A CHANGE OF HEART: Book 1 of the Hartford Series

by Jermaine Watkins

  “No.” Ross cleared the lump in his throat. He fought harder for emotional stability, wiping his eyes and taking several deep breaths. He could not just let her come and see what had become of his life. Not without warning her by telling his story first.

  “Can we meet somewhere?” he asked.

  “Black-Eyed Sally’s in a half-hour?”

  “Sure, Black-Eyed Sally’s in a half-hour,” Ross agreed. He could hardly contain his happiness over the prospect of seeing his dear friend.

  A taxicab drove Ross downtown to Black-Eyed Sally’s restaurant. He had changed into a tan-and-white checkered button-collar shirt and tan slacks with cuffs at the bottom. He had brought along Tracie’s partially printed manuscript, which he carried at his side in a leather briefcase.

  Sandy, who was staring expectantly from the restaurant door’s square window, embraced Ross tightly and for a time so long that he wondered if she would ever release him. Pulling back, she patted the top of his head with her hand. “Love the new hair, stranger,” she commented in her familiar husky voice.

  “And you look as stunning as ever before.” Ross raised her hand in the air, and she turned around like a ballerina, to be viewed totally. A woman of middle age, she wore a classic hairstyle that set off her attractive features. Resting on the bridge of her slender nose were stylish large-framed eyeglasses that magnified her pale blue eyes. The gray pants suit she wore complimented her trim figure in a youthful way.

  “Come, let’s sit down.” Sandy turned around to greet a friendly male host, requesting a table apart from the crowd. Fortunately that was no problem in the mid-afternoon. When they were comfortably seated, Ross and Sandy spent a few silent moments just looking at each other, as if trying to see if anything had changed.

  “It’s wonderful seeing you again, Sandy. When you called today, it totally shocked me.”

  Sandy extended her hand, a simple gold band circling her pinky finger. “There is simply no single reason to have that kind of reaction with me. We’re old chums. Well, I’m the old one, but we’re still chums.” Out came her familiar guffaw, and Ross reached over to take firm hold of her hand. The touch was confirmation that he was actually at Black-Eyed Sally’s with Sandy Brown, who had been such an important part of his past.

  “How is Ed?” Ross asked. Sandy’s husband, Edward, was a successful attorney for entertainers. The odd couple had always made an interesting invite to social parties: the sassy-mouthed wife and the easily embarrassed husband.

  “Ed’s Ed. We bought an apartment in New York City in the middle of the year. I have a new job, and we wanted to limit much of the commuting back and forth. But we still have our old home in West Hartford, and I was ecstatic when I stopped by and heard your telephone message.”

  Sandy paused when the tall brunette waiter approached the table with a pen and order pad.

  People visited Black-Eyed Sally’s for the award-winning menu, which included barbecued ribs, collard greens, candied yams, and other Southern-style soul foods. “Ever eat here, Ross?” Sandy asked.

  Ross shook his head, scanning the menu, which listed many of his favorites, foods that had been first cooked for him by Maggie in her own wonderful style.

  Sandy leaned across the table, as if revealing a valuable secret. “Order the rib dinner. It is to die for.”

  Ross smiled up at the waiter. “The lady and I have made our decision.” After the waiter penned their orders for side dishes, he took the menus back to the kitchen with him.

  “Sandy, where is everyone from the agency? I have left numerous telephone messages, but no one responds.”

  “They all scattered here and there. Many of them relocated to New York. It’s easier to find a new job there, in the center of the publishing industry.”

  Sandy stole a thoughtful moment, then laced her fingers together and sighed, “No one could find you.”

  Ross was confused by her words, and he strained his memory for an answer.

  “Don’t you remember? It had been your direct order that the agency resume its regularly assigned duties, and the staff all did that quite successfully. We came to visit while you were recovering in the hospital. In the beginning, you seemed to really appreciate the effort, but you were always in such pain that you could not have us there for long.”

  Bits of memory flashed in and out of Ross’s mind like a clicking camera. “Why did you stop visiting?”

  “Did that awful incident cause you to fully lose your memory of that time? I should have known something was wrong, because you were not your regular self... Ross, it was you who put an end to our visits. Neither would you accept our endless telephone calls. It was right after that scandalous publication of the civil suit filed by one of Frank’s would-be clients. But the ultimate shock to us at the agency was the story of your direct family connections to a past organization of white supremacists.”

  Guilt punched at Ross’s chest so powerfully and immediately that, caught off guard, he was forced back against his chair. He rubbed his hand across his chest, as if the blow had been physical, thrown by a mighty opponent. He remembered vividly now, the guilt and the embarrassment. His past had been publicized for all his friends and business associates to read.

  “Have you ever done something, which, when you thought about it years later, made you cringe with embarrassment?”

  Sandy counted out her fingers with both hands and then smiled. “I don’t have enough fingers or toes to count such experiences.”

  “In my youth, I was taught to hate blacks. My father formed a hate organization that nearly caused a terrible riot. The publication of that information was a smart tool that the opposing attorney used to expose my prejudice against her client, Clarence Jackson. The jury awarded Jackson a lucrative settlement from me, and that destroyed the agency.”

  “No, Ross. Your silence and seclusion destroyed the agency. You had the strong support of devoted professionals—some of whom have been in publishing since before you sucked on your mother’s breasts—but you totally disregarded us.”

  Ross stared blindly at the small flickering candle in the center of the table, but Sandy reached out and hooked his chin with her forefinger. She wanted his full attention.

  “Stop hiding, Ross. You think I don’t have other friends who struggle with thoughts of prejudice? You think I would just turn my back on them, when my own lifestyle—which tolerates no discrimination—may serve as a positive example to help them see the truth? For so long, I wondered why you withdrew... But exactly where did you go?”

  “You would be shocked.” Ross fought to keep his attention away from the light of the candle, to keep from hiding. “I live in a housing project. I have lived there for nearly half a year now.”

  “Ross... You should have contacted me sooner, said something...”

  Ross responded with a matter-of-fact look. “My shame wouldn’t let me. But I am surviving decently. I work as a handyman for a restaurant in the city.”

  Sandy cupped her hands across her mouth, and Ross noticed a tear gleaming in her right eye. “Darling, do you need money?”

  But Ross smiled then. The change that had occurred in his life far outshone the problems of living in poverty. For him, he had gained love and friendship to replace monetary success. The trade had led to the blessed experience that God had initiated in his life.

  “No, I’m all right in that department. Even more, I met this wonderful black family who’ve given me a different, positive insight into their culture. They are Maggie, the grandmother, and her grandson, Tracie. In fact, I contacted you to discuss Tracie, an aspiring writer. I’ve committed to helping get his first book published, but I’ve been away for so long...”

  “Darling, are you reentering the business? What thrilling news. Of course I will help you however I can.”

  Ross reached out to take hold of her hand again. No, this is not a dream, he thought. “I can’t tell you how much your support means to me... and to Tracie.”

  “D
o you have a copy of your client’s manuscript? Ed and I are spending the holiday in New York with my employer and his wife, but I’ll devote some time to reading.” Sandy paused with a knowing smile. “It may interest you to know that I am the new executive editor for an independently owned publisher, Crystar Press.”

  Ross fumbled excitedly for his briefcase, which he handed over to Sandy. “I brought this along, not knowing what to expect. There are still a few chapters to type and revise, but Tracie is working on the manuscript full-time now, so the finished product should be ready soon.”

  Sandy nodded. “A good agent is always prepared.”

  Setting the briefcase beside her chair, Sandy reached across the table and patted the top of Ross’s head, as she had done earlier in the afternoon. “I can’t help but adore your new look, darling. It’s so... ethnic!”

  EPILOGUE

  That Thanksgiving Thursday, Maggie began early to make preparations for the best dinner she had ever cooked. Of course she would have the traditional foods: stuffed turkey, collard greens, potato salad, rice, cranberry sauce, and macaroni and cheese. However, for a welcome change, she would search around deep in kitchen drawers for old recipes for holiday desserts, namely, 7-Up cake and sweet potato pie. And she had let a large sealed jug of tea—to be sweetened later—sit out on the sink counter from the night before to acquire the taste of her mother’s very special brew from back when Maggie was a little girl.

  She turned up the volume of the stereo in the living room to hear her favorite gospel tunes all the way down the hallway to the kitchen, as she sang along and danced, sprinkling seasonings that would perfect the flavors of the foods to be cooked. “You goin’ do just fine,” she said, patting the large bird that would soon be transformed into a delectable main dish for this special day. Maggie spent slow quality time cooking, from early in the morning to late in the afternoon.

  Inside Ross’s apartment, Tracie sat at the desk in front of the open double windows, staring up at an endless white sky that promised the cold season was very near at hand.

  He would celebrate his twenty-second birthday next January, two short months away, and he suddenly considered how rapidly time had passed after the age of twenty. Many times, as now, he felt cheated, as if he had never really lived in the years he’d already spent on earth. Most men his age had proclaimed independence with their first legal drink of alcohol. Some made the best of what would be the greatest years ever while attending university. Others prepared to wed childhood sweethearts in family churches that the couples were both raised in. In contrast, Tracie had lived out no such experiences.

  His eyes scanned the original handwritten pages of his manuscript, and he paused in his typing. How many years had he worked toward his writing career? Shut up inside his bedroom, a recluse from the rest of the community. He couldn’t answer how he had arrived at these particular choices. Then the surrounding solitude echoed against the walls, causing a desperate craving for conversation. Ross... He missed Ross.

  His red-haired friend had come along in the nick of time, although this thought was a revelation to Tracie. What he actually needed from Ross, his friend, far surpassed what it appeared to be on the surface: working together to get his manuscript published. He must have known all along that he needed a friend. That must be the reason he was never successful at burying his constantly resurfacing memories of Little Man. Perhaps discontinuing his friendship with Little Man had been a good thing. Perhaps directing all of his time and energy into his writing had been a bad thing. However, he had never felt that he could have them both: friendship and success.

  “Why you actin’ like a stranger? Like I’m goin’ try to steal your wallet or somethin’? It’s like that now?”

  Tracie remembered the words that Kria had spoken, reading right through him that autumn day a month ago. Everyone else in the neighborhood thought the same way she did. He saw the telltale signs, like the squinty-eyed stares he got from the other men while walking the street to and from Jimmy’s Corner Store. Watching him get into his car, the young women would fold their arms, lean to one side, and roll their eyes upward, as if Tracie had insulted them with his very appearance. The older adults would suck their teeth or shake their heads shamefully with a low “mm-mm-mm.”

  But things had become worse since Ross entered the lives of Tracie and his Nana. Mere unfriendliness had turned into malice. Tracie thought, If looks could kill... One day, walking toward the apartment building, he had heard an angry voice, “Uncle Tom mothafucka!” The meaning behind the words was unmistakable: Tracie and his Nana had chosen to befriend a white man, and the other black members of the community took it as a personal insult. This was as close to any sin chiseled into God’s stone tablets of the sacred Ten Commandments as it could get.

  Tracie’s attention focused on a group of teenage boys tossing a football back and forth outside in the street. Tracie voiced his thoughts. “You’re all jealous ’cause I got the guts and the brains to get me and Nana out this filthy housin’ project. I’m goin’ do it, you’ll see!”

  His new anger shoved him back into action, and he began typing, the keys clicking one after the other. There were only three of the thirteen total chapters left to type. Every day, he drove himself mercilessly to produce as much as possible. Ross followed up with strict proofreading, updating Tracie’s saved disk files with the necessary edits. At the rate they were progressing, the manuscript might be completed by the first week of December.

  “I’m goin’ need your assistance later on tonight,” Nick said.

  By 5:00 p.m., Heavenly Delight had already closed early for the holiday. Only two people were left behind, Ross and Nick. Ross was mopping the floor to end his workday. He slowed the circular movements of the mop in his hands. “Sure, Nick. Whenever I’m needed.”

  Since his very first workday, Ross had found Nick to be a fair manager, although he generally took his job much too seriously, pressuring his workers to exceed above and beyond the demands of their employer. He frequently swore aloud when orders were not carried out correctly, which had not been the case—he bragged again and again—when Tracie was his assistant manager. Tracie had been the multitask king, wearing many different hats to ensure every workday was a success.

  Nick nodded his thanks. “You and I will have to be back here around...” He paused to look at his watch, “Let’s say eight tonight. A shipment of frozen food will be delivered that we need to count and verify. As soon as that’s done, we can head right back home for more Thanksgivin’ turkey.”

  Ross laughed along with Nick, and then said, “Eight o’clock. I’ll have Tracie drop me off then.”

  He returned home not as Little Man but as Private Andre Williams, the birth name the army had drilled into him again and again, using hard labor and discipline. Later, he thought back on his early years and cringed with shame: the hardheaded thug he had been, the illegal drug dealer he had been. The young kid he had been, lost after the death of his mother but facing a similar destiny, hanging around the streets, sucked in by its many provocative dangers.

  The juvenile home had saved his life, although the beginning of his sentence there had seemed to be the cruelest punishment that the law could condemn a youth to. Early to rise, early to bed. Three daily meals that tasted like the chef was on vacation. A single rec room television to share with dozens of other boys who wanted to watch different programs—all at once. It was his first experience of learning how to compromise, to ensure everyone got along. If not, there would be a high price to pay from the correctional staff. But Andre did not confront much trouble, since the other residents were either friends from the old neighborhood or strangers who knew of his thug reputation anyway.

  The underlying truth was that he did not feel so tough, locked away from regular life, the situation beyond his control. Most times, he kept to his bed, writing letters to Tracie, his first-only best friend. He could always say things to Tracie that he couldn’t say to others—not even his Uncle Cly
de. He found much comfort in releasing all of his thoughts and emotions, as if the unfortunate occurrence had never split them apart, as if months, and ultimately years, were not passing by.

  That Tracie never wrote back to him was depressing, but Andre was not surprised. Tracie had not been prepared to be exposed to Little Man’s secret world of selling drugs; and far worse, of nearly ending up in a juvenile home when he hadn’t known what to expect that night. But that was Little Man’s world, not Andre’s. Andre had been wrong-wrong-wrong, and he spent every day reliving the guilt of it, knowing that Tracie would never forgive him, much less pick up a pen and a piece of paper to respond to even one of his many letters.

  Now Andre moved down Hexter Street with an easy pimp to his walk. He was still dressed in his army-green uniform and glossy black boots. His posture was straight, his chest thrust outward, as if he was preparing to salute an approaching lieutenant. His hair, cut really low, was just a shadow on his head.

  It’s good bein’ back home, he thought. A little over an hour ago, his Uncle Clyde had picked him up from the train station downtown, where he had just arrived from his home fort in Virginia. After catching up on some mild gossip—what has happened to whom on Hexter Street—Andre had decided to take a walk outside, to say hello to some familiar faces.

  It turned out to be a sunny Thanksgiving Day, with a gusty breeze that carried loose leaves from one side of the street to the other. As he had remembered so well in his memories and dreams, people were crowded outside, sharing the special day with each other. Girls jumped double-dutch, while boys played an aggressive game of two-hand-touch football.

  The first to recognize Andre were the elderly neighbors, who stuck their heads out of open apartment windows or sat on porch steps chatting about everything and nothing that really mattered. They shared stories of all the humorous mischief he had caused in the past. Some stories he could not remember; but he laughed anyhow, not wanting to offend the kind old-timers.