Summary
It takes a night out with Malcolm and his jazzmen for Angela to live again.
Malcolm heard something in the background that caught his attention.
“I’m hearing a jingle. Not from the radio, though. Crucifix?”
“Yes. Grand Mama’s Rosary. God rest her soul.”
“It’s getting caught up on something?”
“Yes, again. Keychain miniatures. Soccer ball and album cover. All hanging from my rearview. Take a guess which one?”
“Which soccer ball?”
She chuckled while accelerating to merge onto the highway.
He pressed by asking, “How about a clue?”
“Platinum Blonde.”
“I wanna say…Madonna’s debut.”
“Winner rings the dinner bell!”
The awkward way in which Claire responded cooled their banter. It could have been intentional. Either way, she drove on for a bit, expressionless. Or, more accurately, the same expression she had at the car wash. Then, without warning, Claire spoke. “Hey. Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“If someone you know showed a toxic side of themselves you’ve never seen before, do you dismiss it, seeing how they were frustrated at the time? Or do you count it against their character?”
Malcolm took his time, then said, “Something tells me you already know the answer.”
“Yeah.”
The radio next played Lester Young’s version of “There Will Never Be Another You.” Barely two bars in, Claire yelled out, “Such a man-child!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry. I was…caught in a memory. Not for you.”
Malcolm, almost raising his voice, called her out. “Claire…I’m a spiritual cat. You’re sporting a crucifix, Madonna locks, and whatever Baptist offshoot back there. All this screams crossroad to me. So…I’m moved to say–”
“Whoa, hold up!” She aggressively merged over a lane without signaling. “If yer fixin’ t’preach some pious yawn based on your prejudice—”
“Maybe a lady like you needs to take a break from her head…and listen?”
Frustrated with the traffic, she merged back. “In my head…six years and countin’…is the nightmare that never ends of machine gun fire, cuttin’ down everyone I loved—my parents, blind children, their families. Except it really happened—even the part with death squads torchin’ the village and me havin’ t’crawl away t’survive. It’s only through the Grace of God that I’m here now.”
Her roller-coaster of forwardness would have bled a thinner nose. But, with Malcolm, it had the opposite effect. Cleared the air as if an interview had just turned for the best.
“Since I look normal, first-world folks keep dumpin’ expectations on me—the Army, college, my Auntie in her own way, even this here church. They can’t see or don’t care that I’m still back there, crawlin’ through jungle filth, just wantin’ these nightmares t’end. So, Malcolm … if yer gonna preach, preach against that!”
At twilight, a light rain fell—not enough for puddles, but enough to cool down the day. Malcolm led the way beyond St Edward as his well-shined loafers cracked into the wet sidewalk, tempered only by Claire’s ‘Step over a crack now’ or ‘Doggie do in two.’ Of course, they copped some racist sneers from passersby, but the two didn’t notice or didn’t care. Next were some familiar food trucks she had not seen in years at the fringe of her college alma mater. Finally, they walked into a well-lit, industrial shed bubbling with dueling piano and bass, which Malcolm must have heard from blocks away.
