“Oh, I believe it. That child has the world on his shoulders. Going to be somebody very special someday, if he can rise above his home life.”
Rebecca started cutting the green peppers now, the motion soothing. Granny joined her, their rhythm smooth, practiced, like Rebecca hadn’t been gone twenty-three years and Gramps was still out in the living room, watching the news and sipping his nightly glass of sweet tea.
“So what is his home life, anyway?” She gave Granny a sideways look. “He said his mom died, and he lives with his grandmother?”
Granny shook her head. “It’s a pretty sad situation. Arnetta Robinson was a good lady, very involved at the church, but took ill two, three years ago. Stage four ovarian cancer. Apparently she’d not been to a doctor in years, went from running Mr. Allen’s convenience store out on the highway to the coffin in six weeks flat. Devon was her only child.”
Rebecca shivered, imagining a young Devon at his mother’s funeral, his stoic little face watching everything, not able to understand.
“There’s no dad?”
“Not that I ever heard about. Devon lives with his grandmother, but she’s got a lot of health problems. Asthma, arthritis, diabetes, blood pressure. The church helps out when they can. There’s an uncle that comes around, but he’s a little, well ...”
Rebecca pursed her lips. “He doesn’t want the help?”
“Not sure he likes the poking around, or the charity.”
Rebecca frowned. “So how do they stay afloat?”
“I imagine they do okay. Dolores Robinson gets social security, and there might have been some life insurance money, though I can’t be sure on that. Believe it or not, you can make it work if your house is paid for and you keep your bills down. They have a quiet life, live in one of those small cottage homes off Aberville Road. Devon’s one of our backpack kids, in fact.”
“The ones who get the extra food sent home in little bags over the weekend so they don’t get hungry?” Rebecca felt a pang, remembering how Devon had wolfed down the fries and burger at Harold’s Diner. At the time she’d thought it was a typical boy’s voracious appetite. Now she wondered how often he got the chance to even go to a diner, eat a burger and fries like a regular kid. She remembered how skinny his arms were. How serious he’d seemed. Driven. Determined.
“It’s a lot more kids than you think,” Granny murmured, watching her.
Rebecca shook her head. “I just … .” She stopped, realized she didn’t have the words.
They worked in silence a moment. The rest of the vegetables went into the stockpot, and Granny stirred the pot and set the lid on top. Drying her hands on a dishtowel, she kissed Rebecca’s hair softly.
“Hard to reconcile, the thought of kids going hungry. Kids you know.”
“Yeah,” Rebecca said quietly. “Makes me want to—I don’t know.” She dried her hands, too, gripped the towel. “It kind of makes me want to go buy his family groceries, take him out for dinner every night.”
“It’s just life, sweetie. Life for lots of people. All you can do is try to help.”
“How do you do that?” Rebecca squinted at Granny, folded her arms. “You work all day, every day. Making soup and chili and holding clothing drives. Hosting those free dinners. How do you keep from trying to save them all?”
Granny gave a half-smile. “You can’t rescue the world. You can just be Jesus to them.”
“What, like read them the Bible?” Rebecca shook her head. “I’m pretty sure that kid knows more about the Bible than I do.”
“No, Becca. I mean be him. Actually be his hands and feet. Treat them like he would have done when he walked the earth. Love them no matter what they look like or where they come from or whether their hands are dirty or their clothes smell. Give them food and clothing, a warm blanket, help them get their lives in order if they need it, offer two strong arms to hug them when they need comfort. Be an ear. You can’t save everyone. But you can be kind. You can help.”
When they came, the words were small. “How do I help someone like Devon?”
“You could start by being his friend. Spend time with him.” Granny’s words were gentle. “And sweetie, it never hurts to ask God to guide you. Try it,” she said simply. “He knows what we don’t.”
Rebecca reached out a hand, clasped Granny’s cool, dry fingers in her own. “Thanks, Granny. I’ll see what I can do.”
???
The next morning, six copies of theDahlia Weeklyon her front seat, Rebecca drove the ten minutes from the house out to Aberville Road and then to James Watkins Elementary. She parked the sedan out front and clicked the locks, headed toward the doors.
“Heyyy, mamasita.”
She turned, the sharp smack of a bouncing basketball on asphalt filling the air. Three preteen boys in low-riding jeans and those ribbed white tanks leered at her. What looked like yellow rags or handkerchiefs were stuffed in their pockets, the edges poking out, and one had a bright yellow bandana wrapped around his head, doo-rag style. Mini-gangsters. In a couple years when they were older, she might have been afraid of them. For now, she just smiled and quickened her pace. Gangs, in Dahlia?
“Hi, boys.”
