Showing the Way

Jack died 2 1/2 weeks after that visit. I had never lived with him. He drank, often found the truth a hard road to traverse, and fathered another family. But I know this: He had loved Andre and loved him fully, grinning at that boy as he circled my father's shaded porch, zooming past Jack into my outstretched arms.

So Jack is gone.

And for some reason, after he died I needed Andre to come see me, to come to Washington for the first time. He had been engulfed, encircled by so much death and dying, and I worried about him.

Is it too much to wish to stand tall before a child? To save that child from the clinging sweetness of family, the prying, the ill-conceived decisions; from the laughter that holds secrets, the secrets that point toward calamity?

Is it too much to want to breathe air into a child's lungs?

MY NIECE FASHUN was born in 1976, the year I graduated from college. A year later I was living with my grandparents, on the north side of Columbus. My daily routine was simple: I'd rise early, catch the bus and go fill out job applications. Civil service, gas company, phone company, everywhere and anywhere it seemed. For months no one called. I made half-serious inquiries about joining a semiprofessional basketball team.

My grandmother baby-sat Fashun, and everyday, late afternoon, Fashun would be at the back door, waiting for me to come home. Her walk was more a waddle, and she'd rush into my arms. There was no other moment of the day that gave me such joy.

I bounced her on my knee. I read books to her. In the evenings, I'd stay with her when my sister Wonda and her boyfriend -- Fashun's father, Butch -- roared off in his red Corvette, both behind sunglasses, headed to some nightclub. I didn't care if they ever returned. I would care for baby Fash forever.

Nothing excited Fashun more than going to Weinland Park playground. There were swings and monkey bars and slides. I'd scoop her into my arms, and off we'd go three blocks through the sunshine. Once, she came down the slide fast, and I was there to catch her. She quickly pushed herself out of my arms and circled to the back of the slide to climb the stairs again. Only she tripped and fell. I turned her over in an instant. Blood gushed from her lip. I gasped and bolted with her in my arms, her lip swelling. I was filled with terror, though the child was eerily quiet. I crossed Fourth Street, holding my arm upright, stopping traffic cold. I turned into the alley, her blood now on the shoulder of my shirt, and nearly stumbled through the screen door. We had to get her to the hospital. Hold on, Fashun, Uncle Wil will save you.

A grandmother's calm: Medicines were pulled from a cabinet. Just a swollen lip.

It happens to children, my grandmother explained.

I took Fashun to the Ohio State Fair and rode the kiddie rides holding on to her, tight. I roamed with her through the agriculture buildings, and we stared at the chickens, at the pigs. We watched horses jump in the shows. And, afterward, I held her out to touch the noses of horses. She squealed with wonder and delight.