Forged by Fire (2 page)

“Hey, little man is coming around! How you feelin', sport?”

Gerald didn't know what to say, or even if he should say anything to this strange white man with the orange-colored hair, so he just stared at him, trying to hold back the tears, needing to go to the bathroom, and wanting to go home.

A pretty black lady walked into the room then, and at first, Gerald thought it was Mama. But Mama never,
never wore white, and this lady was smiling and Gerald knew that when Mama came to get him, she'd be screamin' and yellin' and cussin'. Mr. Orangehair walked over to her and said in a voice that was supposed to be too low for Gerald to hear, “Did you get in touch with social services yet?”

“Yes, they're on their way. But that may take all night. You know how it goes.”

“Has the mother been found yet?”

“Yeah, she showed up right as they were putting the kid in the ambulance—screaming hysterically about her precious baby. If that teenager from next door hadn't rushed into the apartment when he did, there would have been nothing left of her 'precious baby' but a charred ember.”

“You've got that right. Did you get the whole story?”

“From what we can tell, he had been there by himself for several hours, probably playing with matches. A neighbor said the mama was a big-time druggie, left him there alone all the time. She said she usually checked on the boy, but he had been so quiet today, nobody knew he was there. The kid who rescued him told the police that a 'funny feeling' just made him check the apartment before he got out himself. He said he knew the little guy liked to play behind the couch.”

“He ought to get a medal. And that mother ought to get. . .”

“Sh-sh-sh. She's already in custody. Child endangerment, abandonment—that sort of thing. Plus, it looks as
if he's been abused physically as well—he's got lots of old bruises and scars, and a burned spot on the palm of his hand that doesn't look accidental. Makes me want to scream!”

“Yeah, tell me. You never get used to the bruised or burned or bleeding babies—the kids who've been abused—or the parents who bring 'em in. How old is he?”

“Three.”

“Does he have any other relatives?”

“Yes, an aunt, I think. She's on her way.”

“Good. Well, I think he's stable now, but I bet he's mighty frightened. See if you can find a big hug for him.”

Gerald listened as the pretty lady walked toward the bed. He kept his eyes closed because he was scared and because he didn't want her to know he had been listening. (She didn't know he was an expert in listening to the conversations of grown-ups—he used to sit so quiet he was almost invisible and listen to Mama and her friends talk about stuff he wasn't supposed to hear.)

“I see Gerald. . . . He's hiding behind his eyes.” (How did she know?) Her voice was soft and playful. She took his small hand in hers. “Come on,” she said gently, “let me see those pretty brown eyes.” Her voice seemed to be smiling, so Gerald slowly opened his eyes. He thought she looked like an angel—with her round brown face and soft white uniform. He wondered if she could fly. He smiled back at her.

“That's better. How do you feel? Would you like some water?” Gerald nodded. She took a spoon and picked out
an ice chip and placed it on his tongue. He didn't realize the intensity of the fire in his throat until that soothing ice chip began to cool the flames.

“More,” he whispered.

“Sure, babycakes, but let's take it easy.” She gently spooned another chip onto his tongue.

“I want my mama,” Gerald said, the tears filling his eyes again.

“Your mama's real busy right now, but she'll be here as soon as she can. She loves you very much, you know. But I'm going to stay right here with you till your mama or your auntie gets here, okay? You've been alone long enough. Here's another little chip of ice. Let's see if we can cool that fire.”

Gerald relaxed finally, letting himself enjoy the coolness of the sheets and the warmth of her smile. He let her help him to the bathroom, and as she lifted him back into the bed, she hugged him gently. She tucked the soft blanket around him; he sighed and drifted beyond the memories of the day. He slept.

The orange-haired doctor returned, checked the pulse of the sleeping child, and sighed to the nurse. “I wonder what's going to happen to our little friend here. He'll be out in a day or two. But what will become of the rest of his life?”

Just as the nurse was about to answer, Aunt Queen stormed into the room.

Ms. Queen Marie Antionette Lincoln literally filled a room when she entered it. She was dressed in bright red
from the top of her elaborate turban to the tips of her polished fingernails, and an air of regal self-assurance seemed to travel with her. Her eyes, which commanded immediate respect, sparked with a fire that matched the shine on her highly polished wheelchair—her throne.

Her voice, loud and authoritative, demanded, “Where is my nephew?”

Doctor Orangehair, probably better known as Dr. McFall, was used to irate or worried relatives, and was not intimidated by Aunt Queen's dramatic entrance.

“If you mean little Gerald, he's just fallen asleep. Let's go out into the hall where we can discuss this without disturbing him.”

Without a word, Aunt Queen rolled out of the ward, past the nursing station, and through the large wooden doors into the hall. How she managed to get her chair through those heavy doors just ahead of him so that the door bumped him on the backswing, he wasn't sure, but he thought he saw her smile with satisfaction when he came into the hall rubbing his shoulder.

“I'm Dr. McFall. Your nephew is very lucky. He's suffering from mild smoke inhalation, but he's not burned or otherwise physically injured. Emotionally, the injuries may be much deeper, but only time will tell. He's going to need lots of love and emotional support in the next few months.”

“That's why I'm here, Doctor. I've been trying to get that girl to let me take care of the boy ever since he was born. But I gotta give her credit—she tried. She's got a
good heart—she really does love him—she just doesn't know much about mothering. She ain't learned how to take care of herself good, let alone take care of a baby. And them drugs ate up what little sense she had. I shoulda stepped in before now, probably shoulda turned her in, but she's family. You understand how it is, don't you?”

“The boy could have died tonight.”

“Well, praise the Lord, he didn't. When can I take him home?”

“You'll have to talk to social services and start the paperwork to be Gerald's temporary guardian. Are you his only relative? Does he have a father?”

“Of course he has a father!” Aunt Queen's feathers were ruffled now. “Don't you have a father? I know you doctors are getting pretty good at making test-tube babies, but the last I checked, it still took a mother and a father to make a baby.”

“What I meant was—”

“I know what you meant. Since this kid is poor and black and his mother is living alone and unmarried, his father must be long gone. Well, I'm here to tell you that not all black men are like that. There's zillions of black families with a mama and a daddy and two kids like the 'average' American family.” Aunt Queen's shoulders drooped a bit then, and she said with resignation, “But unfortunately, this ain't one of them. I don't know where the boy's daddy is. I just didn't want you to assume. You coulda been wrong, you know?”

Dr. McFall smiled. “You're quite a lady, Ms. Lincoln. How are you going to take care of a three-year-old from a wheelchair?”

“Call me Queen—all my friends do. And like you said, I'm quite a lady. I raised six kids from this here wheelchair. I ain't forgot how. What's one more grandnephew? I'd like to see him now.”

“Of course. And, unless there are complications, he should be able to go home by Wednesday.”

Aunt Queen quietly entered Gerald's room. She listened for a moment to his slightly raspy breathing, then softly touched his cheek. He coughed, turned, and opened his eyes. At first confused and frightened, he looked around wildly, but when he saw Aunt Queen, he relaxed and smiled.

“Aunt Queen! Where's my mama?”

“Your mama hasn't been feeling well, Gerald, and she's going to a place that's gonna make her feel all better—just like you came here to get better. She told me to tell you that she loves you very, very much. Why don't you come and stay at my house, Gerald, just till your mama comes home. Okay?”

“Can we have oatmeal?”

“Every day!”

“Can I put syrup on my oatmeal? Mama never lets me.”

“We won't tell her!” Aunt Queen smiled with a mischievous grin.

“What about G.I. Joe?”

“Who?”

“My G.I. Joe man. Mama got him for me. I left him ... I left him. ...”

Suddenly the memories overwhelmed the boy. The flames, the fear, the feeling of utter desolation were too much for him to handle. He cried, huge body-racking sobs. Queen positioned her chair close to his bed, deftly lifted him up, and cuddled him in her ample lap. She rocked and crooned while he wept for all the pain he had known in his short life, and for all the pain yet to come.

G
ERALD SAT ON
Aunt Queen's back porch, idly rolling rocks down the wooden ramp that had been built for her wheelchair. In the six years that he had been living with Aunt Queen, this ramp had become his favorite spot. It had launched toy cars and boats, and big-wheel riding toys when he was little; later there had been skateboards and, last year, a go-cart he had made by himself. Of course, he wasn't
supposed
to ride a skateboard or go-cart down the ramp, but who could resist the temptation? Sometimes he liked to lie stretched out on the ramp, his face to the sun, dreaming. Today he was smiling, because tomorrow was his ninth birthday, and he was really, really hoping for a bicycle. It didn't have to be new, just red—and fast.

He was a quiet boy who listened more than he talked and who rarely shared his dreams or fears with anyone, even Aunt Queen, whom he adored. Since the day that she had taken him home when he was released from the hospital, he had lived here with her, under her loving, careful eyes. At first, he had cried for his mother con
stantly. Aunt Queen had hugged him and hummed old hymns to him and filled in the empty spaces in his heart. Later, he asked for his mother only occasionally, like on his birthday or Christmas. Over time, his demands for her had become weaker, until she had become only a foggy memory.

Life at Aunt Queen's was sometimes hectic, but some-how always comforting and reassuring. Because even though he might wake up and find a stranger sleeping on the sofa, or once, he remembered, in the bathtub (she was real big on showing hospitality to folks in need), he knew that she was always there, and that she would never leave him. Her very presence was like a power source, to be plugged into for love, or security, or a good fried-chicken dinner.

And it wasn't always easy. Gerald remembered times when the lights had been cut off, and the phone, and even the water. He figured getting the water cut off was the worst, because you couldn't flush the toilet. But if it was winter, then doing without the heat and lights was pretty awful. But she managed to get them through it each time, one way or another.

One time, he remembered, she had gone downtown to the gas and electric company because they had cut off the heat. He had been about five, and she had taken him with her. The lady at the desk, who had looked down her nose at them through her funny-looking glasses, had said, “Unless you can come up with a hundred and fifty dollars by five o'clock, there will be no heat.”

Aunt Queen had replied quietly, “And unless you come up with some heat by five o'clock,
you
will be on the six o'clock news. I'm poor, not stupid. I know that you can't cut off heat to disabled customers in the middle of winter, especially disabled customers with small children. If you look at my payment record, you will see that I pay on time when I have the money. This month, I just don't have it. Something came up. You'll have your money next month. You have my word on it. You can take my word as my promise, or you can let me take my word down the street to Consumer Alert at Channel Five. I'm sure they'd love to hear how you folks are treating the public, especially after that rate hike you just got.”

The heat was back on by four o'clock.

The “something” that had come up was Christmas. Aunt Queen believed passionately in many things, but Christmas was her supreme passion. She thrived on Christmas carols, delighted in decorations, and indulged in special treats and goodies. The tree went up, with a great deal of traditional fanfare (like making popcorn to string for garlands and making ornaments of soap and old Christmas cards) during the first week in December and stayed up until New Year's Day. The house always smelled delicious this time of the year. One day it would be cookies in the oven when Gerald came home from school, and the next day it would be homemade cranberry sauce. Even in years when there wasn't much money, they managed to have a wonderful Christmas, with Aunt Queen
always stretching the cookie dough and the turkey dressing just enough to make ends meet.

His gifts were never frivolous or the result of Saturday morning cartoon advertising, but thoughtful and delightful. Last year, when he was eight, in addition to two books (he loved to read), a new winter coat, and a used but still bright and shiny blue sled, he got a flashlight, two sets of batteries, and permission to explore the basement and the attic (which had previously been off-limits). No amount of money could have purchased the adventures he had in the next few months, exploring the secrets of the outer limits of the house.

In the basement, he had found an old wheelchair, covered with dust and cobwebs. Gerald never thought much about Aunt Queen's being in a wheelchair. Rather than being a limitation, her chair seemed to be merely an extension of her personality. She wheeled around the house and neighborhood with very little difficulty, although buildings without ramps and inaccessible public transportation could really start her to fussing. He knew that she had been born with brittle bones, and that she got fractures easily, and that two of her six children and two of her grandchildren also had the condition. She could walk for short distances, but it was sometimes very painful. However, she treated it the same way she treated any other difficulty in her life—first with a sigh, and then a smile.