by D L Lane
When a sense of peace descended, I squared my shoulders, giving Him the thanks—foot kicking empty liquor bottles aside. They warb-warb-warbled across the uneven wood floor as I made my entrance into what barely passed as a bedroom—the stench of sickness so overpowering you could almost taste it.
Choking from the pungent odor, I covered my nose and mouth with my hand, glancing past the puddle of vomit swarming with flies to the disheveled figure passed out on the bed.
All right, Lord, I’ve heard your nudging, and here I am. I know you want me to honor my father, even if none was ever provided to me by him, so give me the strength. Open his heart and make him receptive. In your wondrous name, I pray. Amen.
Walking around the scattered mess, I reached out for his much smaller shoulder, giving it a shake. “Daddy, wake up.”
The large, mean, two-fisted man I knew wasn’t in the room. In his place was an old, haggard shell with drool running down his crusty bearded chin as he mumbled.
“Wake up, Daddy.” I shook him a little harder. “It’s time to get up.”
“I’m-a-wake,” he groused in a hoarse voice.
“You need to look at me,” I said, giving one more push.
With a tangle of gray hair matted to his head, rheumy eyes squinted up at me. “Sippi?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Are-ya real?”
“I am.”
With a shaky hand, he reached out and touched my forearm as if to check. “What-ya doin’ here?”
“I’ve come to take you out of this place.”
“Yo-you’re takin’ me someplace?”
“Yes, Daddy. It’s far past time. You need help, and I’m here to give it if you will take it.”
His stiff fingers curled around my wrist, and I stood my ground, waiting for an explosion, but nothing happened.
“You’ve come to-to help me, Sippi?”
Nodding, I said, “I have.”
Slowly, he sat up—the stench of body odor, alcohol, and illness permeating him.
Concerned with the level of his shakes, I asked, “Are you all right?”
He didn’t respond. Well, not verbally. Instead, he tossed his puny arms around my waist, tugged me to him, and held on for dear life, startling me when he placed his wrinkled cheek on my stomach.
My first hug from Daddy Bruce happened when I was thirty-nine.
It took me a second to wrap my mind around that, but I finally thawed from my frozen state. Still, I needed to be cautious, so, carefully, I wrapped my arms around his bony frame, shaking along with him as he did something else I’d never once in my life witnessed.
He cried.
“Shh...hush now, Daddy. Everything’s going to be all right.”
***
Mentally and physically exhausted by the time I made it home, my shoulders slumped. I’d checked my father into the treatment center and made sure he was well provided for in his private room—including a bath, haircut, shave, change of new, unsoiled clothing, and a nutritious hot meal. I would go shopping in the morning for more clothing and other items Daddy would need, but at that moment, I wanted to get to the nearest chair, plop into it and maybe take a nap.
“There you are,” Thayer said, sounding relieved as he strode into the foyer. “Brandy just informed me of where you went, and I was worried.”
“How is she doing?” I asked since she was our newest King’s Corner graduate and a new employee.
“Doing well, but I’m more concerned about you.”
“I can report everything went fine,” I said. “Daddy didn’t protest at all.”
“I’m happy to hear it, but you should have waited for me. I promised you long ago you would never need to step foot into that home.”
“When Fawna-Leigh told me how bad things had become, I couldn’t wait. I had to go.”
“Are you all right?” My husband studied my eyes and face, a severe scowl marring his brow.
“I’m fine.” I rubbed at my temple. “Tired, but fine.”
“Come,” he said, “we’ll go up, and I will draw you a bath. We can talk about everything while you relax in those bubbles you so enjoy.”
“I do love my bubble baths,” I agreed with a smile, deciding the chair could wait.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Goodbye
May 3, 1960
Breeze blowing, surrounded by my family, Thayer ever with me, I watched as the men from the funeral home lowered Daddy Bruce’s coffin into the ground, laying him to rest alongside my mama—my brother Danny Joe’s spot taken on her right.
“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of the departed, we, therefore, commit Bruce Singleton’s body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself,” the new pastor of Bethel church said.
Holding my hand, Thayer went with me to drop the red rose I carried into the grave. “Goodbye, Daddy.”
While I couldn’t say Daddy Bruce and I were close like a child and parent should be, we were able to build a relationship over the past couple of years of his life. And I’d taken up my mama’s faithfulness, praying for him daily. Sometimes, he’d come to church with Thayer and me, and sometimes he wouldn’t. But he told me one afternoon while sitting on the back porch of our estate, he ‘sorted out things with the All-Mighty.’
I had hugged his neck and told him that sure was good news.
He never hugged me back.
I’d only ever received the one hug from my daddy on the day I roused him out of bed in his old, dilapidated house and told him I’d come to help.
By the way, that house no longer stood, Thayer had it torn down for me after we secured my daddy a new place to live, once he was able to leave rehab.
“Are you all right?” Thayer asked, looking down at me with those beautiful if older sky-blue eyes.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted, “but Daddy finally is.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
The groom
June 5, 1962
After dabbing tears from the corner of my eyes, I gathered myself and straightened Emmanuel’s black tie. “You look so handsome in your tuxedo.”
“Thank you, Mama.”
I scowled. “Are you nervous?”
He shook his head. “No. You were right.”
“I was? About what?”
“When you told me I’d find ‘the one.’ Chandra is it for me.”
“Well, she sure better be since you two are getting married today, son,” Thayer said, playfully swatting Emmanuel on the back.
Those light brown eyes shifted to him. “I want to thank you.”
My husband’s brow pinched. “What in the world for?”
“For being a great father. Taking such good care of my mother and all of us. I know I wasn’t your biological son—”
Thayer held up a hand. “You are my son, in every way that matters, and I love you.”
When Emmanuel was old enough to understand, my husband and I explained as best we could how he was conceived, making sure to tell him he was a gift, and nothing about him could ever be considered a tragedy or mistake. We’d done so to prepare him for what may come at him, since some people were hateful gossips and would gain enjoyment in hurting our son.
Two of the men in my life hugged each other as the twins came strolling into the side room of the church we were in. “What’s going on here?” Jacob asked, Matthew, mirroring his brother’s stance.
“Just having a moment of congratulations,” Thayer said, letting loose of Emmanuel.
“Well,” Matthew chimed in, “It’s time. So if you’re going to do this thing, big bro, we need to take our spots at the front of the church with the others.”
Emmanuel grinned and nodded. “I’m ready.�
��
“All right then,” Jacob said, “let’s go.”
Thayer took my hand in his as we watched three of our boys head from the room. “They all turned out to be fine young men, every single one of them.”
Glancing up at the most miraculous man I would ever know, I smiled. “That’s because they all take after their father.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Free at last
April 21, 1965
I was the last of the Singletons, something that took a bit to sink in because I was distracted by how many people had come to James Henry’s funeral. Correctional officers, former inmates, his oncologist, and a retired warden all made sure to speak to me once his service was over—every single one of them letting me know they had come to know the Lord because my brother had led them to Christ.
While I’d witnessed the change in my brother’s life years ago, during one of my many visits to Angola, if you had asked me when I was a young girl about hearing such beautiful things come from so many regarding my older brother, I would have said, “Ain’t no way.”
But the real moment to bring tears of both sorrow and joy to my eyes was when I listened to Reverend Moreland, one of the chaplains, tell about a meeting he had with him.
“Mrs. King. I would love to share with you something James Henry and I spoke of on one of our last visits, if you would like to hear about it.”
“I very much would,” I said.
“He had gone through a particularly bad night, the chemo treatment taking its toll on his body. So I placed my hand on his thin arm and said, ‘James, I know times down here on this earth is hard, but someday, you will meet our Father God, face-to-face, and when that day comes, you’ll be able to sing, I’m free at last!’”
The Reverend gave a gap-toothed grin as he shook his head. “You know what he said to me, Mrs. King?”
“No? What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Brother Moreland, I already sang that song.’”
The man kept his silver gaze on me. “I looked at James, confused, and asked, ‘You did?’ And your brother, God bless him, looked me straight in the eyes and smiled. ‘Oh, yes, sir. It happened the day I fell on my knees, askin’ Him for forgiveness, and He washed my sins away. That’s the day He freed me from this wretched life, breaking the bars of iron.’”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Higher than the highest mountain
October 1, 1975
With Thayer and all our grown children at our sides, we cut the ribbon at the grand opening of Kings Crossing. A home for battered and abused women and rape crisis center, one of the first of its kind. So, after the click, snap of flashbulbs going off, the mayor’s speech, and a round of applause, I snuck off for a few minutes of quiet time while people mingled, or went on tours of the vast complex.
“Mama,” I whispered, glancing up. “With God’s help, I did this in honor of you.”
“Mother?” Emmanuel called, drawing my attention. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, son. Just taking a breather. You know I’ve never been one for the spotlight.”
Stepping up to where I was at the far end of the dining room, his eyes shimmered. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but that reporter is here for the interview you promised to give. And Father is looking for you, too.”
“Okay.” I waved my hand over the goodies. “Take care of the snack table, and I’ll go find your daddy then speak with the gentleman from channel five news.”
My handsome son smiled, and while he wasn’t Thayer’s biological child, his actions and mannerisms sure said he could be.
Placing his hand on my shoulder, he squeezed the tense muscle there. “I want you to know, all of us couldn’t be prouder of you. Today, this entire project of yours,” he said, glancing around the room, “was a huge undertaking, and you met every challenge head-on, making it all look easy.”
Hugging my firstborn close, I kissed his cheek. “When we do something from the heart and follow God’s plan, He makes our tasks less of a challenge,” I said. “And you already know it, but I’m going to repeat it. I’m blessed to be your mama and so very proud of you, Professor King.”
Rubbing my back, he whispered, “I love you.”
“As I love you.”
“Higher than the highest mountain and deeper than the deepest sea,” he said, repeating something I’d told him many, many times before as we stopped our embrace.
“Higher and deeper, son. Higher and deeper.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
I’m sorry, Mr. King
March 3, 1977
Thayer
Heart pounding in my chest, I rushed through the doors of the hospital, slapping my palm down on the counter of the front desk. “My wife, Mississippi King, was involved in a shooting and brought here. Where is she?”
The young dark-haired girl frowned and held up a finger, “Give me one moment.” Trying not to explode, I scrubbed my palm over my hair, observing her pick up the phone, close the glass partition, and speak to someone saying something I couldn’t hear.
God, let her be all right. Please don’t take my wife from me.
What seemed to be hours later but was in reality only a few seconds, I’m sure, the glass slid back open, and the girl said, “Sir, if you will have a seat, someone will be right out.”
“What do you mean someone will be right out? Is my wife okay?” My voice wasn’t anywhere near a respectable level.
“Please. I understand your frustration, but you will need to have a seat.”
“Listen here—”
“Mr. King,” a man wearing green scrubs called my name, coming toward me from down the hall at a quick pace. “If you will come with me.”
With fear so strong it almost took me down; I asked God for strength and followed who I assumed was a doctor, into a small room, not bothering for any decorum as the door closed. “My wife. Tell me now if she is all right.”
“Your wife is in recovery, and in stable condition.”
My jaw dropped. “You had to operate?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know she was involved in a shooting. A man came into King’s View and started firing a weapon. The officer who I spoke with said, my wife’s driver, Claremont, tackled her and was wounded, but that’s all I know.”
“She sustained an injury to her right side. A piece of shrapnel nicked the main artery in her neck, causing her to bleed, but luckily, the quick arrival of the paramedics on scene and a fast transport here to the trauma unit, gave us the time we needed. We were able to repair the problem.”
My legs gave way, and I plopped into a chair. It wasn’t luck. Mississippi’s angels had been working overtime. “So, she’s going to have a full recovery?”
“Anything can happen, but as of now, I don’t have any reason to expect otherwise, Mr. King.”
“Thank God.” I tossed my head back, staring at the ceiling tiles, saying a silent thanks to Him as well. Then, it struck me, and I sat up.
“Claremont, her driver?” I brought my attention back to the man who stood with a furrowed brow.
“I’m sorry, Mr. King, but I’m afraid he didn’t make it. He took a direct hit. Mr. Johnson’s injuries were too vast, and he passed away on the way here.”
Heartache rattled my chest, while at the same time, I was overjoyed in a way I couldn’t express. Mississippi had survived yet another devastating event.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Ye-yes.” I cleared my throat. “I will need to make some calls, but may I see my wife?”
“She’s still in recovery, but I’ll take you up.”
Standing, I gave the man my hand. “Thank you, Doctor?”
“Mickelson,” he said as we shook.
Thank you, Doctor Mickelson, for everything.”
“I wish I could have done more,” he said.
***
I’d been sitting by my wife’s hospital bed, listening to the beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor, hol
ding her hand when her eyes fluttered open.
“Thayer?”
Her voice might have been scratchy, but it was music to my ears.
“I’m here, love. Don’t try to speak. You need to rest.”
“Gunman.” Mississippi’s hand went to the large bandage around her neck. “Hurts.”
“I know, but the doctor says you’re going to be okay.”
She blinked, and a tear rolled down her cheek, so I wiped it away. “Shall I ring for the nurse?”
Slowly, she shook her head, then grimaced. “Claremont was coming into King’s View with me...”
“It’s okay. We will talk when you are feeling more up to the task.”
She waved her hand. “No, listen.”
“I’m listening, but I think you need to relax.”
Even in pain, my wife managed to argue with me. “I need to tell you, Mr. King.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “All right.”
“He intended to visit a friend, that’s why Claremont was with me when a former patient came in wildly waving a shotgun, then started firing.”
Mississippi licked her lips. “I heard Claremont yell to get down, but...”
“Here, suck on some ice,” I said, picking a small half-melted cube out of the Styrofoam cup one of the nurses brought me earlier, and placed it in her open mouth.
“Thank you,” Mississippi garbled.
“You’re welcome, my love. But, please let’s talk later after you—”
“I’d panicked,” she said, ignoring my suggestions to relax and rest. “Claremont tackled me. I think I hit my head, but he was shot. Blood was everywhere.”
I frowned. “You were hit with shrapnel, do you remember that?”
“It was all so confusing. I knew something bad happened, but—” She paused, a blank expression on her face, and a spike of fear pierced my chest, remembering that look. She’d left me after undergoing the atrocities of those sycophants, Dudley McCoy and Alistair Blevins, and I had worried I’d never get her back.
