Silver Threads...to Gold by Carroll Silvera

Author:Carroll Silvera
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Publish on Demand Global LLC

CHAPTER 44

“.…Well, ordinarily we wouldn't do this, you know, there's not much to do about runaways, but well, Tony here and I go way back. So sure, Cara, we'll do it. Only I don't know how you expect to get her if you don't even know where she is.” He sits on the sofa, leaning forward, hands laced between his knees, his partner standing at the doorway of the family room.

My relief is nearly audible as I hear his words.

“I know, I know, Tom, but the ol’ lady thinks she can and well… I've seen her do stuff like this before. So… you know how it is, mama's not happy… I told her the kid is just a bad seed.”

I hate him today. He has told me that at least twice. And I don't ever want to hear it again.

Samantha stands in the kitchen, and as I look up, I see her roll her eyes, in resignation and disgust.

“Tony, stop that.” I say with a vehemence, he, for certain will recognize. Today, Lord, you can have him.

All day long I have been praying for guidance, for direction as to where she is, and how to find her. As well as, where I will work and how we will eat when He takes our home and our income. But it is clear that this is my job. To see to it that this child knows I will sacrifice everything, even her love for me, for her.

Tony and I are in the Jaguar, and two police cars, lights flashing and sirens blaring, pull up to the large apartment complex. There sits her car. You were right Lord, thank you.

I get out of the car, and Tony says, “now what?”

“I don't know, just come with me.”

“Do you know which apartment she is in?”

“No, but the Lord is in charge here, so we just go.”

He throws the cigarette butt in the parking lot, and making a small snorting noise he says, “Sure you're not speaking with the devil?”

“I wouldn't speak to the devil, and the Lord knows that.”

I walk along the dimly lit path, when the light from the first floor apartment suddenly shows through draperies pulled back. The face of a large black man peers from the draperies.

“This is it,” I say. Acting only on impulse now, feeling disconnected from my physical body.

The policeman and Tony stand behind me, as I knock on the door of the apartment. The door opens, and I look past to see Jillian sitting on the sofa, knitting. I could not believe my eyes, the room is small and brightly lit. Another, smaller, heavier black man sits opposite her in a chair, his legs slung over the arm of a chair, a book in his hand.

“Can I help ya?” the man standing in the doorway says.

“Yes, you can,” I say as I push my way through the doorway, “I came to get my daughter. Jillian, get your things.”

“Mother, you can't do this.” She stands, a shocked, little girl. Her knitting drops to the floor.

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