Forged by Fire Read online

  “Jordan Sparks—you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used in a court of law. You have the right to . . .” They dragged him, screaming and cursing, from the house. Gerald watched with a grim smile.

  “What happened, Gerald? How did you know? He said he’d kill Tiger! I’m sorry, Gerald! It’s all my fault!” Angel was almost hysterical. Relieved at escaping what she feared and dared not imagine, she did not know how to react.

  Gerald tried to calm her down. “Sh-sh-sh,” he whispered. “I found someone that we could trust. I told him everything. He called the police and helped me to convince them to come here right away. I was afraid I would be too late.”

  “Oh, Gerald, was I bad? Is Jordan going to get in trouble because of me? It’s all my fault!”

  “No, Angel,” soothed Gerald. “It’s not your fault. Not even a little bit. Jordan was a very bad man. He was doing bad things. You did the right thing. I’m going to be here for you and everything is going to be better—I promise.”

  Angel cried then, not for Jordan, but for herself and for lost dreams and for secrets in the night. Finally she stopped sobbing and looked up at Gerald, who had wrapped his arms protectively around her. “Where’s my cat?” she asked.

  Gerald laughed and let Tiger out of Monique and Jordan’s bedroom. Angel squeezed the cat so hard that she burped! Gerald and Angel began to laugh uncontrollably. Gerald almost wet his pants and Angel fell on the floor, rolling in laughter. That’s how Monique found them when she marched through the door, angry and upset.

  “What’s so funny?” she screamed. “You think it’s funny to send a man to jail for something he ain’t done? You lowlife children! I ought to kill both of you! How dare you lie on a good man like Jordan?”

  Instantly serious, Angel and Gerald looked at Monique in amazement. “Mama, it’s true. I didn’t make it up. Jordan’s been . . . uh . . . been bothering me for a long time. He comes in my room at night and he—”

  “You lie!” roared Monique. “You filthy liar!”

  Gerald spoke up. “I saw him do it, Monique. She ain’t lying. He told her he would kill her cat if she told. I was the one that told. I’ve seen him coming out of her room at night. I’m sorry, Monique, but it’s true.”

  Monique threw her purse at him and burst into tears. She ran into her bedroom screaming and sobbing. Gerald and Angel exchanged glances. “Looks like it’s me and you, kid,” Gerald said quietly. “Just me and you.”

  THIRTEEN

  GERALD AND ANGEL couldn’t have made it through the trial without Mr. Washington. Monique was sometimes angry, often irritable, and always tense. She yelled at Angel for spilling her milk and blamed Gerald for the toast that she had burned. At the trial, she insisted on wearing a bright red satin dress even though Gerald and Angel told her to wear something a little more business-looking.

  “If that’s the last Jordan’s gonna see of me before you two lyin’ devils send him away, he’s gonna remember me as lookin’ good!” she exclaimed.

  “We ain’t lying, Mama,” Angel tried to explain, but Monique refused to listen—she didn’t want to hear it.

  On the first day of the court proceedings, Gerald held Angel’s hand as they sat on the worn brown wooden bench in the hall outside the courtroom. Monique’s high heels clicked on the polished floor as she paced back and forth. She went down the hall to the bathroom six times in half an hour to check her makeup and hair. No one spoke. Just as the bailiff came into the hall to call them to the courtroom, Mr. Washington turned the corner and strode toward them, smiling.

  Gerald looked up and grinned with pleasure and relief. “I didn’t expect—I mean—I’m surprised—I mean—man, am I glad you’re here!”

  Mr. Washington replied in his deep, cheerful voice, “I figured you might need another hand to hold. Hi there, Angel.”

  Angel looked up shyly, but did not speak. Monique, returning from still another makeup check, patted her hair and smoothed her dress as she approached the tall, well-dressed man speaking to Gerald.

  “Monique, this is Darryl Washington. He’s—”

  Just then, the court clerk called them a second time. Gerald was relieved that he didn’t have to explain to Monique exactly how Mr. Washington had helped them. Not only had he helped Gerald and Angel file the proper papers to explain to the courts exactly how Jordan had been molesting Angel, but he had also made sure a caring and understanding social worker was assigned to their case, and he had found a wonderful female counselor for Angel—someone she could talk to about the bad dreams she sometimes had, and the bad feelings left over from her experiences with Jordan.

  Monique gave one more curious glance at Darryl Washington as she hurried in to the courtroom. She left the children standing in the hall, unsure of what to do. Mr. Washington took their hands, squeezed them in assurance, and escorted them into the courtroom.

  Jordan sat at a table on the right side of the room, his face angry, glaring as Angel and Gerald walked into the room. Jordan’s lawyer, a thin man with dirty fingernails, shuffled his papers and checked his watch frequently. Monique sat in the first row, across from Jordan, in a position where he could see her well. She smiled at him, but he didn’t even look at her.

  On the right side of the room sat the jury. Mostly women, they looked at Angel and Gerald without smiling, but their eyes showed understanding and perhaps even a bit of sympathy. Gerald and Angel were told by the prosecutor that they would only have to answer a few questions and then they could leave the room. She told them that neither one of them was in trouble, and not to be overwhelmed or frightened by the proceedings. It was Jordan, she reminded them, that had done wrong, and he was the only one on trial. They were just witnesses. Gerald relaxed a bit and breathed in slowly. He felt stiff and uncomfortable in the tight dark suit and afraid of all the strangers who seemed to be controlling his life today.

  Angel trembled and sat close to Gerald. Mr. Washington sat in the row behind them and patted their shoulders. “I’ll be right here, kids. Just relax and tell the truth. You’ll be fine.”

  Gerald nodded, but he felt sick and dizzy. Angel’s eyes were closed and she breathed slowly and carefully. The prosecutor, a round woman dressed all in green, including green fingernails done to match her bright green shoes, began by explaining to the jury what the charges were against Jordan, describing him as “a despicable monster.” She said she hated putting the children through this, but their testimony was essential. Gerald’s name was called first.

  “State your name, son.”

  “Gerald Nickelby.”

  “Do you understand that everything you say here must be the truth?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What grade are you in?”

  “I’m in the sixth grade at Hazelwood Middle School.”

  “How long have you been living with Jordan and Monique Sparks?”

  “Two years—ever since my aunt Queen died.”

  “Do you get along with your parents?”

  “Monique is my mother, but Jordan is not my daddy. He’s Monique’s husband, and he says he’s Angel’s daddy, but he’s no father of mine!”

  “What kind of father is Jordan?”

  “No kind! He smacks me and punches me all the time. I got cuts and bruises all over me. But that ain’t the problem. I can deal with that. It’s what he does to Angel that I can’t stand.”

  “Can you explain?”

  Gerald looked at Monique. She was looking at Jordan, whispering “I’m sorry” across the room. Gerald looked away in disgust and glanced at Mr. Washington. He still couldn’t believe that a busy man would take the time to come and be with them. Mr. Washington smiled at Gerald in encouragement.

  Gerald took a deep breath. “He goes into Angel’s bedroom at night. He’s messin’ with her and it makes me sick!”

  “Have you ever seen him touch her in an improper way?”

  “Well, no, but I know he does.”
r />   “Did she ever tell you?”

  “She was really scared, but yeah, she told me about it finally. So I got help and the police found him in her bedroom.”

  “Thank you, Gerald.”

  The defense lawyer asked only a few questions. “Gerald,” he began, “Mr. Sparks says you are lying. If you have never really seen him doing anything to Angel, how can you sit there and accuse him with no proof?”

  “I see how scared Angel is and I see how Jordan likes to touch her hair and put his hands on her back. I am not lying!”

  The lawyer shrugged, checked his watch, picked his nose, then said carelessly, “No further questions.” Gerald sat down gratefully.

  When Angel’s name was called, she almost fainted. Gerald walked with her and helped her sit in the witness chair.

  “I’m only going to ask you a few questions, honey, okay? Don’t be afraid. Just tell the truth.”

  Angel nodded, barely able to breathe.

  “Tell us your name.”

  “Angel Sparks.”

  “Do you understand that everything you say here must be the truth?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What grade are you in?”

  “Second grade.”

  “We’re going to use this doll, okay? You just point to the doll to help you answer the questions, all right?”

  Angel nodded again, and hugged the doll the prosecutor gave her.

  She asked her about Jordan and what life was like with him. Angel whispered her answers, but she told the truth.

  “Are you afraid of him?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Can you tell us why?”

  “He yells.”

  “Is that all?”

  “He hits.”

  “Does he hit you?”

  “Sometimes. Mostly he hits Gerald and Mama.”

  “Does he ever hurt you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “How?”

  Angel hesitated. “He makes me play games.”

  “What kind of games?”

  “Bad games.”

  “Can you explain what kind of bad games? I know this is hard for you, but we’re almost finished.”

  “Touchy-feely games.”

  “Can you show me on the doll?”

  The doll was really helpful. When the prosecutor asked Angel where Jordan had hit Gerald, for example, Angel pointed to the doll’s back and face. And when she was asked about where Jordan had touched her, Angel was able to use the doll to show what he had done.

  When the prosecutor was finished, the defense lawyer whispered to Jordan, started to get up, then sat back down. “No questions, Your Honor.”

  “Thank you, Angel,” the prosecutor in green said. “That’s all. You and Gerald can leave now. You were very brave.”

  Angel and Gerald walked out of the courtroom together. Neither looked at Jordan. Monique refused to look at them. Mr. Washington took them both to lunch, but Angel couldn’t eat.

  It took the jury less than an hour to decide his fate that afternoon. He was found guilty on all counts, and the judge, sentencing him immediately, gave him six to ten years in prison. As he was taken away, Angel finally breathed deeply. Gerald watched the door close and smiled with grim satisfaction. Finally, Jordan would be in a place where he could no longer threaten them. A caseworker was assigned to the family, and it was decided that Gerald and Angel would stay with Monique for the time being.

  Mr. Washington smiled at Gerald at the end of that very long day. “My boy Rob could learn quite a bit from you, Gerald. You got guts! And remember, you also have me. You call me if things start to get shaky, you hear?”

  “I will, but we’ll be fine now. I can handle Monique. She ain’t like most mamas, but she’s all we got. We’ll do all right.”

  “I know you will, son. I’m sure of it.”

  FOURTEEN

  ANGEL LOVED TO dance. She wore music like a graceful gown that shimmered as she moved. Even the simplest melody became a full concert—like a music video—when Angel danced to it. And Gerald loved to watch her as she danced in her bedroom late at night, and danced in the kitchen while she was getting ready for school.

  In the six years since the arrest and conviction of Jordan Sparks, music had helped Angel to heal and grow. She never had any formal dance lessons, but she made Gerald take her to every new movie that featured dancers, and she would get up in the middle of the night to watch a rerun of an old Fred Astaire movie. Whenever Angel felt sad, or guilty, or afraid, music and dancing made her feel whole again.

  Life for Gerald and Angel continued to be rough even after Jordan went off to jail. Monique never did admit that she was aware of Jordan’s abuse, but she did stop calling the children liars. She seemed to stop caring about the children at all. Sometimes she went to work, but sometimes she just slept all day. They had moved four times in the last five years because Monique forgot to pay the rent. At other times she forgot to buy groceries. A caseworker checked on the children occasionally, and she tried to encourage Monique so that the family could survive. Gerald learned to cook and shop with food stamps and wash clothes at the Laundromat. He never complained about the difficulty of taking care of his little sister; rather, Angel’s hugs and smiles kept him going. Gerald was her warrior and protector and she adored him.

  Tiger, the kitten from that terrible Christmas six years ago, was the fat and clever ruler of wherever they lived. She ate anything—broccoli, sweet rolls, even toothpaste. She never strayed far from Angel’s side and had once jumped on a dog that growled at Angel. Angel never slept without Tiger, who was the only one there to comfort her in the darkness of the night when old fears came creeping from the past.

  Angel, who was now twelve, was thin and shy. She had large eyes which sometimes were full of remembered fear. Her hair was long, brown, and fuzzy. She wore it in two long braids. She walked gracefully; her movements were never quick and jerky like those of some girls her age.

  At seventeen, Gerald was tough and stocky, with the muscles of a young man who knew hard work. He was dependable and strong, and storekeepers often paid him a few dollars to move boxes or clean up after hours.

  Every morning, after walking Angel to her school around the corner, Gerald took the bus to Hazelwood High School. He was glad that in spite of all their moving around, he could still attend Hazelwood. He had made a couple of really good friends, and was really proud that he had made the basketball team. The Hazelwood Tigers always made the high school playoffs. Two years ago they were first in the state.

  Rob’s dad had called him the day after the team roster was posted. Only fifteen boys had been chosen to wear the red uniforms of the Tigers Varsity.

  “Congratulations, Gerald. I’m proud of you, son.”

  Gerald wasn’t sure if Rob’s dad called everybody “son” or not, but he liked it. He’d never had a father around to call him that. “Thanks, Mr. Washington. I’m gonna do my best.”

  “I’ll be there at the games, you know. Let me know if you ever need a ride.”

  “Thanks, man.” Rob’s dad never asked directly how things were with Gerald and Angel, but he called every few months, talking of school or baseball or the weather—letting Gerald know that he was around, just in case. Gerald never told him, but those calls meant so very much. Every year at Christmas, Mr. Washington always made sure that Angel and Gerald had something special under their tree. One year, he even provided the tree as well.

  Often after basketball practice, Rob and his dad gave Gerald a ride home so that he wouldn’t have to take the bus. Rob, with his natural grace and ability, was already talking of college scholarships and NBA contracts. He treated everybody as if they were his best friend, but he generally hung with Andy and Gerald and a couple of other guys from the team—Tyrone and B. J.

  The basketball season had started well—they had won their first couple of games. Gerald actually looked forward to school, and even though most seventeen-year-olds would rather gag tha
n admit they like their little sister, he let Angel tag along when she wanted, and looked forward to her cheerful smile to warm the chilly evenings at home after school.

  Gerald and Angel stood at the kitchen sink together, the sunlight of a November day filtering weakly through the small window. She was washing; he was drying. The silences between them were pleasant and understood. Angel spoke first.

  “When is Mama comin’ home?”

  “It’s always hard to tell. If she got that new job, she might be real late.”

  “Do you think she’ll let me take that dance class?”

  “If she got the job, she’ll be in a good mood. Ask her then.”

  “Gerald, you got basketball and sports and stuff. I got nothin’ but the music inside of me. I want to dance!”

  “Hey, the man at the chicken place around the corner said he’d let me wash dishes after school. I could get paid for what I’m doin’ here!” he said, laughing. “Then you could take the dance class.”

  “Naw, Gerald, you stay on the team. You can’t quit basketball. I think you like runnin’ around in your underwear!” she replied. Gerald grinned and flicked soapy water at her. She squealed and giggled, dipped her hands in the sink, and shook her drippy fingers at his face. Gerald laughed, ducked, and just as he was chasing Angel around the kitchen with a full glass of water, Monique breezed inside with a burst of winter air.

  “Ooh!” she exclaimed. “It’s a freezer out there! How’s my babies? And what’s this water doin’ all over the floor?”

  Monique had not changed much in the past few years. She was still very pretty, with a tiny waist that looked good in the gold belts and shiny sashes she liked to wear. She took great pride in her hair, changing its style and color to fit her mood. Today it was a rusty blond, with a matching ponytail woven into it. Accented by bright gold earrings, her black dress and two-tone fingernails made her look much younger than she was. She looked great today—and she was smiling.