Forged by Fire

  This book is dedicated

  to my sister Vicky,

  a powerful phoenix

  rising victorious

  from the flames

  and

  to my friend Marie Randle

  who fights

  fires

  with her fists

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ONE

  “IF YOU DON’T sit your stinkin’, useless butt back down in that shopping cart, I swear I’ll bust your greasy face in!” she screamed at the three-year-old in front of her. He studied her face, decided she was serious, and put his leg back inside the cart. He was standing near the front end of the cart, amidst an assorted pile of cigarette boxes, egg cartons, and pop bottles. He didn’t want to sit down anyway because of the soft, uncomfortable load in his pants, which had been there all afternoon and which felt cold and squishy when he moved too much. He rarely had accidents like that, but when he did, Mama sometimes made him keep it in his pants all day to “teach him a lesson.”

  Gerald was only three, but he had already learned many such lessons. He’d never seen Sesame Street, never heard of Riverfront Stadium—he didn’t even know he lived in Cincinnati. But he knew the important things—like never mess with Mama when she was in bed—Mama got really mad when you woke her up, especially if she had somebody in bed with her. And never touch the hot thing that Mama used to light her cigarettes, even if the mysterious orange-and-blue fire that comes out of it liked to tease you and dance for only a moment before running away.

  Mama had once caught Gerald playing with the lighter, and she made the fire come out and she held his hand right over the flame. It wasn’t his friendly fire dancer, though, but a cruel red soldier that made his hand scream and made him dizzy with pain and he could smell something like the meat Mama cooked, but it was his hand. When she stopped, she had washed his hand with cool water and soothed him with warm hugs and wrapped with salve and bandages the place where the fire soldier had stabbed him. She told him that she had done it for his own good and to teach him a lesson. He had tried to tell her that he was just trying to find the fire dancer, but she wasn’t listening and he had given up, thankful for the hugs and the silence.

  One other lesson that Gerald had learned was never, never stay near Mama when she sniffed the white stuff. She got it from a man named Leroy who smelled too sweet and smiled too much. When he leaves, you hide behind the couch and hope Aunt Queen comes over because sometimes Mama yells and gets her belt or her shoe and hits, and hits, and hits.... And sometimes she just goes to sleep on the floor and it gets dark and you cry and your tummy feels tight and hurty, but at least there’s no shoe to run away from.

  Once Aunt Queen had found Gerald curled up behind the couch sucking his thumb. His pajamas were soaked and smelly and he was shivering and hungry. Mama had been gone all day. She had told him not to leave the room, and he had really, really tried to be good, but he was so cold, so very cold. Aunt Queen had taken him to her apartment and given him a warm bath, a bowl of hot soup, and some warm, fuzzy sleepers, even though she had to pin the back of them so they wouldn’t fall off. Then Mama had come and she and Aunt Queen had yelled and screamed so much that Gerald had to hold his ears while he lay curled at the foot of the bed. Finally Mama started crying and Aunt Queen was saying stuff like, “I know, honey,” and Gerald knew he was going back home.

  That night, Mama had hugged him and kissed him and held him close until he fell asleep. Gerald had felt so warm and special and golden—he wanted to feel like that forever. He knew his mama loved him. She had bought him a G.I. Joe man last week and it wasn’t even his birthday or Christmas or anything, and most days she combed his hair and dressed him in clean clothes, and told him to say, “Yes, ma’am” to grown folks. And sometimes, on really good days, she would hug him and say, “You know you’re my best baby boy, don’t you, Gerald? You know you’re my baby, don’t you?” And he would smile and that warm, golden feeling would start at his toes and fill him all the way up to his smile.

  Even though Mama had yelled at him, today was a good day. Mama always yelled—it was no big deal. (Some days he yelled back at her. Then she would slap him and he’d cry and he’d cuss at her and then she would slap him until his head hurt. So mostly he ignored her.) But today was a good day, a shiny day, he thought. The sun was bright gold outside against a clear blue sky. And inside the grocery store there were so many colors and sounds and lights that Gerald just grinned. It was always crowded when they went. Other children would be in carts also and they would have to pass very close to each other. Gerald liked to pretend he was driving a big, fine silver car down the expressway.

  Sometimes the cart would be a tank, as he passed cautiously through rows of armed cling peaches and silent sentinels that looked like boxes of Frosted Flakes. And at the checkout lane, the armies rolled smoothly down the long black road that disappeared under the counter. He started to ask Mama where it went, but it was more fun to imagine that it went to a secret hideout where only sweet potatoes and boxes of oatmeal were allowed.

  When they got home from the grocery store, Gerald sat on the floor and watched Mama stack the boxes and cans on the shelf. She was whistling—he had never heard her whistle before and he loved the way she laughed as he tried to imitate her. She changed his clothes (and didn’t even yell at him for not being a big boy) and gave him two cookies and an apple. Then she went into the other room. When she came out, she had changed her clothes and Gerald thought he had never seen anything so lovely. She had on her sparkly fancy dress that Gerald liked to touch.

  “Mama will be right back, baby,” she told him. “I just have to go see Mr. Leroy for a minute. You stay right here and wait for me, you hear?” Gerald started to cry, but he didn’t want Mama to lose her good mood, so he just nodded and bit his lip. The door closed and he could hear her high heels clicking on the steps. Then it was very, very quiet.

  After he finished both his cookies and the apple had turned brown on the white parts, Gerald looked for something to do. It was getting dark and he wanted G.I. Joe to sit with him because the shadows on the wall were getting long and scary. He found G.I. Joe on the floor next to Mama’s bed, right next to the cigarette lighter that she had been looking for this morning. Gerald picked it up and for a time he used it as a gun for Joe, then it was a log for Joe to jump over, then it was an enemy for Joe to attack.

  Finally Gerald started idly flicking the little red handle. At first is just made a scratchy sound and the smell made him cough and remember how he’d got that brown place in the palm of his hand. Then he remembered the tiny fire dancer, and he wondered if it still lived in there with the fire-sword soldier.

  After numerous flicks, he got the fire to stay on. He grinned with delight. The dancer was there, smiling at him and bowing for him, changing from splendid orange to icy green to iridescent purple. The lighter flame flickered magically, making golden the purple shadows on the wall.

  With sudden inspiration, Gerald shouted, “Hey Joe, we got a torch!” as he and G.I.
Joe marched around the kitchen table. Gerald crawled under the table then, flicking the lighter over and over again to light the way for G.I. Joe. They fought shadows and monsters; they blew up cities and kingdoms. Gerald made the sound effects and G.I. Joe dutifully followed his general into combat. As the mighty battle came to its climax, Gerald crawled up on a chair and stood on the kitchen table, waving his arms triumphantly. Mama would kill me, he thought momentarily, if she saw me up here, but the thought passed as G.I. Joe fought the terrible mountain man by the light of only a single torch.

  Suddenly the tiny light of G.I. Joe’s torch was huge and bright as the tip of one curtain in the window touched the flame. Gerald heard a loud whoosh and then he turned in terror to see the whole window covered with harsh red flames that crawled and licked and jumped along the windowsill. Gerald scrambled down from the table and ran to his hiding place behind the couch. Mama said stay here and wait for her, he told himself. I know she’ll be here in a minute. He peeked around the corner of the sofa and watched flames consume the boxes of cereal and macaroni that Mama had just bought. When the fire reached the bottle of Big K soda, Gerald watched, fascinated, as the soda bubbled, then fizzed. When it finally burst in a loud, sizzling explosion, Gerald jumped back behind the sofa, coughing and wheezing from the heat and smoke.

  He curled up in his usual position then, thumb in his mouth, crying softly. He thought about his mama and how pretty she was. He wondered if G.I. Joe would ever find his way back. And he wondered how he could see so many colors with his eyes closed.

  TWO

  WHEN GERALD WOKE up, he didn’t know where he was. He was too scared to cry. Everything around him was white—the walls, which seemed to tilt toward him; the sheets, which were scratchy and so bright that he had to close his eyes; and the people, whose pale white faces and uniforms made him think of ghosts that come to get you in the night. His throat felt scratchy and it hurt a little to breathe. And it smelled funny too—kinda like medicine mixed with the stuff that Mama used to clean the floor. Mama—he remembered then. He wondered if she was mad at him. Maybe he was here to be punished. Terrified, he began to cry.

  “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 lov
e 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.”