Without Faith (5 page)

Brother Lazarus Tyson, or Laz as we called him, had been a news anchor for channel 55 for several years. A graduate of Morehouse College, he had previously worked for networks in Atlanta, then in Houston, and, right before returning to Baltimore, New Orleans. His brave, risky coverage and on-air political rants during Hurricane Katrina had earned him the nickname “Brass Laz.” The rants had also marked him as a potential troublemaker for news stations. With no other networks across the nation willing to take a chance with his unscripted and unapologetic live commentaries, he'd been forced to accept the only job opened to him, back in the newsroom of the Baltimore-based network where he had interned as a teen.

He was a mystery at our church. The heavily opinionated and brazen journalist barely said a word to anyone on Sundays. Sitting in the back row, he came late and left early, usually walking right out the door after walking around the sanctuary to drop his customary fifty dollar bill in the offering plate each service.

But all of that was irrelevant to me at the moment.

“Turn that up,” I demanded as I marched over to the flat-screen TV my father had hung over his overly used wet bar.

“This is Lazarus Tyson reporting live from the Baltimore City Police headquarters. Back to you in the studio, John.”

“Wait a minute, what . . . what did he say about the girl whose picture was just up on the screen?”

My parents and Yvette were arguing about some money she owed them. Sister Spriggs was rocking back and forth in her chair, humming, watching them all go at it.

No one even heard my question, so I was certain they had not been paying attention to the news story that had gone off seconds earlier. I picked up the remote, wondering if my father had paid the extra money with his cable subscription to have the ability to rewind and record.

He had.

I pressed the rewind button to see the entire clip of Laz's story.

“Police are asking your help tonight with the reported kidnapping of a young woman in the neighborhood of Fells Point.” Laz spoke somberly into the live camera shot, his signature brown trench coat whipping in the nighttime breeze, his brown fedora barely holding on to the side of his head. I held my breath, waiting for the snapshot that had grabbed my attention moments earlier to flash on the screen again.

“Witnesses describe a horrifying scene of an African American woman who looked to be in her early to mid-twenties come screaming out of an alley, begging and pleading for help,” Laz continued. “She appeared to be bleeding and residents of this quiet neighborhood immediately contacted police, who are reporting that at least ten 911 phone calls were made from community members between 9:06 p.m. and 9:08 p.m. However, by the time police arrived at 9:10 p.m., there were no signs of her.

“At least two witnesses are reporting that immediately after she came running out of the alley, a dark-colored minivan came from behind her, nearly hitting her. A passenger exited the van, grabbed her, and threw her into the back of it, at which time the van sped away. Police at this time do not have a name or any other information about the victim, and are also not clear on the make and model of the vehicle. All that has been released is this still from a security camera that caught a few seconds of the victim when she was within its view.”

I held my breath and pressed the pause button as a grainy photo filled the screen. The long weave, overdone boob job, and deep cocoa brown skin left no question. It was her.

Silver.

The woman who'd been on
The Soul Mate Show
locking lips with Brayden/Kwan/whatever his name was.

I shut my eyes, rubbed my forehead. Too much was happening for a Thursday night. When I opened my eyes, I pressed play and watched as the camera zoomed in on the photo, close enough to see the genuine fear filling Silver's eyes, the slight parting of her lips in terror and the butterfly tattoo on her neck.

I pressed pause again. I did not remember the woman on
The Soul Mate Show
having any tattoos, especially one as large and elaborate as the still showed. I had been tired last night when I watched the episode of the local dating show, but for as much as I studied the overdone fakeness of Silver, I think I would have noticed a large butterfly on the side of her neck.

A part of me felt relieved, though I wasn't sure why. A woman was still in danger.

But I had no other responsibility toward her than to pray. I mean, what else could I do for a stranger?

I pressed play and let the story finish playing. Laz reappeared on the screen. “Despite the additional tax and community dollars going toward keeping this trendy, upscale neighborhood near the Inner Harbor safe—money, I must add, that has not been equally invested in other areas that experience far higher crime rates and need more of a police presence—a young woman has gone missing violently and against her will. Police are asking that if you have any information at all that can help either identify this young woman or provide information about the crime committed against her, to immediately contact Metro Crime Stoppers. Tips can be submitted anonymously. This is Lazarus Tyson reporting live from the Baltimore City Police headquarters. Back to you in the studio, John.”

I sat dazed, and, yes, confused, as the news turned to a story about a controversial new home development in an agricultural zone.

“Is everything okay, Sister St. James?”

Sadie Spriggs was staring at me, her mouth uncharacteristically still. I had not noticed that she'd stopped humming. Her alto voice had been a comforting white noise against the backdrop of my mother's stern demands and my sister's nonstop accusations. My father had retreated from the fight. I had not noticed him leaving the room.

He kept it in the basement. I prayed a silent prayer for the unidentified woman kidnapped in Fells Point, and then prayed that my father hadn't rummaged through his safe where his most prized, smaller sports treasures were kept.
Along with the lion's head ring I hid.

“I'm okay. I'm just . . .” Really, what was I supposed to say?

“Father!” Sadie's sudden shout startled me. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she raised a hand in the air. “Help this family during this difficult time, Lord Jesus. Bring the baby boys back home safe. Comfort the mothers, calm the grandmother, bring healing and peace that only you can bring to all these burdened relationships. In Jesus the Christ's name I pray, Ayyyy-man.”

And then the tambourine began to rattle and the hums from a few minutes ago turned into full-blown singing. My mother and Yvette had no choice but to shut up under the metallic pounding, foot-stomping, whimpers, and shouting of the ancient woman. Honestly, I think they stopped fighting for the simple fact that they couldn't hear each other's yells over the spirit-filled commotion.

I realized then that Sadie Spriggs clearly understood her function and role in family catastrophes—and she lived up to them well.

Heavy footsteps in the kitchen told me that my father had retired upstairs for the night. From the impromptu prayer service initiated by Mother Sadie and the unfinished argument left to simmer between my mother and Yvette, I knew I had time to fish for the ring in the safe later. I'd come back tomorrow when the basement should be empty and I would not have to provide any explanations to anyone about anything.

“Hold to His hands, to God's unchanging hands.” Sadie's tambourine was in full-fledged Sunday morning mode as she belted out the hymn. Her eyes were closed and tears streamed down her face. When she opened them again, she nodded at me. I smiled and nodded back, accepting her unspoken directive of dismissal.

She had work to do with my mom and sister, and her tambourine was only warming up.

I stood and made my escape.

Yvette glared at me as I dashed up the steps, leaving behind her and my mother for what promised to be a near all-night music and prayer affair.

There was never any stopping Mother Sadie once the Spirit moved her to action.

I had my own deliverance to work through.

Roman was five years old the day I put every single picture I had of RiChard through a shredder. My son had just received another package from his absent father and was running through our old rancher wearing the Bolivian ceremonial mask that was his newest treasure from the man who traveled the world to save it, but never came home to see us.

Ever.

I remember the day vividly. I had turned in a paper for a sociology class, taken an economic exam for which I didn't have time to study, and used the last cent of my student loans for the semester buying a hot dog, baked beans, and potato salad dinner for Roman.

After losing my full scholarship to chase RiChard's dreams around the globe, and returning with nothing to show for our “love” but a bulging belly with a baby kicking inside, I was determined to finish the college education I had abandoned at age eighteen. Of course, doing so as a single mother, with my own mother willing to see me fall flat on my face only to prove her point, made college enrollment and completion difficult. It took me years of taking classes and working, full time, part time, and alternating between both times to first get my bachelor's and then my master's degrees. Ava Diggs was my sole cheerleader and the only reason I did not quit during the final stretch of grad school.

But on that day, the day Roman was having his own Carnival festival in my living room and my shredder was on full blast, I was nowhere near my master's degree. I was only about halfway through my undergraduate journey, facing foreclosure for the second time, counting nickels and quarters to fill my gas tank, and living off of ramen noodles and celery sticks so that my son could have three balanced meals a day.

And the man who fathered Roman but never held him, who had never sent a dollar bill to support him, who had never asked for a photo, or mentioned plans to come see him during his sporadic calls, was the parent that Roman was praising as he jumped around the room.

“Look what my daddy got me!” he shrieked over and over, as if the handcrafted mask were food, water, shelter, and sustenance—the things I was providing—no, sacrificing for—to ensure his health and well-being. “Look what my daddy got me!”

I felt sick to my stomach hearing Roman's cheers and gleeful shouts, knowing that I was going to have to dip into his Christmas present fund to pay the gas and electric bills. I felt sicker still when I recalled that the Christmas fund had already been depleted the month before to keep our water from being shut off.

I could not stop Roman's cheers. Despite my nausea, I could not turn my five-year-old son against his father. So I did what I could do. I erased every picture, letter, memento of RiChard from my presence by letting my shredder devour each one to pieces.

But my son's cheers did not stop until two years ago.

The arrival of the lion's head ring had changed everything. Even, especially, the way Roman thought of his father. Roman did not know the full story behind the prized jewelry piece. All he knew was that his father was not there for him, and, I guess, that was enough.

Why had I even thought I would go to sleep? It was four o'clock in the morning and any rest I'd had came in fitful tosses and turns. I'd sleep a little and then start dreaming about Roman, then wake up and start worrying about him. Or I'd sleep a little and then that terrified girl who looked like Silver would haunt my dreams. Like a blender set on grate, my thoughts and dreams were whirling around in uneven pieces, and thinking about old photos that were no longer in my possession did not help.

The grainy photo on the news had shown a woman with a butterfly tattoo; however, Silver did not have one.
Or maybe she used makeup to cover it up depending on what kind of first impression she was trying to make on that dating show.

The thought had not occurred to me before, but now that it did, I realized that it was totally plausible, and that the kidnapped woman really could be Silver.

“I'm not going to get much more sleep anyway,” I told myself as I reached for my laptop and pulled up the Metro Crimes Stopper Web site. I could be 100 percent wrong about that woman being Silver.
But what if I am right?
I was sure that a loved one, a family member, or friend would identify her to the police; but I was also sure that my conscience would not rest if I didn't pass along my suspicions. The Web site allowed anonymous tip submissions, so I had nothing to lose.

I typed in the fact that the victim looked similar to a contestant who called herself Silver on a dating game show that aired earlier in the week. For good measure, I even pulled up the episode on my television using my cable company's On Demand feature and provided the episode number in my tip. True to my memory, Silver did not have a tattoo, but that did not mean she had not covered it up with makeup. I mentioned that in my comment, though I was sure the investigators could come to their own conclusions, that is, if they even bothered to look at my tip.

After pressing Submit Tip on the Web page, I lay back down in my bed, though I did not expect to sleep. How could I? I needed my son home, and to even close my eyes without him down the hall in his bedroom felt unnatural.

But worrying is exhausting.

I did not realize that I had fallen into another fitful sleep until a loud pounding set me upright with a start.

Someone was banging on my front door.