I wouldn’t be telling this story if I didn’t see those two again. But I might be telling some other story about the wayward souls who came through that door. I got plenty of stories. For almost forty years that shelter was my life. I heard more stories than I wanted to hear, and I saw more things than I wanted to see.
I’m retired now. Retirement means I only work five days a week instead of seven. I got to slow down. My bones are getting creaky. A lot of time has passed. But sometimes I still think about Chantay and Jamal. Especially when I hear his name mentioned in the stories of the shelter children. Even now, years later, they still talk about him.
After that first night, I didn’t think I was going to see them again. But they were back the very next day. This time, I made them sit down and tell me everything they could about themselves. They didn’t want to give up anything. At first I thought they were being cagey with me. But soon enough I realized they just didn’t know very much about who they were.
“What’s your last name?” I asked them.
We were sitting at one of the rickety old shelter tables. Jamal just shrugged his shoulders. Chantay looked embarrassed.
“Well, come on,” I said. “It’s not rocket science, is it? Don’t worry, I’m not gonna tell on you. You haven’t done anything wrong, have you? It’s no crime to be poor. What’s your family name?”
“Our mama was always changing her name,” said Chantay. “I don’t remember which one was the real one. Besides, me and Jamal, we got different daddies.”
“All right,” I said. “We’ll just put Doe. I guess you probably don’t know your social number, huh?”
“Seven!” said Jamal.
“No, that’s how old you are,” I said. “Listen, forget about all this government stuff. Can you tell me what happened to your mama?”
“I done told you, lady,” said Jamal. “Jacky Wacky got her.”
“Don’t you get mouthy, young man,” I told him. “We speak with respect around here. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“Our mama dead,” said Chantay. “That’s what he means.”
“Oh, dear, I am sorry,” I said. “How did that happen?”
“Bullet came through the window,” said Chantay. She had to say it about four times before I could hear her. She had a habit of talking to her shoes.
I got it out of her little by little. It was a sad story, but not an unusual one. They lived in the worst part of town. Or did until one day when there was a shootout in the street outside their apartment. Gangbangers trying to do each other in. Turned out the poor woman was just watching television when she got hit by a stray shot. The kids came out into the living room in the morning and found her dead on the couch.
“When was this?” I asked.
“I dunno,” said Chantay. “Maybe four, five days ago.”
“Isn’t there anybody who can take you in?” I asked. “No family? No friends?”
“They all just gone,” said Chantay.
“Well, what did the police say?” I asked them.
Once again those kids just looked at each other. Jamal edged closer to his big sister and put his arm around her waist.
“We didn’t call the police,” she said.
I didn’t need to ask why. The people I work with have a mortal fear of cops. They are just as afraid of them as they are of the gangbangers who still rule these streets. I have a lot of respect for the officers who do their best in this city. But, like in any other group, there are good ones and bad ones. And most of them don’t have a lot of patience for the people they keep seeing day after day. People who are killing each other, fighting over a few square feet of concrete, pumping their bodies full of drugs, doing nothing to improve their lives.
I can understand their frustration. Me and the cops, we both want to make things better in this city. I just go about fixing things in a different way.
“So where did you go after they took your mama away, God rest her soul?” I asked.
“We went into one of the board-ups,” said Chantay. “We been living there. That’s where the rats got Jamal.”
“They didn’t take mama away,” Jamal piped up.
“What do you mean?” I asked him. “Didn’t you call anybody?”
“We don’t have no phone,” said Chantay. “We just left.”
A chill came over me as I realized what she was saying.
“Good Lord, girl,” I said. “You don’t mean to tell me your mama is still there?”
Chantay began to cry.
“I tried and tried to wake her up,” she said. “But she wouldn’t answer me. I didn’t know what else to do. I took Jamal and covered up his eyes so he didn’t have to look at her. And we just left.”
“Oh, merciful Father,” I said into my hands.
There are some days when living in this city is no different than living in a war zone. When you got children wandering the streets for days with their mama dead in their apartment, you might think there was a war going on right here. And there is. You watch the news, you see pictures of far-off countries where folks live in dirt and have no food to eat. The streets are in ruins. No one is safe.
Well, let me tell you something. I don’t need to watch the news to see that kind of thing. It happens right here at home. Other folks call it a tragedy. I call it reality. And it’s the children who are the victims.