“Your father is here.”
Pretty Girl just smiles at me. Her swing comes to a near stop and she hops off. Thin Man is outside the park on the other side of the fence. He has already started to walk away. I don’t take it personally that Pretty Girl just up and leaves. I’m used to it now. I watch Pretty Girl catch up to the Thin Man. They’re headed off down a path that leads towards the dingy tower that looms tall and high in the horizon, the Tower of Gilead. But before Pretty Girl disappears out of sight, she looks back my way and waves goodbye to me. I feel better than I did before.
∏
I pop a wheelie all the way to Mama. She’s impressed that I can ride up for so long on one wheel. Mama claps softly and gives me that sweet, quiet smile of hers. Perhaps Pretty Girl has it all wrong. Mama doesn’t seem so sad.
Mama is working on the same drawing from the day before. She is using the same colored pencils, powder blue and white. I can see that it won’t be like Mama’s normal work. It won’t be abstract. It’ll be something more life-like. It’s like she’s working on a sky with clouds.
“Mama, you’re not sad, are you?”
“What makes you ask that?”
“That’s what a little girl said.”
“What girl?”
“The one that was by the swings. You didn’t see her?”
Mama peeks around the giant tree, and says, “No, I didn’t.”
“She’s gone now. But she saw you. She says you’re real pretty but seem a little sad.”
Mama invites me to come sit with her. She hugs me close.
“I’m never sad when you’re around.”
“That’s what I wanted to tell her.”
“Did this little girl say anything else?”
“She said something like, ‘There’s no need to be sad. Everything is OK.’”
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Fox’s task is simple: follow the Old Man.
This is what the Merchant has ordered him to do. And the reason is simple enough—someone has dared to cross their path. So the time has now come to learn his story. What Fox, the good soldier, has learned so far is that there’s not much of a story to tell—not yet at least. The Old Man lives on a quiet tree-lined street, down in the basement apartment of a tidy brownstone home.
And so, as he had done the day before, Fox has returned to the peaceful street that he had followed the Old Man to. He positions himself in the side alleyway of a four-story high apartment building across the street from the Old Man’s home. He stands hidden in the shadows, and he waits.
He is surprised to see the Boy.
Fox remembers him from the pizza shop. And he remembers how there was something about the Boy that he liked. Though smaller than most kids his age, what Fox saw in the Boy was a feistiness that didn’t allow him to become easy prey. A warrior’s spirit. The Boy is on his bike, and has stopped in front of the home. He hops off the bike and begins to carry it up the front steps. Fox glances down the street to see if perhaps the Old Man is following behind. Fox doesn’t see the Old Man.
He sees the mother instead. She is beautiful. What is her role in the Old Man’s story?
Fox steps out of the shadows to get a better look at the mother as she holds open the door for the Boy. She lets her child enter before she follows closely behind and the two disappear inside.
∏
“There’s a woman and a boy. They live above the Old Man.”
This is what Fox tells the Merchant, who has no noticeable reaction. There is just a slight, knowing grin. The Merchant leans against the cash register set up at the front of the store. He is waiting for Fox to tell him more.
“Anything else?”
“No, I’ll check him out again tomorrow.”
The Merchant begins counting out the day’s money, and without looking up at Fox, he tells him, “There won’t be a need for that.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
“I will trust and not be afraid.”
—Isaiah 12:2
In the living room where Mama and I spend the Quiet Hour, there is a wooden bookcase that reaches almost to the ceiling. The middle rows have a few scattered pictures. Most of them are of me, mostly from picture days at school. Class photos and solo shots, from kindergarten to fourth grade. There is one black-and-white photo of the Candy Man and the Pretty Lady Dame from their wedding day. And there’s one of Mama and the Candy Man standing in front of his store. Mama is no more than five years old and she’s leaning up against her father’s leg. Her smile is as wide and bright as it’s ever been. But what I hadn’t noticed up until now is the man standing in the background, leaning against the side of the front door and keeping a watchful eye. It’s the Old Man, only younger. He is clean-shaven and has the same bald head; his goatee has no salt.
I sneak a quick look out the living room window and I see the Old Man. He is standing quietly in the stairwell down to his apartment. He has his switchblade out and is using it to meticulously carve up a mango. The Old Man looks up from his fruit and sees me in the window. He flicks his knife closed and points to his watch. He whispers the words, “It’s time.” I smile. The Old Man is keeping his word. He’s waiting for me to continue my story.
∏
And so one day before the sun rose, the boy set out on the road to the mountain, where it was said the wolf made his den. It was a long road and a steep one, but the boy took no stick and wore no hat to guard him from the sun. It was a dangerous journey, to be sure, but the boy took no weapon to defend himself. And though the country was barren and rocky and not fruitful where he was going, the boy took no food, nor drink to sustain him. And though he’d never been out this way before, he followed no map but went the way of his heart. It was sometime at the end of a day’s travel that he began to grow thirsty and the emptiness in his stomach began to make itself known. He walked, becoming even more thirsty, until darkness overtook him, and he was forced to stop for the night in some trees near the road. And as he sat hungry and thirsty in the growing darkness, he thought for a moment, about turning back and rushing back to the village. But he knew that was not the way for him. So, he sat for a long while shivering in the night and then lay down finally to sleep. In his dreams, the moon shone silver on the frosty stones, the air was clear and crisp, and the voice of the wolf rang out from the top of one of the peaks, calling out the way ahead, perhaps his way. He awoke in the dawn with a start, wondering if the dream had been real, and the wolf had actually called in the night.
∏
“It was easy for the boy to go off on his journey. He doesn’t seem to care about the people he’s leaving behind.”
“Sounds a little selfish, doesn’t it?” asks the Old Man.
“Yes, it does.”
“He could stay and live the life other people want him to. What do you think about that?”
That’s not such an easy question. I think hard on that one. Finally, I say, “I suppose that’s not fair to the boy.”
The Old Man smiles.
“But his mama will be sad when she realizes he has left.”
“She has her own life to live,” says the Old Man. “It’s time for the boy to live his.”
“So, you’re saying it’s OK to be kind of selfish?”
“When you’re in pursuit of something meaningful to you.”
“I don’t know. It still sounds kind of wrong.”
“Well, let me ask you this, what are you taught in your church?”
“To follow the word of God. To live the way God wants you to.”
“Think about the things they tell you in school. Stand in line... don’t talk... do math lesson at the same hour each day... do you your writing at eleven... science at twelve on Friday.”
It sounds funny the way the Old Man puts it. But I tell him, “Yes. I’m ta
ught to follow my teachers. To do as they say, when they say.”
“See, you’re constantly being told how you should live. Worse, you’re constantly being told how you should think.”
“It’s a little confusing. Sounds like you think people can be selfish, and be cruel and say, ‘I’m just following my heart.’ That’s doesn’t sound so right, either.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t live in this world by myself. I can’t just do whatever I want without thinking about other people. I mean, places like my church and my school want what’s best for me.”
“I’m not so sure of that.”
“I am. Because they’re giving us rules and thoughts set up for people to live and act the right way with one another. That’s not a bad thing.”
The Old Man smiles at me again. “No, it’s not a bad thing if you’re brought up to believe that there ought to be rules. But rules are about control.”
I tell the Old Man I don’t see how people can live any other way. “The world would go crazy.”
“The world has gone crazy with rules. How worse off can the world be, if we all just went about doing our own thing? Survival of the fittest.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means only the strongest survive.” The Old Man points to his head and says, “And most of that strength that’s required for you to survive is up here... in your mind.”
“I don’t think Mama and I would stand a chance in a world without rules and order.”
“Don’t sell the world short. People can love and support one another without being told they have to. Without being told how to do so. It’s already inherent in you. Some say, ‘It’s the God in you.’ It’s something already inherent in everybody.”
“So, I shouldn’t listen to Mama, my teachers, my pastor? I shouldn’t listen to you, either, huh?”
The Old Man smiles at me. “Is that really what you think I’m telling you?”
I tell the Old Man, no, that’s not what I think he means.
“Wise people—whether a teacher, a pastor, a mailman—they will share themselves in a way that will get you to open up your mind and be free to explore and embrace new ideas.”
“So, I guess I should always listen?”
“Yes, always be quiet and still, so that you can listen and then do what?” asks the Old Man.
“Learn,” I say.
“Yes, so that in the end, you won’t just blindly accept what people tell you. And when you keep still, listen and learn, then you’ll be able to do what?”
“Think for myself.”
I close the book and set it down beside me. Nothing is said right away. But then I tell the Old Man, “Outside of Mama, I never really been around someone who cared enough to ask what I think about things. I wonder if my granddad was still alive if this is the way he would speak to me. If he would care enough about how I see things. About what I think. Like you do.”
“He would.”
“It’s hard for me to ask Mama about him. I can tell she doesn’t like talking about granddad. She has this lost look whenever his name is mentioned. I don’t know what it is that he could have done to make her feel so ashamed. Mama says he was a good man, but maybe she isn’t telling the truth. Maybe he did something so evil that she’s ashamed.”
“Your mama told you the truth about your grandfather. He was a good man. Don’t ever let anybody make you see different.”
There’s movement behind us. The Old Man and I turn and find Mama standing quietly in the doorway. I don’t know how long she’s been there. I don’t know if she has heard what the Old Man and I have been speaking about. But she seems at ease and she smiles at us. She tells me that it’s getting late, and that it’s time to come inside. Though the sun has disappeared somewhere far off in the distance, there is a faint glow that remains. I could perhaps ask Mama to stay outside a little longer. But Mama seems happy and at peace. This is not a battle I need to win. I do as I’m told. I listen to Mama.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Hannah has watched the Boy and the Old Man from afar. She has listened to the quiet murmur of their conversations, and she has heard the hushed tones in which they speak to one another. It’s like a language that is all their own. Hannah tells herself that there is no need to worry or feel threatened by the Old Man’s presence in the Boy’s life. The Old Man brings yet another set of eyes and another voice to help the Boy see and understand the world.
Hannah knows that the Old Man’s routine is to return outside for a late evening cigarette a few hours after the Boy has been put to bed. So, Hannah steps outside and sees the Old Man standing in the corner of his doorway with a cigarette in his hand.
“Good evening,” says the Old Man.
“The Boy is asleep,” says Hannah. “Thought I’d come out and join you.”
No words are spoken at first. Hannah glances over at the Old Man. She realizes there is much that she doesn’t know about him. Perhaps he has shared a bit of himself with her son. Hannah asks the Old Man, “What do you and my son talk about so quietly amongst yourselves?”
The Old Man smiles and says, “We talk about stories and the meanings we see in them. You can learn a lot about a person from what they take away from a story.”
“And what have you learned about my son?”
“That he’s very smart. He’s a thinker. He’s not afraid to ask questions.”
Hannah smiles, but is at a loss for words—but only for a moment. “I imagine he often asks about my father.”
“He wants to know his history.”
“Because to know your history,” says Hannah, “is to know your destiny.”
“That’s what they say. But the Boy may not need know his personal history. He’ll create his own destiny. He’ll create his own path.”
“He has no choice but to do so.”
“And that’s OK,” the Old Man tells Hannah. “Sometimes, your history can be a burden. Sometimes, your history is used against you and becomes something that holds you back and keeps you in your place.”
Hannah knows the Old Man has questions of his own. “I’m sure there is more you want to ask me.”
“Tell me, what does the Boy know?”
“You mean does he know what happened between me and his father?”
“Yes.”
Hannah struggles for the right words, so she says nothing at first.
“There’s no need for him to know, especially since his father just took off and seemingly vanished into thin air.”
“And the Boy never asks what type of man he was or why he’s gone?”
“No. The Boy has learned to live with ‘I don’t know’ as an answer. So have I.”
The Old Man reaches over and touches Hannah on her chin and tilts her head gently to the side. He sees the faded scar by her jaw. And as he remembers, the left eye with the soft, pretty lashes continues to flutter out of rhythm ever so subtly.
Hannah manages a quiet smile, and says, “The Boy doesn’t need to know everything. All he needs to know is that here, in this house, with me, he is loved.”
“Yes, that is enough,” says the Old Man.
He walks over to the front gate and closes it behind him. Hannah asks where he is going so late at night.
“Just for a little walk around the old neighborhood. Something I’ve been doing each night since I’ve been back.”
Hannah tells the Old Man, “Be safe, out there.”
∏
It is late. That time, just around midnight, when the darkness of the night is deep and unsettling. Yet the Old Man walks with ease. He steps confidently past the darkened doorways and alleys along the main thoroughfare. All is relatively silent.
“Still, you know not the truth?”
The voice behind the broken English
is calm and familiar. The Old Man doesn’t flinch at seeing a man standing in the open doorway of The Golden Sun. He is around the same age as the Old Man. He is a short and slightly built. The clothes that he wears do not fit him well; his grease-stained white apron is so big and long that it practically drags on the floor. The paper-made chef’s hat that sits askew atop his head is two sizes too big. But he leans confidently against the door of his restaurant. The Chef stops tugging at his wispy mustache, steps aside, and makes a path for the Old Man to enter The Golden Sun.
The Old Man eyes the counter in the back of the restaurant, and sees that the Chef’s son is cleaning up for the night. The son is the spitting image of his father, but built stronger and leaner, with hair long enough to be pulled back into a ponytail. The son has the same cautious eyes as the father, and he stares back at the Old Man. The son wonders if the Old Man is on a fool’s errand. Nevertheless, he gives the Old Man a knowing nod of respect.
“We closed almost,” says the Chef’s son. “You want your usual?”
“Yes,” says the Old Man.
There are two empty, red tables and four bench seats bolted down to the floor. A massive picture of the Forbidden City hangs on the wall above them. The Old Man takes a seat at the table closest to the door and joins the Chef in looking out onto the street. From the Golden Sun’s spot on the corner of the block, the Old Man sees what the Chef sees: a lonely street where nearly every business is closed. All the gates are drawn down on the shops and businesses along the block. The lone exception is the fading light coming from the car service hut, where a cab driver leans against his taxi, smoking a cigarette.
And from the Golden Sun, the Old Man sees the candy shop on the corner at the opposite end of the street.
“Anything?” asks the Old Man.
“I see what you see,” says the Chef.
The old candy shop is closed for business. But the gate is only halfway down. Muted light seeps through the slender grills on the gate.
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