SECOND HAND SMOKE

It happened a long time ago… way back in 1957. We was still livin’ in Alabama. My wife, Geneva had left early that mornin’ to clean house for a white lady on the other side of the hill. Mary, our baby girl is sleepin’ sound. I’m sittin’ there tryin’ to wind down after workin’ hard all night. But I can’t, you know. I’m out of smokes and feelin’ fidgety. See, back then, I was what you call a chain smoker. I’d light my next cigarette with the butt of the one I was smokin’. Let me run up to the corner store and get me a pack. I look at Mary. I don’t wanna wake her on account she sleepin’ so peaceful. Shoot. Wouldn’t take more than ten minutes to run up there and back. When the store clerk hand me the pack I rip it open and step outside. Can’t wait to taste that tobacco. Drag that smoke down in my lungs. Smoke...! I smell smoke. It comin’ from the direction of my house. Mary…! Cigarette fall out my mouth. I drop the pack, crushin’ it under my feet. I’m runnin’. Smoke real thick. It strong. I’m coughin’. Fire loud. Sound like a thousand whips crackin’ ‘cross the back of my hopes. Runnin’… chest burnin’… feel like it ‘bout to explode. I’m gaspin’ for air. Squinting. Coughing. Hoping. Praying. ‘God please, please, please…!’ But even through that thick, black smoke my watery eyes can see our tiny house is in flames. But Thank God. Thank you, Jesus, the volunteer firemen are there. I’m shoutin, ‘Did you get Mary out? Where Mary?’ Fireman stop me. “You can’t go in there, Herman. It too dangerous!” ‘But Mary in there! I got to get her out!’ I’m shoutin’, pushin’ my way toward the house. Fireman hold me back. “We doin’ our best. There’s a powerful lot of smoke.” Just then a second fireman run out. He coughin’ up a lung, carryin’ a little bundled blanket in his arms. I’m just about to thank Jesus when the Fireman say, he sorry. He couldn’t save Mary. What…? My mind don’t know what to do.

Just then I hear my name. “Herman…? HERMAN!” I turn around. Geneva at the top of the hill in her white apron with a broom in her hand. The look on her face ‘fore she drop that broom and start runnin’ down the hill still haunts me to this day. I reach out to hug her up so she have somethin’ to hold onto when I tell her Mary gone. But when Geneva see my empty arms she push past me runnin’ toward the house, screamin’, “Mary…! MARY!” Fireman stop her. “I'm sorry, Ma’am. Too much smoke. Wasn’t nothin’ we could do...” Geneva scream. She drop sudden, like her legs been chopped off. Her wail don’t sound earthly. It make the air stop breathin’. She fall face down. Hands grabbin’ up grass. Tears turnin’ dirt to mud. I pick her up, hold her to me. ‘It happened so fast. I was only gone a minute. I...’ Geneva look at me, hard. “Where was you? WHERE WAS YOU?” When she see my shame, her fists everywhere. Beatin’ my head. My face. My chest. I need her hate. I know my own will never be enough. I want her to kill me. But she faint when she see my bloody nose. We take her to the hospital. She never recover. Geneva can’t have no more babies. She damn near die givin’ birth to our Mary. Strick with grief, Geneva dwindle down to nothin’. Every now and again a tear roll down her cheek, but mostly her eyes blank. Geneva lose her mind that day. The only reason I didn’t lose mine was ‘cause she need me. Nobody ever know what cause that fire. But deep down I know it was me that kill Mary. Sure as if I done it with my own hands. Years later, after Geneva die, I meet Liam. He a grief counselor. Liam tell me I need to forgive myself. He tell me I done drag my guilt around and punish myself long enough. He say, “If you forgive yourself, maybe you can help other people with your story, Herman.” I say, ‘I don’t know, Liam. Some things don’t seem like they deserve forgiveness, even after forty-seven years. But I’m tryin’… and there do be times when life seem just a little bit better.’

Satori Shakoor is a 2017 Kresge Literary Arts Fellow, a dynamic storyteller, multi-disciplinary artist, and social entrepreneur known for her bold and transformative work in the arts.