Dark Side of Valor: A Novel

BOOK ONE

"Fearlessness and trembling are come upon me, and horror hath overwhelmed me. And I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove! For then would I fly away, and be at rest."

—PSALM 55:5-6 KJV

CHAPTER ONE

Something scampered across her face. A waterbug, roach or worse. Lelia bolted upright, and almost toppled her makeshift bed. She shook off her clothes. Sweat dampened her honey-chocolate brow. Wild eyes darted about the small, dismal room, tried to draw comfort from its familiarity.

A single, yellowing light bulb hung from the ceiling by a tattered cord. Small bursts of chilly air from the plastic patched window rocked the bulb, and caused its dim light to bounce from one cracked plaster wall to another.

Her clothes were still tidy in the scratched, white laminate bookshelf at the foot of her bed; two stacked milk crates held her thrift-store sneakers and size-too-small flip-flops. The green shag remnant she’d lugged from the carpet discount Dumpster covered the cold wooden floor. The old radiator beneath the window produced little to no heat. Her cross-shaped clock still read 3:35 a.m., and her mama’s neatly made cot remained untouched.

Still.

Nothing altered, everything forever in its depressing order. Familiarity of the room brought reality. Reality brought no comfort.

She padded to the curtainless window, rested her forehead on the frosted pane.

Across the front yard, the new dope dealer stood over his latest victim, Snook, the block’s newest crackhead.

The street lamp over the court was busted. In the shadows, the dealer held up a small baggie. A madman, Snook clutched for it. The man held it just out of reach, laughed at Snook’s desperation.

Snook stopped trying, rolled into a tight ball like a baby. Moans, low, pain-filled, filtered through the thin glass.

The scene was so common, it barely touched Lelia’s heart. She flattened her hand against the pane, caught her reflection in the night-blackened glass, noted the change.

Her eyes.

She thought it would take longer.

Years. Decades.

It was there. The look she swore she’d never succumb to.

Staring at her were the eyes of her mama, Rubinell. Rubinell’s eyes looked like that when she talked of Lelia’s father.

She gazed into the eyes of Little Ray who stood on the street corner, begged for liquor money and ranted about Vietnam.

They were the sad, blank eyes of old Mrs. Sadie, who carried grocery bags of cans wherever she went.

Haunted eyes. Eyes weary of seeing. Tired of living.

Lelia was tired. Tired of being teased about her tattered clothes. Tired of Mama showing up at school drunk.

Tired of being alone. Weariness, slow and hungry, ate at her for months, but she wouldn’t accept it. She wouldn’t let the hood steal her dreams. Not like it stole Mama’s.

She moved to the bedroom closet and retrieved the letterbox she kept hidden beneath the floorboards.

Her box of dreams.

The thin hardwood was padded with care and covered with a cream-colored silk. Dainty, pink water lilies splashed the soft material, trimmed with a narrow gold braid. A small, tarnished locket kept the flap sealed.

Bernard had given her this box. Bernard Samuels was the only decent man her mama ever dated. The only man Lelia thought of as a father.

She pulled out a stack of letters and pictures, all from him. She always wrote, told him her problems and fears. Without fail he responded, always sent a little spending cash and a return envelope with postage.

He wrote about Ohio. He sent pictures of his brothers, sisters and their children who wanted to meet her. He also wrote about his mother who had cancer. He left them to be with her. Lelia understood. Mama never forgave him for it.

He wrote to Mama, too, but she never opened his letters. He used to fly in to visit them, but Mama refused to see him. After a while, he stopped coming.

Lelia put the money she’d saved from Bernard’s letters and her after-school job at the corner store aside.

Housed in a plastic sandwich bag were several withered blooms. She held the plastic to her nose, pretended she could smell the petals’ sweetness. The last item in the box was a picture. A photo of Bernard, Mama and herself on a weekend trip. Mama’s eyes smiled at her.

Bernard had driven them to North Carolina. He’d planned on buying a house there, and wanted Mama to see it first.

Lelia remembered how the wind felt on her face, the endless miles of fields and trees. The vivid shades of the pink amethyst and yellow wildflowers took her breath away. She never remembered air smelling that good, or feeling that free.

Right before they got to the house, Bernard stopped the car and made them close their eyes. She peeked once, giggled when he sneaked a kiss from Mama.

He counted to three. They opened their eyes. Everything looked beautiful. Green grass as far as she could see, and actual trees growing in the front yard. Huge trees with dark, leathery leaves and big beautiful flowers that made the air smell like heaven. Bernard called them magnolias.

One story, the house’s cedar polish sparkled against the cornflower sky. Large windows let the sun and fresh air flow through; a wide porch wrapped the house in a hug. Bernard promised Mama he’d build her a swing on the porch so he could court her properly.

Lelia loved everything about that place, but her favorite thing was the pretty flowers. Purple and magenta scattered around the porch and along the walkway…

Reality doused her. The apartment door crashed in, sounded like thunder.

She flipped off the light, dropped to her knees, and crawled to the radiator. She huddled against the cold metal, afraid to move.

Moments turned to an eternity. Familiar sounds dribbled through the walls. The Peters fighting next door. The Scoggins’ loud rent party.

If she screamed, she’d be dead before anybody bothered to wander in to tell her to shut up. Nine-one-one was a fairy tale seen on TV. The cops wouldn’t show. Whoever broke in would find her first.

The rustling from the living room grew bolder. The fear fisting her lungs grew tighter.

Lelia eyed the fire escape. She pulled herself to the window. Chips of old paint clung to her sweaty palms. Fingers trembling, she pushed the rusty latch. It bumped along, abused her bloody fingers.

God, please help me.

She wrenched up the window, threw one leg over the sill.

Mama’s cry pealed through the apartment.

Mama! Lelia fell to the floor. She worked against the darkness, grabbed the bat from behind the bedroom door, then stumbled into the narrow hallway.

Just past the kitchen, semi-darkness bathed the living room. The streetlight’s glow fingered through the rips in the window shade, provided minimal light.

Lelia edged along the wall, listened again for Mama’s voice. Scuffling sounds greeted her.

Her fear-washed body trembled anew.

Mama?

Lelia!

Her mother’s strangled pitch reached her as a man’s head popped over the back of the sofa.

Lelia cocked the bat, then wailed on him. The heavy wood cracked his shoulder, knocked him to the floor.

Adrenaline pumped fast as lightning. She raised the bat again, rounded the couch.

You hurt my mother, you sorry…

The lamp clicked on, a blaze of light blinded her. She adjusted her terrified eyes, slid her gaze from her mother’s dumbstruck grimace to the man propped against the wall spitting curses.

Crazy-ass bitch…! He staggered to his feet. Who the hell is this?

That same question ran through Rubinell Washington’s mind as she skimmed her daughter’s confused expression and raggedy appearance.

What got into that girl? The kung fu crap was embarrassing enough, but that rat-eaten sweatsuit she had on made Rubinell flinch. And look at that mop of hair or whatever she wanted to call it! Looking like electrified black cotton.

Was she drunk? Just the thought of it pissed her off. If Lelia was drunk, there would be hell to pay, especially if the girl had drunk up her last bottle of Mad Dog.

She would deal with Lelia soon enough. Now, she had to take care of business. Sexiest pout intact, she pulled together the edges of her fire-red sweater dress, took her time buttoning it over her boobs.

That new push-up bra did wonders. Steve was licking his lips, probably already forgot his sore shoulder.

She sashayed up to him. Steve, this is my daughter, Lelia. She’s a little confused right now. She emphasized the word confused, hoped Lelia would get the message. She slanted a cold glare toward her child.

Mama, are you all right?

Steve was still nursing his shoulder. Why are you asking her? I’m the one you tried to take out!

She didn’t mean it, suga. Rubinell leaned against the wiry, balding man, and placed a small kiss at the corner of his mouth. Did you, Lelia?

She felt his body relax. Her old charms soothed better than five bottles of Wild Irish Rose.

Apologize to the man, Lelia. She offered him another kiss. The bat banged to the floor, set her teeth on edge.

But, Mama, I thought he was hurting—

Nobody asked you to think, did they Miss Honor Society?

Steve tensed again. Rubinell cursed under her breath. She could kiss next week’s free dinner with him good-bye. And that O’Jays concert.

She lowered her voice to a threatening whisper. You know, I only ask once, Lelia.

She loosened Steve’s tight lips with another kiss, then turned to confront her daughter.

Rubinell’s breath caught. She stilled. Not many things backed her down, certainly not her child. But for a moment, she stared into the eyes of a man she loved long ago.

Defiant. Protective. Loving.

Lelia’s fiery raven eyes were so like her father’s that for an instant, Rubinell was ashamed of herself.

I’m sorry, Mr. Steve.

Lelia spoke the words, but Rubinell saw her eyes held no remorse.

The apartment fell into an uneasy silence. For once in her life, Rubinell Washington was at a loss for words.

Fruit don’t fall far from the tree. Do it, Ruby?

Steve squawked on, mother and daughter continued to eye each other.

Both of y’all are whacked. He stomped around the sofa and snatched up his jacket. I’m out.

Rubinell was relieved to see him go. She glanced over her shoulder, didn’t try to stop him when he threw open the door. He was just another jerk, and her jerk quota had been filled years ago.

Hesitant, her gaze returned to Lelia, observed the child closely. Unsettling. Her daughter wasn’t drunk. To her shame, she silently prayed that alcohol was responsible for Lelia’s craziness. Rubinell knew drunk well, could deal with it like a pro, but not with the haunting emotion that simmered in her child’s dark eyes. She’d lost too much to that emotion. She’d die before she’d lose her baby to it, too. She needed to stall, needed a minute to collect her thoughts.

Steve wasn’t man enough to close the door. At least he was good for something; it gave her an excuse to run from the disturbing standoff with Lelia. She turned away, found him standing in the doorway, his repulsed glare swept the apartment.

I’d sue to get something back for the eats I paid for, but your ass ain’t got jack no ways. Besides…

Rubinell watched his bored gaze rake her body, then rest on her face.

…there ain’t nothing here I want.

She forgot his words when she slammed the door in his face. Nothing registered anyway. Except panic. Except fear. Drunkenness dismissed, she had to face the truth. Lelia tried to save her life.

It was a fool thing to do, especially if someone was attacking her. The girl could have gotten herself killed. What was she thinking?

She squeezed her eyes closed. Lelia’s fiery gaze flashed through her mind. Rubinell had her answer. The girl was her father’s child, which meant valor preceded self-preservation, no matter the consequence.

How could she explain to Lelia all she’d lost to valor? The love of her life. Her parents, her family. The chance of going to college. Bernard. How could a sixteen-year-old understand?

Then again this was Lelia, not some ordinary sixteen-year-old. An old soul. Wise beyond her years. Older than any child her age should be.

She was always there. Cooked the meals, washed the clothes, managed what little money they had.

She took care of everything like she tried to tonight. With a sad smile and tired eyes she would tolerate it because she was Lelia.

Rubinell would lovingly explain to her girl that self came first; chasing dreams was for fools, and trying to save the world would get her killed.

She braced herself, turned to the task at hand. Her child’s sympathetic gaze slammed her. The love and compassion in Lelia’s eyes was more than she could bear.

Love for her daughter filled her, and just as her mother had taught her, Rubinell expressed love to her child the only way she knew how.

Just what in the hell did you think you were doing!

Lelia rubbed her hands down her sweats. I heard the door crash, and then I heard you scream. She paused, dragged in a breath. And so I ran in and saw the man.

Her explanation hadn’t changed Mama’s mad expression. She dropped her gaze to her sock-covered feet, her big toe slipped through the hole on top. I thought he was hurting you, Mama.

What were you trying to pull, some of that karate bull Bernard’s been filling your head with?

Rubinell’s voice reached a fever pitch. She closed the gap between them. If you thought someone else was in here, why didn’t you go down the fire escape?

I was going to, until I heard your voice. I couldn’t just leave you, Mama. I had to help.

Lelia’s soft-spoken reply proved Rubinell’s undoing. She’d stood by, watched the man she loved die like a dog because he tried to play the hero. She’d be damned if she’d lose her child the same way.

Just like your father. He died in the street at the ripe old age of eighteen. Is that the way you want to end up?

Mama, please. Lelia’s eyes darkened with pain before she lowered her lashes.

Rubinell snapped Lelia’s chin up, then seized her arms and ground out the tale that changed her life. Maybe it would save her daughter’s.

"You’re going to hear it again and again, until you get it through your head that being a hero don’t add up to jack on the streets. You understand?

Your father was a straight-A student, like you. We both were, for that matter. He’d gone away to Temple University on a full scholarship. He was only gone for a couple of months, but we talked on the phone almost every day. We were in love and missed each other.

Lelia lowered her head, closed her eyes tightly. She didn’t want to hear this story again.

The day he hit town for Christmas break, he rushed over to see me. I’d spent all day primping up. He worked part-time in the library and didn’t have much money after paying for our phone calls, so he took me to Pop’s Burger Stand. We had a candlelit picnic in his mother’s basement and talked about the wedding and the life we were planning after he graduated.

Lelia felt the pressure from her mother’s hands ease. She listened to the pain seep into a toneless rasp. It always did.

Usually Mama casually preached the tale when she was a little tipsy. A behavior-modifying sermon. This time was different. Desperation trickled along her mother’s hoarse voice, made her feel uneasy. Knowing her mother was sober frightened her even more.

I started telling him the gossip on the street when he asked about his best friend, Richard. Rich was a good kid, but after your father left, he started hanging with the wrong crowd. Word was out that the boys Rich hung with were going to knock off Sofia’s Corner Store that night. I didn’t want to tell your father, but we didn’t keep secrets. When he told me he had to find Rich, I exploded. We argued. He stormed out.

Lelia shook her head, silently prayed the story would end here.

Mama’s blank eyes relived another time.

I followed him to Sofia’s and watched from an alley across the street. He found Rich standing outside the store, being the lookout. He was fussing with Rich to leave when the other guys came running out of the store.

The pressure on Lelia’s arms increased. A scary wildness filled her mama’s eyes.

"It all happened so fast. I felt my chest tightening and knew something was about to go wrong. The owner came out as I tried to cross the street. Rich saw the man and ran. Your father turned and told the man he wasn’t involved, but all he saw was a young, black face.

"He emptied his gun into him. I couldn’t hear anything but the cracks of the bullets. I reached the store and the man was still pumping the trigger. Red paint, your father’s blood, covered the sidewalk. I held him. Rocked him until the life slipped from his eyes, listened to the click of the chamber over and over.

A month later I found out I was pregnant. Four months later my parents couldn’t hide it anymore, so they kicked me out.

Rubinell let her hands slide from Lelia’s arms, turned away, appalled at her child’s expression. She didn’t mean to scare her, only shake a little sense into her.

Nothing ever worked the way she planned. This wasn’t the way she wanted to raise her child. Lord knew she didn’t deserve her. The mess she’d made of her life was testimony to that.

Of late, her past and present mistakes haunted her. Dismal warnings tapped her mind, played their incessant tune, denied her peace. Everything was spinning out of her control. God, she needed that Mad Dog.

Weary from life, Rubinell rounded the sofa, moved an ashtray here, straightened a pillow there. Opposite her daughter, she didn’t raise her eyes to ask the simple questions.

Do you want to end up like your father? Do you want to end up like me?

Lelia watched her mama move down the hall. She snapped off the living room light and followed her to the bedroom.

Lelia, clean up this mess. Rubinell waved a finger toward the floor before she entered the bathroom.

Lelia made her way to the foot of the closet. A scattered array of letters littered the floor. Her pictures were skewed beneath Mama’s bed. The beautiful flower petals appeared as crushed purple snowflakes against the green carpet. Her box of dreams lay splintered on top of the letters, its creamy silk torn from its flattened sides.

Rubinell stopped at the bathroom door, followed Lelia’s gaze to the clutter. She caught her child’s eyes, found them needy. Her daughter’s eyes pleaded for reassurance that things would be all right.

What did the girl expect from her? She was tired and couldn’t take anymore.

Not tonight.

Lelia needed her mama’s strength and reassurance. But all Rubinell did was try to remove the pins from her hair before she gave up, crawled into bed and closed her eyes.

She walked over to her mother’s cot, sat on its edge and started to remove the bobby pins from her mama’s curly black hair.

She was tired and couldn’t take anymore.

Especially not tonight.

Mama, I have some money saved. We can leave this mess and start new lives. Lelia prayed that this time her pleading wouldn’t fall on deaf ears.

You can find a job and I can work after school. We can move down South. I read it’s not expensive to live down there. We can save for a house with pretty trees and…

Lelia stopped talking, surprised to see a single tear course down Mama’s smooth, copper cheek.

She’d never seen her mama cry. She reached to dry the tear. Mama’s fingers clamped over her wrist. Their eyes met, held. Mama aged, her eyes held years of anguish, pain. Years of dreaming of a better life only to settle for this.

Please, Mama…please? Maybe this turning point would change their lives.

Lelia, you were born here, you’re going to marry and raise your children here, you’re gonna die here. Nothing and no one’s going to change that.

Lelia held her shattered box, sat and stared at her mother for hours.

A dreamless life wouldn’t be her life.

She placed fifty dollars and a note on the bookshelf. Book bag packed, she brushed a kiss on her mother’s cheek, then set off in the snow to follow her dreams.

CHAPTER TWO

There is a fountain, filled with blood, drawn from Emmanuel’s veins, and sinners plunge, beneath that flood, lose all their guilty stains.

Lelia huddled on the last pew in the large sanctuary, listened to the choir softly sing the old hymn. If only the words could be true.

She wiped her nose along the dirt-encrusted sleeve of her coat, caught sight of her filthy hand. Hand of a beggar and thief. How could someone like her lose or be forgiven of such sins?

She hunkered deeper into the oversized coat. She’d burn for sure, as sure as she turned nineteen years old that day. The two years she’d survived in Los Angeles made her feel one hundred and nineteen.

For two years she called abandoned squat buildings and teen shelters home. For two years she panhandled and stole from the markets just to ease her burning hunger. And for two years she fought off Zeek, the man who wanted to pimp her body.

These weren’t the dreams she’d dreamed when she left New York. She wanted to come to L.A., make some money and help people. Help Mama. Yet there she sat, in the same clothes she’d stepped off the bus in two years ago, only fifty-three cents hidden in the bottom of her shoe. Homeless. Hungry. Filthy.

Three nights ago, she’d burst into Cornerstone Baptist’s vestibule, barely escaped Zeek’s clutches. With hands pressed against the glass of the heavy entry doors, she watched him, bold eyes dared him to walk into God’s house.

He’d stood at the bottom of the church step. Their eyes waged a silent war until a passing couple drew Zeek’s attention. Part chameleon camouflaged all evil, instantly transformed his tight features. Manicured forefinger and thumb sleeked his sable mustache and goatee. He granted the pair a friendly nod. She watched his gaze follow the couple, finally turning back to her. He blew her a kiss around a thin-lipped grin. Long fingers smoothed the lapels of his cashmere coat before he strolled off.

She rested her head against the cool glass. Then she heard it…the beautiful music. Almost against her will, she was drawn through the stained-glass doors of the sanctuary. That was three days ago. Since that time, each night she’d left her play sister, Joella, to attend the weeklong revival. She’d hunker in the last pew, and try to glean hope for their dismal existence.

Lelia pulled her gaze from her ragged-soled sneakers to scan the front of the church. Large ivory candles around the gold-draped altar provided a warm glow to the sanctum, and filled the air with the aroma of bayberry.

Red and white poinsettias wrapped in green foil, gold bows and holly adorned the pulpit, choir loft and various sconces around the church. The choir donned warm smiles and billowy cream-and-gold-trimmed robes. Their sweet voices rang with joy.

The congregation filled half the pews. It was a mixed crowd…ranged from infancy to elderly, clad from casual to the best Sunday finery. Mothers soothed fussy infants; husbands pulled wives close and stole quick kisses; while seasoned citizens sneaked grands, peppermints and caramels. The strong sense of family made Lelia feel at home.

That night’s sermon was on faith. The minister preached about holding on, not giving in to despair. His emotion-filled timbre recalled the many trials he made it through over the years, with God’s help.

Head held high, he stepped off the altar, coursed the center aisle. He stopped in front of Ma Ella, the 102-year-old mother of the church. He grasped her weathered hand.

Everyone knew Ma Ella’s house burned down three weeks prior. The preacher announced the names of a builder and national lumberyard who volunteered to rebuild her house, free of charge.

Amens and hallelujahs filled the sanctum.

By the time the invitation to join the church was offered, a strange feeling flowed through the sanctuary, one Lelia never experienced. Every night, this was the time she slipped away, but a powerful sense of peace permeated the church, riveted her to the pew.

Many in the congregation stood, their faces toward the ceiling. Others sat rocking. Each member acted differently. One thing held true for everyone it seemed,