by L. Divine
Our neighbors look on in horror not sure who to believe. Mickey’s ex-man has been terrorizing the city for as long as he’s been walking, so I doubt too many will shed a tear if he goes away for a long, long time—me included. I’ve been trying to reach Mickey but she’s not responding to any of my calls or text messages. I’m sure she’ll find out through the hood grapevine soon enough.
“Sir, I’m not going to ask you again.” The white officer smiles at one of our most notorious gangster’s protest like he’s seen this a million times before. “Place your hands on top of your head, turn around and lie flat on the hood of your vehicle.”
This time the officer places his right hand on his weapon ready to draw if necessary. The black officer looks at his partner nervously and then at Mickey’s man who hasn’t moved a muscle.
“Young brother, please do what the officer asks. There’s been enough blood shed this evening,” Daddy says, stepping off the curb and toward the disturbing scene.
Mickey’s ex glares hard at Daddy then back at the officers. I feel like I’m on an episode of Southland.
Mama looks at her husband and then back at the officers as tears well up in her tired eyes. Netta places her left hand on Mama’s shoulder for support.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you step back,” the white officer says, putting his hands out and stopping Daddy’s advance. “Please don’t interfere with official police business.”
Daddy stops in his tracks and looks at our neighbors stand quiet against this injustice. He shakes his head from side to side, completely exasperated.
“But I didn’t do it,” Mickey’s former man repeats for the umpteenth time but the police officers couldn’t care less. As far as they’re concerned, this young, black male with a record is in the right place at the right time. Usually I wouldn’t give a damn about helping Mickey’s ex, but this isn’t his style. He’s more of a shoot ’em-up-and-keep-driving kind of gangster. Shanking somebody isn’t his usual mode of operation and we all know it.
“Do you have just cause to arrest this young man for the crime you’ve accused him of?” Daddy asks the officers who look irritated and terrified at the same time.
“Are you a lawyer, sir?” The younger, black officer asks as he looks at his partner, who tightens the handcuffs on his victim’s hands before lifting him by the back of his shirt. I notice Officer Bagley’s name on his badge who looks to be about the same age as Daddy. The older officer looks to be in his sixties and close to retirement.
“No, I’m not,” Daddy answers, restraining the anger present in his voice. “I’m a pastor.”
Mickey’s ex looks at Daddy like a scared child and I’m right there with him. But ultimately like the rest of us, Daddy’s helpless to stop the law from taking over.
The older officer smiles as the two share a look and roll their eyes in Daddy’s direction. I know Daddy wants to put his holiness aside and slap the hell out of them both, but he doesn’t let them get the best of him.
The heat in my head begins to rise and I feel a vision coming on. Suddenly, Daddy’s in his twenties and this all too familiar scene’s now taking place in the past. Before I can get completely caught up in the rapture, the officers slam the car door, locking their unwilling passenger in the back seat.
“Well, Pastor, why don’t you pray for this boy’s soul and let us take care of the rest.”
I wish I could see the older officer’s badge. I need a name to refer to this jackass by for future reference.
“How many times I gotta tell y’all pigs I ain’t no damn boy,” Mickey’s ex yells through the cracked window. “I’m a man. A grown ass man.”
Daddy again looks like a young man instead of a grandfather. I have a feeling Daddy’s been in a similar position before.
“Mama, what are we going to do?” I ask, but my grandmother’s too distraught over Pam’s death to even think about helping Mickey’s former man right now.
Netta pats Mama on the shoulder with one hand and wipes away her tears with the other. I look at them both sadly and wish we could do more.
“We’re going to feed the ancestors and Iku to ensure Pam’s travels are harmonious during her transition.” Mama turns around with Netta beside her.
I follow them toward the backhouse while looking back at Mickey’s ex-man struggle in the back of the patrol car. For a moment I swear I can hear him pleading like a little boy for his mother to get him out of this mess—I never even thought of him as having a family before now.
“Mama, what about him?” I ask, gently stopping Mama with my hand on hers, forcing her to acknowledge the common scene of a black man going down for a crime he didn’t commit. “We have to help, especially when we know the real murderer’s next door.”
Netta spits on the ground at the thought of our next-door neighbor and says something in Creole. I don’t know the exact translation, but it didn’t sound like a blessing. Mama looks across the fenced in back yard and stares intently at Esmeralda’s back porch. A couple of hours ago it was alive with light, animals and her loyal followers. Now it’s pitch black and completely quiet.
“We are helping him by helping Pam first.” Mama steps through the old gate separating the front yard from the back and walks past her loyal dog, Lexi, who wakes up and joins the procession toward the back house.
“But Mama, they’re leaving,” I say, looking back helplessly. “We have to do something. This isn’t right.”
The more he resists the more painful it’ll be. I wish he’d stop struggling and that Mama would use her coercive vision on the officers to make them hold off, but Mama’s not hearing me.
“And what would you have me do, Jayd?” Mama asks from the front of the short line. Netta jumps slightly at the shrill nature of her best friend’s voice. Mama’s beyond angry: She’s mad as hell. “Do you want me to go out there and tell the police how to do their jobs? Then I’d be in the back of the police car too and that’ll never happen to me again. Hell no,” Mama says, opening the door to the small house attached to the back of the garage. She looks like she’s reliving a memory she’s yet to share with me, but I know during her days as an activist she had her fair share of run-ins with the law down south. And apparently, so did my grandfather.
“Then what are we going to do?” I ask, following Mama and Netta inside and closing the door behind me.
Mama turns on the light switch and dims the setting to a softer hue. She directs me to light the seven-day candles on the two window seals in the main room while Netta lights the ones in the kitchen. Mama washes her hands and we follow suit ready to work.
“We’re going to do what we do best,” Mama says, glancing at the spirit book on the tall, kitchen table in the center of the intimate space. “The true power of persuasion lies in the spirit world and in the streets, not in pleading with officers who don’t give a damn.” Mama opens the refrigerator door and takes out the buttermilk, a few vegetables and eggs and places them next to the spirit book. “The masses have more power than a so-called justice system can ever embody. We have our work cut out for us, and only forty days and nights to get it done.” Mama then removes a freshly plucked chicken and places it inside the sink.
After retrieving the necessary dishes and cooking tools from the cabinets, Netta instinctively inspects the various herb jars lining the counter and I begin sorting the items on the table.
“Sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands, little Jayd.” Netta says, placing the jars of rosemary, lemon balm, sage, and other dried herbs on the table.
“That’s when we let go and let God,” Mama adds, placing the clean carcass on a cutting board. “We practice the utmost faith in the Creator by having faith in ourselves. We can do this because God has put this situation in front of us. And at the risk of using yet another cliché, God doesn’t give us more than we can handle.”
“Never, not ever,” Netta chimes in between hums of one of my favorite Oshune songs. She has such a pretty voice.
“Never allow the people who let you down keep you down, Jayd,” Netta says like she’s in church.
“God is the only one who can give and take all things, and that’s the only opinion I truly give a damn about,” Mama says before leading a quick prayer to the ancestors to bless our work. “There’s just as much blood shed in these streets of Compton as there is in New Orleans. Now, those ancestors are calling for justice and it’s our duty to answer.”
I’m glad to hear that we’re doing something about Esmeralda’s latest crime. It’s time to go H.A.M. on the house next door in a serious way. By the time we’re done, they’ll never know what hit them.
“Lust takes and love gives.”
-Mama
Drama High, volume 3: Jayd’s Legacy
* * *
CHAPTER ONE: NO LOVE
“Jayd, Jayd. Is your Mama home?”
The sound of sandals quickly flapping wakes me out of my sleep. This feels too real to be a dream. I can hear Pam’s shrill voice in the darkness but can’t tell where it’s coming from.
“Pam, where are you?” I ask. The darkness begins to fade as the sun rises and slits of light bursts through the blinds. I’m sleeping inside Netta’s salon. What the hell?
“I’m in the alley. Hurry up, girl! I need to talk to your Mama.”
I walk cautiously through the empty shop with my hands out in front of me, my vision still limited by the twilight. I make my way to the wall in the washroom and flick the light switch on illuminating the small space.
“Jayd, where’s your Mama?” Pam repeats. “I need to talk to her.”
The urgency in Pam’s voice frightens me a bit as I make my way onto the porch where I can see Pam standing on the other side of the screen door.
“What’s the matter?” I ask. Something tells me not to let her in but I have to. Mama always told me to take care of Pam, even when she’s at her worst.
“They trying to get me, Jayd,” Pam says, looking around the vacant alley like someone’s hot on her trail. She’s dressed in a dark hoody and sweats—far from her usual streetwalker attire.
“Who, Pam? The police?” This wouldn’t be the first time she’s been on the run for one thing or another. I notice her stomach’s heavily protruded. Whether Pam knows it or not, she’s about to be a mother—again—if this baby makes it. We’re still not clear about what happened to the last one she had.
“No. Them,” Pam says, pointing toward the opening at the south end of the alley that leads out to Greenleaf Boulevard.
I open the screen door and follow her eyes. It’s Rousseau and his canine gang slowly making their way in our direction.
“Pam, get inside!” I scream, trying to force Pam through the backdoor, but her ice-cold skin shocks me and I let go.
“Jayd, get your Mama! She’s the only one who can help me now.”
“Pam, I don’t know where Mama is,” I say, realizing that I’m alone in the shop for the first time. Something’s definitely up if Netta and Mama left me here by myself. “You can wait for her inside. Evil can’t step foot over our thresholds.”
Netta’s shop—like the spirit room—is under Mama’s spiritual protection with a shrine for Legba posted at each entrance. He’s the orisha over the crossroads and guards his children fiercely.
“I can’t come in, not without an invitation from the queen herself.” Pam lifts her hood revealing pitch black eyes and ashen gray skin.
I jump back and instinctively avoid looking directly at the horrific sight. What the hell is wrong with Pam? I don’t really know how these things work, but maybe she’s having a bad reaction to whatever drugs she’s on.
“Pam, stop tripping and get in here. I can’t help you if you don’t,” I say, watching the deadly army approach, but Pam refuses to listen.
“I can’t, Jayd. Tell your Mama I need her.” Pam’s eyes return to their normal brown color as she starts to walk away from Rousseau’s brood and the shop. “Promise me you’ll give her the message.”
“I promise, Pam. Pam, wait!” I scream after her but it’s no use.
Pam disappears into the adjacent parking lot belonging to the gas station next door. Rousseau and his crew follow after her ignoring me altogether. I relock the screen and step back inside the shop locking the backdoor behind me.
“Jayd, wake up before you’re late to school,” Bryan says, peaking his head through Mama’s bedroom door, who’s nowhere to be found just like in my dream.
I have to tell Mama about Pam’s message from beyond the grave. I know that shit was too real to be a simple dream.
“Okay, I’m up.” I throw the covers back and let the cool air finish waking me up. It’s been a while since I slept in my old bed and it felt good. The couch at my mom’s house is okay, but there’s nothing like a mattress to solidify a good night’s sleep.
I glance at the clock on the DVD player and wonder where Mama could be at six in the morning. Then it all comes flashing back to me: Esmeralda’s youthful transformation, Rousseau’s dogs chasing me, and Pam’s murder. Maybe Mama and Netta got an early start on the day’s spirit work—God knows there’s always enough to go around.
*
It’s funny how the world seems to stand still early in the morning. Even the birds are quietly collecting their breakfast of unsuspecting worms and dew to drink. The neighborhood mutts are rummaging through trashcans left out for the weekly collection. Mr. Gatlin, our mean ass neighbor across the street, collects his newspaper and ignores me, as usual. He and I are the only two people outside.
It was too late for me to drive back to Inglewood and expect to get any kind of sleep before school this morning. Mama and Netta both insisted that I stay the night and I didn’t object. Besides, it was nice sharing a room with my grandmother again. My uncle Bryan didn’t even give me any flack this morning for interrupting his daily routine, which he now starts a few minutes earlier due to my absence. I think he missed our morning chats as much as I did.
I haven’t left for school from my grandparents’ house since last year and haven’t missed the lack of privacy or bathroom space in the small house. Bryan’s ass is still funky and so is everyone else’s. Mama and Netta talked until I fell asleep about what the plan of action will be to organize the neighbors. Between Daddy’s congregation and Mama’s loyal clientele, they’ll be able to call to duty over two hundred people to seek justice for Pam and by default, Mickey’s former man.
Mama and Netta were probably out before sunrise making and posting signs all over the neighborhood with Pam’s pictures on them—both before and after crack hit her like a freight train. Mama, Daddy and others will hit the streets posting signs, knocking on doors and talking to people. Daddy’s already reactivated the Neighborhood Watch, calling the local police department out for not being more active in our community. Mama and Netta have designated the beauty shop as ground zero for the operation’s creative needs while they’ll hold meetings at Daddy’s church.
I never knew how good my grandparents could be in a crisis situation. They’re both excellent community organizers. I guess that’s why they fell in love so quickly back in the 1970s. They were young, impetuous and passionate about their individual causes. Right now, nothing else matters except for getting justice for Pam because no one else really cares. The media rarely reports on missing persons in our hood unless there’s a salacious murder of someone other than a crackhead to go along with it. They’re still the same strained couple behind closed doors, but as far as our small city of Compton is concerned Pastor and Mrs. James are a force to be reckoned with.
I step down the front porch steps toward my mom’s Mazda Protégé and silently unlock the doors via the remo
te keychain. When I open the passenger’s side door to set my backpack and purse down, Mr. Gatlin frowns at me from his front yard across the street—the feeling is mutual. I shut the car door and walk around to the other side ready to roll. After we exchange a tense look, he turns his attention toward his ex-girlfriend’s yard. Mr. Gatlin stares forlornly at our neighbor, Esmeralda’s house where her new beau, Rousseau exits the black front porch gate with a bucket and rubber gloves like he’s about to wash the car they don’t have.
“Bonjour, mi amor,” Rousseau says, slamming the iron gate behind him.
I can’t see his eyes through his dark sunshades but I can still feel his piercing stare. There should be some sort of law against harassing your neighbors no matter how subtle the attack. Even Mr. Gatlin disappears into his home at the sight of his replacement.
“I’m not your love, no matter what language you say it in.” I’m tired of Rousseau’s strange ass and his canine crew. If I don’t get out of here soon I’m going to be late for school and I still need to grab a muffin and some juice from the student store. There’s only cereal and no milk for breakfast—typical.
“Oh, mi petite,” Rousseau says. “Why so rude? You did not rest well last night, I assume?”
Assume my ass. If he’s anything like his woman he knows exactly why I can’t stand his ass. I attempt to ignore Rousseau but his gaze is too strong, much like Esmeralda’s.
“Esmeralda needs to keep her pets on a tighter leash before they get hurt,” I say, staring back. I’m over being afraid to look folks in the eye. My ancestors are too powerful for that shit.
“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks, tossing the dirty water from the bucket out onto their front lawn.
“It means I’ve got something for your ass if you don’t get off of mine.” Rousseau tried to get to me last night through his dogs. If there’s a next time, I’m not running. The spirit book has to have something to deal with his kind once and for all.
“Sounds intriguing, young queen.” Rousseau smiles, displaying his yellow fangs. “I anxiously await the opportunity to see what exactly it is you’d like to share with me.”