WHISPER, by Julie Yolanda Steptoe Lee
Cleo removed her shoes. One advantage of working at a carrel rather than a table. Every morning before she started her research, Cleo perused the obituary section of the Washington Post. She didn't consider herself particularly morbid. Instead, she simply felt duty bound to give her respects to those who had passed.
She checked everyone's age and felt some comfort that most of the deceased were much older than her. She read thoroughly the obituaries of people who died unfairly young, 50 and under. She checked for surviving children. She had three of her own. She always thought it nice when remarried people's ex-spouses were mentioned even when there was a new spouse.
life must have been like for that person. Take the 70-year-old woman who left Eufala, Oklahoma to come to Washington to get a secretarial job with the federal government. She got lucky and landed herself a foreign service officer husband. They traveled through Europe to his assigned posts and had three sons -- one of whom was a doctor.
If she hadn't made that move to D.C., she probably would have ended up marrying some local focal farmer or storeowner or something, Cleo surmised. Would never have left Eufala. Kids probably wouldn't have made it to college much less medical school. Probably would have lost one in the Vietnam War. She was lucky. Actually, Cleo thought, smart and bold too. Wonder if she and her husband had a happy marriage? Wonder if either one ever cheated in the marriage?
15 minutes devoted to the lives of some recently deceased people. That's how Cleo looked at it. No one with an obituary in the Washington Post died without notice and without some consideration.
Distinct from the obituaries were the memorials. Cleo felt those deep in her heart. Especially those from parents whose children died young. Particularly troubling were the memorials from Moms and Dads quietly and respectfully yelling the pain of their young black sons' deaths at the hands of violence. The son whose death was a mere criminal blot in the Washington Post -- "unidentified black male found shot in alley." "Demetrius Smith was shot by unidentified assailants who walked up and shot him as he sat in his car."
Because Cleo was a black mother, with one son the same age as the unidentified black male and Demetrius, she held her breath as she shared the parents' pain. She thanked God knowing that at least 30 minutes ago she could account for her own son's whereabouts and safety.
On this particular morning, Cleo was struck by something she saw. "Jonathan Peter Widen. It's been two years. Mommie and Daddy miss you as if was yesterday. Happy fourth birthday. We'll never stop thinking of you."
Cleo remembered. She read this same memorial on Jonathan's third birthday one year ago. She recalled him for two reasons. Because he was a cute, big head white baby with the most playful and intelligent eyes she had ever seen on a white child. The eyes of black children routinely glowed and sparkled with life and intelligence. Cleo had noticed this and assumed it as a sign of their superiority as children over all other races of children.
Anyway, this child struck Cleo because he was white and so noticeably clever and special. Cleo also remembered him because then, as now, she felt the deep, calamitous suffering of his mother. "Dear Lord, please help Mrs. Widen recover and go on with her life. Bless and guide her and give her strength."
It took Cleo a minute to gain her composure, but soon she found herself engrossed in case law and intellectually urging support for whatever legal issue she was trying to resolve in her client's favor.
"Yes..." Cleo paused from drying her hair and waited for the kids to call her again. She didn't know if it was Algie or Angel. They both sounded alike when they yelled despite their difference in age and sex. "I guess they think I'm gonna come to them. Yeah right." Cleo finished her hair and began dressing. Obviously it wasn't an emergency or even important because she could hear them downstairs playing.
"Ma!" "If you want something stop yelling and come here." No answer. Still playing, everything must be okay. Cleo dressed some more, but was interrupted again. This time Cleo stopped what she was doing. She walked into the hall, peered around corners and headed toward the staircase. She stood still and listened. She could hear the children downstairs now. "Did you guys call me." "No." "Did you call me a couple of minutes ago?" "No Ma."
Cleo's eyebrows raised as they frequently did in wonderment. "I guess I am crazy." No sooner had she reached her bedroom door then she stopped again. The voice that she had heard belonged to a child. It was a friendly, happy voice much like that of Algie's or Angel's. But it had a huskier tone...Jonathan.
It had been three months since Cleo clipped Jonathan Widen's picture from the Post. When she hung it in one of her family collages, the children and everyone who saw it wanted to know who Jonathan was. The most Cleo could offer was that he was a kid who died a couple of years earlier and that she was connected to him. Cleo just being Cleo they thought.
For the rest of the day Cleo thought about Jonathan. On more than one occasion she took the collage, sat it on her lap and stared at him. At dinner, Cleo was especially attentive to Algie's and Angel's childish antics. Thankful that she could still enjoy them.
Jonathan nagged at Cleo for several days. More than once he called to her in an entreating fashion. Reminding her of when her own children were younger and wanted her attention, or wanted her to get a cookie or ice cream or something. On the fourth day, Cleo knew what Jonathan wanted.
Cleo got the Widen's telephone number from a friend at the Post. She called Art Widen at work and in her most reasoned, sincere and compelling fashion convinced him to allow her to visit him at his office the next day.
Art Widen had a head like his son, big and round. Seeing him made Cleo feel at ease. She told Art about herself and her family and about seeing Jonathan's memorial. Straight forward, as was her general manner, Cleo told Art about the connection she felt to his son. About the collage. And, lastly, about her belief that Jonathan had contacted her.
For about a minute, Art just stared at her. Cleo was unable to look away. "Mr. Widen, I came here because Jonathan wanted me to."
"My wife and I have two other children. Brian's nine and Walter's 12. On Jonathan's birthday last year, Claudia simply fell apart. Mentally she's a vegetable. Occasionally, she'll come out of her bedroom to visit with the boys. Inevitably, they'll do something to remind her of Jonathan and she's back at square one. They've lost their brother and their mother in a two-year period. I can't send her away from them because it would be like losing her a second time. Our house is an empty, sad, sad house. Until you walked in here, I thought it would be that way forever."
When the car pulled into the Widen driveway, Brian and Walter stopped in their quiet play. Cleo got out of the car. She loved those two boys the minute she looked in their faces. They stopped for a second when they saw her. Then they ran quickly toward their father. Art grabbed them both and the three tumbled to the ground in wiry mesh of arms and legs and laughter. Long overdue, Cleo thought. She walked past them determined to finish her business with the family.
Every step closer to the house Cleo felt warm, happy, and content. It felt like the best moment that she could ever experience in her life. Cleo headed to Claudia. Before she reached her bedroom, the door flung open and Claudia Widen appeared. She was gaunt and raggedy. Downright pitiful except for the desperate joy that emitted from her eyes. The bright, playful eyes that were Jonathan's. "He's a happy child Claudia. God wanted him home."
On Jonathan's fifth birthday, his final Washington Post memorial read:
"Jonathan Widen. Your angel lifted us on her wings and showed us your smile. Forever and in heaven."
When Cleo left the Widen's that day she never saw or heard from them again. Occasionally, people would query Cleo about the big head white kid whose picture sat inside its own frame next to the framed photos of her own children. "Him...just this little white kid named Jonathan I met."
Copyright, 1999,
Julie Lee
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