The first book to dwelve into the thoughts and feelings of the 21st Century African American male.
CHAPTER ONE
Death is a part of life. Normally, it’s not something anyone can plan for. As Alea took one last look at the resident of the brown, gold-trimmed casket, she reached for Mark’s hand. Together, they walked past the soulless body. Turning, she gave one last desperate glance as she wiped her eyes.
Although the sun shone that day, it felt dark and melancholy, as if time had stopped. People wore their Sunday best, but all black. The April air was flushed with a sundry of fragrances from spring flowers, though without a breeze, the aroma was subtle after the previous night’s rain. A chorus of birds chirped. From the melody, even they knew it was a day of despair.
Others followed behind Alea as she headed for the black limo for the long procession ride back to the church. Junior and Taylor got in first.
As Alea got in behind them, she thought, They really don’t know what it means. Innocence is a gift. It’s funny how people’s lives can change in seconds, and the decisions made in those moments can leave scars for a lifetime.
“Mom, are you OK?” Junior asked, sliding across the seat.
Alea, clearing her throat, held her head high. Be strong. Someday, she’d have to explain, but for the moment, she chose simple terms. Besides, I’m all they have now. I have to be their ship and anchor, a guide through the rough seas and life-changing storms that lie ahead.
“Honey,” she replied, “I’m fine. Just thinking about the good times.” Her voice choked up.
Mark sat at the other end up against the door, watching the stress in Alea’s face. He wanted to help, or, at least, give her time to sort things out. “Hey, Taylor. Want your Uncle Mark to spend a couple days with you? Maybe we can go to the movies while your mom gets some rest.”
Alea looked at him and shook her head. Mark lifted his right hand off Taylor’s small frame and raised two fingers, silently mouthing, Just two days.
“Yeah!” Junior said. “Can we go bowling, too?”
“Sure, Buddy. Whatever you want.” He tapped Junior on the shoulder. “That’s what uncles are for.”
Mark knew his sister well. Independence had its place, but, with all that happened, it was best to have family around. If he could provide her some relief for a few days, then ask Mom and Dad to do the same, maybe Alea would have a chance to sort things out.
CHAPTER TWO
One year earlier, summer air descended on the nation’s capitol like a blanket of heat and moist air. Draper went to Mark’s house to watch the NBA playoffs with the fellas. He cranked up the AC as he pulled onto the Fairfax County Parkway, laughing to himself as the coolness took over.
April showers brought May flowers, but June called out the AC. He laughed again. That was especially true with the sistahs. Alea always fussed about the hot, humid air. She complained about walking to the car, which was only fifteen feet from the house, saying her hair would shrivel up before she reached it.
One day the year before, when they were headed out for a play, Draper teased her about always running on CP time. He deliberately left the AC turned off to irritate her. It wasn’t one of those overly sweltering days, but the humidity was very high.
“Drae, crank up the AC,” she said.
He didn’t look at her as he backed down the driveway. “Why? It’s not that hot.” He felt her gaze piercing his head. “Besides, the fresh air will do us good.”
She laughed, a soft chuckle filled with frustration. “Come on, Drae. Don’t play. You know my stuff ain’t made for blowing in the wind.”
As he began to make another plea just to rile her a bit, he glanced at her and saw her hair was already curling at the ends. A warm rush ran through his body. At that time, she wore her hair in a cute bob that came to her neck, but the humidity grabbed it and disassembled the style. He stared like he’d seen a ghost.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
“Oh, shit. Nothin’, Babe.” He looked at the road and quickly turned on the AC before she noticed. “You know I was just messin’ with you.” He watched her bob get worse. “Bob and weave,” he muttered. “Just bob and weave.”