Deadly Charm

by Claudia Mair Burney

  I waited, fine-tuned to my intuition and the small, still voice of God’s leading. I didn’t hurt at the moment. I felt tired, but I didn’t feel any pain. Just to be sure I padded back to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. I grabbed the bottle of Tylenol that Dr. McLogan assured me was safe for the babies and took it with me.

  See. I can be proactive.

  Again I waited for something, anything, to tell me I shouldn’t join him, but nothing did. I got my coat on, locked the doors, and headed over to the Rock House.

  As Kalaya would say, “Holy Moses.”

  I arrived at the Rock House a little before nine. The Thunders had planned for the wake to take place an hour prior to the ten o’clock funeral. Cars overwhelmed the parking lot at the Rock House, spilling out into the streets. The media had come out in unbelievable numbers. When Jazz had been accused of murdering Kate, the media descended on him like vultures. The attention they gave Jazz didn’t begin to compare to this. News vans bullied the SUVs and cars for parking spaces.

  Oh, man. I hoped I could get in without being hassled, especially since most of the people present had probably obsessively watched all kinds of media coverage of the story—including my infamous appearance on CNN. Maybe no one would recognize me.

  I gathered my courage and headed to the church. I had to press through the throngs—easily a thousand people—huddled all around. At last I neared the door to the church. That’s when I heard it.

  “Look!” a disembodied woman’s voice said. “It’s devil-vomit girl.”

  A crowd of reporters rushed me, thrusting microphones in my face. They fired questions at me. “Are you still possessed?” “Do you support Ezekiel Thunder?” “Do you believe God is going to raise Ezekiel Thunder the fourth from the dead?”

  Jazz had taught me well. I kept walking, showing no emotion, offering nothing of myself.

  Devil-vomit girl! I experienced no guilt for ignoring them.

  When I finally got inside the church, I had to inch through more crowds of people to get to the sanctuary. While everyone could come view Zeekie’s body, only certain people could stay inside the sanctuary with the family. I got in a long line and tried to gather enough courage to actually view Zeekie, my little Thunder boy, dead in a tiny casket. My knees shook.

  Dear Jesus, please help me to endure this. And please help the Thunder family get through this terrible day. Let us celebrate his short life, Lord. And grant us peace. If Zeekie was murdered, please give us wisdom. Do as his father said, Lord. Speedily avenge his murder. Justice, Jesus! Please.

  After my short prayer I felt stronger. Still I dreaded this funeral in a way I had dreaded few things in my life. After about fifteen minutes, I made it to the door of the sanctuary. I spotted Elisa. Her green eyes were red and swollen from crying. When she saw me, she greeted me with a warm hug. She’d come to see me at the hospital, delighted to hear my good news. She’d regaled me with her stories of morning sickness and wild kicking, and we both laughed about what it would be like to have two babies playing soccer inside of me. We had bonded in a special way, and being in her embrace gave me a bit more courage.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Elisa.”

  “We pregnant women have to stick together.” She gave me a final squeeze and released me. “Bell, this is the worst thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen some terrible things in my life.”

  She’d lived with a madman in a cult. I knew she spoke the truth when she said that.

  “I don’t think I can take seeing him,” I told her.

  “You can. He looks beautiful. Like a sleeping angel.” She released me to continue in the procession.

  My gut twisted, and not from fibroid pain or morning sickness. I looked to the front of the sanctuary. Zeekie’s terribly small silver coffin drew me like a moth to a flame. Oh Lord. I thought I’d die to see him like that. Again, I thought of my favorite ancient prayer—the Jesus Prayer. It was made famous by a book called The Philokalia, about a pilgrim who desired to learn what it meant to “pray without ceasing.” For centuries the words to the prayer, “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” have been to pilgrims everywhere a continuous, uninterrupted calling on Jesus. My great-grandmother hadn’t taught it to me; Rocky had. I’d never needed my beloved Jesus Prayer—the abbreviated version—more.

  Kyrie eleison; Christe eleison; Kyrie eleison.

  Lord, have mercy; Christ, have mercy; Lord, have mercy.

  I shuffled with the line toward the casket, the prayer looping through my consciousness and out of my mouth. Kyrie eleison; Christe eleison; Kyrie eleison. Another step closer. Lord, have mercy; Christ, have mercy; Lord, have mercy. Repeated the sequence over and over.

  Tears stung my eyes. I kept praying. Walking. Trying to keep breathing in and out while grief staggered me. Someone took my hand. Jazz. My rock—no, my boulder. My anchor. My mainstay, my rear guard, my protection. The man I’d do any good thing for, including quit my job. I squeezed his hand. “I don’t think I can, baby.”

  “I’ve got your back.”

  More steps. The warmth of Jazz’s hand. His strength. His intoxicating scent. His nearness until we made it to the front and stood before the casket.

  A part of me wanted to look away, but my gaze stayed riveted on him. Oh, what a beautiful boy. Wheat-colored skin like Elisa’s. Endless eyelashes. Face like an angel. The few memories I had of him flooded my consciousness. Him saying my name, Bay-yell. Holding my cheeks with his tiny hands. Blowing a raspberry right on my lips. Zeekie was a love bug. But not my stupid yellow Volkswagen.

  I thanked God for Sister Joy being his mother. Nikki Thunder had to be a psychopath. Only a crazy woman could resist this child’s unadulterated, loving spirit.

  “Good-bye, Zeekie. Tell Imani that I love her. Blow a raspberry on her lips for me.”

  I used to pray, “Come quickly, Lord Jesus,” because once upon a time, my highest hope was for the day I’d meet Jesus face-to-face and He’d take me by the hand and lead me to my baby girl. Now I wanted Jesus to tarry long. I still wanted to see her, but I wanted to live. I was going to have her brothers or sisters or one of each! I wanted to stay here because I’d finally found my beloved. I was his, and he was mine. No more passive suicidal ideations—like letting that tumor grow without getting it checked out. God, forgive me.

  Nikki Thunder didn’t stand a chance.

  I touched Zeekie’s face, and Jazz led me away from the casket. Rocky had saved a seat for us, in a pew just behind the Thunders. My heart went out to Zekia and Zeke. Both were inconsolable, their cries shattering my heart. Tears spilled out of my eyes, and Jazz held on to me.

  A peculiar memory occurred to me at that moment. I thought about being a teenager and attending the Church of God in Christ. At the end of every service, Elder Johnson would ask us to stand, lift our hands, and repeat after him. First, he’d say, “What I say unto one, I say unto all.” We would repeat after him, “Watch and pray. Live holy every day. Most of all obey.”

  I got the distinct impression that that is exactly what God wanted me to do.

  I gently pulled myself out of my husband’s arms and got started on my divinely inspired task. The first thing I did?

  Watch.

  chapter sixteen

  MOURNERS AND GAWKERS alike shuffled past Zeekie’s casket, and I tried to keep my eyes off the silver box that would hold that dear boy’s remains until Jesus called for him in the resurrection. The horror and the heartbreak of his death, the evil of the very idea that he died, senselessly, at the hands of his loved ones—all culminated at that tiny coffin, where Zeekie, wearing his little white suit, slept in Jesus.

  The Jesus Prayer continued to roll around in my soul. I was thankful for the spiritual disciplines and the simplicity of practicing what the ancients did to root themselves in the things of God. I wondered about Ezekiel, seated in front of me. Did he know the Jesus Prayer like he knew lectio divina? What enabled him to bear the w
eight of this day? He’d buried a wife, lost a baby like David and Bathsheba had, and now had to surrender one of the most beautiful children—body and spirit—that I’d ever encountered. Or would he surrender? No one, other than the media, had mentioned his claim that God would raise his child from the dead.

  I had to wonder if he meant God would raise him at the second coming of Christ, the hope of all believers. Or if he expected a miracle today, and by his comments ensured that the event would be televised. Was he sincere? Was he working the crowd, the camera? I couldn’t tell. By now the wake was just beginning. We had a whole hour before the funeral, or resurrection celebration, would begin.

  I turned my attention back to the mourners and noticed a young woman tottering in red stilettos toward the Thunder family. The voluptuous woman looked to be in her midtwenties—plain features, skin the color of coffee grounds. She seemed to compensate for her bland features with clothing that made her look like a streetwalker. She wore a gold nose stud and a half-dozen door-knocker earrings in each ear. She’d poured herself unmercifully into a cheap red dress, a nightclub special. Her face bore the pockmark scarring of a woman once hooked on heroin, yet she had a hopeful air about her, as if she was finally getting her act together. Her elaborate coiffure, a mound of slick black curls piled high, looked like it had been shellacked into place. I prayed she wouldn’t go near the candles, which cast a soft glow in the sanctuary. If that hair caught fire, the thing would flame up and turn the poor woman into a human matchstick.

  She stopped in front of Nikki, leaned over, and touched her knee—a gesture of familiarity. “Girl,” she said, “I seen you on TV. I’m so sorry ’bout yo’ baby. I ’ont know how you can do it after you lost them other two.”

  Nikki turned into a block of ice. “I don’t know you,” she said.

  The woman looked confused. “Girl, it’s me, Neicy. You know who I am.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  Nikki turned her head to catch the attention of one of the bodyguards flanking the Thunder family. Goliath and Jolly Green got on the job immediately. One of those mutants seized the offending woman’s arm, but sistah did not go easy. A stream of expletives exploded out of her. Among the cuss words, this gift: “You ain’t no Nikki Thunder. Yo’ ol’ skinny behind is Yawanza French. You ain’t foolin’ nobody.” She exited the sanctuary shouting, “You ain’t right, Wanzie. I’ma remember dis.”

  My husband and I exchanged glances. He had that “I told you so” gleam in his eye. With his head he motioned toward her. I stood up and excused myself.

  “I’m going to the bathroom,” I stage-whispered, in case anyone took a notion to tackle me, thinking I was out to take down Nikki.

  Fortunately, media teemed outside the sanctuary. Nikki’s manservant released “Yawanza’s” former friend, probably not wanting to be immortalized on video manhandling a black woman. However, the sistah didn’t want to forgive and forget. She hauled off and threw a punch worthy of the Jerry Springer show.

  For a moment, it looked like the clown would retaliate, but Sistah Spitfire pulled out her Karate Kid moves and lifted one knee, her arms extended up in a crane pose. I walked up to her before she busted a move on him.

  “Neicy!” I said.

  She turned around confused.

  “Girl, whatchu doing here? Where you been? I haven’t seen you in, what…?” I grabbed her arm. She followed me like a lamb to slaughter. I led her into the ladies’ bathroom.

  “I’m sorry, Neicy. You don’t know me. I thought you had a little trouble with Big Boy there, and I didn’t want to see you have to mess up your hair over him.”

  She patted the stiff monstrosity on her head. “Girl, this style cost me sixty-seven dollars. But looka he-ah, looka he-ah.” She patted it for effect.

  I watched in horror as she crooked her neck in some bizarre pose that made me wonder if she wasn’t a contortionist. She placed her palms together and put them under her cheek like a makeshift pillow. “If I sleep like this…girl, this thang can last for ’bout two months.”

  “Now that’s a bargain, Neicy.” Pity she’d pay the difference to a chiropractor. Thank goodness she righted her head. “My name is Amanda Brown. I’m a psychologist.”

  She now looked leery of me.

  “I’m investigating little Ezekiel Thunder’s death. I couldn’t help overhearing what you said to Nikki. I’ve been thinking that she may not be who we think she is. You say you know her as Yawanza French?”

  “Um-hmm. I came all the way from Philly to see that no-good…”

  Let’s just say she failed to call Nikki a complimentary name.

  “Would you mind going somewhere we can talk privately? I used to be a member of this church. I know where we can sit quietly, and I can get you back into the sanctuary if you want to pay your respects at the funeral.”

  “I ain’t studyin’ that ol’…” More unflattering names.

  When she had exhausted her impressive range of expletives, she continued, “I been to two of her baby funerals. And I came all this way to be here for her. We use to be cool.”

  “Tell me about that, Neicy.”

  She rolled her eyes and neck, not particularly at me. “I might as well. I ain’t got nothin’ to do now.”

  We went upstairs to one of the Sunday school classrooms—a room that filled me with nostalgia. Once upon a time, I taught Sunday school here, back when I didn’t feel guilty every time I stepped into the house of God. Lord, have mercy.

  Elisa had recently painted a Noah’s Ark motif on the walls. That young woman had a phenomenal gift. I wondered if she’d do some work like this on the room Rocky was preparing for her baby—their baby if God kindly answered some of our prayers.

  I motioned for her to sit in the adult-size chair. It didn’t seem wise for either of us “substantial” women to try to sit in those little plastic chairs. Fortunately, each Sunday school class had a desk in the corner for the teacher to prepare his or her lessons. While Neicy sat in the chair, I hoisted me and the twins within onto the desk. “Tell me about Yawanza French,” I said.

  She didn’t hesitate. “I ain’t always did as good as I’m doin’ now. I got in some trouble when I was younger. I ain’t gon’ lie. I’ma from aroun’ the way, girl.” She looked me in the eyes. She’d made peace with her past. “I knew Wanzie from the ’hood. We use to hang. Do some hustlin’ together.”

  “What kind of hustling?”

  She cast down her eyes, and her gaze shifted to the right. She wasn’t lying. She was remembering.

  “Like, one time Wanzie was staying with this old lady. Helping her out. She always got hookups like that. People would let her stay with them and stuff. Anyway, the lady died or something, and Wanzie used her ATM card like she owned it. The lady musta had a lot of money. Wanzie went buck wild. Got me some stuff, too. We use ta be cool. She kinda liked the fine things in life.”

  Like my husband.

  “I’ve noticed that,” I said.

  “She wasn’t nothin’ but a hood rat—just like the rest of us—but she gon’ act like she all that.”

  “Tell me some other impressions you had of her at that time.”

  “I ’on’t know. I guess she was greedy. If you had something she wanted, she went for you. I ’on’t think she can be no real friend, ’specially after how she just played me.”

  “I’m sorry you came all this way and got that kind of treatment. But, Neicy, you may be a godsend. Tell me about these babies of hers that died.”

  “She was always after some older man.”

  I noticed that, too, but I let Neicy tell her story.

  “She got with this brotha when she was fourteen. He was ’bout twenty-eight. Big baller in the ’hood. Got the bangin’ ride, always lookin’ fly. He da dope man, but be actin’ like he legit. He one of them brothas that always be talkin’ ’bout ideas he got for a business, but he don’t do nothin’ but sell dope and talk smack.”

  I nodded. I knew the type. They came t
o the county jail and held court before they went to prison, only to find out what their rank truly was. God help them.

  “Anyway,” she said, head rocking as she talked, “she hooked up with him, and they was s’posed to open a boutique. She gets pregnant, and it don’t look like no boutique is gon’ happen. She had that baby, and he died from SIDS, girl.”

  I shook my head. “That’s tough.”

  “And you know what? She ended up with this other guy, this one was this white man ’bout forty. Now, this one really did seem to have it together. He had a house, a business, drove a nice ride, hooked Wanzie up, and she was in a nice truck. He gave her all his money, but you know. He ain’t satisfy her, you know?”

  “I can imagine.”

  “She would cheat on that poor man. He would come all up in the ’hood, looking for her. He kept giving her money tryna buy love, but she ain’t love him. They had a baby, too. I guess when that baby came, she got sick of her ol’ man. Kept talking ’bout leavin’, but she ain’t wanna give up that money. Anyway, she had some bad luck, because that baby died of SIDS, too, and right after that the poor man killed hisself. Least that’s what she said. Police said it was inconclusive.”

  A chill went through me. I knew lightning sometimes strikes twice, but I thought an unsettling pattern had emerged. I couldn’t wait to get back to Jazz, and to my reference books at home.

  “How old was she when this happened?”

  “Sixteen.”

  Meaning the following year she met Ezekiel Thunder, and shortly thereafter his wife inexplicably died.

  Shazam!

  “What city did you and Yawanza live in?”

  “We was in Philly back then. She moved to Detroit after the white guy died, ’specially when all his estate went to probate and she ain’t get nothin’. I ain’t seen her since, until I saw her on TV talkin’ ’bout her baby drowning. I came all the way from Philly…”

  The rest of what Neicy said sounded like Charlie Brown’s schoolteacher. Wah wonk wah wah wonk wonk…