by Alex Dean
* * *
IT WAS A CRISP fall morning during a CPS staff meeting, when Ariel’s mother, Patty, received an emergency call about her mother, whom she had not seen or spoken to in six months. Their relationship had been strained because of her mother’s inability to stop drinking, which had sent her life into a downward spiral.
According to Ariel, Patty had urged her mother to stop on many occasions, but her mother refused to get help and had recently been diagnosed with end-stage liver disease—which, according to her doctors, had gotten progressively worse.
Ariel’s grandmother had been rushed to Northwestern Memorial Hospital and the rest of the family, including Ariel, left work and school early to be by her side.
They stayed in the emergency room for twelve hours until Ariel’s grandmother was released into the privacy of her own room. From there, Ariel told me, the family discussed their next move and how they had planned to help.
I felt so bad for Ariel. I could see how much all this was affecting her. One evening while in her room, Ariel had shown me a photograph of her grandmother as a young woman. With flawless skin and flowing locks of auburn-colored hair, she was formally dressed and quite regal looking. In a word, beautiful. Ariel sobbed as she held the picture. Even though she didn’t say it, I could tell she feared the worst.
For the remainder of the week, Ariel’s mother was visibly stressed. But she refused to let what happened get in the way of the big party that was planned for Ariel’s upcoming eighteenth birthday.
A private room was rented at the nearby La Quinta Inn, where over one hundred guests were in attendance, including friends, family and many of Ariel’s classmates. The room was beautifully decorated with hot pink and silver balloons, glittered swirls, and a neon pink banner draped across the ceiling, which read: HAPPY EIGHTEENTH, ARIEL! A custom four-tier yellow birthday cake with vanilla frosting and a pink ribbon on top sat perched upon a large table draped with a polka dot cover.
Music blared from the speakers throughout the room, playing the latest hip-hop and pop music, including Ariel’s favorite songs by Taylor Swift, Justin Bieber, and Beyoncé.
Ariel moved about, beaming, as guests took pictures with their cell phones. Then she went to the front of the room to make several announcements on the DJ’s microphone.
“I wish to thank everyone for coming out tonight to celebrate my eighteenth birthday. It’s very much appreciated! Also, and more importantly, I want to introduce everyone to a new addition to our family.” Ariel peered across the room and pointed to where I was seated. “She’s over there, seated at table number four. Her name is Lula Darling.”
I smiled. My gaze swept the room. The crowd cheered and clapped as whispers circulated. I nodded and kindly acknowledged everyone, including those who sat at my table.
I could clearly hear them when they talked.
“Who is that girl again?”
“Is that her real name, Darling?”
“Oh God, I was hoping Ariel wasn’t going to announce she was pregnant!” blurted a friend of Ariel’s mom.
“Okay, everyone, time to get out your seats! It’s that time!” the DJ yelled, looking down at his turntable, and then he played some popular line dance song, urging everyone to the middle of the floor.
I looked over the room in stark amazement and smiled. I’d never seen anything like it. How happy everyone seemed to be. It didn’t matter if they were Black, White or Brown; they were all enjoying themselves, and each other, swaying to the music until the party was over.
While my focus had been on the adults dancing, at first I hadn’t noticed the young man staring at me from across the room. He was nice looking and clean-cut. He had sunglasses conveniently covering his eyes and wore a crimson long-sleeved shirt and dark blue jeans. He sat by himself at a table in the corner.
When Ariel went over to his table to say hello, I saw him whisper something in her ear as she leaned over to hear him talk. Ariel then turned to look at me and smiled. I quickly figured out what these two were up to.
I was ready. Had been taught how to dress, what to wear and how to hold a conversation with my peers. Although still not perfect, I’d come a long way from the day Ariel and I had first met.
Ariel walked him over to meet me.
“Lula, this is my friend, Marcus. He wanted to come over to meet you and say hello,” she said. “Well, I need to run off again. Have fun, you guys!” Then she straightened the strap on her party dress and smiled as she hurried off to finish working the room.
“Hi, Lula. My name is Marcus, Marcus Whitaker. My friends call me MC Whip,” he said as he extended his hand to shake mine.
“Why do they call you that?” I asked as he sat down.
Marcus smiled. “It’s a nickname since my last name is Whitaker. I guess it just sounds cool. A kinda play on words, if you will. I think I’ve seen you in the hall between classes. What grade are you in?”
“I’m a junior.”
Marcus briefly looked around, scanning the room.
“How do you like it so far?” he asked.
“I like the school a lot, although it was kinda rough getting started.”
“It always is when you make the leap from eighth grade to high school,” said Marcus.
I nodded. “You’re absolutely right,” I said. I’d been prepared for a moment like this, briefed on how to respond in case anyone may have wanted to question my past.
“I’m a senior. Surprised I haven’t met you before. So…how did you and Ariel meet?” Marcus asked.
“We met on…I think it was Fifty-Third Street.”
“I hear a little accent in your voice. Are you originally from Chicago?”
“No, I’m from Natchez, Mississippi, was born and raised there.”
Marcus took a sip from a glass of water on the table. “I was born and raised here on the South Side. I’m also a rapper. You may have heard one of my songs, or seen my video on YouTube?” he asked with a chuckle.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“I still plan on going to college, though. Got to have something to fall back on. And since I play on the varsity football team, chances are I’ll be getting a free ride. My grandmother insists, so I guess I don’t have much of a choice.”
It was good to hear that Marcus wanted to further his education. For the life of me, I couldn’t believe that there were kids who’d rather drop out than take advantage of the opportunity to go to school. Any school.
“That’s good,” I said. “Not everyone gets that chance, especially where I’m from.”
We shared a brief stare before Marcus found the nerve to ask me to see him again.
“Have you ever been in a recording studio, Lula?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Why don’t you join me tomorrow? I’ll be in the studio after practice, recording my next mixtape. I’ll pick you up, and we can hang out together.”
I nodded and smiled. “Okay.”
Here I was already planning to go on my first date. I’d imagined that he could have asked any girl in this room. But he didn’t. He chose me.
I was truly looking forward to it.
And with a guy like Marcus.
I could hardly wait.
Chapter 15
The following evening after school, we arrived at a recently remodeled building on Wabash Avenue in the South Loop, a historic neighborhood and heart of the Entertainment District.
Marcus and I parked and went inside through several doors and walked down a long hallway before we entered a dark room.
After opening the door, he flipped on the lights from a switch on the wall, immediately fired up some type of recording machine, and then powered on what he called a mixing board.
Music suddenly blared through some speakers mounted near the ceiling. It was unlike anything I’d ever heard. As I listened to the funky track playing, I glanced over colorful neon lights dancing and blinking within racks and racks of equipment. I ha
d, of course, never seen anything this high-tech. Not even on TV during the short time I’d been fortunate enough to watch one.
We spent several hours laughing and talking, Marcus imitating some of the teachers at school in between rapping and freestyling to some of his songs.
It was so much fun, I thought, especially when he had changed the lyrics of his latest song and made them about me. It was crazy. I never thought I’d meet someone I cared about this way, this soon.
In the very short time I’d known him, Marcus had been so entertaining, lively and witty. He obviously cares about me. He’s so cute. And I’m sure a lot of girls at Chicago Prep would agree with me.
“So, how do you like it?” he asked, pointing around his recording studio, still bouncing in rhythm to the hypnotic beat from what he said was an Akai MPC drum machine.
“It’s nice. Is this all yours?”
Marcus shrugged. “Nah, not really. Well, I guess you could say it is. I, along with some other guys, put up the money for it. They would be more like investors.”
“You have to pay them back?”
“Yeah, our deal is like…when and if my rap career takes off, I’ll be able to pay them back and then some. They’re cool. They don’t hound me about it; they know it takes time.”
I nodded. “I see.”
Marcus reached down and grabbed a remote from the recording studio’s mixing board to turn on a television mounted on the wall.
Flipping through the channels, the two of us watched as breaking news reported that an unarmed black man had been shot in the streets of Chicago.
Marcus shook his head and pointed at the screen. “I can’t believe this is happening yet again. My grandmother used to tell me about stories like this back in the day, years ago. Seems like the more things change, the more they stay the same.”
I glanced at Marcus and at the apparent frustration written across his face. “I would have never guessed that you were socially conscious,” I said.
Marcus suddenly turned his gaze toward me. “Lula, there’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he said.
Chapter 16
Just as Marcus said the words, there was a loud knocking sound that cut through the room, overshadowing the last words I’d heard from his mouth. Sounds like that almost always startled me. They reminded me of the brutal snap of Mr. Hartley’s whip whenever he laid into one of the field hands’ backside.
I remained calm and watched as Marcus turned around, stood, and walked toward the door. He had jokingly referred to this place as his office, “where money was to be made and dreams fulfilled by any means necessary.”
Those were his exact words. He even smiled when he said them. But my inner conscious knew better. Days and nights spent in the darkest hours of Natchez’s wretched past had taught my spirit to know, to know when something was not right.
I reached over to grab a bottle of water and clumsily knocked over a photograph of Marcus and his brother. Marcus rarely talked about his brother, Fred. Only that Fred had died under mysterious circumstances while in a county jail. Younger brothers who had died too soon. That was definitely one thing out of many that Marcus and I had shared in common.
When I knocked over the picture, the frame fell onto the studio’s hardwood floor and clattered before it came to a complete stop. I looked toward the door as I bent over to retrieve it. That was when Marcus and another young man walked into the room.
“Lula, is everything okay in here?” asked Marcus.
“Yes,” I said, my heart beating rapidly. “I accidentally knocked over this picture.”
“Okay, no problem. Just be careful,” Marcus said before turning toward the other man, whom he seemingly had no intention of introducing me to.
“I’ll give you a call tomorrow. I need to get back in there,” Marcus said before he and the man shook hands and hugged. Marcus then walked up several wooden steps and back into the control room, where I waited patiently.
“I best be going,” I said. “It’s getting late and, well, I know the Evanses are probably wondering where I am.”
Marcus suddenly grew agitated. “I don’t understand. What’s with you and this curfew? You’re almost eighteen, Lula. Almost a full-grown woman. Soon you’ll be on your own, making your own decisions. Why not start now?”
“As long as I am a member of their household, I will respect their rules.”
Marcus protested. “I don’t get it. What those white people do for you anyway besides give you a place to stay, huh?”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me either,” I said.
“Okay. So tell me…what have they done for you that’s so special, Lula?”
“To answer your question, they’ve done a lot for me.”
Marcus smirked. “I think I know enough. A small-town girl moves to the big city, looking for her piece of the American dream,” he said.
I struggled with telling Marcus the truth about my past, about how all this really came to be. The challenge of being not only in a different place, but in a different time.
I might as well have been from another planet. Like the moon, for instance, one of those distant gifts of God’s creation that Mama and I would marvel at while lying in bed at night.
Marcus glared at me and blew out a frustrated breath from his mouth. In the short time I’d known him, I had never seen him this upset. I didn’t like seeing this side of him. I reached forward in a welcoming gesture, grabbed his hand, and proceeded to tell him my secret.
His eyes widened with a look somewhere between astonishment and disbelief.
“You’re joking, right?” he said.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “And if I could, if God saw fit, somehow I’d go back and endure everything just to be with my mama.”
“What was…um, or is, her name?”
“Ella Mae. Ella Mae Darling.”
Marcus stood up, and his eyes met mine. I could tell by the look on his face he was truly at a loss for words.
“Man, you have quite a story. I’ve never heard of nothing like that. Ever. Do you realize what could happen if word got out that you—”
In a rush of adrenaline, I grabbed his arm. “I need you to keep this to yourself,” I told him.
“Yeah, no problem. You have my word. Do those people you live with know?”
I nodded. “They’re the only ones that know, and they haven’t told anyone. And they promised me that if my story were to be told, I would be the one to do it.”
Marcus just stood there as if mired in disbelief, his big round eyes unblinking, staring at me like I was some alien life form.
There wasn’t much left to tell Marcus that I hadn’t already shared, except for what life was really like for so-called Negroes back in 1854. By the look on his face, it was extremely clear that he was not ready to hear every explicit detail which I put forth, only attempting to process it the best way he knew how.
Marcus then put his hand on my shoulder.
“I better get you home,” he said.
He picked up his cap and grabbed my hand, and we walked outside into the cool night air on Wabash Avenue. He said nothing and appeared to be speechless.
Chapter 17
We got into Marcus’s car, made a U-turn in front of the studio and headed southbound on Wabash Avenue. We traveled for roughly twenty minutes, eventually approaching Hyde Park as I noted the time on the dashboard. 10:35 p.m.
Some uneasiness had set in. It was past my curfew. And by the looks of things, tonight, Hyde Park seemed a lot different than it did earlier today.
Marcus’s phone suddenly vibrated in the car’s cup holder. He curiously glanced at its screen, but did not bother to answer it.
He shrieked through several intersections, even hastily running several stop signs, like there was something else that commanded his attention.
“Are you okay?” I asked him.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Just thinking about your story. And also thinking about my little brother. It ge
ts me so mad when I think about what happened to him while he was in police custody.”
“Let me guess. You don’t believe the official story given for his cause of death?”
Marcus shook his head, grabbing the steering wheel tighter. “Not at all. But I’ll tell you one thing—if I ever get the chance, I’m going to hire my own team of experts and lawyers to look at the facts, the evidence, and the way the case was handled,” he explained.
Marcus then made a sharp right onto Hyde Park Boulevard, and a light finally caught us. On our left was a group of young people walking hurriedly past Mellow Yellow Restaurant, heading toward a street performer on the corner.
“Look at that old fool,” Marcus said, laughing, as we watched an older black man dancing sideways and in circles, entertaining a group of onlookers with his mangled beard and seemingly crazy sense of humor.
He had no shirt on his body, no belt or shoes. But that didn’t stop the homeless guy from putting on some kind of a show, nor did it stop the crowd from tossing coins into the rusted coffee can on the sidewalk three feet in front of him.
The light turned green, and after several more minutes of driving we finally pulled up curbside in front of the Evanses’ condo.
Marcus put his foot on the brake and shifted the car into park. “Goodnight, Lula. I’ll call you tomorrow. Hey, perhaps we can go to one of those fancy restaurants downtown,” he said.
I turned toward him. “And after that, you’ll bring me home,” I said, staring at him and grinning.
“Oh, yeah. Absolutely. I’ll promise to be on my best behavior.”
Then he leaned over and planted a sweet kiss on my lips.
Chapter 18
Like the gentleman he’d appeared to be, Marcus waited patiently as I walked toward the building. I turned and waved goodbye before I entered the walkway.
Then I glanced at the watch Ariel had given me and wondered what Mrs. Evans would say about me coming home at this late hour.
