Lydell Nelson went nervously to English class later that day. He did not expect that Mr. Myers would say anything about his journal. Lydell thought it would be weeks before the teacher found the time even to glance at it. Then he would give it a cursory look and return it to Lydell with little or no comment. Maybe he would thank Lydell for sharing the journal with him. Maybe, based on what he read, he would urge Lydell to see a counselor.
But when the class ended on that afternoon, Langston Myers said, “May I see you privately for a few moments, Lydell?” Lydell felt numb. Usually Mr. Myers referred to his students as “Mr. Spain” or “Miss Prince.” That he called Lydell by his first name surprised and frightened him a little. What was coming up? Had he been alarmed by what he read in Lydell’s journal? Would he gently suggest Lydell get help?
By the time Lydell came to the teacher’s desk, the class had emptied out. “Take a seat,” Mr. Myers said. Lydell grew more frightened by the minute. Mr. Myers had probably decided, from reading the journal, that Lydell had serious mental problems and needed immediate therapy. Maybe he even feared that Lydell posed a threat to the other students at Tubman.
Lydell sat down. He was glad to. His legs seemed suddenly too weak to support him. He thought if he didn’t sit down, he might fall down.
“Lydell,” Mr. Myers asked, “the events described in your journal . . . fact or fiction?”
“They’re, you know, true,” Lydell answered.
“I see,” Mr. Myers said. “I must tell you that your journal is very compelling. You write with power and clarity. The journal reminds me of the powerful autobiographical works of much older writers. It is quite remarkable to read material like this from a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old.”
Lydell’s mind was spinning. He didn’t expect this. He didn’t now how to react.
“You have experienced some horrifying events, Lydell,” Mr. Myers continued to say, “and I salute you for coping as you have. Writing can be a great catharsis. Do you aspire to be a writer, young man?”
“I’m not sure,” Lydell responded. “I’d like to go to college, but there’s not much money for . . . ”
“Well, we must keep in touch, Lydell,” Mr. Myers advised. “I have friends in several colleges. I would be happy to assist you with scholarship opportunities. I see great raw talent in your work, Lydell. You must keep with it. You are quite good. Later on, the English department at Tubman will be announcing a contest for works of fiction. I want you to be thinking about that and to enter your work, Lydell.” He handed Lydell back his journal.
“Th-thank you, Mr. Myers,” Lydell gasped, clutching his journal and walking out.
Lydell saw Kevin standing over in the shadows cast by some trees near the statue of Harriet Tubman. He was watching Lydell. He had heard Mr. Myers ask him to stay after class, and he had to find out what happened.
“So, dude?” Kevin asked when Lydell drew near.
“He liked it, Kevin!” Lydell bubbled. “Oh man! I can’t believe this. He liked it a lot. And he doesn’t think I’m crazy or something. He said the English department is having a fiction contest later on and I should enter. He says he’ll help me with getting scholarship money for college. Kevin, I can’t believe any of this. None of it woulda happened except for you, man!”
The two boys high-fived each another and then hugged.
At the Spain house that Saturday night, Pop made spicy pepper steak. He had heard from Mom twice on Friday and already three times today. She said she was tired. And the lines to the women’s restrooms were so long that they were wasting half their day waiting. Pop seemed happy about that.
“They’re runnin’ her ragged, and she can’t even get to the potty,” he said with unseemly glee.
Mom had given one presentation, and another was due tonight.
“So, you guys,” Pop declared as they cleaned up the dishes, “we gotta get up early tomorrow for church.”
Jaris and Chelsea looked at one another. They often went to the Holiness Awakening Church with Mom, but Pop rarely went. Sometimes Jaris didn’t go either, forcing Mom to be content with just Chelsea.
“Don’t look like I just invited you to be the main course at the cannibal’s convention, you guys,” Pop said. “The Spain family has got to be represented at church tomorrow. You want the Big Guy to forget about us Spains so that, when we call on Him, He goes, ‘Who’re they? I don’t know ’em.’ Your mom is havin’ the time of her life over in New Orleans. So we gotta go there and ask Pastor Bromley to pray for the travelers and such. You know the prayer list he does.”
“You’re gonna ask Pastor Bromley to pray for Mom?” Chelsea asked.
“Little girl, ’course I am. You know how he prays for the sick and the downtrodden and the soldiers over there—and them that’s traveling. Your mom gonna be flying home Tuesday morning. I’m not big on airplanes anyway. They got this turbulence goin’ on in the plane, stuff flyin’ around. Your mother could get beaned by a flying tray or something.”
“There’s not much turbulence between here and New Orleans,” Jaris stated.
“Hey, big shot!” Pop retorted. “We don’t know yet what storm is gonna pop up. The most precious lady on earth is gonna be ridin’ in that plane. I want some prayers for her. I went to bed Friday night. I’m lookin’ over at where she should be, and she ain’t. There’s an ache in my heart. Same thing gonna happen tonight and Sunday and Monday night. So you guys get ready to be prayin’ and singin’ at the Holiness Awakening Church tomorrow morning.”
Pop turned on the TV with the remote. Then he spoke to his kids again. “Then maybe afterwards we’ll stop for cheeseburgers and sodas.” Pop winked.
As Jaris and Chelsea headed for their rooms, both had the same thought. Chelsea spoke first. “He really loves Mom, huh?”
Jaris nodded, “Yeah.”
The next morning, Pastor Bromley seemed surprised to see Lorenzo Spain in a very nice suit. And he was ushering in his two children into one of the front pews—his tall handsome son and his pretty daughter.
“So good to see you, Lorenzo,” Pastor Bromley remarked before services.
“Yeah, Pastor!” Pop replied. “Hey, when you get to the prayer list, be sure to pray for the safe return of folks traipsin’ around the country on trips. Monica, she’s lollygaggin’ in New Orleans right now at some crazy convention. Big waste of time.”
“I heard from Mattie Archer of the big honor your wife received in being chosen—” Pastor Bromley began, smiling.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s all a crock, Pastor,” Pop protested. “She’s goin’ over there to Orleans with this idiot principal of hers. He’s sweet on her, you know, bad business. Fatso name of Maynard.”
Jaris and Chelsea were cringing with embarrassment.
“I don’t believe I know him,” Pastor Bromley gasped.
“No surprise there,” Pop declared. “He’s one of those dudes never go near a church. Real sleazy character. Divorced. On the prowl for another chick. I don’t think he’d mind stealin’ Monica if he could.”
Pastor Bromley looked horrified. He began looking around desperately for a diversion.
Jaris and Chelsea took some seats in a pew, lowering their heads.
“While you’re at it, Pastor, you might say a prayer for the marriages under attack,” Lorenzo Spain rattled on. “Lot of them these days. Got to keep the bonds of holy matrimony tight, eh Pastor?”
“Oh absolutely,” Pastor Bromley stammered. “Ah, there’s Mrs. Jenkins now. She leads the praise choir. I must get over there and talk to her about the music for today. Very nice chatting with you, Lorenzo. Yes indeed.”
Pastor Bromley almost tripped over his own feet in his haste to get away from Pop.
Pop eased into the pew. “Well, that was nice,” he announced. “Pastor Bromley is a good down-to-earth guy. He knows what’s out there and it ain’t pretty, I’m tellin’ you that.”
Jaris and Chelsea were both relieved when the piano and organ began to peal. A moment later, the marvelous voice of Mickey Jenkins and the others in the praise choir drowned out everything else.
That Sunday afternoon, Athena and Falisha came over to the Spain house. They planned to listen to some music Chelsea had just downloaded. Pop peered into the room and asked, “What’s that weird noise, little girl?”
“Hip-hop,” Chelsea answered. “ It’s a new group.”
“Oh yeah? I wish they’d hip-hop outta here, ’cause I’m getting’ a headache,” Pop complained.
“Listen to this,” Chelsea urged. “It’s electro rock. It’s got that really cool driving percussion. It’s cutting edge, Pop.”
Athena got up from the floor and started dancing.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Pop cried. “You gotta buy your clothes in bigger sizes. Even when you’re sittin’ still, they don’t cover much. You don’t wanna be dancin’, Athena.”
Falisha said, “I like the hip-hop band from Atlanta—”
“Don’t play that,” Chelsea cautioned.
“Why not?” Pop demanded. “Somethin’ wrong with these Atlanta hip-hoppers? Lemme hear how they hip-hop in Atlanta.”
Chelsea called it up on her player. She exchanged worried looks with Athena as the Atlanta band came on. It wasn’t long before Pop declared, “Okay, that’s enough of that. Where do you get this trash? They’re goin’ on about stuff little girls like you got no business thinkin’ about. Shut if off. Go play outside in the sunshine. That’s the trouble with you kids. You’re downloading all this garbage. You should be outside listening to the birds or takin’ the dog for a walk. Any of you got a dog?”
“I have a pit bull,” Athena said. “But he doesn’t like to be taken for a walk.”
“Great. Go play with your pit bull, Athena,” Pop commanded. “Go do whatever he wants, okay? Pit bulls got more sense than teenagers” He went into the living room and turned on the weather channel.
“He misses Mom so much he’s been pacing around like a lost soul,” Chelsea told her friends. “Mom won’t be back till Tuesday. He’s just gonna be like this until then.”
“My parents always go on separate vacations,” Athena remarked. “Mom goes to Hawaii with her girlfriends, and Dad goes to Montana to shoot animals.”
Suddenly Pop yelled from the living room. “Storms whippin’ up in the Gulf. They’re sayin’ a hurricane is sneaking around down there. It’s the hurricane season, you know. She had to go to New Orleans in the hurricane season. Beautiful. That’s when the airhead educators want to have their convention. In the hurricane season.”
Jaris joined his father in the living room. The weather woman pointed out the location of the tropical storm. “It’s pretty far from the Gulf,” Jaris noted. “It probably won’t go near New Orleans.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Who knows?” Pop said in a suddenly agitated voice. “You can’t predict these hurricanes, boy. They do what they want. They’re like women. They don’t listen to reason. They just go blowing around.”
Sunday evening Jaris couldn’t sleep. Pop was playing the radio in the room next to his the whole night, getting the latest weather reports. Jaris heard him on the phone at about ten o’clock.
“No, I don’t care how the presentation went, Monie,” he was telling Mom. “The whole lousy convention can take a flying leap. Y’hear? I’m thinkin’ about this storm down there. Whadaya mean, it ain’t nothin’? That’s what they said about Katrina. And look what happened. You’d be right in the middle of it.”
Pop was silent for a few moments. Mom was probably trying to reason with him. “Babe,” he finally said, “can’t you cut out of there right now? Weather’s good now. Just let the fat man do the rest of the claptrap and split, babe. You catch a plane for home. I’ll pick you up in the morning.”
There was a long silence while Mom was talking again. When Pop next spoke, his voice was hard and angry. “I don’t care about all that, Monie. I don’t want you flyin’ out of there when the weather’s bad, y’hear me? Planes go down, lady. Ain’t you never heard of wind currents and stuff?”
The conversation went back and forth for a while. Finally, Pop said a reluctant good-bye and put the phone down hard. In the darkness of the bedroom, he said into the silence. “It’s that freakin’ little fat guy keepin’ her there. He wants one more day to stroll in the moonlight with her. He ain’t givin’ up.”
Jaris got up and gently opened the door to his parents’ bedroom. “Pop, Mom’ll be home Tuesday morning. I just heard the weather report. Even if the storm turns toward New Orleans, the winds won’t be dangerous until Thursday afternoon at the earliest.”
“Jaris, you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Pop fumed. “I asked her to come home tomorrow, but she won’t. Maybe she’s already havin’ too much fun there, y’hear what I’m sayin’? Maybe she and Maynard havin’ one of those flings. That’s what goes on these days on these business trips. It’s a rotten, stinkin’ world, boy. People no good no more. The world, it’s a dark, rotten place. It’s full of rats, and they eat up a man’s whole world.”
“Pop, it’s okay,” Jaris said. But his father didn’t answer him.
Pop went to work as usual on Monday. Jaris and Chelsea went to school. This time, Jaris had to ignore Sereeta’s suggestion not to think about tomorrow. Jaris focused on tomorrow—Tuesday, when it would all be over. Mom would be home at last.
Tuesday night, they went to the airport at seven. Mom’s flight was due in at nine. Pop, Chelsea, and Jaris wandered around the airport in such an agitated state that security checked them out twice. Finally, they found the baggage claim carousel where Mom would pick up her bags.
Then they waited while Pop nervously rambled on. “Watch!” he declared. “They’ll come along arm-in-arm, your mom and that little fat man. He won’t let go of her a minute too soon. Who knows what went on back there—what she’ll be like when—”
Jaris felt the dark thoughts flooding into his mind. Did anything happen between Mom and Mr. Maynard? Pop would be heartbroken. But that couldn’t be. Mom and Pop loved each other too much. Still, Jaris couldn’t help feeling anxious. In fact, for every second Mom didn’t show up, he got more fretful.
“There’s Mom!” Chelsea screamed.
Monica Spain came staggering toward her family. Her hair was a mess. Her clothing was wrinkled. She had a glazed look on her face. “I hate hotels,” she announced, wagging her head. “I hate planes. I hate airports. I hate conventions. I can’t wait to get home to my own bathroom. I hate—”
Pop broke into her monologue. He grabbed her and lifted her off her feet. He kissed her forehead, her lips, even her nose. “I love you babe,” he croaked hoarsely. “I missed you.”
Monica Spain’s weary face broke into a grin. “Take me home,” she whispered. “Just take me home, babe.”
“Monie,” Pop commanded, “let’s get your bag and go home.”
All Jaris’s worries drained out of him. He had nothing to fear. He had never had anything to fear.
Mom, Pop, and Chelsea glared at the luggage passing slowly in front of them. But Jaris’s thoughts were somewhere else.
“All that worrying for nothing,” he was thinking. “When will I learn? I thought Lydell was acting crazy, not talking with anybody. But he was just scared and angry over losing his dad. He was worried about how people would treat him. All he had to do was just stop worrying about what might happen. That’s easy for me to say now. But it was really hard for him to do.”
Jaris chuckled quietly. “I’m no better,” he thought. “I’ve been angsting about Mom going away. Got myself good and nervous about what might happen. And nothing bad happened. In fact, things seem even better between Mom and Pop. Why do I worry so much about what might happen?”
Then Jaris remembered something. Sereeta and Ms. McDowell had it right. They had said it: “Don’t think about tomorrow.”