Child of Gilead

by Douglas S. Reed

  “I always have it on me. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve seen that little girl you said it belongs to.”

  “You lie.”

  “No, she’s in the park. You’d better hurry, kid.”

  ∏

  Mama says I can go to the park ahead of her. Mama has no clue as to what I’m up to. She says she’ll be close behind. That means I don’t have much time. Tum Tum has gone ahead of me, and when I catch up to him, I see him staring at an empty park. Pretty Girl is gone.

  “She is on her way back to Gilead. Follow me.”

  I’m expecting for us to quickly catch up to Pretty Girl. But there is no sign of her. A part of me thinks Tum Tum is up to something. That he’s making this all up. But why?

  We race down the street and soon come upon my church. I stop. I forget just how close my church is to Gilead. All that separates me from Gilead is a small, no-name discount grocery store, and the open lot of Mama’s school’s play area. Right on the other side is Gilead.

  I tell Tum Tum, “I can’t go any further.”

  Tum Tum doesn’t believe me. “What... what are you talking about?”

  “I’m not going any further. I can’t. I have to get back to the park before Mama gets there.”

  “You’re a baby. Thought you wanted to get the jewelry to the girl?”

  “I do.”

  “Don’t seem like it. You’re playing mama’s boy again.”

  I am tired of being called a mama’s boy. Especially by some little gangsta kid. I won’t apologize or feel bad for listening to a mama who cares. A mama with some smarts. A mama who takes an interest in what I do. Tum Tum doesn’t know me.

  I want to curse him out. But I’m saved from going the way of the world when I hear a voice say, “You heard the young man.” It’s Pastor, and he’s standing in the open doorway of the church. He looks down from the top of the steps. Usually, he has a pleasant way about him and an easy smile. But his look is firm. He has a hardened gaze coming out through narrowed eyes.

  Tum Tum takes the L. He’s disgusted with me. He grunts and rides off without saying another word. Pastor and I watch him disappear somewhere deep inside the Gilead Complex. I turn to Pastor. His stance softens, and he looks at me with approval.

  “I like how you stood your ground. You didn’t let yourself be led astray. I’m impressed.”

  “Just listening to Mama.”

  The Pastor smiles at the mention of Mama. “How is she?”

  I should be on my way, and say, ‘Mama’s fine.’ But that wouldn’t be the truth. “She’s been better,” I say to Pastor. “Mama is in a sad space. I don’t think she believes that happiness is real.”

  Pastor doesn’t say anything at first. He considers what I say. “She’s come to believe in the lie that happiness is not possible. That happens when the world causes you to doubt and lose your way. We must get her to believe that happiness is possible.”

  “Do you think you can do that? Do you think you can say some words one Sunday that will bring her back? Maybe say something just for her. Say something that will make her believe again.”

  ∏

  I make it back to the park just as Mama turns the corner. I wait for her at her favorite spot, the special place where a small wooden bench and a stone table sit securely under the shade of the park’s giant oak tree. Mama gives a soft, quiet smile when she sees me. She slips a large satchel off of her shoulder and sets it on the table. Mama opens the bag and begins the meticulous task of taking out her supplies—a large paper tablet, two sets of water-color pencils, and a tin case filled with watercolor brushes. Mama takes out a plastic cup and fills it halfway with water from a bottle. Mama opens her tablet and rips out a piece of paper. Mama begins playing with different color pencils and creates a swatch card. Then, just as quickly as she seemed to start, Mama stops. She sits back and seems to take in the whole park.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Mama smiles softly. “No. This is just the hard part. Getting ready to paint is easy. Finding the inspiration to create something, that’s sometimes a little more difficult.”

  I look around and I see what I always see—an empty, lifeless park. It’s just Mama and me. I tell her, “There’s nothing here to inspire you. This is the Dead Zone.”

  “There’s peace and there’s quiet,” says Mama. “Lessons have been learned right here on this spot. I’ve seen the worst in people, but I’ve seen the best, too. Inspiration can be found here. It may not seem like it, but there is beauty in this place.”

  “Beauty? Then where are the children, Mama?”

  “Soon, they’ll come,” she says. “Soon, they’ll come.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The Old Man stands under a sycamore tree, one of many that dot the quiet, cobblestone street that runs on the opposite side of the playground. Its heart-shaped leaves cast shadows long enough to keep the Old Man hidden, as he watches the Boy playing in the park from afar. An elderly woman with silver hair tied in a bun emerges from her neatly kept carriage house. With broom in hand, she begins to sweep away the fallen bark that litters the street in front of her home. The woman pauses for a moment and looks up at the Old Man. Her eyes are warm and kind.

  “Wonderful, isn’t it?’

  The Old Man is surprised that the stranger is speaking to him. He examines the woman cautiously. The silver-haired woman doesn’t take offense. She offers up a gracious smile. “We appreciate the same thing... children at play.”

  “It is nice to see,” admits the Old Man.

  “Reassuring.”

  The silver-haired woman sweeps the remaining leaves into the gutter. She looks over at the park and the Boy playing on the swings. “This little boy is the only one who ever comes here. I keep asking myself, where have all the children gone?”

  “I wish I knew the answer to that, too,” says the Old Man. “Perhaps fear keeps them away. It’s easy to become ruled by fear.”

  “A good parent wouldn’t allow their child to be ruled by fear. It will only make them weak.”

  “You speak the truth.”

  “I make it a point to come out whenever I see the boy around here. I offer nothing more than another set of eyes to watch over him.”

  “And to keep that spirit of fear away from him.”

  “I want him to grow strong with a warrior’s spirit. Why do you watch the boy?”

  “For the reason we all should... the child gives us hope.”

  ∏

  There’s a cobbler’s shop along the Road Less Traveled. It is small and unremarkable, two doors down from a tiny pizzeria. The shop is crammed between a dry cleaner and the neighborhood Laundromat. The painted letters on the glass front door have faded away, making the shop’s name impossible to read. But a name is unnecessary. Everyone living along the Road Less Traveled knows this is Pharaoh’s place.

  The Old Man pauses for a moment at the door. The shop is cluttered and disheveled. There are shoes everywhere. They’re on the floor, on workbenches, and on the shelves that line the wall. The Old Man steps in, walks up to the counter located in the rear, and stares towards the back. He keeps a watchful eye on a darkened entranceway peppered by bright lights. The Old Man hears the steady rumble of whirring machines coming from the backroom. But the equipment suddenly goes silent, and a voice calls out from the shadows, “Welcome, friend.”

  Pharaoh emerges from the unlit entry. A portly and plump-sized man, Pharaoh takes off his dye-splotched apron and tosses it on a nearby counter. He motions for the Old Man to join him in the backroom. Together, the two friends navigate their way through the chaotic den of knives and vats of gluey liquids. Pharaoh’s hands are unclean, stained with shoe dye and polish that is hard to remove. Pharaoh foregoes shaking hands, and greets the Old Man warmly with a hug instead.

  “I kne
w you couldn’t stay away for long.”

  “I wanted to come back sooner...” the Old Man’s voice trails off.

  “But the Lady Dame?”

  “Her silence told me the time was not right.”

  Pharaoh finds two stools and invites the Old Man to sit.

  “I kept my word to you. I’ve kept a watchful eye on Hannah and the child.”

  “Yes, you have. But I just had to see for myself.”

  “And are you satisfied?”

  “Hannah is a good mother. She is raising the boy well. But I can tell that her spirit is not at peace right now.”

  “The whole neighborhood knows about her lost student. The little girl from Gilead.”

  “It’s difficult to keep children out of harm’s way. We ought to tell God, ‘We get it.’ That’s not a lesson Hannah needed to learn again.”

  “Is that why you and the Lady Dame left, to escape that lesson?”

  “Couldn’t face up to being reminded of it every day and every time we saw Hannah.”

  “But now you’re back, hoping to heal old wounds.”

  “That was the intent. But it seems that I have rattled the serpent instead. And now I must pay to keep it silent.”

  “He wants how much money?”

  “He’s a merchant man. He claims I should know how much that silence is worth.”

  “And do you?”

  “I have a figure in mind.”

  “I know you won’t tell me what it is, but I will help you anyway that I can. Just ask.”

  “What do you know about the shop and what goes on in there.”

  “There’s not much that I can share. You should remember what it looks like inside. It’s the same massive square room. But now built for gambling. There’s a guard covering the door in the back. He will pat you down. Word has it there are private poker games at night. But I don’t know how to get you inside.”

  “I can gain entry. That’s not a problem. Greed will get me in.”

  Pharaoh looks skeptically at the Old Man. “You know you’re always going to be at his mercy. Maybe it’s best to allow the truth to come out. It will free you.”

  “I don’t have that sort of faith.”

  “You will never have enough money to buy off his silence.”

  “I will convince him that it is enough.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “…Ye shall know the Truth, and the Truth shall make you free.”

  —John 8:32

  The Boy saw beside the path, a clump of bushes that were heavy and inviting, with red, juicy berries. He rushed to them and began to pick and eat the sweet, ripe berries. But then he heard a noise. And looking up, he came face to face with a very large and hairy bear. The bear was only a few feet away in the bushes, and himself eating the tasty berries. The boy realized that those large arms were capable of reaching out to catch him and crush the life out of him. And so, he did not move, but stood with the berries still sweet on his tongue, his lips red with juice, his cheeks now white with fright.

  But the bear only stared and waited too... for a moment. And then the long, white teeth showed in his fuzzy face, and one massive set of claws moved... and he began to pick and munch more of the ripe berries. The boy, realizing that the bear was hungry only for berries, smiled and began to breathe again, and went back to eating. After several minutes of filling himself, the boy was ready to move along, and, smiling and waving to his friend, he left the bushes and continued on the path.

  ∏

  I tell the Old Man, “The story could have stopped there.”

  “But it didn’t. Why do you think it did not?”

  “Perhaps God was looking out for the boy. He was being protected. The boy thought the bear would hurt him. He thought the bear would stop him from continuing on his journey.”

  “But the bear didn’t. So, what does that tell you?”

  “That maybe we see obstacles that are not really obstacles,” says the Boy. “We imagine roadblocks that are not really there. They’re just excuses meant to stop us from seeing our journey through.”

  “And the author knows the story wouldn’t be complete if he ended it there.”

  “But to say a story must have a true ending is not true to life, though. There are a lot of people’s whose stories are incomplete and unfinished.”

  The Old Man smiles at the Boy’s wisdom. “Or maybe the question is, what makes a story complete?”

  “In school, when I’d write stories, I’d tell my teacher, ‘I don’t know where my story ends.’ And she’d look at me like I’m crazy. But sometimes, it wouldn’t seem right if I forced an ending onto it.”

  “You just wanted it to go on and on.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “But you know, in your heart, that your teachers are right. It can’t be that way; a story can’t go on forever. There are always endings. People just have problems with endings that don’t serve their desires. But don’t be fooled. All stories have endings.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-SIX

  Every summer, Hannah allows herself one day to revel in the Madness. Each year, there’s one day when she goes out of her way to join the masses for the Carnival. It’s a day when she hides behind a festive mask and slips into the Madness unnoticed. That day is here.

  Hannah pulls out a small shoebox from beneath her bed. She opens it and takes out a purple metallic mask with cat eyes. It has a silvery lace overlay design cutout on the top and sides. Gold glitter accents the mask while a sparkling green jewel adorns the top. Hannah takes a long look at herself in the mirror, before putting it on. With her index finger, she delicately traces the black scar on the side of her left eye. She holds it there for a moment, hoping to prevent her eyelid from fluttering ever so gently, and uncontrollably, on its own. Hannah puts the mask on. She toys with it until she is sure that it fits just right. Hannah takes a long look at herself in the mask. She is pleased.

  ∏

  Hannah and the Boy get to the parade early, about an hour before the first processions of floats and trucks will snake their way through The Madness. She holds the Boy’s hand tightly, and together, they wiggle their way through a deepening sea of people. They find their place near the front, where wooden police barricades cut off access to the street. Hannah glances behind her in search of a familiar face, and sees Chef standing in the open doorway of the Golden Sun. Chef acknowledges Hannah with a nod and a smile. It’s the same safe space Hannah makes sure to go to each year right in front of his restaurant. And now, with their spot secure, it’s only a matter of time before the parade will begin.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The Parade makes Mama happy. It always has. It’s one of the few times she doesn’t seem so serious. It’s real joyful, and so you can’t help but feel thrilled. We hear the thumping of the bass in the far distance, so we know that the music trucks will be here soon. Women and men are dressed like colorful angels. Some wear colorful animal masks. Even Mama has one on. It looks pretty on her. Mama won’t let me wear a mask though. She says I’m too young. Mama says, “You have nothing to hide from.”

  To be honest, I don’t know what the meaning of this parade is. I’m not sure Mama knows. And I bet if I were to ask any other grown up, I doubt they would know either. I doubt they even care. Most people just want to be entertained and not have to think about anything important. People are happy. I guess that’s all that matters.

  Their happiness amps up as an army of half-naked women in Blue Angel costumes approaches us. They’re dressed in their feather wings and feathered leg bands, and they strut and twerk and dance alongside a music-pumping truck. Weaving in and out of the army of angels is a trickster—a man dressed in a monkey’s mask with large curved teeth. He carries a pole with a calf’s tail. He playfully taunts
the crowd and dangles the tail in front of people. Slung over his shoulder is a bag full of magic potions and treats. Every now and then he reaches inside and tosses beads or a rabbit foot into the crowd. Mama smiles at the sight of the Trickster but she still holds my hand tight.

  Truck after truck, it’s pretty much the same thing: an army of angels—sometimes dressed in blue, sometimes in red or purple—pass by. And as they dance and prance before us, there is always a trickster amongst them. But it doesn’t get boring. Watching people never gets boring.

  But I notice that everybody is pretty much wearing the same thing, just with different- colored feathers or different-colored cat eye masks. And so, I make up a game to play. I start counting all the truly unique people at this parade—the ones who didn’t dress up in costume. I imagine their stories might be more interesting.

  I twist and stretch to count as many unique people as I can, but Mama is not letting go of my hand. However, her attention is not really with me. She is looking out into the parade, and at the Trickster, who is making his way towards her. He teasingly shows Mama his bag of tricks. Mama smiles at the Trickster. She gestures towards herself, as if to say, you have something for me? The Trickster reaches inside and pulls something out. But he hides it, not revealing what’s in his hand. The Trickster tosses it at Mama, and puff... glittery powder floats like little, twinkling stars in the sky. Mama shields herself from the Trickster’s magic. She lets go of my hand.

  I don’t bolt away. The sea of people around me acts like a current pushing me gently away from the safety of Mama’s grasp.

  A woman screams, “Nooo... Don’t!”

  A gunshot rings out. Pop! I don’t see a shooter, and I don’t see anyone hit. But still, people are going crazy and begin to run every which way. I stand frozen, about to be trampled. Suddenly, I am swept away in someone’s arms from behind. It is Mama. And she races to hide and take cover in the first shop she can find.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-EIGHT