Unconditional (6 page)

“T” wore a pair of dark-blue Dickies stained with motor oil. His shirt—a lighter shade of blue but just as blemished—bore a patch with name “Anthony” on the right and another with “Nashville Motorcars” on the left. He ambled toward us as though he had all the time in the world, and his eyes focused on me. He wore a do-rag on his head, a scowl on his face, and he rolled a Black & Mild cigar between his lips. He reached behind him, pulled a red mechanic's rag from a back pocket, and wiped his hands with it before digging into his shirt pocket for a lighter.

A red mechanic's rag.
Just like the one dropped next to Billy's body by his murderer. My heart thudded in my chest.

I blinked at the sound of a dog barking nearby, bringing me back to where Anthony's Zippo flickered under Mattie's cigarette. The traffic from the streets sounded like waves rushing to a shoreline.

“You are a prince among thieves, T,” Mattie said. “A prince among thieves.”

He cast me a sideward glance before turning to go back to his apartment, swaggering as he went.

“Can I go hang with T a while?” Macon asked.

Mattie looked concerned. “Boy, leave that man alone.”

But Macon was undaunted. “Can I, T?” he hollered.

T opened the storm door to his place, looked inside then back to us. “Whatever.”

Macon gathered candy wrappings and what was left of my gift for Keisha before scrambling to the other building and disappearing inside.

“Sometimes I wanna slap that boy's hair white,” Mattie muttered.

I smiled, but when I turned to see Keisha looking into a lone bag of Reese's and finding it empty, I sighed. Mattie shook her head. “That boy . . .”

I reached into my purse and brought out the pink sticky note Joe had given me the night before. I cast a glance over my shoulder in the direction of where I'd parked. “How far does this road go?”

“Four more streets, and then it dead end.”

I looked at Mattie. She drew on her cigarette, blew the smoke upward, eyes squinting. “Help you find something?”

I handed her the note. “I passed this address on the way here. It's supposed to be my friend's house, but . . . but I'm not sure.”

“Let me see,” Mattie said, extending her hand. “Mm-hmm.” She looked at me cautiously. “Gray siding? Peeling paint?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“
You
friends with Joe Bradford?”

I squared my shoulders. “Why, yes, ma'am.”

Mattie chuckled. “Well, you in luck. 'Cause that's where he lives.”

She handed the paper back to me. I took it, a million new questions running through my mind, but only one that mattered:
How had Joe ended up here?

Mattie read my thoughts. “Welcome to the projects, honey,” she said with another chuckle. “Welcome to the projects.”

Chapter Six

Back in my
car, I retraced my earlier course until, two streets over, I reached Joe's house. I pulled my car to a stop directly in front and instinctively locked the door as I stepped out. The house was, by far, the nicest one on the block, despite the peeling paint, one cracked window, and another with a board running diagonally on the inside—a poor man's home invasion deterrent.

A chain-link fence ran along the front of the yard. It was bent in places, rusty in others. A beat-up mailbox with the words “Papa Joe” painted haphazardly in blue paint stood forlorn at the gate. The red flag drooped permanently earthward.

Yet the yard was warmly inviting. Two folding lawn chairs stood beneath a shade tree. Lush bushes lined the front of the house, and colorful potted plants decorated each step up to the front porch and then along the railing. I saw that the front door was wide open, but the storm door was shut. I climbed the steps, tilting my head, listening to the sound of jazz coming from inside. The front room was dark, and for the most part I was unable to see much else because child-sized fingerprints marred the glass.

“You're looking for Joe, aren't you?”

I turned, grasping the strap of my purse hanging from my shoulder to keep it from slipping off. A vivacious black woman who appeared to be in her mid-to-late twenties walked toward me from the sidewalk. Her smile was engaging. She was both fashionable and attractive. Before I could answer, she extended her hand, which I took. But instead of shaking my hand, she pulled me into an embrace, hugging me briefly. “He said you might be stopping by,” she added, stepping away. “I'm Denise Lyles. I work with Joe.”

“Hi. I'm Sam.”

Her smile grew larger, if that were at all possible. “I know who you are. He told me all about you.” She reached around me, opened the storm door, and said, “Come on in.”

I followed Denise into the house.

“Just make yourself at home, and I'll see if I can find Joe,” she said, stepping around a corner to the back of the house, leaving me standing just inside the threshold. A moment later the music ceased, leaving me alone in silence.

The living room was sparsely furnished and the wallpaper faded, but everything was clean. Tidy. I listened for Joe's voice—or Denise's—but heard nothing. I stepped shyly toward the corner Denise had disappeared around. I saw it led down a long hallway. Unsure, but too curious to stay put, I decided to see where it led, but not before stopping at a faux-wood bookshelf against the living room wall. The shelves were stacked with multicolored construction paper, Mason jars, Solo cups, and Elmer's Glue bottles. Some of the jars held gum balls. Others crayons or paints. Inside the cups were colored pencils, Popsicle sticks, and paint brushes.

The walls of the hallway were made up of scuffed paneling on the bottom and green-painted sheetrock on the top, separated by thin chair-railing. The upper half of one wall was filled with children's drawings, mounted with thumb tacks. Each one was signed to “Papa Joe.” Among them was one of a little girl holding hands with a man, both standing in a field of blue-green grass under a bright orange-and-yellow sun and happy violet clouds. The name “Keisha” was written next to the girl, “Papa Joe” by the man.

Beside the drawing was a framed photo of Joe and Macon, capturing both in a happy moment, hung crooked. There were a few other framed snapshots, mostly of Joe surrounded by children. I spotted another of him and his grandmother, taken sometime around middle school.

I continued forward, passing a room to the left with a small TV, an oversized chair, and a saxophone resting in its stand nearby. I didn't linger at the door; I was too intrigued by the drawings and finger-paintings on the wall beyond. None were framed but one. I stepped closer to it and smiled.

It was a silly drawing of a boy with an untamed afro, wearing a makeshift martial arts uniform, sword drawn high. Written in the space above him were the words “Samori Joe.” I smiled at the memory, of how I'd not known then how to spell “samurai,” or, really, how to draw very well.

I took a few more steps, peering into yet another room brightly lit by the afternoon sun streaming through a large window. Inside was a simple double bed, neatly made. Beyond it was a chair with some sort of medical device standing sentry over it. What kind of machine, I couldn't tell. I'd never seen anything like it.

“I knew you'd come.”

It was Joe's voice. He stood at the end of the hall, in front of the shelf with the paints and crayons. His hands were loosely tucked into the pockets of his jeans. He wore a light-blue T-shirt under a cotton shirt, and I was about as happy to see him as I'd been to see anyone in a long time. There were so many things I wanted to ask him. To know about him. About the past twenty years.

And about the boys I'd seen wearing red hoodies.

He winked at me, and for a moment I thought he was just as happy to see me as I was him. “I need your help with something.”

“Okay.”

He walked to where I stood. “It's this way here,” he said, pointing past me. “To the kitchen.”

I followed him like a lost kitten who'd found a possible new owner.

“Know how to make snow cones?”

“Um . . . no,” I said with a light chuckle. “I'm not sure I do.”

“That's okay. Denise is here if we need her.”

We joined Denise in the kitchen. She stood at the table over two large box tops with tiny slits cut into them and then turned upside down. She shoved Dixie cups filled with crushed ice into each slot. “There you are,” she said, smiling at Joe. “Better get a move on.”

“I'm there.” He walked over to an outdated refrigerator, opened it, and brought out a pitcher filled with red liquid. “Cherry,” he said. “They're gonna like this.”

Denise smiled at him again. “It wouldn't matter what flavor. It's the point that counts.”

I had no idea what they were talking about. I stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the hall like a rag doll, unsure what to do.

Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Joe handed the pitcher to me. “Here,” he said. “Pour a little of this over the ice.”

I readjusted the strap of my purse over my shoulder before taking the pitcher and following his instructions. Denise busied herself at the sink while Joe stood over me, watching, saying, “That's good . . . that's good . . .” with the filling of each cup. Once I was done, he took the cherry-flavored liquid, returned it to the refrigerator, and said, “Come on with me.”

He picked up one of the box tops. I picked up the other.

Joe glanced casually at his watch. “We're right on time.”

I followed behind him back through the house. He opened the front door for me, and I stepped back into the warm sunshine. We walked together down the porch steps to the narrow cement walkway leading to the sidewalk.

Joe took a deep breath beside me. “I bet I know what you're thinking. ‘How in the world did Joe end up here?'”

I turned to look at him, following his gaze down the street to where a barely visible school bus was approaching. A line of thin black arms waving rectangles of green paper jutted out from the open windows.

“No.”
Yes.
“It's just good to see you, Joe.”

“We go this way,” Joe said, turning right out of the nonexistent gate in his fence. We took only a few steps before the school bus screeched to a stop in front of us.

The driver, a teddy bear of a man with curly hair peeking out from under a straw cowboy hat and a wide grin below, said, “Hey, Joey!”

“That's Hambrick,” Joe said to me. “But we just call him Brick.” Joe placed his box on top of mine. “Hold this for me,” he said before calling back to the driver. “Brick, my
main
man!”

Brick stuck a thick, tanned fist out the opened window, which Joe met with his own. “I hope you brought enough, man,” Brick said with a laugh. “Your green slips today may outnumber the cups in those trays.” The driver glanced my way and smiled at me knowingly. He and I for sure were the only two white people on the block.

Maybe he wondered what in the world I was doing there.

Quite frankly, I wondered the same thing.

Joe laughed easily as the bus door swung open. He bent at the waist, clapping his hands together as though this herd of children racing toward him—backpacks bouncing on their backs, green sheets of paper waving from their hands, white smiles gleaming against the dark of their skin—was the greatest sight on earth.

Who
were
these kids? More importantly, who was Joe to them?

“What day is it? What day is it?” Joe asked as though gearing up for a cheer.

“Freeze Cup Friday!” they screamed, as they exchanged high fives with Joe.

“Huddle up, huddle up,” Joe said as they gathered around him. From their sizes, I estimated their ages to range from about six to twelve. “That's what I'm talkin' about,” Joe said to them. “Come on now.”

They bunched together like a football team on a playing field. Along with Joe, the children made growling noises, like playful lions getting ready to pounce. The merry-making ended in another wave of cheering. Finally, Joe stood upright and glanced over his shoulder at me. “Green means they had good behavior
all week
.” He looked again at the adorable mob with pride. “And for
that?
”

Together they chanted, “It's Freeze Cup Friday!”

Such excitement startled me. I was a children's book writer, but I hadn't been around this many children in more than three years, having chosen to box up and send my books to elementary schools in the projects without participating in their distribution. I raked my teeth over my bottom lip and looked nervously to the bus driver, who chuckled easily at what I'd just witnessed.

“See y'all around,” he said. The bus pulled away from the curb with a cough and a sigh.

“Bye, Brick,” Joe called. Then to the kids, “Say g'bye.”

They waved their green cards, hollering gleefully as the bus rolled away.

Suddenly they all realized at once that a stranger stood among them, holding makeshift trays of freeze cups. A white, nervous stranger.

Joe must have realized it too. He extended his arm, smiling. “Oh, this is my
good friend
from when we were kids, Miss Sam.” Eight faces turned fully toward me, eyes wide and unblinking. “Give it up!” Joe cheered.

“Hey, Miss Sam!” they chanted.

Joe burst out laughing.

“Hello,” I stammered.

When had I ever seen such joy in the midst of such dire circumstances? And where did it come from? From Joe? Or from just being around him?

That
I could imagine. He'd given me years of friendship and contentment when we were children. More than just being funny and kind, Joe had been one of the smartest boys in our school. He'd graduated with honors.

So what was he doing
here?

The kids gathered
with Joe and Denise in the backyard. Book bags were tossed onto the half-dozen wooden picnic tables alongside old coffee cans filled with colorful sprays of pansies. At the back of the house, Joe had planted flower beds and bordered them with stone-lined walkways. An ivy-draped chain-link fence ran along both sides of the yard, with a dilapidated wooden privacy fence stretched along the back. All in all, and in spite of being located in the Commons, the yard was manicured, vivid, and at the same time, meant for children.