Showing the Way

HOW TO SAVE A CHILD who is loved by the same people who loved you, the same people who -- perhaps unwittingly and unaware -- laid their shadows and growing demons in your path? And who are now unleashing some of those furies upon the child? But, oh, how they love little Andre.

I am talking of the flood of destiny and existence, of being.

Growing up, I fished and camped out in the woods of northern Ohio. I was a Boy Scout. At home, my grandfather hovered over me and gave stern lectures when I acted up. I had tall uncles who would not tolerate me doing wrong against right.

It is so very different for Andre.

I hate -- and wish there were a stronger word -- that little Andre has heard gunfire. That -- not long ago -- he saw his mother cry, because of the bullets that killed Mike, her boyfriend. Mike made me nervous, but little Andre loved him, wanted to take on his killers and avenge Mike.

Little boys, of course, will find love where they can.

And tough guy Mike, Andre's mother just knew, adored Andre.

EARLY LAST YEAR -- when Andre was 9 years old -- he hopped into a car in our home town of Columbus. Climbed into the back seat, as if he were being chauffeured. The driver was his 13-year-old cousin -- who had swiped his dad's car keys -- and was taking little Andre for a joy ride. Off they went, around the block, through the sunshine, and, boom, a headlong crash into the side of a house. Andre bounced in place like a rubbery mannequin: He had remembered to buckle up. An ambulance was called, mothers wailed on the way to the hospital.

Andre's mother, Fashun, was on the phone: "Uncle Wil. Andre has . . . Uh. Andre's been in a car accident. He's all right, though."

I was furious; I wanted to blame the whole lot of my family, the criminals and the substance abusers, well-meaning siblings whose intentions have so often led to mayhem and lunacy. Drug abuse, alcohol abuse, prison, death from drug overdose, financial scandal: It is all there, bleeding from beneath the skin, bad decision upon bad decision, one family's cursed lineage. I used to imagine things would change. That crooked roads would straighten themselves out, that looking down on the grave of a beloved grandfather, the patriarch, would make the wayward right themselves. But the storms kept coming. In a small room in Boston one afternoon, a family counselor stared me in the eye and said: It is what it is. Move on.

But when there's a child, you ache. How can you move on and leave a child to face the dark twists of family history alone?

This time Andre was okay. He was in his hospital bed, right next to his mom, who was looking down on him, talking to me. He was awake. I told my niece to put Andre on the phone.