Unconditional by Eva Marie Everson Page B

dire circumstances? And where did it come from? From Joe? Or from just being around him?
    That I could imagine. He’d given me years of friendship and contentment when we were children. More than just being funny and kind, Joe had been one of the smartest boys in our school. He’d graduated with honors.
    So what was he doing here?
    The kids gathered with Joe and Denise in the backyard. Book bags were tossed onto the half-dozen wooden picnic tables alongside old coffee cans filled with colorful sprays of pansies. At the back of the house, Joe had planted flower beds and bordered them with stone-lined walkways. An ivy-draped chain-link fence ran along both sides of the yard, with a dilapidated wooden privacy fence stretched along the back. All in all, and in spite of being located in the Commons, the yard was manicured, vivid, and at the same time, meant for children.
    The snow cones were taken from the box tops and had been inhaled before we ever left the sidewalk. I placed the nearly empty containers on one of the tables, then stood on the sidelines, watching Denise move freely among these angels, talking with them about their week and gathering the green slips of paper and holding them tenderly between her slender fingers.
    At some point, Joe dashed toward the back door as though he’d forgotten something inside. As he got close to the steps, he stumbled, but not as though his foot had tripped on a stone or a crack in the cement. This was more like his body had given out, but only for a second. Looking from him to Denise, I saw that the moment had not gone unnoticed by her either. I couldn’t help but wonder again about the medical apparatus I’d seen in his room. Something was wrong. I could sense it.
    But a minute later he returned, looking vibrant and carrying the saxophone. “Y’all ready?” he called out.
    Cheers erupted from the children. They formed a semicircle on either side of Joe and Denise. I remained safely tucked away near a tree so scrawny it would snap in two if I leaned against it for the support I felt I needed. So I held tightly to the strap of my purse instead.
    Joe and Denise began a stomp-clap rhythm. The kids joined in and a chant started. “His name is Snuffy, yeah, and he’s a clown, yeah, when he gets jiggy, yeah, he break it down! Go, Snuffy! Go, Snuffy . . .”
    One of the children, who appeared to be about ten, maybe even as old as twelve, stepped to the center of the half circle. He performed a serious “robot” while the others encouraged him with their clapping and cheering.
    I watched, motionless, part of me desperately wanting to be a part of the revelry. Another part refusing. But inside, something began to rip. To tear away. Something that had long ago gone numb. Something bitter and confused. I wasn’t ready to let it go completely, but the new sensation felt good all the same.
    Snuffy returned to the line as the song continued. “His name is Papa, yeah, and he’s a clown . . .”
    Joe looked at me, eyebrows shooting up in delight. He grinned like a boy in a candy store as the children continued. “Go, Papa! Go, Papa!”
    Joe eased into the center of the group, placed his lips around the mouthpiece of the saxophone, and blew a lazy jazz tune. He was immersed wholly in the moment, and I couldn’t help but laugh. When he stopped, he faltered again. Around his abdomen, sweat marked his tee in small patches.
    Denise leaned over and spoke to him as the children now called on the name of Bernie, keeping rhythm, not missing a beat. Denise’s face showed concern. While I could not hear what she said, I could tell it was serious.
    Joe shook his head no. Then he nodded and flinched. A nagging feeling washed over me. Something was horribly wrong here. The joy surrounding the children, emanating from their song and laughter, was tainted by something floating just out of reach but coming closer. Something they didn’t