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Category:
Action/Thriller
Publisher: Jahari Press
ISBN-10: 0975851802
Type: Fiction
Pages: 288
Copyright: November 2004
ISBN-13: 9780975851807
Life has not been easy for 13-year-old Karasha Brewer. Growing up in the poor rural town of Lazy Creek, Mississippi, in the early '70s, Karasha has faced a lot of hardship. But she knows her life could have been worse. While death, poverty, and racism have plagued her family, Karasha has also been blessed with song, friendship, and love, often from unexpected quarters. Coming of age surrounded by tragedy, Karasha is determined to squeeze every ounce of joy that she can from life--to triumph over grief and sorrow. Led by older sister Derna, who lovingly teaches through her own successes and missteps, and good friends Cora and Nancy who embody true friendship, Karasha learns to put on a brave face--sometimes even a smile--as she builds a life for herself. Following her mother's teachings and her father's example, experiencing her first adolescent crush and full-bloom romance, Karasha learns what real love demands--and, most importantly, discovers the true meaning of family.
Excerpt
Chapter 1
Once upon a time, childhood was normal for me. During that time, my greatest fear was the dump truck that chased me nightly in my dreams. Webster defines a dump truck as “a truck for transporting and dumping loose materials.” In my dreams, the truck was always trying to bury me in that loose material called dirt. When I once shared the dream with my brother, Napoleon, he said being buried with dirt represented death, so therefore, I was afraid of dying.
And he was right. I was afraid. Afraid of going to that Hell Pastor Lewis spoke of every Sunday in church.
“Burn!” he would yell as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. “Your soul is going to burn in eternal hellfire if you don’t get right.”
I tried to “get right,” but mischief seems to follow a child. Each night I would kneel beside the bed I shared with my sister, Derna. Looking toward the heavens, I would ask God to “watch over and protect me. And if I should die, please Lord, please take my soul home to Heaven.”
“Heaven!” Pastor Lewis yelled, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “Some glad morning, this old life is gonna be over. My weary bones gonna lay down for the last time. When I wake up! Oh glory! I’m gonna hear the sound of my Father’s voice calling me on home! Glory hallelujah! What a wonderful day that will be!”
When he got to that part, some old sister would start calling on the Lord, asking him to “come right now.” That puzzled me. Didn’t they know that in order to go to Heaven, you had to die?
I approached Mama with this question one day, and she said that black folk are not totally free here. And in Heaven, there’s no oppression, no color barriers, and no prejudice. Everybody is equal there. Equally free. Said that’s the way it’s supposed to be here, but Satan and his army brought about confusion with ignorance in order to win souls for Hell. Said colored folk are tired of being treated unequally. And in 1968 in Lazy Creek, Mississippi, it seemed like Heaven would be the only place we’d find freedom. Mama said no true Christian was afraid of dying, because that’s when life in Heaven begins.
Mama was my idol. Even though she never finished high school, she was a great teacher about life. She firmly believed that faith in God and yourself would get you through any situation.
Our house was a place of refuge for the neighborhood kids. Mama would not only teach us new games to play, but played along with us. When our growling stomachs announced that we were hungry, there were always enough snacks to satisfy even the hungriest, or greediest, child. Finally, when four o’clock proclaimed that Daddy would be home soon, Mama would shoo the kids away with the promise, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” After dinner, it was the mothers’ turn to tread the beaten path to our home. To cry on Mama’s shoulders about a child who just wouldn’t act right, no matter how many whoopings you gave him. Or money that just couldn’t be stretched far enough. Or a husband who was sleeping in a bed that wasn’t hers. (Mama always knew whose bed he was sleeping in, because that woman needed advice, too.) Mama was always patient, understanding, and encouraging, and always referred to the Bible for her answers. That is, until some wrong had been done to her—then she practiced the “eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth” religion.
At the tender age of sixteen, she married Daddy, one day after he celebrated his twenty-second birthday. They met at the local juke joint where Daddy played guitar and Mama was the Wednesday and Saturday night featured singer. Both dreamed of making it big through their music. That was before Mama got saved while singing “Amazing Grace” at Pastor Lewis’ first tent revival. After that, she forbade Daddy from playing at the juke joint and, when he didn’t oblige, shot at him to get her point across. The bullet that missed Daddy’s flesh entered his spirit and delivered him from his desire to sing the blues. He was baptized the next Sunday, and the following Monday he landed a job at the local sawmill.
Mama took to doing laundry for a white family, a job she got fired from after she cussed out Miss Betty Lee for accusing her of not getting the white sheets clean. Ma Sweets, Mama’s mother, used to always laugh about that. She said one day Miss Betty Lee didn’t want to pay Mama, so she pretended that Mama hadn’t gotten the sheets clean. Said she held the sheets out toward Mama clamorin’, “Looka here, Ruby Jean. I can still see last night’s activities on these here sheets.”
Mama snatched the sheets from Miss Betty Lee’s hands and held them up toward the sun inch by inch, challenging Miss Betty Lee to find one speck of dirt. None was found—or if it was, Miss Betty Lee was too afraid to point it out.
Mama told her she’d better go see a damn eye doctor, ‘cause she was either color-blind or just a crazy heifer who didn’t want to pay for a job well done. Mama informed her that she had picked the wrong day to pick on the wrong colored woman, ‘cause she wasn’t up for any of her shit.
That day, Miss Betty Lee gave Mama not only her usual pay, but a bonus for all her troubles. But that was still the last day for twenty years that Mama got hired to wash sheets for the white folk of Lazy Creek.
Mama and Daddy were married nineteen years before my oldest sister, Derna, made her entrance into the world. Pregnant five times before, Mama always miscarried after the fourth month. She spent six months of her pregnancy with Derna lying flat on her back honing her reading skills from a dictionary Daddy had given her as a tenth anniversary present. In that dictionary, she found the names for all of her children: Derna, born in 1957, named after a city in Libya; Napoleon, born that fall (almost nine months to the day later), named after the famous French conqueror; and me, Karasha, born in 1962. Mama meant to name me after a city in south Pakistan, Karachi. I don’t know who misspelled it, but now I am who I am: Karasha Michelle Brewer.
Mama loved telling the story of how she found our names in the dictionary, driven by the desire to have children whose names didn’t reflect their birthplace. Admittedly, no matter where her travels took her, with a name like Ruby Jean, everyone would know Mama originated in the South.
Nicknames were against the law in our household. Daddy wanted to call me Kay, but Mama forbade it. She told him that if she’d wanted him to call me Kay, that would have been the name on my birth certificate. She told him to call me by my name, or not call me at all. That went for friends and relatives, also. Mama told us that if anyone insisted on calling us anything other than our given names, to not answer. And if they said we were impolite for not answering, to point out their own impoliteness for calling us out of our names. Therefore, as long as Mama lived, Napoleon would never be Nap or Leon; Derna was never Dee Dee; and I was never any of the hundreds of nicknames people tried to give me.
Affection was not shown much in our family. In fact, I can't remember ever receiving a hug or kiss from either of my parents. But we knew we were loved. It was the little things, like the time Mama would spend teaching us new games to play, or how to make our own toys; the treats Daddy brought home with him after work each day; and the evenings spent sitting in a circle, singing until our throats hurt. Napoleon would later say that if you calculated wealth by material things, then we were poor, but if you calculated it by love, we were amongst the world’s wealthiest.
That love we would never miss until 1972, my tenth year on this earth.
For the month of March, the heat was record-breaking. Mama said it was so hot you could fry an egg on the concrete. Seated in God’s Will Baptist Church was half the churchgoing population of Lazy Creek (the other half was seated in New Kingdom Methodist Church). Pastor Lewis was preaching hellfire and brimstone again, when the lack of fresh air lured me to sleep.
My bare feet were pounding the pavement of a rain-slicked highway. I was running as fast as I could, but the dump truck was getting closer and closer. Mama was there just ahead, her arms outstretched to me. She urged me to run faster. But the faster I ran, the farther away she became. Her voice shrank to a faint whisper. “Run, baby, run.”
The road began to move backward, spinning me toward the truck. “No!” I screamed. “Please God, help me!”
Mama nudged me. “Shhhh.”
I shook my head to fully awaken and to clear my mind of that terrifying feeling. My pink cotton dress, wet with sweat, clung to my body. My tongue cleaved to the roof of my dry mouth.
“Can I go outside?” I managed to ask, once I had pried my tongue free.
“Me and your daddy’s ‘bout to sing.”
Mama was a true soprano with perfect breath control. The words flowed so smoothly from her throat, just like when you take a deep breath and gently exhale. Listening to her sing made you feel like everything was going to be all right. But Daddy had a commanding voice. The sound roared from his throat like mighty waves pounding the shore. You got swept up in the sound. It propelled your body and emotions toward whatever feelings he was projecting. Pastor Lewis said they were blessed.
“God has blessed each and every one of us in various ways. Amen. But Brother and Sister Brewer have been blessed with the power of song. Y’all’ve heard ‘em sing. Now, ain’t that a blessing?”
A resounding “Amen” followed. I looked up at Mama and smiled. She smiled back at me and patted my leg.
“Brother and Sister Brewer, y’all come on up here and render us a song.”
I can’t recall what they sang. I was busy watching how they controlled the emotions of the congregation. They always reassured us that there was someplace better than here and that a mighty, merciful, loving God was the ruler of it all.
After church, we spent the day at Ma Sweets’ house, the way we did every Sunday. All of us, that is, except Daddy. He spent the day at his mother’s, Mrs. Grandma Brewer’s, the way he did every Sunday. We called her Mrs. Grandma Brewer because she hadn’t approved of Daddy marrying Mama, so she’d never acknowledged Mama as a daughter-in-law or us as grandchildren; she’d told Daddy to have us call her Mrs. Brewer, but Derna inserted the Grandma part, and Napoleon and I followed suit. Mama told us she had a few names we could call Mrs. Grandma Brewer, and promised to tell us them when we grew up. She said the reason Mrs. Grandma Brewer looked like an old dried-up raisin was because she held so much hatred in her heart. Said God had a special place in His heart for kids, and punished people who abused them. Mama said that if she weren’t a Christian, she’d send that old witch on a short ride to Hell. But since she was a Christian, she’d just grin and bear the burden that God had given her in the form of Mrs. Grandma Brewer.
Anyway, that’s how Daddy ended up on the east side of the creek every Sunday, while we were at Ma Sweets’ on the west side. The west side, where the roads were still gravel instead of paved. Where most people, including Ma Sweets, still did not have indoor plumbing, and where telephones were an unaffordable luxury.
While the women gathered in the kitchen putting the last trimmings on dinner and setting places at the table, the men hung out on the front porch smoking cigars and hand-rolled cigarettes. Drinking from whiskey bottles half-hidden in their back pockets, they told stories from their youth that had been exaggerated by time. Like the one Cousin Shelby told about being the best baseball player in the colored league, although the closest he’d ever come to playing in the league was being a spectator in the stands.
The younger kids, Napoleon and me included, were in a close game of marbles. Our cousin Shirley was winning. She always did, because she cheated; that’s the only way she could win. Her hand was always on the inside of the circle when she shot the marble. Nobody argued with her, though. Like her mama, Aunt Julie, she had big bones. (Mama always said that was just a kind way of saying someone was fat.) Shirley had just knocked the last marble out of the circle when Aunt Julie opened the screen door and told us to go wash our hands and get ready to eat.
After quickly washing our hands—ten children with one bar of soap standing ‘round a hand pump—we rushed inside to be seated. The children’s table was located in the center of the kitchen. We were fed first…always were. Mama said it was an act of protection, that if there wasn’t enough food to go around, at least the children would not go hungry.
We quickly but thankfully said a prayer over our food, asking God to let it go toward the nourishment of our bodies. But please, please God, don’t let it do to us what it had done to Aunt Julie. She was so fat that walking a few feet caused her to breathe heavily. Mama said that there was surely too much fat around Aunt Julie’s heart and was certain she would one day drop dead from a heart attack.
Uncle Louis, Mama’s brother, winked at me. I could see him sitting at the head of the adults’ table in the dining room, Mama beside him on the left and Ma Sweets on his right. I loved Uncle Louis. He was always giving me pocket change to buy my favorite treat, vanilla ice cream. Most folk said he drank too much. He said that a hard-working man had a right to have the two things he loved most, whiskey and women. Said he wanted to die with a drink in his hand and a woman in his arms. Said he wanted his tombstone to read: Here lies the man who died doing what he did best. Rest in peace, brother, ‘cause Lord knows you must be tired!
Uncle Louis was telling the story about Mama and Miss Betty Lee again. Though everyone had heard it at least a hundred times before, we all still laughed. We were not actually laughing at the hilarity of the story, but at Uncle Louis. He had an unusual laugh that made the story funnier than it really was. His laugh sounded as though he didn’t have enough air in his lungs to make the sound he actually wanted to make. So he ended up sounding like someone who was trying to catch their breath, but couldn’t. Just like Mama was sounding right then.
Aunt Julie began to pat her on the back, the fat from her arms swinging back and forth like a pendulum ticking away time. She patted slowly at first, then more urgently, as she tried to help Mama dislodge whatever was blocking her airway.
Mama was staring right at me, hands on her throat, tears running down her face. “I don’t know what to do, Mama.”
Uncle Louis jumped up and grabbed Mama from behind. Lifting her from her chair he continued the intense patting that Aunt Julie had begun. “Breathe, sister, breathe!” he pleadingly commanded.
Aunt Julie’s husband, Uncle Pat, said we had to get Mama to the hospital. The closest one was sixteen miles away.
Uncle Louis picked up Mama as if she were his child and ran to his red GMC truck. Ma Sweets and Uncle Pat trailed closely. Uncle Louis climbed in the back with Mama and continued trying to dislodge whatever was caught in her throat. Ma Sweets crawled in the truck bed with them, while Uncle Pat got in front to drive. Aunt Julie tried to make it to the truck, but Uncle Pat pulled away before she got off the front porch.
“Get in the station wagon, kids!” she bellowed.
Derna started screaming, as though she had been asleep and had finally woken to realize what was happening. Aunt Julie told her to shut up, but she wouldn’t. She just stood there screaming for Mama. Kenny, Aunt Julie’s oldest son who was also big-boned, slapped her across the face. Derna stopped screaming and started crying.
Kenny smiled. “I saw that once on television,” he said.
#
Uncle Pat met us at the hospital door with tears in his eyes. “She’s gone, kids,” he said, his voice choking on tears. “Your mama’s dead.”
Dead. The word struck me like a bolt of lightning. Dead, gone forever, to exist no more. Derna crumpled to the floor like a rag doll and lay motionless at my feet. Aunt Julie started screaming Mama’s name over and over again. “Ruby Jean! Ruby Jean!” Round and round, her oversized body turned. Her eyes had a faraway look, as though her mind had wandered to a place far from where her body existed.
Oh mighty and powerful God, please give my mama back her life. You did it for Lazarus. Please, my Lord, if it be Your will, please work that miracle again. Amen. When I finished praying, Derna was gone from my feet. Some man had taken her away.
Seemed like the whole hospital staff was trying to calm Aunt Julie, but she would have none of it. Easily, she pushed them away as she labored down the hall, all the while calling out for Mama.
I longed for someone to hold me tightly and explain the events my eyes had witnessed but my mind couldn’t understand. How could my mama be gone so quickly? She had not been ill with cancer, like Mr. Waters who’d died the year before, nor had she been killed in a car accident like Uncle Thomas. She had simply been full of life one minute and without it the next.
I looked around for Ma Sweets and spotted her kneeling on the shiny lime-green floor, pounding it with her fists, sobbing, “Not my child, not my child!” Uncle Louis and Uncle Pat were busy trying to console her while battling grief of their own.
I could hear myself whimpering like a puppy, could feel tears moistening my face, but I could not command my legs to move. They refused the message being sent by my brain. Uncle Louis set them in motion when he accidentally bumped me while flinging himself through the exit doors. He collapsed on the hospital’s front lawn and surrendered himself to violent seizures of sobbing that quaked his entire body.
Toward the parking lot my legs carried me, my mind lost in the hope that I would run into a kind soul who would shelter me with loving arms after learning my mama was amongst the newly dead.
My eyes searched endless rows of empty cars. Eerily absent from the scene were people. None arriving, none leaving, and none meandering about. I began to feel as though everyone had vanished, that I had been left alone in the world. Not yet ready to abandon the hope that someone would hear my cries, I shouted, “My mama is dead!” The words reverberated through my mind, over and over again. But only I heard them.
Exhausted, I sat on the pavement and cried until my nose became clogged, my mouth breathing grew loud, and I was exhaling whimpers of pain.
Feeling the need to either move again or will myself to die on the curb, I began walking through the parking lot, aimlessly weaving through deserted cars, searching for anybody to hear me say “My mama is dead” and offer their arms for me to cry in.
Death was the wind, Mama a flame, and I was part of the smoke trail left behind.
For everything there is a reason, I heard the voice of Mama say. God has a plan for everything and everybody.
“I can still hear your voice, Mama.” I spoke aloud while looking toward the heavens. Her voice brought me comfort then. It entered my soul and started to mend the rips caused by her death. The weight on my heart lessened a bit and my breathing eased.
For everything there is a reason, her voice said again.
“Are you all right?” That voice belonged to Napoleon.
I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I searched my mind for the meaning of “all right.”
All means everything. Right means okay. “No,” I answered. “Everything is not okay.” In my mind I screamed, Our mama is dead! How can everything be all right? But I didn’t dare yell this at Napoleon. The last I’d seen him, he was being led down the hospital hallway, his knees buckling, his arms wrapped around a stranger in a white coat. Mama had once told me that he was not as strong as Derna and me, and had made me promise to offer him my strength whenever it was needed. Remembering her instructions, I wiped away my tears.
Napoleon started to cry. Not loudly, just sniffling, reminding me of a baby who needs comforting from his mother.
“Is Mama in Heaven now?” he asked.
“God is knocking on your heart today,” Pastor Lewis had said during one of his sermons. “You need to open it up to Him. Ask Him to cleanse that wicked heart of yours. Ask Him to renew your spirit. Ask Him to grant you the wisdom to seek His will for your life and the strength to obey His commandments. Ask Him for forgiveness of your sins, so that when the day comes for you to exist no longer on this earth—Amen—you will be able to hear the voice of our Father saying, ‘Welcome home, my good and faithful servant. Well done.’ Don’t wait until it is too late, my friends. For we know neither the day nor the hour. Even the rest of this day is not promised to anyone. This is the moment to seek the Lord’s kingdom.”
Mama had closed her eyes and asked for forgiveness. She had told me to pray along with her, because she did not want to go to Heaven if her children were not going to be there.
“Mama is in Heaven,” I told Napoleon. “I can hear the angels welcoming her home.”
“You can?”
“If you listen real hard, you can, too.”
We walked around the parking lot again and again, sometimes stopping just to listen. The wind picked up speed, and we could hear it rustling the tree leaves. If you listened closely, it sounded like angels welcoming a soul to Heaven.
Heaven opened up and rain poured out, falling so hard that the drops stung our skin.
“I’m getting wet, you guys. Let’s go inside. They’re probably looking for us anyway.” It was Kenny. I didn’t know how long he’d been there with us. But in this, our time of darkness and despair, he was an uninvited guest. This time was for Napoleon and me. To walk, to talk, to cry, and to try to figure out why. Why God? Why did you take our mama?
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