Dominion Part 1

Dominion.

by Randy Alcorn.

To Nanci, Karina, and Angela Alcorn,

my Christ-centered and fun-loving wife and daughters.

Each of you has enriched my life in countless ways.

I respect you and your devotion to our Lord.

I treasure your friendship and thank G.o.d for the privilege of being part of your family.

Wonderful as it's been here in the Shadowlands, I look forward to greater adventures together in our true home, which the Carpenter is preparing.

I can hardly wait.

I pray you'll keep investing your lives in eternity and modeling for me the love of Christ.

I'm so proud of each of you.

Thanks for supporting me in everything, including the long process of writing this book.

I love you.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I'm indebted to many gracious people who helped me as I researched this book. (My apologies to anyone I inadvertently left out.)Special thanks to three men who always went out of their way to answer my never-ending questions: Tom Nelson, Portland homicide detective; Jim Seymour, Gresham police officer; Sgt. Tom Dresner, Columbia Police Department armorer and inexhaustible source of firearms information.Thanks also to homicide detective Mike Hefley, gang enforcement detective Neil Crannell, gang expert Madeleine Kopp, and police officers Bob Davis, Jim Carl, Dennis Bunker, Scott Anderson, Pete Summers, and John Cheney.For giving of their expertise in everything from journalism to cars to medicine to gangs to science to art: Gene Saling, Dyrk Van Zanten, Rainy Takalo, Randy Martin, Leonard Ritzman, Doreen and Mike b.u.t.ton, Christy and Gordon Canzler, Mike Chaney, Matt Engstrom, Jim Anderson, Rod Gradin, Richard Brown, Jay Rau, Ron Noren, and Sheila and Jimmy Davis.My heartfelt appreciation to Spencer Perkins and Chris Rice of Urban Family Urban Family and and The Reconciler The Reconciler in Jackson, Mississippi, Phil Reed of Voice of Calvary Church, as well as others I met in Jackson, including Ron Potter, Melvin Anderson, and Andy Abrams. Thanks also to Don Frasier and Mel Renfro of Portland's Bridge Ministries and Jim Cottrell of Teen Challenge. in Jackson, Mississippi, Phil Reed of Voice of Calvary Church, as well as others I met in Jackson, including Ron Potter, Melvin Anderson, and Andy Abrams. Thanks also to Don Frasier and Mel Renfro of Portland's Bridge Ministries and Jim Cottrell of Teen Challenge.My deepest appreciation for the a.s.sistance and support of Nanci, Angela, and Karina Alcorn. Also, to Kathy and Ron Norquist and Diane and Rod Meyer for their encouragement and help.I gained valuable insights on racial issues from Georgene Rice, Art Gay, Bruce Fong, Mike O'Brien, Jerome Joiner, Frank Peretti, Rakel Thurman, Ray Cook, Alex Marcus, Ron Washington, Dave Harvey, Barry Arnold, Bob Maddox, Steve Keels, and Stu Weber. Special thanks to my good brother John Edwards- your phone calls from across the country were always a special encouragement.My heartfelt thanks to John Perkins, with whom I had lunch in Minnesota in 1987 and again in Mississippi eight years later. John, your example of love, forgiveness, and Christ-centeredness has touched my life deeply.Thanks to NFL brothers, especially my friend Ken Ruettgers (you too, Sheryl), as well as Reggie White, Bill Brooks, and Guy McIntyre, men who spoke to me with honesty and great insight. Also, to former NFL player and current Antioch Bible Church pastor Ken Hutcherson, whose church is a powerful model of interracial partnership.Thanks to those who opened their lives to me at Cornerstone Church in Chester, Pennsylvania: Arie and Marilyn Mangrum (and Arie IV), Jerome and Leigh Burton, Ray and Dawn Jones, and Fred Catoe. Special thanks also to Wendell Robinson and Lynetta Martin of Portland's Mount Olivet Baptist Church, as well as to the church's youth choir.I've benefited from the writings of some I've already mentioned, as well as those of Tony Evans, Carl Ellis, Alan Keyes, William Pannell, Raleigh Washington, Glen Kehrein, Thomas Tarrants, Glenn Usry, Craig S. Keener, Rod Cooper, Dolphus Weary, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Frederick Dougla.s.s, W. E. B. DuBois, Martin Luther King Jr., Marvin Olasky Samuel Freedman, Ralph Ellison, Wellington Boone, Ron Washington, Alex Haley, Studs Terkel, Henry Louis Gates, Shelby Steele, Thomas Sowell, and Cornell West. On the subject of heaven, I'm indebted to C. S. Lewis, Peter Kreeft, and Joni Eareckson Tada.My thanks to Bill McCartney and Promise Keepers, who have been raised up by G.o.d as a catalyst to racial dialogue, repentance, reconciliation, and partnership.Thanks to the over six hundred readers of Deadline Deadline who have written kind and heartfelt letters to me. Your encouragement to write a sequel played an important role in who have written kind and heartfelt letters to me. Your encouragement to write a sequel played an important role in Dominion. Dominion.Thanks to Rod Morris, my editor and friend, for believing in this book and bringing his wisdom and skills to it. Thanks to my brothers and sisters at Multnomah Publishers for being patient with me. After making my deadline on seven straight books, I was nearly four months late on this one. (I write a book called Deadline Deadline, and suddenly I can't meet one!)I'm indebted to a faithful group of women at Good Shepherd Community Church, who diligently prayed for me during some challenging periods in writing this book. You know who you are, dear sisters-G.o.d will reward you for any impact this book makes for his kingdom. Thank you.My deepest grat.i.tude goes to El Elyon, G.o.d Most High. Thanks for leading me and sustaining me through the rigorous and enriching research and writing of this book. Please accept this, Audience of One, as an offering to you, for your glory. May the story cause readers to laugh, cry, and think-and in the process may you use it to change lives for eternity.

"Then the end will come, when he hands over the kingdom to G.o.d the Father after he has destroyed all dominion, authority and power."1 CORINTHIANS 15:24 15:24"He was given authority, glory and sovereign power; all peoples, nations and men of every language worshiped him.

His dominion is an everlasting dominion that will not pa.s.s away, and his kingdom is one that will never be destroyed."DANIEL 714 714

The young man sat holding the .357 Smith and Wesson revolver, polishing its stainless steel with his mama's scarf until he could see in it his distorted reflection. He turned up the four-inch barrel and spun the cylinder, emptying all six sh.e.l.ls on his bed. Staring blankly, he carefully reinserted one round.He took out a bag of crack cocaine already packaged for the next day's delivery. He picked up one of the crusty rocks, smelled it, touched it with his tongue, debated whether to smoke it. Maybe it could make him forget what he could never tell his homeboys."They played me. Fools got it all wrong. Ain't their hood. Ain't their set. Can't tell my little homie, that's sure. What'm I gonna do now?"He pointed the gun toward the pictures on the wall, setting his sights on people in the newspaper clippings, on one in particular. He slowly rotated his wrist, brushing the muzzle against the bridge of his nose, then pulling it back three inches. He peered deep into the seductive barrel, holding it so the light shone just far enough into the darkness to make him wonder what lay beyond. His trembling index finger fondled the trigger.The barrel-chested man moved through the Gresham Fred Meyer supermarket aisle with surprising agility. He negotiated the aisles purposefully, pushing his shopping cart in and around the late Friday afternoon amblers, who seemed to have all the time in the world and nothing to accomplish.His black tailored Givenchy suit and Cole-Haan dress shoes suggested he might be a CEO or corporate attorney. In fact, he was a columnist for the Oregon Tribune Oregon Tribune, where most of his colleagues dressed informally. But Clarence Abernathy calculated his dress for image.Geneva had called him on his car phone and asked him to pick up a few things on the way home. He headed to the produce section to get the Granny Smith apples. "Granny Smiths are the green ones," she'd reminded him. As if he didn't know.He headed toward the checkstand, bobbing and weaving just far enough down an aisle to snag a large box of Cheerios, when a loud angry voice invaded his private world."Shuddup! You hear me? I said shuddup! Keep your hands off!" The words spewed as if from a geyser.A wiry man in his forties, about Clarence's age, stood fifty feet away at the far end of the aisle. He wore a tattered red-and-white Budweiser T-shirt. Clarence watched the man grab hold of the ear of a boy who couldn't be more than six years old. The boy's legs momentarily left the ground, his eyes dancing wildly.The bloodcurdling scream pierced the store like a fire alarm. As the boy's tears flowed, the man pulled harder on his ear, then slapped his head."Shuddup, I said!" He c.o.c.ked back his hand again, like a tennis racquet poised to serve. The arm came down powerfully but stopped just inches above the child's clinched eyes, stopped as if hitting a concrete wall.The man in the Budweiser shirt looked at the big hand clutching his arm like a vise grip. The intruder had strewn five cereal boxes behind him in the moments it took to run the fifty feet."What the heck do you...?" The wiry man whirled to stare down the meddler, but he stared not into eyes but at an Adam's apple. The intruder was tall and thick, built like a redwood stump. He was the kind of man you'd grab hold of in a windstorm and run from in a dark alley."You're hurting the boy," he said, in a calm measured voice, deep and resonant.The wiry man glanced to the side, suddenly aware of the gaping supermarket audience."Who do you think you are, you..." he sputtered, as if unsure what to say next."Doesn't matter who I am. Just matters you stop hurting the boy." He smiled broadly at the little man. But he didn't release his arm. "This your son?""Yeah.""Then treat him like a daddy ought to treat his boy.""It's none of your business.""It's everybody's business. Now, tell me you won't hurt the boy again.""I don't have to tell you nothin', you-""That's not the right answer," Clarence whispered, clamping his fingers harder, twisting the wedge on the vise grip. The man's arm throbbed, his eyes watered."Try again." The smile appeared nonchalant and unthreatening. The grip suggested otherwise."Okay," the man gasped."Okay, what?""I won't hurt the boy."Clarence loosened his grip, removing his hand without the slightest twitch of uneasiness. He put the same big hand down on the little boy's head, covering it like a wool cap."Take care of yourself, son." The boy nodded, eyes big. Clarence turned to the father. "Have a nice day," he said, as if they'd just had a discussion about whether the economy size Cheerios was really the better deal.As he walked back to his shopping cart, Clarence smiled rea.s.suringly to the onlookers, some of whom nodded their approval, some of whom weren't so sure.Clarence reached unconsciously to the two-inch scar just beneath his right ear. It was a thirty-two-year-old scar, compliments of some teenage boys in Mississippi who'd pummeled ten-year-old Clarence and his six-year-old sister with a dozen beer bottles, most of them broken before being thrown. One of the jagged missiles cut the gaping wound that became the scar he now fingered.He headed for the checkstand, still smiling pleasantly, the outward calm masking a raging storm within. Everyone gave him a wide berth.The next morning was the second day of September, a sunny Oregon Sat.u.r.day, the air fresh and exhilarating, suggesting an early fall. It was the kind of day people who live elsewhere think Oregon never has, just as Oregonians want them to think.Clarence Abernathy rose early, grateful for the weekend. After reading a few chapters of Biblical Keys to Health and Prosperity Biblical Keys to Health and Prosperity, he put in two hours work on the yard, mowing and tr.i.m.m.i.n.g and edging, getting it all just right. He always managed to have the best looking lawn on the block."Give Daddy a hug," he said to eight-year-old Keisha, proudly wearing her tights. She wrapped herself around him unreservedly. "Have a nice ballet lesson, okay?"Clarence playfully punched eleven-year-old Jonah in the stomach. "And you have a good soccer practice. Use those Abernathy genes and fake 'em out of their socks!""Okay, Dad. Later."Clarence grabbed a worn children's book from the shelf and put his tools in the car. Geneva came out by the car and hugged him. "Love you, baby," she said."You too. Have fun being the kids' taxi.""What time you comin' home tonight?""Well, Jake and I won't be done tearing out Dani's carpet till late in the afternoon. Then playin' with the kids and dinner and hangin' awhile. Maybe ten or so?""Just make sure you're home by eleven, okay? I know how you and Dani get to talkin'." Geneva smiled. "I'll be waiting for you, but you know I can't stay up much past eleven.""All right." Clarence said. "Maybe this time I'll bring you home some Granny Smiths.""That's okay. The Golden Delicious are good eating. We didn't need a pie anyway."Clarence took off in his bright red metallic 1997 Bonneville SSE, settling back in the plush champagne leather. He drove through the tidy suburbs toward the city, listening to oldies and dreaming about moving farther out to the country, which they planned to do in just another three weeks.He pulled into a visitor's s.p.a.ce outside the apartment of his friend and fellow Tribune Tribune columnist, Jake Woods, who walked out the door as soon as Clarence came to a stop. columnist, Jake Woods, who walked out the door as soon as Clarence came to a stop."Jake! How's my man?""Hey, Clabern." Jake called Clarence by his computer ID at the Tribune Tribune, a short form of Clarence Abernathy. "Beautiful Sat.u.r.day morning, huh?"The men talked shop as they drove toward Dani's, everything from the Trib's Trib's changing editorial policy to the latest exploits of the multiculturalism committee to ideas for upcoming columns. changing editorial policy to the latest exploits of the multiculturalism committee to ideas for upcoming columns."Looking forward to finally meeting your sister," Jake said. "Tell me more about her.""Dani's four years younger than I am. Thirty-eight now.""Not married, right?""Not any more. Husband left her five years ago. He took to drinking and doing drugs, freebasin', did some selling. Dani didn't tell me for the longest time. Finally she came to me when Roy was snortin' c.o.ke in front of the kids.""So what'd you do?""I came over and flushed the crud down the toilet.""The cocaine?""Yeah." Clarence didn't mention Roy's head had spent some time in the toilet too. "Next day he took off. Never heard a word from him since. Finally she admitted he'd hit her. We're close, really close, but she didn't tell me while it was going on. Said, 'If you go to the joint for killin' somebody, Antsy, make it for somebody more than Roy.'""Antsy?""Just a nickname."Jake raised his eyebrows.Clarence sighed. "When I was a kid, Mama would call us in from playin' ball. Of course, we never came after the first call. About the third time she'd yell, 'Clarants.' Dani was only three or four when she started thinking that was my name. She just turned it into Antsy." Dani was only three or four when she started thinking that was my name. She just turned it into Antsy.""Thanks for sharing that with me, Antsy.""Only Dani calls me that. And don't go telling anybody. I'd never hear the end of it.""Your secret's safe with me, Antsy."Clarence turned north off the Banfield Freeway toward Dani's house. After a few miles he saw a car with four flats, tires slit, windows broken, and insides stripped. He saw small businesses that had invested months of profit in steel bars so their merchandise would be there in the morning. They pa.s.sed Sojourner Truth Middle School, with its heavy wrought iron fence surrounding the schoolyard. They had a metal detector there now to screen out weapons. He saw two teenage boys wearing T-shirts, both of which he'd seen in the suburbs. One said, "No Fear"; the other, "Life is short. And then you die.""More g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers all the time," he said to Jake, looking at a young Crip strutting like a peac.o.c.k and flashing his handsign, daring a Blood set to take on him and his homeboys. He watched obvious drug deals happening on two street corners. "Where are the cops when you need them?"Clarence looked at the kids with baseball caps worn backwards, some tipped to one side, some to another, some with colorful bandannas. He knew it all had meaning, but he was a suburb dweller and tried not to think much about that sort of thing.He saw boys dressed in gray oversized d.i.c.keys and khaki beige work pants, sagging low. He noticed several black stretch belts with chrome or silver gang initials forming the belt buckle. White tennis shoes with black laces and black tennis shoes with white laces. Gold chains and black woven crosses around the neck.Clarence looked at Jake out of the corner of his eye. His friend seemed to be studying the surroundings as a man would study the far side of the moon.Clarence inhaled the smell of North Portland, the musty scent of aged buildings freshly baked in the last few weeks of summer sun. It wasn't the clean urban showpiece of Portland's renovated downtown, a stretch and tuck job done on the face of an aging movie star. This lacked even the appearance of a facelift. It had its highlights, its nice storefronts and well-preserved homes, but as a whole it seemed to Clarence a forsaken boneyard.He glanced down the side streets at broken-down houses and lawns the size of pocket handkerchiefs. There on his right stood the rotting carca.s.s of Zolar's shopping center, one of the last old-time mid-sized stores. Abandoned for at least fifteen years, the building still advertised bargains on faded colorless signs in the window."Thirty-nine cents a pound?" Jake asked. "Wonder what that was."The numbers on the sun-bleached yellow tagboard were barely visible, the name of the product having long ago disappeared. Petroglyphs on gla.s.s, the remains of a civilization that once prospered, but now lay in ruins.Clarence turned right on Jackson Street. About every fourth house was well kept, with flower gardens looking to Clarence like oases in the desert. But most of the houses on this street had sagging roofs, peeling paint, and weed-choked lawns. Some of the driveways were littered with junk-rusted sheet metal, rotting plywood, abandoned appliances. Clarence pulled up to number 920. He scanned his sister's house, noticing the dull gray duct tape on her bedroom window facing the street.Something else I need to fix.Felicia and Celeste, Dani's twin five-year-olds, ran out in synchronized fashion, yelling "Uncle Antsy, Uncle Antsy." Both forty inches tall and forty pounds soaking wet, they jumped into his extended arms and he curled them like dumbbells, holding one in each arm effortlessly. He lifted them up high like a shoulder press, while they clutched his arms, giggling hilariously. He proudly displayed the girls for Jake, who smiled broadly, nodding his approval.Clarence waved to Dani, who was working on the left side of the house, tending her little rose garden, a stark contrast to her neighbor's, ramshackle and grown over with weeds. Though they'd reached their peak two months ago, under Dani's watchful eye the last of summer's roses still barely held on."Hey, little sister!" Eyes on Dani, Clarence pa.s.sed the girls to Jake like two sacks of potatoes. Surprised, Jake grinned, and they touched his face with immediate familiarity. Any friend of Uncle Antsy's was a friend of theirs. Clarence made a beeline for Dani."Hey, big brother!" Dani's girlish smile spread like a wave across her round moist face. Her skin was smooth except for one blemish on the right side of her throat, a discolored scar left by another jagged beer bottle that same Mississippi night.Jake watched as Clarence lifted Dani off her feet, him laughing, her giggling. He envied Clarence for having this kind of relationship with his sister."Jesus is my best friend," Felicia announced to Jake, as if this was the most important thing he could know about her. It seemed to Jake only yesterday his own daughter Carly, now nineteen, was just this size.When Clarence introduced Dani to Jake, she reached out her hand. "I've heard all about you," she said with a toothy grin."Not as much as I've heard about you."They went in and sat at the kitchen table. Clarence wondered if she'd ever get a new one. He'd offered to buy her one many times, but she'd always refused. She poured them both a berry-red gla.s.s of Kool-Aid. The ice clanked against the gla.s.ses as they talked."Where's Ty?" Clarence asked."Who knows? I'm havin' trouble with that boy, Antsy. I know he loves me, but he's fourteen and he just won't listen to his mama. The boy needs a daddy."Clarence nodded."I've put an ad in the Trib Trib lookin' for one," Dani glanced at Jake with a deadpan expression. "Course, maybe I shouldn't have included my picture." A low squeal of a laugh came out of Dani, rising to a crescendo. Jake smiled. He liked her already. lookin' for one," Dani glanced at Jake with a deadpan expression. "Course, maybe I shouldn't have included my picture." A low squeal of a laugh came out of Dani, rising to a crescendo. Jake smiled. He liked her already."You look great, Sis," Clarence said, despite the rapid aging of her face, the gray hairs and extra pounds.Tyrone, wearing a blue durag, swaggered in the front door. His teenage sensors detected the presence of adults, and he made a quick turn toward his room."Ty, get over here-it's your Uncle Antsy," Dani called. "And his friend Jake Woods. From the newspaper."Ty came out mumbling something under his breath, maintaining steady eye contact with the floor. An eighteen-year-old independence rose out of this fourteen-year-old boy, who disappeared immediately after his command performance. Clarence noticed the distinctive blue of his bandanna."What's he doin' wearin' Crip colors?""That's what I been tellin' you, Antsy. I just don't know. He says those colors aren't a gang thing any more. Some people say it's so and others say it ain't. Truth is, I'm losin' him to the hood. He's startin' to run with bangers. I think he's a wannabe. He's losin' his straight A's. Studies are slippin'. Boy needs a daddy, or at least a man he can look up to. Don't know what to do, how to stop it.""We've been over this a hundred times, Sis. Move! Just get out of here. I'll set you up with a down payment. I'll find you a place out by us.""Out in the burbs? They're not for me.""You need to live someplace safe, that's all I'm saying. Doesn't matter where, as long as you can keep the kids away from the bad influences.""Oh, no bad influences in the suburbs? Come on, Antsy. I've never lived in the burbs, and I don't think I could. Folks there don't know each other-you've said that yourself.""And in the city you're likely to get knifed for pocket change by somebody you're on a first-name basis with, is that what you want? If that's what it means to know folk, I'd rather not know anybody.""It's not like that, Antsy. Folks here look out for each other. We've got lots of problems, that's true, but it brings us together. Me, I just got to find a way not to lose my son.""You want Ty to stay out of trouble, off drugs, out of the gangs? You're gonna have to get him out of here. Change his environment. That's the way it is.""Things are gettin' better. Councilman Norcoast has a new plan." Dani ignored her brother's rolling eyes. "It's a good good plan. I've been at the sounding board meetings. We can turn this thing around if we work together. Why don't you move in on my street, Antsy? There's some houses for sale." plan. I've been at the sounding board meetings. We can turn this thing around if we work together. Why don't you move in on my street, Antsy? There's some houses for sale.""I'm surprised they aren't all for sale. Who'd want to live here?" Clarence saw instantly he'd hurt her. "Sorry, Sis. I didn't mean it that way.""I really appreciate you comin' over every week and spendin' time with the kids," Dani said. "But if your family was nearer and Ty knew he could talk to you, watch you, maybe then...We need all the role models we can get, big brother. The community needs people like you.""Stop thinking of the community and start thinking about yourself and your children. Don't you see, Sis? The city belongs to drunks and druggies and users and pimps and g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers. They've taken over. That's why your big shot Councilman Norcoast doesn't live in a hood like this. Why would he? And why would I move somewhere just to triple bolt my door every night and hope some lowlife with a sawed-off shotgun or an Uzi doesn't blow open my door and rob me blind? What's the point?""The point is giving back to your people, helping the neighborhood, brother."Clarence hated this conversation, as much as he'd hated it the dozens of times they'd had it before. He shook his head and kissed Dani on the cheek, as if to say "We're never going to agree, but I love you." He looked at Jake. "Time to go to work. If you think you're man enough to keep up with me, I mean."Clarence and Jake started tearing out the badly worn living-room carpet. They followed with odds and ends ch.o.r.es, Jake fixing a leaky faucet while Clarence measured Dani's bedroom window for a replacement.At four o'clock Jake peered out the living-room window, watching the street. There she was. Janet, looking tentative and studying the street numbers, crawled up in Jake's lapis blue Mustang."See ya, Dani. Nice to meet you," Jake said.Dani gave Jake an unexpected hug. "Bye, Jake. Thanks so so much for your help." much for your help.""Come on out and meet Janet," he said to her. The women chatted a few minutes, then Jake got in the driver's seat. As he pulled off, he rolled down the window and called out, "Later, Antsy."Clarence glared. "Later, Jakey."On their way back up the porch steps Dani said, "You can't give up on the city, big brother. You can get me out of here, but who's gonna get out the Hills up on Jack Street? And the Devenys over on Brumbelow? And Mr. Wesley and his children on Moffat? And old Hattie Burns right across Jackson? We need men like you, Clarence.""Geneva tells me you've been talking about getting us in here. Well, you may be able to push her b.u.t.tons, little sis, but not mine. My dream's the same as always. A house in the country, even farther out than where we're moving in three weeks- but hey, it's a start. Beautiful fields and trees and flowers and horses and peace and safety for my children, that's what I want. And I want it for you too, Sis. That's not such a bad dream, is it?""You and your dreams, Antsy," Dani sighed. "At least you could come to our church and teach a cla.s.s or work with the youth. At least you could do that.""It's a long way to drive for church.""How 'bout I cut you a deal, big brother? Instead of Sat.u.r.days, you come out Sundays to church, spend the afternoon with my kids. That way we'd see Geneva and Keisha and Jonah. The girls would love to hang with 'em. And you'd have your Sat.u.r.days all to yourself and your family out there in your suburbs."Clarence acted as if he didn't hear, turning to watch the commotion at the front door. Celeste and Felicia had arrived again, in tow from Hattie Burns. The old woman scowled at Clarence."Now, Clarence, these little girls say you been readin' them some stories. And they don't want to finish the video they been watchin' at Grandma Hattie's. They prefer your readin'. Now if that don't beat all!"She gave him a big grandmotherly hug. Hattie always reminded him of Mama, soft and warm and cuddly, but with more authority than smart boys ever wanted to challenge."You goin' to read about Asian?" Felicia asked wide eyed."And Lucy and Susan?" Celeste asked."And Peter and Edmund," Clarence said. "Don't forget the boys! Yeah, I brought the book along. When we finish it, there's still six more books to go! How does that sound?"Both beamed ear to ear as he picked up The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. He'd started reading stories to them two years ago. Back then Ty sat and listened too. He'd started reading stories to them two years ago. Back then Ty sat and listened too.Clarence walked toward the big bedroom the twins shared with their mama. Meanwhile the girls ran to the living room to pick up the old brocade chair that had been Clarence and Dani's mother's prize possession. One girl lifted it on each side. Like throne bearers, they carried in the chair for Uncle Antsy.Felicia's and Celeste's own beds were tucked in the corner of their mother's room. Three years ago when Clarence's daddy still had the strength, the two of them had built a paneled divider for the girls to give them that closed-in cozy feeling kids like. Dani said she shared the room with the girls so they wouldn't be scared at night. Clarence knew she needed the company too.Felicia proudly showed off her new lunch bucket with a big-eyed giraffe. "Isn't it fine fine, Uncle Antsy?""Finer than frog's hair, Felicia." He picked her and Celeste up and swung them together effortlessly around his head."Have I told you how much you girls look like your mama when she was little?"They both giggled-he told them that every time he saw them. He slowly brought them down from near the ceiling, depositing them gently on the bed. Uncle Antsy was the biggest, strongest man on earth. With him around, they never had to be afraid.The girls took their place on Mama's bed. Clarence read to them for nearly an hour, then the family ate pork chops, potatoes, and collard greens, Uncle Antsy's favorite meal. Following the sweet potato pie and coffee, Clarence and Dani put the girls to bed. Brother and sister stayed up late talking about old times, growing up in Mississippi, the years in the Chicago projects, and the move to Oregon. Time got away from them. Geneva called at 11:20 to make sure Clarence was okay. He finally moved toward the door at 11:45, kissing his little sister good night."Antsy...promise me you'll pray about movin' in here, or at least comin' in for church. So you can keep in touch. I think it would do you a world of good too.""You've got the tenacity of a pit bull, Sis, I'll give you that." Clarence suddenly shook himself loose, arms dangling, puttin' on a strut and lookin' like he owned the world."Yeah, you right, Mama, do me a world world a good. I could smoke me some hubba, sip me a forty, do a few speedb.a.l.l.s. I get draped, put on lokes and a durag, dress down, and put in some work, huh? Yo, whatchu think, little sis?" a good. I could smoke me some hubba, sip me a forty, do a few speedb.a.l.l.s. I get draped, put on lokes and a durag, dress down, and put in some work, huh? Yo, whatchu think, little sis?"He pulled his pants down low enough she could see the top two inches of his underwear. She slapped her hand over her mouth."I be one bad hoodsta, hey? I mean, why play tennis out in the burbs when you can fly yo' colors in the hood, grab a rosco, and go get dusted with the homies?""Very funny." Dani tried not to laugh, but she did. "Come on, Antsy. There's more to life here than gangs and drugs, and you know it. I want you to promise me you'll think about it." She looked at him with those big pleading brown eyes."Okay," he said, putting his hands up in surrender, almost touching the ceiling. "I promise.""Great. I love you, big brother." She kissed him on the cheek and gave him a bear hug. He'd always enjoyed her hugs, even when they were children.Clarence got in the Bonneville and drove down Jackson, the street now gleaming with a late summer sprinkle that cooled the night air to a pleasant chill. About every third streetlight didn't work. Some had burned out, others were shot out, target practice for g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers. The street gleamed, black oil drawn out by the light rain.As he drove by houses, Clarence imagined residents going through the ritual of checking and rechecking the locks on their doors. Like tortoises withdrawing into their sh.e.l.ls, many inner-city families withdrew into their houses shortly after dark to find refuge. He watched teenagers still on the streets, some on foot, some on dime-speed bikes, some driving, including a few he was certain weren't old enough. As he turned on to Martin Luther King, he saw graffiti tags everywhere, reminding him of wolves marking their territory.He thought about Tyrone. He had to help Dani, to keep Ty from running with those young hoodlums. Yeah. He'd make sure of it.Clarence drove past a police car with two uniformed officers in the front seat. His whole body stiffened, and he exchanged wary glances with them."Boom! Boom! Boom!" He winced, hearing behind him the m.u.f.fled noise of successive backfires that seemed to go on and on. Or was it gunshots?The cops pulled a U-turn and headed toward the sound. Clarence considered turning around himself. But why? If he turned around every time he thought he heard a gunshot in this part of town, he'd never get home. He drove a mile farther, heard a siren and watched another police car and then an ambulance fly by.I don't care what you say, little sis. I'm going to get you out of here before it's too late.Clarence turned to his favorite Christian radio station. He listened to the preacher say, "G.o.d wants his children healthy and happy. Claim his promises for you, and he'll send his angels to protect you. He'll make you prosper, and he won't let harm come your way."Thirty minutes later Clarence turned into his driveway east of Gresham. Suddenly he hit the brakes, startled. A bluish figure paced frantically under the front porch light.Geneva? It was after midnight.He saw his wife's contorted face and shoved the Bonneville into park before it stopped. He jumped out of the lurching car and bounded up the porch steps."What's wrong? What's happened? Are the kids all right?""Oh, baby." Geneva sobbed. She hugged him tight, clung to him. She was trying to tell him something, but Clarence couldn't understand her."Calm down, Geneva! Tell me what's going on.""I got a call. From Hattie Burns. It's Dani.""What? What happened?""She's been shot. Dani's been shot!"

"I'll stay with the kids. Call me!"Clarence didn't hear Geneva's frantic voice. He'd already hopped in the car and jammed it into reverse as soon as she'd said, "Emanuel Hospital.""Be careful," she begged as the hedge obscured her view of the screeching Bonneville. She prayed he'd make it to the hospital in his car rather than an ambulance.Clarence drove toward Emanuel in a blur, immersed in a fog of thoughts and images and questions and pleadings to G.o.d. The farther he got into the city, the more the artificial lights bombarded him, on the one hand illuminating what was out there, on the other obscuring it.The streetlights bounced off his car's metallic finish, creating a reddish glint. The SSE was sporty, expensive. More than they could afford. He thought of how meaningless the car was in the face of what was happening.What is happening?What was it the health and prosperity book said this morning? "Serve G.o.d and he'll always take care of you. Count on it!"O G.o.d, take care of her. Please make her all right. Please.He ran three red lights getting to the freeway. Holding it to seventy, he hoped to escape being pulled over by the police. When he finally got off at the hospital exit, he came to a stop and waited impatiently for red to turn green.Why wouldn't she listen to him? Sure, the suburbs weren't heaven. True, half the time you didn't know your neighbor. He might be an embezzler or tax evader or adulterer. Maybe his kid smokes dope and cheats in algebra and his wife's in alcohol rehab. But at least they just gossip about you or at worst bash in your mailbox. They don't shoot you.He drove up to the big red Emergency sign, ignoring parking instructions. He ran up to the double gla.s.s doors and into the waiting room.The blonde receptionist, skittish at the sight of the intruder, held her finger over a panic b.u.t.ton and said in her most commanding voice, "Yes? Can I help you?""My sister." Clarence struggled for breath. "She's here.""Name?""Clarence Abernathy.""I mean your sister's sister's name." Clarence thought he heard condescension in her voice. name." Clarence thought he heard condescension in her voice."Dani. Dani Rawls."She looked over some papers, then pushed a few b.u.t.tons on the computer, looking at the screen. "When was she admitted?""I don't know. Forty minutes ago, maybe. Where is she? What's happening?""We have no record of her. We do have a Rawls though. Felicia Rawls.""Felicia? That's my niece!"O G.o.d, not Felicia."Yes. She's...hold on, I'd better get a doctor. Please take a seat.""I'm going in.""No! You can't!" She pressed the panic b.u.t.ton. As Clarence pushed open the emergency door a blue-coated doctor said, "Hold on. You can't come in here!""Where's Felicia? Where's Dani?"A uniformed security guard rushed in from the parking lot. When Clarence turned toward him, the guard put his hand on his gun."Wait," the doctor said. He looked at Clarence. "Are you related to Felicia Rawls?""She's my niece.""Okay. All right. I think we've got it under control, Freddy," he said to the guard. "I'm Dr. Brose," he said to Clarence. "Please sit down.""I don't want to sit down." His eyes smoldered. "Tell me what's going on!""Your niece is in surgery.""Surgery? Why?""To remove the bullets.""Bullets? Felicia's been shot too?""I'm sorry," Dr. Brose said. "I thought you knew. Look, Dr. Mahmoud is doing the surgery. I'm not sure how long it will be." He craned his neck, looking through the door's gla.s.s window. "There's a surgery nurse coming out. Hang on, I'll be right back."Clarence put his foot in the door, heard hushed whispers in the hallway, then watched Dr. Brose coming with another doctor. This one had blood on his blue scrubs, his brown forehead dripping with sweat."This is Dr. Mahmoud," Dr. Brose said to Clarence.Great. They couldn't get an American doctor to treat a little black girl?"Are you Felicia's closest relative?" Dr. Mahmoud asked Clarence."Besides her mother and...Yeah, I'm the closest.""Your niece took two bullets."Clarence's jaw trembled."One's not a problem. It's in her shoulder. We can get it later if...""If what?""If we can...take care of the one lodged in her cranium.""Her head?""I'm afraid so."Clarence sat down."I got the surgery started. We couldn't wait for the specialist. Dr. Deumajing took over for me, and I've been a.s.sisting."Deumajing? What is this, a United Nations hospital?"Was the surgery successful?""It's still going on.""Then why are you out here?""I've been working ten hours straight, been in four surgeries. They pushed me out the door for a break. You don't want to get punchy. We've still got a ways to go. I honestly don't know how it's going to come out. It will be another hour at least.""Do either of you know where my sister is? Dani Rawls?""No," Dr. Brose said, while Dr. Mahmoud shrugged. "Is she supposed to be here?""That's what I was told. She was shot too. Unless they got mixed up and meant just Felicia. But then Dani would be here. Where is she?""I don't know anything about her," Dr. Mahmoud said. "I've been with Felicia. I need to get a cup of coffee then head back into surgery. You'll have to ask the receptionist.""I did. She doesn't know anything." Dr. Mahmoud walked back through the door."Where did the shooting happen?" Dr. Brose asked."North Portland. Jackson Street.""Maybe there were two ambulances. They could have taken your sister to Bess Kaiser.""I'll call them," the receptionist said, dialing the number without having to look it up."Thanks," Clarence mumbled. He looked at her, wondering why she was on hold so long."Sorry," she finally said. "They have no Dani Rawls."Clarence went to the phone and called Dani's number. No answer.I can't do Felicia any good here. I've got to find Dani.He ran to his car. He drove toward Martin Luther King Boulevard, praying for Felicia and Dani.She's just a little girl, G.o.d. Just a child. And she needs her mama. So do I.Clarence rolled down his window, needing to feel the fresh air and light rain on his face. He whizzed by the graffiti-marred street signs of Brumbelow and Moffat and made a sharp right turn onto Jackson Street, his tires squealing.What the...He threw on the brakes and skidded to a stop two feet short of a car parked crossways in the middle of the street.Who's the jerk that left his car...A thin muscular man with what looked like tools dangling from his belt stood stiffly. He'd popped up from behind the parked car and moved cautiously but swiftly toward Clarence's window.Clarence jumped out, moving toward the man, his voice agitated. "I need to get to my sister's.""Hold it right there." The man's arms were fully extended in front of him. Clarence looked at the gun in his hand."Show me both hands. Now! Get 'em up!"Clarence raised both his hands. He knew the drill."Keep 'em up."Clarence surveyed the scene, shrouded in semidarkness because of three shot-out streetlights. He now saw a half-dozen people, some of them in robes and nightshirts, gawking at Dani's house. He looked at the yellow police tape strung across the street behind the police car. He could barely read the bold black letters on the shimmering yellow tape: Crime Scene-Do Not Cross."Bend over. Hands on the hood."Clarence leaned on his hands, turned his head to the left, and looked toward Dani's, three houses away. He could see a bustle of activity, at least four people standing on Dani's front porch, coming in and out the front door.The uniformed officer patted him down. Though Clarence had never committed a crime other than speeding, this was the sixth time in some twenty-two years living in Portland he'd been patted down by police. He was counting.The cop turned his neck to the left and mumbled something into a two-way radio microphone on his shoulder, with the curly black chord running down to his belt."Can we get this over with, officer? That's my sister's house. My name's Clarence Abernathy.""Abernathy? The sportswriter?""Yeah."And who are you, Elliot Ness?"All right, take out your wallet," the officer said. "I need to see some ID." The cop seemed more relaxed now that the pat down had produced nothing more threatening than breath mints and a credit card receipt.Clarence remembered his Trib Trib press pa.s.s. He turned to lean back through the window and reach into the glove box. press pa.s.s. He turned to lean back through the window and reach into the glove box."Freeze!" The officer's gun followed him like a homing beacon. "Keep your hands out of the car!""But my press pa.s.s is in-""Just show me your driver's license."Clarence fumbled through the wallet and produced his license. The officer shined a flashlight on the picture, and then on Clarence's face. He made another mental comparison, perhaps to his profile sketch in the Trib. Trib."Okay, Mr. Abernathy. I'm sorry. But you should drive more carefully. And don't go jumping out of your car like that. With what happened here tonight I thought... It's a tense situation.""What did did happen here?" Tired of not getting answers, Clarence strode toward the yellow tape and stepped right over it. happen here?" Tired of not getting answers, Clarence strode toward the yellow tape and stepped right over it."Wait. Stop! You can't go in there.""I just did," he mumbled, not looking back.Clarence marched toward the house, still sixty feet away, eyeing a second ribbon of yellow tape cordoning off the entire front of the house. If he had just walked into the holy place, he now headed toward the holy of holies. He expected the officer he'd pa.s.sed to grab him, but instead he heard him talking on his radio in an excited voice.Out Dani's front door barged a heavy-jowled, ham-fisted man in plainclothes, maybe six feet tall but an easy 250 pounds. He duck-walked to the top stair, then glided quickly down the steps. He stepped over the yellow tape beneath him and faced off with Clarence."Hold it right there, buddy."I'm not your buddy."This is a crime scene. You can't come in. You've got to leave."Clarence stood still, restraining himself and calculating his next move."I'm Detective Ollie Chandler."Well, I'm the Prince of Wales. Wait a minute. Ollie Chandler?The uniformed officer appeared from behind, looking back nervously at the a.s.signed post he'd deserted in pursuit of Clarence."I warned Mr. Abernathy not to come in," the officer said."Look," Detective Chandler said to Clarence, "the yellow tape there-you might have read it as you crossed it-it's the one that says a kazillion times Do Not Cross? It's to keep the rubbernecks away from a crime scene that needs to remain undisturbed. So please, Mr. Abernathy...hang on. Clarence Clarence Abernathy? From the Abernathy? From the Tribune?" Tribune?""Yeah." Clarence felt a glimmer of satisfaction. Recognition had gotten him in a lot of places. Maybe now he'd get an apology."Well, then," Detective Chandler said, "you're especially unwelcome.""What?""n.o.body messes up a crime scene like a reporter. They think they're above all the rules. Guess you're a case in point, aren't you?""This is Dani's house. This is my baby sister's place.""Dani Rawls is your sister? I'm sorry. I didn't know.""I just came from Emanuel Hospital. My niece is there, but I can't find my sister. Did they take her somewhere else? Is somebody with her? What's going on?" The voice now sounded more pleading than demanding, and Ollie Chandler's defenses dropped. He looked down at the dark pavement, sighing deeply."I'm sorry, Mr. Abernathy. Your sister-""What? What?" What?""She's...dead."Clarence dropped down knees first to the sidewalk. Another man in plainclothes, a young Hispanic, moved quickly toward him, obviously concerned about Clarence disturbing evidence. Ollie waved the man off. "I'm really sorry," Ollie said to Clarence.Clarence looked up, he and the Hispanic now eyeballing each other. "This is my partner, Manuel," Ollie said.Clarence didn't hear the introduction. He stood slowly, in disbelief. He looked from the porch to Dani's bedroom. He gazed at the window that had the duct tape on it, the one he was going to fix next week. Wait, had someone already fixed it? He blinked hard. No, it only looked okay because the gla.s.s had been obliterated. There was barely a shard left hanging from the edges. All that remained were shreds of vanilla blinds hanging limply on the far side of the window frame.The whole front right side of the house looked like a piece of meat that had been tenderized, then picked at with a filleting knife. It appeared an explosion within the wall itself had popped parts of it outward.Clarence looked up at the porch, which extended three or four feet out from Dani's bedroom window. It was covered with yellow triangular markers, each with a bold black number. At first Clarence thought they must be some of the twins' playthings."What are those?" he asked weakly."Evidence markers," Ollie replied. "One for each sh.e.l.l casing."The highest number he saw was forty. "But...there's forty of them?""Yeah."Forty sh.e.l.ls? It couldn't be."Did they take her away?""Not yet. They're waiting," Ollie said. He pointed past the yellow tape crossing the street eighty feet on the other side of the house. Clarence saw a beige paneled van with someone putting away a small box behind the driver's seat. "We have to finish a couple of things before we move her. We're using a laser unit to doc.u.ment the crime scene before anything gets disturbed.""I'm going in to see her.""I'm sorry, Mr. Abernathy. You can't. No way."Clarence raised his foot above the yellow tape at the bottom of the stairs. Manuel stepped right in front of him, glaring up at his eyes, which had the effect of waving the red cape in front of a bull. Without lifting his arms Clarence moved forward, pushing the smaller man back.A uniformed officer on the porch pulled a big .45 from his holster and said "Hold it." Manuel opened a f.a.n.n.y pack at his waist and smoothly pulled out a smaller gun, a nine millimeter, with his right hand and cuffs with his left."Hands behind your back. Now!""Hold it, hold it," Ollie said. "Back off, Manny.""He's disturbing evidence. Interfering with an investigation. a.s.saulting a police officer.""I'll handle it, Manny. I said back off."Manny hesitated, then self-consciously gestured, a disgusted look on his face. His look seemed to say, "I followed procedure-we get in trouble for this and you're on your own.""Look, Mr. Abernathy" Ollie said. "Trust me. You don't want to go in there anyway. It isn't pretty.""I have to see her.""I can't let you in." Ollie glanced around, a.s.sessing the situation. He looked at a few of the worker bees. "We've done all the work on the steps, right? You got that footprint, right Bo?"A nonuniformed man carrying a little kit nodded."Okay, Mr. Abernathy. I'm not supposed to do this, but if you promise to stay right here, you can sit on the steps. If you let us finish our job they'll...wheel her out in a few minutes."Manuel shook his head in disbelief. He pulled Ollie aside."We can't let him..." Clarence heard them arguing. At one point he heard Ollie say, "We're done with the steps. They're history. If it was my sister..." The voices trailed off, then he caught a few more s.n.a.t.c.hes."The lieutenant hears this and he's gonna have a fit," Manny said."It's my case, my call. I need to talk to the medical examiner. Ken, watch Mr. Abernathy, okay?"Ken, the uniformed officer up on the porch, stood in front of the door like a jackal guarding an Egyptian tomb. Clarence watched several bursts of light come from Dani's bedroom. A few minutes later he saw the police photographer through the open door, kneeling down to change film."Clarence!" The sobbing voice called to him from across the street, inside the outer cordoned zone. Clarence stepped over the inner yellow tape and embraced the big woman, Hattie Burns, who ran past another frustrated uniformed officer."I've got Ty and Celeste," Hattie said. "How's Felicia?""She's in surgery. They're trying to take out the bullet...," his face suddenly distorted, "from her head."Hattie's arms surrounded him again. Clarence didn't know whether the moan that reverberated through him was his or hers. He pretended he was hugging Mama again, after all these years."What happened, Hattie?""It was an explosion that went on and on. I looked out the window. Saw someone up on the porch, hard to see with just the streetlights. Think I saw a big rifle in his hands. He ran to a car in the middle of the street, got in, and they were gone, just like that. Why would they do this? What's wrong with those g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers?"Clarence wanted to ask her many questions, but not now. He stood silently, not sure of the whats, but certain he would never understand the whys.He looked across the street and saw Ty standing on Hattie's porch, numbly looking over the situation. The air hung wet now, little droplets moving from mist to shower. He walked from Hattie and went toward Ty. Clarence hesitated as if there was something he needed to apologize for, then tried to put his arms around his nephew. Ty resisted, as though he was trying to be tougher than he was. Suddenly the raindrops on the boy's face were joined by tears."Why they do this to my mama?""I don't know, Ty. I don't know."They stood in awkward silence for a few minutes, until Mrs. Burns joined them. "I'll take care of the children till...till we figure out what to do. Don't worry about them.""Thanks," Clarence said, his face feeling as if it had been shot with novocaine. He crossed the street and went back up the stairs, scrutinized by Officer Ken. He started to sit down, then something caught his eye. The shredded blinds that had been hanging so precariously a few minutes ago had dropped out of sight. He could now see part of Dani's bedroom. He leaned to his right over the stair railing, trying to look in. Suddenly he went up the final stair and strode the eight feet to her window."Hold it. I don't think you're supposed to come past the stairs, are you?" Officer Ken sounded uncertain.Clarence gazed into the room through the windowless window. His first sight was the familiar needlepoint wall hanging made by his mother, with a green lettered quote from Martin Luther King. "We must spread the propaganda of peace."He squared up with the window frame and stared directly into the room. Gla.s.s and wood chips and chaos permeated it. Mama's prize brocade chair lay splintered, one leg ripped off as if severed by the jaws of a monster. He saw Detective Chandler leaning over what appeared to be a mannequin lying on the floor."O G.o.d," Clarence said. It was Dani.He watched Ollie pointing to something, talking with Manuel. To the right he saw blood-soaked sheets on one of the two little beds tucked next to each other. It was Felicia's. There by her bed sat her little lunch bucket with zoo animals and that big smiling-face giraffe. Clarence stared at the twisted and misshapen box. He noticed the giraffe had a strange black spot on his head. No, it was a hole. A bullet hole.Clarence buckled, falling to the floor of the porch, knocking aside three of the yellow evidence markers."Take me, G.o.d, but not Dani. And not Felicia. You can't have them. You can't!"Officer Ken stood uncertainly over Clarence, then put his hand on his shoulder and led him back to the stairs. Clarence sat down, oblivious to the raindrops now pelting him.A tall middle-aged woman walked out Dani's front door, gazing uncomfortably at Clarence. She wore a badge that said "Deputy Medical Examiner." She gestured down toward the man smoking a cigarette outside the beige paneled van. The man stomped out his cigarette, wheeled a collapsible gurney out of the van, lifted the outer yellow tape, pushed the gurney under it, and made his way to the front steps.Everything moved quickly now. Clarence heard sounds of lifting in the bedroom. Then the gurney came out, covered with a white sheet, crimson stains already soaking through. The medical examiner led the way, peering nervously at Clarence.He got up and walked alongside the gurney, ducking under the police tape, until it was at the back of the van.The man attempted to lift part of Dani's body to better position it on the gurney before wheeling it up into the wagon."Let me move her," Clarence said."No, I got it. Do this all the time.""She's my sister."The man shrugged, looking at the medical examiner. "Okay."Clarence lifted his baby sister. As an eighteen-year-old she had been barely 100 pounds, now perhaps 140, but still a light load for arms so big. He remembered as a ten-year-old lifting six-year-old Dani in his arms and carrying her across that little creek off the Strong River near their home in Puckett, Mississippi. She was so vulnerable. She always needed him to watch out for her, just as he needed her to watch out for."You can put her down now." The man's voice intruded, scattering the memories to the wind.Clarence lowered the body slowly, moved to the side, and watched the man wheel the gurney up the ramp into the van. He and the medical examiner got in. The van rode off into the darkness.Another uniformed officer came to Clarence and without a word escorted him across the cordoned-off area to his car. The driver's side window was still open. The soaking wet seat would normally have bothered him. He would have been concerned that the water might damage the plush champagne leather. Now it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He sat down in the car. The heavy smell of wet leather a.s.saulted him. He watched the water drops on the windshield join together and gather momentum, creating a hint of a rainbow from the streetlights. A cheap imitation of a real rainbow, with none of the hope.Got to get back to the hospital. Got to see Felicia. Got to call Geneva. Got to tell Daddy.How would he tell them? What would he say? He stared at his fingers, which felt strangely numb and, despite the moist air, dry like chalk. He studied them as if what he saw might bring an explanation, might bring order to a universe gone mad.He remembered the timid young girl in her pink and yellow dresses, the diminutive sister, always his little shadow. She was as short and skinny as he was tall and stocky, as though they couldn't have come from the same genes. But one look at the face and everyone knew they did.He remembered after they moved from Chicago to Portland, how he drove her to that party at Jefferson High when she was a freshman. How she peeked inside the doorway on her tiptoes to be sure there was someone she knew. How she looked back at him and said she'd decided not to go in. And how he made her go in because he knew that's what she wanted. She'd thanked him later. She'd been such a little mouse back then. And he had been her lion, her protector.He relived the moments on that old Mississippi road where those white boys had thrown the broken beer bottles at him and Dani. He'd wrapped his arms around her to protect her, but it was an instant too late. One of them hit her and cut open her throat. He remembered her blood flowing out on his hands. Every time he'd seen that scar since, every time he'd looked at her, he'd wished he could get his hands on the ones who hurt her.Suddenly a loud tortured voice erupted from within. "I'm sorry, Sis. I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you."

The early September day, unusually hot and humid, felt more like Jackson, Mississippi than Portland, Oregon. The white-hot sun focused down relentlessly, as if some cosmic naughty boy held a giant magnifying gla.s.s to torment the dumb creatures below. The antic.i.p.ation of relief that came with the previous week's milder weather turned out to be still another broken promise.Clarence stepped into air-conditioned Emanuel Hospital, feeling physical relief but mental torment. He made his way to ICU. After an interminable wait, they finally let him in to see Felicia. He bent over the tiny girl, casting a shadow on her as he eclipsed the overhead light. He looked at her pint-size body, lying there defenselessly. Intrusive tubes ran into her. A white skullcap covered her head where surgery had been performed. She held to life by the slimmest thread.Why did this happen? How can people hurt children like this? Why do you let them? Let her live. You have have to let her live. to let her live.Clarence bargained with G.o.d repeatedly, as he had the last four days. He cited his books on G.o.d's promises of health and healing. He grabbed a Bible from the hospital chapel and turned from pa.s.sage to pa.s.sage, claiming every promise he liked and skipping over those he didn't."Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened.""If you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer."He recited the pa.s.sages as if they were mantras, as if every repet.i.tion might be the one to finally convince himself and G.o.d of what the Almighty must do. Clarence pushed aside every thought of the worst. He asked everyone he knew to pray. He claimed G.o.d's healing for Felicia."I'll let you have Dani as long as you let Felicia live. Don't let her die." He tried to cut a deal with G.o.d, speaking out loud, as if the one he addressed had turned hard of hearing and needed to be roused from slumber by a louder, more insistent voice.The nurse came in, intending to tell him he should leave. She could see his eyes, smoldering coals ready to burst into flames. This man frightened her. She stepped forward, bracing herself, then whispered to him, "It's time to go."He left the room feeling defeated, having no more power over life and death than did the little girl on the bed.Geneva greeted Clarence with a hug in the intensive care waiting room. She held onto him as onto a redwood tree in a windstorm, but he gave under her embrace. He felt less like a towering redwood than a weak sapling, leaning in the breeze, tilting so far his wife wondered if his roots would hold.A few feet away on a waiting room chair, stoop shouldered and leaning forward, sat Obadiah Abernathy, staring off into nowhere. Eighty-seven years old, he was the son of a sharecropper, the grandson of a Mississippi slave. He'd lived in Clarence's house the last two years, as mind and body had begun failing him. Clarence sat down next to him and looked into his father's deep-set eyes, eyes that had seen incredible changes and endured unforgettable conflict. Clarence wasn't sure if he should interrupt the wanderings of his daddy's mind. Any alternative to the present reality seemed welcome. He said nothing.Clarence recalled the stories Daddy would read to him and Dani and their family, with the quaint vocabulary and beautiful inflections of a man who'd dropped out of school in third grade to pick cotton, and as a thirty-year-old had taught himself to read. He was the youngest of eleven children, he and his brother Elijah now being the last survivors of the brood. He'd played for the Indianapolis Clowns and nine other Negro League teams in the late twenties to late forties. At the age of thirty-three, he'd enlisted and served his country in World War II. He'd put his life on the line for a nation that wouldn't let him eat in most restaurants or sleep in most hotels or use the same drinking fountains or restrooms as white folk. He'd taken a bullet in his shoulder for a country that wouldn't print his birth announcement or wedding notice in its newspapers.During and after his baseball years, to put food on the table this man had worked in mills, on a.s.sembly lines, as a library custodian, and a Pullman porter. He'd moved his family of eight from Mississippi to Chicago and finally to Portland in search of a better place, like Moses leading his people out of the wilderness in search of the Promised Land. This man who'd seemed so big to Clarence as a child had lost inches over the years, some because of the stoop of his shoulders and hunch of his back. His body had sagged, time and gravity digging the crags in his face ever deeper. But they had done nothing to remove his contagious smile and the sparkle of his eyes. It was as if his eyes and mouth drew their strength not from this world but another."We need to get to the funeral, baby," Geneva whispered to Clarence. "Harley picked up the kids fifteen minutes ago. They'll already be there."Funeral. The word cut into him. He sternly reminded G.o.d of his bargain: "You can't have Felicia."Clarence gently stirred his father and escorted him toward the car. Daddy was wearing his funeral suit, Clarence his short-sleeved white dress shirt, having kept his suit coat in the car. The air was so thick on his sweaty arms it felt like long flannel sleeves. He got in the Bonneville, which still smelled of wet leather, the scent reminding him of the nightmare that began four days ago and from which he had not yet awakened.As he drove, Clarence prepared himself for a black funeral. With white funerals you'd get back to the office in an hour, in time to return your calls. With black funerals you were gone for the day. The white funeral preacher's job was to take away the grief. The black funeral preacher's job was to stretch it out. Right now he'd rather be going to a white funeral than a black one.They drove up to Ebenezer Temple in North Portland, three miles north of the hospital and a mile from Dani's home, in the heart of "the black part of town." It was his third visit to the church. Twice he'd come with Dani, at her insistence. Today once more he'd come because of her, but this time without her. This time she was gone. Perhaps if he'd agreed to come to church she wouldn't have died. These and a hundred other irrational thoughts plagued him like bats swarming through the attics of his mind. He braced himself as he got out of the car in the church parking lot bustling with mourners."Clarence, oh my Lawd, Clarence.""We gonna miss her so. Ohhh..."Hugs and tears swarmed him from all directions. This wasn't a shake hands occasion, but a time for lingering embrace. n.o.body could weep like black folk- they'd had centuries of practice. Clarence waded through the sea of people to the church entrance, not even seeing some who comforted him from the sides and behind."h.e.l.lo, Clarence. I'm terribly sorry." This approach was different, a handshake, not a hug, surprisingly controlled. Clarence looked into the eyes of Reginald Norcoast, the popular councilman whose district included North Portland. Though he was white, he was known as a cutting-edge advocate of black concerns.Clarence nodded to Norcoast, choosing not to say anything but wondering, What are you doing at my sister's funeral?Like most in North Portland, Dani had trusted Norcoast. Clarence, on the other hand, saw him as a pretentious bureaucrat, self-packaged as Mother Teresa in a business suit. Except Mother Teresa didn't wear a Rolex, drive a Beemer, or smoke fancy cigars to celebrate political victories."Look at all these peop