Unconditional (20 page)

It seemed to me Anthony was struggling now. Not because he wasn't sure of his story, but because Billy had encouraged him somehow, the way he managed to touch everyone he ever came into contact with.

Still . . . Anthony had killed him. Even this show of kindness, he had gunned Billy down.
For what?

“He . . . he sat with me for an hour in that rain. And we talked about a lotta things. The rain let up a little, and he said he had to get back home. He'd . . . he'd told me all about you. That you was a children's book writer and . . .”

My breath jerked out of my body as though I'd been kicked in the chest. The gun wavered in my hand. Anthony's eyes shifted, telling me he saw it too.

“His truck wouldn't start. I heard it, the engine trying to turn over. So I went into the alley, and I helped him fix it. He'd done something nice for me—it was the least I could do.”

The least . . .

“I always been good with cars. After I got it running, he walked with me back to the front of the store and we talked some more under the awning. He said he wanted to see me again. Said he'd be back the next day . . . we'd get another cup of coffee and a sandwich or something. I said the next one was on me.”

I blinked. Angry tears spilled down my cheeks, clearing my vision. My finger was still wrapped loosely around the trigger.

“He turned to head on back down the alley, and I decided the rain weren't never gonna clear up. I was wet enough, I may as well walk on to my cousin's. I got about twenty feet to the other side of the street when I turned to look over my shoulder. I could see Murphy through the window. He was mopping. Had headphones on, and I could see he was singin' with the music.”

Anthony's brows drew together. “No sooner had I turned around than I heard two gunshots coming from the alley.”

A groan escaped between my lips as though the bullet had penetrated my heart just as it had Billy's.

“I ran to the corner. Your husband lay on the ground, and this shadowy figure in a dark-blue hoodie was bent over him, rummaging through Billy's pockets.

I yelled, and the man looks up just as this flash of lightning shot across the sky.”

“Did you . . . see his face?”

Anthony barely nodded. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Who?” I couldn't get the rest of the words to come, so I repeated it again. “Who?”

“Don't know. Some white dude with a crooked nose. Never seen the man before or since.”

My arms grew tired, and the gun barrel began to dip slowly toward the floor as my finger eased around the trigger guard.

“The man dropped a wallet. He took three shots at me. I figured later he must not have had but five bullets 'cause he took off running after that.” Anthony shook his head. “He was cuttin' around the other end of the alley when I got to Billy. And Billy, he was struggling, trying to reach the wallet.”

Fresh tears followed the old ones, these hotter than the ones that had already dripped off my chin and onto Anthony's bedroom floor.

Anthony Jones ran his tongue over dry lips. “I knelt down beside him. ‘Gonna be all right, man. Gonna be okay,' I told him. ‘I'll go get help.' But Billy shook his head, still struggling to get to that wallet.

“‘You want this?' I said. He nodded, and I got it for him. He scratched at it, like he was trying to open it. So I helped him, and he took out this folded piece of paper. Grabbed hold of my hand, pressed the paper into it, and pulled himself up so I could hear him. I knew . . . I knew it was bad. Blood was spillin' outta his mouth, so I knew. And I knew whatever he had to say, it was too important for me to leave him there, even to go get help.”

“What? What did he say?” I choked out.

“He said, ‘Tell Sam . . . tell Sam . . .
Always
walk on the clouds.'”

The weight of fresh grief laid itself against my back, pressing my shoulders forward. The gun now hung loosely at my side. With my thumb, I slipped the safety into place, though there was still one more thing I had to know . . .

“I knew they'd blame me,” Anthony continued, “so I ran. I heard later they were looking for a man in a red hoodie with a red mechanic's rag. I'd used one of the rags I always kept in my pocket when I worked on his truck. I figured it must have fallen out when I was kneelin' over him.”

I stared straight ahead, at Anthony's black, tender eyes. What I'd seen in them before . . . was somehow different now. Like Macon coming clean with Joe, Anthony had finally been able to tell Billy Crawford's wife the truth. It had set him free.

“Since that night,” Anthony went on, his eyes welling with tears, “I ain't never been the same. Because of your husband. Because of our time together.”

Me either . . .

“Is that all . . . all he gave you?” I asked.

“No, ma'am.” Still kneeling, his hand slowly stretched toward the drawing. Reverently, it seemed, he picked it up and handed it to me. Unable to hold me up a second longer, my legs folded. I knelt before him, accepting the token of Billy's final gift to me.

I already knew about the drawing. “I don't understand,” I whispered.

Anthony had dropped back on his haunches. As my eyes met his, he leaned forward. When his hands touched mine, he forced them to flip the drawing over where I could see, even in the dim light, that something had been taped to the underside.

It was a two-dollar bill.

Chapter Nineteen

I returned to
the hospital the following day. Just as the automatic door slid open before me to allow me entrance, I heard someone call my name. Turning, I saw Denise running up the walkway toward me and carrying a bouquet of autumn flowers.

“Hey,” I said. “Any news?”

“Not that I know of. I called up to the nurses' station before I left the house, and they told me that he held his own during the night.”

I pointed to the door. “I was just heading up.”

“Wait,” she said. She opened her purse and pulled out an envelope. A name had been scribbled in cursive across the front center.

Sam.

“Joe wanted me to give you this. He gave it to me last night before I left. He really struggled to write it, so . . .”

I looked down at the plain letter-sized envelope, rubbing my palm across it. “What is this?”

She smiled. “I don't know, baby. I'm just the messenger. But whatever it is, it was important to him to write it.”

On both sides of the hospital's front door sat benches of wood and wrought iron, each surrounded by thick, cherry-red, Knock Out rose bushes. I motioned to one of the benches. “I'll sit out here and read it,” I said, not willing to wait to find out what Joe had written.

Denise squeezed my arm. “I'd say it's a good day for it.” She turned to go inside.

“Denise, wait . . .”

Her brow raised. “What's wrong?”

“Do you have a minute?”

She stole a glance at the flowers, as though they would die if she didn't get them in water soon enough, but then smiled. “For you? Of course.”

We sat together on one of the benches. I crossed my legs, shifting my knees in her direction. “I wanted to ask you . . . yesterday, I asked about . . . well, about loving
him
. But I didn't really say which ‘him' I meant. Joe or God.”

Her broad smile spread across her face. “I figured that out yesterday. The truth is, I love them both.” Her hands clasped mine. “I believe God brought Joe into my life for a reason. Maybe two, maybe three. I don't know. For sure, to minister to these kids, which is the easy part. Spend five minutes with
them
, and your heart is completely arrested. But maybe . . . maybe, God has more in mind.” Her almond-shaped eyes shot heavenward.

I saw the same look on her face as I'd worn when I first met Billy and every day of our lives together thereafter. Knowing now how Denise felt about Joe gave me something of the same sense of wonder and excitement.

“What attracted you to him—to Joe—in the beginning?”

Her eyes cut playfully in my direction. “You mean other than those muscles of his?”

We laughed together, and she squeezed my hands again. “Seriously, at first I only thought of him as a friend. Then I got to know his heart. It's the warmest of any person I've ever known. His desire to help those babies in the projects, to rise above his situation in life and to thank God for what most men would have cursed God for, is nothing short of amazing.”

I nodded. Amazing, yes. And humbling. For three years I'd wallowed in my own grief, but Joe had found light in the shadows. Hope in the midst of despair and poverty.

Denise sighed deeply, drawing me back. “I just have to wait for God to show Joe whether or not I'm supposed to be more than a friend.” She took the flowers in one hand and held them up. “If we get past all this.”

I leaned closer. “We will, Denise. You'll see. I just know we will.”

After she'd walked into the lobby and disappeared around the corner to where the elevators were located, I uncrossed my legs and tore open the envelope. A nurse pushing a man in a wheelchair rolled past, and I watched until they reached the semicircular sidewalk, turned right, and continued on.

Resting against the ornate back of the bench, I removed a piece of simple stationery from the envelope and read:

Dearest Sam,

You'll never know what it's meant to be seeing your face again and reuniting with that lovely little red-headed girl who welcomed a stranger as a friend. It's been hard to see those once hopeful eyes now only carrying the pain of a shadowed life. Well, I know those eyes all too well. But with pain comes a new way of seeing things. See, at the edge of death, I've never felt more alive, because I know I've done what I was created to do, to love these kids. I also knew that if anything happened to me, Denise couldn't do it alone, and then you came along. That wasn't without reason, Sam. Maybe these kids can help you find your way again. Like they did me.

Remember that story you wrote about God and the sparrow? I heard you say you didn't believe it anymore and that's okay. He's patient. I'm proof of that. Whatever happens, I have peace and I only want the same for you. Find your stride, Sam. Share your stories. They matter. Live. Breathe. And find a way to believe again.

Love,

Joe

I read the letter again and again, all the while vaguely aware of the constant opening and closing of the hospital door. Of visitors and medical personnel passing in and out. Of the breeze that slipped through the covered walkway, and of the light, spicy scent of the roses nearby. But it wasn't until I felt someone touch my shoulder that I looked up.

A young nurse dressed in blue scrubs gazed down at me. Her blue-black hair had been caught in a careless ponytail. Her Asian eyes were both compassionate and serious. “Mrs. Crawford?”

I folded the letter while keeping my eyes on her. “Yes?”

“A lady named Denise Lyles asked me to come down here and get you. They're taking Mr. Bradford to surgery right now.”

I stood. “What?
Right now
?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

I glanced at the automatic glass door, hope springing in my chest. “They got a kidney for him so soon?”

She smiled. “Yes, ma'am. They found a match from a donor bank.”

“Do I have time before . . . ?”

She shrugged as she shook her head. “I'm not sure. But you can try for it. Do you know where his room is?”

“Yes.” I pushed the letter back into the envelope and shoved it into my purse. “Thank you so much!”

I brushed past her and entered the lobby, walking quickly to the elevators. When the doors didn't open fast enough, I looked around for the stairs. Spotting a door under a neon sign, I dashed over, yanked the door open, and took the stairs, two at a time. When I reached the third floor, I was both winded and anxious. I forced myself to breathe normally, not wanting to appear too worried on the chance I happened to make it before Joe was taken to surgery.

But when I stepped into his room, I realized I was too late. His bed was gone, as were some of the machines he'd been hooked up to since his arrival. Denise's handheld floral arrangement had been tossed onto the window sill. The emptiness of it all should have caused me sorrow—I had not had a chance to say good-bye. But I was too stunned to feel regret. Since my departure the day before, the walls around the room had been overwhelmed by get-well cards taped to the walls. Dozens of them. Some store-bought. Most handmade. Lovingly penned and crafted by little hands. Children's hands.

These . . . these are my babies.

I stepped reverently toward the nearest card. It was made from orange construction paper and written in black crayon.
GET WELL SOON PAPA JOE
, it read. It was signed by Latisha.

Another, on bright yellow paper with a luscious red strawberry drawn in the center, read,
I ATE A STRAWBERRY TODAY AND THOUGHT OF YOU.

There were so many others. I took the time to study each one, noting the love that had gone into every petal of every flower, every rainbow color of every fat balloon.

I felt my brow furrow as something occurred to me. In these cards the sun was always smiling, the clouds were always happy, the flowers always bloomed. Not a single image indicated that it was drawn by an unhappy child.

What a glaring difference from the drawings that had hung over my work desk the past three years.

I lived on a beautiful farm, in a house large enough to get lost in, full of expensive, handcrafted cabinets and doors and cushy pieces of furniture. I never worried where my next meal was coming from. Never fretted over whether or not the electric bill would get paid.

I had been given the opportunity, every day, to watch the sun come up in majesty and go down in splendor. I could stand out on my balcony or front porch and breathe in the scent of fresh hay and green grass—not garbage overflowing from Dumpsters that were emptied too rarely.