“Kria, I really have to go...”
“Did you hear ’bout Little Man?”
Although her words caught him off guard, Tracie responded with a blank expression on his face. “No, we haven’t spoken in years.”
Kria nodded. “Yeah, I know. He been in close touch with Yvonne since he went off to Juvenile.” She paused and stared into Tracie’s eyes. “But Little Man’s comin’ home at Thanksgivin’.”
Tracie could not hold back a broad smile, which started in his heart and moved quickly to his handsome face. When he noticed Kria’s obvious pleasure at his reaction, he immediately returned to his blank expression. “Well, that’s good for him. He’s been locked up a long time.”
“Locked up?” Kria laughed lightly. “Little Man been out Juvenile three long years now. He made good on his time there and joined the army when he turned eighteen.”
Tracie nodded. But he couldn’t imagine the Little Man that he remembered so well from his youth turning in his funky street clothes for army fatigues. Nor could he imagine one so headstrong submitting to another individual’s strict leadership.
Tracie repeated, “That’s good for him. Now I have to get goin’.”
Kria frowned in displeasure. “Why you actin’ like a stranger? Like I’m goin’ try to steal your wallet or somethin’? It’s like that now?”
“I just got a lot of things on my mind,” Tracie explained in a lie that he fought to conceal from her. But the truth was that he really was a stranger to Kria, who was an unwelcome reminder of his sordid past. And although that was nine long years ago, she spoke about Little Man as if he were still the king of Hexter Street and Tracie his loyal sidekick.
Kria rolled her eyes upward. It was obvious that she had seen through Tracie’s excuse, as she said, “Whatever. I just stepped to you to say hi. But I know better next time. Bye, Tracie.”
Tracie stood shaking his head at the abrupt way Kria had ended their conversation. But he just called out, “Bye, Kria,” and let it stay. He really did not care what she thought about him. He just wanted to leave that part of his past far behind.
He turned and walked up the two flights of stairs to his apartment. His Nana was already in the kitchen preparing the night’s dinner. Kissing her cheek, he stared down at the cooking food. Water was just starting to boil inside a glass pot filled with round slices of yam. A smaller steaming pot held white rice. Tracie sniffed at a familiar delicious aroma and bent to open the oven, where there was a whole chicken baking inside.
“Lookin’ real tasty, Nana.”
“Thanks, baby. How was your day at work?”
“Another day, another penny. Did you speak to Ross?”
Maggie clapped her hands delightfully. “Yeah, Tracie. He was so happy for what you did for him. He said he’ll be by later to pick up the work uniform he got to wear tomorrow.”
Tracie raised his right shoulder, which supported his backpack. “I have his uniform in here. But I hope he don’t come up too soon. I want to get a head start on my writin’. I can’t put my hands on it, but somethin’s wrong with my story, Nana.”
Maggie stared down at the manila envelope that Tracie held in his hand. “Now don’t let that one rejection get you down. You done good, hard work. You think positive and send that story right back out to another publisher.”
Tracie said, “It’s not just one rejection—this one makes the twenty-first. There’s got to be some reason I can’t get those publishers interested in my story. No, I think it’s time I sit down and look closer than ever before at what I’m sendin’ out. There may be some serious changes I need to make.”
Maggie smiled sympathetically. “Okay, baby. But go easy on yourself. You on the right path—I can just feel it. All you need is that one big break.” She believed in Tracie’s writing career and would bet all her valuable possessions on it without thinking twice. But when she saw how hard he tried to break through fast, it always frightened her that he would eventually surrender to all of the many rejections and give up on his dream entirely. Even she knew that such great achievements took a lot of time and praying. In the meantime, she would keep offering words of encouragement to counter his occasional periods of depression.
“Thanks for believin’ in me,” Tracie said, leaning down to kiss his Nana’s cheek again. “Now I better get started before Ross drops by.”
Entering his bedroom, the subject of Little Man crossed Tracie’s mind again, as if the doorway was actually a magical portal that led back to the world of his past. The memory of their fateful introduction in the principal’s office and other warm memories of their brotherhood years immediately embraced him.
He had intentionally kept the news of Little Man from his Nana. Even the part about Little Man having gone far away and being due to return home as a disciplined army man. Tracie did not want to arouse the slightest fear in her, thinking that the dynamic duo would revert back to hanging in the streets.
He still received letters from Little Man, although they went unread like all the others. He just tossed them into the pile with the rest of the letters, not even bothering to look at the postmark, since he assumed he already knew where Little Man was located: locked up in the juvenile home. Under his bed was a brass-trimmed black trunk, where he hid Little Man’s letters, along with the original of his manuscript, his most private possession.
“My manuscript,” Tracie said. He dropped to his knees and pulled the trunk out from under his bed. He had almost forgotten about his present priority in the flood of thoughts about Little Man, as he blindly pushed aside the disheveled pile of unopened envelopes to find his manuscript. But he knew that it was impossible for them to meet face to face ever again. They had spent their special moment in time and that was that. Now Tracie forced such thoughts back into the past.
Three heavy knocks at the door startled him. “Nana?” Tracie called out.
“Hi, Tracie. No, it’s Ross.”
Closing the trunk, Tracie shoved it back into its space and rose to sit on the side of his bed. He would have to wait until later to work on his manuscript. “Come on in, Ross.”
Ross entered the room with a glowing smile. “I came for the work uniform. But Nana said I would find you in here working on your story, so I thought I would offer my assistance.”
Tracie laughed. “Thanks for the offer, but no thanks. I think I can handle that on my own.” It was always amusing how many people, especially those who were avid readers, believed that they could play critic and help him in the art of telling stories. They often commented, “I would love to read what you have. I’ll be really honest. I’ve already caught many missed edits in some published books.” Tracie knew that they were really more anxious to criticize and point out editorial glitches than to read his manuscript objectively and tell him about its strengths as well as weaknesses.
Ross walked over to Tracie. “I can help you.” He held out his hands. “Please, let me read your story.”
“No, thanks,” Tracie said politely. “But I will let you have your uniform.” He grabbed his backpack from the bare wood floor and set it beside him on the bed. He pulled out a red and navy shirt and navy pants and handed them to Ross.
“Your Nana had a very good reason for telling me about your aspirations of becoming a published author.”
“And what was that?” Tracie asked with no obvious interest.
“I used to be a literary agent.”
Tracie fell silent and rose from his bed. He couldn’t remember ever hearing Ross talk about a professional history of selling stories. On the other hand, Ross had never revealed any other part of his past either.
“Ross, that’s nothin’ to joke about. I take my writing very seriously.”
Ross replied, “Please, sit back down. We have a lot to talk about before we continue with the subject of your writing career.”
He sat down on the bed beside Tracie and started the long story of his history of racial discrimination, from being raised by two racist p
arents to the fateful night that he and Clarence Jackson had fought in his office, and how he had come to live on Hexter Street. There were times when Ross thought he could not hold back his mounting tears, tears that expressed all his sorrow and shame over the indecent person he had become. All the while, Tracie sat listening, with no interruptions.
After almost an hour, which actually seemed like three, Ross finally sighed and stared down at his hands. “That’s why I hid from your persistent curiosity about who I was and where I came from. I was too ashamed—I still am.”
“Does Nana know?” Tracie whispered.
“She’s known about my racist past since day one. But she still decided that you two would help me. And she kept my secret until I was ready to reveal it myself.”
“Nana really cares about people,” Tracie said matter-of-factly. “And a lot of her ways have rubbed off on me. So then it would be nothin’ but the truth to say your past can never be changed, no matter how horrible it was. I told you once before that I think you’re a good person. Nothin’ could ever make me regret our decision to help you. I’m just happy we’re finally gettin’ to know what really matters about each other.”
“Tracie, there is a question that I have wanted to ask for a long time now. How did Maggie and you afford to pay my very costly medical expenses?”
“We used part of the inheritance from Nana’s adoptive parents...”
But Tracie suddenly remembered why Ross had come to see him, which prompted him to spring to his feet again. “Enough talk about the past. Can you help me get published?”
Ross smiled. “I believe I can. But I will have to start with reading your manuscript. Is it completed?”
“Yeah, but I was thinkin’ about workin’ on it a little more, after I read it over and find out what’s really missin’. I can’t send it out fast enough for all of the even faster rejections I get from publishers.”
“Let me take a read first,” Ross said, looking around the little room in search of Tracie’s manuscript.
Dropping back down to his knees, Tracie pulled out the black trunk from under his bed. He felt around under the unopened mail from Little Man and pulled up a brown cardboard box, which he handed over to Ross.
Ross laughed as he took the box from Tracie.
Tracie was infected by his friend’s laughter, and suddenly he was smiling too. “Why are you so happy?” he asked.
“Because now I have a chance to help you, to feel the same kind of happiness Maggie and you must have felt when you were helping me. So, may I take your manuscript downstairs to read in privacy?”
“Sure, Ross. I trust you.”
Ross smiled all the way down to his apartment, entering through the kitchen door in a clumsy balancing act, with the manuscript box in one hand, his cane in the other, and the work uniform squeezed between his elbow and ribcage. Carefully lowering the box down onto a little round table, he stretched out his elbow and let the work uniform drop to the seat of a chair.
“Tracie—a writer,” he whispered, shaking his head. It was still an amazing thought, but he now knew that he was definitely “sentenced,” the word Nigger had used to define his supernatural experience, to help turn Tracie’s dream into a reality. In fact, the black angel’s disguised visitation on the city bus was confirmation that Ross was on the correct path toward change. “You sure got the answer!” Nigger had said as Chester James.
“I’ll be right back,” Ross said affectionately to the box, as if he were speaking to a precious newborn baby.
He made a short trip across the hallway to the bathroom, where he pulled off his clothes and stepped into the tub to shower. As the invigorating needles of hot water sprayed across his body, he could not contain the excitement of knowing that very soon he would be reading Tracie’s manuscript and exploring how he would eventually present it to potential publishers. However, he couldn’t make an accurate decision about that until he first learned where Tracie’s true talent lay: Was it in crafting stories of mystery, horror, or romance? Or would the manuscript sitting on the kitchen table be autobiographical nonfiction? Whatever the genre, he knew that he would use all his professional expertise to ensure a successful sale. “Tracie’s a good man. He deserves nothing less,” Ross thought aloud.
He held onto the wall and the edge of the tub for support as he stepped out of the tub with his right leg, followed by his weak left leg. Pulling at a long brown towel hanging on a wall rack, he rubbed its rough fabric across his wet body to dry.
He wrapped the towel snugly around his lean waist and limped over to where a cabinet mirror hung above the sink. As the steam from the hot shower gradually vanished from the mirror, Ross’s smiling reflection was revealed. It seemed as if it had been ages since he had really examined himself in front of a mirror. He had almost forgotten what he looked like, how handsome a man he had become in his adult years. His long face was still smooth and clean from shaving early that morning. His nose was narrow and arguably patrician. His flame-red hair had grown past collar length, in striking contrast to his normal conservative style. He made a mental note to visit a barber as soon as he could arrange it.
Ross closed his emerald-green eyes and reopened them. He had his mother’s eyes. And then he used his fingers to rake back his wet hair. His father once had the same red hair. Over the years, without notice, Ross had become a combination of Gloria and Benjamin. When that thought occurred to him, he was suddenly swept with a feeling of such loneliness that he looked away from the mirror and down into the sink, as if that action might help to erase their memories from his mind.
“Mom? Dad?” Ross called out in a whisper to the solitude all around him. He turned around, staring out the bathroom door and across the hallway into the kitchen, as if his parents might reveal themselves. But when there was no response, he recalled their deaths, a time long ago, and the painful realization that for so long he had been alone in the world. How did I ever survive? Ross wondered.
Newfound truth wrapped around him like the strong arms of a brother who had been lost since childhood. At some time long ago in his past, he had chosen business as a substitute for the love of family. Upon graduating from college, Ross had blindly thrust his young life into work to keep himself busy. Most times he stayed behind and worked late nights to complete assignments that his coworkers would have left unfinished until the following workday. It was no amazing wonder that he became the kind of success most men only dreamed of. Since he had no family—wife, children, or parents—to go home to, he could devote all his time and energy to his career. And although he had considered Frank a second father, the truth was that their close relationship was actually built on the business of the agency. Business had consumed his life.
Now Ross considered how much he missed having a family. It had been seven years since his mother’s death, and seventeen years since she had ordered the doctor to shut off the respiratory machine that kept his comatose father alive. The closest to family he had now was his relationship with Tracie and Maggie, who so generously shared their life and reinstilled in him important values of family love that had been taught to him so long ago. With that thought, he accepted a wonderful revelation: God had blessed him with the perfect second family.
Grabbing for his cane, Ross limped out of the bathroom and proceeded down a short hallway to his bedroom. Like Tracie’s small room, where Ross was brought to rest the night he awoke to meet Dr. Taylor, there was very little furniture, just a double bed and nightstand. Hanging across a single window was a bland ivory blind. No pictures hung on the white walls.
Pulling comfortable black pajamas down from a closet shelf, Ross dressed in a hurry. And then he returned to the kitchen, where he poured a generous amount of his favorite cereal and milk into a large bowl. His dinner would be light tonight.
Seated at the table, he devoured two spoonfuls of the crunchy cereal and removed the manuscript from its cardboard box. He immediately noticed the first editorial taboo that would explain at least som
e of the rejections Tracie had complained about. The manuscript was completely handwritten.
“Tracie, what were you thinking?” Ross asked with a smile. Then he turned to the first title page, which read One People, One Nation, One Peace.
Ross braced himself before reading on. He was more concerned about the actual writing—how well Tracie could tell a story—than if the manuscript was typed, if the correct punctuation was used, or if Tracie began a new paragraph with an indention. These were all clerical glitches that could be easily revised as quickly as Ross could get his hands on a computer or typewriter.
The beginning sentence of the first chapter immediately captured Ross’s attention. As Ross continued reading, he learned more about Tracie’s hero, Travis, whose big dream was to make it to the NBA. An eighteen-year-old college freshman, Travis was raised by his only parent, Thelma White, and he had a slightly younger brother, Trevon. The details of Travis’s life were plotted in short, animated scenes that read autobiographically, but it was now clear to Ross that Tracie’s manuscript had the makings of an entertaining novel.
Ross ate a second bowl of cereal and continued reading late into the night. In addition to his professional speed-reading skills, it was an utter godsend that Tracie’s cursive handwriting was large, ink-dark, and easily decipherable. Further, the ambitious story of Travis White—he faces tremendous recurring racial adversity as the sole black student in an all-white university, before achieving his dream of being drafted into the NBA—was innocent and insightful. It promised a future of success for its young author comparable to that of his invented character.
At 4:00 a.m., Ross yawned and rubbed his eyes. He had read the entire manuscript and was ready for bed.
“Great story,” he said, as if Tracie were in the kitchen with him. “But I need some rest. I have to go to work in a few hours.”
A CHANGE OF HEART: Book 1 of the Hartford Series Page 9
