The furniture was crowded awkwardly along an exterior wall. Even the baby's crib was drawn away from the long, open interior wall. Scarcely an hour had passed before I heard gunfire. Conversation continued without notice. But knowing mama-eyes caught mine... naive and sheltered. I had never known true want. She saw it. This mama of a gangly school-girl and a chubby-cheeked baby boy saw my trembling heart. I was scarcely more than a child, myself.
"Just don't stand by that wall," she nodded toward the empty space. They were accustomed to the sharp ricochet of bullets exploding in this long row of apartment homes. The brick exterior walls were like barricades. The thin interior sheetrock was mere paper. Here, where even the police were daunted, I'd better learn fast.
Part of me wondered why in the world I was here. The other part of me was cupped in the hands of that singing little school-girl twirling in her best Sunday dress and shiny patent shoes. Her uncle was my best friend at a time when I knew few people in this town. I had watched him go hungry during our lunch breaks as he saved every dollar he earned to help his family eat... his mom, his dad, his sister and her children... this cooing baby boy and my new little friend. He had once known this neighborhood well. He was determined that she would know more. When he was drawn away to Germany with the prospect of building a better life for all of them, I promised him I would be there for her.
We laughed through movies. We ate our way through pizzas. We sang through Sundays. I visited her church. She visited mine. We both discovered two entirely different worlds through one another's eyes. He took comfort in knowing we were building a bridge. His one caution... "Do not go at night." I heard him through a short overseas call. Did he forget the whole "Show-Me-State" gene I carry? I heard him. I didn't listen.
One afternoon she and I talked with her mama in the living room longer than we planned. The movie stretched into the evening. But we didn't care. Her eyes were laughing with her voice. I hadn't listened.
Now dusk settles in as I pull into her neighborhood, counting the matching buildings to identify hers, looking for a place to park. She hops out of the car still talking about the movie... giggly... and stops abruptly. I raise my eyes to follow hers. At each stoop, mamas, who had been gathered down the row in girl-talk, have grown noticeably quiet. Their little ones continue to play about their legs. Their eyes are on me. Several groups of young men, gathered in clusters like a barrier near the parking spaces, now cease their boisterous exchange. Their eyes are on me.
"Sam?" her mother calls. "Come here." Her voice is intentional. Sam runs from me, through the men, down the row of mamas, to her own without looking back. None of our usual good-bye routine. No hug. No smile. No plans for next time. I hear her uncle's caution play back. Why am I so stubborn?
One of the men steps toward me. Others follow. I reach to unlock the car, but his arm stretches in front of me... drawing the keys out of my hands. I turn to face him, but before my eyes can reach his, they fall on the broken brown bottle held near my chin.
Fear. It's all I can think. Yet something tells me it is the one thing I must not have.
Susan
