“I don’t know,” he said. “Looking at these two. Seeing the love between them. Thinking about all that we’ve been through, and we’re still here. Still together.”
Bet squeezed his thigh. “Yes,” she said. “I think love can conquer all, but only if everyone accepts it into their hearts and makes it a way of life. A thing they live instead of a thing they do when they feel like it.” She paused. “If I’ve learned anything this year, that’s it.”
Malcolm had learned more than he could ever express, and wondered if he could live love every day.
Junior rose from the floor, stretching his arms into the air above his head and asked if he could watch a movie. Malcolm saw his mother in the shape of Junior’s face, in his smile, though he had his father’s stocky build and eyes.
“Yeah,” Ghana said, jumping up. “Let’s all watch a movie.”
Ghana and Junior ran off to the den, leaving Ryan on the floor by himself. He laughed. “I could sit here and play with this all night.”
With a grin, Malcolm leaned forward and patted the young man on his shoulder. “There’s nothing more fun than a cool train set no matter your age.”
Ryan slowly got up and followed Kenya and Charlene as they ambled out of the room. Leaving his mother sleeping in the armchair, Malcolm helped Bet collect the dirty glasses and as they carried them to the kitchen, Kenya cried out for them to come quickly. They dumped the glasses on the counter and saw the image of a church on the television. Malcolm walked through to the den and leaned his hands on the back of the settee. A news announcer was explaining that a lone shooter had killed twelve people exiting a church after a Christmas Eve service in a small town in Virginia. All twelve victims were African American and the shooter was a young white man, who had been taken into custody. The room was quiet except for the news account coming from the TV. Terror filled everyone’s eyes and Malcolm was afraid to move, fearing his body would crumble.
Breaking the silence, Charlene asked: “Grandpa, what does this mean? Why did he do that? Why are people still killing black people. Killing us?”
The ground beneath Malcolm wavered. He could think of nothing to say to reassure his grandchildren, his family. He stared at the television screen and wanted to smash it to pieces, knowing it would make no difference to what was happening in the world.
His mother stepped into the room and took his hand. “We need to love each other,” she said. Her voice even, simply stating a fact. “We need to be a family and take care of each other, be here for one another.”
Junior was frowning. “But that doesn’t stop people from killing us. We should fight back. Shouldn’t we?” He looked at Malcolm, who shook his head. He didn’t know what to say. He looked at his mother who squeezed his hand.
“Fight, yes, but not with violence,” Caroline said. “Not like that.”
The television screen showed police cars and yellow caution tape around the front of the church.
Kenya cradled Charlene, whose sobs came in small bursts like hiccups. Caroline released Malcolm and put out her hands for Junior to come to her and he did, slowly. She held him close. “Revenge isn’t the answer,” she said. “Violence only creates more pain. Dr. King said we should love our enemies. Only then can we transform a world of violence into a place of goodness, a place of love.”
“A place of love?” said Kenya, her face crumpled. “I’m not going to love my enemy for this. This makes me feel like there’s no love in the world anywhere. I’m so sick of all this killing. I’m sick of it.”
“In this family, we have love,” Caroline insisted. “In this family we have each other. As a people, we should be coming together and organizing in a non-violent way to stop this madness. As a nation, we need to respect one another and stop viewing others as the enemy, but instead, embrace them.”
Malcolm looked at Ryan whose eyes were closed, a frown wrinkling his forehead.
His mother continued. “We may never rid the world of people like him,” she said, looking at the shooter on TV. “But we must try, and it begins with us. If we can’t love those who come from the same blood, then we will never love and accept those we view as different. So here, here in this house, in this family, we will love each other.” She looked at Bet. “We won’t let this kind of violence destroy us.”
Caroline grabbed Junior’s hand and reached her other hand to Kenya. Malcolm followed her lead and reached for Bet and the family formed a circle. His mother bowed her head and began to pray, asking God for the strength to fight evil, not with violence but with love in their hearts, and to bless the families of the victims.
He listened, admiring her faith in prayer. But in his heart, he believed change came only when people put their prayers into action and practiced love and acceptance of one another. Practiced respect for everyone no matter their race or religion. His mother was correct: they had to love each other. When she said, “Amen,” Malcolm looked at his mother, his wife, his daughters, his soon-to-be son-in-law, and his two precious grandchildren. Each one had a role to play. Each one would do what was necessary to make the world better. But for now, he wanted only to enjoy this time with his family. He snatched the remote from the arm of the couch and turned off the television.
Kenya and Ghana have been with me for many years, their voices mumbling, often incoherently, in my head so that I couldn’t figure out their stories. Then in 2014, Renisha McBride was shot and killed by a white man, and the horror of this tragedy got stuck in my brain. Eventually, Kenya whispered, “Our sister was killed the same way.” And Ghana said, “Yeah, help us share that story.”
So in 2015, with the kernel of a novel and the help of family and friends, I journeyed to Bali, Indonesia, for a month-long writing retreat. In this gorgeous oasis, this book blossomed into more than mere whispers in my head. My deepest gratitude goes to my workshop leader, Bernadette Murphy, for her encouragement and guidance that pushed me forward when I didn’t think I could reach my first-draft goal of 50,000 words. Much love and thanks go to my Bali Scribe Tribe Sisterhood. And thank you, Mastin Kipp, for organizing this magical retreat.
Heartfelt thanks go to so many who held me up through the writing, the rewriting, and the literary agent rejections. To name a few: my writing group, D. Marietta Williams, Cheryl Head, Savanna Jeordan, and Celeste Crenshaw. To Mary Eno for the inspiration during the first draft. To Michon Lartigue for your insight and friendship. To Carolina Cabanillas for your creative eye. An enormous thank you to David Haynes and Kimbilio, and especially to Edwidge Danticat for selecting this work as the inaugural Kimbilio National Fiction Prize. To the team at Four Way Books: Martha Rhodes, Ryan Murphy, Mari Coates, and Clarissa Long.
And thank you to Chris and Amanda for your ongoing love and support.
Melanie S. Hatter is the author of The Color of My Soul, winner of the 2011 Washington Writers’ Publishing House Fiction Prize, and Let No One Weep for Me, Stories of Love and Loss, a short story collection. She is a participating author in the PEN/Faulkner Writers in Schools program in Washington, D.C., and serves on the board of the Zora Neale Hurston/Richard Wright Foundation.
Publication of this book was made possible by grants and donations. We are also grateful to those individuals who participated in our 2018 Build a Book Program. They are:
Anonymous (11), Sally Ball, Vincent Bell, Jan Bender-Zanoni, Kristina Bicher, Laurel Blossom, Adam Bohanon, Betsy Bonner, Mary Brancaccio, Lee Briccetti, Jane Martha Brox, Carla & Steven Carlson, Caroline Carlson, Stephanie Chang, Tina Chang, Liza Charlesworth, Andrea Cohen, Machi Davis, Marjorie Deninger, Patrick Donnelly, Charles Douthat, Emily Flitter, Lukas Fauset, Monica Ferrell, Jennifer Franklin, Helen Fremont & Donna Thagard, Robert Fuentes & Martha Webster, Ryan George, Panio Gianopoulos, Chuck Gillett, Lauri Grossman, Julia Guez, Naomi Guttman & Jonathan Mead, Steven Haas, Lori Hauser, Mary & John Heilner, Ricardo Hernandez, Deming Holleran, Nathaniel Hutner, Janet Jackson, Rebecca Kaiser Gibson, David Lee, Jen Levitt, Howard Levy, Owen Lewis, Sara London & Dean
Albarelli, David Long, Katie Longofono, Cynthia Lowen, Ralph & Mary Ann Lowen, Jacquelyn Malone, Fred Marchant, Donna Masini, Catherine McArthur, Nathan McClain, Richard McCormick, Victoria McCoy, Britt Melewski, Kamilah Moon, Beth Morris, Rebecca Okrent, Gregory Pardlo, Veronica Patterson, Jill Pearlman, Marcia & Chris Pelletiere, Maya Pindyck, Megan Pinto, Taylor Pitts, Eileen Pollack, Barbara Preminger, Kevin Prufer, Vinode Ramgopal, Martha Rhodes, Peter & Jill Schireson, Jason Schneiderman, Jane Scovel, Andrew Seligsohn & Martina Anderson, Soraya Shalforoosh, James Snyder & Krista Fragos, Ann St. Claire, Alice St. Claire-Long, Dorothy Tapper Goldman, Robin Taylor, Marjorie & Lew Tesser, Boris Thomas, Judith Thurman, Susan Walton, Calvin Wei, Bill Wenthe, Allison Benis White, Elizabeth Whittlesey, Rachel Wolff, Hao Wu, Anton Yakovlev, and Leah Zander.
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