Embrace Me (36 page)

“It's just a little trip, Valentine!” Lella's eyes sparkle like they always do.

Dahlia hands me a new sweatshirt. “I thought you'd like this.”

Navy blue, V-neck. “Thanks, Dahlia. It's great.”

“I'm sorry I'm spiriting Lella off like this. But my bills will be piling up. I've got some business to take care of with the attorney regarding the will and all. We'll only be six hours away.”

“You need help packing up?”

“No. Rick already brought everything down to the rental car.”

“Keep in touch, Lell.”

“Oh, surely I will do just that.”

I hug her and this time I stand on the porch and wave until the car turns the corner, leaving this all behind.

After making five necklaces, two bracelets, ten pairs of earrings, and watching the sky lighten just a bit, I open up the window by Lella's bed, lean out, and light up a cigarette. The bed is made up neatly. Dahlia did it before she left. And they took all of her clothing, every stitch, except for her costumes.

“She's not coming back, is she?” I whisper to the world outside the window. The breeze answers me, a fresh breeze, tangy with cold and middle-of-the-night lonesomeness.

Lella found legs. Secondhand legs, okay, but legs nonetheless.

Charmaine meets me on the dock the next morning. I hand her a cup of coffee from Java Jane's.

“Did you go in there?” she gasps, pointing to the logo on the cup.

“No! Rick did.”

She sighs in relief. “Because if you had, well, I don't know, I'd have felt like I must have missed out on a lot going on in your life.”

“Don't worry. I'm still limping along as usual.”

She sips her drink. “So what's cookin'?”

“Augustine roped me into cooking for the Easter feast.”

“He mentioned he was going to when I was down there.”

“What were you doing down there?”

“Tutoring. They help the neighbor kids with their home-work. I was a good student in school, believe it or not. Oh, I know I act all fluffy and sweet, but you can't throw much math at me that I can't put in its place.”

“I stink at math, but I'm great at geography and spelling and such.”

“You should volunteer.”

“Right, and scare all the kids away.”

“Now, Valentine.” She stretches her legs out in front of her. This mellow March day shines on our faces. Well, her face anyway. Across the lake a hammer striking nails alerts us to some preseason repairs going on.

“So why did you want to come out here?” she asks.

“I've been doing a lot of thinking. I can never go back to Daisy.”

“Would you want to?”

“No. I never really wanted all that to begin with, not for me anyway. I've got to move forward or backward or something, Charmaine. I can't stay like this much longer.” I look out over the water. “I know my face will never be healed. I realize we can destroy ourselves in ways so deep we'll never return to the place we were before we started the destruction.”

“I was almost there once. But for Harlan.”

“But when I sit and pray at the Laundromat, feeling my prayers join with people a lot more faithful than me, I wonder if somehow I can begin something different. I mean, all those years ago I'd enter into my bedroom, shut the world out, and it was the only place I could ever be true of heart. I felt God loving me there.” I turn to Charmaine. “I haven't felt that for a long time. Except recently. You and Augustine show me God's still around.”

“Oh, He's more than just around.”

“Lella used to show me that, in her way. She let me be God's instrument of mercy. I see that now. But she's gone.”

I look down at my drink. Thumb a circle around the top of the lid, dipping the soft pad of skin into the small opening at the front. I set down my cup, pull down my magenta scarf, and stare in full-faced disfigurement at my friend. She doesn't even blink.

“I don't want to be Lizard-Woman anymore, Charmaine.”

“Who do you want to be?”

“Just Valentine.”

Charmaine leans forward and kisses my cheek, then my forehead. “You know, honey, valentines tell us somebody loves us.”

I pull a straw out of my pocket, tear off the paper covering, and thread it through the hole in the top of my coffee cup. I want to say something about sentimentality, but Charmaine is sentimental. And real. It feels nice. Charmaine and I sip together in silence for a good long time as the workmen across the lake continue their improvements.

“Give yourself time to figure it out, honey.”

“I don't have much time. We'll be getting on the road come April.”

“And you don't want to go back on the road?”

“I just don't want to exhibit myself any longer. I don't know if I can.”

Well, here's the Lenten “giving up” list around the Laundromat:

Augustine: all beverages but water

Jessica: meat, dairy, and makeup

Rachel: alcohol, iPod, and the Internet

Justin: any motorized transportation

I kid you not about Justin—it helps he's a great bike rider. I'm not sure where the sacrifice is, other than he's been going over to that encampment of people out of town. It's just a group of the homeless out there, living in tents. Augustine uses Rachel's little pickup truck to deliver propane tanks for their gas grills and propane heaters. It's a new ministry and it's costing the group a fortune, but as Augustine says, “Spring'll be here soon enough.”

I blow out the final candle on the coffee table.

Lent, three weeks old, and all these prayers are causing me to remember Christ more than I usually do.

Finally!
Bartholomew says from his spot over the stove.

Honestly, who'd think a thing if Jesus suddenly threw up His hands and said, “You know what? They're never going to get it. So I'll just let them bite and devour one another until my return. What's the use of worrying about the
now
when it's all going to come out in the wash eventually?”

For a long time I thought that's exactly what He'd done.

Thomas says,
Me too!

But too much has happened inside me lately, and as I sit here and pray, the official prayers done for the night, I have to admit, a few minutes ago I felt my heart strangely warmed. I didn't get some vision or a voice or anything, I just felt loved and cared for. Yeah, it was warm.

So I should probably give up something too.

Ugh! Should it be smoking?

Duh
, says Bartholomew, who's getting awfully vocal nowadays.

I don't want to give up smoking! I'll get cranky. And that wouldn't be good.

John tells me I can do it.

SEVENTEEN

AUGUSTINE: 2009

G
od's forgiven me much—even more than I thought. Now that I know what became of Daisy—even though I still don't know how she was burned—the loathing I feel for myself comes on afresh.

But years ago, a wise friend told me I was blurring the lines between self-loathing and repentance. He pointed out there was a difference and one doesn't necessarily lead to the other. When I met him, folks called him The Black Jesus, though his name was Chris. Our conversations will always remain with me. Wish he lived around here.

Chris spent most of his days over by the Basilica of the Assumption, on the Charles Street side in the heart of Baltimore. He set Bible verses on cards all around him and played the flute. When people asked if he took donations, he'd say, “Only for the flute playing. The rest is for free.”

He played Celtic-style songs which, excuse me for saying, just didn't sound right coming from a black man sporting an afro the diameter of an extra-large pizza.

I sat down next to Chris on his slab of cement, crossed my legs Indian style, and reached into the brown paper sack I'd carried up from the Afghani restaurant down on the next block. The Silk Road.

“Kabob?” I said.

“Most definitely.”

We sat eating our meals-on-a-stick, watching some men and women in suits walking to lunch, maybe at Mick O'Sheas or the Thai place, a lady with a double stroller holding twin girls, and Stacy, the local panhandler who's always saying she just needs twenty dollars for a cab to get back to Catonsville. But she'll take less if that's all you've got. Her husband was supposed to pick her up, you see, and never showed, and she's got to get back home because her niece is babysitting and has to go to her AA meeting. Believe it or not, Stacy pulled in thirty bucks a day and the “booze she does choose” was cheap enough.

“Where does she sleep?” I asked Chris.

“She's used up her welcome at the women's shelters. They only give you so much time to get your act together and then”—he snaps his fingers—“if you don't snap to, your bed can be filled by someone who'll put the time to good use. Stacy sleeps on the street except in the winter when Sister Jerusha down at The Hotel opens up the main room. Not a comfortable sleep there, though, is it?”

“Not even close.”

We were staying there at the time, Monica and Sister Jerusha pretending it was old home week or month. I can't remember exactly how long we stayed but it was a good while.

The Hotel only has tables and chairs set up in its main room and that's where you sleep if it goes down to thirty-two and you're on the streets. I tried it a couple of nights for the experience. It's uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as a freezing parking lot or dumpster.

Chris knew my story. I don't know how he did; he just seemed to know things about people they never told him. Either that or there was a big old gossip network surrounding The Hotel. He said that day, after we'd eaten the kabobs and thrown the bag in a nearby trash can that said,
Keep Baltimore Clean
, “You're just sorry that it all fell apart, angry at your dad, and you see that you failed. And, Drew, you did fail. Did you ever think maybe God took it all away because you were a cancer to the body of Christ? You were just passing along your own greed and discontent.”