PROLOGUE

Ross Crass awoke to the crackling sound of burning wood and inhaled the light aroma of fresh smoke. His unidentifiable surroundings were aglow with flickering red light. He lay on a massive black rock, eerily soft and smooth, and felt the greatest relaxation he had ever experienced. Where am I? he wondered.

Sitting up, he beheld a sight so shocking that he could only gasp: The rock rose high above a body of blood-red water that stretched as far as he could see. Faint white mist floated above the gently rolling surface of the water, kissing it now and then as the water rolled away from the rock on all sides. Suddenly, it occurred to Ross that it was not fire burning, as he had previously perceived. He was surrounded by boiling water.

Startled beyond belief, Ross fell back on his elbows when a magnificent being soundlessly materialized from out of nowhere. It appeared to be a man, but Ross knew that it was impossible for humans to reach the height of this figure who floated before him now. His thick arms rippled with muscles and were the same earth-brown color as the trunk of a timeless tree, and his hands could more than hold Ross’s body—all 6 feet, 4 inches—without stretching to do so. A coarse, shiny Afro topped his head, and his onyx eyes appeared to consume everything within view. He wore a long flowing robe, which moved as if it were blown by a wind that Ross could not feel. The robe appeared to be made of gold, filling the space with its rays of bright, pure light.

"What’s up, Ross?" the man asked in a voice like a thousand blaring trumpets.

Ross opened his mouth but could not speak. Then he spotted the enormous double mounds of wings that arched high above the man’s shoulders. The feathers were perfect, black and silky, like a raven’s. Who are you? Ross thought. What are you?

"I’m an angel of the Lord," he answered Ross’s thoughts. "You in the Waitin’ Room, which got paths to three different dimensions: One goes to the Holy City of Heaven. The other is to Earth. And last, of course, there’s the one that leads to Hell. I been sent as a messenger to give you a wake-up call, my man. Your life been so evil God had to put it on pause. He knows your sinful past and present—and the burnin’ Hell you’ll face in the future if you don’t learn."

"Learn what?" Ross shouted. Springing to his feet as fast as he could, he prepared to defend the truth as it had been taught to him by his parents. God was pure and white and despised a whole race of people so much that He had cursed them with black skin. There were no black angels—not Michael, Gabriel, or any of the others. In fact, this experience with the nigger thing seemed blasphemous against God, the God whose divinity did not allow room in Heaven for Afro hairstyles and slang-talkin’ and pimp-walking and drive-by shootings—and all the other disgusting things he had ever associated with blacks.

"You must learn about life!" The blaring trumpets in the angel’s voice were full of wrath and power, causing his throat to contract as he spoke. He balled his enormous fists, preparing to reach back and punch the mortal deep into the dimension of Hell, where he had a strong possibility of ending up. The angel had heard Ross’s ugly inner conversation about what he thought of blacks and fought to control himself. His supreme job was not to duke it out with the mortal; he was just a messenger of God.

"Ross, what you see when you look at me?"

"An angel?" Now Ross spoke in a low voice. He lowered his shoulders in surrender. The angel’s furious retaliation had terrified him. Besides, he knew that it was physically impossible to win a fight against the angel, even in a dream. But the longer he stood on the rock, surrounded by the blood-colored water and the slow-moving white mist, the more he began to believe it was all real.

"That’s all you see, my man? That I don’t look like them niggas on Earth?" The angel’s eyes were dark and clever and smiling in the bright gold light that radiated from his robe. He was hinting at Ross’s secret prejudice in a way that gave Ross the impression that the angel already knew.

But Ross no longer wanted to discuss "niggas," skin color, or his deeply embedded hatred. He especially did not want to reveal how drastically far he’d gone to keep his white world free from one particular nigger, Clarence Jackson. He had tried to blast off the ugly black face of the aspiring writer with his gun, but the violent confrontation had ended with Ross’s taking the bullet.

"Am I a nigga?" The angel’s voice was a whisper. Once again, it was obvious that he already knew the question’s answer, and his anger returned. He floated closer to Ross. Glittering gold dust from his robe sizzled as it fell down into the boiling red water. "Why now you scared to say what you called me and the rest of the black race all your life? Don’t you see that’s why God arranged this meetin’? I wasn’t even in existence before your outrageous hatred was such that it moved Him. He needed to get an important message to you. He sent me especially as proof that the same God powerful enough to create white people and white angels also creates black people and black angels. My very name was chosen as a seal of all the evil hatred you and other prejudiced whites carry in your hearts for the black race. But now, here you stand, afraid to say it."

"I… do not know your… name," Ross said, stepping backward until his feet came to the edge of the rock. This is a trick, he thought. If I call the angel a nigger, my chosen dimension will surely be Hell.

Ross’s thoughts immediately disappeared in terror, as the Higher Authority swooped down and forward, stopping an inch from the mortal’s face. Ross squeezed his eyes closed to block out the robe’s powerful light.

"Say my name!" the angel commanded.

"Nigger." Ross whispered the word and fell to his knees. He was so consumed by fear that he willed himself to cry. But he could only sob tearlessly, no matter how much he squeezed his eyes closed.

"You can open your eyes and stop tryin’ to make tears, ’cause it ain’t happenin’ here. Tears is an Earthly thing. There’s none of that stuff here in the spiritual realm."

Nigger pointed down to the boiling water. "Here, everything got significance. Like this body of water that must look strange to you. But I know you was brought up in church. You read about the great Red Sea that parted and rose to the sky to make an escape passage for the runaway Hebrew slaves. A great man named Moses led the way under the strict guidance and power of our God."

"Where are you going with this?" Ross cut off the angel’s speech in frustration. It was true that he had been raised in a strict Christian household. He had probably read every chapter in the Bible at least ten times and knew them well, especially the holy battle Moses won over Pharaoh. But he did not know how the story could be relevant to his life or why the black angel chose to go on and on talking about it.

"This sea is relevant to your life," Nigger said. Again, he had heard the mortal’s thoughts. "This is where you got to cross over to enter the dimension back to Earth. Just like Moses and the rest of the Hebrews, who’d been in bondage for a very long time, you in bondage too, Ross—with yourself. All tangled up in prejudice and hate, and it done affected your life in the worst way on Earth: You got no friends… nobody to love… You nearly got killed after your run-in with Clarence Jackson…. But you ended up here, surrounded by the Red Sea, and it’s very relevant. Our wonderful God done thought up a clever situation to set your soul free!"

"What are you getting at?" Ross asked.

"You goin’ back to Earth for a second chance to turn your life around and learn how to love all humankind. But be forewarned: On your return, there’ll be a great surprise waitin’ for you." The golden rays of light from his robe illuminated his serious onyx eyes. "Now it’s time I leave you to start your… sentence," he said.

Ross closed his eyes to blot it all out, all the confusion. This is just a bizarre nightmare, he thought. And then, with his eyes still closed, he counted to ten. His eyes reopened to find the tall black angel still in his presence, much to his great disappointment.

"But why me?" he yelled. "I’m sure there are others on Earth more prejudiced than I am. Why is my life so significant to be made an example of?"

Nigger’s wings stretched out long and wide. They began moving back and forth, slowly at first, and then their speed increased into a full flapping rhythm. The powerful wind from the angel’s flapping wings blew away the steamy mist from the surface of the red water as he lifted up into the air.

"Wait! Where are you going? What kind of surprise will I face?" Ross’s questions were cut short as a small crack appeared at the edge of the black rock where it met the water. The crack expanded away from the rock, into the seabed, and the water parted, as if some unseen creature swam just below the surface. In a matter of seconds, there were two towering walls of blood-red water, separated only by a dirt path that had appeared a mere step down from the rock.

Ross beheld the brightest white light he had ever seen in the distance. It was making its way toward him, completely filling the large tunnel through the water. The mesmerizing effect distracted his thoughts. He soon forgot all about the black angel, where he was, or wondering why he was beckoned there. Nothing mattered more than the precious white light that pierced his soul with a feeling so overwhelmingly wonderful that he gasped, trying to stabilize his breathing, as if he were blasted by the mighty winds of a hurricane.

In his haste to meet the light, to absorb it into his skin and become one with it, Ross stepped down off the rock and onto the dirt path in its direction.

CHAPTER 1

Ross’s eyes opened weakly as he awoke from sleep. He swallowed hard, wincing, as he tasted a parched dryness in his mouth. When he felt a tiny tingle at the bottom of his foot, he moved his toes slightly.

Dr. Craig Taylor was at the foot of the bed, getting ready to touch the bottom of Ross’s other foot with a needle, when he heard Ross gasp. He glanced up to acknowledge the awakening of his patient.

"Don’t try to speak—just rest," the doctor said, pricking Ross’s right foot. He smiled when he saw Ross’s toes make the same small movements as the toes on his left foot. Then he rose and walked to the head of the bed, where Ross lay propped up on four fat pillows.

Ross smiled back, before surrendering to the joyful tears that filled his eyes, as he stared at the white face of the doctor. Now he knew he had never had a spiritual confrontation with a black angel. It was just a nightmare.

"Welcome back to the world! Honestly, you’ve got to keep out of trouble," the young doctor said with a smile. Dr. Taylor had first met Ross, a once reputable literary agent, at Hartford Hospital. There had been much scandal in the news about Ross’s white supremacist attitudes, which led him to a violent altercation with some writer. However, Dr. Taylor never questioned the lifestyle of his reclusive patient, who spent many days working to regain his health.

Ross had lost his business and wealth in a legal settlement awarded to the writer, but Dr. Taylor didn’t let that affect their professional relationship. He had learned time and time again through experience that a doctor’s job went far beyond professional obligation. He was the kind of person who loved helping others, and that part of his job was a personal quality, a gift from God in the harsh reality of medicine. He was kind enough to help locate an affordable place for Ross to live when he left the hospital. It wouldn’t be permanent housing, but it would suffice until Ross could get back to work. Dr. Taylor promised to stay in touch and reassured Ross with the phrase he had used in the hospital: "If you ever need me, just call."

Now, in a barely audible, raspy voice, Ross managed to ask, "Why are you here?"

Dr. Taylor patted the other man’s hand and began to explain what horrible events had occurred the night before.

*

Ross was sitting outside in his wheelchair in front of his apartment building, scanning the rundown housing project that was his new home. Sparkling pieces of shattered glass and stray garbage speckled Hexter Street, the main road that passed through a neighborhood of about a hundred four-story red brick buildings.

The street was overcrowded with unfamiliar black faces of people who were outdoors now that the sweltering heat from earlier that summer day had subsided. Children were playing football in the street, jumping rope on the sidewalks, and leaping into cool water that gushed from an open hydrant. Adults sat on apartment building steps in animated gossip sessions, listening to music so loud that it caused Ross’s wheelchair to vibrate. He had forced himself to come outside only to escape baking to death in his oven-hot apartment.

"Hello."

Ross jumped at the sudden sound of a young black woman’s voice as she approached his side. He made a quick right turn in his wheelchair, rolling from the wide asphalt walkway onto the grass and dirt path that passed below Clyde Barren’s first-floor window. The middle-aged black man, who lived across the hall from Ross, was the maintenance man for the entire housing project. From the first day, he had offered to help Ross up and down the few steps in front of their apartment building.

But now Clyde did not seem to hear as Ross repeatedly called his name, "Clyde! Clyde! Clyde!"

"Please, don’t go," the young woman said with a sweet voice and disarming smile that compelled Ross to stop calling for his neighbor. He slowly wheeled himself around to face the ebony stranger, whose freshly permed hair reached down to her shoulders. Her short summer dress with spaghetti straps and a bright floral print set off her youthful good looks.

"Sorry… didn’t mean to scare you." As the woman took a seat on the steps, her eyes darted all around, as if she were expecting someone.

"How long you live here?" she asked.

"A couple of months," Ross replied in a low voice. He kept distance between himself and the woman, who suddenly surprised him with an angry stare.

"Why you here… on Hexter Street?"

"Bitch, I already told you why! Another undercover cop to bust us for sellin’ drugs… again." The dark man who spoke appeared from out of nowhere, followed by five other men. He was tall and muscular, with a dull bald head. His eyes reflected all the evil violence that he had ever brought his enemies. Gaudy platinum-and-diamond jewelry adorned his ears, wrists, fingers, and neck.

He and his five followers quickly surrounded Ross’s wheelchair. The woman rose, giggling, and joined the group.

She set me up, Ross thought, as he stared at the powerfully built guys. If they think I’m a cop, they must have plans to kill me!

As though the leader had read Ross’s mind, he suddenly punched the man in the chair. Blood spilled from Ross’s nostrils, and he gasped as the black man continued, hammering his seated victim with iron fists. Ross was helpless to avoid the blows. All he could do was sit there in intense pain, eyes closed, hearing the gang’s wild laughter and wondering if they would kill him.

But then he heard the sounds of a speeding car and gunshots. He opened his swollen eyes to see a blur of everyone running for cover, except the man who had led the attack on him—who now lay on the ground in front of Ross’s wheelchair. He’s shot! Ross thought. And then he feared that someone would try to kill him too.

The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was the sound of approaching sirens echoing in the distance.

*

"That’s what brought me here," Dr. Taylor said, taking Ross’s hand into his own and gently squeezing it. The attentive physician was thirty-something, with deep-set brown eyes that clearly showed his concern over Ross’s condition. He wore his professional white coat over a plain red T-shirt and white jeans.

"Maggie was hysterical when she called and told me what had happened to you."

Ross heard a woman singing about the goodness of God somewhere outside the room and frowned as he stared at Dr. Taylor.

"It’s okay," Dr. Taylor said. "That’s Ms. Maggie Turner. You’ll meet her soon."

Ross withdrew his hand from the other man, looking at him as if he had spoken a foreign language. He used his arms to pull himself up into a sitting position and then fell back against the fluffy pillows, looking for the first time at the small, practically bare room. Directly in front of him, below a brown-curtained window, was a wooden dresser so wide that it stretched almost from one wall to the other. To his left, beside the bed, was a raggedy stereo speaker-turned-nightstand; its top held a tall lamp with a ripped tan shade and a black digital alarm clock. Ross had to squint to focus, but finally he could read the glowing red numbers and discovered that it was 12:30 a.m.

Ross looked puzzled as he glanced up at the doctor. "This is not my home. Where am I?" he asked in a weak voice.

His heart skipped a fearful beat when a short, thin, brown-skinned woman burst through the door balancing a large soup bowl in her hands and hymning. Her graying hair was worn back, reaching a little below her shoulders. She had large brown eyes and deep dimples in her cheeks. A white waist apron protected her long black-and-white checkered dress.

When she saw him, she grinned, her deep dimples caving even further into her cheeks. "Bless your heart, you up!"

Ross stared at the black woman, who stopped at the side of the bed across from the doctor. His hands quickly became fists at his sides, as he remembered the young woman who had approached him outside on Hexter Street. "Where am I?" he repeated, more strongly this time, glaring back at Dr. Taylor for an explanation.

The doctor held up his hands to calm Ross. "You’re upstairs, just above your apartment." He gave a nod at the woman, fingering a loose strand of his neck-length dark hair behind his ear, as he continued, "Maggie and her grandson, Tracie, are your neighbors. Last night, after your run-in with the gang, they brought you from outside and hid you here in their home."

I would rather have died, Ross thought, staring at the woman as if he had a bitter taste in his mouth. Then his thoughts unexpectedly turned toward the song he had heard her singing. Who was this God that he—and so many others—learned to worship by faith but never saw? And though he was raised to believe that white people were God’s favorite, he now wondered how true that really was. Was it possible that God could actually be more faithful to blacks than whites? After all, they were once slaves, and yet a violent war gave them their freedom. Today, they were almost as civilized as any distinguished white lady or gentleman. Were You responsible for their freedom? Ross shouted at God within. Never—You’re our God!

*

In a sudden shift of time, Ross was a nine-year-old again, and he clearly heard the voice of his father, Benjamin. A slight, muscular man, Benjamin had close-cropped red hair, like Ross’s, and serious brown eyes. He and Ross were taking a long afternoon walk along Main Street, the ill-maintained road where they lived.

Benjamin was a self-made preacher, and his wife, Gloria, the first lady of his church. The church’s congregation consisted of about twenty-five lower-middle-class white families, who lived in a predominantly black neighborhood but refused to associate with the black community. Neither Benjamin nor Gloria worked regular jobs but made their living from the congregation’s offerings and other meager donations.

"Son, I’m from deep in the South, where you either really like blacks or really hate ’em. I don’t like niggers, but my Ma and Pa do. Once, they even told me our white God made us all—all races—equal."

Ross stopped walking and looked up at his father with a frown. "But didn’t He? I have a white history teacher who pretty much believes the same thing."

Benjamin looked alarmed, shaking his head. "Nonsense! When I was a little older than you, I met a nice group of people who was in the Ku Klux Klan. They convinced me that, although we’re 100 percent American, blacks get treated better than we do. The Ku Klux Klan was very united and wasn’t afraid to harm or kill any nigger who tried to live as good as whites."

Benjamin squinted down at Ross’s sudden, shocked change of expression. The youth was obviously horrified to hear the extent of the Ku Klux Klan’s hatred for the black race. There was much for him to learn about life. And it was Benjamin’s God-given responsibility, as the head of the household, to train Ross early in the way that he should go; so said the Good Book.

"Satan’s brainwashed the government, and that’s somethin’ God don’t like. The Almighty Himself chose Moses to lead us from the evil ways of Pharaoh to become rulers over the Earth, and He chose the Ku Klux Klan to guide us the same way Moses did."

Benjamin then explained that his parents had warned him to stay away from the Ku Klux Klan. "But God ordered me to keep my eyes open and snitch on not only the troublemakin’ blacks but also the successful blacks—the most horrible blacks—to the local Ku Klux Klansmen."

"Really? Were you a member?" Ross looked happily surprised. The responsibility God had bestowed on his father sounded very important and gave Ross a strong sense of family pride.

Benjamin smiled. "Wish to God I could’ve been. The Ku Klux Klan always wore angel-like robes and hoods when they went on missions. Sometimes they even rode horses!" He pretended to ride a horse as he started circling around Ross. Then he stopped and picked up his son. "But by the time I was old enough to join the Ku Klux Klan, I had married your mother, and we moved up here. God had chosen me to minister His Holy Word to the Northern whites, the first people in this country who thought niggers were more than slaves."

Despite the important conversation, which one day would have meaning to him, Ross’s young life was too bleak for him to notice any differences between whites and blacks. Kept inside, in close sight of overprotective parents, he spent most of his time helping to run the church or staring out windows, envious of the happy black children playing in the neighborhood.

*

Now, Maggie’s happy face sank. She wanted to run right back out the door and hide from Ross’s cold stare. The last time a white person had looked at her with such hatred, she’d been a young woman. She could tell that this man did not like blacks, and she wondered if perhaps Tracie and she should have left him outside to die. No, Maggie girl, God don’t like ugly thoughts, she silently reminded herself. For she was a Christian, and was it not her duty to help those who were in need—including her enemies? Jesus had died on a cross as a symbol of his extraordinary love for the entire human race, not only his followers but also the people who had despised him.

Her mind went back to how Tracie and she had teamed together, caring for the stranger immediately after lugging him into their home. They had stopped the blood running from his nose, and then Maggie washed and bandaged the cuts on his face. You definitely needed us, and God saw fit for us to help you, Maggie thought, as she stood eyeing Ross. Because if He hadn’t given us the courage to risk our lives for your white behind, that gang might have killed you. She had a strong feeling that God had intentionally made their paths cross, and she would at least reach out and try to make the infuriated young man understand that they had only wanted to help him.

Maggie took a deep breath, turned, and carefully lowered the warm bowl of soup onto the top of the stereo speaker. Resting her hands on her hips, she turned back to Ross and smiled, as she looked him over from bottom to top. He was dressed in brown slacks, which the doctor had rolled up to his knees, and a bloodstained, wrinkled beige dress shirt. Ross, who could be no more than thirty years old, had short, disheveled hair. Its flame-red color matched the hot, glowing rage in his emerald-green eyes.

Maggie suddenly lost control, hating Ross for hating her, and God was far from her heart as she blurted, "We should have left your ungrateful behind outside to die…!"

"Why didn’t you?" Ross snapped, leaning toward Maggie. "The police were coming!" He had not asked for their help. He didn’t owe them anything.

Maggie bowed slightly, meeting Ross’s hard stare. "Because… if you had told the cops what happened to you, them men would have come back and killed you. I WANTED TO PREVENT THAT!"

Maggie held her gaze. Ross had never met a black person as honest and compassionate, and he meekly looked down into the bowl of soup sitting on the speaker. He could tell that Maggie somehow cared for him, a stranger who had desperately needed help, and he had some mild respect for her, despite his deeply embedded hatred for her race.

Then Ross asked, "What kind of soup is that?" He had not eaten for what seemed like an eternity. When his stomach growled at the delicious smell, he knew that he could not resist eating—no matter where the food came from.

"Chicken noodle," Maggie replied with a sigh, standing up straight and removing her hands from her hips. She was furious at herself—Christians were supposed to be ever kind and understanding—for starting an argument with the stranger. Of course, she had spoken in anger when she rebuked him with, "We should have left your ungrateful behind outside to die…!" But she did not know of his bad experiences; and besides, God was the only One to judge whether someone should live or die. He had evidently wanted this man to stick around and be a part of their lives, for Tracie and she had risked their own lives to save him. And here he was, sitting in Tracie’s bed.

Maggie said, "Please forgive me… don’t usually act that way." She quickly turned around and hurried for the door, heading to her room. She must ask God to forgive her for thinking evil thoughts and for having expressed them. But how could she ever forget what it was like to be spit on or beat like an animal while marching down long streets, protesting for equal rights? She would also never forget the long list of names she had been called throughout the 1940s, ’50s, and ’60s: ape, alligator, possum, coon, nigger… and worse! Things had calmed by the 1970s, and were still more or less controlled today. However, Maggie was trembling as she approached the doorway, trying to fight back the roaring, burning hatred inside that had started so long ago.

Dr. Taylor called out, "Please stay, Maggie, I believe you may be able to help us." He walked over to the other side of the bed, picking up the bowl of soup from the stereo speaker and handing it to Ross, all the while in awe as he played out in his mind what had just occurred between Ross and Maggie. It was the first time he had detected the slightest hint of truth in all of the slanderous news stories that had focused on Ross’s past. And he did not approve of it at all.

The youngest of five proud children of one of the first white men ever to record beautiful songs of soul, Dr. Taylor was brought up around black fans, recording executives, and other celebrities. He had gone to school with black children and had oftentimes spent weekends at their homes. Today, he lived in a small racially mixed community with his beautiful black fiancée and their newborn daughter. Blacks were perfectly decent people, and Dr. Taylor would have left Ross there alone if he had not cooled his temper.

Now Dr. Taylor remembered how Maggie had contacted him last night. He had just finished his work at the hospital and was walking out of his office when the loud ring of the telephone stopped him. "Dr. Taylor, Ross Crass needs you," an excited Maggie had blurted out, not even giving him a chance to say hello. She went on, explaining how she had heard gunshots while sitting in her living room watching television and ran to the window to see a white man sitting in a wheelchair, unable to get to safety.

Maggie had said, "It’s very dangerous for a white person to be in this neighborhood anyhow, and I knew the only way to save the man was for me and my grandson to go out and fetch him."

Dr. Taylor then sped over to Hexter Street, where Maggie’s grandson, Tracie, was waiting outside for him as planned. When he saw Ross, his former patient was in a deep sleep and shining clean, with little bandages sticking all over his face. He had laughed at the comical appearance of Ross as he removed the bandages, which were not really necessary. But he knew that Maggie and Tracie had meant well. He also thought they were the kindest people he had ever met. In fact, he believed the grandmother-and-grandson team would be wonderful in helping Ross in his recovery—which was why the doctor had asked Maggie to stay in the room.

When Maggie returned to Ross’s bedside, Dr. Taylor and she stood side by side, staring down at Ross, who was busy devouring the delicious soup.

Maggie chuckled. "There’s more if you like."

At first, Ross did not appear to hear the woman, as he closed his eyes, savoring a spoonful of scrumptious soft noodles and chunky chicken. Then, with a happy smile, he replied, "No, thanks, I’m fine."

Maggie looked with a new, serious expression at the doctor. "How can I help?"

But when Dr. Taylor answered, he was looking at Ross. "How much do you already know about spinal cord injury? Have you done any research since leaving the hospital?"

Ross shook his head, gulping down spoonful after spoonful of the rich soup, as he continued to listen to the doctor.

"Well, one thing you may already know is that the spinal cord is made up of nerve tissue that runs from your brain—all the way down to here," Dr. Taylor said, turning and pointing to his lower back. "The nerve tissue allows us to both control our muscles and have sensation. The amount of sensory loss depends on exactly where an individual is injured. For example, if someone is injured around the neck, he or she is at risk of losing feeling in both arms and legs, and all the rest of his or her body up to that level—or even their life. That person is what we call a quadriplegic."

He continued, "In your case, Ross, the injury happened around here." Dr. Taylor placed his finger at the middle of his back. "This location is known to neurologists as T-6. Anyone who receives an injury around here, like yourself, is called a paraplegic and will most likely only lose control and sensation in the legs." He turned back to Ross. "Recovering from any disability is normally a hard, time-consuming—sometimes even impossible—task. Many are permanently confined to a wheelchair after an injury to the spinal cord. However, there are two kinds of injuries, which will determine if a paraplegic or quadriplegic will ever walk again: complete and incomplete. Complete cord injury can never be repaired; the nerves are too severely damaged, or possibly even severed. There’s far greater hope for someone with incomplete cord injury, someone like you, where the damage isn’t as bad as a complete cord injury."

Ross swallowed and frowned. He could only remember some of this being explained to him while he was recovering in the hospital; but at that time, he had been in too much pain to hear what anyone was saying. "What does that mean?"

Dr. Taylor grinned. "From the impressive results I received this morning, it apparently means you’re a very lucky T-6, incomplete-cord-injury paraplegic!"

Ross sighed and Maggie held his trembling hand, sharing his relief. Neither person had completely comprehended the doctor’s neurological terminology, but "very lucky" were two words that gave them both a lot of hope.

Dr. Taylor pulled out a needle from the pocket of his work coat and held it in the air for Ross and Maggie to see. Then he pricked the sole of Ross’s foot with the needle. "Feel that?" the doctor asked.

Ross beamed as he felt a tiny tingle on the bottom of his left foot, and Maggie’s happy dark eyes shone when she saw Ross’s toes twitch. "Oh, my God—YES—I felt that!" Ross exclaimed.

Dr. Taylor said, "The Man Upstairs must really love you, because many paraplegics aren’t as fortunate as you. Furthermore, I’m confident that you will walk again one day."

Ross nervously handed Maggie the half-empty bowl of soup, thinking, I will walk again! The delightful news had somehow satisfied his incredible hunger for food. Then, in another unexpected shift of focus, he thought of how his life had dramatically changed course in the brief time since he had met Maggie. And for the first time ever, as Ross looked at her now, tearfully happy to know that he would walk again, he was startled to find himself mildly questioning the way he felt about black people.

Ross looked back at Dr. Taylor. "Where do I begin my recovery?"

The doctor answered, "Lots of physical rehabilitation. I know a physiatrist—a specialist in the field of physical rehabilitation—who would be perfect for the job. His name is Dr. Peter Kline, and he works at St. Mary’s, a small rehabilitation center not too far from here. But Ross, you would have to stay at St. Mary’s for the long-term, full-time treatment that the physiatrist recommends for an effective recovery."

Then Dr. Taylor turned his attention to Maggie, continuing, "Since Ross would be at the rehab center for a while, I figured perhaps you and Tracie could help out, at least until he gets used to things? In the early stages of therapy, patients normally feel like they aren’t making any progress and often need someone to cheer them on."

Ross grew irritable at the other two people, who began discussing his medical situation as if he were not in the room. He did not want to have to depend on anyone, especially someone from the black race. He would probably always be thankful that the woman and her grandson had so bravely rescued him from the violent gang; but to him, they were just as much "niggers" as those men. Anyone from that race could snap and kill. Ross knew this to be true, especially as he recalled a painful experience that happened when he was twelve.

It had been an unseasonably hot summer Sunday afternoon, the kind of day Hades might decide to ride his chariot up from the Underworld for a holiday. Ross’s father, Benjamin, stepped out in front of his unruly organization to lead them in a protest march. This group of a hundred local white citizens had assembled for a specific mission: to demand better jobs, proper "white" education for their children, and adequate health care for the elderly. Their march began on Main Street, at the church, and was headed all the way down to a neighborhood of raggedy apartment houses, where Benjamin’s family lived.

Then, almost as soon as it began, the ill-tempered march ended—stopped short by a solid wall of armed black men and youths, who dared the angry group to continue. They shouted insults and threats and threw a few token rocks and bottles. Baited by the confrontational stance of the black community, some of the unruly white marchers began attacking black-owned cars, homes, and stores. Fortunately, the police arrived to break up the fight before it escalated into a full-scale riot.

While ordering his ragtag group to retreat to the church to prevent any of them from being arrested, Benjamin was hit on the back of his head by a brick thrown from the other side of the street. He drifted off into a coma while in the ambulance speeding for Hartford Hospital and never awoke.

Ross looked away from Maggie. He would not even consider accepting help from the race of people who had murdered his father and caused such hardships for his mother. Ross would never forget that after her husband’s death, Gloria had been forced to take a job as a cleaning lady to support her son and herself.

But Maggie saw the doctor’s offer as a wonderful opportunity to prove to God that she really was not prejudiced and to compensate for the terrible words she had said to Ross. Although she had already witnessed how enraged he became at the very prospect of her helping him, she would not be turned down.

She reached out to hold Ross’s hand again, but he slowly drew away from her. She gave him a knowing look. "Ross, we come too far to quit now. God brought us together for a reason, and I have a funny feelin’ you already know that. Now me and my grandson want to help you… Please let us do that, okay?" She had said it in a whisper, as if they shared a special secret, and Ross could not deny that the woman was right.

"Yes, okay," he replied, before he could stop himself. He could not fight Maggie’s words, for he knew them to be true. It had already been confirmed in the dream of his supernatural visitation from Nigger. But he was still desperate to know why God had surrounded him with the very race that he was raised to hate.

Dr. Taylor’s pager sounded off in a series of high-pitched beeps, and Maggie quickly led him out of the room to the telephone in the kitchen. When five minutes later he returned to the bedroom, he was surprised to see Ross listening intently as Maggie explained how she had come across Dr. Taylor’s business card in Ross’s wallet and had immediately contacted him.

The doctor interrupted Maggie and Ross’s conversation. "I have to run—my fiancée wants me home!" They all laughed, and Dr. Taylor shook Maggie’s hand. "It was nice meeting you, and please give Tracie my best regards. I jotted down your number from the label on your kitchen phone, and I’ll be calling regularly to check up on Ross. If he gets hungry, continue to give him soups for now, and any kind of juice will be fine." Dr. Taylor turned to Ross and continued, "I’ll get in touch with Dr. Kline later on today and get back to you soon. Meanwhile, rest. Maggie and Tracie are here to help you, so let them. Don’t try to do anything alone."

As soon as Dr. Taylor left, Maggie noticed that Ross became nervous, and she knew that he would change his mind about accepting their help if she did not do something to calm him. Hurrying to the kitchen, she got rid of the bowl of soup. She returned carrying a chair, which she placed beside the bed.

She dropped down into the seat as if she were a little girl, looking serious as she said, "I’m sorry for what happened to you last night. When I ran to that window and saw you in danger…" She paused to stop the tears that would have otherwise come.

Ross had been about to fake sleepiness, since he did not know what to say to Maggie without the presence of the doctor, the middleman, to keep everyone conversing. But he was glad that she had made a sudden attempt to communicate with him, for several questions plagued his mind, and he wanted answers.

"Who were those men? How could anyone be so cruel as to attack a man in a wheelchair?" he asked.

"Just young people who know nothin’ about life," Maggie answered, waving aside Ross’s question. She felt equally compelled to defend both the gang—for they were born into just one of many black ghettoes, where almost everyone hatefully blamed whites for whatever tribulations that they must face in the world—and Ross, because no excuse at all could justify anyone’s beating on another person.

She shook her head, wondering how the new black generation could be so stupid. They used violence as a weapon to fight against white American bigotry when education was the only thing that would ever win the war, as she had taught Tracie from a very early age. Young people seemed to believe that working hard and being a success was only a white man’s dream, and that selling drugs and making regular visits to already full jails was the only way of life for blacks.

When Ross felt a sudden sharp pain in his ribs, he winced, lying back on the pillows and embracing himself.

"Good Lord! Ross, want me to call Dr. Taylor?" Maggie jumped to her feet, rushing toward the door.

Ross held up his hand to stop her. "No, I’m all right. I was hit in a lot of different places last night." He started laughing in spite of the incredible pain, which had passed as quickly as it came. Things could be much worse. God could have let the gang take his life; but instead, He had sent Maggie and Tracie along to rescue him. Because of them, he was still alive and laughing—that is all that really mattered for now.

Slowly lowering back into her seat, as if expecting Ross’s pain to return momentarily, Maggie said, "Yeah, they almost broke your nose, too, but the doctor said a couple days’ rest should heal the pain." And then, "How did you come to live on Hexter Street?"

As Ross stared into Maggie’s kind eyes, he felt that he could tell her anything at all, even the horrible truths about himself. But he wouldn’t do that, not now at least. It hurt too much every time he relived his past, and he always grew angrier at blacks every time he thought about it.

"Hi, Nana. I’m home from work."

Ross glanced sideways—always alert for danger since his surprise confrontation with the gang out on the street—at the brown-skinned young man entering the room. The man was handsome, despite his ethnicity, with eyes light brown and as large as walnut shells, and dimples as deep as Maggie’s. He had short wavy hair and thick eyebrows; and he wore a work uniform consisting of a short-sleeved red and navy shirt and navy pants.

Maggie beamed. "Ross, meet Tracie, my precious grandson."

"Nice to meet you, Ross. I hope we’ll become friends," Tracie said, stretching forth his hand to Ross, who returned his greeting. He was relieved that the young man had walked into the room just in time to stop him from continuing his conversation with Maggie.

"I would like that," Ross replied. But to him, it was more of a question than a statement.