wooden table. A smallish man in wrinkled, button-down white shirt and tan slacks sits at a small wooden desk. Underneath the muted glow of small lamp, he looks through a magnifying glass at a passport book. He takes out a pair of tweezers, and with his tiny hands, begins to adjust a photograph that he is trying to set properly. Old Man waits for him to finish. The small man finally looks up from his work. “My friend, please.” The small man motions for the Old Man to come near.
“I wasn’t sure I could still gain entry,” says the Old Man, with a smile.
The small man laughs quietly before responding. “Knowing the right question and its answer always will.” He begins to clear off his desk, putting a handful of passport books and photos into a folder.
“I see that your daughter is working the front, and not your wife.”
“It was time for her to learn the family business. I don’t want her to have any delusions about her poppa. I help people in need of a new identity. No questions asked. There’s no sin in letting people start a new life with a new name. It’s better that my child knows the truth about me. Less likely that harm will come her way.”
There is an awkward silence. The small man opens a desk drawer and places the folder inside. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again. Unfinished business for you and the Pretty Lady Dame?”
The Old Man doesn’t respond in words—he affirms with a knowing glance.
“Still seeking out people who must learn the lesson… ‘your kind don’t win’.” And though the small man is pleased that he knows his friend’s purpose, there is more that he feels is unanswered. “But why come see me? You don’t need my kind of help again.”
“I wanted to hear from someone who might know: is it safe to be back?”
“A lot of time has passed since you and the Pretty Lady Dame went away. The neighborhood is changing. All the shop owners used to know each other. We were like family. We would do anything to protect one another and our families. But only a few of us remain… Injun Rah… Chef… Pharaoh. I couldn’t tell you what’s going on at the old shop. I stay off the radar. I stay here, underground, out of other people’s business.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No, it’s not, because ‘is it safe?’ is not the right question.”
The Old Man studies his friend for a moment. “OK, then. Is my mark still there?”
“I think we both know the answer to that question. My friend, that is something you’re going to have to find out for yourself.”
∏
The old candy shop sits on the corner where the Road Less Traveled meets The Madness. It’s a nondescript storefront of red brick, saddled up next to a liquor store. The front window is covered with dog-eared posters of half-naked women advertising malt liquor. The posters obscure whatever business is being done inside.
The Old Man approaches the store. Standing in the shop’s doorway is a sly young man with dark, sullen eyes. The Old Man sees a kid with too much time on his hands—a young man from a lost generation—leaning against the doorframe and blocking his path into the store. The young gatekeeper is long, and sinewy, and projects an aura of menace. He speaks to the Old Man in a voice harsh and dismissive of the elder standing before him. “What can I do for you, pops?”
The Old Man is unmoved by the young man’s intimidating tone. The Old Man thinks to himself, he is just a boy; he doesn’t know me. The Old Man deliberately let’s silence slip in the space between them, before he eventually answers. “You can start by not calling me ‘pops’.”
The young gatekeeper knows an older generation that is fearful of its youth—adults who are weak and unwilling to fight back against a child’s challenge to their authority. But the Old Man has made a child blink. The youngster is unsettled and shifts his weight ever so slightly. His lean against the door has now straightened. To feign disinterest, he takes a bloodred handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes his brow. “Anything else?”
“Then you’re going to move out of my way and let me pass.”
The young man’s eyes narrow, and he takes a step closer to the Old Man. But then a voice calls out from the back of the shop. “Fox, move away from the door.”
The Old Man takes one step inside and his eyes search out for where the voice has come from. He sees a Merchant. He’s a black man, the color of night. The squat, sturdy middle-aged man stands by the door that leads to a back room. There are shadows moving in the room behind him. However, the Merchant turns his attention, and a pair of dangerous gray eyes, on the Old Man.
“Can I help you?
“Just looking to buy a newspaper.”
“There are no newspapers here.”
The Old Man takes a long glance around the shop. Gone is the finger-smudged glass encasement that the neighborhood children used to press against in wide-eyed wonder at all the candy stocked inside. Comic books and magazines no longer hang in bins against the walls. Instead, the old candy shop is home for coolers barely filled with bottled soda and beer. The store has become dank and spare, with two shelves in the center of the shop, sparsely stocked with a few basic canned goods and bread. The Old Man’s curiosity has been met. He tells the Merchant. “Thank you. That’s all I needed to know.”
The Old Man goes on his way past the young gatekeeper. The Merchant comes from the back of the shop and stands next to Fox. Together, they watch the Old Man walk away.
Then the Merchant turns to the young man named Fox, and says, “There’s something I need you to do.”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Mama has a studio up on the third floor of our home. It’s an open space where she keeps a bundle of canvasses. Unfinished work is tucked away in a corner and covered by a paint-splattered tarp. Large portfolios are neatly stacked around an easel that sits propped up in the center of the room. Another blotchy linen sheet lies across the floor, and flattened tubes of paint lay scattered at the easel’s base. Mama’s studio shows that she’s serious about her art, but the truth remains, none of her work ever leaves this room. This studio is really a place to keep her art hidden from the world.
And it is a sanctuary too. It’s another place for her to spend some quiet time—alone.
Mama is there now, sitting in a darkened corner.
She can’t see me peeking around the edge of an open door. Sometimes, the only way to understand Mama and her ways, is to watch her from a distance. It’s really the only way to see if Mama is keeping secrets. I think she is.
I watch her pull out a black portfolio book from behind the easel. Mama begins to flip through it. She pauses a few pages in. Mama’s found what she is looking for. There’s no real expression on her face. Whatever it is she’s looking at, doesn’t seem to bring her any joy. Mama just looks at the page for a real long time, while she gently traces her slender fingers across the paper. Mama is slipping into a sad place.
I want to run up to her and say something that might make her happy. That would make me feel good. But it’s not about doing something that would make me feel better. So, I leave Mama alone. Sometimes, the best thing you can do for a person is to just be silent.
I stop spying on Mama. I leave her in peace.
∏
Sometimes, when I sit outside on the front stoop of my
home, it gets so quiet that it seems as though I’m the only kid around. The quiet is that deep. It makes me feel sad. It makes me feel lonely. Come to my peaceful block—by way of the Road Less Traveled, passing my school and its empty playground—and I’m sure you’ll ask yourself, “where have all the children gone?”
There are times when I can’t help but think adults are up to something shady. It’s as though they’re doing foul things to children. It’s like they’re hiding them away and silencing them. Even Mama has abandoned me to deal with her darkened mood. I’ve been left alone to keep myself company on the front stoop with a book in my lap.
But a man appears. He is standing by our front gate and he’s watching me. But I’m not afraid because I know this man. He’s from my church. It’s Pastor. His smile is always bright and welcoming. Pastor looks smart. If I didn’t know who he was, I’d say he kind of looks like a teacher with his narrow, black, framed glasses and simple clothes—a regular, old, blue button-down shirt, some beige khaki pants, and loafers. The Pastor is clean-cut. Obviously, there’s nothing gangsta about him.
I’m ok with the Pastor because he doesn’t give me the creeps like the other men who try to talk to Mama. The Pastor is harmless because he’s religious. Of course, he’s full of the Lord. Everything is about God, and Jesus, and blessings. That’s what you’d expect from someone like him. I guess that’s not so bad. There are worse ways to be. After each Sunday service, if we see him, he’ll tell us to have a blessed week. He’s the kind of guy around whom you feel the need to act perfect.
That’s why I straighten up before saying to him, “Good afternoon.” I don’t say my usual, “What’s up?”
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