by Robert Price
Chapter Eight
Ezekiel wiped the dampness that hung under his eyes with a tissue: Am I presentable? Peering into the car’s rearview mirror to check his face, he spotted coming up the road, a short, petite woman dressed in a long skirt and a cropped leather jacket with a pile of curly hair on the top of her head. A half step behind, a cute little boy rubbed his eyes with one hand and held onto the woman’s hand with his other. Ezekiel’s heavy heart lifted and he smiled at their image in the mirror. A colorful couple, he thought. So colorful, they resembled animated paper cutouts walking past what appeared to be the last undeveloped stretch of empty, gray farmland on the street. He laughed out loud watching the reluctant boy stop in the middle of the road, forcing the calm yet determined woman to more or less tow the child. Snapping his jacket collar up around his neck and climbed out of the car to join the pair on their walk to the house.
“Looks like you’ve caught yourself a live one there.” Ezekiel offered a big smile. His dark skin made his white teeth shine. A tall, large man, he waved an energetic and big hello. People liked Ezekiel, and Ezekiel knew it.
“It seems like you have your job cut out for you with that one,” Ezekiel spoke again, this time with deliberate warmth; he knew he was in a mostly white community. Except for the camera crews outside of the church after the funeral, the only black face he’d seen all day was his own in the mirror. He walked around the car to the passenger’s side, but instead of picking up the knapsack of memorabilia, he suddenly changed his mind and tugged the door handle as if checking the lock.
“Him?” Carrie smiled. “He’s a fine one, this one.” Picking up on Ezekiel’s invitation to talk, she stopped walking. Her long, damp skirt swayed and then stuck to the back of her legs. Carrie pulled the fabric free.
Little Tommy came to a standstill. “Mommy’s behind got wet.”
“Shhhh.” Carrie kneeled in front of her son and fixed his short, clip-on tie and little sports jacket. “He doesn’t need to know about Mommy’s skirt, Tommy. Let’s keep that our little secret,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.
“It is a wet day and that cemetery grass was slippery.” Ezekiel crossed the street to join them.
“No,” Carrie answered kindly. After having spent the morning explaining incomprehensible things, like soldiers and cemeteries to a five-year-old, she was glad to converse with an adult. “It was a puddle and a pickup truck.” She extended her hand to Ezekiel: “I’m Carrie, and this little man is Tommy.”
“Tommy! My pleasure to make your acquaintance, Tommy.” Ezekiel spoke in a deep, happy voice, and like a genie that had emerged in a puff of smoke from its bottle, he pounded his chest with his fist: “My name is Ezekiel.” He held up his hand as if just completing a magic trick.
Little Tommy, delighted, liked Ezekiel instantly.
The older man bowed to the boy and laughed a big laugh.
“That was wonderful!” Carrie exclaimed, laughing with him.
“Oh, a little comic relief on such a sad day is good for the soul.” As Ezekiel spoke, he gently guided Carrie and Tommy to the side of the road just as a small green sedan passed. “We don’t want a repeat performance.”
“No, not today. No more puddles today. I think I’m wet enough.”
Tommy reached for his mother’s hand and then the three of them together faced the farmhouse. They proceeded slowly, cautiously, up the driveway toward the crowd that gathered under the portico, uncertain of what lay ahead.
