by C. S. Lakin
Jake’s throat closed up and he sobbed in great heaves, and his mother’s arms wrapped around him, and he was that little lost boy once more, always lost, just as Joseph was lost to him now and forever.
Roland came through Mosey’s front door just as Joe finished closing up the last cardboard box.
“Hey, brother, got you all set up.” He strode over to the small kitchen table where Mosey was cutting out coupons and set a bunch of papers down. Kew-pons was how Mosey called them. Joe smiled, thinking how Mosey could avail himself to more money than Joe had ever known, what with his daughter’s continual offer to put him up in a nicer place, his own house in a good neighborhood, closer to where she worked at CSU, and Nadine’s own husband an assistant district attorney, but there Mosey was, cutting out his coupons to save a few cents at the local market. But no, Mosey wanted to be in the heart of the ’hood, doing the Lord’s work, which was fixing folks’ plumbing and squeaky door hinges and loose locks.
Rhonda, Mosey’s granddaughter—Nadine’s only girl in a crowd of boys, not unlike Dinah had been—gave Joe a look. “You sure you want to do this? Officially change your name?”
“Now don’t start in on the boy,” Mosey said, his eyes on the circulars he was attacking with his darning scissors. “He made his decision. He can always go on back home if he feels so inclined. Let up on him already.”
Rhonda spoke to Mosey but looked at Joe, her dark enchanting eyes chastising him for the untold time. “I just hate to think of the pain his father is suffering, thinking Joe’s dead—”
“I am dead,” Joe answered. “To that life, to my family.”
“Enough, Rhonda. Ease up on him. He’s belabored the decision for months now and wild horses aren’t going to drag him back if he don’t want to go. Besides, maybe if he goes back, those bad brothers of his may well try another attempt on his life. ’Specially since he could hold an attempted murder rap over their heads.”
“I don’t care about that, Mosey. I just want to put it all behind me, forget everything.”
“Well,” Roland said, “at very least you coulda come up with something a little more snappy. Jay Smith? Come on now, why not a name like LeRoy or even Winston or Cornelius—something catchy.”
Joe cleared his throat. “Cornelius?”
Rhonda laughed and glared at Roland. “You really think this brotha looks like a Cornelius?”
Roland shrugged with a grin. Joey waved their antics away.
“It suits me. Something plain and unnoticeable.”
Rhonda flashed her bright smile at Joe. “Everyone’s been calling him Jay all this time, Roland. Folks at church will start wondering if we now call him by some different name. Now you’ll be official,” she said to Joe. “You can get put on payroll at the center, get a real paycheck. You’ll need that to pay your room at the men’s staff house. ’Bout time you moved outta Pappy’s tiny apartment and became legitimate.”
“He’s been a pleasure to have. I enjoy the company.”
“I’m sure you do, Pappy. But you and I both know it’s not safe for him to be living here.”
Mosey snorted. “The Lord brought him here, and he’s been watching over him. Nobody’s gonna mess with my boy.”
“Well, he’ll like having his own bedroom—and a shower instead of just that grungy tub. Really, Pappy, when are you ever gonna move out of here?”
Joe laughed, having heard this very conversation a dozen times in the last few months, between Rhonda and Nadine, the both of them urging Mosey to move since there’d been so much violence, right on this block, over the last year. Six drive-by shootings, gangs congregating on the corners, hemming them in, according to Rhonda.
He went over to the table and looked through the papers Roland had brought him—social security card, driver’s license, even a credit card in the name of Jay Smith. “Are these legal?”
Roland faked a groan. “Of course they are. You think with Mosey’s son-in-law being the law I’m gonna get you fakes? You filled out all the forms; I just pushed them through, Jay. Or should I call you Mr. Smith?”
Rhonda and Mosey both chuckled.
“Well,” Roland said, “let’s get those boxes loaded up and get you moved in at the staff house.”
Joe looked at his three small boxes, a bit surprised he even had that much stuff to call his own. But over the months folks from church had brought over clothing and small items like an alarm clock and some books to read, one old sister crocheting him an ugly throw blanket, all bright colors but Joe grateful for its warmth—and how could he leave it behind, now that he felt all sentimental about it?
These kind folks he’d met through Mosey, who went to his church, had taken him in without question, accepted him into their loving church family. He wasn’t the only white person attending there, but he could tell he was an object of curiosity, having appeared out of nowhere, Mosey keeping a tight lip regarding his situation and only saying he was a brother in need and without friends or family.
Joe’s memories had come back gradually, all but what had happened that night Mosey found him. His last memory was of the fancy dinner his dad had thrown for him, but after that—nothing. When Mosey had told him how he’d been found on the street, his face bashed up and bleeding, and all the news reports stating he’d been kidnapped in Westwood Village, his brothers claiming he’d wandered out of a comedy club only to disappear, he put it all together. He almost laughed when Mosey had commented about his being thrown off the overpass, Joe suddenly recalling how Simon had defaulted to his favorite method of execution—pushing people off edges. His memory then rushed back at him—the murder of that boy Shane, Joe’s urgent need to get his family to confess the crime, feeling God’s hand weighing heavily upon him, on them all. How stupid he was to think his family would listen to him. No wonder they all wanted to be rid of him.
What did any of that matter now? When they had thrown him over the railing it was as if all Joe’s plans and hopes went overboard as well, sank to the bottom of a bottomless sea. All that striving, trying to please God, dreaming of becoming a doctor—gone. He felt nothing, no ambition, no calling, no interest in being anything or anyone. He no longer sensed God near him, no longer heard that small voice leading him, although Mosey had assured him God was not gone or sleeping but giving Joe time.
Time, Joe smirked. Time in prison, more like. A dark, windowless prison where he sat day after day in the dark, never before so separated from God, so forgotten. Why Mosey thought God had directed him to pull him off the street and care for him all these months, Joe had no clue. Joe doubted it was God. More likely Mosey just doing what he did—caring for everyone and everything, his ministry that gave meaning to his life, fulfilled him. And that was all well and good. Joe was grateful to him. For he knew if he’d been left there on that street, he may not have survived the night. Or if he had, or someone had called for an ambulance and he’d been returned home, then what?
Joe really didn’t know. Would he have told on his brothers? Probably. He always had in the past. Then his brothers would have been arrested and there’d be a trial and his whole family would have been dragged through the nightmare of it all, with Dinah destroyed from the fallout and Ben no doubt ill as a result, maybe even his dad put behind bars. Let God deal with his brothers, he concluded. He would at some point—either in this life or at the judgment. It was out of Joe’s hands, although at those times when Mosey prayed with him, at meals and before they retired for bed, Joe felt a sadness and deep sense of loss, knowing he couldn’t bring himself to pray, not anymore. Couldn’t even ask God to help him.
For he knew God wouldn’t listen to him, not with his heart so full of malice and a desire for revenge, ungodly desires that kept festering in him but he didn’t care to quell. From the time he woke till the time he fell fitfully asleep each night, his hurt and anger rumbled, although he kept it well hidden behind his smile, wishing he could tell Mosey how he felt but finding himself too gripped in the clutches of hate to
speak of it. He did his work at the center, his mindless work of filing papers and filling out forms for those seeking assistance with their health or financial troubles, but all the while his thoughts veered back to the faces of his brothers, especially Reuben, the one brother he thought actually cared for him, and there he’d been, on TV, spouting lies and covering his culpability, his hands stained with blood along with Simon and Levi.
Joe looked over at Mosey, the man who fixed things. A man who plodded up and down the neighborhood streets, visiting folks, mostly shut-ins and single moms with big families, getting invited in and pulling tools out of his bag, something like Felix the Cat’s bag of tricks—a wrench or a screwdriver to use to tighten, fasten, repair, or replace. Make a small annoying problem go away, lighten someone’s load just a little.
Joe recalled a time when he used to be able to fix things too, back when he was a small boy. A butterfly. A gash in a leg. He thought he had a bag of tricks too, a bag from God—until he’d tried to save his mom and found his bag was empty, nothing in it at all, nothing but misplaced faith.
Now he sat in a prison—of his own making, really. Wrongly accused, left for dead, forgotten by God. He wished Mosey had something in that bag of tricks that could fix him, some divine wrench that could adjust his attitude, take away his hate and need to see his brothers pay for what they did. But Joe knew there was no such tool. So here he would remain, smile through his days and smolder through his nights, hoping at some point his desire for revenge would burn itself out, stop holding sway over him. That maybe someday the prison door would fly open and he’d once again breathe the breath of freedom, back in the glistening light of God’s favor. If that were possible.
Roland opened the door, one of Joe’s boxes under his arm, and Joe went over to Mosey, who stood and gave him a hug, refused to let him say thanks, let any words of gratitude escape from his lips. Joe picked up the last box as Rhonda said a few things to her grandfather, then followed out the door behind them.
“We’ll be ’round on Sunday to pick you up for church, Pappy,” she called back to him.
“I’ll be here,” he answered, closing the door.
“Ah,” Roland said as they exited the building and stepped out onto the street, “I like this cool winter air. Glad to get out of that stuffy apartment. I don’t know how the two of you lived together in that tiny space without driving each other crazy.”
“We managed,” Joe answered.
Rhonda put a hand on Joe’s sleeve, the sleeve of a sweater that once belonged to someone at their church. “You’ll like it over at the men’s staff house. You already know a few of the brothers there. I hope it suits you.”
“I’m sure it will suit me fine.”
No doubt she thought he was nuts, choosing to live in this part of town, turning his back on his family, working a menial job when she knew how he’d been about to go off to UCLA, she herself with a degree in social work, plenty driven and accomplished at such a young age, only five years his senior. But in all this time she’d never chastised his choice, not when he volunteered to help out at the center and accepted her grandfather’s charity, not even now, when he’d agreed to become a full-time employee at the nonprofit, getting paid federally funded pittance wages. He appreciated her quiet and nonjudgmental support.
They stopped at Roland’s car, parked a ways down the street, loaded the boxes, then got in. Roland and Rhonda sat up front, chatting animatedly, while Joe sat back in his seat, in the dark interior of the car, the angry, hateful feelings roiling up again, his brothers’ lying faces sneering at him. Roland drove and Joe looked out the window as they headed to his new residence, his new digs in a safer part of town. Not that it made any difference, this change in scenery. His was the type of prison you took with you wherever you went
.
1999
Everlasting Love
Where there is grief, there will be hope
And if ever a hand is in need, know that I’ll be holdin’ on
Know that the peace that comes from above
Is the same everlasting love
Remember me whenever you’re all alone
And if it helps you to sleep know that I’ll be looking on
Know that the peace that you dream of
Is the same everlasting love
You know I’ve watched you carry all this weight upon your shoulders
As if no one understands what you go through
But with all the might in you, believe what I say is true
When I say that I will never ever leave you or forsake you
So you just reach out as far as you can
Should the whole world just stare in disbelief
Know that I’ll take hold of your hand
What your heart feels is what you sing of
Is the same everlasting love, everlasting love, everlasting love
—Cece Winans
“I saw that,” Rhonda said.
“Saw what?” Joe put the stack of papers in order, then set the file on the desk. Rhonda came over and sat in the chair, the one old Mrs. Franklin had just vacated. “What are you doing over in my neck of the woods?”
She shrugged. “Just checking on a few things—you included. Wanted to see how you liked your new position. A lot more fun than hiding out in the file room, isn’t it?”
Joe took in Rhonda’s look. She always dressed up; seemed most of the women in his church did, not just on Sundays either. Her hair was pulled back, dozens of tiny cornrows neatly laid out on her head. Her silk blouse and wool skirt accentuated her lithe body, a body that always reminded Joe a little of his sister, although she and Dinah couldn’t be any more different in both appearance and personality, but Rhonda was tall and graceful. Maybe she had danced too; he wouldn’t be surprised.
He suddenly missed his sister, then pushed down the feeling, far into his gut where he could ignore it. He’d gotten better at forgetting his family, a fine art he was learning to master. He’d catch his mind wandering off down memory lane, then reel it back in, push Erase on the tape machine in his brain so he could record new memories, overwrite the old.
“I saw the way you spoke to her,” Rhonda said. “You have a gift.”
“A what?” Joe’s heart sped up.
“A way with people.”
“Oh.” He was glad she wasn’t about to give him a word from the Lord, like they sometimes did in their church. It was fine if other people heard from God, but Joe didn’t want anyone speaking prophesy over him about his own life. He was done with having a calling, didn’t want to be called to do anything other than see the next person on his list.
“You’d make a good doctor, Jay.”
He smiled sweetly at her. “Quit pressuring me, Rhonda. You know how I feel about it.”
“I’m just saying, is all.”
“I heard you.”
She gave him a playful smack on the shoulder, lowered her voice. “You can’t hide behind this desk forever, Mr. Smith.”
“Can if I want.”
Rhonda rolled her eyes. “You coming to revival this week?”
Joe shook his head. “Don’t think I can handle all that pressure.”
“What pressure?”
Joe shrugged.
“Jay, I watch you. You come to church, sing the songs, visit with the brothers, help out with all the events and ministries. I can’t figure you out. You act saved but . . . are you?”
Joe blew out a breath. “I’ve always believed in God, felt close to him, ever since I can remember. I got baptized when I was six. I know that’s kind of young but I’ve never questioned my salvation.”
“Well, then, you know Jesus is your savior, right? And you’ve given your life to him, surrendered in submission?”
Joe didn’t know what to say. He only nodded. What was she getting at?
“And my Pappy told me about how he found you. Said you were wrapped in divine light, and that God told him you were someone special that he needed to take
in and care for.” She chuckled and Joe couldn’t help but smile at her endearing expression. “He said you were an angel that fell from the sky.”
Now it was Joe’s turn to laugh. “More like from an overpass. And it was probably because I looked white as a ghost. Your grandfather would take in any stray he tripped over—you know that.”
“I’m just saying, I think you are resisting God’s leading. He brought you to us for a reason—you see that don’t you?”
“And what reason is that?” Now he was curious as to where her questions were leading.
“Surely not to sit behind this desk the rest of your life.”
“How do you know?”
She gave him a wry look. “Did you always want to be a doctor?”
He sighed. “Only since I was seven. When I watched my mom die in front of me.”
“Oh, Jay, I’m sorry. I guess I am prying too much.”
“No, that’s okay. Maybe I should talk to someone about it.” He fiddled with the edge of the folder, aware she was giving him undivided attention. “I . . . have a lot of feelings bottled up, and I’m confused. I feel . . . I don’t know how to say how I feel . . .”
She tapped her beautifully manicured and painted nails on his desk. “When’s your next appointment?” she asked.
Joe looked at his daily planner. “Not until two. But I need to type up some forms.”
“They can wait. Let me take you out to lunch. I’m starving and there’s that new soul food restaurant opened up we still haven’t gone to.”
Joe opened his mouth to protest, already regretting he’d said anything about his inner turmoil. But Rhonda stood, smoothed out her skirt, flashed him a smile that sent a tingle down his back.
“You’re not going to make me eat all alone, are you? That would be so ungracious of you.”
She waited while he organized his desk, grabbed his jacket, and checked for his wallet. “Oooh, I just can’t wait to try their ribs. My mouth is already watering.”
