As the phone went dead, he let out a hot breath. Lovely. A reporter. He should have gotten a name. Clenching his fist around the phone, he turned back to the window.
He stood, stretched his stiff muscles and crossed toward the door. He needed to make some phone calls, but they could wait. Right now, he was going to have to do something about this headache. He hadn’t visited his special closet in many months, and he preferred to keep it that way. But commonplace antidotes didn’t work for him as they did for others. He was unique in so many ways. As usual, he would have to take care of himself. He always had.
Again I see the lightbulb, and I am glad. I close my eyes. Maybe if I close them, I can hide. I want to hide, because I am afraid. Afraid of the room. The terrible room. And the man. The good mean kind cruel love-me hurt-me man.
I say a prayer now. Thank you, God, for the lightbulb.
This is not a prayer I learned in church. My mother used to take me to church, but now we do not go. I have forgotten all those prayers.
I have not forgotten God. Has He forgotten me?
No. I know He is with me, because He gave me the lightbulb. When the pain begins, I open my eyes and look up at the ceiling. The white ceiling. Swirls and patterns, like a white river. Like snow on a river.
I see that lightbulb, and I am not afraid. It glows, shining into my eyes, and I stare at it. I stare and stare until my head hurts. I stare until the blackness comes. I command my eyes to travel into the light, into the whiteness of the bulb, the roundness, the glass, the ceiling, the swirls…
…and it is the sun, the bright sun, and I am running up the hill with my little sister. Come, Aurelia! Hurry up! Mama is calling. Can’t you hear her? We will be late for supper! We will miss our beans and tamales.
Green grass cools our bare feet as we run. Our wet skirts slap against our thighs. We played in the stream near our house today, looking for treasures. We found a tire and a shoe. We found a plastic bottle. We found a battery. Oh, such treasures!
Hurry, Aurelia! I hear her laughing behind me, and I tug on her small hand.
We reach the lane, warm brown stones under our feet. Hot dust swirling around our ankles. Broken glass—be careful, Aurelia! Watch where you are stepping! Don’t hurt yourself!
I take care of Aurelia, and she is safe with me. She laughs and laughs, as though missing our supper is part of the great adventure of this wonderful day. She knows I will get food for her, even if we miss the supper. Even if Mama puts everything away, I will find something for us to eat.
My feet bounce and skip and sing up the path, past the houses, past the wide porches and the children and the mamas and papas and the grandmas. I feel the sun shining on my face, warming my cheeks, kissing me with love. Oh, God, thank you for the sun! For the bright light. For Aurelia and the dusty path and the tamales waiting for us in our home.
Do I hear my mother’s voice? She calls! The smell of roses curls around me, and I am nearly home. Nearly there. I am coming, Mama! I am bringing Aurelia! She’s safe with me.
We run through the light, the heat, the brightness. We run up to our front door, out of breath, laughing, too silly to worry about tamales. I throw my head back, and my hair tumbles down behind me in a waterfall. The sun dances across my cheeks. I open my eyes and look into the sun, the bright white shining sun, the glowing glaring gleaming sun…
…and now I see that the sun is a round, white glass. It is small, and it hangs from the sky by a single black cord. It is the lightbulb. It has saved me again.
Thank you, God.
Chapter Two
S am spotted her the moment she stepped through the metal detector at the front door of Haven.
“Great,” he muttered.
Raydell Watson scowled as he followed the direction of Sam’s gaze. The brawny eighteen-year-old usually asked to work guard duty at Haven’s front door, and Sam had come to rely on him to keep troublemakers out of the recreation center. Despite Raydell’s youth, his dreadlocks, gold tooth and massive tattooed biceps made him an imposing barrier. He loved rap music, and his foul mouth had gotten him into trouble at the center more than once. A life spent mostly on the inner-city streets had hardened the boy at an early age. But to the best of Sam’s knowledge, Raydell had no gang or drug ties, and his loyalty to Haven was unquestionable.
A few minutes before, Raydell had relinquished his responsibilities to a younger boy and had come inside to cool off. Standing beside Sam, he watched the basketball game.
“It’s that newspaper reporter,” Sam said. “I’m supervising practice, and I don’t have time to talk to her this afternoon.”
Hadn’t he made it clear there would be no interview? Of course he had. But here it was just two days later, and she was back, sniffing around like a hound dog on a hot trail.
“Lucius, pick up your feet!” Sam barked as a boy barreled past, nearly tripping on his own sneakers.
“What’s a reporter want with you, man?” Raydell asked.
“The lead paint problem.” Sam had told the youth about the situation earlier. “She’s onto it. Keeps asking me questions that I don’t want to answer.”
“She don’t even see you standing over here,” Raydell observed. “Some reporter, huh.”
“I hope she doesn’t spot me, because I don’t intend to talk to her. I’ve only got two weeks left to come up with the money to fix the paint, and she could write things that would scare off donors. She could shut us down.”
“No way, man.”
“It’s possible. They say the pen is mightier than the sword.”
“Yeah, that’s why we carry guns in the hood.”
Sam cast the youth a skeptical eye. “And look what good it’s done you. No guns, my friend. And no reporters. I practically had to run her out of the building the other day. She’s trouble.”
“You already got enough of that.”
“No kidding.”
The woman headed straight for the office, head held high, dark brown hair swept up on top of her head like royalty. A queen expecting to command everyone in sight. What was her name? Burns or something, Sam recalled. She figured she was going to burn him. Splatter his sorry hide all over her newspaper. Slam the doors and lock them tight.
Not a chance. He had given his life to this place, and he believed without any doubt that God had commissioned him to the work he was doing with these children. Anything that rose against him became a part of the spiritual war he was fighting. And he certainly wouldn’t allow a prying reporter to sabotage his efforts.
At least she’d remembered the center’s rules and was wearing a plain white blouse. Tall and lean, she had the stride of a runway model as she crossed the floor in her belted slim gray slacks and high heels.
“Acts like she owns the place,” Raydell remarked.
Sam chuckled mirthlessly. “Yeah,
