chapter 1...ready with mercurochrome, calamine lotion or whatever treatment she deemed necessary,...

Chapter 1THE MOTT HAVEN:WHAT’S IN A NAMEBook One

As the plane lifted off from Huntsville International on my return flight to New York, Icouldn’t help but be slightly amused by the fact that I was coming from Alabama with abanjo on my knee. Well, not on my knee, but I had checked it with my luggage. Thethought made me smile and I needed that after four days of funeral preparations and, ofcourse, the service itself. I also had to contend with endless variations of I’m so sorry foryour loss and gaining several pounds from the smorgasbord of casseroles prepared bychurch ladies who believe anything is more delicious topped with a layer of crushed cornflakes and melted cheese. I also said farewell to my hero, Thomas McKenna Mott, orTommy Mack, as he was known to friends and relatives. He was my grandpa on my

The Mott Haven What's In a Name

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Tommy Mack, as he was known to friends and relatives. He was my grandpa on my

daddy’s side and the banjo had belonged to him since his dad passed it down in 1949.Granddaddy had always told me that his daddy had played that banjo as backup to somefuture stars of the Grand Ole Opry in the late 1920s. Family legend has it that my great-granddaddy once filled in for the banjo picker for Gid Tanner and the Skillet Lickers.Sometimes I feared that my only claim to fame in this life would be that my father’sfather’s father was Skillet Licker for a day.

A while later, as I anxiously awaited the flight attendant’s arrival with a much-neededcup of caffeine, I was revisited by lovely memories of spending summers as a child withmy grandparents. I was transported to unbearably humid days fishing with mygranddaddy for crappie, or anything else that was biting, in his vintage ten-footaluminum boat. On the rare occasion he could find the time away from his work on thefarm, we would be out on the water shortly after breakfast and fish all morning, drinkingwhat seemed like gallons of water. I always knew it was time for lunch when mygrandfather would take the lid off a small red and white cooler. It was the same cooler hecaught me staring at every fifteen minutes since we got into the boat.

“Coop, buddy, are you ‘bout ready for a co-cola.”“I sure am, Granddaddy!”As he pulled out those glistening glass bottles, I licked my lips as I watched the

fragments of crushed ice run down the side and slide off the bottom of those ice-coldCokes.

“Take a look in that brown paper sack and see what Grandma sent us for dinner.”I would anxiously reach into the bag and take out the paper towels she sent for

napkins. My favorite find was always when she would pack a can of Vienna sausages foreach of us and a sandwich bag full of saltine crackers to share. After our meal, mygrandfather would reach down to the bottom of the sack and bring out the pièce derésistance: a Little Debbie oatmeal creme pie for each of us. I also recalled quality timespent shelling peas on the front porch with my grandmother. In order to make it fun for apreteen boy with the attention span of a preteen boy, she would make it into a contest.The winner would get to lick the spoon after she mixed her next cake batter. While mygrandmother put a great deal of care into each cake she baked, she paid equal attention tomaking sure that she left an ample amount of batter on the spoon on the occasion of avisit from nieces, nephews or grandchildren. To ensure that I was the winner, I wouldshell the peas so quickly that some of them actually ended up in the bowl. It was alwaysunnecessary. Win or lose, I got to lick the spoon.

While both my grandparents were hardworking to a fault, my granddaddy didn’t mindtaking the occasional breather from his work on the farm, usually at the insistence of mygrandmother after his first heart attack. It seemed like my grandma hardly ever sloweddown, always conveniently finding some excuse to put me to work. Even as a young boy,I would hardly have two minutes with the etch-a-sketch that had belonged to my dadwhen he was my age, when I would hear her voice calling about one thing or another.

“Goodness gracious, Cooper. It’s startin’ to sprinkle. Run get Grandma’s sheets andbedspreads off the line before they get wet again.”


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And there I’d be, with a laundry basket as big as I was, jumping up to grab thoseelusive clothes pins. Granddaddy’s old hunting dogs, Lum and Abner, would be runningand jumping excitedly around my bare feet, barking and seeming to sense the urgency ofthe situation. They had undoubtedly seen my grandmother’s sunny disposition take aturn when her dry laundry got caught on the clothes line during a pop-up shower. If theirbarks could have been translated, I believe I would have understood them to say, “For thelove of God, get Agnes’ bedspreads in the house before they get soaked. You know howshe gets.”

It was also during those dog days of summer that I would visit every Vacation BibleSchool within five miles in any direction of their farm. The denomination of the churchnever mattered to any of us kids in the community and over the years I enjoyed beingreacquainted with old friends and making brand new ones. As restless as we were to gooutside for play time, we managed to settle down long enough to learn about Samson andNoah and a wee little man named Zacchaeus and listen to stories about missionaries whoselflessly served the Lord in faraway places like China, India and New Mexico. And thenthere were the snacks. Whether it was Coke and Oreos or Kool-Aid with Great ValueChocolate Sandwich Cookies from Walmart, there was just something special abouteating at church. Usually, after snack, we would work on making things to show off onVBS commencement night. This usually occurred on the following Sunday, giving us achance to recite our Bible verses and to answer well-rehearsed questions concerning allwe had learned the previous week about Jesus and missions. To this day, mygrandmother has a box full of the crafts I hand-made at those Bible schools. Only agrandparent would treasure a birdhouse made of popsicle sticks, thirteen crudelydecorated toilet paper rolls representing Jesus and the disciples and six plaster of parispraying hands. Due to the fragile nature of the plaster, the praying hands lookedespecially pitiful due to the loss of a finger or two.

Even the pain of some memories gives way to sentiment after so many years. I couldnow actually grin about having a fish hook removed from my hand or getting stung byangry wasps as a boy, traumatic episodes that caused great wailing and gnashing of teethat the time. Of course, no matter how horrific the affliction, Grandma was always at theready with mercurochrome, calamine lotion or whatever treatment she deemed necessary,followed by a hug that contained healing properties that put any store-bought remedy toshame. During all those summers, no injury, no matter how painful or bloody, everrequired a trip to the emergency room. I gathered that a visit there was a luxury affordedonly to those who had been mauled by a bobcat or had been victim of an accidentalamputation by farm machinery.

Only a cow pasture separated my grandparent’s house and Piney Woods BaptistChurch, where Granddaddy served as chairman of the deacons and Grandma playedpiano every Sunday and worked in the nursery on Wednesday nights. In the wintermonths, the church would baptize new converts at the First Baptist Church in town, butwhen it was warmer, Granddaddy would let the church use his pond in the pasture. Ofcourse, I would ask Jesus into my heart as my personal Lord and Savior in the month of


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course, I would ask Jesus into my heart as my personal Lord and Savior in the month of

July. The water more closely resembled pea soup than a source of freshwater, but thatdidn’t concern me. I was troubled by the prospect of being prematurely sent to heaven bya water moccasin angered by a group of off-key Southern Baptist interlopers. I figuredthe vile serpent would give no regard to how securely we were leaning on the everlastingarms. Those fears were totally assuaged upon coming up out of the water and seeing thesmiles and tears upon the faces of Tommy Mack and Agnes Mott. A bit of turbulencejolted my thoughts to present day and the vision of tears upon my grandmother’s facestreamed down across wrinkled skin and my grandfather was no longer in the picture.

After I finished my coffee and the flight attendant was making one last round with thetrash bag, I knew it wouldn’t be long before I was back in the city that never sleeps.North central Alabama had been my home for my first twenty-two years, but I nowconsidered Manhattan my forever home. Some actors get their training and experience inNew York, only in preparation for a career in film or television. Not me. I adored thetheater and the Big Apple. I had always known I would never be able to make verymuch money treading the boards, but I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

I had always been keenly aware of my grandparent’s concern about my chosen lifeupon the wicked stage, but I never had more enthusiastic supporters. I knew I couldconsistently count on their fervent prayers and generous checks. I could also count onGranddaddy’s advice every time I visited them, which was usually about twice a year.While the wording varied slightly upon each visit, the idea was the same every time.

“Cooper, any time you get up there on that stage, never forget your raising.”“Okay, Granddaddy. I won’t.”“And remember you’re a Christian, so that means you’re representing Jesus Christ in

everything you do. That means you don’t need to be cussing in front of that audienceand don’t ever accept a part in a play where you have to get all the way nekkid.”

“I won’t, Granddaddy.”I was once in a silly mood upon receiving his sage advice and asked him just how far

nekkid I was allowed to get on the stage. Granddaddy was unamused. I really couldn’tblame him. He had often relayed to me the time a touring company of actors wentthrough the area when he was a child in the early 1940s. He and his siblings wantedbadly to go see the play at the old lodge building, but his Aunt Lottie Laverne explainedto the kids that the stage was nothing but a playground for the devil. It was, in herwords, a place where women pranced around wearing little to nothing and men spoutedugly words galore and called it art. She added that only heathens and ne’er-do-wellsdriving a fast car to Hades would dare take up a life on the stage. He shared this with meshortly after I had announced my plans to become an actor and I guess I was just in themood to get mad. I told him that Lottie Laverne sounded like the name of anunsuccessful Burlesque dancer and that she was probably just bitter about her failedcareer. My grandfather wasted no time in setting me straight. He said that while maybehis Aunt Lottie Laverne was a stern, severe woman who rarely smiled or had a kind wordto say about anyone and who was known to be a bit miserly when it came to helpingthose in need, never had there lived a more dedicated Baptist. She had gone thirty-seven


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those in need, never had there lived a more dedicated Baptist. She had gone thirty-seven

years without missing Sunday School and spent most of that time teaching first andsecond graders about the love of Jesus.

Thankfully, my grandparents exuded something I considered more genuinely lovingthan the legalistic intensity of Lottie Laverne. This is what I would remember mostabout Thomas Mott. As the plane began its descent in the direction of LaGuardiaAirport, I again flashed one of those much-needed smiles at the legacy he left behind: asteadfast, unwavering faith in God, a sterling work ethic and a deep love for family andcountry. And a banjo on my knee.

* * *

I was mesmerized, as usual, by the view outside my Hell’s Kitchen apartment windowas I tried to focus on pouring milk in my bowl. I had only a small amount of cereal intwo different boxes, so I decided to combine them. Based upon the claims on thepackaging, I assumed my morning meal would be both GR-R-EAT and magicallydelicious. It turned out to be neither, but I figured it would supply me with ample energyfor two TV commercial auditions, a voice class and waiting tables for the after-theatercrowd at the upscale Italian bistro where I worked. It was a far cry from Audie & RuthCulpepper’s Country Cafe, where I worked evenings during my senior year in highschool. The rural Alabama eatery may not compare to a fancy midtown ristorante, butRuth’s chicken and dumplings were to die for. As I dumped the remainder of theunsavory cereal combo in the trash can, I wished I had a plate full of anything fromAudie and Ruth’s breakfast menu. I was delighted to find a granola bar in the cabinetand returned to the window for another round of skyscraper gazing. As the sun made anappearance from behind a cloud, I was almost blinded by the sunlight that bounced offthe steel and glass of a commercial high-rise a couple of avenues over. I shaded my eyeswith my left hand and looked down as far as I could at a row of five-story brownstones.My eyes were immediately soothed by the warm combination of light and shade on thosecentury-old buildings, suddenly remembering how those same early morning raysappeared on the side of my grandparents red barn. During the heat of those summerdays, that barn stood for hard work and sweat and smelled like manure. But everydaybreak, just as God’s enduring love and mercies are new again, so was that smelly,time-worn barn, for just a few moments, lovely and enchanting.

I rushed clumsily to and fro, in my usual disorganized way, getting ready for my busyday. In the typical morning madness, I still found time to be thankful for my beautifulsurroundings. I was living in a stunning one bedroom condo located in one of the mostsought after addresses in Midtown Manhattan. First time visitors to my swanky abodeinevitably asked the same question: “Wow, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a part-time waiter and out of work actor.”My response normally induced blank stares and dropped jaws. I would just leave it to

their imaginations to determine if I was doing something illegal or extremely naughty toadd to my tip money to be able to afford such a place. In actuality, I was living there by


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add to my tip money to be able to afford such a place. In actuality, I was living there by

means of the Mike and Diane Mott Endowment for the Arts. That is the phrase I coinedwhen my parents, Attorney Michael Cooper Mott and Dr. Diane Hanes Mott, familypractitioner, decided to purchase a luxury residence in Midtown West. They said thatsecuring the pricey investment almost a thousand miles from where they live at the sametime I was embarking on a career in the same area was merely coincidental. A couple ofmonths after moving in, I finally convinced my amazing parents to allow me to pay rent.I explained to them that having the opportunity to be a true starving artist would prepareme for the stage. They reluctantly agreed, however, they have been known to lovinglyreduce my rent during the months I think I actually might starve.

I emerged from the bathroom, following one last check in the mirror to make sure Ihad not left any detail in disarray, ready to face all the day had to offer. My outfit wasmade up of the light blue twill shirt, British tan chinos and brown loafers given to me bymy grandmother and the crazy, neon orange, red and yellow argyle socks picked out forme by none other than Tommy Mack Mott. He had told me that he had prayed a specialblessing upon those socks and that I should wear them for every audition. I always did,but I rarely got hired. I kept wearing them because I knew he would ask. Mygrandmother, however, said that they were awful and looked as though they had comefrom the pits of you know where.

I glanced at the clock on the microwave and realized I had time to spare. StarbucksIced Caramel Macchiato, here I come! On my way to the door, I noticed the mail I hadtossed on the coffee table as I arrived home after a particularly exhausting shift at workand realized I had not even looked to see what I had. There were three envelopes.Underneath the two utility bills was a letter from Agnes Mott. In an age of emails, textsand facebook messaging, I always loved getting a real, honest-to-goodness hand-writtenletter on paper stuffed in a stamped envelope from my grandma. Maybe it was just myover-active imagination, but I always thought with each letter that I could detect the hintof cherry-almond on the paper from my grandmother’s Jergen’s hand lotion.

I had only been home from my trip to Alabama for a week, so I figured she must havewritten it soon after the day of the funeral. I immediately dismissed the idea of a coffeein favor of hearing from my beloved grandmother.

My Sweet Cooper. As long as I could remember, my grandmother had started every letter to me in the

same endearing way.You will never know how much it meant to have you sitting next to me during the

service for your granddaddy. I know he’s in heaven now, and I don’t know if he’sallowed to see anything here on earth, but I’m hoping the Lord somehow let him knowthat you were wearing those hideous argyle socks he gave you. I bet he really laughedabout that.

I could almost hear that hearty laugh of his as I stopped reading long enough to lookdown at those crazy socks.

After your granddaddy retired and got so sick, we saw what savings we had go downpretty fast. I have plenty to get by on and your mama and daddy check on me every day.


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pretty fast. I have plenty to get by on and your mama and daddy check on me every day.

But I feel bad that I didn’t have anything much to give you of Tommy’s but a banjo. Ipray it will be a blessing to you. Silver and gold have I none, but this beaten up oldbanjo I give to you. Ha!

I love that people still end humorous sentences in letters with “ha.” I have an elderlygreat-aunt from Selma that still does that when she writes my mom. I’ll be disappointedif my grandmother or Aunt Opal ever transition to “lol.”

Cooper, the purpose of this letter is to let you know that there is one other thing thatyour granddaddy and I want you to have. Originally, we thought that we would give it toyou after the death of which ever one of us went last. I had a dream the night of thefuneral where me and Tommy were sitting on the front porch in the early evening aftersupper and he told me to go ahead and give it to you because you needed it now.

I felt an innate desire to skip ahead to find out what “it” was, but I opted for patience.Now, I don’t know if that dream was from the Lord letting me know what to do or if it

was just one of those silly dreams that doesn’t mean a thing, but after a lot of prayer andtalking it over with your parents, I have decided to give it to you now.

As you know Cooper, I’m a New Yorker, too.I was longing to read ahead, but I wanted to treasure each precious word in the order

in which my grandmother had written them. It wasn’t that I wanted something, but Ioften allowed insatiable curiosity to get the better of me. Yes, I was that child whosecretly peeked into pre-Santa Clause packages. We traditionally opened those gifts,from aunts and uncles and grandparents, on Christmas Eve, but I generally knew whateverything was by the twenty-first of December.

I was born in the Bronx and met your granddaddy at a USO dance I was volunteeringat in Manhattan in 1955. He was stationed at Fort Dix in New Jersey. Right off, I washooked by his cute smile, wavy black hair and thick southern accent. After he got out ofthe service, we married and lived in the Bronx for about a year and moved to Alabama tolive on his old homeplace about the time I found out I was expecting your daddy.

I had heard this story a thousand times before, but as anxious as I was to get to thedenouement, I loved hearing it all over again. I don’t think I could have heard her voiceany more clearly if she had called me on the phone.

Before we moved to the South to raise our family, we lived in a section of the SouthBronx called Mott Haven. Back then, there were still a lot of Irish people, like my family.We lived just down the block from my mother and father and younger siblings. Yourgranddaddy always thought it was very special that he was a country boy from Alabamanamed Mott and was living in a place a thousand miles away called Mott Haven.(OVER).

I could only hope that my grandmother, deep down, knew that I would have senseenough to check the back of the paper for the rest of the letter without the benefit of theword “over.” I knew she just wanted to help. I chalked it up to her servant’s heart. Iturned the paper over.

Tommy found out that the area was bought by a man named Jordan Lawrence Mott in1849 for his iron works business. Your granddaddy did a lot of research but never could


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1849 for his iron works business. Your granddaddy did a lot of research but never could

find a direct link between that Mott family and his. Still, he thought it was reallysomething that he should live there. During that year, Tommy’s grandfather died inMississippi and left him some money. At the time, we weren’t sure if we were going tomove to Alabama or stay in New York. We really liked the place we were renting, soTommy decided to buy a business as an investment. I think that because he shared aname with it, he just had to own a piece of Mott Haven. A few blocks away, he found anold warehouse that was priced cheap, so he bought it and figured he’d decide what to dowith it later. Until he could figure out what we were going to do with it, he rented it out.It was first a tire repair shop. We moved down South and Tommy just kept renting thebuilding out to different people over the decades. We have owned that old building since1959. Sometimes it was a headache trying to keep up with a building so far away, but hehad a good law firm up there that took care of everything for him. I don’t think yourgranddaddy could ever bear to part with it. Of course, when you moved to New York outof college to become an actor, we knew it would be yours someday.

I had often heard the story of my grandparent’s courtship and marriage and how theylived in the Bronx for a year until grandma found out she was pregnant with my dad.They had decided that a southern country life would be more suitable for raising a family.But how on earth had I never been told that my grandparent’s owned a warehouse in theSouth Bronx. In my four years in Manhattan, little did I know that I lived less that tenmiles away from a property secretly owned by members of my family.

Grandma wrapped up the letter letting me know that I would be contacted by theirlawyers here in New York about transferring the deed over to my name. She informedme that the property would be mine to do with as I saw fit. I could sell it if I wanted to,she said, but hoped I would engage in much prayer and Bible study before doing so in anattempt to accurately determine God’s will. She also included, on a separate sheet ofpaper, a recipe. It was for a cheesy corn casserole that she assured me would be veryeasy to make. I just needed some canned corn, a box of Jiffy cornbread mix and a fewthings I probably already had in my refrigerator, like butter and sour cream. Obviously,she had my refrigerator confused with someone else’s.

And then, she ended the letter.Your Grandma loves you, Cooper. Remember John 3:16.I dashed out the door in an attempt to stay on schedule. I had a great deal to process

during the busy day ahead, but I also had the knowledge that God loved me so much thatHe gave His only Son, so that I would not perish, but have eternal life. And if that wasn’tenough, my Grandma loved me a whole lot, too.

* * *

If the following week had been nothing else, it had been hectic. I had two auditionsfor plays, my classes in voice and diction, acting and dance were keeping me busy and Iwas working extra shifts at the restaurant. Also, I visited a law firm in lower Manhattanand, quietly and without fanfare, became the sole owner of a building in the Mott Haven


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and, quietly and without fanfare, became the sole owner of a building in the Mott Haven

section of the South Bronx. They also gave me the street address, complete withinstructions on how to get there using public transportation. Suddenly, everything wasreal. I, Cooper Mott, a twenty-six year old aspiring actor living in Hell’s Kitchen, hadjust joined the ranks of property owners. Oddly, my usually rabid curiosity was slow inkicking in and I went a few more days trying to convince myself that I was entirely toobusy to travel to the Bronx to check the place out. I learned from the attorney that thebuilding had been used over the past five and a half decades for everything from the tirerepair shop to a sewing factory that made scrubs for medical personnel. For the pastdecade or so, the building had been rented by a local non-profit organization and used asa community center. Apparently, it had started well, providing the neighborhood with asafe place to assemble for a variety of useful classes and seminars, as well as theoccasional friendly game of ping-pong or Uno. After years of diminishing funds andoverworked volunteers, the community center had been reduced to nothing more than anunkempt and idle hangout for members of the community who had fallen through theproverbial cracks. I had been told that the organization’s lease was up in two months andthey were not interested in renewing.

After leaving the attorney’s office, I grabbed some lunch at Katz’s Delicatessen andcarried it to a nearby park. As I alternated between eating and tossing out bits of breadfor the birds, I tried to determine how ownership of the Bronx property would alter mylife. I wasn’t at all sure I wanted any major changes in my life unless it involved theacceleration of my career as an actor or the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes.The lawyer had also warned me of the neighborhood, where employment was low andcrime was high. It didn’t sound very appealing, to say the least. After all, I had beenblessed with a thirty-second floor luxury condo near the corner of fiftieth street and ninthavenue, I was a waiter, trusted and well-respected by the management, at an elegantrestaurant just a stone’s throw away from Rockefeller Center and the Theater District wasmy playground, a magical and irresistible place where even the most fanciful dreamscome true. For the life of me, I simply could not think of a reason to spend even amodicum of time in the South Bronx. Suddenly, as I ate the last of the pickle, Iremembered the letter from my grandmother. In the dream she told me about,Granddaddy told her to go ahead and give me the property because I needed it now. Isupposed, just for a few seconds, that her dream was genuinely significant. Why would Ineed that old warehouse? Perhaps he thought I could use the money I could get fromselling it. But she didn’t say anything about needing money. He told her I needed it. Ibegan working on the last portion of my pastrami on rye and pondered the idea of goinginto the community to make it better. I had read articles pertaining to gentrification andhad learned that it was a touchy subject. Many people saw it as the rejuvenation of tired,run-down areas of the city, forging a path of prosperity and opportunity, while othersviewed it as a forced exodus of the poor to make room for the rich. I looked around asparents and nannies watched over happy, well-dressed kids and was convinced that if theSouth Bronx could suddenly have nice, clean parks like the Sara D. Roosevelt,surrounded by nicer apartments and cool delicatessens, it would surely be a good thing.


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surrounded by nicer apartments and cool delicatessens, it would surely be a good thing.

Maybe my grandfather was letting me know that I could be a part of that, not only bykeeping the community center open, but by turning it into a center for the arts whereresidents of the neighborhood could be exposed to theater, dance and art.

I glanced at my watch and popped the last morsel of lunch into my mouth. I had beenthrowing small pieces of bread on the ground all along, but it wasn’t until that momentthat I realized I was surrounded by enough birds to make a Hitchcock movie. I wasconsidering options that would allow me to rise from the bench and exit the park with theleast amount of commotion, when one of the precious, well-dressed kids escaped fromtheir keeper and ran screaming, at the top of his lungs, through the feathered throng. Theactor in me pretended I was in the classic film as I ran, covering my head with my arms.I was being such a ham. And, I was a little terrified, which I found to be great motivationfor my performance.

* * *

I looked up and down the sidewalk.Doesn’t anybody ever curb their dogs around here?My negative attitude upon coming up from the train at Cypress Avenue opened the

door for a healthy dose of conviction. I knew that I should be arriving in the Bronx witha cheerful, open-minded outlook. After all, God had blessed me with the ownership of apiece of property in New York City, something I figured would normally have takendecades to accomplish for a part-time waiter, mostly out of work actor.

I pulled a small slip of paper from my shirt pocket that would hopefully lead me to theplace. I stared at the street numbers and avenue names and realized I didn’t know whereto start. I walked up to a very amiable-looking churro vendor and asked for directions,thinking they might be easier to follow if given orally. I thanked the nice man, shook hishand and walked away wishing I had studied harder in Miss Skinner’s Spanish forBeginners in high school.

After three wrong turns and two more sets of directions in Spanish, I found myselfstanding before the Mott Haven Community Place. Before I had time to form anopinion, there was a commotion to my left. A woman was scolding her young daughter.The little girl looked to be about six and was pushing a toddler in a baby carriage. Myheart ached for the small children, not because the child was being scolded, but becauseit was being done in the form of a loud, profanity-laden tirade. I knew better than to getinvolved, as long as the children were not being harmed physically, but I decided thatperhaps a kind word might have a calming effect on the woman. As they got closer, Ismiled broadly.

“Good morning, Ma’am. It sure is a pretty day, isn’t it?”


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The young mother chose not to respond verbally, but took that moment to show meher ruby and diamond cluster ring, displayed prominently on the middle finger of herright hand. I remained silent as they walked a bit farther and turned the corner. I figuredif my “good morning” reaped an obscene hand gesture, I didn’t dare follow it up with“have a nice day.”

My attention turned once again to the building. I actually owned this place. Thisreally big place. It looked like it could use some paint and a good deal of repair work.After another minute I determined that what it really needed was to be torn down. Ifigured I could get a better price by tearing it down and selling the empty lot.

I knew in my heart that I was overreacting and that the building was not as bad as Iwas making it seem. It was, however, a structure that had been seriously neglected overthe years. I looked around and noticed that it fit in nicely with the rest of the buildingson the block. They looked like I felt: tired and discouraged.

I hesitantly walked up the short narrow sidewalk to the door and began reaching in mypocket for the key. Just as I had retrieved it, the door opened so suddenly that I gasped.A middle aged woman with short-cropped gray hair and a Yankee’s cap stood before me.She flashed a nearly toothless grin and extended her arm, apparently offering me one ofthe half-melted M&Ms from her bag. A few seconds lapsed before I had completelyregained my composure, but the lady did not stop grinning, nor did she physicallywithdraw the offer of candy.

“No, thank you. I wouldn’t care for any.”She relaxed her arm, still smiling. She placed her free hand high on her chest. “Sue,” she exclaimed proudly.“Hi, Sue. I’m Cooper.”As we shook hands, I was instantly aware that Sue had been enjoying some M&Ms

and that the candy’s slogan about melting in your mouth and not in your hand was notentirely accurate in New York City in the summer. She turned and walked from the foyerto a large open area. While following Sue, I pulled a handkerchief from my back pocketand discreetly attempted to remove as much of the chocolaty residue from my hand aspossible. As I returned the handkerchief to my pocket, I realized that Sue had taken aseat on a dreary, seriously outdated sofa and began watching television as though I hadnever been there. I took the opportunity to gaze across the room.

An elderly man sat sound asleep on a rusty folding chair. He was leaning so far in onedirection it seemed as though only God was keeping him from falling on the floor. It wasa miracle he was able to sleep through the heated ping-pong match going on just a fewfeet behind him. The two young men were doing so much swearing and angry smacktalking, one would guess there must surely be a cash prize or gold medal at stake. I didnot see anyone else until the sound of a phone ringing caused me to turn my head in thedirection of a large plate glass window, offering a view of a woman sitting at her desk.She gave the appearance of someone in a position of authority, so I chose to stay put untilI could see that her phone conversation had ended. Based on the combination of bizarresound effects emanating from the TV set and the occasional sharp cackle coming from


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sound effects emanating from the TV set and the occasional sharp cackle coming from

Sue, I ascertained that she was watching a cartoon. After five more minutes listening to snoring, cackling and swearing, the office door

opened.“Hi. Can I help you?”The personable, professional-looking woman extended her hand. Just as I was about

to reciprocate, I explained to her that my hand was sticky from M&Ms.She smiled. “Then you’ve met Sue?”“Yeah. Very nice lady. Not very talkative.”“I’m afraid you won’t hear Sue say very much, but she’s a very sweet person.”“I’m Cooper Mott, by the way. I just inherited this building.”“Oh, okay,” she said, seeming a bit taken aback. “Won’t you come and have a seat in

the office?”I followed her in and sat across the desk from her.“I’m Alicia Washington. I’m the director of the Community Place.”“Nice to meet you.” I spotted a container of hand sanitizer on her desk. “May I?”

She nodded and I relished in cleaning the sticky chocolate from my hand. “Well, Mr. Mott, if you don’t mind my asking, what are your plans for the building?”Her directness caught me off guard. While I had expected the usual amount of small

talk, I found it refreshing to get to the point so suddenly.“I’m really not sure. I’m pretty busy working and taking classes. I’m also trying to

get a career going as an actor. I thought I would either sell it or rent it out to somebody.”“Well, with the gentrification that seems to be happening in the area, I’m sure you

wouldn’t have any trouble getting a good price for it.”“I guess that’s a pretty good thing for the community, isn’t it. It sounds pretty great to

have people with money come in and open nice stores and restaurants and build nicer,more modern apartment buildings.”

“None of which anybody in this community can afford. Think about it, Mr. Mott.Most of these people barely get by living in poverty. Do you really think all the upscalecoffee shops, five-star restaurants and health spas that some people want to put here arefor them?

“I’ve never really thought about it before.”“They’re for the people who move into the new luxury apartments that are built here

as these people move out.”I thought for a moment before speaking. “Well, while I could always use some extra

money, that’s not my major concern. I wouldn’t mind keeping the place open as acommunity center if there was someone who could run the place.”

Her half-smile made me think that my hint had not fallen on deaf ears. “Part of mewishes I could stay on. I adore the people around here. Quite frankly, though, I’m justburnt out. The non-profit that runs the center has seen its funding all but dry up the pastfew months. I’ve been volunteering here about two or three hours a morning without paybefore I go to my regular job in Queens. We had talked about closing the doors a coupleof months ago, but most of the people you’ve seen today, plus a few others, live in


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of months ago, but most of the people you’ve seen today, plus a few others, live in

shelters and don’t have any place to go during the day.”“Well,” I said, “all I would know to do is find another non-profit organization or

maybe a church to pick up the rent. I could leave it open myself, but I couldn’t afford tohire anyone. Shoot, I couldn’t even pay the utility bills here.”

“I totally understand, Mr. Mott. I’ve checked around and made some phone calls tosome organizations I thought might be interested, but they either already have a place, orthey can’t afford to rent.”

I looked through the glass into the main area. I saw the two young men, game over,drinking sodas and acting as though they were the best of friends. I imagined they were.Although I couldn’t hear, I could see Sue laughing at her cartoon.

“Are there many others who come here on a regular basis?”“There are probably only a couple of dozen who come in regularly.”I glanced at my watch. “I’m sorry, Miss Washington, but I need to get back to

Manhattan and get ready to go to work. I apologize for not allowing more time to lookaround.”

“Sure.” She started to get up.“I know you must have work to do. I can see myself out.”“Goodbye, Mr. Mott.”“See you later.”“I’ll be praying for you.”I did a little double take. I was accustomed to family back in Alabama saying that to

me, but I rarely heard anyone offer to pray for me since I moved to New York.“Thank you.”I exited the office and was trying to head to the foyer without making eye contact with

anyone. The men were still talking and the elderly gentleman was still asleep, althoughhe had straightened up a bit and seemed less likely to end up in a heap on the floor. I wasalmost to the front door when I heard Sue laugh. I turned around in time to see herwaving goodbye. I waved and dashed out the door. No matter how many faces I saw onthe train, I could not forget those of Sue and the three men. I wondered where they wentas soon as Miss Washington locked up and went to her paying job.

* * *

I wearily entered my apartment around one in the morning after my shift was done.

Usually, I would turn on the TV and catch what was left of the late night talk shows andoccasionally have a snack before getting ready for bed. This time was different. Notonly did I not turn on the TV, I didn’t even turn on the lights. I went straight to thewindow and looked out over Manhattan. No matter how many times I saw that view, itnever failed to take my breath away. Not even the stunning sight of the city in lights,however, could eradicate the image of those people in the Community Place. I had beenthinking about them all day. Honestly, I didn’t want to think about them anymore. I


13

thinking about them all day. Honestly, I didn’t want to think about them anymore. I

didn’t want to imagine any one of them hungry or homeless.Why didn’t I find out the name of the elderly man asleep in the chair? What if he falls

asleep when he’s alone and falls in the floor with no one to help him? Are Sue’s M&Ms asnack, or do they double as dinner? Is she somewhere safe?

I was far more tired from worrying about my new acquaintances than I was fromworking an eight hour shift at the restaurant. I wished I could call my grandma, but Iknew she had been in bed for a while. Even in an earlier time zone, it was still shortlyafter midnight in Alabama and Grandma rarely stayed up past the ten o’clock news.

I brushed my teeth and changed into my houndstooth sleep pants and faded 2012University of Alabama national championship t-shirt. From the time I first enrolled at theUniversity of Alabama, and well beyond my graduation, Great-Aunt Opal would send meCrimson Tide apparel every Christmas and birthday. I had never been a rabid footballfanatic and usually spent a great deal more time during my college days at the MarianGallaway Theatre than Bryant-Denny Stadium.

I pulled the covers back and started to get in bed when I remembered one t-shirt AuntOpal gave me the previous year. It was so memorable because it was in no way tied inwith college football. It was a white shirt with black and red lettering with the words,PRAYER CHANGES THINGS. Before I knew it, I was praying, and except for a briefentreaty for guidance, I wasn’t praying for myself. Sadly, that was unusual. On the rareoccasion I went to God in prayer at all, it seemed to be mostly for the purpose of makingself-serving requests.

I must have fallen asleep praying, because when the phone rang I sat bolt upright in aserious state of disorientation. Two things in particular worried me as I picked up mycell phone from the nightstand: It was three-seventeen in the morning and the call wascoming from my grandmother.

“Grandma?” I tried to conceal the panic in my voice. In all my years on earth mygrandmother had never called me past nine o’clock in the evening.

“Hello, Cooper. How are you?”As relieved as I was to detect a total lack of urgency in her voice, I was no less

confused by hearing from her at such an odd hour.“I’m fine, Grandma. Is everything okay?”“Yes, everything is fine. I’m sorry about calling you so late, but I knew you never

went to bed early because of your job.”“That’s okay, Grandma. You can call anytime.”“I guess this probably could have waited until morning, Cooper, but I just felt like I

wasn’t going to get back to sleep until I talked to you.”“It’s okay, Grandma. What is it?”“Well, I fell asleep praying and had another one of my crazy dreams. I dreamed I saw

a bunch of people walking the streets of the Bronx. Of course, I didn’t know a one ofthem and they all looked afraid and confused, like they didn’t know which way to turn.Just like they were lost. They all had the same expression on their faces, like they werescared something bad was going to happen to them.”


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My grandmother paused but I said nothing. I just waited for her to continue.“Then, they all started to run. They looked so frightened like something was chasing

them. Then, they ran into a building to get away from whatever was after them. Andthen, all of a sudden, they were in your building in the Bronx, Cooper. They were allsmiling and happy. Nobody seemed to be afraid anymore. They looked like theybelonged. And the place was full. You were going around passing out plates of food andpouring coffee and iced tea. Isn’t that crazy?”

For some reason, as my grandmother was relaying the details of her dream, I imaginedSue and the others being in that crowd.

“No, Grandma. It doesn’t sound crazy. It sounds nice. Or, at least the last part does.”“And then, Cooper, just as I was waking up, I heard a voice. It was just as clear as I’m

hearing your voice right now. I’m pretty sure it was still part of my dream, but it seemedlike I was awake. The voice said, “Give them a safe place.”

After a brief moment where neither one of us said anything, I began to recount mybrief visit to the Mott Haven Community Place to my grandmother, telling her about thepeople there and my conversation with Miss Washington. We talked about what acommunity center probably means to a tough neighborhood. Without warning, she begantelling me about how much the ladies at the Women’s Missionary Union meeting lovedher red velvet cake and then she proceeded, at three fifty in the morning to give me therecipe. And, may God forgive me, for the fist time in my life I lied to my grandmother. Iwasn’t really writing it down.

“Goodbye, Cooper. I love you.”“Love you, too, Grandma.”“Now I can go back to sleep.”I placed my phone back on the nightstand.That makes one of us, Grandma.Sleep eluded me for the next hour and a half, primarily due to one thought.Give them a safe place.

* * *

I smiled and waved enthusiastically to the churro vendor across the street as thoughwe had known each other for years. I walked briskly on my way to the communitycenter, in a hurry to ask Miss Washington a question that had been preying on my mind.

As I strode up the walkway to the building, I noticed that someone had spray paintedsome profanity on the wooden sign bearing the name: The Mott Haven CommunityPlace. It wasn’t a total loss, but most of the bottom half of the sign was a vulgar mess.Suddenly, a young man I hadn’t seen before came out of the building with a can of paintand a brush.

“Good morning. I’m Cooper Mott.”The young man awkwardly moved the brush to the hand holding the can of paint and


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The young man awkwardly moved the brush to the hand holding the can of paint and

shook my hand.“I’m Ricky Diaz.”“Nice to meet you, Ricky.”I left Ricky to his work and, upon entering the building, I walked the few feet to Miss

Washington’s office and knocked.“Come in.”I opened the door and walked up to her desk.“Good morning, Mr. Mott. How are you this morning?”“What’s the name of the old man that always sleeps in the metal chair?”She seemed startled by my manner.“Jefferson Davis.”We just stared at each other for a few seconds. “Seriously?”“Yep,” she replied with a grin.“That’s an odd name for an elderly black man living in the South Bronx, isn’t it.”“Pretty much. We call him Jeff around here.”I apologized for my abruptness, explaining I wanted to know about the people there. I

proceeded to ask the names of the two men playing ping-pong on my previous visit. Iasked questions about them and Sue and Ricky Diaz and Jefferson Davis. She took meinto the main room and introduced me to a dozen or so other regulars. I met Willie andValerie Cook and their three children. Willie lost his job in Harlem and Valerie had apart-time job at a local drug store. They were living with her parents and grandparents,nine people in a two bedroom apartment. I was next introduced to Anita Herrera. Shewas quick to tell me it was her forty-sixth birthday. She looked seventy, and afterhearing just a few minutes of her story of being in and out of jail and rehab for the pasttwenty years, I fully understood why.

And then I met Angelique. “What a beautiful ring,” I exclaimed. “Are those rubies and diamonds?”“Yeah. A friend gave it to me,” she responded defensively.I gathered that she didn’t recognize me from our earlier brief encounter. In just a three

minute span, I learned that Angelique had four children by three different men, none ofwhom she had ever been married to and that she was a recovering alcoholic. She wenton to share stories of physical abuse from two previous boyfriends and showed the scaron her left arm where one of them had slashed her with a knife and displayed a place onher other arm where another suitor had deliberately burned her with his cigarette.

Miss Washington took me from person to person and I was amazed by the fact thateveryone needs someone to listen to their story. I felt emotionally drained as we steppedback into the office.

“Miss Washington, I really admire what you do around here for no pay.”“As crazy as it sounds, I’m actually going to miss it.” She looked out across the room.

“Actually, I’m going to miss all of them.”We took our seats and she jotted something down in a notebook and then looked back


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We took our seats and she jotted something down in a notebook and then looked back

up.“Sorry, I’ve been writing in my journal a lot. trying not to miss a detail about my last

week.”“That’s a great idea.”“As you could probably tell from looking around out there, I don’t have time to clean

very much. There used to be a lady named Marie that would come from the shelterwhere she stayed and clean the common area and the bathrooms every day It was herway of giving back. She loved the song from the movie Annie, something about ahardknock life, and she always said she was going to make those bathrooms shine likethe top of the Chrysler Building. And she did, too.”

“You said, ‘used to be?’”“She struggled with depression and got off her medication. She committed suicide at

the shelter last year.”“Wow. Sorry to hear that.”“So, do you think you’re going to give this crazy thing a try?”I hesitated. “I’m about ninety-five percent sure.”“Well, maybe you’ll find that other five percent you need real soon.”She looked once again through the plate glass window into the big room. “Did you

ever notice if Ricky came back in from painting over the sign?”“I haven’t seen him.” I got up from my chair. “I guess I need to be going.” I glanced

at my watch.” I can’t believe I’ve been here an hour and a half already. I think I’ll walkaround the neighborhood for a while.” I started to leave her office. “If he’s still outthere, would you like for me to send him in.”

She smiled. “Please. He’s a wonderful young man, but only he can take over an hourto complete a fifteen minute job. You may find him on his cell phone.”

I waved goodbye to anyone who was looking as I made my way to the foyer. As Itook a step outside the building, I stopped. Without turning to look at the sign, I asked,“Did you get finished painting over everything, Ricky?”

“Yeah. Well, I only painted over the words that the spray paint messed up. The wordsat the top were okay, so I left them. Is that alright?”

“I’m not sure, Ricky. She may have wanted you to paint over everything.”I took a few steps forward and turned to look at the sign.THE MOTT HAVENRicky began to remove the lid from the paint can. “Yeah, I guess what’s left doesn’t

make much sense.”I stared at the sign for a few seconds.“That’s okay, Ricky. Actually, let’s just leave it like it is, if you don’t mind.”“Do you think it makes sense?”“Well, my last name is Mott and I sure hope that this will continue to be a haven in the

community.”Ricky looked puzzled. “What’s a haven?”I didn’t take may eyes off the sign. “It’s a safe place.”


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Ricky seemed profoundly unimpressed as he once again attempted to put the lid backon the paint can.

“Excuse me, Ricky.” I headed back toward the door.“Did you forget something?” he asked.“Yeah. I have a couple of bathrooms I need to make shine like the top of the Chrysler

Building.”

chapter 1...ready with mercurochrome, calamine lotion or whatever treatment she deemed necessary,...

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