by Evie Rhodes
He shut his eyes tightly against the shrieking, tormented cries of long ago. They were all running against the wind. The past had a way of catching up to folks. Now it was pronouncing its evil, holding this child in its clutches. And she wasn’t the worst of it.
He knew Aisha was only meant to be a witness. The worst of it lay beyond his door being enacted out on the streets, penetrating the flesh. It was if he’d ever seen it, the active order of the principalities of darkness.
Mama placed a warm hand over Aisha’s. Papa returned his attention to reading the Star Ledger newspaper. Better to let Mama do her work. Much as he didn’t want to be involved, he knew there was no choice. That’s why he was getting prayed up and reading his Scriptures.
Aisha bowed her head and stared at the lemon meringue pie, but she didn’t touch it. She didn’t acknowledge Mama’s hand over hers either. Mama pursed her lips before speaking. “Aisha?”
The child didn’t look up.
“Aisha, this here’s Mama talking to you. Look at me, child.”
The only response was the trembling of Aisha’s hand. It had taken on a life of its own. It was shaking with the furor of a tidal wave. Mama’s hand, which covered hers, was every bit as mobile.
Mama lifted Aisha’s hand, trying to rub warmth into it. She willed stillness into the child’s hand.
“Aisha. Baby, don’t be afraid.”
Aisha lifted her head as though by remote. That awful stench, the one that had plagued her since she saw the Darkling, reached her nostrils. The name of the thing just popped into her head out of nowhere. The Darkling. There it was.
Now she knew the thing was called the Darkling. She could also sense that it had female traits, as well as male traits, but she didn’t know how she knew that.
She also knew Mama couldn’t smell the stink of it and she couldn’t even ask her. She wrinkled her nose. It was like rotting eggs that had been hidden for a long time. She convulsed and threw her head back in the air.
“Oh no, you don’t, demon.” Mama was on her feet. “In the name of Jesus the Nazarene, she ain’t one of yours.”
Quickly Mama retrieved her bottle of holy olive oil, splashed a cross over Aisha’s forehead, and spoke once more. “In the mighty name of Jesus, not this child.”
Aisha’s head righted. Her body stopped convulsing. She looked at Mama scared, confused. Mama dabbed at the bit of spittle that was forming at the child’s mouth with her apron string.
“It’s all right, baby. It’s all gonna be all right. Mama’s here.”
Aisha sniffed the air. The foul stench was gone. With a steady hand she covered Mama’s hand with her own for a brief moment. Then she reached for her fork, sticking it into her slice of pie.
“When the Lord is ready for you to speak to his glory, Aisha, you will. Jesus is there for you, baby.” Mama now knew with a certainty there would be no forcing this child to speak. It was not on their time.
Aisha nodded. She didn’t feel as scared as she did before. When Mama had said Jesus’ name and made the sign of the cross on her forehead the bad smell had gone away. In that moment Aisha had known two things. One was the power of Jesus Christ. Two was the fact that she would one day speak again when it was time.
She took a sip of her milk, smiling at Mama. Papa had given up all pretense of reading his paper a while ago. He traded looks with Mama over the child’s head.
Chapter 23
Mama had barely returned Aisha to Nikki when a sight for her old tired eyes pulled up at the curb of her house. Painstakingly slow, one arthritic leg took hold on the sidewalk as Shonda’s nana mama climbed slowly from the taxi.
Although she and Mama spoke frequently by phone, it had actually been a few years since they’d had a visit in person.
Nana Mama, as she was known by her oldest living friends, what few there were left, that is, smiled at Mama. The taxi driver helped her onto the sidewalk. She paid her fare, then hobbled on down the walkway up to Mama’s house on her cane.
When she finally reached the porch Mama just grabbed her and hugged her. Papa smiled from his place on the couch at the sight of Nana Mama. She was one of the truest people he had ever known.
Besides, there weren’t too many of them left. Certainly there weren’t many of them that had been there on that night. On reflection with startling realization Papa became aware it was just the three of them left—Nana Mama, Mama, and him. All the others were already dead.
Being the gentleman he was, Papa rose from his seat upon Nana Mama’s entry into the living room.
She smiled. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” She beamed. Papa was dressed to the nines as usual with a razor-sharp crease in his trousers and matching suspenders on his crisp blue shirt. In his day he had been one dapper man.
Papa had been as sharp as a tack and as handsome as the day was long. There was many a teary eye when Mama snagged him. But what God put together let no man put asunder, for Mama and Papa were going nigh on sixty years of courtship and marriage, and it was obvious they still loved one another as much as the first time they’d met.
They were childhood sweethearts. They had grown up together as children. You could see the sparkle and spark strong as ever when they looked at each other. Their friendship and love had held tight throughout the time.
Nana Mama sat down with Mama’s assistance in the rocking chair. “George,” she said, addressing Papa by his given name, “you gone on and sit down now.”
Papa smiled. He grabbed the crease in his trousers, while sitting down. It was a gesture of old.
Mama took her place. She was about to speak when she scrunched up her eyes in pure aggravation. One of Nana Mama’s eyes was black and blue. In fact her skin had dark patches of blue black in varying degrees, along with purple splotches covering her skin.
She could also see the red welt marks around her neck. On closer inspection Mama noticed that she was much frailer than the last time she’d seen her, and she didn’t think it was just age. Fury welled up in Mama’s bosom.
Papa was following Mama’s train of thought. Sometimes that happened even when they didn’t speak to each other. He reared back in his seat as the word abuse took its place in his mind.
Mama came straight to the point. “Nana Mama, what’s going on?” She shut her eyes. “Please don’t tell me what I think.”
Nana Mama cast her eyes downward in shame. She didn’t want to burden her friends with her pain and all, but she had nowhere to turn. She couldn’t take much more of the fierce beatings Shonda was giving her and still survive. Not to mention the emotional drain. And she desperately needed somebody to talk to.
“That girl’s been beating you?”
Nana Mama nodded.
Papa shook his head.
“Aw, Nana Mama, that child is the devil’s ware. I never thought I’d see the day,” Mama huffed.
Nana Mama was quiet.
“Well, so be it.” Mama pointed her finger. “But whatever beating you done took is to be the last one, and I mean that on my dead mama’s grave.”
Tears sprang to Nana Mama’s eyes. Papa knew her pain would come to an end, because his Mama was always swift to action. He heard the determination in her voice and knew they would do whatever needed to be done to help Nana Mama.
He smiled reassuringly. “Mama’s right, Nana Mama can’t go on. You know that.”
She nodded. “Yeah. But it’s not such an easy pill to swallow. That child is flesh of my flesh. We ain’t supposed to abandon our own flesh.”
“Nana Mama, cut that out,” Mama said. “You know once the devil gets in between something, that don’t hold no water. Jesus said you either gathering with me or against me, ain’t no middle ground.”
“Hmmph,” was all that came from Papa.
Nana Mama sighed. “That’s what he said all right. He counted those people as his family as those that were doing the will of his heavenly father, not by blood but by spirit. I knows that. Don’t make it no easier, though. Al
though Lord knows I look in that child’s eyes and what I see makes my blood run cold.”
“As the kids say, Nana Mama, this is out a’ order. But your situation ain’t all that’s out a’ order. There’s some spirits around here that’s out a’ order too that need to be cast back, so it’s just as well you’re here. And here’s where you’ll stay. It’s only me, you, and Papa left and we gone need to put our heads together.”
“What you talking about, Pearline?” Nana Mama said, her mind suddenly cast away from her problems. Her spine was tingling from the tone in Mama’s voice.
“You member that night long ago?” Mama said.
Nana Mama rolled her eyes. “I ain’t likely to forget.”
“Good. ’Cause just as it was sworn, it’s back.”
Nana Mama’s eyes got big as saucers. Her expression near ’bout reflected the same exact expression on Papa’s face. “They say the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world, Pearline.”
“In this world, Nana Mama, that hand has got to be cut off. Might have to be us doing some of the cutting.”
At that moment a deep black howling emitted from the fireplace. All three of them turned to look in unison. Goose bumps sprouted on their arms.
If they could have read each other’s minds they would have found that they were all having the same thought. They all wished once upon a time that they had not seen what they’d seen. But they had and now it was time to pay the piper.
Chapter 24
In the conference room at the bank Tawney sat at the head of a long, polished, gleaming cherry-wood table in the midst of the plush, comfortably designed room filled with green plants.
It had been one of the many ideas she’d had implemented. She believed that if you surrounded people in an atmosphere they enjoyed being in and derived pleasure from that you would motivate them to their highest performance by virtue of subliminal messaging so to speak.
Since she was one heck of a performer for the bank they had obliged her idea. Tawney could outwork any number of her staff put together. The management was in awe of the way she turned projects around, although the actual level of their awe was mostly kept to themselves.
Still, she carried weight in the bank, and people knew it. She was one of the very few African-Americans who did carry such weight, and she did so with the utmost respect.
Tawney at thirty-three was class with a capital C. Her breeding and style were impeccable. The only blight on her seemingly intellectual, stylistic life was the thug she had married.
Instead of being out in the upscale South Orange where she belonged and could afford to be she was slumming in Newark. Catering to Shannon’s whims about staying with his people. Exasperating.
And she was not in just any part of Newark. She was in the Central Ward, which was known for being the most dangerous part of Newark. You couldn’t walk the streets at certain times of the night. Recently a fifteen-year-old boy had been jacked for his bike and killed.
It was monstrous.
Shannon could have at least moved her into the Ironbound section of Newark. Ferry Street was known for its cuisine. There were restaurants galore. Some of them had been written up in food reviews, such was their reputation. She’d also bet her bottom dollar that Ironbound didn’t have the security issues of the Central Ward.
Ironbound was primarily Portuguese and Brazilian. They had built commerce in that tiny patch of dirt in Newark, creating a community all their own, so there was no way they would be plagued with the problems or blights the Central Ward of Newark carried. They weren’t having it.
At the time in her life that she’d met Shannon, South Orange, and Ironbound were far from her mind. She hadn’t cared what patch of dirt she lived on as long as she had Shannon.
Girlfriend had hungered after the magnetic dark sensual looks of Shannon Davenport, who was four years her senior. Her hunger for him was intense. The sound of his voice mesmerized her.
The weight of a look from the man was more than she could bear. He’d had a smile to die for. Charm oozed every time he looked at her. Every time he smiled. And he had a pair of the most beautiful translucent brown eyes that she’d ever seen.
She used to get butterflies and a tightening in her stomach, just looking at him. Shannon Davenport was a man’s man in every sense of the word. Having him would be on his own terms. He wasn’t accustomed to taking orders, or bending. She knew that.
He was rugged, rough, tough, and streetwise with a hint of arrogance. Respect was his middle name. The sound of his name inspired awe as well as fear in the streets. He was nigga rich and confident.
Most intriguing of all he knew how to treat a lady. And although his persona from head to toe had screamed thug, for her he had the soul of an angel.
She would’ve thought one of the street princesses, a woman of his own caliber, would have wound up with him. Enough of them were throwing themselves at him, that was for sure. But he wanted her.
The rest was history.
He was everything that she was not. When she fell she fell hard. The walls came tumbling down.
When Jazz was born the neighborhood bothered her a bit, but she kept trying to appease Shannon. She’d spent tons of money on the inside of the house to make up for the neighborhood. Her house was nothing more than a ghetto palace.
She told herself that Jazz was small and that before she reached the critical age, they would move. It never happened.
Now she was paying her dues for loving and living beneath her own status. Too late she had found out how dangerous it was to live beneath your means. It had cost her more than she was able to pay. Maybe the naysayers had been right. She should have married a doctor or a lawyer.
She heard her own voice of conscience. “But then there would have been no Jazz. Would there be, Tawney?”
What difference did it make if there’d never been Jazz? There still wasn’t Jazz now. Tawney swallowed hard to keep from crying.
Jazz had been so very much like Shannon. He had been the best father. Fatherhood fit him like a second glove. His daughter was his world. He’d treated her like a princess.
Shaking herself out of her reverie, facing the unpleasant task before her, Tawney cleared her throat and returned to addressing her staff. “To sum this up, the incidents of unprofessional behavior on the floor must stop. If you have problems you cannot resolve with a coworker, see me. And please watch your performance times. The new budget is in full effect, and senior management is keeping a close eye. Any questions?”
One of Tawney’s staff members spoke up. “Yeah.”
“Yes, Debbie?”
“Will there be any loss of jobs? I need my job.”
Immediately there was a chorus of agreement and head shaking going on.
“As long as we live within the current budget, there will not be. This isn’t a downsize.”
The expressions around the cherry-wood table were disbelieving. Shonda rolled her eyes. She leaned over to the woman next to her, saying, “I’ve heard that before.”
Tawney stared at Shonda. “Shonda, do you have something you want to share with the rest of us?”
Shonda did a quick retreat. “No, Tawney. I’m all set.”
Tawney closed her portfolio, folding her hands on top of it. “I’ve shared the information that I have at this time. Is there anything else?”
The staff was quiet.
“That’s it, then. Make sure you record one hour for the meeting.”
They filed from the room. As soon as they were in the hallway out of earshot Shonda pulled Debbie and Beverly away from the crowd. “Let’s go outside and smoke a cigarette.”
Outside the bank the women lit their cigarettes. Debbie looked at Shonda. “So, Shonda, what’s up?”
Shonda blew a smoke ring. “Tawney is what’s up. She makes me sick.” Shonda’s voice dripped hatred like a fungus. “She’s always fronting.”
“Fronting about what, Shonda?”
Shonda looked around, making su
re the only ones in earshot were the ones she wanted. “You know, she acts like she’s all that. Ms. Professional. But I know niggas who used to serve her back in the day.”
Debbie and Beverly exchanged glances. “Serve her what, Shonda?” Debbie said.
Shonda sneered. “Don’t be so damned naive, Debbie.”
Debbie took a step back in surprise at Shonda’s tone and choice of words.
“Seriously. Naiveté doesn’t suit you. Cocaine, that’s what.”
Beverly shook her head. Ms. Shonda was a dangerous diva. “How do you know that?”
Shonda walked away from the building. She puffed on her cigarette. The two of them followed. “I know, that’s all.”
Turning to face them, venom slicing her every word, she said, “She thinks she’s all that. But she’s married to an Original O.G. I bet she don’t want the boys on the second floor to know about that. You know, them senior managers that sign her paycheck.
“Her husband, Shannon Davenport, is a damned gangster. That nigga was huge back in the day. Now that whore is trying to play it out like he’s retired or something. She ain’t fooling anybody.”
Debbie was not feeling Shonda. She didn’t know why it was that black women had to throw stones at the ones who were trying to step up the ladder. It was the same old “crabs in a barrel” syndrome. She was sick of it.
She was also sick of the lethal, poisoned tongued Shonda, so she said, “I don’t know about her background, but the girl is good at what she does. She worked hard in this bank to get where she is. I know because I saw her. And most of the time I think she tries to play it fair.”
Shonda tossed her blond-weaved braids arrogantly. A glint of something Debbie didn’t recognize peeked out from her eyes. “Think what you like. What you think and what it is are two different things.”
Beverly, who had been playing with a lock of her hair during the exchange, stepped in. She had always been a come-straight-to-the-point person, and the arrogant lethal Shonda didn’t stop her now. “If you feel all like that, then why are you always up in her face?”