Darkness Before Dawn (9 page)

The next day, school
was once again cancelled because of the snow and the bitterly cold temperatures. I cheered sleepily when I heard the announcement on the radio, then went back to sleep with a pillow over my head. Jalani called a couple of hours later, waking me from a confusing dream about dolphins on a ski slope.

“You up, girl?”

“Do I have to be?”

“It's so pretty outside!”

“It'll still look good when I get up,” I grumbled good-naturedly. “What's on your mind?”

“I'm on my way to see Angel. She needs lots of encouragement. Want to come with me?”

“Don't you mean you're on your way to see Gerald?” I teased her.

“I can't help it if he lives there!” Jalani laughed.

“You think the corner coffee shop is closed today?”

“No, those places never get days off for bad weather. I'd hate to work there.”

“OK. Buy me a cup of hot chocolate and a donut to warm me up, and I'll come with you,” I said. I didn't want to stay home alone all day anyway. My parents, of course, had gone to work, grumbling about school kids who got to stay home and sleep in on snowy days.

“Bet. I'll see you in an hour or so.”

I stretched, climbed out of bed, and looked outside. Every tree limb, telephone wire, lightpost, and street sign was covered with several inches of shining snow. I thought it looked as if one of those magic princesses from those old European folk tales had touched the city with a magic wand, turning everything to diamonds made of snow.

An hour later, I was in Jalani's car clutching a warm cup of hot chocolate, hoping the little BMW wouldn't slip on the icy roads. But Jalani drove carefully and pulled into a parking space that had been cleared of snow right in front of Gerald's apartment building.

“Grab that container of soup, would you, Keisha,” Jalani asked as she gathered up the bag of donuts and a windshield scraper.

“Got it!” I replied. We tiptoed up the unshoveled walk way, leaning on each other while trying not to fall. I glanced to my left, and noticed a woman huddled in a corner, near the heat exchange unit of the building. She had on several coats, a number of scarves, and two hats. One
of her boots was red, the other was blue. She looked like she was either asleep or dead.

“Is it Christmas yet, chil'ren?” the woman asked, suddenly sitting up, startling us and making us gasp.

“Excuse me?” I said hesitantly.

The woman spoke louder this time. “Is it Christmas yet?”

“No, ma'am,” I told her. “We've got three more weeks. Why do you ask?”

“'Cause at Christmas they give us food and clothes. Like we ain't hungry or cold any other time.”

We weren't sure what to say. I don't think either of us had ever had a conversation with a homeless person before. “Would you like some soup?” Jalani asked the woman suddenly, taking the soup from me and offering it to the woman. “I made it myself.”

“Hot soup?” the woman asked. She acted like Jalani was offering her a basket of diamonds or something.

“Yes, ma'am,” Jalani replied.

“Girls like you can't cook. Your mama made it.”

“My mama is dead. She taught me how to cook, though. It's Nigerian stew.”

“I'm sorry, baby. Sorry 'bout your mama, too. Young people usually ain't very nice to me. I been beat up twice.”

Again neither of us was sure what to say. “Do you want the soup, ma'am?” Jalani asked again.

“Yes, I would. Thank you, honey. And what you know about Nigeria? You from Africa?”

“Yes, ma'am. I was born there.”

“Always wanted to see Africa,” the old woman muttered to herself. “I guess talkin' to somebody who was born there is good enough!” Then she looked at me. “You from Africa, too, Miss Girlfriend?

“No, ma'am. I've never been very far from Cincinnati,” I told her.

“Well get to Africa while you're young. Then you won't have to be wishin' when you get to be old like me. “'Sides, ain't no snow in Africa—leastways not the parts I'm dreaming of!”

I didn't want to offend her, so I just said, “Yes, ma'am.”

The old woman looked up suddenly. “My name's not ‘ma'am.' It's Edna.” She chuckled. “Ain't that an ugly name?”

“I think it's a nice name,” Jalani said. She handed the whole bowl of soup in the plastic container to Edna, who gulped it greedily. She had no need of a spoon—she was very hungry.

“What's your name, honey?” Edna asked Jalani as she finished off the soup.

“Jalani.”

“Now that's a pretty name!” Edna declared. “A nice African name! I like that! And you're a pretty girl to match it.”

Jalani smiled shyly.

“And what's your name, chile?” she asked me. “I never said you was ugly, now. Don't go gettin' mad at of Edna.” I smiled and told her my name.

“Keisha? What kind of name is that? Sounds like a
sneeze!” She wiped her mouth on her coat sleeve and laughed at her own joke. I smiled, but I said nothing.

“Do you have someplace to go, Edna?” Jalani asked.

“Sure, chile. Don't you worry none about me. I'm heading down to the shelter for the night. I'll be fine. 'Specially now that I had that soup. The food they give us down there is clean and good, but it's made from what I call recycled leftovers, if you know what I mean. Nothing wrong with it; it just ain't fine cuisine, if you know what I mean. Not rich and fine like your homemade soup! I'll sleep good tonight, thanks to you!”

Jalani started to cry. “I wish I could help you,” she mumbled helplessly.

“Now, child, ain't nobody cried about me in a hundred years or so. So don't start now. I like my life. I got no bills, no obligations, no worries. I got friends here on the streets and a warm place to sleep on these winter nights. And every once in a while, I meet a couple of kids like you that lets me know the world is gonna be OK. Now get on inside out of this cold. Both o' you! You done a good thing today. And that's just 'bout good enough!”

She handed Jalani the empty container and smiled at both of us. She was a large woman, and she stood up, stretched, and sort of waddled down the street toward the shelter. Me and Jalani stood there staring, not quite sure what to say or do. Edna glanced back at us, “Get out of the cold, chil'ren. Ol' Edna gonna sleep good tonight!” Edna turned the corner and disappeared into the snowy afternoon.

We slowly climbed the steps to Gerald's apartment and knocked on the door. Gerald opened it and grinned. He looked at Jalani the way Edna had looked at that soup, then glanced at the empty plastic soup container.

“Got hungry on the ride over?” he teased.

“I gave it to a homeless lady,” Jalani said slowly. “It was the strangest experience.” We told Gerald and Angel about our encounter with Edna as we took off our coats and gloves.

Jalani fixed Angel a microwaved baked potato, decorated with cheese and bacon. We all watched Angel eat it slowly, teasing little bites into her until it was just about gone. It took almost an hour, so we played Scrabble while she ate.

“I know what you guys are trying to do,” Angel said between bites. “You're trying to fatten me up so you can feed me to the wicked witch!”

“You've discovered my secret!” laughed Jalani with a screech. “I
am
the wicked witch! Eat that potato, my child. I need meat for my porridge!” We all laughed so hard we knocked the game board off the kitchen table.

Later, we sat in front of the TV, sharing a box of raisins, watching the weather reporters talk about the snow.

“My stomach hurts, Gerald,” Angel complained. “It always hurts when I eat.”

“Mine hurts when I
don't
eat,” replied Gerald. “Your stomach hurts because it's not used to food.”

“Food makes me sick,” Angel whined.

“Food keeps you alive. You've got it backwards,” Jalani told her patiently.

“Why do I have to eat so much? I'm already so fat!”

“You've had six raisins and you're
not
fat!” I told her.

“And a potato!” she wailed. “When I see myself, I see a huge, disgusting elephant,” Angel explained. “I don't
want
to, but I can't help it!”

“I know, Angel,” Gerald said gently. “But you are a lovely, slim, foxy lady. You gotta believe me. He grinned at her and tickled the bottom of her feet.

She giggled and jerked her knees up. He gave her two more raisins and she ate them, but real pain crossed her face as she swallowed. “It really does hurt, Gerald,” she said seriously.

I tried a different approach. “Listen, Angel. Your body's running on empty. That's why it hurts. You have to put gas in so the car will run right. Here's some more gas,” I teased, as I fed her more fruit.

“Do you think I still have the part in the show?” Angel asked us.

“When I talked to Mrs. Christoff last week, she said she was holding the part for you,” Gerald told her, “but do you know what she told me?” Gerald shook his head in disbelief, remembering.

“What?” I asked.

“I tried to explain to her about the seriousness of anorexia and how we were going to take this very slowly, and she said, as if she was talking to some idiot who ought to know this, ‘Oh, all the great dancers are anorexic! I've been anorexic all my life.' She said it with pride!”

“The woman is a walking box of Cracker Jacks,” I said.
I couldn't believe a grown-up in charge of kids could be so stupid.

I shuddered at the thought of Mrs. Christoff year after year preaching the gospel of anorexia to hundreds of unsuspecting kids like Angel.

Angel sighed in agreement. “I've heard her say that many times, and I just believed her. She danced with the New York City Ballet, you know.”

“Yeah, I know, she told me,” Gerald said. “I think the woman's got some issues that we don't need to deal with.”

“Maybe we need to talk about this, Angel,” Jalani said gently. “Maybe you should take a little break from ballet until you get your strength back.” We waited for her reaction.

“Not dance?” Angel asked, her eyes getting wide and scared-looking. “Dancing is like breathing to me. You don't understand!”

“Not forever, Angel,” Gerald added. “Just until summer. Maybe we can find another dance school. One where the teacher knows CPR and lets you have water and doesn't tell you how big you are. Right after Christmas, we'll start looking for another place to dance. Bet?”

“Bet,” Angel replied quietly. She smiled doubtfully, but stopped arguing.

Jalani and I left a couple of hours later. She probably would have stayed longer if I hadn't been with her. I sighed. I was getting tired of being the third wheel on all these two-wheeled couples.

There was no sign of Edna when we went outside, and
Jalani told me later that even though Gerald looked for a homeless woman that fit Edna's description every morning when he left for school and every evening when he came home, he couldn't find her.

“You want to go
out with who?” My mother had that look on her face—the one that's supposed to make you feel guilty, or sorry you asked the question.

“Jonathan Hathaway,” I said for the tenth time.

“Absolutely not!” My dad's look was that protective-of-his-little-girl daddy look—it made you feel just as guilty, but not as mad as mom's look did. Daddy didn't think any human male would ever be good enough for me. And a twenty-three-year-old man was going to be out of the question.

I sighed with exasperation as I tried to explain. “He's the principal's son. How bad could he be?”

Daddy was not convinced. “He's too old for you, Keisha.”

“What do you know about him?” Mom asked.

“You've met him—or at least seen him,” I tried to
explain, trying to be patient. “He works at the school as track and softball coach—remember when you came to pick me up from cross-country practice? That was Jonathan in the parking lot—the tall one.”

“Right,” said Daddy. “Like I remember a tall dude.”

“He was the good-looking one in the designer warm-ups, Mom,” I said appealing to her memory.

“I remember him vaguely. He had odd eyes,” she mused.

“You let me go skiing with him last week,” I was trying to sound reasonable.

“That wasn't a date,” Mom countered. “He was the driver for a school trip.”

“This isn't a date either!” I tried to explain. “Rhonda and Tyrone are going, and we're going to meet Gerald and Jalani there.”

Mom looked at Daddy. “What do you think, Victor?”

He sighed and looked at me. “I don't like it, but I trust Keisha's judgment and good sense.” He sounded like he had just told the dentist to pull out all his teeth—with a pair of pliers!

“I don't like it either,” Mom added, “and I don't trust any young man with my daughter. But I do trust her.” She looked at me as if she didn't.

I listened and sighed as my parents tried to make a federal case out of a movie with Jonathan Hathaway. I knew that my mother was glad to see that I was at least showing some interest in dating again. She could see I was trying to peek out of the hole I had gone into when Andy died.

“Most of the boys at school are stupid and, believe it or not, Daddy, just interested in ‘scoring.'”

Daddy jerked his head around and started to say something, but I don't think he really wanted to go there. Then he sighed, and admitted that I was probably right.

“Jonathan seems to be different, Daddy. He doesn't need to prove anything like the boys in the high school locker room seem to. He talks to me about world affairs and social problems and cultural movements. He's interesting to talk to, and he's interested in me for my ideas. You don't know how pleasant that is. He can quote long passages from the Bible and Shakespeare. The only deep thoughts and current quotations I get from the dudes at school are the words to rap songs.”