For

Valerie DeBerry

Arlene Hamilton

Lawrine Childers

And

Sisters/Friends

Everywhere

We Gratefully Acknowledge

Hiram L. Bell III—Thank you for lettin’ me be myself…again. DG

Lawrine A. Childers, for opening the door. VDB

Jeanette F. Frankenberg, for so much more than can be listed here.

Loren Johnson, Talisha Miller and Gloria Frye, our readers—your questions, opinions, enthusiasm and eager requests for more pages kept us moving toward the finish line.

Kim Allen Mayfield, who turned us on to Kim Jones who provided invaluable information about folks on the Vineyard.

Ken Harris and Stephen Gronsky, for the baseball scoop.

Dolores Fisher and Laurie Prosper, for some nitty gritty on the ad agency business.

Max, our favorite, loving, awful, orange tabby and muse, and the Fishes of Brunswick, for keeping us laughin.

Andre T Browne, for being in the right place at the right time.

Andrea Cirillo, our agent, for believing we could.

Charlie Lafave, who turned us on to Jody Hotchkiss who turned us on to Andrea.

Jennifer Enderlin, for taking a chance.

The late John L. DeBerry II, for being there each and every day, and to John L. DeBerry III, M.D., for being there for his daughters.

Always Gloria Hammond Frye and Juanita Cameron DeBerry, for the right stuff.

Alexis, Lauren and Jordan, Brian and Christine, the future.

And all of our friends and family members whose love and support is surely the grace of the Creator at work.

Prologue

“What happened to my life?”

1989, Westchester, New York

This don’t make no kinda sense! Gayle plucked a wet towel from the bathroom doorknob and flung it toward the white terry cloth mound on the gold-veined marble floor. This heifer just checked in last night and already used every towel in the place! She rubbed her hand roughly against her thigh to dry it, then shuddered, still feeling the unidentifiable, orange-scented goo she’d palmed while changing the sheets in the room next door.

From the moment Gayle entered this room and eyed the expensive clothes tossed on the bed, spilling onto the floor, she knew this woman had money, or at least liked to look like she did. Some of those same pricey, designer labels, neatly arranged by color and style, used to hang in her own walk-in closet. Humph…at least that made it easy to organize ‘em for the consignment shop. She stooped to retrieve a soggy washcloth wadded up in the middle of the tub and felt so tired she could have curled up on the hard cold enamel and been asleep before her eyes closed. Snap out of it! She straightened up and went to the sink.

Mocha makeup streaks stained the hand towels balled up next to the sink. So, it’s a sister. Gayle pitched the towels into the pile. It don’t take long to become just like “Miss Anne.” I know her momma didn’t raise her to be this nasty. It reminded Gayle of how her husband used to fuss when she dusted and neatened up at home, before the housekeeper came, but he didn’t grow up listening to her momma go on about cleaning up behind filthy people. She had hated those stories and any other reminders her mother was a cleaning woman, but determined not to be the subject of similar tales, she always ignored his wisecracks and kept on dusting.

When we stayed at hotels like this, I never left such a…Stop it Gayle, just stop it! That was another life, and every day she vowed to stop reliving it…reliving him, at least in the daytime. The dreams were bad enough. I gotta let him go.

Gayle spritzed the expansive mirror and vigorously polished, erasing the hair spray cloud and toothpaste specks, without once catching her own reflection. She didn’t need a mirror to tell her she looked, “like somebody sent for and couldn’t come,” as her daddy would have said. It was the one good thing about this job. As a part-time hotel maid she didn’t even have to pretend she cared how she looked.

The shapeless gray-and-pink uniform hung like a potato sack, hiding her curves, but it was better this way. At least most of the men who stayed one drink too long in the hotel lounge had stopped calling her, “girlie,” and asking what she charged for extra room service. If I’d stopped caring how everything looked a long time ago, I wouldn’t be in this sorry mess now. She picked up a still-slick bar of hotel soap with the abandoned shower cap and threw them in the trash.

The long wavy brown hair Gayle had pampered and gloried in all her life was carelessly twisted into a frizzy knot at the nape of her neck. For the first time in her life Gayle avoided mirrors. The golden glow of her skin had sallowed, and sooty crescents had settled beneath the eyes he used to love to gaze into. “I put the fire in your big brown eyes,” he’d say. “And I’ll always keep it burnin’.” But after he vanished, the flame dimmed and flickered, and now it was ash-cold.

Gayle held her breath and fought the tears that threatened every time she poured the pungent disinfectant in the toilet. I need this job. Vanessa and Momma need me to have this job. She swished her rag around the seat, folded the toilet paper edge into a perfect triangle, then poked her head into the bedroom and checked the clock. Only ten-thirty. Gayle sank to her knees and scrubbed the tub. Lord, what happened to my life? Before she finished she was startled by palsied rattling of the door.

“Shit! I hate these damned cards…Money! He asked if I wanted money.” The woman’s muffled voice quaked with rage. “What the hell is wrong with a key?” The shaking intensified, punctuated by sharp kicks.

What is wrong with this girl? Gayle rose to open the door.

“What are you doing in here? I’m checking out!” the woman snarled as she shot angrily through the doorway. “Doesn’t anybody in this damned hotel know what they’re doing?”

Heat seared Gayle’s cheeks. To keep from saying what was on her mind, she looked down and felt in her apron pocket for the list of rooms to clean she was given when she started her shift, but when the woman flung her folio on the desk and sent a vase of roses crashing to the floor, Gayle nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Would you leave…Now!”

Oh my God…it can’t be. Gayle was dumbstruck, riveted in place. But that voice. It was clipped and commanding now, all traces of the down-home drawl long gone, but she could almost hear that rich alto singing from the back of the choir loft. Gayle stared as the woman yanked open her suitcase, snatched clothes from the bed, and stuffed them into the black leather bag. She noted the woman’s hair, styled in a sleek, sophisticated cap. No more nappy kitchen, much less those wiry pickaninny braids Momma used to frown at when we were kids. She’s still on the round side, but a lot thinner than before. And that outfit would pay my rent for the next two months. It’s been…ten years at least.

“Are you deaf or just plain stupid? I said get the hell out!” The woman wheeled from the closet, clenching a red chiffon dress like she would rip it in two. Her eyes blazed right through Gayle.

It really is Patricia. Gayle pulled the door to, then sagged against the wall and shivered with a fevered chill, her head in a daze, her heart in an uproar.

“Damn you! I hate you!” Pat’s anguished wail pierced the quiet. Gayle was drawn toward the cry, reached for the knob, but she knew there was much more than the door still between them. Then, a torrent of sobs from Pat’s room flooded the impenetrable, carpeted silence of the hall.

All the years we were together…everything that happened…I never saw Pat cry…not even that day…

Part One

Makin’ the Bed

Chapter 1

“…an invisible crack in the world”

1969 Queens, New York

I gotta pee…bad,” Gayle whispered to Pat. Fat snowflakes had settled on Gayle’s rabbit fur hat and on her bangs, framing her small almond face like a halo.

“You went before we left school!” Pat knew Gayle was stalling to keep from facing her parents with dismal grades. Pat pulled at her green knit cap, trying to keep her hair dry. Her straight-A report card was tucked inside the folded newspaper cover of her math book, but she’d have hell to pay if Aunt Verna had to get out the pressing comb before Saturday.

First thrown together in kindergarten by the random selection of alphabetical order, Patricia Reid and Gayle Saunders were as different and as inseparable as day and night.

Pat had been raised by MaRay, a cake-baking, opinionated woman with immense bosoms and fat, hugging arms, in Swan City, a hiccup near Raleigh Bay on the North Carolina coast. Lil’ Daddy had passed, soon after Pat’s hello holler to the world, “But MaRay’s here for you Sugar.” Then, when Pat was six, MaRay passed too. Pat went north to live with her aunt Verna, a hard knot of a woman with no space in her heart or her life for a little girl.

Her first week in the small dark second-floor flat, Pat learned not to mention MaRay and to be very quiet, especially after her aunt’s late nights on her job at the Easy Street Bar & Grill. Luckily fall came soon. Since Pat was from the South, which to teachers up North meant she was at least borderline backwards, she was put back a grade, but starting school meant that for at least half a day she didn’t have to be quiet, and she wasn’t alone.

Pat was chubby and chocolate brown with a wise, wide-eyed face she would “grow into” and hair that resisted the taming of heat and grease. Her classmates called her “Aunt Jemima on the pancake box” and made fun of her accent, which was thick and slow as the molasses MaRay had laced in her infant bottles. The madder they made her, the more determined she became not to show it. Gifted with keen intelligence nurtured by the strong mother wit of MaRay, Pat quickly proved she was smarter than she looked. In class she always had the answer, which impressed the teacher, but not the students, except for Gayle.

Dainty and honey-colored, with long, wavy “good” hair, Gayle was the answered prayer of Joseph and Loretta Saunders. They married late, past the point when anyone at the venerable Mt. Moriah Baptist Church thought they’d bother. To make up for lost time, they worked hard, saved money for a house, and soon moved from Harlem to St. Albans, Queens, the home of Count Basie, James Brown, and other important people Loretta was happy to tell you. It was a two-bedroom frame house, with a brick front, pale green siding, a bay window, and best of all it was detached, a fine thing to all their apartment-living friends. The lot was even big enough for a carport and a brick barbecue pit in the backyard.

Joseph and Loretta were all set for a family, yet after twelve years and three cruel miscarriages folks said they were too old and ought to stop. Goodness, most of their friends’ children were nearly grown. But ever since she was little, Loretta, the ninth of ten in a family where nothing seemed new or enough, had dreamed of being grown and having a daughter. Only one, so she could dress her in pretty clothes bought just for her. She’d have a pink room with dainty white furniture, a room like Shirley Temple must have had, a room of her own.

Just when Loretta and Joseph were beginning to think their friends were right, praise the Lord, their prayers were answered and Gayle Denise Saunders arrived, crying and hollering and demanding to be noticed. Although Loretta was thrilled, she worried that Joseph might be disappointed since she knew men wanted sons, but Gayle landed an arrow, smack in the bull’s-eye of her daddy’s heart. He worked for two days with no sleep, laying carpet, hanging Peter Rabbit wallpaper in the nursery and putting the finishing touches on the new dresser and canopied cradle.

Gayle was their pretty, pampered prize, loved and spoiled by her parents every day, so kindergarten was a rude awakening. She was unhappy to find herself surrounded by dozens of children clamoring for the teacher’s attention. Gayle’s long hair—worn loose, not braided—her clothes—Sunday-best for other children—and her standoffishness marked her as someone who thought she was too cute, and she was isolated accordingly.

Gayle was so miserable that her good Baptist parents considered enrolling her in Catholic school. But on a day the class had to choose partners for an outing to the park, Gayle decided not to be left alone again. She chose Patty, the other girl nobody ever picked, and a friendship began. To Gayle, Pat seemed like she knew things, and she never seemed lonely or worried, even when she was by herself. And Gayle let Pat into her fantasy world, where anything was possible and it was okay to be a child. They shared finger paints and animal crackers and the hand clap-slap of “Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, All Dressed in Black, Black, Black.” They played dolls, and blocks, but they always played together, and by first grade, each declared the other her best friend.

Loretta, however, did not approve of Pat, or “her people,” meaning she didn’t like Verna Reid’s job as a barmaid. She kept trying to convince Gayle she could find a nicer girl to be her best friend. Gayle didn’t care what Loretta thought on the subject and persisted in inviting Pat over. Lips pursed and nose out of joint, Loretta would complain to Joseph that Verna and her ilk were exactly what they left Harlem to avoid. “Patty’s only a child, ‘Etta,” Joseph had said over the sports page. “Smart one at that. Gayle can learn a thing or two from her.” Loretta was so put out with Joseph, she put him out of her bed for a week.

Verna thought Gayle’s family was uppity, for no good reason. “Her daddy’s a damn janitor and her momma does day work!” Pat sat in silence, playing with a bowl of Trix and pretending to watch Soul Train while Verna ranted. “They treat that silly-ass girl like she somethin’ special, always tossin’ her hair like she White.” Verna couldn’t figure out why the hell Pat, with her flat face and eyes like a walleyed pike, wanted to be around somebody who made her look even more homely, but if Pat wanted to be a fool, that was on her.

Now in the fifth grade, the unlikely twosome was inseparable. The very children who had disliked Gayle because she was so pretty were eventually drawn to her for the same reason. Pat had all but lost her Carolina drawl, but brains didn’t make you popular. She was quiet and a little too bookish, but she could be funny sometimes, she always had the right answers to math homework, and her inexplicable closeness to Gayle sealed her acceptance.

And the girls’ walk home was ritual. By three-forty they would reach Pat’s street. She had orders from her aunt not to let “any little bastards in my house.” Verna called most days at four o’clock to make sure Pat was home alone, so rain or shine, the girls talked outside until three-fifty-five. They discussed schoolwork, sang songs from the radio, and sometimes said things they didn’t want anyone else to hear, like how Pat wanted to be a doctor or lawyer, somebody important so she didn’t have to work at night like Aunt Verna or wear those clothes that made men click their tongues and talk to her out the side of their mouths. Gayle couldn’t wait to be old enough to wear makeup, date and get married, probably to a prince, because her daddy always had dirt under his nails, and her momma’s hands were so rough they snagged her stockings. Besides, they worked all the time and didn’t seem like they had any fun. Pat invariably asked the last time she saw a Black prince. “That doesn’t mean there isn’t one, and I plan to marry him! I’ll find a prince for you, too, and we’ll have a double wedding!” Gayle would announce, then stroll home daydreaming about gowns and weddings, which she would draw until her mother made her get her homework.

The snow was falling double-time, and car tires whined, spinning for traction. Gayle stomped the caked snow off her boots. “Just went doesn’t help when I gotta go now, Patty!” To show the urgency of the situation, Gayle passed up their daily stop at J&T Candy Corner, where she would check for new hairstyle magazines and Archie comics because she loved that Veronica Lodge. Pat would buy a chocolate chip cookie the size of a 45 record to knock the edge off until she warmed the dinner plate Aunt Verna always left her.

“You are the peeingest girl in the world. If there was a peeing contest, you’d win.” Pat giggled, and Gayle held her stomach and tried not to laugh, but she did anyway.

“Shhh,” Gayle chided Pat, as she glanced back and saw Marcus Carter climbing to the top of an icy gray mound, piled high by a snowplow. “Going to the bathroom is girl stuff. Don’t let him hear.”

Last year, Marcus had moved around the corner from Gayle and appeared in their class and on their walk home. At first they ignored him. He was, after all, a boy, but when Gayle developed a crush on Marcus’s eighth-grade brother, Freddy, Marcus became the first male member of this very exclusive club.

Marcus leapt off the bank with a whoop and grinned like a fool as he landed on his butt in the fresh snow. “Everybody pees!” He got up, galloped past them, and snatched Gayle’s hat. Trotting backwards he added, “I can pee and write my name in the snow at the same time.” Freddy had just taught him this miraculous feat.

“That’s nasty, and gimme back my hat!” Gayle squealed and ran after him.

They arrived in front of Pat’s house, and, hat in hand, Gayle shifted her weight from foot to foot, looking pitiful. She knew Pat wasn’t allowed company, but three C’s, two D’s and an F in geography meant she’d have to listen to a lecture on how important education was so she could take care of herself and not have to scrub other people’s floors and toilets.

“Come on, Pat-ty, I can’t hold it. I gotta go…now! I can’t walk another step.” Gayle crossed her heart and her legs.

“You mean if I tickle you, you’ll pee all over yourself,” Marcus said, his fingers wiggling in anticipation.

“Marcus Garvey Carter, I’ll scream if you touch me,” Gayle threatened.

Pat hemmed and hawed, yanking at a drooping knee sock. A resounding “whap” interrupted her debate as the frozen sparks of a well-aimed snowball exploded off Marcus’s head. His books fell and skittered across the snow as he spun to face his attacker.

“Steeerrrriiike! Right in yo’ bean head,” shouted Freddy, bounding up to the trio. At thirteen, Freddy, a cocoa brown length of budding muscle and energy, viewed tormenting Marcus as his brotherly right, secure that he was big enough to call the shots. “Freddy “Fastball” Carter wins the World Series! Roberto Clemante eat that! Tell me I ain’t bad.”

“Baseball is lame!” Marcus yelled, then barreled into Freddy, knocking him to the powdery pavement.

Ignoring the melee, Pat continued, “You only live four more blocks, Gayle. You could make it if you stop talkin’ and start walkin’.”

“Pleazzzz! It’s too cold, and I can’t wait!” Gayle looked near tears.

“All right…But you gotta hurry up.” Pat swung open the chain-link gate and felt under her scarf for her keys, which dangled from the braided orange lanyard Gayle had made for her last summer in vacation Bible school.

“Aw, Freddy man, you busted my lip. Look, I’m bleedin’.” Marcus triumphantly pulled his lower lip down to display the blood collecting around his teeth. “Wait ‘til I show Daddy. He’s gon’ whip your butt. He tol’ you to quit messin’ wit me.”

“Eeeyew!” Gayle groaned, as Marcus spit out a mouthful of blood that dotted the snow like Redhots.

“Don’t be no sissy, man. You ain’t even hurt. Freddy lifted his drawstring gym bag and gingerly dusted off the snow. “Besides, I got somethin’ in here I was gonna show you, but I can’t be showin’ no sissy,” Freddy said, baiting his hook.

“You ain’t got nothing in that stupid bag but s’more a them stupid motorcycle magazines,” Marcus said, trying to resist the enticing lure.

“That’s what you say. Not what I know.” Freddy dangled the bait in front of Marcus.

“What’s he got in there?” Gayle whispered to Pat.

Marcus, unable to ignore temptation, bit. “Okay, okay, I won’t tell.” He prepared to spit again.”

“Don’t you spit no more blood out in front of my house,” Pat yelled, knowing that somehow she’d be blamed for it.

“What I’m s’pposed to do?” Marcus tried not to swallow.

“You could come up to wash your mouth out, and Freddy could come too…so you act right,” Gayle offered.

“Gaa-yle.” Pat shot her friend a scalding glance, which was answered by Gayle’s “Oh come on, just this once,” smile. Pat sighed and reluctantly opened the door. “But y’all have to be outta here by four. No kidding.” Everybody could do their business by then.

They rumbled up the steps and into the apartment. Pat hurried Gayle into the bathroom and tried to confine the others to the narrow hall, except that meant they were right outside the bathroom and Gayle wouldn’t pee until they moved. The boys were remanded to the living room

“Dag, you sleep on the couch?” Marcus poked the pile of clumsily folded sheets and blankets.

“None a your business and keep your ole nasty hands offa my stuff.” Pat emerged from the kitchen and handed Marcus a napkin for his mouth. She missed her bed in Swan City. It was near a window, and she would lie at night counting the stars beyond a clutch of scruffy pine trees except when there was thunder and lightning. Then she would take her covers and hide with MaRay in the pantry, where there were no windows and nothing electric. Ma would tell stories about when she was little while they waited out the storm. The sofa was comfortable though, and she could watch TV in her pajamas with all the lights out when she was by herself at night.

“What’cha gon’ show me?” Marcus zeroed in on Freddy, forgetting about his injured mouth.

Freddy knelt on the parquet linoleum and carefully loosened the drawstring of his bag. The hood of his jacket fell forward, obscuring most of his face. “You gotta swear not to tell. You hear me…never…nobody.” Freddy hunched over like a wizard, fiercely protecting the secret magic hidden in his pouch. Pat’s curiosity drew her closer. “You too. You have to swear.” Caution, fear and excitement tinged his solemn voice. Good sense told Pat that Freddy should take his bag, its contents and his brother and get out because Aunt Verna was going to call any minute, but her eleven-year-old need to know made her slowly nod yes as she crossed her heart and swore not to tell.

Freddy milked the anticipation. “I shouldn’t be showing you this. Y’all just kids, but…” He reached inside and slowly, reverently, withdrew his secret by its black, plastic handle.

Patricia’s mouth dropped open as she backed away. “You gotta get out here. Now…you gotta leave…”

Marcus swelled with an excited intake of air. “Where’d you get it? That’s a toy, man. That ain’t no real gun.” Marcus looked skeptically at the Saturday night special.

This ain’t no toy, chump. I found it. On the way to school…next to a garbage can in Baisley Park.

“You lie…Lemme hold it.” Marcus sprang toward Freddy.

Time oozed in thick oily seconds. Pat wanted to be outside again, waving good-bye to Gayle, but she couldn’t alter the past or grab hold of the present enough to change it.

“Naw man…it’s dangerous.” Freddy moved to tuck the gun away.

Dense and slippery, the time slick spread.

“I bet you never saw lips like these.” Gayle sashayed from the bathroom, her mouth painted with Verna’s lipstick in a plum so deep it looked like crude. She stopped cold when she saw the melee.

“Come on…lemme hold it.” Marcus reached around Freddy, grabbing at the pistol.

“Stop, Marcus!”

But he couldn’t and the boys locked, struggling over the weapon.

“Marcus, cut it…” A crackle, no louder than a finger snap, stopped them all. Pat saw Freddy fall through Marcus’s arms and land on the floor in slow motion. Then the shrill ring of the phone cut the thick silence. Pat knew it was her aunt, and she couldn’t answer.

“Get up,” Marcus commanded, standing over his brother. “Quit playin.” He took hold of Freddy’s shoulder and turned him face-up. Gayle screeched. Freddy’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, but no words escaped. Marcus pleaded, Come on, get up,” but then the scarlet trickled from the corner of Freddy’s lips. Pat knelt and unzipped his parka, revealing the small hole and the big wet spot on the front of his striped velour shirt.

Stumbling clear of hearing and the sick, greasy knot in her throat, Pat found the phone and called for help.

Time blurred and focused. In the lucid moments, Pat said just tell the truth, you didn’t do it on purpose, but Gayle ranted they would all rot in jail if they told that Marcus and Freddy had fought over the gun. “Freddy tripped over his books. It was an accident,” she insisted. Marcus paced, not uttering a sound, like something wild that was cornered.

Sirens blared. Paramedics worked feverishly on Freddy as a cop ushered the children outside past the crowd that had gathered, and bundled them into a patrol car. A quiet man in a brown tweed coat squatted next to the open door and asked what happened. Without hesitation Marcus told about coming upstairs to wash his bloody mouth, what Freddy said about finding the gun, and heaping the lie on a pile of truth, about how Freddy stumbled over his books and fell on the gun and it went off. Pat and Gayle nodded their agreement. After a few more questions, Tweed Coat left them alone.

They knew it wasn’t snowing any more. They knew there were no handles on the inside of the police car doors. They knew they were scared. And they knew they would keep Marcus’s secret.

“But what happens when Freddy wakes up? He’ll tell the truth,” Pat asked.

Gayle and Marcus looked startled by this thought, but before they could answer a cop got in the car and started the engine.

Freddy’s okay, right?” Gayle asked.

The cop sighed, tossed his cap on top of a clipboard in the front seat, and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, kids.”

And then they knew that Freddy was dead. Gayle wailed like a banshee. Pat tried to comfort her. Marcus clutched his arms around himself like a straightjacket and stared out the window, clenching and unclenching his jaw, the salty taste of blood still in his mouth.

Gayle’s parents arrived at the precinct house first, and as soon as Gayle saw them she dissolved in tears. Loretta gathered her daughter into her lap. She wiped Gayle’s eyes, cleaned the lipstick smeared around her mouth, and rocked her. Joseph watched, looking pained and sucking so deeply on a cigarette, he barely exhaled any smoke. Eventually Gayle calmed down enough to answer questions for the detective. When she explained what she was doing at Pat’s, Joseph said, “But you know to come straight home after school.”

“Hush, Joseph. The child’s been punished enough,” Loretta said.

When Tweed Coat finished with Gayle, Joseph and Loretta tried to take her home, but she got hysterical, refusing to abandon Pat and Marcus, so they stayed.

Booker Carter appeared, still wearing his blue-gray postal uniform and thick-soled black shoes. Ethel, his wife, was too upset to come, so he had a neighbor stay with her. Booker’s shoulders always listed to the left to mark the place where his mailbag hung, but now they both slumped, the weight of his sons a heavier burden than he could bear.

Marcus sat, head bowed, silent, wedged in the corner of a wooden bench. He saw the black shoes, polished to shine like patent despite the snow, and raised his eyes to meet his father’s, but the pain he saw in a split second was blinding, and he lowered them again.

Booker T. Washington Carter, Jr., had a government job. That meant he had done better in life than his father, but he felt that the prophecy of his great name had not been fulfilled. When his sons were born, he decided to give them each their own great name legacy, and with it their own chance at something more. But now that hope, that wish for better lives for his sons, leaked like tears from the corners of his heart.

Tweed Coat escorted Booker to an office and spoke to him in sympathetic official tones. It was terrible about his son. The police had reason to believe the gun was ditched after a liquor store robbery, and by the way, where was Freddy last night?

“My son ain’t robbed no liquor store,” Booker said with finality.

After more questions and paperwork Tweed Coat told Booker he’d have to go to the morgue and identify the body, then he brought Marcus in. The boy told his story, showing his bloody lip and telling the tale of Freddy’s fall. When they were done father took son lightly by the arm. Booker walked like his legs wouldn’t carry him much farther, and when they got to the door he gave way, slumped against the frame, and sobbed open and unashamed. His shoulders heaved, his face glistened with tears. “Oh Lawd, why did you take my boy?” The hustle bustle of the room quieted to an embarrassed, nervous murmur. And Marcus, who had never seen his father cry, wished with all his heart he was dead, too.

In a minute Booker collected himself, mopped his face with his handkerchief, and took Marcus home to his mother.

Verna came in the door, black leather coat flapping, cussing, the sour malt smell of Johnny Walker Red punctuating every word. “Where the shit is she?” A Salem dangled from her lips and wagged as she spoke. Pat, who sat staring at her fat knees, still shiny from this morning’s greasing, flinched when she heard the gritty voice. She steeled for the harangue.

“Goddam police draggin’ me down here’ cause this little bitch decides she’s gon’ have a party while I’m out workin’ my ass off. Knew from the git-go you wasn’t never gon’ be nothin’ but trouble.”

Gayle tuned up to cry again. Pat tried to explain, but went silent when Verna raised the back of her hand. The blow landed with a resounding whack on Pat’s cheek. Joseph rose from his seat, but Tweed Coat intervened and led Pat and Verna, still fussing, to his office.

Pat answered questions the best she could with Verna’s commentary in the background. Tweed Coat seemed nice, and Pat wanted to tell him she was a good girl and show him her report card as proof, but she just told him what he needed to know and told it the way they all promised they would. When he was done with her he asked her to wait outside on the bench. He wanted to talk to Verna alone.

Verna’s outbursts periodically interrupted the hum of the station house. “None a your damn business what time I get home,” or “Ain’t nobody give me nothin’ cept her, and I didn’t want that.” With each outburst Gayle and Pat huddled closer, Loretta cringed and gave Joseph her “I told you about that woman” look. Pat stiffened when she heard the furious tap-tapping of Verna’s high-heeled boots against the green-and-gray tiled floor. Hand jammed into waist and disappearing into a roll of flesh, Verna posed in front of her niece. Pat stood automatically.

“Don’t be too hard on the girl,” Joseph said gathering his family to leave.

Verna cut her eyes. “Maybe you ought to stop mindin’ my business and ask your child what she and them boys was doin’ in my house.” She pinched the shoulder of Pat’s coat, snapped, “Come on,” and propelled her into the night.

The day of the funeral Pat and Gayle clutched hands in their pew of the storefront Temple of the Lord, trying to be brave. Loretta and Joseph sat beside them, looking weary.

Pat listened to “Just as I Am,” played low on the organ, and tried to ignore her stinging legs, a reminder of the extension-cord whipping she got the night of the shooting. In Swan City, church was part of every week, but Verna didn’t hold much with religion, so Pat hadn’t been to church since MaRay’s funeral. Now, Pat heard Ma’s alto singing.”…Without one plea, But that thy blood was shed for me.” That’s when she saw Freddy in his blood-soaked shirt and closed her eyes to stay the tears.

Frightened, but unable to look away, Gayle stared at the array of flowers guarding the white casket. She thought the ruffly lining looked like Reddi Whip. Then she saw the arm of Freddy’s white suit, and a vision of Marcus and Freddy, caked in snow, flashed in her mind. She shuddered and faced Pat, whose lids fluttered open. Silently Gayle asked, “This all happened, didn’t it? Freddy’s really dead?” Pat’s eyes answered back, “Yes.”

Just then the Carter family entered the church. Booker supported Ethel, who moaned helplessly, “My baby…oh my baby…” Marcus followed solemnly, wearing a baggy blue suit. He looked vacant. Holding-back tears hung at the corners of Pat’s eyes when she saw him. As he passed their pew, Gayle began to sob, and Marcus paused long enough to give her his handkerchief. Gayle peered at it, then timidly looked at him. He doesn’t hate me. She clutched the starched square as he continued up the aisle.

The preacher worked the congregation until he dripped sweat, and their misery flowed in anguished sobs and shouts. Freddy’s baseball coach spoke movingly of the wasted potential and promise. As the soloist sang “His Eye Is on the Sparrow,” ushers signaled each pew to file by the casket and say good-bye to Freddy. By the time their row was called Gayle was crying so hard that Joseph stayed behind and cradled her as she clutched the now sodden handkerchief. Pat followed Loretta to the front of the church. On either side of Freddy’s head were white satin pillows, lettered in gold, one “Son,” one Brother.” His skin looked chalky to Pat. Just like MaRay did. When she stood opposite Marcus, she didn’t know what to say. There was nothing to say. He reached out and took her hand in a dry-cold grip, and she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek then moved on.

When it was time for the family’s farewell, Ethel Carter tried to climb into the coffin. “Leave him be. He’s just restin’,” she wailed, and had to be restrained until Marcus spoke. “It’s okay, Mom. It’ll be okay,” he said, but in her mind it was Freddy talking, and she calmed down, saying, “See, I told you he was just sleep.”

Gayle’s folks decided not to go to the cemetery, afraid the scene would be too hard on the girls. After a lunch they all picked over, they left Pat at her door as Verna had instructed, looking small and frightened despite her valiant front.

Pat dragged upstairs, wishing she could have gone home with Gayle, but grateful her aunt was already gone. She just wanted to lie down and wait for the pounding in her head to stop. Her breath rose in puffy clouds, which meant the landlord had let the oil tank run down again, so she tried to light the oven. Holding the match over the hole and turning the knob at the same time proved a greater challenge than Pat was up to, and each time she bent over, her head throbbed harder, so she gave up. Still wearing her coat and hat, she lay on the sofa, swaddled in her blanket, and wished for MaRay. Then, she bolted up and rummaged through the plaid fabric suitcase that still held everything she had brought with her from Swan City until she found it.

After MaRay was buried in the old cemetery behind the church, everybody had come back to the house. They ate and drank, and people started taking things, knickknacks or the silver cream pitcher, “something to remember her by.” Pat wanted something, too, so she sneaked into MaRay’s bedroom while the others were busy reminiscing. It was strange being in the dark, crowded room. It still smelled like her, like lavender soap and sassafras tea. Pat reached way in the back corner of the mahogany chifforobe, behind the shoes, avoiding the mousetrap, and found the bergamot tin where MaRay kept her good jewelry, the jet cluster earrings, the Sunday strand of just-like-real pearls she bought at the Belks in Raleigh, a cuff link with fancy letters Pat liked to trace with her finger, and the one lacy gold hoop earring. Ma had laughed ‘til she cried when Pat asked if her daddy was a pirate.

Holding the tin made it seem that Ma was with her, and Pat settled back into the blanket and closed her eyes, clutching the box in the hand she shoved in her pocket.

That siren sounds like it’s right outside. Pat thought only minutes had passed, that the clanking she heard was still her headache. But at least it’s a little warmer. Good, I won’t have to hear Aunt Verna cuss the landlord when she gets home.

“…a few more blocks.” “…not gonna make it…” Who’s talking? But the voices were jumbled and unfamiliar…I musta left the TV on. Pat tried to open her eyes, but her lids felt leaden. Ma, I dreamed about her…back in Swan City…I was following her down the dirt road and she turned around. “Go on back chile, you can’t come with me. Not now…”

“Hey, I think she’s comin’ ‘round!” Pat felt like she was hurtling through space, but when she tried to move she was stunned to find herself firmly strapped in place. Forcing her eyes to open a sliver, she saw a plastic bag of clear liquid suspended in the air and swinging like a manic pendulum. Fear gripped her, but she tried to speak and found her mouth was covered. “That’s right, just keep breathin’…Pat…that’s your name, right? We’re pulling in right now, you’re gonna be okey-dokey, Patty.”

The rest was a banging of doors, a blur of doctors, nurses, needles, questions. “What?” “How?” “When?” “Who?” And answers; “I don’t know.” “Yes.” “No.” I don’t know.” What did I do wrong? Voices hovered nearby. “…gas on…” “so thick your eyes watered…” “…could be a suicide, but she’s so young” “…thank God for the neighbors…” “Where are her parents?”

Pat heard her name. Slowly, the fog lifted. Pat still didn’t understand what had happened, but she knew it was bad. Then a woman who smelled vaguely of mothballs started asking questions again. Before Pat could answer, she heard it. Tap-click. Tap-click. Tap-click.

“What the fuck she do now?” Verna never did get those raggedy boots fixed. The steel shank had worn through the rubber lift and sidewalk-shredded leather curled around the heel. “First she let some boy get offed in my house…” The rings holding the pale yellow curtain around Pat’s cubicle trembled noisily against the rod as the drape flew open. The Ambush cologne Verna had generously dabbed behind her ears and poured down her cleavage mixed with Johnny Red, cigarettes, and her own musk, creating a heady, unique perfume.

“Mrs. Reid?” The woman who’d been questioning Pat stepped forward into the scented smoky air that surrounded Verna.

Verna stepped back. “The only Mrs. Reid’s my momma, and she’s dead.” Her head and shoulders rocked and rolled, an indignant choreography for each word.

Pat watched helplessly from her bed.

“Who the hell are you? You a cop like him?” She nodded toward the policeman who stood by the doorway. “Bein’ stupid ain’t no crime, las’ time I checked!” Chuckling at her own humor, she looked at Pat. Then, momentarily distracted, dug feverishly in her purse.

Pat wished she could melt right into the covers. She didn’t know how any of this had happened, but Aunt Verna, who finally found her pack of Salems, was definitely drunk.

“I’m not a policewoman, I’m with the Department of Social Services.”

“That’s the Welfare, I ain’t on no Welfare!” Verna huffed drunkenly, and put a cigarette to her lips.

“It’s better if you don’t smoke in here,” the officer said.

“Better for who?” Verna retorted, and struck a match. “Fuck you, naw come to think of it a cop’s a lousy lay. The only thing they shoot off is they mouth and they gun!”

Pat closed her eyes and silently inched down until the sheet covered her mouth.

“Please put that out. There’s oxygen in use.” He indicated the sign

Verna touched the match to the end of her cigarette. “It’s a free country.” She took a drag. “They can take that sign and shove it up they…”

The policeman snatched Verna by the sleeve. The rip under the arm of her black leather coat sputtered farther along the seam as Verna drew back her arm and landed a punch on the cop’s nose. Pat wanted to explain that her aunt didn’t mean it, she just got mad sometimes. But a swarm of guards pulled Verna away in a cloud of cussin’.

The next day, Pat was surprised when the social worker arrived and helped her dress. Undershirt and socks accompanied questions about Pat’s home life, which she answered as best she could. Yes, she was alone sometimes, but she didn’t mind. Aunt Verna was nice enough to take her in, and she promised not to be any more trouble.

“Why do you call your mother Aunt Verna?”

Pat looked puzzled. “My momma’s dead.” She reached for the coat, pulled MaRay’s bergamot tin from her pocket, and pried open the lid. “See. This stuff was hers.” If MaRay was here now, she’d fix everything.

Then, the woman sat her on the bed and slowly, like she was talking to a three-year-old, proceeded to rewrite the story of Pat’s life. Verna went from the aunt who rescued her to the mother who threw her away. MaRay was my grandmother? Pat lost her grip on the bergamot tin and it clattered to the floor. She couldn’t make her arms move to get it. Putting those things back in the box wasn’t going to help. She wanted to stomp the beads and earrings into dust, but the woman got down on all fours and continued talking while she picked them up.

“…only assault” “…But cocaine possession…” “jail.”…custody.” “Hearing…” “…group home.” “Foster parents…” “…court order.”

Finally the social worker placed the small metal box in Pat’s palm, folded her fingers around it, and asked if she understood everything. Pat nodded yes mechanically, but she hadn’t heard much above the roar of her own thoughts. They wouldn’t all lie to me? She must be wrong. Aunt Verna can’t be my mother. Pat put on her coat and sat in the wheelchair. And where am I going now? She felt her throat constrict against the bitter taste biting at the back of her tongue. I won’t throw up.

Outside an icy gust whipped candy wrappers and newspaper scraps into a motley whirlwind on the snow-clogged street, but Pat didn’t feel the cold. She climbed into the battered green Dodge and rested her head against the frosty car window. The last thing that made sense was waving good-bye to Gayle as the Saunders drove off. I won’t cry. I won’t.

Pat felt like she’d entered the Twilight Zone, and from the moment she’d crossed her heart and promised Freddy she wouldn’t tell she’d slipped through an invisible crack in the world and landed in another dimension.

Chapter 2

“… the last stop before freedom and the rest of your life.”

“But I don’t have a home anymore…” Gayle awakened from a fitful sleep with Pat’s words echoing in her head, singsong, like a schoolyard taunt.

“She’s your mother, Pat. She has to come for you.” Gayle’s logic had no time or space for gray. Mothers and fathers take care of their children, period. But Pat knew different, and she would not be swayed.

After the nightmare of Freddy’s shooting, Pat’s life had become a day mare. Eight foster homes and six schools in three months and not one word from Verna. Pat called Gayle whenever she could.

How could your mother not want you? Gayle shivered and pulled her pink-and-white comforter snugly around her. Mommy and Daddy would never let anything bad happen to me. It’s not fair. It’s not Patty’s fault. The empty desk where Pat used to sit seemed to blame Gayle for everything that had gone so wrong, and she could hardly concentrate in class. If I had just gone home with my stupid report card, none of this would have happened.

After two weeks Marcus had returned to school. She’d wait for him at three o’clock, and they would walk home together, but always as far apart as the sidewalk allowed, as if they were leaving enough room for Pat or Freddy.

Gayle threw off the cover and padded across the plush rose carpeting. Whenever she tried talking to Marcus about Freddy or Pat, he’d change into Spider-Man and dart off in search of evildoers or cut her off with some stupidness about spring training or motorcycles, so she stopped trying. He never even liked baseball before. How can Marcus act like nothing happened? Everything is different, and everything is wrong. She started downstairs for a glass of water, but heard her parents talking and sank down on the steps to listen.

“I don’t know the last time I saw my baby girl smile,” Joseph said. “She don’t eat. She hardly talks. We have to do something, Loretta.”

Gayle couldn’t believe her parents were inside her head. She barreled down the stairs and into the kitchen. “Daddy, I know what we can do. She can live here. We’ll share my room. We won’t be any trouble, Mommy. I promise.” Gayle crossed her heart. “You can’t let her keep living with strangers.” Then, pulling out the heavy artillery she said, “Isn’t that what Reverend Hobson always says? ‘If we don’t help ourselves, who will?”

Joseph looked at his wife, then at his daughter. His eyes were full, and his heart was heavy, but when he took a deep breath and squared his shoulders before he spoke, Gayle knew he was on her side. “We sure can’t change what happened to the Carter boy, but we can do somethin’ about this.”

Gayle had seen her mother’s frown often enough to know it meant the discussion was closed until later, but she kept pleading until her mother ordered her to bed without one more word. She could still hear them arguing though.

“We got problems of our own. Now you lookin’ for somebody else’s mess to drag in here. You don’t know what can a worms you openin’,” her mother said sharply.

“You the first one talkin’ bout the Word of the Lord, and what folks should do. Now you got the chance to do more than say amen and bake pound cakes, and you can stand here and tell me no, we can’t help that child through somethin’ that’s not her fault? That girl deserves a home as much as Gayle does,” her father answered.

Gayle squinched her eyes shut, muffled the angry voices with her pillow, and prayed like never before. Dear Lord, let them stop fighting, let Daddy win and Mommy not be mad, but please God let Patty come here so she won’t be all alone.

For days, Joseph maintained a weighty silence. Loretta huffed and slung grits and eggs at the breakfast table until the afternoon she answered the phone and heard hopelessness through the bravery in Pat’s voice. The cost. The time. The space. No matter how much she wished otherwise, all her arguments paled because nobody’s child should sound like that. And since Gayle wanted it so badly, she guessed she could put up with it.

Making the decision was the easy part. Joseph and Loretta filled out applications, then endured months of meetings, screenings, and background checks. Hurry up. Wait. Loretta wanted the whole mess over with, one way or the other. They had certainly tried – anybody could see that – but she couldn’t keep her family all shook-up forever.

Gayle sent Pat letters and cards she drew herself, with dimes and quarters taped to the bottom for ice cream sandwiches or bubble gum. She wrote and illustrated several installments of “The Adventures of Gayle and Pat,” and she fretted and cried for ten hot days in July when she hadn’t heard from Pat and a paperwork error meant nobody in authority knew where she was either.

By the time Gayle’s parents, with the help of Reverend Hobson and the Mt. Moriah Community Assistance Board, got through the labyrinthine tangle of Social Service agencies and arranged to take Pat into their home, she had given up any hope of being rescued.

The social worker assured Pat there was no reason she couldn’t live with Gayle a long time, but on the car ride Pat clasped her hands tightly in her lap and counted Beetle cars as they inched through traffic. She didn’t want to get her hopes up in case something went wrong and she was disappointed again. She’d learned that nothing was what it seemed and believing in people too much only made you a sucker. Everyone had lied to her. MaRay used to quote from her Bible, “The truth will set you free,” but she’d lied too, every single day they were together. When Pat realized that, the foundation for all she believed in heaved and cracked, leaving her on seriously shaky ground. And unlike Verna, at least her father, whoever he was, had the decency not to lie—he just left.

The car had barely stopped in front of the neat brick and siding bungalow when the screen door flew open and Gayle ran, full out, yelling, giggling, laughing, surrounding Pat with her arms. “I love you, Patty!”

They spun in a dizzy circle, hugging harder than Pat had ever hugged anyone, finally letting herself be happy, at least for a moment. “I love you, too.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say, but Gayle talked for them as they headed inside, arm in arm.