That clinic had been my father’s passion, but I’d never met Zulu Harris. He and my father had been good friends, yet he’d never visited our house. I got the feeling that Mama never liked him much: whenever my father mentioned him, she would say, don’t let that nigger get him in trouble. He knew what she meant.
As I drove to that neighborhood, I saw that every fifth or six building was empty. Addicts with concave eyes sat on the steps, smoking and talking. But there were other houses with front lawns of blossoming pink and purple flowers and trimmed hedges. Only the bars on the windows let me know, this was a place to be careful.
On the clinic’s front steps, a handsome, goateed man stood. His head was shining bald and he wore a Cuban shirt, linen pants, and sandals on his feet.
“I cannot believe this is Brother Geoff’s baby! When I found out you were volunteering here, I said, I was going to meet you!”
When I stepped back a few paces, he laughed.
“Aw, darling, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Zulu Harris.”
I joined in his laughter.
“Oh, okay! All right! My daddy used to talk about you all the time.”
“I hope so! We were best friends. I miss that man. He was my brother. And now, how your mama holding up?”
“She’s keeping, Mr. Harris. You know. It’s a little hard for her.”
“I understand.”
We sat on the stoop and he gave me the rundown of the neighborhood. Don’t forget the ten dollars for the group of little boys. They would protect my car in front of the clinic. The police ignored them, because Mr. Harris had a friend on the force. But the ten dollars was important, because if I did not gain a reliable reputation with the little boys and pay them, the more dangerous grown men would take over.
“Otherwise, come outside and no car!” He snapped his fingers. “I pay fifty dollars a week myself. You’re on a sliding scale.”
And don’t mind the addicts at the clinic, neither. They were terrible, coming in with their fake coughs, trying and trying to get the drugs. They scared the new doctor, the guy who’d taken over for my father. When Daddy was alive, all he’d give them was three ibuprofens apiece. No matter how they cried. And finally, don’t lecture the teenage mothers about birth control. These girls were just doing the best they could.
“All right, the director of the clinic will show you the rest of the ropes next week, when you start. I’ve got a community meeting, but don’t forget to go ’round to my restaurant. Zulu’s Fufu. Your money’s no good there. Anything you want, just order.”
“Thank you, Mr. Harris.”
“And you tell your mama I asked about her. You tell her my brother wouldn’t want her needing anything and not getting in touch with me. Make sure you tell her.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pants pocket. “Here’s my number, just in case.”
Back at home, I let myself in, and Mama ran to me.
“Are you all right?”
She stroked my face, and I pulled from her onion-perfumed hands. “I wasn’t fighting in the Gulf War. I was across town.”
“You were in the ghetto, baby. Why can’t you just say it?”
“Because ‘ghetto’ is a politically incorrect term. It’s called an ‘inner-city neighborhood.’”
“It’s impossible for Black folks to be politically incorrect.”
I followed her into the kitchen, telling her I’d finally met Daddy’s best friend, Mr. Zulu Harris. He seemed really nice, and I thought he was well off. He owned a restaurant and some apartment buildings.
“I haven’t seen him in years,” Mama said. “What he look like? Is he all broke down and his teeth gone?”
“No, not at all. I mean, I don’t know what he used to look like. He had some gray in his beard. But for an old dude, he’s actually kind of fine.”
“Oh—Okay.”
“Mr. Harris asked about you, too. He said, if you needed anything just give him a call.”
Mama touched her collarbone. “Did he, now?”
*
That next week, there was a band of little boys blocking my way to the clinic, one so young, his two front teeth had fallen out.
I spoke to the tallest boy. “What’s your name, sugar?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I’d like to know who I’m giving my money to.”
“Maurice Bradley. What’s your name, lil’ mama?”
He stroked his hairless chin, and I resisted my urge to yank his ear. It was either ignore this child’s bad manners or leave my car at home and take the bus. My mother would never allow me to take the bus to this neighborhood.