by Tina Martin
I get to overthinking like I usually do. What if he really needed help and I’m being the ultimate jerk? I could’ve slid some food out there on the porch or cracked a window and handed him a bagged lunch. I could’ve done something. My mother would have. Everybody knew her around here as the woman who’d help anybody, and when she died, she was remembered for being a generous person. Who will I be remembered for? The chick who made candles?
On the flip side, it’s 2018. Stalking someone’s place of business and then following them home is not how you ask somebody for help. This is how fools, in Sonji’s words, get shmurdered. You can’t just be creeping around people’s houses and places of business begging for help. There are shelters, food pantries and various types of ministries. I’m just one person – a woman hustling candles. What am I supposed to do? Take in a grown, able-bodied man like a child?
And you know what else? It’s rude for a man to approach a woman begging for help. What in the world has happened to our black men? Don’t get me wrong – I know they all aren’t like this but men around my neck of the woods lack ambition. It’s like they’re content with owning one pair of Jordan’s and living up under a woman. (And she probably bought the Jordan’s.) That’s why I’m still single. I’m not working my behind off for a man. He’s supposed to be taking care of me – not vice versa.
So, that settles it. My mind is made up. If he comes back, I’m calling the authorities.
I put on a raggedy (but comfortable) t-shirt and a pair of shorts for bed, do a final check of the doors and then I go to my bedroom and lock the door behind me. Saturday is the busiest day at my store. I’ll need all the sleep I can get – that’s if I’ll be able to sleep at all.
CHAPTER TWO
Ahmalee
Who freakin’ cuts grass at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning? Whoever’s doing it woke me up well before my alarm clock had the chance to. I was all set to sleep in until 9:30, then dip out of here by ten to open the store. Instead, I’m wide awake at eight, listening to the rumbling motor of a lawn mower. So much for trying to get back to sleep.
I get up, make coffee and go around the house opening blinds, starting the day refreshed while at the same time silently chanting the fragrances of candles I’ll be making today – keeping it in my short-term memory until I can write it down. Inventory is low on the eucalyptus and spearmint candles, so I’ll make another twenty of those. And then I have to prepare another batch of goat’s milk oatmeal milk and honey lotion. I’ll get most of this work done while Sonji takes care of the customers.
I pour a cup of coffee, still listening to the annoying sound of the mower cutting through my otherwise semi-perfect morning. What’s weird is, my closest neighbor mows his lawn with a John Deere tractor. That’s how much land he owns. The mower I hear is one of those regular push ones like they sell at Lowes – one like…like mine.
I take a sip of coffee while sauntering to the kitchen sink to look out the window. What I see has me choking on caffeine and questioning my own eyes. Am I really witnessing what I think I am? Can’t be. This can’t be real life.
I snatch a piece of paper towel to wipe my mouth and the coffee that’s spilled on my shirt, then I’m back staring out the window.
Unbelievable.
The homeless dude, the store lurker, the man who hid in my bushes – the guy who I thought I’d successfully ran away last night – the man who stacked my mail neatly in a pile – yeah, he ain’t gone nowhere. He’s outside CUTTING MY GRASS! With my lawn mower.
Skip calling the cops. It’s daylight. Killers rarely strike in the mornings, right? I hope it’s right because I’m going to handle this. I will not be this guy’s target or victim or whatever.
I grab my phone and angrily exit through the back door like I’m ‘bout to be starting something. This guy – he gots to go – him and his dirty trench coat. When he sees me stomping toward him, he turns off the mower. Half the yard has already been mowed. Now, I’m thinking I should’ve at least waited until he was done.
Stop it, Ahmalee. Get this man off of your property! This isn’t cool.
“Right,” I say under my breath, the oniony smell of freshly cut, green grass tickling my nostrils. I narrow my eyes. “You gotta go, buddy.”
Buddy…
Yeah, that’s threatening…
I squeeze up what I think amounts to an impressive frown even though I no longer consider him a threat. Still, he’s bigger than me, taller than me (a lot taller) and if people are hungry enough, they’ll knock you out for a cookie. I gotta keep up my guard.
Before I can get another word out, he says, “I mean no harm. I thought maybe if I cut your grass, you’d give me some sustenance, ma’am.”
“Sustenance?” I ask, then sneeze. Yes, I’m allergic to grass which is why I’d procrastinated cutting it. It sucks that I need an N-95 mask just to do lawn work.
“I just need something to eat, ma’am,” he says.
He looks pitiful. His face is all crusty and dirty. His eyes – I don’t even think he’s blinked once. Oh, my heart. I can’t take this. What should I do? Mama, what should I do?
I twirl the birthstone on the necklace mama gave me before she passed. I don’t know what to do just yet. For now, I think I should remain guarded. I say, “Who do you think I am?”
Achoo!
“Kroger?” I ask.
Achoo!
I can hardly talk for sneezing so much. Stupid grass…
I tell him, “My—my neighbor owns a farm. He got plenty of sustenance. And who told you to go in my storage shed, take out my mower and cut my grass? That’s—that’s….”
Achoo. Achoo. Achoo!
“…trespassing.”
“Look, ma’am. I mean no harm. I—”
“Then why were you at my store?” I ask, sounding nasal. “How do you know where I live? I’ll tell you how. You’ve been stalking me!”
“No, ma’am. I—”
“Go put my mower back and get off of my…my…”
Achoo!
“…property.”
“But I’m not finished yet.”
“Finished? You weren’t supposed to be cutting my grass in the first place. Leave.”
“Ma’am, please. You’re my—you’re my last hope.”
Last hope? I’ve never been anybody’s last hope. It strikes me that he’d put it that way. He doesn’t say he has nowhere else to turn. He says I’m his last hope like if I don’t help him, then his world, his life, is over. “Wha—what do you mean?”
“All I want is some food and maybe a place to stay for a while. I see you got a camper over there. I’d be willing to work in exchange for food and shelter. I’ll stay in the camper. I won’t bother you. Just work.”
I take a minute to think about his request. First off, he stinks to high heaven. The funk is downright unforgivable. He clearly needs some help and I’ve never been anyone’s last hope. Besides, I could use some help around here. Still, the red flags in my head won’t stop waving. I don’t know this man. Is any of this really worth the trouble?
I tell him, “Just finish the grass and I’ll make you some breakfast, but after that, you gotta go.”
He looks deflated and hopeful at the same time. His reaction comes across like a punch to the gut for me because I’ve never been a high-minded person and I don’t want him or anyone else to perceive me that way. Still, he needs to know I’m not a woman who entertains strangers and feed homeless people who show up at my door all willy-nilly. I’m just working and trying to make it.
At any rate, he yanks the string to crank the mower. I watch him push it along robotically, the same way he was pushing it before I came out here and confronted him. He looks like a man who’s lost. Who has no drive. No spunk. No will. Like he went up against life and lost in the final seconds of the fourth quarter. He has no more fight left in him.
I go inside and leave him to it, feeling terrible for letting a hungry man cut my grass. It was his suggestion, but I c
ould’ve stopped him. Fed him first. I don’t work well when I’m hungry and who knows how long he’s been without food? When I try to work hungry the work doesn’t come out too well. Reminds me of when I spilled hot soy wax all over the floor in my store. That was not a good day…
I peep out the window. It’s hot already – so hot I see waves of heat surrounding the man. He doesn’t bother to wipe his face. He just pushes the mower along like nothing matters but getting that food I promised him.
“Let’s see…what do I cook for a hungry giant…”
I haven’t cooked for a man since breaking up with my ex four years ago. I do know men have ferocious appetites, so he’d probably have one twice that of a man who’s not homeless and starving. Ferocious times two equals – cook this man whatever I can find and lots of it!
“Hmm…”
I stand at the fridge with the door open, taking inventory on what I have available. There’re eggs, sausage and then I remember I have grits in the pantry. If the eggs and sausage doesn’t fill him up, a big bowl of grits should do the trick.
I prepare eight scrambled eggs with eight sausage links and two pieces of toast. I cook the grits in the microwave and make sure they’re thick and buttery. I butter the bread and sprinkle shredded cheddar cheese on the eggs.
When the mower goes off, I go outside to show him where the spigot is so he can wash his hands, his face and whatever else he wants to wash. While he’s busy doing that, I go back inside to get his plate. I also take the biggest cup I have and fill it with ice and water, then go back outside. He’s sitting on the steps, waiting for his ‘pay’.
“Excuse me,” I say to get his attention.
He uses the railings to stand up, then turns around to see me standing on the porch.
“Hi. You can come up here on the porch and sit at the table. This umbrella will keep the sun off of you.”
“I don’t want to mess up your furniture.”
“No. You’re fine,” I say, placing his food and drink on the table. “Please. Come. Sit.”
Come.
Sit.
I could slap myself. I sound like I’m talking to a dog.
Reluctantly, he comes up the stairs, sits at the table, picks up the fork and starts scarfing down the food like he hasn’t eaten in weeks, moaning and carrying on as he stuffs his mouth with eggs. And here I was thinking I cooked too much food. I don’t think I cooked enough! It takes him five minutes to consume it all, even the grits. Five minutes! That’s got to be a record somewhere. I try not to look too shocked, but I’m sure he’s detected the look on my face.
“Um—uh—that was all I cooked, and I have to get ready for work, so—um…”
He’s scraping up crumbs with his fingers, then turns up the whole cup of water and chugs it. He didn’t pause to take a breath. He barely breathed while he was eating. He ate so fast, I’m quite sure he didn’t taste a thing. I’ve got to find him some more food.
“Would you like anything else?” The question sounds silly leaving my mouth. Before he can answer, I stand and say, “You know what…I’ll be right back.”
I walk to the pantry, find a box of graham crackers and a bag of plain potato chips. I give them to him then say, “I have to go to work. You’re welcome to have this. And—hold on. I’ll be right back.”
I hustle to my bedroom and take a twenty from my wallet. I take it to him, placing it on the table and say, “Thanks for cutting my grass. Not sure if you picked up on it, but I’m allergic.”
He pushes the twenty back to me. “I only asked for food and a place to stay,” he tells me. “I didn’t ask for money.”
“But you—you can’t stay here. Look, just take the money. You can use the spigot if you want to wash up before you go, okay?”
He doesn’t respond. Just gives me a blank stare.
Before this gets too awkward, I go inside, lock the door and get ready for work. I’m a nervous wreck. When I’m in the shower, I remember all of those movies where the woman is taking a shower while somebody’s breaking in. I crack the door to take a peep, just to make sure no one’s in here. The man has me paranoid.
What are you doing, Ahmalee? Take a shower and go to work. He’ll be gone when you get back.
* * *
So, I go to work. I open my store at 10:30 and set out four-ounce jars in preparation to make my bestselling fragrance soy candles – a coffee-scented candle that I aptly named Sweet Mornings. It’s the scent I burn while I’m at work – has the shop smelling glorious, and that’s probably why it’s a bestseller. It’s the first thing that greets people when they walk through the door.
I also have to make some Breathe Deeply & Relax candles – a spearmint and eucalyptus fragrance that awakens the senses. Burning those reminds me of being in a high-end spa. It’s an aromatherapy fragrance that’s a bestseller among salons, barbershops and fancy boutiques.
I’ve always loved candles. I remember being in high school, burning them in the kitchen while I did my homework at the dinner table. And my mother loved them, too. She’s where my obsession began. Now, as an adult, I love how the flame sways and dances and how the soy wax throws the scent to fill a room. Candles put me in a relaxing mood. It’s like always having a friend around to pat me on the back and tell me everything will be fine. I love them just as much as I enjoy the process of making them.
I gather my supplies – the soy wax that I purchase wholesale in flake form, small glass four-ounce containers, braided cotton wicks, a pouring pitcher and the fragrance.
After melting the wax on a double boiler until it reaches a hundred and eighty-five degrees, I remove the wax from the heat and let it cool down before I add the fragrance. I stir thoroughly for a few minutes to ensure that it attaches well to the soy, then I slowly pour the wax in the candle jars. After centering the wicks with clothespins, I leave the candles to cure – all twenty-four of them. I’ll repeat this process tomorrow for a few other fragrances.
As I’m working, I think about the man at my house – well I hope he’s no longer there, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking about him. I realize I don’t know his name. He mowed my lawn, I cooked a family-sized breakfast for him and I don’t know his name. Isn’t that supposed to be the first thing you do when you meet someone? Ask their name? Or did I feel like he wasn’t worthy of being asked because of his appearance? What does that say about me? Am I a bad person? A judgmental person? Have I been self-serving lately? I’m not a self-server. My mama would slap me if she knew I didn’t ask that man his name.
“Good afternoon,” Sonji sings as she enters the store. “You got it smelling good in here, girl.”
It’s not until then I realize it’s already noon.
“Hey, Sonji.”
She secures her purse in the storage closet. “It’s good to see that you’re still alive.”
“Sonji, don’t bring up last night. I told you I would be fine.”
“Yeah, and what about the dozen times I tried to call you this morning?”
“I didn’t know you were trying to call me. I was in the zone. Look at all these freakin’ candles. Do you think they magically poured themselves into these jars?”
“Of course not. Forgive me for being concerned.”
I grin a little. I think it pisses her off. I say, “Sorry, I was super busy making candles this morning, Sonji, but, as you can see—I’m alive and well.”
“Yeah. Now!” She rolls her eyes and walks to the showroom with her silky hair swinging.
Sonji treats me like I’m so much older when she’s only six years younger than I am. It took an entire year for me to convince her to stop calling me Ms. Hayes.
I follow her to the checkout counter and ask, “Sonji, are you really upset?”
“Yeah, I am. I even called Jamie and told her what happened – told her you were actin’ all crazy.”
“Lord…why’d you do that?”
“Because I was worried. Imagine how much that worry grew when Jamie said she co
uldn’t reach you either.”
“Sonji, after I hung up with you, I managed to get the guy to go away. I told you that already.”
“But you never called the cops, Ahmalee,” she says attentively, her eyebrows raised high.
“No, I didn’t.”
“What if he comes back?”
She’s way too turned up for me to tell her I cooked this man breakfast. I say, “Okay—let’s drop the subject. He won’t be a problem anymore.”
“How do you know that?” Her eyes narrow.
“Because I know.” They, her and Jamie, don’t need to know everything. Imagine how she’d flip out had she known the man cut my grass in exchange for food. Yeah…think I’ll keep that to myself.
CUSTOMERS ARE TRICKLING in now. I put more candles on the shelves while the ones I made earlier solidify. I usually allow them to cure for four to five days before they go up for sale. It gives the fragrance the best, optimal time to infuse into the wax and produce a fragrant candle.
Around three, we’re so busy I have to help Sonji ring up customers. I meet a woman who wants a few of the Spa Day candles for her wellness center in Cary. Then I meet a wedding planner who says the Soothe Me (lavender and vanilla) candles would be good to put in gift bags for a wedding shower she’s planning. She buys ten of them.
Overall, this has been one of my higher profit days – thank goodness. I’ve got some bills to catch up on.
At closing, I gather trash and take it to the dumpster behind my store as usual. I don’t see anyone back here and yes, I was looking for him. Thought he’d find his way back over here somehow after I told him he had to leave my house. I can’t lie – I’m a little worried about him. A part of me hopes he’s still around so I can give him some more food. I won’t break the bank giving him a few meals.
CHAPTER THREE
