When Kingdom Comes

by Ashea S. Goldson

Genres: African American; African American Christian

Synopsis

After spending six years on death row in southern Louisiana, Trinity Crawford is finally declared innocent. She returns home to a mother who never wanted her. Immediately hit with a devastating medical diagnosis for her son, Trinity sets out in search of estranged family members. She travels first to New Orleans, to reconcile the past in order to reclaim her future. In her search to save her son, she enlists the help of her sassy Aunt Ruby, who helps her make sense of the strange visions she has always had. Trinity discovers the power of God that her paternal grandmother had told her so much about. As she wrestles with the relationship that has caused her the most pain in her life, she must also struggle with the only thing that hasn't been destroyed—her faith. When she has run out of time and resources, will the very weary Trinity give up on happiness, settling for what her mother calls her "bad luck," or will she realize that God is the only one who can heal the wounded and restore the lost?

Release date: August 1, 2014

Publisher: Urban Christian

Print pages: 288

Sample

The moment the prison guards released me and the miracle of daylight hit my sun-deprived skin, my eyelids released a tear, my soul leaped, and my lungs began to ache for the taste of a cigarette. Believe it or not, I’d never smoked before I went to prison, but a group of very persuasive, big-boned women turned me onto it. They were not the kind of women who cared about health or moral responsibility. No, they were all convicts of the worst kind: dangerous and yet defenseless. They spent their free time puffing out rings of cigarette smoke in a quest to soothe their wounded soul, as if any external thing could actually reconcile their crimes. I wasn’t exactly like them, yet despite my resolve, I was one of them. I was lonely and seeking solace within the confines of the Louisiana Correctional Institution.

Desperate, drained, and feeling like the life had been sucked out of me, I figured I might as well fill up on something. So what if it was nicotine and smoke? So what if my lungs ended up exploding into a dark black mass? I’d seen the public-service announcements on television but I didn’t care about that, either. And why should I have? Up until a few days ago I thought my life was over, anyway. There’s nothing like a six-year stint on death row to put things into perspective.

I was released on the first Monday in April. Flowers were blooming everywhere and yet my spirit had already withered and died. I looked back one last time to take in the enormity of the prison compound, all seventy-five acres of it. Unlike similar facilities I’d heard about, there were no searchlights, capped towers, or barbed-wire fences. Truly, with its meticulously landscaped lawns, a fully equipped playground, and a prison courtyard with flowing fountains, it looked more like a college campus than a prison. But just like everything you could see, looks were deceiving. Built in 1970, it was merely a glorified holding pen with a capacity of 1,084 women, buried deep in the swamps of southern Louisiana. It was a place I’d spent what seemed like a lifetime diminishing in spirit each day as the calendar and the judges marked my time.

My first day back on the streets was nothing short of surreal. I closed my eyes and I could see the visions again, purple and red-like dusk at first, then even softer images appeared until I saw my son Justin’s face. Once again, I didn’t know what the visions meant. I tried to blink them away until my sight was blurred, but I only ended up with a headache. I gently rubbed the sides of my temples to ease the pain, then closed and opened my eyes again. This time I saw nothing, but still the vision bothered me. I just knew I had to get home to Justin and figure out what was wrong.

Mama had taken me to the eye doctor the first time I complained about seeing things. Believing that I needed glasses, she spent an hour and a half going off about how blind I was. As it turned out, my eyesight was twenty-twenty.

As I walked toward the bus stop, I realized there was no one there to meet me, to put their arms around me and tell me everything was going to be okay; not my mother, not my son. Not even my sweetheart, Smooth.

I’d been pining away for Mr. Smooth McGee the whole time I was locked up, full of sorrowful memories and deep regrets. He wrote me letters from time to time and even visited me once. That’s when I told him not to come back again. My heart couldn’t stand seeing the ones I loved, knowing I couldn’t ever join them on the outside. By my fifth year Smooth and I lost touch altogether. One of my letters was marked return to sender—address unknown. It broke my heart to know he’d slipped away from me, but at that time, I felt like I was slipping away from him. Now that I was surprisingly free, who could I depend on to help me through the healing process? Was there really healing after death row? Perhaps that was wishful thinking.

I trembled with anticipation as I stepped aboard the public bus, placed my coins into the fare box, and rode as far away from St. Gabriel as I could. It was a trip I once thought I’d never take again. I squeezed into a seat beside a muscular young man with a shiny bald head. He had tattoos all over his arms and neck. Looking down at his muscular thigh, I realized it was twice the size of mine and I was no small woman. He sat up high, with biceps piled upon triceps, looking straight ahead, and I wondered if he spent every hour of his probably twenty-plus years working out in the gym. I smiled as he stretched out his bulging arms, almost touching me.

Despite my attempt not to stare at his dark, chiseled face and sculpted body, I soon found it necessary to fan myself with a piece of cardboard I’d picked up along the way. I quickly realized I’d been locked up with women for too long.

The bus driver took LA-74, then made the first left onto LA-30. I looked out of the huge bus windows, admiring the cars passing by as we rolled down the street. I hadn’t seen cars since I was put in prison and many of them looked different now. SUVs and pickup trucks seemed to be even larger than they were before, but cars seemed to be smaller and many were more turtle-shaped. Some even had funny-shaped lights.

Finally, the bus driver made a right onto Government Street. I could hardly believe I was experiencing the outside world again. Lately, my attorney had been trying to prepare me for my departure, but my head was full of so much noise, I couldn’t really hear him. I’d dreamed of this day for so long; freedom never seemed possible. Once I remembered dreaming that I’d escaped and hopped on a public bus until a swarm of police cars caught up to me. In the dream, I swallowed my spit and looked around as an army of uniformed officers opened fire on me. Thankfully, it was just a lucid dream. Maybe this bus ride was all a dream too. Maybe I was really still asleep in my cell with the smell of death just days away.

Then I opened my eyes just in time to recognize the bus pulling into my stop. I stood up and hurried toward the door, wiping the sweat from my forehead.

“Have a nice day, now,” the bus driver said as I climbed down the stairs carefully. I looked back, not knowing what to say or how to answer. Years of confinement had stolen my sense of courtesy. Awkwardly, I forced a smile, something I hadn’t done in a long time. When I got off of the bus, I sniffed in the fresh, dew-covered grass that tickled my nose. This was the closest I’d come to freedom since the public defender told me I’d be released. I’d been so isolated for so long, locked away in what seemed like my destiny. After all I’d been through I was just grateful to be free of what we’d affectionately called “the death house.” I took a deep breath and although I was sure I’d taken in more than my fair share of hot, mosquito-ridden air, I was home. After six years, God help me, I was finally back in Baton Rouge.

After getting off the bus at the little depot, I hitched a ride with a local truck driver the rest of the way. He had a long, grayish-red beard and he smelled like burned popcorn.

“Thanks,” I said as I stepped off of the bread truck in Baton Rouge.

“No problem,” the truck driver said as his big stomach lapped over the steering wheel. ”See ya around.”

I let my eyes smile but didn’t answer. I didn’t want to be too friendly. Mama always said I was too friendly, especially to menfolks.

I took a long look around and realized that not much had changed. As I walked toward the dilapidated little shack I used to call home, apprehension filled me where the cigarettes had left space. I stepped onto the rickety staircase that led up to the front porch, taking another deep breath. I laid my head against the door before knocking, hoping to hear any sign of life or happiness, so much so that the strands of hair from my unkempt ponytail became tangled in the splinters of wood. I carefully peeled myself loose and stood upright. Was Mama the same way? I hadn’t seen or talked to her in over two years. By the end of the fourth year Mama claimed to be too sick to make the trip down to the prison. Had she changed at all? When I touched it, the door was still warm. My heart beat with a familiar intensity. I was home. I knocked, then waited. Finally, the screen door swung open and there was Uncle Charlie.

“Gal,” he said, taking a step back and adjusting his glasses. “You out?”

“Yes, Uncle Charlie,” I answered. “I’m home.”

Uncle Charlie’s front teeth were missing. “You ain’t on the run, is you? ‘Cause . . .”

“No, I’m officially free.” I wrapped my arms around Uncle Charlie’s frail body and he squeezed me back. I braced myself. “Where is Justin?”

With my eyes, I frantically searched the room for my son.

“He’s in school down the road, you know. I reckon he’ll be home on the bus soon.”

My heart began to beat faster with anticipation. “Soon?” I looked at my watch. I’d forgotten that it was a school day.

I couldn’t wait to see my son, knowing he could’ve been neatly tucked away in foster homes for the past six years since Mama didn’t like taking care of him. Mama never liked children, period, said she never should’ve even had me, my sister, or my no-good brother. Secretly, I’d hoped Mama had at least learned to love him. Would Justin even remember me? I’d been taken away when he was three. He was nine now.

Uncle Charlie turned toward Mama’s room. “Rosalee, Trinity is here.”

There it was, Trinity. I hated the sound of my name because it was everything I wasn’t: beautiful and whole.

Long before I was even born, Nana named me Trinity. I was told that Nana would anoint my mother’s belly with olive oil and pray over me. Despite Mama’s belligerent protests, Nana decided her son’s first child, her first grandchild, should be branded with the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. And since that first day, I’d been called Trinity. Nana prayed that God’s spirit would follow me.

I must say that God has been with me all of my life, saving me from my wretched environment and more importantly, saving me from myself. Not that I’ve ever been saved, sanctified, or filled with the Holy Ghost. In fact, the truth was far from that. I knew I was a heathen. Still, I also knew God was real and I was too afraid to play with Him. I truly believed that if a person claimed Him at all, then they should do right by Him.

Suddenly, Mama appeared in the doorway of her bedroom, looking older than she did the last time I’d seen her. Her body appeared soft and lumpy all over, kind of like an uncooked biscuit. Her long, silky silver hair, pinned underneath a scarf, framed her peach-colored face and dull gray eyes. I moved toward her with caution. She didn’t move. I imagined that she was stunned. I’d been released without warning. Not that I hadn’t tried to call her, but apparently the phone had been disconnected for the past few days. I guess Mama was still having problems with paying her bills, despite her and Uncle’s combined retirement benefits. Social Security sure wasn’t all that it was made out to be. So nothing could’ve prepared her for this, her baby girl coming home from death row.

I imagined I must’ve looked like a ghost to my mother, since I had only been weeks from my official expiration date. I imagined that she’d already reconciled my death in her mind. It had certainly been reconciled in my own mind. Yet, here I was, standing before her, thinking, walking, and breathing in new air. Yes, I was still alive. The system that prosecuted me and sentenced me to death, hadn’t killed me. Despite all of my suffering, I was still here. God must’ve had a purpose for my life, although I didn’t have a clue what it was.

Mama squinted her eyes. “Gal, you home?”

“I’m home, Mama.” I moved toward her awkwardly. “I tried to call a few days ago.”

Mama didn’t move, just stared at me. “Oh, bill collectors kept calling, so I had to change the number.”

I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed, trying to feel her love, trying to fill that hole in my heart. Mama didn’t squeeze back. Maybe she was disappointed that I didn’t die.

Mama broke out of our embrace and headed toward her recliner. “Sho’ am glad to see ya, gal.”

I followed her to her chair and kneeled down beside her. “I’m glad to see you too.”

Uncle Charlie sat on the cloth couch with the faded stripes.

Mama leaned forward. “How did you get out of there?”

“They let me go,” I whispered, still unable to fully comprehend what had happened.

“Let you go?” Mama’s eyes danced with excitement.

“Yes, the court reversed my conviction.” I slapped my hands together. “And let me walk out free and clear.”

“That’s real nice, but what happened?” Mama continued. “Why would they do something like that?”

“The real killer confessed, Mama,” I explained. “It should be in the newspapers.”

“You know I don’t read no newspapers.” Mama sucked on her tongue, something she did when she didn’t have her teeth in.

Uncle Charlie cleared his throat. “Confessed?”

My eyes welled up with tears. “The real woman who murdered those people, the Hartfords , finally confessed. She told them she wanted to clear her conscience after all these years, that she wanted to wipe her slate clean.”

Mama raised her eyebrows. “Wipe her slate clean? What kind of cow dung is that?”

“Well, as it turns out, she’s very sick and they don’t think she’ll even make it to trial.” I didn’t like having to explain. Weeks after finding out, the truth still made me cringe.

Mama frowned up her face. “A woman, eh? But she had you rottin’ away in prison all these years?”

“Yes, but she wanted to say something before I was executed.” It was still hard to tell the story.

Mama swallowed hard. “A fine time for that, don’t you think?” Then she lifted herself up and began to pace the floor.

I knew it was time for Mama’s nerve medicine. I could see it in her twitching eyes.

“I’m not bitter, though. I’m just grateful she came forward before it was too late.” My eyes darted back and forth between Mama and Uncle Charlie.

For years I wondered, Why would anyone come into that diner, go mad, and shoot all those people? More importantly or at least of equal importance, I wondered why had a stranger said it was me? It was one of those freak things I’d never be able to figure out. Now, after having some answers, I just wondered what my life would have been like if I hadn’t gone to prison. Before I went away, I’d been saving money to go to beauty school so I could do something worthwhile with my life.

I sank down into the old sofa.“How is Alyssa?”

“Alyssa, she’s all right, I guess.” Mama still moved about. “She don’t come by here much.”

I could certainly understand that. My sister and I had never been very close to our mother. In fact, when we were teenagers we used to make bets on who would leave home the fastest.

My sister, Alyssa, who was only one year my junior, was a lawyer—not a criminal lawyer, but the kind who looks after corporate accounts and stuff. She’d done really well for herself and had practically renounced me when I went away to prison. Since she felt that my criminal record would taint her public image, she carefully separated herself from me; not all at once, but like peeling away the layers of an onion. It didn’t bother me much though, because we were never that close either. Oil and water is what my mother affectionately called us, although she never cared much for either of us, to tell you the truth.

My brother, James, just two years younger than me, was the one I’d been the closest to. Unfortunately, he’d been killed in a round of gang violence when he was just fifteen. His death shocked us all. It must’ve hurt Mama too, but we never saw her cry. Not one tear. Instead, she had him buried quickly, then had all of his things removed from the house in the middle of the night.

Since Mama happily proclaimed, throughout the years, that she never wanted kids, my sister and I believed her. Sadly, when our dad left, so did the dream of possibly having a normal family. When I got older I wondered if Mama even knew what a real family was. I watched her slowly shuffle around the small living room and I felt sorry for her.

Then suddenly, I heard a creaking of the floorboards coming from the front door and I held my breath. My heart began to beat fast as I waited in anticipation.

I stood up just in time to see Justin coming in, swinging his backpack beside him. I lunged forward, looking into his dark eyes. He was the spitting image of his father: tall and slender, but strong-looking. Carefully, I pulled his body toward mine, holding him close. I could feel his heartbeat against my chest. He was the son I hadn’t seen in six years, the son I’d lived for, and the one I’d die for.

All of the memories came rushing back. Me, holding him after he was born, the fuzzy-headed baby boy who was so dark around the ears. His father had been standing over us, grinning with pride. Life was good back then, for a little while at least. I remembered Justin learning to walk in our little apartment off Bourbon Street. He’d wobble across the linoleum floors and land in one of our arms with a giggle. Later, we’d collapse into bed with all of the love and admiration for each other and for our child. Those were such easy times. I guessed that’s why New Orleans was called the Big Easy. Why couldn’t things have stayed like that? Maybe if things had been different, maybe the police wouldn’t have gotten me that night. Maybe if my husband and I had still been together, he would’ve fought for me and not let them take me. But unfortunately, they had.

My mind returned to the present and to the child I still held in my arms. Tears spread across my face now as I took in his scent, all boy. My boy. He had the smell of the streets and I worried about what he’d been into while I was away for so long. I ran my hand across his uneven Afro. He badly needed a haircut.

“I missed you,” I finally found the courage to say.

“I missed you too.” Justin was crying also.

I loosed him.“Do you know who I am?”

Justin stared into my eyes. “Of course I do. How could I forget my own mom?”

After all I’d been through, his words were like magic to my ears and heart. I hugged him again and again, just like I’d imagined it for the past few days.

Although I’d been stuck on death row, no threat of lethal-injection poisons flowing through my veins could’ve kept me from my baby. And I knew God had ordained for me to be here. I didn’t know why I had to ever go to prison in the first place, but I knew why I was standing there. It was something Nana called grace and mercy. I wasn’t sure which one applied to this particular situation or even what the difference between them was. But I knew I was blessed to be there. Tears began to roll down from the corners of my cheeks. Nana always said my high cheekbones favored the American Indian. Mama said I was just black and ugly like my daddy, with no Indian features at all.

Either way, at that moment, standing free in front of my son, I knew I was special. Somewhere deep on the inside, I knew that God loved me. Me and my son were destined to be together after so many years of being kept apart. I closed my eyes for a moment and a million memories ran through my mind: my baby shower, the night. . .