Poor Black Teen Carried a Sick Old Man's Groceries Home — He Had No Idea Who the Man Was
Chapter 15
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He checked his phone: two missed calls, one voicemail. His stomach immediately tightened. The voicemail was from Gloria. He called back before even listening.She answered on the second ring. "Hey, baby."Relief flooded through him. "You okay?""I'm fine.""You called twice.""I know.""What happened?"A small laugh came through the phone. "I couldn't remember if I took my afternoon medication."Jamal smiled despite himself. "You did.""You sure?""I put it right beside your tea.""Oh." A pause. "Then I guess I did."Jamal shook his head. "What would you do without me?""Probably get into trouble.""Definitely."That earned another laugh. The sound warmed him for a moment. Then Gloria coughed—a deep cough, longer than usual. Jamal's smile disappeared."You okay?""I'm fine." Another cough. "I'm serious. I'm fine, baby."But he knew that voice: she wasn't fine.The call ended a few minutes later, and the worry stayed with him. He started walking home. Traffic rolled past; a train thundered overhead; neon signs flickered to life as evening approached. The city moved around him—busy, loud, unstoppable. Yet Jamal could think only about Gloria. And money: always money. Medicine, rent, food, bills. Every road seemed to lead back to those same problems.As he crossed Franklin Avenue, a black sedan slowed beside the curb. The passenger window lowered; Margaret Cole sat inside.Jamal stopped, confused. "Can I help you, ma'am?"Margaret smiled politely. "You must be Jamal Carter."His guard immediately went up; years of experience taught him that strangers usually wanted something. "Who are you?""My name is Margaret." Technically true; she left out the rest. "I'm a friend of Arthur Whitmore."Jamal blinked. "The old man from yesterday?""The very same."A small smile appeared on his face. "How's he doing?"Margaret noticed something immediately: not excitement, not curiosity about money, not questions about Arthur's house. The first thing Jamal asked was whether Arthur was okay. Interesting."He's doing well.""Good."Margaret studied him: the torn jacket, the worn shoes, the exhaustion in his eyes. Everything Arthur described was true. "Mr. Whitmore wanted me to thank you again."Jamal shrugged. "No need.""He insists.""I'm glad he's okay."Margaret smiled. The boy wasn't performing, wasn't pretending; he genuinely meant it. That was becoming increasingly rare. "Can I give you a ride home?"Jamal shook his head. "No, thank you.""It's cold.""I walk every day.""It's no trouble."Again, he shook his head. "Really, I'm good."Margaret found herself smiling. Arthur was right: the young man seemed almost allergic to accepting help. "All right." She reached into her purse, pulled out a business card, and handed it over. "If you ever need anything, call me."