3

Leslie had returned to her desk, so on my way out I explained what was going on and told her to let the staff know I wouldn’t

be long. I hoped I wouldn’t be long. But I didn’t know what Mama was going to tell me or the frame of mind we’d be in once

the telling was done. Leslie reassured me that she’d relay the message and if I needed to postpone the staff meeting, to call

and let her know.

I mumbled something but my main goal was to get home as fast as I could. By the time I turned onto Hubbard Street and neared

the little white house with the white picket fence that I shared with Mama, I was nearly frantic.

I just kept repeating Mama’s words. They lost. What did that even mean? Were they lost together? Did they somehow get lost separately? I didn’t know, and as usual, my imagination

was beating me up worse than the shaking and shimmying of Daddy’s truck. I was grateful that my group home boys were at school,

because I needed to be with my mother.

My mind drifted to the twisted dream I’d had about the twins the night before. Had God sent me a sign? Was that awful nightmare of them running in the jungle God’s way of warning me that my brothers were in danger?

Once I reached our yard, I jerked the truck into Park and raced into the house. Seemed like running was all I’d been doing

for such a long time.

Mama was in her favorite rocking chair by the front window, holding the letters from the government in her lap, still and

unmoving. Her hair was uncombed, white curls splayed around her head. I had short, coarse hair like my daddy. Mama and the

twins had what some deemed “good hair,” curly and fine in texture.

She looked so fragile. Almost like one of my old discarded baby dolls I’d neglect for a good book back in the day.

“Mama,” I called out.

“Both telegrams came today,” she said as I walked closer to her. “I got one for Aaron and one for Marcus. They coulda just

sent me one. They twins. One can’t move without the other. One telegram woulda sufficed.” She held them out for me, as if

she needed to pass the burden off to someone else, and like always, I was that someone. My whole life had been about seeing

after other people. My daddy. My mama. My brothers. The boys at the group home. All I’d ever known was giving to others and

figuring out how to fix their problems. Right then, I needed her to hold me and tell me things would be alright. Yet she needed

such reassurances from me more, so I had to set aside my grief and my fears to assuage Mama’s.

I took the telegrams from her, my hands shaking as I wondered how in the heck I was going to be able to fix this. I began to read the first telegram out loud:

“‘I regret to inform you that your son, Private First Class Aaron Lamont Daniels, has been reported missing in action since

2 October 1967.’”

“Why you think they just now contacting us?” Mama mumbled. “My boys been lost for over a month and the gov’ment just now seeing

fit to let me know something. I coulda been praying different had I known they was missing. Just ain’t right. Just ain’t right.”

“I know, Mama,” I said. I kept reading.

If further details or other information are received, you will be promptly notified. You have my sincere sympathy during this

time of anxiety and uncertainty.

I glanced at the other telegram. Just like Mama said, it was identical. The only difference was that it had my other twin

brother’s name, Marcus Harold Daniels III. He was the oldest of the twins by seventeen minutes. Even though the telegram didn’t

say it, I could imagine that Marcus had gotten captured while trying to protect his younger twin brother, as he had done their

entire lives. It was because of Aaron that Marcus was in the military. Aaron, who’d always had a fascination with the military,

secretly joined the Marines. Once we discovered what he’d done, Marcus immediately joined the Marines too. “We both got a better chance of surviving together,” he’d told Mama and me.

Although it nearly cracked my heart open to know they were both missing in action, I felt some semblance of gratitude that they had each other—at least I hoped they did.

“What we gone do?” Mama asked, shaking her head, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t lose my boys.”

Daddy’s death had nearly destroyed Mama. For weeks after he died, I couldn’t even grieve. I had to tend to her and the boys.

I cooked. I cleaned. I read the boys bedtime stories. I went to the funeral home and took Daddy’s good suit for him to wear

one last time. I even selected his casket and arranged the program. I tried not to let my imagination wander to having to

do the same for one or both of my brothers. I didn’t think Mama could survive losing them. I didn’t know if I could either.

I put the telegrams on the side table and knelt beside her chair, taking her hands in mine. “I will figure this out, Mama.

I will get on the phone and see who knows what.” I summoned every ounce of conviction I could find, saying the words for her

and for me.

“You think they alive?” she asked, looking at me hopefully, like a little girl needing her mother’s assurance.

I didn’t know if they’d be found alive. From what I’d read in the newspapers about prisoners of war or soldiers missing in

action, I didn’t hold a lot of hope, but I couldn’t say that out loud. The best I could do was kiss Mama’s forehead. She sighed,

a heavy sound emerging from the very depths of her soul.

“You’ll find them for your mama.” She said this as a statement, not a question. I prayed she was right. She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and reached for the telegrams. She pressed them to her chest as she started singing one of her favorite hymns, “Farther Along.”

As she continued to sing softly, a smile now affixed on her face, I got up from the floor, my hip crying out in pain. I grunted

but was able to stand.

“Be right back, Mama,” I said and hurried down the hallway to the bathroom, my strong emotions nearly crushing me. Once in

the bathroom, I closed the door behind me. I turned on the water in the sink and the tub, as loud sobs wracked my body. I

didn’t want her to hear me cry, but I had to let it out. I knelt, hoping prayers would come, but none did. All that came was

grief—unquenchable grief.

***

When I arrived back at the group home, everyone was waiting for me, gathered in the same room I had met with the board the

previous day. I could still smell the stench of Sam IV’s cigar in the air. It nearly made me puke. Even though it was cool

outside, I walked over to the window and cracked it a bit to let in some fresh air.

“Are you okay, Miss Katia?” Jason asked as I walked back to the long table and sat down at the head. Jason was to my left, and to my right, Leslie was preparing to take notes. Two of the houseparents, Mr. and Mrs. Grambling, an elderly Negro couple who had worked with the group home since it opened in 195, had been here the longest, along with Mrs. Kennedy and Miss Grant. Whenever anyone had questions about protocol, on the rare occasion that they couldn’t locate me, or if they couldn’t find Jason, they’d reach out to the Gramblings. They ate, breathed, and slept this group home and I appreciated their dedication.

David Snell, another recently hired houseparent, was slightly older than Jason, and along with being a houseparent, he was

the youth minister at one of the white Baptist churches in Troy. When he applied for the job, I was worried about hiring a

young white man to help mentor and support Black boys. But it didn’t take long for me and the other staff to see that David’s

passion to serve was sincere. He always treated the boys with the greatest love and affection, but he was also stern when

necessary.

Cairo Fieldings was an ex-con who’d come to me shortly after I started working at the group home. He’d been arrested numerous

times since he was a teenager, but he promised me he was done with that life. At first he begged for food and clothing. Over

time, I started giving him jobs to do around the group home, like mowing the grass or deep cleaning the house and preparing

rooms for new arrivals. Eventually he expressed an interest in becoming a houseparent. I was unsure about it, but Mr. Grambling

spoke up for him and said the boys needed to see someone like them who had turned his life around. I checked with the board

and the Department of Human Services, and they weren’t concerned about Cairo’s past, so I gave him a chance and he’d been

with the group home ever since.

Finally, there were Mr. and Mrs. James, another Negro couple who had only been with us for a few weeks. They started around

the same time as Leslie.

Such a dedicated group of individuals. They were like family. If the truth be told, I spent about as much time with them as I did my own family. Seeing their sympathetic faces almost did me in, yet I couldn’t give in to my sadness. Right now, there was work to do.

“I’m okay, everyone,” I said, forcing a smile upon my face. “We have much to talk about today.” I tried to summon normalcy.

I needed to put aside my personal feelings and emotions and focus on why we were here: the boys. “We need to unpack what happened

this morning with Chad Montgomery and make sure nothing like that happens again. We also need to discuss the other boys and

their progress. The holidays are coming soon. Most of the boys, God willing, will be returning to their families. I need you

all to help set up the initial visits with their families before we relinquish the boys to them. Jason, please debrief the

staff on what happened this morning.”

I tried to pay attention to everything people said, but my mind kept drifting back to my missing brothers. On more than one

occasion, Jason reached over and lightly touched my arm. Usually I could figure out what I’d missed and rejoin the conversation.

We came up with some clear rules about caseworkers and the hours they were allowed to visit the group home. We also discussed

specific punishment for Chad’s behavior. We’d limit his television watching and ensure he and his therapist spent additional

time talking about ways he could better manage his anger.

“Chad is a good kid,” Jason said. “And he wants to do the right thing, but he gets afraid when he senses things aren’t going

to go the way he wants them to.”

“Fight or flight,” I said. “That’s his way of coping, but we have to teach him—teach all of the boys—that there are other ways to cope. He’ll get it. It will just take time. But until then, let’s avoid doing anything

that pushes Chad into believing fight or flight are his only options.” The discussion went on a few more minutes, and then

we transitioned to talking about the other boys.

Jason brought up each boy, and one by one we discussed their progress or any issues that needed addressing.

“Miss Katia,” Jason said softly. I looked at him absently, realizing I had blanked out again. Thoughts of the jungles of Vietnam

were crowding my mind. I sighed. There was no way for me to finesse this particular mind lapse. I had no clue what they were

talking about.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying not to be embarrassed. “Would you repeat your question?”

“Larry Holten, the new boy, is still stealing food from the kitchen and hiding it underneath his bed in a shoebox,” Mr. Grambling

said. “I told that boy the food ain’t going nowhere, but he still does it. Ants and roaches is gonna be all over the place.

I just need some guidance on what y’all think we should do.”

“From what I gather, it’s something he’s always done,” David Snell said. “I asked him about it yesterday and he said when

he was in foster care, sometimes there wasn’t enough food, so he would hide food for himself and his little brother. He apologized,

but I don’t even think he’s conscious of doing it. It is as much a part of who he is as walking or breathing.”

“When his therapist comes tomorrow, let her know what’s going on,” I said. “In the meantime, maybe offer him an apple or an orange that he can keep on his dresser. Just so he can feel safe for the time being.”

“Feels like that’s giving in to bad behavior. If we let him have food outside of mealtimes, the other boys will think they

should be able to do the same,” Mr. Grambling said in a gruff voice.

I looked over at him and smiled. He sometimes struggled with my methods. Before I started working at the group home, the houseparents

were allowed to spank the boys or severely punish them by taking away their meals. I stopped all of that immediately. I had

grown up in a household where my parents didn’t use corporal punishment; instead, they would talk to me and my brothers. They

emphasized love and respect over everything else. They always said, “We can’t teach you to be the kind of person who doesn’t hit if we are constantly hitting you.” I wanted that same environment for the boys. It took a while to get everyone on board, but things had gotten better because

the boys knew that no matter what they did wrong, there would be consequences, but no physical violence of any kind was tolerated—from

the adults or the children.

Once we had discussed every boy in detail, I adjourned the meeting and told everyone to go to lunch. I was exhausted. My tank was empty, so for the rest of the afternoon, I sequestered myself in my office and threw myself into processing the stack of paperwork on my desk. I went back and forth between dealing with the paperwork for the group home and making calls about my brothers. The hours went by in a hurry, and by the end of the day my head was spinning from all of the unsatisfactory calls I had made to various people in the military who I thought might have some information for me and Mama. Every single person I spoke to, all the way up to a harried Department of Defense secretary, said the same thing: they were sorry for my family’s “anxiety and uncertainty,” but they had no new information.

By the time I called the last person on my list, it was four thirty, and the sounds of the boys’ laughter and talking filled

the hallways, a sound that usually brought me the greatest pleasure.

School was out and they were clearly happy to return to the place that felt most like home to many of them. Any other time,

I’d be waiting for them at the door, greeting each boy, asking him about his day. But today I needed the sanctity of my office.

I needed the neutrality of the paperwork that demanded my attention but required nothing of me besides my thoroughness and

my accuracy.

Not long after the boys entered the house, I heard a light knocking on my door. I felt like hiding under my desk. I wasn’t

ready to see anyone. I needed another few hours to regroup, but I didn’t have that kind of time. I was needed—here and at

home. There was nowhere for me to hide.

“Come in.” I took off my reading glasses and placed them on my desk as Chad opened the door and walked into the room, an uncertain

look on his face.

“You still mad at me?” he asked, stopping in front of my desk. He shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes squarely on

the floor.

“Look at me, Chad,” I said. He didn’t move. “Chad. Look at me.”

He looked up, apprehension in his eyes. He was such a big little boy. So afraid that his number one ally—me—was going to abandon him like everybody else in his life had.

“I’m not mad,” I said, observing him closely. “You apologized and I forgave you. That’s the end of that.”

He observed me just as closely, as if he were trying to figure out my mood. “You look sad ’bout the eyes. You okay, Miss Katia?”

His astuteness stunned me. I cleared my throat. “I’m okay, Chad. It’s been a long day. How was school?” I wanted to shift

the focus off me.

“Okay.” He paused for a moment and then said what I knew must have been on his mind all day. “Miss Katia, is that white lady

gone send me back to live with Lena? I don’t want to go back to live with her.”

“Mrs. Gates,” I corrected. “You know her name. We use names around here.”

“Is Mrs. Gates gone send me back to live with Lena?” Chad had a fearful look on his face, as if he were bracing himself for

my answer.

I sighed and got up from my chair, making my way around the desk to where Chad stood.

“Let’s go sit. You’re too tall for me to talk to you while you’re standing and I’m not.”

He went over to the couch, and I followed him. After we both sat down, I gathered my thoughts before responding to his question.

“Chad, what is the one thing I always tell you boys?” No matter how tired or overwhelmed I felt, I wanted to make sure Chad wasn’t confused about anything pertaining to his case. Some things I couldn’t resolve, but the things I did have power over, I wanted him to know about, from my mouth to his ears.

“You say you won’t ever lie to us. You say no matter how tough the truth might be, you’ll always tell it to us.”

I reached over and took his hands, big bear paws within mine. “I will fight with everything in me to keep you safe. But I’m

just one person. I don’t know what a judge will say.”

Chad jerked away his hands, balling them into fists, his face instantly growing dark with anger. “I could just run away. I

don’t need nobody to look after me.”

“Okay,” I said slowly, as if I were considering his suggestion. “If you think you’re prepared to live on your own, who am

I to stop you?”

He looked at me quizzically. My words did not match up with what he’d expected me to say. “You would just let me leave? You

would just let me go without a fight?”

He appeared hurt by my nonchalance, but I wanted him to see for himself how ridiculous and dangerous his impulsive idea was.

“Well, I would tell you that you need money to live on your own, and as far as I know, you don’t have any money, or at least

not enough money to take care of yourself, which means you would have to get a job, and because of your age, legal jobs would

be impossible,” I said. “So, how do you think you would be able to support yourself?”

“I know people,” he mumbled. “Somebody would help me out.”

“No one on the streets helps folks out without a price, Chad,” I said. “You know that. I don’t want you to make a hasty decision because you’re afraid. Give me a chance to figure this situation out. Don’t do something that will make things worse. Will you do that for me? Will you just hold on and believe that I am fighting for you day and night?”

Chad was quiet. Normally he was the kid with the slick mouth—no matter the question or point being made, he had a quippy response.

I was surprised that he just sat and watched me intently. At last, he spoke.

“Your eyes are puffy,” he said. “You been crying?”

I thought about lying to him, but I tried my best to always be honest with the boys. “I got some bad news about my brothers.”

“Them,” he said, pointing at a picture on my desk of the twins wearing their Marine uniforms.

Chad was such an observant child. He saw things most children his age didn’t even notice. It worried me some. He looked like

a grown man, and sometimes he sounded like one. I prayed no one ever took advantage of my gentle giant.

“Yes,” I said.

“They dead?” he asked, looking at me intently. “They get shot up by them Viet Cong? I heard tell on the news that they some

badasses.”

“Watch your mouth, Chad. Say it different.”

“I’m sorry. I should have said, ‘Them Viet Cong is some bad men.’ Is that better?” He looked at me for approval and I smiled, even though this conversation was breaking my heart. I didn’t want to entertain the idea that either of my brothers might be dead instead of missing. Missing was bad enough, but at least they might be captured somewhere, maybe by people who could see the tragedy of this war and might practice a hint of compassion toward my little brothers. I couldn’t make myself believe that every person over there wanted this war any more than many of us over here. I had to believe that there was goodness everywhere on God’s green earth, including in the place where my brothers and others like them were fighting for their lives.

“I pray they aren’t dead, Chad, but unfortunately, I don’t know for sure. All we know is that they’re missing in action.”

Chad nodded. “My Uncle Lennie died over there. He wasn’t my real uncle, but he looked out for me when he could. He was a junkie

too, but he wasn’t as bad as Lena.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Chad. This war is brutal. A lot of good men and women are dying over there. My sincere prayer is

that it will end soon.”

Chad stood up. “I should go do my homework.”

I smiled. When Chad had first moved into the group home, getting him to do his homework was almost impossible, but now, six

months later, he seemed to like to get his homework done, and he even went out of his way to help Pee Wee with his. Every

Friday after school, if the boys had done their work and tried their best, Jason took them to Dairy Queen for ice cream, and

so far Chad hadn’t missed a trip. At the morning staff meeting, we’d discussed whether he should forgo Dairy Queen due to

his behavior, but I argued in his favor. Rightly or wrongly, I blamed his caseworker for his behavior more than I did him.

“Let Mr. Jason know if you need help with your math,” I said.

“I don’t need any help,” he said with a wide grin. “My teacher say I’m good with numbers, and if I keep on, I could work for NASA someday.”

“Oh. So you want to work for NASA?”

He nodded, and his face radiated with pride. When Chad acted the way he was supposed to, he was the sweetest boy. It was hard

to believe he was the same young man who had smashed a wall with a chair earlier in the day. Thank goodness the damage was

minimal. Cairo Fieldings had already patched up the wall and repainted it. Even if you stood close to it, you couldn’t tell

that anything had happened.

“Yes, ma’am. I want to be just like Scotty on Star Trek . I want to ‘boldly go where no man has gone before,’” he said, proudly quoting the line from his and the other boys’ favorite

show. We didn’t let them watch much television, and I wasn’t exactly pleased with the skimpy outfits of the women on Star Trek , but I did like Uhura—and I did like that half the boys were into science and math, hoping that someday they, too, might

fly around the universe like Captain Kirk and the crew of the USS Enterprise . Almost all of their playtime was spent pretending they were the Star Trek crew. They even allowed Pee Wee to join in. He always wanted to be Mr. Spock, but inevitably they’d offer him the role of

Chekov or Sulu. It was always interesting watching them play, a sweet reminder that as tough as they could act sometimes,

they were simply boys.

“Alright, Mr. Scotty,” I said. “You go get that homework done. I’ll check in on you before I leave.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said and started walking toward the door, but before he left the room, he stopped and turned to face me. “Miss Katia...” His voice trailed.

“Yes. What is it?” I watched as he struggled, almost like he didn’t want to say whatever it was that was on his mind. “Just

say it, Chad. Whatever it is.”

“I... I wish you were my mama,” he said and then hurried out the door.

I was stunned. Not so much that he wished I was his mother. Other boys had said similar things to me over the decade that

I’d worked at the group home. I usually let it flow over me, but his words hit differently.

My thoughts rushed back to last year when I’d had an emergency hysterectomy. I’d always had difficult periods, but they got

so bad last year that I’d double over in pain while walking from the house to my truck. One day while I was getting ready

for work, the pain became so intense, I passed out. The next thing I knew, I was waking up inside the Negro hospital in Tuskegee.

I remembered looking around wildly, relaxing only when I saw Mama sitting by my bed. A doctor stood next to Mama, his skin

dark like mine. There was something reassuring about having a Negro doctor—that is, until he shared his news.

“Miss Daniels, my name is Dr. Shaw, and I am going to be honest with you,” he said, gazing down at me with the utmost compassion.

“There is an unusually large mass inside your uterus, and although I won’t know for sure until we get inside, I don’t think

I will be able to save it.”

“A hysterectomy,” I said as Mama squeezed my hand. “But I don’t have any children. I’m not married. This isn’t right.”

He went on to explain everything to me, but all I could think about was the family I thought I still had time to have. With

this news, I could no longer see that in my future. Unlike most women, I hadn’t spent a lot of time thinking about getting

married and having children. I was busy taking care of Mama, my brothers, and the boys at the group home, yet the thought

of not being able to give birth was devastating.

Just like the doctor had warned, there was no saving my uterus. When I awakened after the surgery and saw the look on Mama’s

face, I instantly knew.

I cried in her arms, and then, in true Katia fashion, I tucked my pain away and focused my attention on everyone else. Right

around that time was when I first dreamed about the leeches crawling all over me.

Mama said it was God telling me I needed to put myself first. I didn’t know about that. I just knew that I had to figure out

how to move forward with a future that held no babies and, as far as I could see, no husband. And now, Chad saying he wished

I was his mother opened up every bit of heartache I thought I had packed away, and I didn’t know how to cram those emotions

back into the suitcase again.