by Curtis Bunn
The black kid had responded, after looking at the two adults: “Yeah, me, too.” And then he had walked away.
It took everything in me to not say to the adults: He could have let your child bleed out right there in the street. But he didn’t. You wanted him out of your neighborhood, but being in your neighborhood likely saved his life—or prevented severe damage.
Those examples were reasons I walked and walked. There was no predicting what I would see by people who would not see me. And it all kept my mind off my pain.
After I recovered from surgery, I went to the shelter to take a shower for the first time in four days. But when you smell so bad so often, you become immune to your body odor. At least I did. I didn’t smell myself. But I knew I stunk. I had to, even though I was “cleaned up” while in the hospital.
I dreaded going to the shelter. It bothered me to see so many men, especially, black men, so down about life, so hopeless. Many of them did not believe there was anything better for them in the world. Many of them had been homeless so long, it was a way of life and they were not looking to get out and live. They were just surviving. Walking dead.
Many still were devastated by their plight. Those were the ones I gave my attention or conversation. They were the ones who came across hard times. Lost a job. Lost a loved one. Income was drained. No family or friends to turn to. And ended up on the streets or in the shelter.
I engaged them because they were like me, in a sense: Something traumatic happened that destroyed their world. And they listened and they believed when I shared some of my life’s experiences because they had done some things in their life. They knew life presented infinite possibilities and that their troubles would eventually be reversed.
The homeless who were lazy or underexposed and hopeless essentially believed people only lived a good life in the movies or on television. They could not see beyond their plight. I already was depressed. Hanging with them would have only made me more depressed.
I had to escape Brenda because she actually made me feel good, which I did not believe I was entitled to feel. I gave up that right that night I killed my family.
Brenda’s optimism, kindness and insistence to help me made her dangerous. I felt good about who she was as a person, which was too much for me to take.
I needed to feel nothing about her as I had about everyone else I had encountered over the previous two years … and that was a lot of people. No one seemed to really care about me. Not that I wanted them to, but I could feel their disconnection. Often they gave a dollar to me to just keep away from them.
I had seen people pull up on Courtland Street by the shelter with all kinds of food and clothing to donate. But I didn’t see caring. I saw that they were trying to make themselves feel good about their lives by “helping” our lives. We were the pawns in that game.
But in Brenda, I saw something different. I did not want to feel for her or to feel something from her. But her heart was pure; I was sure of it. Her goodness did not need to be around my lack of interest in anything good. So I left the hospital without letting her know.
When I did so, I was honest with myself. The idea that I was making a mistake came to mind. Why not embrace someone who truly wanted to embrace me?
I was too sick, too hurt and too prideful to accept her help. Leaving the hospital assured I would not taint her life. She did not deserve that. Having that concern about someone was something I had not felt since before I’d killed my family. And I was not sure how I felt about it.
CHAPTER NINE: THE FUNERAL
BRENDA
The night before my sister died, I talked to her about life.
“Sis, don’t worry about anything. I’m not happy you’re going to your final resting place, but I understand you’re tired. You love your son the way God intended us to love our family. Your heart was broken and it could never be fixed.
“I just want you to know—and I believe you can hear me—that your love in Donnie will sustain him. It will protect him and it will inspire him to be the man you birthed him to be. I believe that. Your love is powerful and it runs through my heart. Get your good rest. Go home to God. You’ve done your work here with me and your son.”
It was hard to believe I could speak so calmly with a broken, smashed, crushed, imploded heart. After almost eight months of being with her, absorbing her, I could see she was slipping away. It ached. It stung. It drained me.
“You were the best sister,” my cousin Sean said after the service. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for her like you were. It was just hard for me to see her like that.”
It was the wrong thing to say to me at that moment. The pain removed my filter.
“You think it was easy for me? That’s my sister over there, the person I was closest to on earth. So think about how hard it was for me. I spent almost eight months talking to her and crying at her bedside. I never got used to seeing her lying there. So, I really don’t want to hear about how hard it was for you to see her like that. I saw her like that.”
Usually, I was more diplomatic. I always tried to make others feel comfortable. But at that moment, I did not care what Sean felt. He was my first cousin and I loved him, grew up with him. But he wasn’t there for Theresa, and that shit pissed me off.
I was, in fact, pissed off at every person at her funeral. No one came to see her more than a couple of times. Most never came. They wrote her off. They didn’t see the need to visit her. That pissed me off. And I knew Theresa was, too.
She treated Sean like he was her son. She skipped work when she didn’t have any paid leave to attend his high school graduation. She and I put our money together to get his son a nice suit for a graduation present. Come to think of it, we contributed to Sean’s high school class trip. And Sean couldn’t come to sit with Theresa for an hour?
This is what I didn’t like about people. They disappointed you. They were quick to take, hesitant to give. Quick to offer an opinion on what should happen, but wouldn’t contribute to make it a reality. That’s why I did Theresa’s funeral the way I wanted it done—and the way I believed she would be honored and content.
Why wasn’t the casket open? Why wasn’t there any family allowed to speak? Who chose the poem? Why not wait to have the funeral on a weekend?
The questions came flying at me from people who might have cared about my sister, but did not show they cared in her time of need. So I answered all the questions at the repast with one simple sentence:
“Since I was the only one there for Theresa during her time in the hospital, when she needed to feel love the most, since I paid for this repast and any extras needed for the service, since I met with the funeral director and the printer and the musicians and did not get a single offer to help—all while I was grieving my sister—I did what the hell I wanted to do.”
I liked the silence. It empowered me. They had nothing to say because they knew I spoke the truth. They hadn’t heard me so mean or direct. And in a way, I credited Rodney for that. He could be mean and he could be strange, but he was direct. And through him, I learned you got your point across with no ambiguity that way.
I couldn’t take my so-called family anymore, so I left the repast. The caterer had been paid and I didn’t need to be around those people anymore.
I went home, got in bed, thought about my sister and cried myself to sleep.
I felt as empty about my life as I ever had. It was sad to visit Theresa in the hospital, but it gave me something to do and hope. With her gone, I felt lost.
Two weeks had passed since I had last seen Rodney in the hospital. I stopped every day at McDonald’s, to and from work, hoping to see him. I didn’t. I didn’t see Chester, either. I was sad about it.
Finally, I decided to forget about Rodney and to forget about feeling sorry for myself and get out of the house.
So one Saturday, I got dressed up and searched Yelp for a restaurant in downtown Atlanta to have a nice meal. I thought if I were around people, I could feel energized and alive.
I chose a place called White Oak because its menu was laden with fresh, healthy choices. The other thing I became adamant about was my health. I had to lose weight. My doctor had put me on blood pressure medicine and implored me to stop with the fast-foods.
At White Oak, I was proud that I passed on the rolls I was offered and dessert. I had a table by the window facing Baker Street, and I watched people walk by as I enjoyed my meal.
It was refreshing to be out, among people, and away from my apartment eating too much food I would prepare for myself. I needed to have someone serve me. Being there made me realize how much I missed socializing. I had not done much since my husband left—and not all that much when he was there.
I should not have been surprised he walked. We weren’t getting along so well. He had troubles on his job and eventually lost it. I was frustrated with his attitude that he was wronged as opposed to working toward bouncing back. He worked at Coca-Cola and he was dejected when the supervisor he considered a friend fired him instead of sharing his concerns or protecting him.
Financial issues for us came to the surface and he considered it crazy and demeaning that I insisted he drive for Uber or Lyft until he found a job worthy of his talent and experience.
“You go drive Uber,” Troy had told me.
Eventually, it became too much for him. I came home from work and he was gone. Just gone. I knew it because his clothes were gone . . . and his golf clubs.
Because my self-esteem was newspaper thin and fragile, not having him there beat me down. I believed I had driven him away and that I couldn’t exist alone.
“It’s nobody’s fault,” he had said when he’d called me a few days later. “We grew apart. I’m sorry. I really am.”
I wanted to resent him and hate him, even. But I couldn’t. That’s how low my self-esteem was—I couldn’t blame him for leaving. I wanted to tell him that, but I never got the shot. I also wanted to tell him I wished he would have stayed.
Until that night at White Oak, I hadn’t thought about a man. But doing so woke me up. I loved having a man around, to feel protected and cared for. I missed the passion Troy and I had. I hadn’t until that moment.
I treated myself to a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. The more I sipped, the more I became unhappy with myself. I could see my reflection in the window, and it showed cheeks so chubby that I turned away. How did I get to be about fifty pounds overweight?
Eating did it, of course. But it really was about being depressed, and trying to feel better by stuffing my face with food. I kept going up a size in my clothes, vowing the next upsize would be the last. But it wasn’t.
Looking at myself in the mirror disgusted me. And the more I sipped, the more disappointed I became with myself. Here I was looking to save Rodney, and I needed to save myself.
It was 8:30 and the wine gave me a buzz. One glass. That’s all it took. I liked wine—loved it, in fact—but seldom treated myself to it. I was afraid to drive home feeling as I did, so I pulled out my flat pair of shoes I had in my oversized purse and switched out of the heels that I could only tolerate for about two hours. I decided to walk.
I seldom spent much time in downtown Atlanta, which was not as lively as Midtown or Buckhead. But if there were large conventions in town at the Hyatt Regency, Marriott Marquis or the Westin, people would flood the streets seeking something to do outside of the hotels.
There did not seem to be a convention on this day, based on the number of people walking. I went right out of the restaurant with the idea of walking up four blocks to Sweet Georgia Juke Joint, crossing the street and walking back.
I had no idea I would encounter so many people along the way—homeless people. Every fifty feet, I was either hounded or gently approached by someone seeking money. Other than Rodney outside McDonald’s, I’d had limited interaction with the homeless. But this short walk was an adventure. And having established something with Rodney opened me up to engaging them.
Before I could get to the first corner, a woman wanted to know if I could help her get food. At first, I was comfortable. But then I looked her over and she was actually a man. It startled me. He was dressed as a woman, in a halter top, grungy skirt and a blonde wig. His skin was as dark as black ink. He was so skinny it jolted me.
I couldn’t respond. He asked again.
“Hey, can you give me eighty-seven cents so I can get something to eat?”
Finally, I came out of my momentary stupor and processed the request. Eighty-seven cents? Who asks for such an obscure amount?
It had to be part of a con. No one would stand there and count out eighty-seven cents. Rather, someone would give a dollar and move on. But asking for eight-seven cents was sort of disarming because it was less than a dollar. Definitely, it was a psychological thing, the way commercials would say a car costs less than $20,000 at $19,995.
One thing I did not like was for someone to get over on me or to think they could. So I reached into my bag, pulled out my wallet and carefully went through the change compartment and counted out eighty-seven cents.
As I did, I asked, “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but what happened to you? Why are you out here like this?”
“Out here like what?”
“Like this.”
“What else you want me to do? Got nowhere else to go.”
“No family? No friends?”
“No one.”
“I was just asking. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to offend you. I’m just, you know, curious.”
“Yeah, well curiosity killed the cat.”
This person was thin but taller than me and so strange-looking that he was frightening. But I learned from my ex-husband to never show fear, especially when scared.
So I postured. “Well, I ain’t no cat,” I said. But I wasn’t crazy. I did not want to incite this person. I handed over eighty-seven cents.
“Here you go. Nice to meet you.”
“What’s this?”
“You asked for eighty-seven cents.”
I received a stare so intense that I could not fake it: I was scared. I didn’t wait around for a “thank you” or anything else. I just walked away. When I got a safe distance, I turned back to see the man standing there staring at me. Then he took my money I had given him and threw it on the ground.
At that point, I didn’t care. I was just glad to be gone. But not a minute later, I was approached again.
“Hey, sister,” the pleasant voice came. The man was around my age, it seemed. He was boisterous and cheery, even, smiling and talkative. “You having a beautiful evening, sister?”
“It’s fine.”
“No, you’re fine. Matter of fact, why is your man letting you walk around this city by yourself? You should have a bodyguard.”
Before I could catch myself, I blushed. That was more than Rodney said I had done the day I’d met him. I considered that progress. And he was right: It felt good to acknowledge a compliment, even if it came from a homeless guy on the street.
“I need to get this body right, not a bodyguard.”
“Shoot, no. If you don’t mind me saying, you look—what’s that word—voluptuous. And don’t let nobody tell you different.”
I smiled. “You’re a charmer, I see.”
As he smiled, I looked around and noticed the strange looks I received from people who wondered why I dedicated time to this man, whose clothes were tattered and who reeked of the streets and pushed a shopping cart.
“Don’t deny it, sister. Your beauty is lighting up this street.”
“OK, what’s your name?”
“Bobby. You can call me Bob. Or Rob. Or Robby. Or Robert.”
“You’re so funny. How can I help you tonight?”
“It’s like this: I’m in a situation. Lost my job. Got caught up in something and got incarcerated. Now that I’m out, I can’t get a job. So, I’m trying to put together some money to save so I can, you know, provide for myself. I’m not proud to be out here asking you for mone
y, but it’s a desperate situation.”
“How long ago did you get out?”
“About nine months.”
“And you haven’t been able to find work in all that time?”
“I’ll be honest: I didn’t look for a job the entire time. I had some family business to take care of. But in the last four, five months, it’s been a struggle. When you have a record, well, it’s not like the doors are open for you.”
The need to know more was superseded by not prying too much into the man’s business. So I let it go and dug back into my purse. I could not afford the five-dollar bill I handed over, but I figured God would bless me for blessing Bob.
“Sister, you’re all right with me. I thank you for your generosity. God will bless you.”
I gave him a wry smile. “I wish I could do more,” I said before walking away. Bob could have been lying or he could have been running a con on me. But I didn’t care. It felt right to give.
But I learned that night that one person could not save the homeless world. Shoot, one person could not save every person in need he encountered. It would be too costly—financially and emotionally.
A minute or so after meeting Rob, there was Micah, at the corner of Peachtree and Ellis. He wore an Army jacket buttoned to the top, although it was around eighty degrees. I could smell alcohol. I knew to not judge him, though. It was not my place.
Before he could get started, I told him, “I wish I could help, but I do not have anything to give tonight.” He accepted my words, but followed me as I crossed Peachtree Street toward the Ritz-Carlton.
“If you had some extra cash on you, how much would you give me?” he asked. That was a new one.
“How much would you need?”
“All of it, as you can see. But I wouldn’t expect you to give me your all.”
“Why don’t you work? I’m not being mean. I’m just asking. You seem like your mind is sharp and you’re healthy.”
“You got a job for me to do? I’ll do it.”
“There are jobs out here. Are you trying to get one?”
“I work—sometimes. I may help someone move or do some handiwork around someone’s house. It just depends.”
