by J. J. Murray
“I’ll do it.”
I turn and see the black boy standing beside me.
“That’s my sister.”
“Oh, uh, sure thing. She, um, she asked me ...”
The boy steps between the swing and me, whispering something to the girl. I back away feeling totally useless and helpless, one child mourning in the trees, another child mourning down by the river, the last child mourning by hurting himself on a skateboard. I’m standing in the middle of a park, feeling further from my kids than at any time in my life.
And the tears come.
Lord, I’m waiting on You, but I’m not sure how much longer I can wait.
I see Rose talking to one of the swordsmen. At least she’s talking to someone. I see Joey skipping stones across the river. His mother taught him how to do that. I cross the field to check on Jimmy and see him talking to a group of kids. They seem to be comparing bruises.
They’re all right. They’re coping. They won’t miss me if I walk up the hill to our house ... where I pour out a little of my heart to Shawna:
Shawna:
I did what you suggested. I got out of the house today. We went shopping and ate out at McDonald’s. The cashier said that I had my hands full, and I certainly do. She also asked if I was giving my wife the day off, and I got depressed. Then at the park, my family scattered. I was pushing this little girl on the swings just as I pushed all my kids before, but even that was taken away from me. I’m on my last legs, Shawna. My heart is broken.
Pray especially hard for us today.
Joe
12
Shawna
As I read Joe’s latest e-mail, my heart breaks a little, too.
He tries so hard, and what does he get? Just when he’s making progress, it all falls apart. Lord, why is life so unfair sometimes? I don’t even know how to begin to mend this man’s heart.
The door slams open, Toni rushing in and giving me a hug. “Hi, Mama.”
Hugs can mend hearts. I’m feeling better already. “What have you been doing?”
“Swinging.”
“Yeah? All by yourself?” This child is notorious for “picking up” men to push her on the swings in the hopes that I’ll meet her future daddy this way. I can’t count how many times I’ve had to get up off that bench down at Wasena to “meet” these guys, some of them nice, some of them right creepy.
“A nice man pushed me for a while until Junior came over.”
Joe? No, it couldn’t be, could it? Lord, what are You up to here? “He did?”
“Yeah. Junior never pushes me. He’s always talking to Amina.”
I look into her eyes. “What did the nice man look like?”
She shrugs. “Like a nice man. He was kinda tall, too. And he didn’t have a wedding ring on.”
I smile. I only once said for her to look for men without wedding rings, and now she makes sure every time. “Why did you ask this particular man to push you?”
“He looked kinda sad, Mama.”
I hug her. “I’m sure you made his day.”
“I would have, but Junior came over and scared him away.”
“He what?”
“I’m thirsty. Can I have some juice?”
“Sure. Uh, wash your hands first.”
My hands are tingling. Has my Joe just pushed Toni on a swing? Are Joe’s kids just down the hill at the park? Has my son just “met” Joe? Oh, Lord, all this timing of Yours is driving me crazy! First Rose and now this? What, heavenly Father, are You up to?
I know that God places the answers right in front of us all the time, only we don’t always see them. And in this case, God seems to be working on getting us together. I think.
I hope.
And what have I been doing? I’ve been stalling. I’ve been holding out. I haven’t let Joe know how I feel.
What am I waiting for? A sign? The Lord is practically planting signs in plain view for me, tripping me with these signs. I should have splinters by now, and my shins should be bruised.
But I have to be sure.
Joe:
This may seem strange, but bear with me. Could you describe your hometown and your house to me?
Shawna
Short and sweet.
Just like me.
What’s Junior always saying? “Lipitalo, hupishwa.” “Things don’t just happen by accident.”
They happen by design.
13
Joe
This is a strange request, but I have nothing better to do.
Shawna:
I live in Roanoke, Virginia, in a little section called Wasena, just up the hill from Wasena Park and the Roanoke River. As for the house, it’s a house with a front porch, back deck, playhouse for the kids, brown brick with yellow siding.
I know you have a reason for asking, but I’m curious to know why.
By the way, where do you live?
Joe
14
Shawna
Now what?
My “man-in-a-similar-predicament” lives right down the street! I’ve probably seen him in the park. Two of my children have met him, and my oldest daughter thinks his daughter is a freak.
I need to get out of the house. “Toni?”
“Yes?”
“We’re going for a walk.”
“Why?” she whines.
I pull on a jacket. “Because it’s a nice day.”
And I want to see Joe’s house.
It doesn’t take long to see it. I find it just a few blocks away. Wide front porch, deck in back, playhouse, a PROGRESSIVE INSURANCE Jeep Cherokee parked on the street and a green van parked in the driveway. It’s a nice house with brown brick and yellow siding, a house I pass whenever I go to the Kroger at Towers Mall. I squint up at the mailbox next to the front door on the porch. “Murphy.” Joe Murphy.
“Why are we stopping, Mama?”
“No reason, honey. Let’s get back.”
“But we just started our walk.”
I am confusing this child to death. “It’s getting chilly, and I need to start dinner.”
“You’re crazy, Mama.”
When we get back to The Castle, I see Rema and her kids outside. “Toni, why don’t you go play with them while I talk to Rema?”
“Mama,” Toni whine-whispers, “I don’t understand what they’re saying most of the time.”
“Try listening with your heart, then,” I tell her.
“But they, um, smell.” She wrinkles up her nose for good measure.
“They what?”
“They smell funny, Mama.”
I wrinkle up my nose and sniff her hair. “So do you, now go on.”
“I don’t—” she starts to say, but I add a pair of fierce eyes to my wrinkled nose. She rolls her eyes and sighs, and off she goes, dragging her feet. That child is eight going on seventeen sometimes.
Rema, in her traditional multicolored dress, sits under a tree, her feet bare, though it has to be in the low forties. I sit next to her, watching Toni playing with Rema’s kids.
“Rema, I need some advice.”
She smiles. “What kind of advice?”
I pick up and drop a clod of dirt. “Um, well, it’s pretty complicated.”
“Heart advice, then,” she says.
“Yes.”
She nods. “You look like a decision is fighting your mind.”
She’s the most perceptive woman I know. “You’re right. I have quite a few battles going on up here.” I tap my forehead.
She points at my heart. “And there, too, hmm?”
I nod.
“Your heart desires a man?”
Why are my hands sweaty? Oh, yeah. She put “heart,” “desires,” and “man” in the same sentence. “Yes.”
“Ah. What the heart desires is medicine to it. This man must be the person to heal you.”
Joe is my healer? Maybe he is. “But I’m not sure of him. There’s so much I don’t know about him, and what I don’t know could hurt me
, you know?”
She laughs. “You are far too picky.”
“I am not.”
She laughs again. “You are the pickiest woman I know. Everyone here knows it. To be so long without a man when you can have any man.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Any man? Is she kidding?
“You are young,” Rema says. “And beautiful.” She smiles. “And picky.”
I sigh. “It’s true. I’m just ...” I sigh again. “I didn’t think I was ready.”
She leans closely to me. “Ready? For love? Love is always ready. Love is like honey. Once you dip your hand in honey, you do not dip it only once. You dip and dip and dip ...” She smiles. “You can never get enough of a taste so sweet.”
It’s so true! I need a new honey! I need me a new sweetie! “What should I do?”
She shrugs. “It is said that love lasts if you eat grapes. Go eat grapes.”
She can’t be serious. “That’s it? Just eat grapes.”
She shakes her head at me. “You must be with the man at the time.”
“But I’m not with him!”
“Not yet.” She nods. “You are deep in love with him, yes?”
Say what? “Oh, I don’t think I’m deep in love with him. I’m in some pretty intense like maybe, but love? No, I don’t think so.”
She folds her arms in front of her. “Then why do you ask heart advice from me?”
Do I ... love Joe ... like that? “I don’t know, Rema, I mean—”
“Go,” she interrupts. “Go to him. I will watch your child.”
“I just can’t ... go to him,” I say, mimicking her accent.
She blinks. “Go. Now.”
I stand. “Just, um ...”
“Go.”
“Um, Toni,” I call out, “you be good, now.”
“I will,” Toni says.
“Eat grapes,” Rema says.
Grapes. It can’t be that simple. I rush inside, glad to be completely alone for once in what seems like years, and type:
Joe:
I, too, live in Roanoke. I want to meet you. Can you meet me at El Toreo on Peters Creek on Monday at around one?
Shawna
And by meeting on Monday, I’ll have time to get some grapes after church tomorrow. Are they even in season? What kind? Green or red? Seedless?
I’ll just have to get a variety, and if the kids wonder why, I’ll just eat more grapes.
15
Joe
She’s here?
She’s here.
Out of all the folks who e-mailed me, I latched on to her, and ... she’s here?
She’s here.
God, I just prayed to You an hour ago, and You’ve answered me already? Why pay attention to me with all that’s going on in the world? I don’t deserve ...
No. Sorry. You wouldn’t give this to me unless I needed it. It’s not a matter of deserving. You see my need, and You supply it.
Thank you.
Shawna:
I would love to meet you. See you at one.
Joe
16
Shawna
I have to be crazy to meet a man that I “met” online—especially for lunch at El Toreo, considering I’m dressed in my McDonald’s uniform and know that whatever I eat here will wake me up at 3 AM with: “You have five seconds to get to the bathroom.”
I am so nervous!
I haven’t been across a table from a man since ...
And I can’t stop eating these tortilla chips and salsa, which is heavy on the cilantro, and I can’t stop checking the door whenever anyone male comes inside.
And there are no grapes on the menu, except for grape soda. I wonder if grape soda counts ...
I’m early. I had to come early, I guess, so I will be properly crazy by the time Joe gets here. It feels so weird to sit in a Mexican restaurant on my lunch break waiting for a man, who just happens to be after my heart.
Joe. I think his name and feel wonderful. Joe is a searcher like me. We both want reasons for why things happen, for why people we love die from cancer. His wife had breast cancer at such a young age! I’m thirty-eight now, and I check my breasts so much for anything suspicious they’re practically afraid of my fingers, hiding all up in my bra.
Where is he? He could already be here watching me make a pig of myself with these tortilla chips. But he doesn’t know who I am ... does he?
Why did I choose El Toreo? Maybe he’ll think I’m Hispanic. No, he wouldn’t think that, as black as I am. And Mexican food is almost as all-American as Mickey D’s is now. Even McDonald’s has breakfast burritos, for goodness’ sake—
Is that him?
No.
A carryout order. Too old for me, anyway. Rodney was older than me by almost ten years, but this guy—looking at me with my mouth full of tortilla chips—
I need more water.
More soda.
More something.
I wish I had some grapes.
17
Joe
If I drum on this steering wheel any more I’ll have bruised fingertips.
Why’d I drive Cheryl’s mommy van to meet Shawna? What a dump! The kids never clean up after themselves.
Check that.
I need to have the kids clean up after themselves.
I should have parked farther away, like at that car wash over there. The van could sure use a wash. There’s enough tree sap on this van to ... to do what? I’m not thinking clearly.
“Get out of the van, Joe,” I whisper.
“But what if she doesn’t like me?” I whisper back.
More drumming.
“She’ll like you. She already likes you.”
All those e-mails. All those times my fingertips dripped sweat on the keys—like they’re doing now on the steering wheel.
I’m already late. I was never late before. I was always on time. Cheryl and I had a child every two years like clockwork, their birthdays spaced throughout the year so we wouldn’t go broke throwing them swim parties and Chuck E. Cheese parties and Thunder Valley parties and laser tag parties—
We haven’t had a party since ... Cheryl. Whose birthday is next? Lord, I can’t remember. Is it Jimmy’s?
How did Cheryl do it? Every morning I heard, “Brush your teeth, wash your face, lotion your body, and wear clean underwear.” They always wore ironed clothing and ate a wholesome breakfast, had a bag lunch, took secure book bags filled with the right books to school, and Cheryl never missed a signature on a note from school. If Rose, Joey, and Jimmy have taken their vitamins and have fresh breath when they leave for school, it’s a good day for me.
Shawna will be mad that I’m late. What excuse can I use? Lunch-hour traffic? It’s never that bad in Roanoke. The weather? No rain, just a crisp, cold, clear February sky that might turn into a little snow shower later.
“Get out of the van.”
Here we go.
I wish I had a towel for my hands.
18
Shawna
Joe isn’t showing. Or he did show and I scared him away because I smell like French fries. Online he hasn’t seemed like a “looks-matter” kind of man, but how can you really tell?
“Are you ready to order?”
Young Hispanic males keep sneaking up on me, asking the same question. They’ve been so patient, even giving me another basket of chips and more salsa. “I guess I’ll have a beef burrito to go.”
“Okay.”
What will that look like? Walking into McDonald’s where I am the Queen Bee carrying a burrito from El Toreo? I can always sneak in the back or leave it in the car to eat on my break. But it will get cold if I leave it there. If hot burritos tear up my intestines, what will a cold burrito do? Oh, I know I can warm it up, but I can’t—
A new arrival. White—as a ghost! That man needs more sun or something. He’s wiping his hands on his pants. Nice suit, though, wrinkled as it is. His shoes need a shine, and his face definitely needs a shave. Decent eyes
—
That are looking at me.
Squinting.
Look at all those crow’s-feet. He’s about, what, forty?
I look away from him and focus on the condensation streaming down my water glass. He wasn’t looking at me, I mean, he couldn’t be looking at me ...
I look back.
It’s him. It’s Joe. It has to be. He, um, he even looks like a Joe, whatever that—
His lips are moving, forming my name.
Where’s my voice? Gone. I can only nod and stare at the water making puddles in a circle around my glass.
Dearest Lord Jesus, what have I gotten myself into?
19
Joe
Shawna is black.
And beautiful.
But let’s get back to the black part. She didn’t sound “black” online. Oh, what’s that supposed to mean? We all sound ... monoracial or something like that when we’re online. That’s one of the glories of the Internet. No one has a race or ethnicity. There are no walls, just two or more minds connecting in cyberspace.
And she looks familiar. McDonald’s at Crossroads. My God, she’s been taking my orders for years. I wonder if she remembers me.
Geez, will I ever get to her table?
Eyes. She has a pair of dark eyes. I’ll bet that when she smiles, those dark eyes—
Ow.
I have bumped into her table, and she has had to grab for her glass before it topples over.
“Joe?” she asks. A soft voice. A kind voice. A voice ... that’s trying not to laugh at me, I’m sure. She’s probably thinking I’m blind or have poor depth perception.
“Yeah. Um, Shawna. Sorry I’m late.” I look behind me for no reason, no reason at all, at the tile floor, for no reason at all. There’s nothing there, Joe! If you’ve seen one floor ... “Um, traffic was bad from—”
