Good to Me (17 page)

The cashier sucked a bubble from the gum she was chewing back into her mouth. “Ma’am, you have to tell me how you want your
ice cream. Do you want it in a cup or a cone?”

What difference does it make?
Charity pursed her lips together to hold her tongue, then spoke like she was talking to someone whose second language was
English. “I’d like the mint chocolate chip in one cup, and the cherry pistachio in another.”

“That’s all you had to say the first time.”

Charity cocked her head to the side and pointed at the cashier. “Look, little girl…” She stopped mid-sentence, remembering
who she was and to whom she belonged. She took a deep breath. “Please go get my order before I say and do something that we’ll
both regret.” Charity looked at the cash register to find the cost. Even though the old Charity was dead and buried, it only
took a second to resurrect her.

April was still reading the letter when Charity returned with the ice cream. She sat the tray on the table. To try and feel
April out she said, “Girl, I about went off on that little girl at the cash register.” When April didn’t look up, Charity
continued. “So should he be one of my clients?”

April did not lift her eyes from the letter. “No, he seems to be where he needs to be. But if you’re thinking about writing
him back, you might consider making an appointment somewhere.”

Charity sat down and started eating. “It’s courteous to at least acknowledge that I received his letter.”

April refolded the letter and slid her ice cream closer. “That’s how women get killed these days—being courteous. Charity,
the man’s in jail, he’s not looking for courtesy, he’s looking for a pen pal.”

“He just wrote to say that he was blessed by my article in
Today’s Gospel
.”

“And he also wrote you a two-page story about his life.”

“He was just explaining how he got to where he is.”

April sighed. “You’re talking like this is normal. Like it’s okay to receive correspondence from a criminal. I’m sure your
article was nice, but do you think this is the first time he was so inspired that he wrote to an author?”

Charity didn’t respond. She asked God for divine instruction, and she had to accept what she was given.

April continued. “Don’t get me wrong. Aside from being locked up, he sounds like a nice person. He writes well. Sounds like
he has a relationship with Christ. And that’s commendable considering most men in jail turn to the Nation of Islam. Seems
like he sincerely wants you to know that he’s a good person who made a mistake. But the fact remains that he’s in jail.”

“I’m surprised. I thought you would’ve been all in the Bible on this one. Giving me Scripture after Scripture about how I
need to write back because the Scriptures say, ‘judge not that you be not judged’ or at least when Jesus said… better
yet, let me show it to you…” Charity took the pocket Bible out of her purse and flipped through its pages. “Here it is,
Matthew 25:36, ‘I was in prison, and You came unto me.’”

“No, you didn’t. You know good and well Jesus ain’t never been to prison. He was teaching a parable about judgment.”

Feeling foolish, Charity kept up her argument. “Okay, you got me on that one. Paul and John the Baptist, two of the greatest
men of the Bible, were imprisoned, and considering all of the mess we did back in college, we might’ve served some time too.”

“Now I’ll give you that one. We should’ve served some time for the mess we did.”

“I’m not looking for a husband. I just want to write back and thank him for his kind words and let him know I’ll be praying
for him.”

April opened the letter again. “Dear Minister Phillips,” she read. “Your ‘I Have No Man’ missive in the February issue of
Today’s Gospel
blessed me so much that I wanted to tell you thanks and to encourage you to keep letting our Lord and Savior use you. I tried
hard not to write you, telling myself that it was a foolish idea, but you and I know God uses foolish things to confound the
wise. I felt an unction in my spirit to contact you. In fact, the babe in my spirit man leaped as I read your testimony. I
know the Spirit led me to find you.” She put the letter down. “Charity, you need to be prayerful about what spirit he was
led by.”

Charity picked up the letter. “What? I thought that was sweet. I bet if he weren’t in jail, you’d be telling me to go for
him. Look at him, the boy is fine.”

April looked at the picture that he had sent again. She had to admit Minister Nelson was handsome. “I sure would tell you
to go for him,” she said, spooning her now-melted ice cream.

“Like you said, he sounds like a nice person who made a mistake—”

“Yep, a felonious one. A police officer who got charged with aiding and abetting.”

Charity shrugged her shoulders. “He said he didn’t know his partner was crooked.”

“How can a police officer with over ten years’ experience not know his partner was accepting bribes from the people they stopped?”

“I don’t know. He said his partner framed him when he got caught and said that Minister Nelson knew all along that his partner
was accepting bribes.”

“I guess the good thing is that they were never able to find any evidence against him. You know how we can find out don’t
you?”

“Find out what?”

“If he’s telling the truth or not.”

“How?”

“We can look it up on the Internet. They have those Web sites where you can look up inmates and see their crimes, their sentences,
and everything.”

“You need to stay off Court TV.”

“I wouldn’t write him back until I at least did that.”

Charity considered April’s suggestion. It sounded like a good idea. “Do you know how to look it up?”

“Yeah. I’ll do it when I get home and call you.” April sipped a spoonful of melted ice cream. “He only got a five-year sentence,
so he is probably telling the truth. How long has he been there?”

“Two years.”

“What is the world coming to? Police officers breaking the law they’re supposed to uphold.”

“I know. Emmitt is the one who should’ve been in jail… for domestic violence.”

“Yeah, but he wouldn’t have gone to a federal facility. I know you’ve already made up your mind and I honestly don’t think
responding is a bad idea. I just don’t want you to give the wrong impression, or for him to get the wrong impression. You
know? Your real dad’s in jail, isn’t he?”

Charity nodded.

“Why don’t you ask him for advice?”

Charity sucked her teeth. “I know you’ve lost it now. You want me to write my father and tell him that someone from jail wrote
to me and to give me advice on what to do?”

“No. Ask him how inmates find their pen pals. And if you’re bold enough tell him about Minister Nelson.”

Charity looked at her watch. “Let’s go get this dress,” she said, standing. “I refuse to write Brother Abdul for advice. I
only told you because I was seeking godly counsel. I’m not interested in what his Allah has to say. That’s evidence of one
truth you spoke about Minister Nelson—he is to be commended for turning to God. I’m still praying the same for my father.”

Emmitt parted his mother’s graying hair and scratched her scalp with a rattail comb. He’d performed this service since he
was eight or nine years old. His mother, grandmother, and Aunt Elisa affectionately called him the “head honcho.” It never
failed that the recipient would be asleep within ten minutes. His mother had fallen asleep minutes ago. He brushed her hair
back with his fingers and massaged her scalp. He was glad she was resting.

When he was done he sat in the mint green recliner beside her bed and watched the television play silently. All the while
his mind was on his mother. He knew that her heart attack was a result of the hard life that she’d lived. His alcoholic and
abusive father walked out on them when he and Greg were toddlers. Consequently, the boys watched men come and go. There were
plenty of times they fought to protect their mother or themselves from the men she brought home or allowed to move in. Emmitt
remembered when he was eleven years old. His mother was driving her van and her boyfriend was in the passenger’s seat. The
boyfriend was yelling at Elaine when Emmitt climbed boldly up to the front of the van to intervene and threatened the man.
His mother begged him to return to his seat. As Emmitt turned back, the boyfriend grabbed him by the shirt and tried to pull
him over his lap. He opened the van door to throw Emmitt out. Fortunately, Emmitt’s lanky body was too long to be pulled over
the round hump that divided the driver and passenger’s seats. Emmitt did not remember how that ordeal ended or why the man
didn’t come back to hurt him later. But one thing was for certain, for his mother, he would do it all again. She married and
divorced two times after that relationship.

Emmitt knew that he was her love child. What he lacked scholastically, he compensated for athletically. He was so agile and
talented that by high school he’d become a decathlete. His mother worked two jobs and never came to any of his games, but
he knew she was proud of him. She watched his interviews on the eleven o’clock news and read and clipped all of the newspaper
articles about him. To this day, his many trophies and awards were displayed on three shelves in a cabinet in their living
room.

There was a short, rapid knock on the door. He looked at his mother to make sure she had not been disturbed. The door opened
before he could get up to open it.

A doctor tiptoed toward him and initiated a handshake.

“I’m Dr. Metcalf,” he whispered. “Are you Sleeping Beauty’s son?”

“Yes,” he laughed nervously.

The doctor motioned for Emmitt to follow him outside to the hallway. “Did the tests from her heart attack turn out okay?”

Dr. Metcalf looked puzzled. He flipped the chart over to look at the room number and then turned back to look at the number
on the door. “We ran some diagnostic tests. The results are normal. The tests showed no organic basis for a
heart
attack. We are certain that your mother had a panic attack.”

“Panic attack? What’s the difference between that and a heart attack? We have a family history of heart attacks.”

“It’s understandable that your mother thought she was having a heart attack. The physical symptoms of a panic attack are so
identical to a heart attack that we have to run diagnostic tests like the EEG and EKG to make a definite diagnosis. Your mother’s
test results were normal.”

Emmitt was not convinced. “So, even though she was having chest pains, could hardly breathe, and felt like she was going to
die, it wasn’t a heart attack?”

“Like a heart attack, a panic attack involves a sudden onset of extreme apprehension or fear and is usually associated with
feelings of impending doom. Palpitations, chest pain, breathing difficulties, nausea, feelings of choking, chills, and hot
flashes are some of the symptoms. But they can be so severe that the patient believes he is dying of a heart attack.”

Emmitt tuned out Dr. Metcalf. “Mr. Phillips,” the doctor attempted. “Has your mother been under a lot of stress lately?”

“She’s always under a lot of stress,” he quipped.

“Aside from the usual, has her comfort zone or routine daily life been threatened in any way?”

Emmitt looked sideways toward the ceiling. “Not that I can think of. We’re in the process of adopting my son, but she is in
favor of that.”

“Will getting your son create any changes for her?”

Just then Emmitt remembered finding the apartment applications that she had opened and left on her bed. A twinge of guilt
gripped him so hard his eyes watered. “In order to get my son,” he started slowly, “I have to move out of my mother’s home.
I went looking for apartments yesterday and requested a few applications. When I went home to pick up her medications for
you, I found two application packets that she had opened and left on her bed.”

The doctor scratched his head. “Bingo, Mr. Phillips. Will this be your first time living apart from your mother?”

Sheepishly he responded. “No, sir. I went away to college and I used to be married.”

“How was your mother’s health when you moved out then?”

“Okay.”

“Did she require any medical attention?”

Annoyed, he answered, “Yes. But I don’t understand why you’re asking me all of these questions.”

“I’m wondering if your mother suffers from a panic disorder. I’m not a psychiatrist—”

“A psychiatrist? She doesn’t need a psychiatrist—”

“Mr. Phillips, I’m just saying that people with panic disorders have just what your mother had today when she found those
applications. And I would bet that if you thought about it long enough you might remember other occasions when she required
medical attention during times of significant events.”

Emmitt didn’t know if he believed what the doctor was saying. He did know that he had heard this before, from Charity. Charity
was always trying to convince him that his mother was “codependent” and that he needed to set some boundaries. She was always
talking in that therapy language he didn’t understand. He hated that she put him in the middle, between her and his mother.
Charity would be on one end showing him where the Bible says for a man to leave his family and cleave to his wife. His mother
would be on the other end telling him that nobody ever loves anybody like their own mother. “One day I’mma be dead and gone,”
she would say. “And you’ll finally realize that I wasn’t trying to control you. I was telling you right.”

“Mr. Phillips?” the doctor called, as if he had been trying to get his attention for a while. “Have you ever heard of codependency?”

Emmitt lied and shook his head no.

“That’s a type of relationship where there are no clear boundaries between two or more people. The people involved do not
know where they begin or end, they are so enmeshed with the other person. If the other person ever left, the first person
would feel empty, incomplete, and even abandoned.”

Emmitt shifted his weight onto one foot.

The doctor continued. “We have social workers in the hospital who would be available to talk with you and your mother. Would
you be interested in a consultation?”