by Evie Rhodes
This one was for her. That’s why he had obtained what her daddy needed most. Marcus felt old beyond his years, and his thoughts were light-years ahead of his physical age.
Jazz.
He shivered. He could still hear the shrieking that ripped through the air on the day she’d died. He had felt something morbid, clammy in the air. He couldn’t explain it, but it was there.
And not one person had come right away. Marcus felt a sharp pang in his heart, realizing once again as he had on that day that no one really cared about them.
Even now he could hear Jazz’s blood crying from the streets, from down in the dirty gutter where it had seeped, though not for revenge but rather amazingly for peace.
This was going to be tricky, he thought. He wished he understood more about what was going on. But mostly it was just a feeling. Things were being turned upside down.
Everybody knew in the hood it was an eye for an eye. Usually. Marcus shook his ten-year-old head as though his own thoughts were too much for him to bear.
“Marcus, there’s a chopped barbecue sandwich, some potato salad, along with a slice of butter pound cake and strawberry ice cream, waiting for you on the table.” Mama’s voice sliced through Marcus’s reverie as though it were being dispatched through satellite.
Marcus smiled, jumped to his feet, and headed without a word to the kitchen. When Mama put food on the table, you just went, plain and simple.
Shannon eyed the old woman, admiring her finesse. She had spent every moment since his beat-down nursing him back to health, and he had known it hadn’t been without reason. But now it was time for her to cut to the chase because he needed to get on about his business, and the first thing he had to do was find his wife, hopefully alive. A murderous rage beat against his rib cage at the thought.
“Your home is at risk as long as I’m in it.”
“More souls would be at risk if you were not.”
Shannon hauled his propped-up legs from the table, leaning forward. “Mama, I ain’t a man that’s good with wordplay. And I don’t know a thing about anybody’s soul, including my own. I will need to leave your home under the cover of darkness. That will happen tonight. If there’s something you need to say, it’d best be now.”
Mama grunted, then sighed. “Boy, as old as you is, don’t you knows yet that the spirit can’t be rushed? I swear to all that be, this generation ain’t got no learning.”
Shannon felt beads of sweat pop out on his back. He didn’t know if it was from the physical pain of the brutal beating he had withstood, or from an internal fear that sprang up inside him when Mama had mentioned the word spirit.
“I don’t have any time to waste.”
“You don’t have any to give either,” Mama stated astutely.
Shannon sucked in his breath, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back on the cushion of the couch. “What do you want from me?”
“All that is required.”
“The only thing required of an old-school gangster is his blood, Mama.”
“Then I guess today is a new day. The spirit doesn’t want your blood. That’s already been shed.”
Shannon decided to humor the old woman. “Then, what does it want?”
“Your allegiance.”
Thunder crackled. A cement block the size of a tall wall crumbled. Both Mama and Shannon made the visual connection at the same time.
The child was placed before them. They could see her clearly. Aisha Jackson. She scribbled one name. Jesus. The entire wall came tumbling down.
A layer of Shannon peeled slowly away and in that instant he knew he was expected to fight a war with nothing more than a child and a pen.
Mama searched his eyes. “Care to know why?”
Chapter 39
Aisha sat with her knees pulled up to her chin, trembling. Cold beads of sweat formed a neat line across her brow. The child’s vocal cords ached from her not being able to speak. At times they throbbed as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t.
She rocked back and forth trying to comfort herself. The source of her discomfort was in the air, heard but not seen. It was the baby crying. The baby had been crying for a half hour, a pitiful wail, longing, searching. It was everywhere and yet nowhere.
Aisha could hear the baby clearly. Only there wasn’t a baby, there were only his cries and only she could hear him. Her mother had come into the room and noticed not a thing out of the ordinary.
Aisha wanted to scream at her, “Mommy, can’t you hear the baby crying?” But screaming was impossible except within the walls of her mind because she couldn’t speak, couldn’t even whisper, so she certainly couldn’t scream.
So in place of the scream that never left her lips her vocal cords throbbed with the sensation, with the desire to speak, but nothing came forth, nothing but the rocking, the beads of sweat on her forehead, and the wild knocking of her heart against her tiny chest.
Since Jazz had been killed their world had gone crazy. Aisha thought of Marcus. He was suffering too. And he was always alone now. Whenever she saw him from her window he was withdrawn and despondent, not lively like when they used to play hide-and-seek.
In fact there were no street games being played these days. The entire street was on a death knell. Aisha stayed in her room watching from the window. The few kids who ventured outside since Jazz’s death mostly just sat on the curb, or stared listlessly at each other.
The laughter was gone. In its place was darkness and fear. Every child on the block had the same thought. Would they be next? How much of their blood had to be spilt in order to pay penance? Revenge was its own judge. Who would stop it? The generational hex was upon them and it had brought with it the sins of the past.
Over in Mama and Papa’s house Papa’s bones shook as he sat in a corner of his and Mama’s bedroom reliving the day the Darkling was born over and over again. He would never forget the woman’s cries of anguish, the pleading in her voice, nor the fear that shook her as hatred shrouded the last minutes of her life.
And most of all were the two crippling visions that simultaneously visited his mind, heart, and soul—the bright warm blood dripping from the slashed throat of the baby and the sight of his mother’s face being pushed into flames of fire. “Dear Lord!” The words rushed from Papa’s spirit before he realized he’d spoken.
Back in Aisha’s room the baby howled loudly!
Aisha clambored from her spot on the bed. She got down on her knees on the side of the bed looking underneath it as she was sure this time that that was where the howling had come from. There was nothing under the bed but dust.
Tears ran in rivulets down Aisha’s cheeks. The tears ran in rivulets down the dead baby’s cheeks too. Aisha just couldn’t see him for now.
Chapter 40
Care to know why?
He hadn’t but Mama had told him anyway. Shannon stared at Mama wordlessly after hearing the spine-tingling account of the very dark past of a woman, spirit demon, male or female thing, whatever you’d want to call it, and how her haunting sacrifice coupled with a tremendous personal loss might be affecting all of their lives.
They were surrounded in treacherous waters.
It was without doubt the most incredible story he had ever heard. Was it possible that his daughter might be dead because of a legendary curse, passed through the generations like a coveted inheritance?
As much as he’d like to deny its truth he couldn’t. A black chill had run clean through his bones as Mama steadfastly relayed her account of the tragic event. Papa and Nana Mama, Shonda’s grandmother, were in attendance as well. The spooked look in their eyes testified to the accuracy of Mama’s memory.
Finally Shannon found his voice. “They spilt innocent blood over a rumor?”
Papa looked deep into Shannon’s eyes. “Ain’t that what y’all is doing every day in the streets now, son?”
Shannon leveled a gaze at the old man.
“Yes, sir, it is. But it’s hard to believ
e that because of the day and hour that a child was born, people believed it was evil and slaughtered it, believing the mother was a witch as well. She sounds like nothing more than a poor woman who bore a child out of wedlock.
Nana Mama, who hadn’t uttered a word the entire time, spoke up. Her real thoughts on the situation burst forth after seventy-some-odd years. “I always believed they done shed the blood of a prophet.”
The only sound that could be heard was an intake of breath. Shannon could suddenly hear the quiet. You could’ve dropped a pin and it would have landed in their midst like a bomb. For the first time he realized that the Central Ward itself was quiet.
There were no street noises. No bullying sirens coming forth. No banging beats from the last of the quarters or whatever they called themselves these days from the hip-hop crew.
He wasn’t politically correct or anything, but it still amazed him how people whose ancestors had been sold and exchanged like so much merchandise could wear monikers and names that amounted to change from a dollar bill. Damn, he must be getting old.
In any event there wasn’t noise of any kind from beyond, and that was strange. No screeching tires, no screaming kids, and no hip-hop beats, no guns being fired, no collage of angry, belligerent voices riding the airwaves. Yes, this was extremely unusual; in fact, it was almost unheard of.
The Central Ward rocked twenty-four-seven. There was no such thing as quiet except in this one rare moment when an old woman had uttered words that no one else in that entire span of time had dared to even think.
Papa uttered, “It wouldn’t be the first time in history we crucified innocence.”
“If’n they did, Ms. Dorothy traded in her white robe for darkness and she’s sworn on revenge and death. The blood of the forefathers is all over the streets of Newark through the seeds of their generations just like she promised,” Mama said.
Nana Mama sighed. “Ain’t nothing going to stop her.”
Mama rocked in her chair. “There’s one thing that will.”
Three sets of eyes stared at her. “What’s that?” Shannon said.
Mama’s eyes rolled in the back of her head. All you could see were the whites of her eyes before she spoke. “It will take the innocence and belief of one man’s heart to stop the hate. A child is where it began, and a child is where it will end.”
Chapter 41
The old storefront on Clinton Avenue was covered in black paper. Years and years before it had been an old furniture warehouse. Since then it had become one huge dungeon, with halls that echoed, spiderwebs that clung to the corners of the mildewed ceilings, and rats running around the place.
Most of it was boarded up. The few windows that weren’t boarded up were covered in black paper.
The streets on this night were deserted almost as though a pathway had been cleared for the evil that would take place. A space had been cleaned and altered inside the warehouse for this very special occasion.
The entire space had been recreated to reflect a municipal courtroom. This is where the trial would take place.
Unlike most trials in this particular courtroom, there was only a one-person judge and jury. There was no defense and there was no prosecution available, to present each side. There was only one side to this sordid crime, and there was only one judge who would preside. This courtroom didn’t have the archaic systematic props found in most courtrooms.
The trial would be real, the way it should be minus the delays, props, and grandstanding. The parade of liars usually found at these events would not be present. Well, there was one liar but she would pay because there was only one judge, and that judge was the judge, jury, and public opinion all rolled into one.
Tawney sat at what would have been considered the defense table. Only she had no one to defend her and she was just about to come into this dark realization. Her hands were tied tight behind her back. Her feet were bound together.
She faced the judge’s bench.
A massive headache was pounding inside her head; a sharp pain was beating just at the right side of her temple. Slowly she squeezed her eyes shut trying to still the pain, and absorb her surroundings. She was half asleep and groggy.
Shonda stood before Tawney in absolute supreme mightiness dressed in a black judge’s robe. She took the pitcher of cold, dirty water sitting prepped and ready on the defense table, and threw it in Tawney’s face.
Tawney sputtered awake, her eyes opening wide. She tried to move, but it was an effort as her circulation was being cut short by the binding on her hands and feet.
In slow motion as though a reel of film were being shown frame by frame, Tawney took in her surroundings. Finally her eyes came to rest on Shonda.
She had a hard time hiding her shock.
“That’s better,” Shonda said, glad to have Tawney’s eyes on her, and reveling in her full attention. She watched Tawney’s expression change from disorientation to confusion to a cagey trapped look of fear and uncertainty.
Shonda’s heart sang. This was exactly where she wanted Ms. Thang. She made her way slowly, arrogantly, and with total command of the situation back to the judge’s bench.
She was proud of her boys. The crew had done her proud recreating this room. She’d be damned if it didn’t look just like Newark’s criminal courtroom downtown. She knew because she’d checked.
This stage had to be perfect. What good was a show that wasn’t real or authentic? Tawney was about to get a taste of Caesar’s law Shonda style.
It was too bad there hadn’t been time to carve some of those stone images that graced some of the older city buildings into these walls so every effect would be in place for Tawney’s sentencing.
But alas, time would not allow for this.
Shonda sat down behind the bench. With an amused smile she watched Tawney struggle against the ropes. It was no use as Tawney soon learned. Shonda smiled again. She tilted her head, relishing the hate that flowed threw her veins at the sight of Tawney’s predicament.
Finally she banged the gavel. “Court is in order.”
Tawney stared at her in shocked disbelief. She blinked as though the image in front of her would disappear. It didn’t. She shook her head, closing her eyes. Opening them she found the disastrous scene was still there.
She didn’t know what was worse, Rasheem and Mitchell or being trapped with Shonda. But she did know that she had never had a nightmare that was as bad as this.
Looking around she took in the full effect of the newly erected courtroom. Her heart skipped a beat in fear. She could not fathom what was going on with Shonda, but something was deeply, disturbingly wrong.
“My God, Shonda. Are you crazy?”
Shonda left the judge’s bench in a rage. She was so angry that her hair stood on end as though it were brittle. Spit formed in the corner of her mouth.
As she approached, Tawney felt a wave of hatred and vile contempt that was like a physical whip reaching out and snapping its sharp end at her. Waves of that contemptuous anger rolled off Shonda, as though they were waves frolicking in an ocean or crashing against the rocks.
Standing before Tawney she picked up the pitcher that had held the cold dirty water and hit Tawney in the head and face with it. Fortunately it was plastic, but it still made its mark as Tawney endured the brunt of Shonda’s hate, unable to defend herself, or shield her head or face in any way.
Just to add insult to injury Shonda, tiring of the pitcher, threw it down, backhanding Tawney. She listened to Tawney’s head snap. Then she strode back to the judge’s bench.
“You’re crazy,” Tawney muttered in pain.
“Shut up. This is my courtroom and I’m the judge and the jury. Your high and mighty ass had better not forget that, whore.”
Tawney saw pure insanity gleam from Shonda’s eyes. Something dark and sinister peeked out from their depths, like a glimpse of darkness coming to the light. Looking closer Tawney saw the emptiness that Shonda’s eyes reflected back.
All she
could recall was Dominique’s warning that something was wrong with Shonda, but it was too late now.
Quickly Tawney’s thoughts flitted all over the place trying to find a solution to dealing with this psychopath, but she failed to find one. Shonda had expertly concealed her contempt and true personality.
She was in fact insane.
And her unbalance and insanity had gone unnoticed for too long. It had been covered beneath a corporate shield, and now that that shield was not in place; it shone brilliantly from its own pit.
In this dim aftermath Tawney slowly realized she would not be able to reason with insanity. Insanity was an illness that took no thought for others, and registered no emotion.
It fed on its need to shine, to glimmer, to control, and most of all to retain its very stature, and that was insanity. Within its world there was only one side, the side that it saw, and that was it.
It didn’t matter, she couldn’t give up. If she did she would surely die. “Why are you doing this, Shonda?” Tawney honestly couldn’t imagine, but the question bore asking. Nothing she had ever seen in Shonda had prepared her for coming up close, face-to-face in a situation such as this one with her.
Shonda sat back in her seat, comfortable in her new role as judge. She liked this God-like feeling of sitting on top of the world, with all the minions below at her beck and call. She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of this sooner. This was where she belonged, on top.
She reached beneath the bench and pulled out a stun gun, placing it next to her beloved gavel. Looking lovingly at the gavel, she picked it up and banged it once again for effect. Tawney jumped. She’d better jump if she knew what was good for her.
Shonda fingered the stun gun, relishing visions of Tawney’s reaction once she stuck it to her skin. That scrawny muffin would buckle from the shock, and her hair would stand on end.
Watching her face and registering Shonda’s emotions and thoughts, Tawney closed her eyes wishing hard that this situation would disappear. She knew that it wouldn’t.