But in time, the Young Girl became a friend to Miss Radiance. Their relationship grew. During quiet hours when the diner was closed, the girl would sit down on the floor and Miss Radiance, sitting in a chair above her, would comb and braid her hair. And it was here that they would talk. Miss Radiance would often ask, “What are your dreams, Young Girl?”
“I don’t have dreams. Not anymore. I always wanted a home. But to dream is silly.”
“Do you dream of nice things, like having a family of your own one day?”
“You can’t dream of things you know nothing about. I don’t know what family is.”
“Spider and I dreamed of a family. But some dreams are just not meant to be.”
Spider would watch the young girl and Miss Radiance. Spider saw how they would sit on the front porch of the diner and talk when no customers were around, and he saw how they laughed when working together at the close of each day. Spider grew envious and wanted a special relationship with the girl too. But the girl always kept a respectful distance from him. Her eyes rarely met his. So, one night after Miss Radiance had finished with her work and left the diner, Spider returned there. And in the quiet and stillness of night, Spider cornered the Young Girl, and pulled a neatly wrapped gift from behind his back and handed it to her. “A pretty little girl like you deserves nice things.”
The Young Girl was reluctant to open it because she never saw him show such kindness to his wife. But he insisted, “Open it. It’s OK.” Inside, the girl found an anklet. Spider leaned over and gave the girl a kiss on the forehead. “Here, let me help you put it on.”
And Spider got close, very close, and helped the Young Girl with the anklet, and said, “I see how you and Miss Radiance talk. What is it that you talk about?”
The girl believed Spider was a kind man at heart—for he did take her in, after all—so she told him the truth. “We talk about dreams. We talk about believing in them. We talk about dreams that don’t come true.”
“My wife shouldn’t talk about such things.” And he was saddened and angry because he knew what his wife’s dreams were—what his dreams were. Spider walked away from the Young Girl without saying anything more. She watched him disappear into the night, and later, she heard arguing at the home out in back of the diner. One can imagine that the girl cried because she knew there was no joy in their house.
In the morning when she woke, she found Spider sitting alone in the din of an empty diner and he told the girl, “We could no longer live together under the weight of those unfulfilled dreams. She’s gone. If you want, the door is open for you to leave as well.”
“I’ve forgotten what it is to be runaway. I don’t want that kind of life again.”
I believe that Spider smiled, because he got what he truly wanted—the young girl for himself. She would make Spider happy and become his companion. And though she missed Miss Radiance, the girl had a home. No more running away. She had found some semblance of peace.
Still, without Spider’s knowledge, the Young Girl would quietly ask about Miss Radiance. People would come into the diner, and she would ask those who may know just what became of her friend. The Young Girl had a letter that she gave to some people with the hope that it would find its way to Miss Radiance. It was a letter to let her know that soon a child was to be born.
I don’t know if this is a letter of forgiveness. I don’t know if I should say sorry for the life I now have. It doesn’t seem fair. I can’t help but wonder what you think of me. I can only hope that I am not diminished in your eyes. I don’t know if what I really seek is your blessing. If this letter does find you, I hope that you will wish only the best for the child and this family. I would love nothing more than to see you again. Please, if you get this letter, come back home. Until then...
In time, though, the Young Girl turned her thoughts away from Miss Radiance. There was a baby growing strong inside her, but she herself was becoming weak. The Young Girl was bedridden, and Spider called for the Midwife to be by her side at all times.
It is said the baby’s arrival came on a night when the moon was shining as brightly as anyone could remember, with stars littering the sky in an abundance never seen before. Spider sat on the front porch steps of his home, and heard the Young Girl’s screams pierce the quiet of the night. Spider was powerless to ease her pain. But suddenly the Young Girl’s wailing stopped. And what he heard instead was cry of a newborn baby. It is said Spider dropped to his knees and began to weep. When he looked up, he found the Midwife standing solemnly in the doorway. He made a demand, “Tell me about my family.”
“It’s a beautiful baby boy. You have a son,” said the Midwife. “But the girl, I’m sorry Spider, she is gone.”
It’s not known how long Spider sat on the front porch of his home. But eventually, the Midwife walked up to him quietly and handed him his son. “Here is your child. He is beautiful.” It is believed that Spider took the baby and held him limply in his arms. Then he told the Midwife, “You go now. Get the coroner. I’ll look after my son.”
And when the Midwife left, Spider just sat there with the baby in his arms. Once assured that the Midwife was gone, Spider took his child and headed for the stream out back. It was a long, slow walk. As he made his way to the running brook, Spider sensed someone driving up to his home. Maybe the Midwife returning for something she forgot. Maybe a paramedic. Spider didn’t care who it was. He quickened his pace and made his way to the stream. Spider stepped into the stream and wadded through until the water was above his knees. He sensed the presence of footsteps running from the house towards the stream, but he didn’t look back. Spider stepped into the stream with the baby. He looked up towards the heavens in anger, then at the son. Spider lowered the baby into the water. And just as he was about to drown his child, a soft, familiar voice quietly said to him, “No, don’t.”
It was Miss Radiance. “Let me have the child.”
It was a miracle that saved the child. It was a miracle that Miss Radiance got the letter; a miracle that she got there in time. It was a miracle that Miss Radiance said to Spider, “Give me the child. He belongs to me now.”
Miss Radiance took the baby and returned to her home to raise the boy as her own. And he was loved. Miss Radiance’s son grew up strong and healthy in a home that had joy. Still, there were times he had questions, “Why don’t I have a father?” The mother told him that in time, she would tell him the truth. And when he was of an age at which he was able to appreciate the abundance of love this mother had shown him, Miss Radiance told him how they came to be in the simplest of ways.“You are a miracle baby; abandoned but saved on the banks of a stream. I saved your life. You saved mine. That’s all that matters.” The son was able to live with that truth.
Then Miss Radiance’s son went off to war.
The son was in The War for a few years when news of his mother’s passing made it to the Jungle. He returned home to bury the mother. He was a changed man. There was no change in the awe and reverence he had for the woman who raised him. But he was a man hardened by the horrors he had witnessed in The War. He had seen man’s cruel and ignorant ways, and that there was no limit to them. The son returned from The War wanting to know more than just the profound truth of his story—a miracle baby abandoned but saved on the banks of a stream. He wanted to know the whole truth.
There were people who knew his story, those who used to talk in whispers around him—“There’s the child Miss Radiance saved from Spider.” They would reveal the truth to him. And soon, he too knew the story of the Young Girl, Spider, and Miss Radiance. He heard of the Young Girl who died giving birth to him. He was told of Spider’s anger at her death, and how he brought his child down to the stream to drown him.
The son had to meet this man—his father.
The son traveled to the next town over from where he lived. He went to the diner to meet this man—Spider. His father. But the diner
was boarded up, no longer in business. So, he went to the home out back, near the stream, where Spider had taken him to be drowned. And he found Spider sitting hunched over in a battered rocking chair on the front porch. The old man was frail and weak. He was barely able to lift his eyes up, as the son approached him. The son gently touched him on his chin to help raise his head so that this man—his father—could see him. The son had a question for the man, “Do you know me?”
Spider looked up with no hint of recognition in his eyes. So the son said, “I’ll ask you again, do you know me?”
A long, deep silence filled the time and space that separated them. The son had one hand inside his jacket’s pocket, and he could feel the switchblade in his hand. Spider locked eyes with this boy and looked intently at him. Still, there was no recognition in his eyes. But without warning, the son saw the faintest of smiles—a knowing, mocking smile. The son, now angered, pulled his knife out of his pocket and flicked open the blade. Then suddenly, a child’s voice called out to him. “Mister, don’t you know? Spider don’t speak.”
The son turned around and saw a little girl no more than seven years old, standing on the porch steps. And he noticed a group of children hopping from one side of the stream’s bank to the other. They had come to play in the open field by Spider’s home.
“Spider don’t speak. And he don’t hurt nobody. He lets us play here. Do you know him?”
The son looked at Spider, then at the child, and said, “No, I don’t know him.”
∏
The Old Man looks over at Hannah, and says, “Knowledge does not free you. I often wonder how life would have been, if I had never been told my own story… if I just lived only off the love of Miss Radiance. I wonder what path my life would have taken, if I hadn’t demanded to know the Truth. Knowing the Truth and knowing your history isn’t all that it’s made out to be.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
I have no image of a father. And so, I dream.
This dream always finds me in a park. Not unlike the one I go to with Mama. But all the swings, slides, and sprinklers are gone. All that remains, the only thing that is recognizable to me, is the tree. It stands tall. It still stands strong, casting out its long, protective branches over the whole playground. Grass and flowers have replaced the concrete plot and steel playthings. In my dreams, my playground is more like a garden.
I see a man standing by the garden’s gate. He is gentle looking. He’s not very tall, and he is slender. I see a bit of myself in him. We share the same deep brown eyes and long eyelashes.
I ask him, “Do you know me?”
But he is serious and unsmiling. The Guardian dismisses my question, and simply says, “No one can enter.”
“Not even me?” I ask.
“No, not even you.”
“But this place is meant for a child.”
“No, it is not,” says this man. “It’s meant for those wanting to return home.”
I ask him, “Who are you?” I realize that he is in uniform. But a uniform for what, I do not know. “Are you a soldier? Are you here to protect this place?”
“You ask too many questions. Questions that you already know the answers to.”
“But you won’t let me enter. I ask questions so that I may know why.”
“I’ve already told you why you’re not allowed in this place. But you believe that in asking so many questions you will get what it is that you want. You won’t accept what you see. You refuse to acknowledge the Truth that is right before you.”
I awaken just as the Guardian stiffens and stands straight. I hear Mama say, “It’s time to go.” We are leaving The River now.
I wake up from my dream. The Guardian will no longer entertain my questions. He says I have the answers. I don’t like this dream. But I know it serves a purpose. It lets me know how useless certain questions are. They get you no closer to the Truth. They just distract you from accepting what you see. They distract you from coming to terms with what you know is true. Dreams like this remind me why it is I don’t ask Mama about a father. No amount of questions will bring him into existence for me. And so, whatever his story is, it doesn’t matter. It has no bearing on how I need to live today. So, I just move on.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
There’s a child of Gilead who wakes up in the tiny room of a cramped apartment. He looks over to the bed next to his and finds it empty. An empty bed means only one thing: big brother has yet to return home. The child takes a step out of his bedroom and into the living room. He walks over to a window and takes a peek outside. He sees the emerging light of the morning sun fall softly over an empty and silent courtyard.
The child is not alone, though. A voice comes from the kitchen. He moves towards it, stepping over the fallen sheets and pillows of an unmade pullout bed. The child walks up to the kitchen doorway and sees his mother on the phone. She’s a large, distrustful woman, dressed in a worn-out robe. The child nods good morning. The mother keeps talking to the person on the other end of the phone.
He knows better than to interrupt her and ask about his brother. She will only say in disgust, “Tum Tum, please.” She has no patience, nor a desire to indulge his questions. Three weeks have passed since the young boy last saw his brother. Usually, when the child asks the mother about the brother, he is met with silence. But the day before, his mother told him that his big brother made a run to see friends down South. She doesn’t know when he will be back. “I think he’ll be home tonight. I just hope that he’s not getting into something trifling.”
The child has a little more faith in his older brother, though he doesn’t know why. The big brother is basically a stranger to him. A distant figure the child only watches from afar. He looks out his apartment window and watches his brother hanging out on the stone tables and wooden benches that dot the project’s open courtyard. Sometimes, he finds his brother on the basketball courts across the street. And sometimes, he watches him on the corner by the neighborhood pool hall. The child sees a brother who seems to have no friends. Every now and then, he sees one or two people come up and talk with his brother. Then these people leave. Sometimes, the brother follows after. Sometimes, he does not.
Sharing a room with a big brother means the child has time alone to spend with him. This time together should make up for an older brother who ignores him whenever he comes home from school or is out riding his bike in the neighborhood. The nods and half-hearted glances can be made up with real talk. The child always eagerly awaits his brother’s return home.
But on most nights, the big brother slips into the room like a ghost not wanting to be heard nor seen. And so, the child watches his brother, and sometimes, copies the way he lays on his back with his hands behind his head, just staring at the ceiling. Even in the darkness, the child knows that his big brother is angry. But at what or with whom, the young boy doesn’t know. He often asks, “Why are you mad?”
“Niggas fightin’ over crumbs. It’s just life. Go to sleep.”
The child gazes out his window, trying to understand why his brother can’t find peace. He can hear his widowed mother in the kitchen still talking on the phone, still spewing venom, “I wish she would... I hate her sorry ass.”
And so, the child awakens hungry and remains so because his mother has yet to make time to feed him. He is unable to think too deeply on things for any length of time. But it seems his brother just might be right. “It is just life. You’re supposed to be angry.” At whom or what, the little boy is too young to know right now.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
The house is quiet. That’s to be expected when late morning makes its slow approach to noon. I catch Mama sitting alone in her studio. She is in a familiar pose, sitting on a small stool with a blank canvass in front of her, and that black portfolio book in her lap. Mama is lost in thoug
ht. She doesn’t notice that I’m peeking around the doorway. I tiptoe away and let her be.
I go into her bedroom and pull open one of her dresser drawers. It is crammed with old necklaces, beaded bracelets, and other costume jewelry that Mama no longer wears. There are no anklets. I sift through the drawer. I notice a little box that looks out of place. It is an empty candy box, and it fits in the palm of my hand. The box is gold. Its tiny lid is sprinkled with little white stars. I take Pretty Girl’s anklet and tuck it away inside the box, and put the box in the inner pocket of my shorts. A perfect hiding place.
∏
You can count on one hand, the number of people walking down my block. There are even fewer cars that drive past this way. But from my bedroom, I hear the ping-like sound from the spokes of somebody’s pedal bike. And it’s racing up and down my block—over and over again. I go to the window to take a look. It’s Tum Tum. Figures. He pedals past my window again. He rides slowly. Like he’s looking for a house. My house.
I’ve said it before; Tum Tum is not my friend. I have no clue as to why he’s on my block. But I am a friend to curiosity. I head outside and sit on the rail of our front steps. Tum Tum doesn’t see me at first. But I see him. I watch as he rides to the end of the block. I watch as he pauses and takes a long look in the direction of the playground. It seems like he’s looking to get someone’s attention. I don’t know. I can’t say for sure.
Tum Tum starts back my way. He spots me on my front steps and begins to pedal faster. He’s all out of breath by the time he gets to me.
“What’s up? I was looking for you. I wasn’t even sure you lived down this way.”
“What’s going on?”
“You still got the jewelry?”
I know what he’s asking for, but I play it off and look at him perplexed. “What are you talking about?”
“That little girl’s jewelry... that was lost in the park. The diamonds.”
Child of Gilead Page 10