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The Keeper of Hours

Chapter 38: Home

Denise called on the second Saturday of March.

It was March thirteenth. Tiana had finished the Saturday morning arrangement at five-oh-two. Yvonne had read the legacy pages in the steady voice she had been developing, which had, in the two months since the first reading, deepened into a voice Tiana thought of as her mother's eulogy voice — the voice Yvonne had used at the pulpit on the ninth of January and had, without noticing, carried into her own practice. Carl had been on the couch. The arrangement had held.

Tiana had been at the kitchen table with Yvonne and Carl eating biscuits when the phone rang.

"Sister Cole-Harper."

"Denise, baby. Tiana. It is Denise. Today is Saturday. I am Denise today."

"Denise."

"Baby. The hearing went through on Wednesday. Brielle comes home Monday. She is coming home Monday the fifteenth. The caseworker is driving her over at ten in the morning. She is going to have her own room for the first time in her life."

Tiana could not, for a moment, speak.

"Denise."

"Yes, Tiana."

"Brielle is coming home."

"She is, baby."

"Denise. That is — that is the receipt."

"I know it is, Tiana. I have been — I have been crying in the kitchen this morning every time I walk through it. Keith is in the garage. He has been painting the small dresser for her bedroom. The dresser is blue. She picked the color in January."

"Yes, Denise."

"Tiana. I am calling because I want to ask you a thing."

"Ask."

"Would you come on Saturday the twentieth? In the afternoon? To the house in Frayser? I want you to meet Brielle properly. I want her to see that our family has the shape it has. You are a cousin, sort of — you are a part of our keeping line, which makes you part of the family, by my grandmother's definition of family, which your grandmother shared. I want you to come. I will make iced tea. Keith will grill something simple. We will keep it low-key. No pressure on the child. You come for an hour. You drink the tea. You meet her. You leave."

"Yes, Denise. I will come."

"Two o'clock?"

"Two o'clock."

"Thank you, baby."

"Denise."

"Yes."

"Will you also — would you mind if I brought my grandmother's book with me? Not to show Brielle. Just to have it with me. I have been carrying it on Saturdays in my bag since — since January. I want it there."

"Tiana. You bring the book. The book belongs at that meeting. The book is the reason we are having the meeting."

"Yes, Denise."

Tiana told Yvonne and Carl at the kitchen table.

"Mom. Brielle is coming home Monday."

Yvonne closed her eyes.

She had been, in her own way, carrying Brielle Harper since August, when Mama Tate had first written the child's name in her book. Tiana had added the name in the new book the same morning. Yvonne had heard it read by Tiana at the bedside reading hundreds of times over the months. She had not, in most of those hundreds, thought of it specifically. The name had blended into the list. But the name had been in the house.

"Baby. That is — that is good news."

"Denise invited me to the house on Saturday the twentieth. For an hour. To meet the little girl. I am going."

"You go, baby. You take the book."

"I was going to."

"Good."

Carl said, from his side of the table: "Tiana. You tell Denise, when you come, that Carl Brooks says he is going to make the little girl a small wooden step stool. I have been meaning to make one for a grandchild for fifty years. I have decided. Brielle will be the grandchild. I will make it this month. I will bring it over the first Saturday of April."

Tiana laughed. It was a wet laugh.

"Carl. You do not have to."

"I do, baby. Mama Tate would have said so. The step stool is a family thing. The Lord has given me a free Saturday. I am going to use it."

"Yes, Carl."

On Monday the fifteenth at ten-oh-four in the morning, Denise texted Tiana one word.

Home.

Tiana was at the unit. She had just finished the morning report handoff. She looked at her phone. She read the word.

She walked into the break room. She sat down in the small chair by the vending machine. She put her phone face-down on her lap. She closed her eyes.

Lord. Thank You. You have brought her home. You have brought her to Denise. You have brought her to Keith. The prayers across the two books have been answered. The seven months of holding her name has been complete. Thank You, Lord. Thank You.

She opened her eyes.

She texted Denise back: Praise God, sister. I am praying for all three of you today.

Denise replied thirty seconds later: She is walking through the living room with Keith's hand. The dresser is blue. She wants to know where the kitchen is. We are showing her.

Tiana put her phone in her pocket.

She went back to the floor.

At one p.m. her grandmother's composition book was in her bag on the floor of the staff lounge. Tiana, during her lunch break, opened it. She turned to Brielle Harper's entry. Her grandmother's dictation from August — Brielle Harper, age 3. Foster care, Summer Avenue. To come home to her grandparents Denise and Keith Cole-Harper in March 2027 — was there, in Tiana's block letters.

Tiana took the felt pen.

She drew a careful line through the entry. Beside the line, in small careful letters, she wrote:

March 15, 2027. Home. Denise and Keith's house. Crossed by Tiana.

She underlined Home.

She closed the book.

She went back to the floor.

Saturday the twentieth was the first spring day of the year. It was sixty-three degrees and the small yellow of forsythia was beginning on some of the yards Tiana passed on the drive out to Frayser. She had left Park Avenue at one-thirty after the Saturday morning arrangement and a small lunch with Yvonne. Marcus had flown in on Friday night from Atlanta and had, at Tiana's invitation, driven out with her because Marcus had wanted, since January, to meet Denise Cole-Harper properly.

He had the small step stool in the back seat. Carl had not, in his earlier announcement, committed to making it on any particular Saturday. But Carl had started Tuesday evening in the Cordova garage and had finished it on Friday afternoon, and had told Marcus in the kitchen last night, son, you take this to Denise for me. I will come down next Saturday and meet her. Today is Tiana's day. I do not want to crowd the meeting. Marcus had nodded.

They pulled up at two-oh-one.

The house was a small brick house on a quiet street. Keith Cole-Harper had been a school counselor for thirty years and had retired in 2021. Denise taught sixth grade. They had lived in this house since 1993. The yard was kept carefully. The porch had two wicker chairs and a small table and a small rocking chair that was, Tiana saw when she got out of the car, sized for a three-year-old.

Denise met them at the door.

"Tiana. Marcus."

"Denise."

"Come in. Come in. She is a little tired. She napped an hour ago. She is up now. Keith is with her in the backyard. We are going to go out there. I warned her there would be visitors. She is — she has been adjusting. Monday was big. Tuesday was a little hard. Wednesday she calmed down. Thursday was good. Friday was great. Today she is — she is doing fine."

"Yes, Denise."

Denise looked at the step stool in Marcus's hand.

"Marcus."

"Ma'am."

"What is that."

"Carl Brooks made it. He started Tuesday. He finished Friday. He sent it over. He said to tell you Mama Tate would have approved of it. It is for Brielle. It is sized small. He also left it unfinished because he said if she wants to paint it blue to match the dresser, the Cole-Harpers can paint it blue."

Denise did not, for a moment, respond.

She took the small step stool in both hands. She looked at it. It was made of oak, jointed carefully, with a small cutout handle in the top step so a three-year-old could carry it.

"Tiana."

"Yes."

"Carl Brooks has been in my life for five hours total. He made my granddaughter a step stool in four days."

"Yes, Denise."

"That is how your grandmother raised her people."

"Yes, Denise."

Denise carried the stool inside. She set it on the small hall table. "I will give it to her later. One thing at a time. You come in."

Brielle was in the backyard.

The yard was small and fenced and green, with a small metal swing set in the back corner Keith had bought secondhand in January in preparation. Keith was sitting on the grass. Brielle was three years old — she would be four in July — and she was small and quiet and in a pink sweatshirt and small denim overalls. She had her hair in two careful puffs, which Keith had done this morning, using the skills he had been teaching himself from YouTube videos since November.

She was crouched by the swing set. She was watching something on the grass.

Keith looked up. He rose. He came over.

"Tiana. Marcus."

"Brother Cole-Harper."

"Keith, baby. Keith. We are on first names today."

"Keith."

He hugged Tiana. He shook Marcus's hand. He kept his voice low.

"She is watching a roly-poly. She has been watching it for four minutes. She saw one at the park with her foster mom last month, and Monday when she came home she looked for one on the ground outside the car and did not find one. She found this one fifteen minutes ago. She has been — Tiana, she has been observing."

"Yes, Keith."

"Let her finish. We will sit on the porch. We will come to her when she comes to us."

They sat on the small back porch. Denise brought out iced tea. The four of them — Denise, Keith, Tiana, Marcus — sat on the porch steps and at the small folding chairs Keith had set up. They did not, for the first ten minutes, say much. They watched Brielle watch the roly-poly.

Brielle, after seven more minutes of watching, stood up.

She turned around. She walked — slowly, in the small uneven three-year-old walk of a child who had only two months ago graduated from wobbling — toward the porch. She stopped about six feet from the steps. She looked up at the four adults.

She did not, for a long moment, speak.

Denise said, gently: "Brielle baby. This is Cousin Tiana. This is Cousin Marcus. They are family. They came to say hi."

Brielle looked at Tiana.

"Hi, Cousin."

"Hi, Brielle."

"I saw a bug."

"I saw you, baby. What was the bug?"

"It rolls."

"Yes. Those are roly-polies. What color was yours?"

"Gray."

"Yes, they are gray."

"Nana Denise said they will not bite me."

"They will not, baby. They roll up if you touch them."

"I touched it."

"Did it roll?"

"It did."

"That is what they do."

Brielle thought about this. She said, with the small grave three-year-old gravity Tiana recognized from two years ago on her grandmother's porch: Cousin. Do you want to see it?

"Baby. Yes. I want to see it."

Brielle turned. She walked slowly back to the swing set. She crouched. She waited.

Tiana looked at Denise.

Denise nodded.

Tiana rose. She walked across the small yard. She crouched beside Brielle at the grass.

The roly-poly was in the grass.

Brielle pointed.

"There."

"I see it, baby."

"It is gray."

"Yes."

"It does not bite."

"No, baby."

Brielle looked up at Tiana.

The small face of Brielle — who had been in Mama Tate's book for seven months, who had been in Tiana's book for seven months, who had been prayed for every morning by two women across town from each other for seven months, who had also been in Denise's composition book in Frayser since August — was the small quiet face of a three-year-old who had, on a Saturday afternoon in March on grass in the yard of her grandparents' house, been received into a family whose shape she was still learning.

Brielle said: "Cousin. Are you staying for supper?"

Tiana did not, for a moment, trust her voice.

"Baby. Not today. Today I am just here to say hi. Next time, maybe. You come to my grandma's house one day. There is a big pecan tree. You can count the pecans."

"How many pecans."

"Lots of pecans, baby. I will show you in October when the pecans come down."

"Okay."

She was, for a moment, quiet.

Then she said: "Cousin. Do you have a grandma?"

Tiana had been preparing, in some small part of herself all morning, for this question or a version of it.

She said: "Baby. I had a grandma. Her name was Great-Grandma Tate. She went to heaven in January. She — she prayed for you, Brielle. She prayed for you every morning. Her name was Mother Tate. She was a friend of your Nana Denise. She was the one who said you would come home to Nana Denise and Nana's husband Keith."

Brielle thought about this.

"She is in heaven."

"Yes, baby."

"With God."

"Yes."

"Does she see me?"

"Baby. I believe she does. I believe she saw you this morning on the grass watching your roly-poly."

"Oh."

Brielle did not, for a long moment, speak. She looked at the roly-poly. She looked up at Tiana.

She said: "Cousin. Tell her I saw a bug."

Tiana's eyes filled.

"I will, baby."

Tiana and Marcus stayed another forty minutes.

They sat on the porch with Denise and Keith. Brielle came and went. Brielle, at one point, climbed into Keith's lap on the porch steps and rested her head against his chest, which was the first time — Keith would later tell Denise — that Brielle had voluntarily climbed into his lap without being called.

Denise brought out the composition book near the end of the visit.

"Tiana. I want to show you something."

She opened the book. She turned to the first page. She showed it to Tiana.

Brielle's entry — Brielle Harper, age 3. In foster care on Summer Avenue. To come home March 2027, Lord willing — had a line through it. Beside the line, in Denise's careful teacher's hand:

March 15, 2027. Home. Nana Denise and Papa Keith's house. The Lord kept her. The Lord brought her. Praise be. Crossed on the night of March 15 at ten-forty-five.

She underlined Home.

"Denise."

"Yes, Tiana."

"I crossed mine Monday afternoon at lunch at the unit. Mine has almost the same wording."

"The Lord put the same words in both of us."

"The Lord did, Sister."

"We are — Tiana, we are in this together. Two books. One name. Now two books with the same crossing. That is the prayer-floor."

"It is, Denise."

Tiana set her own bag on the porch. She opened it. She took out her grandmother's composition book. She opened it. She turned to Brielle's entry. She showed Denise the crossing. Denise, for a long moment, did not speak.

She took the composition book into her own hands.

She held it gently.

She ran her thumb over Tiana's handwriting. Then over the older entry above — the one from August in Tiana's block letters: Brielle Harper, age 3. Foster care, Summer Avenue. To come home to her grandparents Denise and Keith Cole-Harper in March 2027.

"Tiana. This — this book held my granddaughter."

"Yes, Denise. For seven months."

"Your grandmother prayed her home."

"She did, Denise. Until January fifth. Then I did. We did, with you. All of us."

"Yes, Tiana."

Denise closed the book. She handed it back.

She did not, for a moment, speak.

Then she said: "Keith. Come see."

Keith rose. He came over. Brielle, who was still in his lap, transferred to Denise's lap without protest because Denise had held out her arms.

Keith looked at the book. Denise showed him both entries — the original and the crossing.

Keith put his hand over his face for a long moment.

When he lowered it he said, quietly: "Ma'am. I did not fully believe, until this afternoon, that the prayer-floor was as real as my wife has been telling me. I — I believed in prayer. I did not believe it was a floor you could stand on. I see it. I see the floor. I see our baby's name on it. I am thanking God in this chair right now."

Brielle, on Denise's lap, heard the word baby and looked up at Keith.

"Papa?"

"Yes, baby."

"I am your baby."

"You are, baby."

"Okay."

Denise wept quietly into the small careful hair of her granddaughter.

Tiana and Marcus drove home at four-oh-five.

They did not, on the drive back, talk for the first ten minutes. They listened to the small sound of the Civic on the road and to each other's breathing.

After a while Marcus said: "Tiana."

"Yes, Marcus."

"I did not know, until this afternoon, what Grandma did."

"I know you didn't."

"I had been — I had been hearing about it for a year. I had been reading the book when I was home on weekends. I had been on the couch when you read. I had been saying I understood. I did not. I understand today."

"Yes, Marcus."

"The keeping is real."

"It is, Marcus."

"And it works."

"Sometimes. The way the Lord arranges. Not always in the shape we ask. Sometimes in the shape we do not know to ask for. Sometimes — sometimes not in this lifetime. Grandma said. Some names go to the Lord in the other direction and we do not see the answer on this side. We trust the inside."

"Yes, Tiana."

They drove.

At the red light on Summer Avenue, Marcus said: "Tiana. I want to talk to you about a thing."

"Say it, Marcus."

"I am thinking about moving home."

Tiana did not, for a moment, speak.

"Marcus."

"I have been thinking about it since January. Since the funeral. The weekend back-and-forth is — Tiana, it is not enough. I want to be closer to Naomi. Sheryl and Reggie are doing a good job. Naomi is — Naomi is growing up without me there for the daily. I want to be there for the daily."

"Yes."

"And Mom — Mom needs me. The house needs me. I have been thinking about Atlanta less and less. The work — the work will survive anywhere. I can do what I do remotely. I already have been. I just need a kitchen table and a reliable internet. I could have a kitchen table in Memphis."

"Yes, Marcus."

"I have not told anyone yet. I am telling you first. I was going to tell Mom tonight at supper. I wanted to practice on you."

Tiana smiled. The smile was wet.

"Marcus."

"Yes."

"Practice was not necessary. You should do it. Mom will be — she will cry. Then she will start planning. She has, I suspect, been hoping for this for two years."

"Yes, I think she has."

"And Naomi — Naomi will be — Marcus. Naomi will be —"

She could not, for a moment, finish the sentence.

Marcus nodded. He did not make her finish it.

The light changed. They drove.

At Park Avenue, over supper, Marcus told Yvonne and Carl he was moving home in June.

Yvonne did not, at first, speak. She set down her fork. She looked at her son.

She said, quietly: "Baby."

"Yes, Mom."

"The Lord has been arranging."

"Yes, Mom."

"I have been waiting for this dinner for eighteen months."

"Yes, Mom."

"I am not going to cry at this table. I am going to cry in the kitchen later. I want you to know. I am not going to cry at this table because Carl will not know what to do with it."

Carl laughed.

Marcus laughed. They all laughed — the small good family laugh of a kitchen that had been receiving a good thing.

Later, after supper, Yvonne did cry in the kitchen, quietly, with Carl's arm around her, while Tiana and Marcus sat on the porch in the small evening and watched the first buds of the pecan tree coming out against the March dusk.

In Frayser, a small three-year-old was being put to bed for only the sixth time in her own bed in her new home. Keith was reading her a book. Denise was sitting on the floor by the bed with her hand on Keith's knee. The small composition book was on Denise's nightstand. The name Brielle Harper in it had a line through it and a date and the word Home.

The small receipts kept arriving at the small brick house in Orange Mound and the small brick house in Frayser and every other small house the Lord had marked for them. Two books had crossed one name on the same day, ninety miles apart by driving and zero miles apart in the small geography of the prayer-floor.

Tiana, on the porch of her grandmother's house with her cousin beside her, thought: Grandma, you would have liked today.

She did not say it out loud. The thinking was enough.

The buds of the pecan tree were breaking open in the March evening. Spring was beginning.