The Season

Lazarus knew enough to be respectful. Hell, this was the holiday season and the city was filled with holiday things: lights, bells, folks singing, and kids. This time of year, there seemed to be millions of them, in every size, shape, color, holding on tight to momma’s and daddy’s hands, and all of them laughing and looking happy and glad to be together. The shit was almost sacred, and Lazarus did whatever he could to disappear into the shadows and stay far removed from this picture postcard scene. A man like him didn’t fit into all this, and he saw no reason to mess it up for everybody else. He watched, though, like he were watching a movie, and oddly enough, he enjoyed every minute of every scene unfolding in front of him.

He couldn’t remember if he’d had any kids of his own or not. Lazarus couldn’t fathom anybody running around calling “Daddy” after him. It didn’t seem natural.

“Whe . . . where’s my . . . where’s my baby . . . where is . . .”

He shook loose the image of the man whose car he’d hit, lying bleeding on the ground, reaching out his arm for his daughter.

Lazarus saw her, though, her small head twisted towards Lazarus, staring wide eyed at him, like she really wasn’t dead. And then he saw nothing. Just black and dark and memories of the yellow ribbon and pink barrettes in her hair. And nothing.

Tonight was a good night. Lazarus wouldn’t let dark thoughts take away his good night. He closed his eyes, and squeezed everything negative as far away from him as he could. Lazarus had something to do. He had to have a clear head and steady thinking to take care of some business because he hadn’t taken care of it before. And he owed her that. He owed all of them that.

That damn cop had pulled him in to jail and fuckin’ fed him questions he was supposed to swallow and throw up answers to.

Did you see the dead woman? Did you see who killed the dead woman?

Lazarus blinked away the blurred memory starting to form in his head. Tonight wasn’t the night for all that. Lately his thoughts were riddled with shit that didn’t make sense. He thought about the dead woman too much. He’d seen her time and time again, but never the way he did that night, close. And he thought about the girl with the pretty lips, living underground out of the light and fresh air. She looked pale like a ghost, her eyes empty. He’d passed by that same alley where that building stood a couple of times today, and each time, he thought of going back to see if she was still there. But maybe she was just a bad dream like everything else.

He’d failed people. Lazarus had failed far too many people in his life. He’d failed that woman who ran where he slept and then died there. He even failed that damn policeman that he hated, and Sweet Thang who smiled so nice whenever she spoke to him. He remembered her, but from where? God was testing him. He tested Lazarus over and over waiting for the moment he would pass. And suddenly it dawned on him why he was left here in this place to rot. It made sense. He couldn’t believe he’d been missing it all this time. He couldn’t believe he’d been so dumb and so blind. That ghost with the pretty lips was another test. Oh, Lord! He’d almost missed it again. It was another test to not fail. Maybe she was real. Maybe she wasn’t. But it was up to him to show up for once in his life and see what it was like, not to fail.

He stood up, stomped the feelings back into his legs, and walked back to the last place he’d seen that ghost—with the pretty lips.