Unconditional (18 page)

“Mrs. Crawford?”

I looked up, wiping tears from my cheeks and lashes. A tall doctor dressed in a lab coat and carrying a chart was looking down at me. He was an older man, African-American, with a face that reflected as much concern as kindness. “I'm Dr. Reeves.”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Bradford's friend said you would be here when we had news.”

I stood. “And? How is he?”

“His body has rejected dialysis. I'm afraid if he doesn't receive a transplant soon, we might lose him.”

I pressed my hand to my mouth and closed my eyes against the rest of what he had to say.

What would we do without Joe? What would happen to the kids? To Macon and to Keisha? I dropped slowly back into my seat. “I was hoping for better news,” I whispered.

“I understand. But the good news is, he qualifies to be moved up the transplant list. The moment a kidney is available, it's headed our way.”

I looked up. “How long will that take?”

“There's no way to know. But I'll be honest with you. We need for it to happen soon.”

“And when it does? He'll make it through, right?”

Dr. Reeves shook his head. “From a medical standpoint, there's a small chance with the transplant. But I've been in this business long enough to know that it's not for
me
to say, Mrs. Crawford. We're doing all we can. God handles the rest.”

Chapter Seventeen

A hundred and
one questions rose within me, but I couldn't form the words to ask a single one. “Thank you,” I finally whispered.

The doctor took a step toward the other side of the hallway, then stopped and turned to look at me. “He's awake. Would you like to see him?”

I stood again. “Yes. That—that would be okay?”

“Absolutely. He's in room 349.”

I found my way to 349 and turned slowly into the doorway. The room smelled of alcohol and sickness. Joe lay flat in the bed, an oxygen tube feeding into both nostrils and an IV running to his hand. Machines whirred and beeped around him.

His eyes were closed, the dark circles beneath them an indication of the amount of blood he'd lost. His lips were dry and cracked, and he moaned weakly. My heart broke, both for him and because of my own fear.

A chair had been positioned next to the bed. I eased myself into it and placed my hand over his.

Joe's eyes fluttered open, and he turned his head toward me.

“How are you feeling?” I asked while trying to muster an encouraging smile.

He tried to lean closer to me. I noticed how thick his beard had grown since yesterday. An odd thing to note, but I did so just the same.

“I heard 'em talking,” he said, his voice rattling. “They don't think I'll survive the surgery.”

I know . . .

“I got no fight left in me, Sam. I think this might be it.”

“Shhh. Come on. Don't talk like that.”

“Sam, if I . . . I just want you to know something . . . You were an answer to prayer.”

Me?
“How's that?”

“The night Keisha was hit, I was in bad shape that night. Near as bad as I was . . . when y'all found me. But that night I prayed to God, asking Him to send someone who could help . . . help Denise . . . with the kids. And He sent you. You, Sam. You were God's answer to my prayer, you know that?”

“No, Joe . . . you were an answer to mine.”

Joe choked back tears. “Sam, I . . . I love them kids . . .”

I nodded, fighting my own tears. “Do you have time for a story?”

Joe smiled as though amused by such a question. “Well, I sure hope so.” He coughed.

“Lay back,” I said, gently pushing his shoulder toward the mattress and the pillow.

He flinched as he slowly moved backward, then closed his eyes and waited for me to begin.

I gently squeezed his hand. “Once upon a time . . . there was a little boy who lived in a small village.”

A faint smile rose from Joe's lips.

“And he knew he was destined to become a great warrior. But no one else in the village believed it, not even his best friend.”

Joe's eyes opened. He cut his eyes at me and nodded.

“Time passed . . . and the little boy and his best friend . . . they grew up, and they grew apart. And like so many of us in life, they lost their way.”

Joe turned his head fully toward me.

“It would be many years before Providence would reunite them once again. But when his friend beheld him at last . . . she couldn't believe her eyes . . . for standing in front of her was one of the strongest, most noble, most courageous men she had ever known. A
mighty
warrior.”

Joe nodded again. He understood.

I reached to the floor where I'd dropped my purse and pulled out a folded piece of sketch paper. “I drew this for you . . . last night.” I opened it and held it toward Joe, who laid his head back against the pillow again. Sweat beaded across his forehead. I knew he was in great pain, yet his eyes smiled as he studied my drawing.

A new drawing of Samurai Joe, dressed in full samurai regalia. Shoulders back. Chin held high. Proud stance.

Around him were young children, their faces bright and their smiles wide.

Joe took the sketch from my hands. He struggled to speak, first past the physical agony, then through the emotion of seeing himself portrayed so valiantly. Fresh tears formed in his eyes as they did mine. I watched as his tears slipped from his eyes, catching on the oxygen tubing before trailing off.

“These . . . these are my babies,” he said.

“I know,” I whispered.

“Thank you . . . thank you . . .”

“Thank
you
.
”

Later that afternoon,
while Joe was resting, I went to the near-empty cafeteria to get a cup of coffee. I sat alone at one of the tables, still hugging my purse, sipping on what was nearly too hot to swallow.

“I'm going to write a new story,” I whispered to God. “I'm going to write about Samurai Joe. I'm going to tell the world—one child at a time—about his goodness.” I looked out the plate-glass window to an atrium filled with lush plants and a garden fountain. “About
Your
goodness. Because I know . . . I
know
You're not going to take Joe now. I just know it. Not now, when You need him more
here
than You do
there
.”

I had to believe then, that three years ago, God needed Billy more than I did or would. That was difficult to swallow. Then again, compared to the needs of these kids . . . well, there was no comparison.

Now, how many you guys comin' up without a father?

No wonder they called him Papa Joe. He was a father to the many who'd not been claimed by their own.

“He's got work to do, God,” I spoke into my coffee. “He's got a lot of work to do.”

So did I. First,
Firebird
. For Billy. Then . . .

As I turned
the corner toward Joe's room, I saw Macon as he ambled into the room, head down, shuffling his feet. He didn't see me. I stepped lightly until I reached the door.

“I need to tell you somethin',” I heard Macon say.

“All right,” Joe answered.

I leaned against the door jamb, not wanting to interrupt.

“It's my fault Keisha got hit by the car that night.”

“And how's that?”

“I was stealin' some stuff down at Murphy's and got caught. We ran out the back of the store. That security guard Murphy's got down there?”

“Yeah?”

“He chased us through the alley and into the street.” Macon's voice rose in distress and guilt. “We was runnin', and then she . . . she . . .”

I heard him sob, choking on his words.

“Aww, come on now.” Joe's voice was raspy. “I'm just glad you told me . . . I'm glad you told me.”

“I got something I want to show you.”

I turned enough to peer into the room. Macon handed Joe a piece of paper. At first Joe held it in his hands, close to his abdomen, not looking at it. His eyes stared straight up at the ceiling, blinking. Then he raised the paper to see what Macon had brought him.

“What's this?”

“My report card.”

“Well, look at that. Five A's.” Joe cut his eyes to Macon. “Why didn't you show me before?”

Macon sobbed again. “The other boys at school. They say it's stupid to try hard in class. It ain't cool.”

Joe brought his hand to Macon's face and cupped it. “Listen to me now . . .
you
are the definition of cool, my man.
You
are one of the most gifted young men I have ever known.” Joe looked again to the report card. “This is
nothing
to be ashamed of.”

Macon's head dropped, and his shoulders shook.

“Macon . . . Macon,” Joe whispered.

Macon's chin rose.

“I'm so very proud of you.”

I placed my hand over my mouth, holding back my own sobs.

“I . . .” Macon began. “I need a favor if you can do it.”

Joe chuckled. He wasn't in a position to be doing favors for anyone under the circumstances. “I'll do my best. Tell it to me.”

“Would you . . . would you be my dad?”

Joe's chest rose. His eyes closed. When they opened again, they found Macon's. “I wish that I could.”

“I read . . . that sometimes . . . other people can give you a kidney. Is that true?”

“Yeah, man. That's true.”

“Well, I've been thinking . . . I could give you one of mine.”

“Come here,” Joe said, coaxing him into his arms.

I turned away, returning to my hiding place, my back against the door jamb. Tears fell softly down my face, tickling my hand, which I held over my mouth. I sobbed without caring who might walk by or who might hear me.

Please, God
. . . I prayed.
Please
.

I returned to
the waiting room until Denise arrived. Together she and I went to Joe's room where Macon had fallen asleep, wrapped in Papa Joe's arms.

“I'll stay with Joe if you want to get Macon home,” Denise whispered at the door.

“I'll do that.”

I eased Macon awake, winked at Joe, and said, “I'll be back later. I'm going to take this one home.”

Macon and I drove back to Mattie's in silence, and I didn't push for conversation. I figured he was emotionally worn out. He sat close, in the middle of the bench seat, shoulders back. The boy had become a man that day. He'd owned up to what had caused his sister's accident. He'd admitted he was a good student. And most importantly, he'd asked a man he always called simply “Joe” to be his “papa.”

First thing I noticed when we pulled into the common area was that there seemed to be more trash around the Dumpsters than usual. Hardly seemed possible, but it was true. As if the people who lived there had gotten so used to the debris, they just didn't notice the extra.

Macon walked to where Mattie sat in her usual place outside her front door. As always, she had a lit cigarette between her fingers.

Without a word to Mattie, Macon entered the apartment.

I frowned behind him.

“Thank you for bringing him back,” Mattie said.

I shook my head. “He's tired,” I said, trying to explain his ill behavior without sharing what I'd overheard in Joe's hospital room. “And maybe a little scared.”

“How is Joe?”

“Not good.” I sighed. “There is a small chance with a transplant, but he . . . we just have to wait and see if a kidney becomes available.”

I thought to say something else, something more hopeful, when the front door opened and Keisha stepped out, showing off her snaggletooth grin.

My heart soared.

She stepped to Mattie, wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Light danced in her eyes.

Mattie chuckled. “I don't know what happened out there at your place, or what you done, but . . .”

Keisha leaned close to Mattie, cupped both hands around her ear and began to whisper.

Mattie's eyes grew bright. “She did? . . . Is that a fact?” She nodded. “I sure will.”

I held my breath as Mattie hugged the child.

“She wanted me to tell you . . . thank you for having her out to the farm.” Mattie chuckled. “Now look what you done to me,” she said, shaking her head. “I told the good Lord I'd quit drinkin' if my baby ever talked again.” She chuckled once more, then raised a brow. “Would you like to come inside?”

My mouth probably hung open about three seconds longer than it should have.

“I'd love to,” I said.

Keisha held her hand out, and I took it. She led me off the stoop and onto the front porch, then opened the door. As it closed behind me, I heard Mattie chuckle one more time.

The inside of the apartment was bright. Orderly. There wasn't a lot of furniture, and what was there was secondhand. But it was clean. As we entered the living room, Keisha indicated I should close my eyes. After I did, she took me by the hand and led me, shuffling and slightly hunched over, through the house until I heard a door open, squeaking in protest. I assumed it to be her bedroom door.

“Okay,” I said, “squeeze my hand when you want me to open my eyes.”

I felt a gentle squeeze.

The small room was ablaze with artwork. Brightly colored pages of construction paper with carefully drawn and colored sketches had been taped to nearly ever inch of the pale-yellow walls. Butterflies had been created using puffy paints and buttons. There were glitter-filled flowers so beautifully crafted one could almost smell their fragrance. In the center of one wall was a simple crayon drawing of a box-shaped house, built beneath a smiling sun. Outside its front door Keisha had drawn happy flowers and an impressively rendered bunny.