“Well, let’s go ahead and begin,” Ghana said, glancing at the entrance. Just then Destiny came rushing in, apologizing for being late, and Kenya accepted the woman’s enormous hug.
When Ghana opened her mouth nothing came out. Her eyes searched the ceiling as she gathered her thoughts, then she looked at Kenya as if to say she couldn’t speak. A moment of sudden emotion and Kenya felt it too, the air so thick it suffocated, but she cleared her throat and said, “We lost our sister.” The room was quiet and when one of the ladies coughed, the noise bounced off the bare walls. “Malawi Walker. She was twenty-seven. She was shot by a white man who said he thought she was an intruder. She was defenseless.” Kenya’s heart was in her throat. The three women—Destiny, Monica, and Shayla—nodded in understanding. Kenya fell silent unable to continue.
Then Monica said, “I lost my sister. Trina Blackmon. She was thirty-one. She was shot by a white man on the highway. He said she cut him off and he followed her and shot her at a stoplight.”
Shayla’s voice was low. “I lost my boyfriend. Ralph Dickson. He was forty-five. He was shot by a police officer for resisting arrest. He was unarmed and had one blunt in his pocket.”
Kenya could feel the burn of tears and blinked rapidly hoping they would disappear, but several drops slid down her collarbone. The small group talked about feeling helpless, lost and unprotected.
“Our community is under attack,” said Shayla.
“Can we pray?” Destiny asked.
“Of course,” said Ghana, finally finding her voice. They reached out and clasped hands.
“Jesus Lord,” Destiny said. “Please, Lord, give us strength to face each day without our loved one. Lord, help us understand those who have done us wrong and help us forgive them.”
Kenya’s chest tightened. Forgiveness was a place she wasn’t ready to visit. Jeffrey Davies. Malawi. Her husband. Though she was impressed with Destiny’s declaration to try, Kenya didn’t know why any of them deserved her forgiveness. When the prayer was over, their voices echoed, “Amen.” Everyone stood and offered one another an embrace; firm, supportive hugs that left Kenya feeling uplifted.
Ghana apologized for the small turnout and explained that this was their first meeting.
“It starts with one at a time,” Monica said. “I appreciate you both for this. It helps to share. I’m not alone.” She gave both Kenya and Ghana another tight hug. Shayla and Destiny did the same before leaving.
Just as they were packing up the food a young girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen entered the room.
“Can I help you?” Kenya asked.
“This the group for people who’ve lost a loved one?”
Kenya nodded, and the girl took a few steps forward.
“My name’s Stacy. My mother was shot. She went out to get something from the corner store and never came back.”
Kenya beckoned the girl closer and took a seat, patting the chair next to her. Ghana pulled a chair up forming a triangle. Kenya asked how long ago this had happened.
“Last week.”
“What do you need?” Ghana asked, her hands open on her lap.
The girl shrugged. “We staying with my grandmother. Me and my little brother. I saw a flyer upstairs and thought I’d come in.” She stared at the floor for a moment, then added, “I don’t know what to do.”
“What was your mother’s name?” asked Kenya.
“Cecilia. Cecilia Jones. She was beautiful.” With a nod, Kenya encouraged the girl to speak. Stacy talked about her mother for a while, saying where she worked (at a diner in Adams Morgan), how she liked to sing in her church and loved to knit sweaters in the winter. Stacy started to giggle and said, “She was a really bad knitter. Everything was too big or too small, but she kept making stuff anyway.”
Kenya laughed and told about the time she tried to knit an afghan for Junior and it came out skewed. “I can’t even knit a square,” she said chuckling. Before they knew it, the three of them were laughing and sharing stories about their mothers.
Ghana looked at Kenya and asked, “Do you remember Mama taking us to the carousel on the Mall?”
Kenya thought for a minute. “Yes! Malawi was still a baby.” She explained to Stacy that a carousel had been on the National Mall since the 1920s, replaced in the early 80s by a new one.
“Mama didn’t want to get on it, but we begged and pleaded,” said Ghana. “So, there she was clinging to Malawi with one hand and to the pole coming out of the horse’s neck with the other, as if at any moment she was about to get thrown off. Her face. A picture of fear. Me and Kenya just laughed.”
“And after the ride ended,” Kenya continued, “Mama laughed, too. All of us sitting on a bench eating ice-cream and giggling like there was not a worry in the world.” She looked at her sister. “We did have some good times, didn’t we?”
When a library attendant came in to say it was almost closing time, Ghana and Kenya gave Stacy a group hug, their arms overlapping around this heartbroken young girl. For a moment Kenya imagined Malawi in her arms, remembered their group hugs, remembered wiping ice-cream from Malawi’s lips, kissing her forehead and gripping her hand as they walked through the neighborhood. The three musketeers, Daddy called them, sending Kenya to the encyclopedia to find out what a musketeer was. Malawi had been so annoying, and yet . . . Kenya couldn’t imagine her childhood without her sisters.
Kenya watched Stacy disappear out the door. Yes, this was what the group was all about. Giving women a chance to remember, to laugh and feel connected to someone else who understood. This was how she would honor her baby sister.
46
Malcolm sat in a metal chair in the church basement, surrounded mostly by people he didn’t know. Mostly black. Mostly alcoholics. A few suffering from other addictions who were welcomed by the group. Bet clasped his hand in her own and smiled, an encouraging smile, a happy-he-was-with-her smile. He wasn’t excited to be here, but he was willing. After her ordeal with the overdose, Bet had been seeing a therapist every week and had gone back to church where she learned about the weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. She kept telling him he should go too. “You’ll be surprised,” she’d said. “It’s not a religious cult. It’s not a bunch of weirdos sharing their most intimate secrets. Just normal folks trying to make it through each day without falling off the wagon.”
The wagon. Like this was some kind of Wild West saga. And maybe it was. You hit a bump in the road and went flying into a ditch.
Bet was talking to the group. Sharing a story about what she did when she was struggling against numbing her feelings. He’d watched her do this. She would stop in the middle of whatever she was doing, get on her knees and pray with her palms together, head down, eyes closed, lips moving in silence. “I talk to God,” she said to the group. “I talk to Malawi. I tell them I’m struggling, and it helps. I know they’re watching me, and it helps me stay focused.”
He was proud of her, and tried to tell her often. She needed him to communicate more. So he was trying. He needed her to give him space, and she was trying. They were enjoying each other, laughing and touching again.
He knew he had a ways to go.
In the last few months he’d tried to stop drinking, but had found it more challenging than he expected. He wasn’t an alcoholic. That’s what he told himself, yet not drinking didn’t feel normal.
“You count the days,” Bet kept saying. “Sometimes the hours.” He hadn’t had a drink in nine days. She’d been without any pills for almost three months. Prayer and the meetings helped, she said. So he figured he’d give it a try, the meetings, at least. He wasn’t ready for prayer. Joe had given him a book on meditation, so he was trying that, letting his thoughts fade away and just being present. Sometimes he thought about Jeffrey Davies. Such a pathetic man. Driven by fear of the changing world around him. Malcolm wanted him in prison, but in many ways, he was already there, in a hell created by himself.
It was hard to stop his mind roiling, not to th
ink about anything at all, but in those brief moments of silence, when his brain got quiet, he could feel Malawi there, encouraging him, being silent with him, and he enjoyed those moments.
“I’m proud of you,” Bet whispered, squeezing his hand.
He offered a weak smile and said, “It’s better than being in a ditch.”
47
Bet was trying to make amends, but the one thing she had yet to do was reach her brother. She’d been bounced from one person to another until finally reaching a woman who said Will was in Houston. She’d given Bet his number and it had sat on the kitchen counter for several days. Finally ready to call, the number held her gaze for a long time before she dialed. A man’s voice answered giving the name of a church.
“I’m looking for William Ellis. Do you know him?”
The man seemed confused for a moment then realized she was referring to Willie, the church’s janitor. “What you need him for?”
“I’m his sister.”
“Is that right?” The man paused. “Hold on.”
The wait went on so long, Bet thought she’d been forgotten. She settled at the kitchen table and rehearsed what to say, but every iteration rang false. Then another voice, her brother’s voice, came on the line and she lost her own.
“Elizabeth? This Elizabeth?”
“Yes, Will. It’s your sister.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
He’d been working with the church for five years now, not entirely sober, but managing. Renting a room in a nice house in a decent neighborhood.
“Why you calling me? Someone die?”
The room started spinning and she grabbed the table. “We lost Malawi over the summer.” She paused. “But that’s not why I’m calling. For years, I criticized you for your drinking and your unstructured ways. And I want to apologize. I’m sorry for not being more supportive. You didn’t deserve to be treated badly. And I’m sorry for that.”
“Well, ain’t that some shit.” He chuckled, without malice. “You know what, sister, it’s all good. I forgave you years ago. We’re all good. I’m glad to hear from you.”
They talked a little while longer until he had to get back to work. He gave her his cell number and she promised to call again soon. Maybe even visit him in Houston.
Memories lingered like rain clouds ready to drown the earth, but instead of a deluge only a few drops fell, one at a time smacking the ground, stinging the skin. There was no way to forget. Her three little girls. Stair steps in height, sitting on the floor of her studio. Kenya, the oldest, with her arm hanging loosely around Ghana’s shoulders; and Ghana holding Malawi, still a toddler, wriggling between her sister’s legs. The three of them dressed in red and white, posing for pictures that Bet would use for their annual Christmas cards.
Standing in the basement with her eyes closed, she could almost hear them giggling. But when she opened her eyes there was only the hum of the furnace warming the house. Mid-October had brought a sudden drop into the low forties, and the cold air seemed reluctant to leave her basement studio. She stared at the cardboard box sitting on the worktable, the box from Malawi’s home in Florida; the box Kenya and Ghana had packed up after the protest march. She should have gone with them, no matter how difficult it would have been.
Now, what seemed like a lifetime later, she pulled off the tape and opened the flaps. Immediately, she could smell her daughter; the scent took her breath and brought tears. She took a moment to settle the sudden thudding in her chest. Covering everything was a yellow blanket trimmed with satin. Bet’s mother, God rest her soul, had bought the blanket as a gift before Kenya was born, wrapping it around a yellow crocheted outfit she’d made herself. Her mother never lived to see Ghana or Malawi, but the blanket was passed down to them both, staying with Malawi, who’d clearly cherished it for all these years.
Bet ran her fingers over the satin teddy bear covering the lower left corner of the blanket. She was surprised at its condition; only the edges were frayed and the fabric was worn thin, but overall it looked good. Settling on a nearby stool, she could hear her girls giggling. Hear them running through the house playing hide and seek. Too often she’d dismissed or ignored their activities, had tried to quell their enthusiasm. Images arose . . . Kenya, in such earnest, changing Malawi’s diaper, feeding her, playing mother. Ghana instigating trouble, leading Malawi out of the yard to do God knows what, and Kenya screaming at them from the lawn. Bet smothered her face with the soft blanket allowing the memories to dance through her.
As the images faded, an idea bubbled in their place. Nothing could change her past choices, the burdens her children had to bear because of her selfishness, nothing could bring back their sister, her daughter, but a thought emerged of something that could represent her memories and her love. Still holding the blanket, she rummaged through her files to find a business card and headed upstairs to call an old friend.
48
Kenya almost skipped through City Hall out to her car. She had just registered Malawi’s Sisters as a non-profit organization and couldn’t wait to see Ghana’s face when she showed her the official papers at the meeting tonight. It’d been a long time since she’d done anything not related to her children, her husband, or her house. It felt good. Over several weeks, she and Ghana had worked on a mission statement, developed bylaws and created a strategic plan to make it all official. The next step was to file for tax-exempt status.
When she’d reviewed the website Ghana designed, seeing the name, Malawi’s Sisters, large on the screen, filled her with emotions she couldn’t quite place. Already they’d made a difference for the few who had come to the meetings. And these meetings, these women, had helped Kenya, too. Had given her strength to follow a path of her own, to be a single mom, a divorcée, a working woman again. She was waiting to hear back from a small law firm about a part-time position. Sidney called sometimes and they talked. He held out hope for a reconciliation, but he was her children’s father. That was all. Nothing more.
She had talked to Malawi almost every night since the funeral; in the beginning she didn’t hold back her anger, but now she was moving slowly toward forgiveness. Her therapist said forgiveness would release her from her anger. Dr. Collins said she didn’t have to condone the behavior to forgive the person. Kenya wasn’t sure, but with Malawi at least, it seemed the right approach. She was still working on her thoughts of forgiveness toward Sidney and Jeffrey Davies—that would have to come later. If at all.
Kenya arrived at the library for their third monthly meeting just a few moments before Ghana, who had brought cookies, water and tea, scaled down since the first gathering. Though last month, the group had grown to a dozen women.
Waving the manila folder in the air, Kenya giggled. “It’s done. We are official!”
Ghana screamed with delight and looked at the papers of registration. “Now we can apply for grants and funding.”
“Yep. Now it’s for real.”
With chairs and food in place, they waited, nervous for what would happen. A few minutes before seven they heard voices outside and Monica and Shayla arrived with another woman. Stacy came in with her little brother and grandmother, and behind them five new faces, then eight more and Ghana went to get extra chairs. Then Destiny arrived and more after her in ones and twos until twenty-six women sat in a ragged circle. Standing, Ghana introduced Kenya and herself, then in a loud, strong voice said, “We lost our sister. Malawi Walker. She was twenty-seven. She was shot by a white man who said she was breaking into his home. He didn’t ask any questions. He just shot her.”
The woman to Ghana’s right stood up and told her story, and each woman followed, each one naming their family member, telling how they died. Many cried and held each other but by the end there was some relief. The heavy air had been lifted.
As the women filed out of the meeting room, a young Latina carrying a notebook approached Kenya and introduced herself as Lisa Herrera from the Washington Post. She had heard about the org
anization from a friend and asked if she could interview Kenya and her sister for a possible article.
“A news story?”
“Yes. I’m not sure yet that it will run, but it could make an interesting feature story. If you’re both willing to talk to me?”
Kenya looked at Ghana and they both chuckled. “Sure.”
Lisa acknowledged Malawi’s death and the protests and marches in her name and those of so many others. She asked why they decided to start a support group and Kenya deferred to Ghana to respond.
“There are too many women suffering the loss of a loved one to violence,” said Ghana. “This group isn’t for people losing a family member to a disease or illness; this is specifically for women dealing with the sudden, violent loss of a loved one. And, especially in the black community, there are a lot of women suffering.”
“And what about the men? Don’t they need support, too?”
“Of course,” said Kenya. “Men are more than welcome to attend, but we find that women who are grieving are more inclined to want to talk and share with each other.”
“And what about your parents, how are they coping?”
Kenya exchanged a glance with her sister, then said, “They are struggling with the loss, just as we are, but they’re finding their way.”
“Your father hasn’t returned to the bench. Does he plan on returning at all, and if so when?”
Kenya shifted in her seat. “I’d like to leave our parents out of this story, if you don’t mind. We don’t know his plans. Our parents are proud of what we’re doing, but they’re not involved in Malawi’s Sisters.”
Lisa was quiet for a moment, then smiled, “Of course.” She said she’d return to the next meeting with a photographer. “Do you have a business card?”
“Um, not yet,” said Ghana. “We need to get them printed.”
“Oh, and please be sure to get permission from the participants to use their name and image,” said Kenya. “We don’t want anyone feeling uncomfortable about being here. We want to create a safe space for everyone to be free to talk openly about their experiences.”
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