Herman trained in Fort Sam Houston, then went to Norfolk, Virginia, where he received his orders. Burma was his final destination. He became part of an all-Negro unit responsible for building airstrips and guarding American aircraft and airmen on the British airfields.
Mabel fought her urges to go home, and stayed in California where her husband really wanted her to be. With few friends and no family, Mabel stayed on her knees, keeping her husband and herself lifted before God.
Eighteen months later, Herman returned, unharmed and ecstatic to set his eyes on fourteen-month-old Herman, Jr. Ten months later, Jake joined the family.
Herman returned to his ritual of work and school, and Mabel stayed home with their sons. But between changing diapers, cooking, feedings, cleaning, potty training, and naps, she secretly studied through correspondence courses to earn her high-school diploma.
On the day Herman graduated from college, Mabel presented her husband with her certificate and an announcement that she was going to college.
He was proud, but concerned. “What about the boys?” he asked.
Mabel gave him her plan. “I promise neither you nor the boys will even miss me.”
Herman was filled with doubt but loved his wife. He went along with Mabel, comforted knowing that somehow she'd make it.
So they stayed in that one-bedroom apartment and Mabel enrolled in L.A. State College. The civil rights movement was brewing all around her, but Mabel hardly noticed. With Jake just six, and Herman, Jr., eight, Mabel worked a schedule that would have made Wonder Woman tired: taking the boys to school, going to her part-time job, picking the boys up from school, helping with homework, serving dinner, and getting them ready for bed, before she went off to her classes three nights a week. Herman, Sr., was usually home by six, after leaving Jefferson High School where he taught, to go to the Community Center to tutor college students for extra money. When Herman came home he took over, letting Mabel go to class or spend time studying. On Saturdays, Mabel washed clothes, cooked meals, cleaned house, did homework, and anything else her family needed. On Sundays, together they walked two blocks to the Church of the Solid Rock to worship and praise God. When they returned home, Mabel rested.
Eight years later, she received her degree on the lawn of the college, with one man and two teenagers in the audience cheering until their throats throbbed. She was one of twenty-two Negro students. When she got that diploma in her hand, she looked up to the sky and yelled, “Thank you, Jesus!” to the surprise of everyone—except her family.
Mabel taught in the Los Angeles Unified School District for more than thirty years—recognized as Teacher of the Year seventeen times. She finally retired at sixty-five.
Madear had rejoiced in her victories, and endured heart-breaking tragedies. Almost twenty years ago she buried her older son and daughter-in-law, after a loose boulder had fallen onto Pacific Coast Highway and crushed the car Herman and his wife, Alice, were in. Then, just four years ago, Mabel buried her dear husband of fifty-four years, after a long battle with prostate cancer. In the last year of his life, Herman had been completely bedridden, but Mabel declined all offers of help. She took care of her husband herself, morning and night, until the day she tearfully released him to the Lord.
“Go on, baby,” she had said, taking his feeble hands into hers. “The Lord wants you. It's His time now. We'll be together again.”
Within an hour of her uttering those words, Herman had passed.
People marveled at how Mabel White Mitchell handled life. But it was no marvel to her. Her faith kept her lifted and helped her to remember there'd been more blessings than burdens.
“God is holding me up and pushing me on,” she was fond of saying. As the Mitchell matriarch, Mabel showed how to stand. She was an example for her family.
That was why Anya was so confused with Madear's attitude toward Sasha now. Nowhere in her memory could she conjure up the image of Madear behaving this way toward anyone—although Madear was one for snide comments. When Anya thought about it, there really wasn't anything special about what Madear said to Sasha; it was the way she said it.
Her grandmother had finished folding the comforter, and reached for the coat that Anya had tossed onto the couch.
“I'll hang this up.” Madear still had not looked at Anya.
Anya reached for her grandmother, stopping her. “I want to talk to you.” Her voice was softly polite but stern.
Their eyes met for a long second.
Anya took her grandmother's hand and gently led her to the couch.
Madear sat with her hands tightly clasped, and her legs crossed at her ankles. “Go ahead,” she said curtly. Her gaze remained toward the window.
Anya took a breath. “What's up with you and Sasha?”
Madear's head turned slowly and when she finally looked at Anya, her eyebrows were raised. “What's up?” she repeated in the teacher's drawl that Anya knew well. Anya had learned many things from her grandmother—one of them being that when Madear spoke in that tone, Anya had to find another way to ask the question.
“I mean, there's something going on with you … and Sasha. Why are you angry with her?”
Madear's head whipped away from Anya, her gaze turned back to the window. “I am not angry with Sasha!” Her chin jutted forward. “Except for the fact that she's been here all this time and hasn't even called.”
It was Anya's turn to raise her eyebrows. “Madear, she's hurt. You expect her to call after the way you treated her?”
Even with Madear's head turned, Anya could see her eyes narrow. “I didn't do anything. I'm her grandmother, her elder. She should come to me.”
Anya moved to the chair directly across from the couch. She shifted against the plastic that pushed against her legs. Finally, she leaned forward and looked into her grandmother's eyes. “Madear, she can't come to you. She thinks you don't like her.” Anya took another breath and said, “She thinks it's a skin-color thing.” Anya had lowered her voice slightly.
There was a pause. “How dare you say that to me!” Her volume built as she spoke. “That is not true!” By the time Madear said the last words, her voice was trembling.
Anya reared back, away from her grandmother's wrath. Another thing she'd learned from Madear: Truth could ignite fury.
She waited a few seconds before she spoke. “Madear, do you have a problem?”
Madear slumped back onto the couch. “No.” Her head moved back and forth in denial. But her voice was so soft, Anya had to strain to hear. “I swear, I don't.”
“Madear?” All kinds of thoughts veered through her mind. Could her grandmother be prejudiced that way? Against her own granddaughter?
Madear's head had been lowered, but now she looked directly at Anya. “My grandmother's mother was a slave.”
Anya nodded. Of course she knew that. Madear was still looking in her direction, but Anya felt like her grandmother saw beyond the living room. “My great-grandmother told stories of living on that plantation and just how horrible her life really was.”
“You've told me that before,” Anya said, shrugging her shoulders in confusion.
Madear continued as if Anya hadn't spoken. “But it was still better for her, because she was a house-slave.” Madear paused. “The Massah kept all of his bastard children in the house.” Madear spat those words through the air.
“My grandmother told me that her mother thought shoes was special. Imagine that? But shoes were unheard of for slaves—unless you were in the house.”
“Madear, I don't mean any disrespect, but we're a long way from slavery and the big house—”
Madear sucked her teeth. “We're not! That's the misconception,” she said, pointing her finger at Anya. “If you were really honest, you'd admit that it is easier for colored people today if …”
Anya's eyes opened wide. This was a God-fearing, educated woman. Yet she sounded as ignorant as people who went on talk shows saying these things.
It took a few minutes
for Anya to respond. “Madear, if we participate in that myth, we're continuing something that we blame white people for.” Anya paused, recalling incidents where her grandmother had said someone's hair was nappy or commented on the dark knees of one of the neighborhood children.
“Madear, is Sasha right? Is this why you don't like her?”
Madear's eyes were glassy. “I love Sasha. I don't know why she thinks I don't like her. It's just that I always knew it was going to be harder for her because of … the way she looks. And I was right,” Madear said, her voice strong again. “Look at her life and the way things have turned out for her.”
“Madear!” Anya exclaimed, suddenly standing. “Sasha could have been as yellow as the bananas on your kitchen table and she would be exactly where she is now, because of who she is.”
“And she is who she is because of the color of her skin.”
Minutes passed without either saying a word. Finally Anya picked up her coat. “I have to go, Madear,” she said, looking away from her grandmother.
“You don't understand. My grandmother taught me how important it was to preserve—”
Anya resisted the urge to cover her ears. Instead she bent down, and kissed Madear before she could finish her sentence. “I'll call you—
Madear grabbed her hand and Anya noticed how small and soft her hand felt. “I want you to understand what I'm saying. I love Sasha.”
Anya longed to give her grandmother comfort, but she couldn't pass along anything that she didn't feel. She was overwhelmed. In her own family, there was this prejudice that she so despised—from the woman she so loved.
Anya wanted to get away—from Madear, from her beliefs, and from her own internal fears, as she thought about how people said she was so much like her grandmother.
When Anya walked to the door, she heard her grandmother catch her breath. But she continued quickly through the door, not wanting to hear anything else.
If Anya had stayed, it wouldn't have been Madear's words that she heard. As Anya ran to her car, Madear stood at the window, watching her granddaughter flee and trying to battle the sobs that rose like bile inside of her.
Hunter's and Sasha's arms were hooked as they strolled. At the front door, Hunter kissed her gently, allowing their lips to linger for a few moments.
“Come in, please,” she pleaded.
“No way. I can't handle Anya right now.”
“You can handle anything,” she said coquettishly.
There was no way she was going to give up now. After the pastor told her in church that nothing was too big for God, she'd said two prayers. One was that Hunter would grow to love her, and two, that Hunter and Anya would get along. Well, God had answered her first prayer in a big way. So she knew in a short time Hunter and Anya would find a way to at least be cordial.
Hunter frowned but Sasha tugged, and he followed when she opened the door.
Anya was on the couch, covered with a blue chenille throw. Her Bible lay in her lap, and she smiled when she looked up.
“Hey, cuz,” Sasha said, pulling Hunter inside. “Hunter wanted to come in and say hello.”
“I can tell by the way you're dragging him,” Anya said.
Only Sasha laughed.
“Hey, Anya,” Hunter said. Seeing the Bible she held, he wanted to turn and ran. There was no telling what kinds of things she was saying to God about him.
Anya returned his greeting.
“Anya, guess what?” Sasha sounded like a breathless child. “Hunter's taking me to the Victory Awards.”
That made Anya sit up and Hunter smiled. If Anya hadn't acted like she was too good for him when he had asked her out, she could be the one on his arm.
“That's great,” Anya said, looking between the two.
The Victory Awards recognized African-Americans for achievement in various categories, including entertainment. Though not as prestigious as the NAACP Image Awards, they still received celebrity attendance and press coverage.
Sasha sat next to Anya, leaving Hunter standing by the door. “I am so excited!”
Anya glanced at Hunter. Her eyes squinted slightly, but she kept her smile. “Hunter, it's so nice of you to invite Sasha. I didn't realize you had been nominated.”
Hunter's jaw was tight. “I wasn't, but I was invited.”
Anya turned from Hunter and smiled at Sasha. “You'll have a great time.” She stood. “Well, I'll leave you two alone—”
“You don't have to do that, Anya,” Hunter said, taking a step toward her.
“It's okay. I have something to do anyway. Like … go into the kitchen … and … sharpen some knives.”
Hunter barely waited for Anya to leave the room. “See, she just doesn't like me. What was that knives thing all about?” he hissed.
“She was kidding.” Sasha chuckled. “Give her a break, she's not as funny as I am.”
“It's time for me to go.” He looked toward the kitchen. “There's something that I have to do.”
Sasha put her arms around his neck. “Thank you, for making my day, my week, my year!”
He smiled. “You're worth it. I'll call you tomorrow so that we can go shopping.”
The moment Sasha closed the door, Anya came back.
“Can you believe I'm going to the Victory Awards with Hunter Blaine?” Sasha fell back on the couch and kicked her legs in the air. “You know what's so incredible to me? You're onto something with this God thing.”
Anya frowned deeply. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, at church this morning, I really felt something happening.” She stopped, trying to find the words. “Like God was talking to me. So I prayed.”
“That's a good thing,” Anya said tentatively.
“I told God that I really wanted to be with Hunter. Then I go over to Hunter's apartment, and he invites me to the Victory Awards. I'll be back at church next week for sure.” She stood and started up the stairs. “I have to get my nails done and a pedicure—my God, I have so much to do.” She had disappeared but Anya could still hear her voice. “Where should I shop? I wonder what Hunter is going to wear.”
Sasha had probably been in her room a few minutes before Anya closed her mouth. She should have said something to her cousin, but what?
“Father,” Anya whispered, “Sasha has no idea who You are or what You have done. Please give her the desire to truly know you. Deal with her, according to your grace and mercy. And, help me, Lord, to plant the right seeds, through my words and actions so she will come to know you.”
Anya leaned back onto the couch. Her head was beginning to ache again, just like it had when she first came home from Madear's. While her conversation with Madear was still heavy on her, she had listened to the answering machine and heard Braxton asking her to come over so they could plan Junior's case. Her head had throbbed so badly then, even her eyeballs were sore.
She had lain down, finding comfort in her Bible. It was her favorite chapter—John 14—that she read, and her favorite scripture, John 14:27, that she read over and over. Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.
That's what she was searching for—peace. She had prayed for it and had prayed that she would lose this overwhelming feeling that troubled her heart. Then Sasha had walked in with Hunter.
Anya sighed deeply. Braxton. Madear. Sasha. Their drama filled her head.
After a few minutes she rose, turned off the lights, and slowly went up the stairs. She couldn't take on the weight of her family's problems. Everyone would have to find their own way. Sasha—eventually she'd learn the truth. And Madear—her beliefs were her challenge. The only thing Anya could do for them was pray.
She was going to focus on herself and Braxton; that alone was more than she could handle.
Chapter 25
The man wrote the last line on the yellow legal pad, then sat the sheet next to the other five pages laid neatly across
the table. It had taken a few hours, but his strategy was complete.
He liked writing out his plan, although Sean had never agreed.
“You have to plan this carefully,” Sean had explained the first time he was included in the game. “We don't pick just any girl. It has to be one who deserves this. One of those snobs who walks around thinking she's better than we are.”
He had wanted to tell Sean that there were no snobs in their neighborhood. But he had ended up with a black eye the last time he ignited his friend's fury.
Sean continued. “And it's best to choose a girl who doesn't have any brothers who could come after us.”
He had nodded and reached for a notebook from his bag.
“What are you doing?” Sean had frowned his disapproval.
They were sitting in their clubhouse, the basement of one of the abandoned buildings. Years ago, when he was first initiated into the gang and was brought into the first clubhouse, he had almost puked over the stench. But in the seven years that he'd been a member of the Bedford boys, he'd gradually become used to it.
“You said we had to plan,” he'd replied weakly as he pulled out a pen with the paper.
Sean snatched the paper from his hand. “You can't write anything down!” he had screamed. “That's evidence.”
“But planning is important—”
“Don't be stupid.” Sean had sneered as the others joined in. “You're supposed to be the scholar. Why are you so dumb?”
He had fought to keep the hurt from his face and leaned back against the cold wall. The only thing that kept the tears from squeezing through his eyes was that he knew he was smarter than Sean—much smarter. But Sean was the leader and older and bigger. So he sat and listened as Sean laid out the plan.
It had taken them a week to follow the girl—measure her patterns and determine the best place to take her. As the days progressed, he found himself becoming more excited. He had never been with a girl before and Sean knew it.
“We're going to give her to you first.” Sean patted him on the back the night before the big game. The others nodded because that's what they always did.
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