The two women walked past unnoticed by the small group of media following the family to their waiting limo, cameras going, questions being flung at the family with pretense of regard for their grief. Aja had arrived early and parked on the street. She hit the remote, unlocking the doors, and helped Ada Carr get into the roomy sedan. Mama Carr was grateful for the ride although she would have walked the four blocks back home. But she was used to it. She walked everyday to keep in shape. And to pray for her neighborhood. But, today, it was hot out and she was just grateful.
"Aja, I'm s'prised. I thought you'd be out here with your microphone and cameraman."
"Oh, no, ma'am. Not today. I told them, 'not today,'" she answered as she pulled out from the curb and into the traffic. The funeral car procession wasn't ready to move just yet. Orange and black windshield stickers were being handed out to those who would be part of the car train heading for the cemetery.
"Why ain't you going to the cemetery?" Mama Carr asked the young, caramel, slender career girl wheelin' and dealin' through the traffic.
"Mama Carr, I just couldn't take another one," she breathed in and sighed. "Because I'm Black, I seem to get all the gruesome stuff and it's always about us. We do more than kill each other, y'know."
"Yes, we do, Baby. And, I understand. That's why I don't watch much news. The world has lost its mind, and I aim to keep mine. But God knows who done that awful thing to that baby," Mama Carr pursed her lips. They were pulling up to her bungalow. Aja opened the door to get out the car. "Oh, honey, you don't have to do anything. I can make it."
"Nonsense, Mama Carr. I'm gonna help you into the house," Aja got out and scurried around the front to the passenger side of the car.
"Well," the older woman grunted as she stood and straightened out her knees, "you'll have to have some coffee and a sweet 'tata cookie," she smiled.
"You know I love your sweet potato cookies. You don't have to ask me twice," she giggled as she put her arm around her for support. "You'll have to show me how to make them one day soon." Aja hit the remote to lock the car doors.
"Yes, one day soon," Mama Carr whispered.
Sit on the front porch.
"Seems to already be cooling off a bit. Let's take this to the front porch and get us a little sunshine. How 'bout that?" Mama Carr placed the saucer of cookies and the coffee mugs on a tray and handed it off to Aja, who walked the narrow hallway leading from the kitchen straight through to the front door. She gingerly stepped down and went over to sit on the wooden swing. She set the tray on the small bamboo coffee table. Mama Carr eased herself down as Aja steadied the swing for her.
"Days like this," Aja leaned back and let the lazy river rhythm of the swing wash over her, "I could almost believe I don't live in the most crime-ridden area in the city."
"You make good money. How come you ain't moved?" Mama Carr blew ripples across the top of her coffee and sipped loudly.
"I guess I thought I could help make a difference. You know, I had the biggest mouth when I was younger, talkin' 'bout folks makin' it and then leavin' the hood. I didn't wanna be a hypocrite," she smiled sheepishly.
"Well, you might not see some big stuff, but I see a lotta little blessings just because you're here. I see some o' these little hot tail girls begin to dream of better things and cool down. I see some o' the droopy pantses pull 'em up and walk a little taller when they pass by you. You got a couple of 'em them there internships at the station. Things that last always start small and grow slow…like fruit trees."
"What's it gonna take to make things really better, Mama Carr?" Aja nibbled at her cookie as if she were losing her appetite.
"God. And people who are willing to face the truth and walk in it," the elder woman replied.
"But how—"
Just then he came walking down the street as if he hadn't a care on earth. Steel eyes.
"Go in and call the police," Mama Carr spoke calmly to Aja who got up and rushed past her and through the screen door.
Using her cane to help her down the few steps of the bungalow, Mama Carr went to the young man who'd by now fallen over onto his right side. She leaned heavily on that cane as she bent over him.
This is his only opportunity. Tell him.
"Son, look at me," she spoke softly. He looked at her through pained, unbelieving eyes. "Right now you have to make a choice. To tell God you sorry for all the wrong you've done and ask Jesus to come into your heart. I already know you used to go to Sunday school when you was little. You know the way. You know what to ask. But you don't have a lotta time.
"God knows what you did to that little girl. But there is no pit so deep that Jesus can't get us out if we want Him to. Two murdering thieves on the cross next to Jesus, but one of 'em went to heaven with Him," she still spoke softly. The sound of sirens was approaching. "Talk to Jesus now, son. That way, you can 'pologize to that little girl when you get to heaven. Tell her you sorry. You want me to help you?" she asked. He nodded.
Easing herself down on the next to the last step of the bungalow, she whispered the sinner's prayer in his ears, he mouthed her words. He turned slightly and looked into her eyes. She could hear the blood gurgling up through his throat.
"Jesus loves me, this I know…" he sang through exquisite pain and for a split second, the old lady saw the shining eyes of an eight year-old boy in Sunday school. Blood drizzled out the side of his mouth. And then the light went out.
He was whisked away, lights blinking – no sirens. That's how everyone knew he was dead. Police asked questions that no one could or was willing to answer. Media descended on the area. Aja helped Mama Carr into the house and fielded questions from both the media and police. Her cell phone all but leaped out of her pocket – the station where she worked calling.
Mama Carr sat in Papa Carr's chair by the front window and rocked back and forth, back and forth, even though the chair wasn't a rocker. She didn't know how much more an aging body could take. The tears seemed to sting more than usual these days. She pulled a handkerchief out the pocket of her teal paisley dress and wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
"Everybody wants to be a prophet, Father," she sighed aloud. "Nobody wants to live a prophet's life."
I have those who have not bowed the knee to this world. They are in this neighborhood and it is their time.
connie taylor
+in publishing for over 40 years +all areas: book, periodical, broadcast media... +UMI Publishing, 15 years, editor of JAM Jesus And Me Sunday school mag. +9 published books ( open door and http://lulu.com) +conference presenter +educator 25 years +now publishing magazine for teens in ministry (TIMOTHY Magazine) + http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/cmtaylor14
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