The People in the Park (2 page)

“I called Reverend Jones on my way home. I know we don’t go to church as we should, but he was still willing to come and pray with us,” Dad said.

“Before we pray,” said Reverend Jones, “I’d like to tell each of you to not feel that you are alone in this situation. God is with you, and He’ll get you through it.”

Reverend Jones opened his Bible, “I’d like to share a scripture with you that can be a source of comfort in the days ahead. Psalm 46:1-7 says: “‘God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore, we will not fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof…The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge.’
”

We then all held hands, and Reverend Jones prayed, “Our great and mighty God, ruler of heaven and earth. Lord, I lift up this family to you tonight. Heavenly Father, a day that started on a mountaintop full of sunshine and brightness for them has ended in a valley full of darkness and despair. Lord, help them understand that you have not forsaken them. Strengthen them, Father, as you lead them through this storm. I pray that Brother Moffet’s innocence will be proven. Give his wife and daughter the faith to see that this will pass and the sun will shine again in their lives. In Jesus name we pray, Amen.

“Don’t despair,” said Reverend Jones as Dad walked him to the door. “Know that God will show up for you. He’ll come through. Just trust Him.”

I turned towards Mom. I felt no different than before our visit from the Right Reverend Doctor Jones. She didn’t appear to feel any different either.

****

Mom and I ate dinner together, mainly in silence. Dad was in his study on the phone with lawyers.

“He’ll straighten this out,” Mom said. “But it will take time.”

She had ordered pizza because she wasn’t in the mood to cook. Then she had felt sorry about doing that, saying she had to stop being frivolous with money.

We had never had to be concerned about money ever in our lives. This had to be a horrible nightmare.

I felt bad that Mom felt guilty about spending twenty dollars for a pizza. We couldn’t even enjoy it because now spending money was somehow forbidden in some unwritten rule that had invaded our lives today.

I cried myself to sleep. No homework. No nothing. Sleep blotted out everything about today. If I could only sleep forever, maybe the pain would go away and along with it the shame I felt.

Even though I had done nothing but live and exist in this family, my entire world was shattered.

2

Mom didn’t feel like going to the park today.

Loretta Moffit, a strong woman with grit and backbone, who grew up in Memphis, the new South, when the shackles of segregation had been destroyed and the world was waiting for her to conquer it, stood before me in hair rollers and a cashmere robe. She moved zombie-like as she nursed a cup of coffee and stared out the kitchen window. The TV purred in the background, voices going over the same story from yesterday, this time naming victims whose trust had been violated.

The change in her had happened overnight. She was still in shock, I suppose, as was I.

Walking in the park every morning before school was our special time together. Then we would have breakfast at Starbucks before I headed to classes and she started her day with her club meetings and fundraisers. At Starbucks, with her day planner in front of us, we would go over our schedules for the day and make sure nothing conflicted with anything important to me.

Today I was on my own.

I drove to the park anyway.
River Landing.
A small but beautiful, scenic park with huge sprawling trees that stood guard over the playground and gazebo and lined the winding walking path was tucked into a natural preserve off downtown Fairfield. One side of the V-shaped three-mile walking trail meandered along the Missouri River. The other side bordered the railroad tracks. In the middle of the ‘V’ were playground equipment, picnic pavilions, soccer fields and the gazebo. A grove of trees of all sizes filled in the rest of the ‘V.’

There were regular walkers and runners who came here every day. Mom knew all the regulars by name. On our morning walks she stopped and talked to them while I waited impatiently for her to finish so I could have her to myself again.

I had nicknames for the people in the park. There was Mr. Jones, who was a track star in the 1970s and still dressed like one, with his short shorts flaring in the wind as he ran. I called him the Hale and Hardy Guy. His legs, blush red in the cold weather, took lengthy strides as he ran to keep up his stamina.

Then there was Dr. Smithfield, who always ran with his dog and had earplugs in his ears and his cell phone clipped to his belt. I called him Man with White Dog. Every now and then, he stopped running and walked briskly when he got a call regarding a patient. He talked with a serious demeanor and then resumed running when the call was finished.

Another fairly young man jogged every day and always held his head to the left side. I used to wonder why he always held his head like that, until one day it dawned on me that maybe something was wrong with him. But I still called him Sidewinder. I had never learned his name, and Mom didn’t talk to him, probably because she was uncomfortable with his deformity.

Then there were the two elderly sisters, Rose and Maybelle. I didn’t know their last names. They walked with a big black dog and stopped to chat with everybody they met. Needless to say, they didn’t get much walking done. I called them Old Women.

Mr. Isom, a hefty guy, wore shorts in all types of weather, but they were knee length. He had a potbelly stomach and never looked like he lost any weight. Chunky was my name for him. I never saw him talking to men, but he lit up when any woman came along, especially Mom. Then he turned into a prince.

Mr. Wolff wore long tailored pants when he walked and sported white hair and a neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard. I called him Professor because he looked like one.

I decided to run today, even though Mom and I usually had a leisurely walk and talked over my day and what was going on with me. I knew all the park regulars must have seen the news reports. I didn’t feel like stopping to talk to anyone.

I put on my sneakers and took off, passing all the regular gang of runners and walkers. The cold wind felt good on my face. The brisk air cut through the numbness that had settled throughout my body.

I heard questions like, “Where is your mother today?” and “How is your father?” but I ignored them. I kept running, my legs swiftly carrying me into my own world where I could let my feelings take center stage.

Tears flowed freely, and I didn’t care who saw me. I cried for Dad and his lost reputation. I cried for Mom and her state of discombobulation. But most of all, I cried for me and the shame I felt having to face my schoolmates and teachers. I couldn’t stop the tears no matter how I tried. I just ran and ran and ran some more until no more tears came out.

Then I got in my car and went to school.

I parked in the stadium parking lot. I grabbed my gym bag and went to the field house for a quick shower. The girls’ track team had just finished morning practice and was coming in the building as I dressed. My best friend, Callie Kim, one of the stars on the track team, saw me before she hit the showers.

“I heard about your dad,” she said. “I don’t believe the news reports because your dad is a good, honest man.”

“Thanks,” I told her, tears forming in the corners of my eyes.

It felt good to have a really good friend. I had to hold it together. From now on, my tears had to be confined to home. They were not for public consumption.

I waited for her while she showered and dressed. We walked out to the parking lot together. There wasn’t any need for words. I was glad to have Callie’s support as I faced the day. I had thought I could do it on my own. I didn’t realize how much I needed someone with me until it was time to start the school day.

She got into her car, and I got into mine. We followed each other to the students’ parking lot and our assigned spaces.

The bell sounded just as we walked through the heavy oak entrance door. A din of voices comforted me, as if this were a regular school day. However, as I made my way to my locker the voices lowered considerably. By the time I’d put in the combination and opened the door, there was silence. I gathered books for my morning classes and placed my backpack inside. All around me, I heard whispers but could only make out a few words. “Arrested by the Po-Po.” “Her daddy on TV.” “Crook.”

I wanted to turn around and go back home. My eyes locked with Callie’s. She had come to stand beside me.

“We can do this,” she whispered.

The students parted as we left our lockers and started to our classes. I could feel their piercing eyes on my back. I felt as if their stares penetrated clear through to my bones. Callie had calculus first period, so she turned to enter the math wing, but not before making sure I was OK. I tried my best to hold my head up on my way to physics class. I slid into my chair just as the tardy bell rang.

Physics class proved to be a welcome respite from the stares and whispers in the hall. Mr. Dawkins was a no-nonsense guy, and the properties relating to matter, energy, force, and motion were all that he tolerated in his class. I loved this class and lost myself in the physical processes and interactions of what we were studying. Mr. Dawkins was a good teacher. He explained complex concepts in an understandable way. His classes were always full, even early in the morning.

I dreaded the bell ringing, signaling the five minutes we had to get to our next class. At the door, I steeled myself for what I might face out in the hall. To my surprise, everyone was rushing to their next class, too. I breathed easier. On my way past my homeroom, I stuck my head in the door to let Mrs. Stevens know that I was present.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “I was just on my way to turn in today’s roster. How are you? Are you OK?”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” I said.

“If you need to talk, I’m here for you.”

Mrs. Stevens was one of five African-American teachers in the entire school and my mentor. She taught journalism classes. She was also advisor to the school newspaper,
The Fairfield Oaks Sentinel
. Last week she told the newspaper staff that she wouldn’t be on the faculty next year. More people were getting their news online through the Internet than through reading newspapers. This had caused many newspapers around the country to go out of business. And those newspapers that had survived were constantly laying off staff. Following this trend, our school decided that the school newspaper would go online only and would replace Mrs. Stevens with a journalism teacher proficient in digital publishing.

I was sad that she wasn’t going to be here for my senior year. But at the rate things were going, I might not be here either.

At that moment, another friend, Stephanie Granger, came up. I hastily waved good-bye to Mrs. Stevens.

“Where were you this morning?” asked Stephanie. “I waited for you in the parking lot at our usual time. I didn’t think you were coming to school today because of what happened.”

Our parking spaces were next to each other.

“I was running late,” I said.

“Wasn’t that your dad who was arrested yesterday?” she said. “My dad says your dad is going to prison. He might go to a white-collar prison, but he is definitely going to prison. Will you be leaving school?”

“I’m not leaving school,” I said through clenched teeth.

Who was this girl? She was supposed to be my friend, although a recent friend. Stephanie’s father owned a huge car dealership on the outskirts of Fairfield that sold new and used cars, and he owned another dealership in Kansas City. She drove a different car to school every couple of weeks. Whenever a new car came in that she liked, her father let her drive it. She had transferred here this year from a private girls’ school on the East Coast. She was in homeroom with my other close friends, Melanie and Stacie, who were twins. Stephanie, Steffy, as she liked to be called, also lived in their neighborhood. They befriended her when she came home during summer vacations and holidays. It was natural that she became part of our group when she transferred to our school. She said she had transferred here because her mother had to have surgery, and she wanted to be close by.

I hadn’t expected Steffy to be so insensitive. She already had Dad tried and convicted. At least her father had said so. That must be how everyone felt. They thought Dad was guilty just from seeing the news reports. I don’t know what I expected. I had hoped everyone would give him the benefit of the doubt. Or at least wait until he actually had a trial before drawing any conclusions.

I was glad when I reached my Communications class so I could escape Steffy. I didn’t need people with her attitude around me. As I entered my class, she flounced her long blonde hair and stalked down the hall.

I was apprehensive about eating lunch in the school cafeteria. Although it was set up like a bistro with tables that seated four, six, or eight and had numerous nooks for privacy, I dreaded entering the fray.

Callie, Melanie, and Stacie were waiting for me at our usual six-chair table near the north window. I wasn’t hungry, but I got a turkey sandwich, a pear, and a bottle of cranberry juice.

“Where is Steffy?” Melanie asked.

I shrugged. I couldn’t even tell them about my encounter with her earlier. It was better left unsaid.

Soon loud laughter drifted over to us. We looked in the direction of the laughter. Across the room were Rick and Jared eating lunch with Steffy. Usually voices can’t be distinguished in the noise of the cafeteria. Today their laughter seemed extraordinarily loud. Coupled with that, they were looking my way and laughing. Any other day I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but today was different.