Our Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth,” the black-suited reverend began, “look down upon this family, these friends. Give them the strength and the courage they need. Let them know that you’re too wise to make a mistake. You’re too good to do wrong . . .”
The city’s black newspaper, the Chicago Defender, gave Laverne’s death more attention: “W. Siders mourn brave fire victim” read the headline of the front-page story the paper ran three days after the fire. The nine-paragraph article was error-filled, but the comments from the neighbor across the street were right on the mark, Gloria thought. “You look around and you see all these young mothers leaving their children abandoned in filthy buildings, and then something like this happens to somebody who is trying to take care of their kids,” Floyd Bagget, 75, was quoted as saying. “She didn’t do any drinking or hanging out in the street like so many young women do today. She spent all of her time taking care of her children . . . ”
Making the funeral arrangements had been a mighty test for Glo (as Gloria is known to most); she couldn’t have gotten through it, she would say later, without the help of her daughters. In the week since the fire, she had not eaten much; her clothes already felt looser. In bed she tossed and turned; she only slept when sitting in a chair and not trying to. When she brushed her hair in the morning, a lot seemed to be coming out. Visits to Cook County Hospital to check on Derrick Jr. and Delina occupied some of her time, but the sight of those two feeble little ones in their hospital beds provided no relief.
The reverend needn’t worry about these people fancying themselves invincible; from early in their lives, there’s too much evidence to the contrary—too many tragedies, too many deaths—and so often the type necessitating closed caskets. Consider Keyata: Her natural father was shot to death by a gangbanger three years ago (he was 19); now her mother has perished in a fire, and her two siblings have been badly burned. Keyata won’t be six until August.
The fire that killed her broke out in her first-floor apartment in an old two-story red-brick building at 2512 W. Flournoy. The building sits on the back of the lot, right along the alley; wire grating on her front room window obscured the view of the alley. Laverne had only lived here two months. The woman upstairs had been here three years, and this was the second time fire had routed her and her kids from the building; two years ago, someone started a blaze in a garbage can in the alley; it caught on some wires and soon the roof was aflame.
But young people here seldom go far. Only one of Laverne’s seven siblings has left the west side, and just one graduated from high school. You have to grow up quickly in Garfield Park, which is another way of saying you never really get a chance to; no wonder the place you stay is not your home but your “crib.” Laverne’s oldest sister got pregnant at 15, the next-oldest at 13, Laverne and her twin also at 13. Like her sisters and numerous other girls here, Laverne spent much of her teen years chasing after babies, fixing countless bottles, changing Lord knows how many diapers. It’s one of the few occupations beckoning young females in Garfield Park that won’t get them arrested. (When I drove up on Flournoy the day after the fire, two women in their late teens or early 20s waved at my car, yelled to me. When I parked, one bummed 50 cents “for the bus.” “You wan’ get into somethin’?” asked the other. She could have meant sex, she probably meant drugs; white men who visit these side streets usually are hunting one or the other.)
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“Ah, sister Williams / is not dead. She’s just resting / for a little while. But on the last day / everybody got to get up / and stand before Jesus. Can I get a witness?” (“Amen.” “Yeah.”) “I don’t have heaven or a hell / to put sister Williams in. And I don’t know what she told God / as she was goin’ dow-wnn / in the flames. But I heard Jesus say / that if we confess our sins / he’s faithful to forgive us.” (“Uh-huh.” “Amen.”)
