Deadly Charm

by Claudia Mair Burney

  “I don’t have any more questions, Neicy. Thank you for your information. Can you give me a number I can contact you at?”

  She dug in her big red Coach knockoff that every urban beauty-supply store on Earth sells for sixteen bucks. She fished out a piece of paper littered with tobacco. Scrawled her cell phone number on the paper with a black kohl eyeliner pencil. She turned to the mirror and used the same liner to trace her lip line and then filled in her lips with a glistening white gloss.

  “I’ll be in touch. God bless you, Neicy.”

  I reached in my own purse—my Birkin knock-off that cost considerably more than sixteen dollars—and gave her the business card for my private practice. I took out two twenty-dollar bills and handed them to her. “Buy yourself a good lunch before you head back to Philly. It’s on me.”

  “Thanks, Miss Brown.”

  “Mrs.”

  I smiled. I was Mrs. Amanda Brown.

  Neicy torpedoed her girth toward me and squeezed me like we were the best of friends. “Least I got to meet you,” she said. “I spent my last tryna get a ticket here. I thought I was gon’ eat after the funeral. Girl, this a blessing.”

  “You keep doing the good work you’re doing on yourself, Neicy. Call me anytime.”

  “Watch yo’ back around Yawanza. She ain’t right.”

  An understatement.

  The image of my great-grandmother flashed in my mind, comforting and familiar, as full of feel-good as a childhood song, now a part of me. Ma Brown came quoting one of her favorite scriptures.

  For the Lord will go before you, the God of Israel will be your rear guard.

  I whispered, Thank you, Jesus, in my soul. Neicy didn’t have to worry. My back was taken care of.

  Nikki, however, had better watch hers, because if what I was beginning to think about her was true, I’d personally take her down. She’d be in a black wedding gown, all right. But she’d take my husband with her over my dead body.

  I meant that.

  But first, I had to pee.

  When I sat back down with Jazz, a fierce determination seized me. I leaned into him. “I love you. You’re mine, and nothing and nobody is going to take you away from me.”

  He grinned. “I’d send you to the bathroom more often if you didn’t already go a lot anyway.” Jazz flung his arm around the back of the chair then inclined to whisper to me, “Did you get anything?”

  I nodded.

  “Good girl.”

  I don’t know how many people came out to pay respects, but so many came through the doors of the Rock House, I didn’t think the place could bear the weight. I thought there would be more time for people to talk to the family during the hour set aside for the wake, but not too many ventured to make conversation. Ezekiel stood to hug and chat with a guest here and there, but that’s about it. When Zekia and Zeke saw familiar faces, they’d break again, poor kids. People kept telling those babies that this wasn’t their fault, and they’d shrink a little more. How they’d endure for another hour, I didn’t know. Nikki Thunder stayed seated, wearing a mask of stoic serenity. She sickened me.

  Finally the funeral started. I didn’t know how Rocky would hold up. The Rock House had never been filled to capacity and beyond, and the media brouhaha had to unsettle him. Rocky’s style of simple, honest relationships with God and others didn’t leave room for ministry superstars who had basketball players on steroids as bodyguards and who hawked miracle prosperity oil for a love offering.

  As a pastor, Rocky’s strength lies in his being the greatest servant in the church. Here at the Rock House, you were as good as the love you gave. It astounded me that he’d stay involved with someone like Ezekiel Thunder. Then again, his loyalty knew no bounds. He’d forgiven me. He’d surely forgive the man who’d led him to Christ. It was no stretch to imagine Rocky encouraging Thunder to go back to the Jesus he’d met as a young boy when he knelt on the grass by the crude wooden bench and surrendered all.

  Rocky looked uncomfortable as he approached the microphone. He had on a suit! In all the years I’d known him, he’d worn a suit only once—when he was ordained. He had done it then for his mother. I smiled despite the solemn occasion. He must have worn the suit this time for Ezekiel. His tie was askew, probably because he had no clue how to tie one, and his dreadlocks were pulled back by a black band. He had his acoustic guitar in his hand.

  He cleared his throat and began to exhort us. “Brothers and sisters in Christ. This is not a funeral. It’s a celebration of life—a life taken away too soon.”

  A few “Amens” floated toward him. Heads nodded their agreement.

  “I don’t have any clichés to offer. I don’t understand this death. I don’t like it. I wish I could turn back time and—” His voice broke, and he swallowed. Took a deep breath to regain his composure. Spoke softer. “I would turn back time and protect him.”

  He locked eyes with his spiritual father. “Ezekiel, I’m a little mad at God today.” A few gasps from the crowd. “God knows how I feel, so I won’t pretend otherwise, but you taught me a long time ago something I never forgot.”

  Ezekiel nodded and wiped his eyes. Tears slid down Rocky’s face as he shared his mentor’s burden of grief. I thought I would come undone at the sight of them.

  Rocky wiped his eyes. “You taught me that God is faithful. I was a little boy when you told me that, and it stayed with me. I’ve seen God’s faithfulness again and again.”

  He propped his guitar against the podium. Walked down the few stairs from the pulpit and went to his mentor. Rocky knelt before Ezekiel. “You have been a father to me. I love you, Ezekiel. God never forgot the good deeds you’ve done, even if other people have. He loves you.” He took Ezekiel’s hands in his. “Where you and I aren’t faithful, God is. We fall from the right hand of God, but, Dad, He catches us in His left hand. Your favorite scripture is Mark chapter nine, verse twenty-three. You always liked the book of Mark. You used to tell me it was the power Gospel. Remember?”

  Ezekiel nodded, letting his tears flow freely. Rocky’s tears trailed down his face, too.

  “And you loved that scripture in the King James Version. I teach using NIV, The Message—almost anything but King James, but I always remember that scripture in the King’s English because you taught it to me. ‘Jesus said unto him, If thou canst believe, all things are possible to him that believeth.’”

  Still kneeling, Rocky scooted closer to Ezekiel. “All things are possible. I believe with you that God can raise little Zeekie from the dead.”

  More gasps across the sanctuary, including my own. And speaking of raising, my blood pressure must have spiked along with my heart rate. Without thinking, I moved to the edge of my seat, waiting in horror for the fiasco that was about to happen.

  “And we know God is faithful. Zeekie is with Jesus now. He is happier than he’s ever been. He’s kissing Jesus the same way he kissed everybody.”

  All of us who knew Zeekie laughed.

  Rocky placed his hand on Thunder’s knee. Again his voice broke with emotion. “Let Him stay with Jesus, Dad, knowing that God is faithful and your baby is safe in His loving care. Jesus will raise him up again when He raises all of us who belong to Christ. God will resurrect him. Let Him do it in His own time. In God’s time.”

  The two men embraced. People began to stand and applaud. I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house. When Ezekiel released him, Rocky humbly walked back to the pulpit, stood before the mic, and began to serenade God with Great Is Thy Faithfulness. He sang every verse, and like a good prophet, he ushered us into the throne room of God. Our collective tears became like baptismal waters, and God’s tender presence raised us from our grief. With every verse, I felt renewed, and I doubted if I alone experienced such grace.

  My own thoughts became psalms. I placed my hand on my baby bump and sang with gusto. My faith was smaller than a tiny mustard seed, and yet God gave me more than what my heart desired most in this world. I hadn’t been faithful, bu
t God stayed faithful. He didn’t change, and His compassion hadn’t failed, just as Rocky sang. I’d received the new mercies that every day came with the promise of a new morning. I looked at my husband, my beautiful model of a husband. Dear Jesus, look what you’ve given me.

  I closed my fists and squeezed them together with all my might. I’d used this technique many times in therapy. My fingernails dug into my palms and I burned into my heart the memory of this sweet moment with God. Most of the time I used the exercise as a physical symbol of letting go. Uncurling my fist acted as the release. This time I used it to hold on, as Rocky did, to God’s faithfulness.

  I took a deep breath, and a scripture I’d memorized long ago, Isaiah 46:3–4, came to me. I hadn’t thought of it in ages. It rolled in waves inside of me.

  You who have been borne by Me from birth and have been carried from the womb; even to your old age I will be the same, and even to your graying years I will bear you! I have done it, and I will carry you; and I will bear you and I will deliver you.

  I slowly released my nagging doubt. I felt bound by love, carried by God, and free. Oh Lord, I wanted to go confidently with God for the rest of my life, knowing He loved me.

  Zeekie’s voice came to me in that moment. “Bay-yell. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Jesus,” I said.

  Zeekie would have wanted it that way.

  As Rocky sang, Nikki Thunder stood. She walked to the pulpit and stood right beside Rocky, waiting patiently until he was done. He noticed her and graciously sang the last stanza, bowed to her, and surrendered the microphone.

  I didn’t think they’d planned this. I had to wonder if the attention Rocky gave his spiritual father hadn’t incensed her, since he hadn’t included her in the moment. I know Rocky would never purposely slight her. I assumed what he had to share was for Ezekiel Thunder, and him alone. Rocky would love on all the appropriate parties in their time.

  Nikki Thunder looked immaculate. She had on a black chiffon and knit dress with three-quarter-length sleeves and an empire waist. It looked a little soft, a little goth, and a little playful and sexy. Not quite the understated black suit I’d have worn. Her hair fell down in soft Miss Clairol auburn waves. Her voice was steady. “I want to testify.”

  She had our attention with her looks alone.

  “My mother and father were drug addicts who neglected me and my little brother…”

  Nikki went on to astound us with a powerful testimony of how she’d found her parents dead from an overdose when she was thirteen. How she’d tried to care for her little brother until he caught pneumonia and died and she was placed in a foster home.

  She spoke kindly to Zekia and Zeke, saying she’d always felt responsible for both her parents’ and her brother’s death, so she understood their feelings about being responsible for Zeekie’s death. She said when she had no one, she met Ezekiel, and he loved her for who she was.

  She told about how she’d been misguided and promiscuous. How she’d had two babies but lost them. God had taken her third because of her sins. And now her fourth baby was gone in a tragic accident. “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,” she said. She lifted her hands. “Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  Her sex appeal, her flawless delivery, the crying in exactly the right moments—the cameramen would love her. She walked down those few steps from the pulpit and stood before her step-children, freeing them from any responsibility for Zeekie’s going to be with Jesus. She put her hands on each of their heads and pronounced blessings.

  Cameras flashed wildly. She was being videotaped, broadcast via satellite, globally podcast, and heaven only knows what else.

  I nudged Jazz. He subtly nodded to acknowledge me. We continued to watch Nikki intently. The entire audience was captivated.

  Then she addressed her husband. “Daddy,” she said, revolting me because she called him that as an endearment. “I vowed to God that I would love, honor, and obey you for the rest of my days. Not once have you let me down. Not once have you been unfaithful. I continue to honor you, but, baby, Rocky is right. We’ve got to let Zeekie go.”

  Tears streamed down her face. “I didn’t think I could take losing another baby, but Ga-awd!” She raised her hands. “Ha-ba-ba-shondo!” That’s the same tongue Ezekiel Thunder used. In fact, I’d heard that word a lot! Did it mean something? Was there a Holy Spirit interpreter in the room who could clear this up? Is that something widely said in heaven by the cherubim? I’d have to ask Mason about it. He knew Greek and Hebrew.

  My mind actually meandered back to Nikki. After she made God a two-syllable word and spoke in unknown tongues, she said He was going to give her all her babies back. One day. She said, “Let him go, Zeke. God will give him back.”

  Honestly! I thought she’d break out into a few verses of Diana Ross and the Supremes’ “Someday We’ll Be Together.” She did have that same diva quality as Diana. But she didn’t sing. She riveted us for another half hour with stories about her hard life.

  Yowza Yawanza. And speaking of Yawanza, she didn’t mention that was or had ever been her name or that her first two babies had died of SIDS.

  I sure hoped she’d tell us something about Zeekie. I backtracked and thought about what Neicy said.

  She was all about Wanzie, you know?

  That’s all I knew for certain. If Nikki/Yawanza was truly what I thought she was, I’d have to dig to prove it. But unlike on television, a real homicide case calls for good police work and strong allies everywhere in the community. I’d need to make my case, first to my husband and then to the Ann Arbor police.

  I listened to Nikki again. Even I had to admit how compelling she was. Some of what she said gave me chills.

  Still, she could be a psychopath. Ted Bundy proved murderers could be effective speakers. I stared at Zeekie’s casket.

  Did your own mama kill you, baby? Did she make it happen?

  Am I wrong about all of this because I had misgivings about Nikki from the start?

  Am I a spiritual elitist like Rocky said?

  I closed my eyes and saw Zeekie in his little white suit.

  You deserve somebody to look at the hard things. I’ll help you, my little Thunder boy.

  Maybe I’d prove myself wrong. If I did, more than just Zeekie would rest in peace.

  I may have wished for Zeekie to rest in peace, but he’d do no such thing at his funeral. After Nikki’s remarks, Elisa waddled to the stage and wept through reading his obituary. Why they’d ask a pregnant woman to handle that task baffled me. I couldn’t have done it! The obituary wrecked me, too. Jazz had to be my official Kleenex dispenser, handing me tissue after tissue.

  Rocky gave a short eulogy, and more friends gave remarks. Truthfully, no one made the impact Nikki had. That is, until people were asked to pay their last respects before they closed the coffin.

  I stood to have one more excruciating moment with Zeekie. Jazz grabbed my arm and gently pulled me back to my seat.

  “What?” I whispered.

  He leaned toward me. “Baby, I know he meant a lot to you, even in the short time he touched your life, but if you go up there knowing they’re about to close the casket, I’m going to have to scrape you up off the carpet. It’ll be bloody. It’ll be messy. It’ll leave a stain. Why don’t we skip that drama?”

  “But, Jazz…”

  “You’re pregnant. Emotional. And crazy. I need you to trust me on this.”

  I pouted. He grinned, and goodness me, I felt all warm and fuzzy. “Will you hold my hand?”

  “I’ll do more than that, Jane.”

  Honestly! We were at a funeral! Flirting at a funeral just seemed wrong.

  So why couldn’t I stop smiling?

  He’d called it right. Pregnant. Emotional. Crazy. But I trusted him enough to listen. Thank goodness, because Sister Lou blew a gasket.

  It happened after the crowd said good-bye and the Thunder family huddled around the casket—Sister Lou and Sister Joy included. />
  Carly and I made a deal a long time ago that whoever died first, the remaining one would, as Ma Brown used to say, “cut a fool” at the funeral. The surviving sister would cry out in agony, try to crawl into the casket, shout with fist pounding the air, “God, whyyyyyyyy?”

  We’d make sure to have on hand some of those nurses you see in some churches. The kind that aren’t really nurses but are trained to bring water to the preacher, circle individuals in the throes of ecstasy, and shout—by that I mean dance—with wild abandon as led by the Holy Spirit. They could also discreetly drape knees—covered and otherwise—of females slain in the Spirit. They were most needed, however, at funerals, where someone would inevitably faint. I think they may be licensed and certified to wield powerful smelling salts.

  And then the dedicated, surviving sister would let out a piercing scream and fall into a dead faint. Nurses to the rescue.

  Someone must have made Sister Lou the official “cut a fool” person. That woman’s plaintive wail should have shattered the stained glass.

  Jazz almost jumped out of his skin.

  He muttered something foul about Pentecostals. Honestly! Did he have any respect for the house of God?

  Lou paced the floor, speaking in tongues, arms flailing about, until she got to Ezekiel Thunder. That woman pounded him with her fist. “You was s’posed to raise him from the dead. You was s’posed to raise him. She said you was gon’ fast and pray. These kind only go out with—”

  Before anyone could overcome the shock of seeing her beat up her brother right in front of the baby’s casket, poor Lou started jerking and screaming. Incoherent babbling replaced any utterances one could attribute to the Holy Spirit.

  I jumped out of my seat.

  Jazz yanked me back down. “Jazzy, I think she’s moving out of her normal repertoire of crazy. I think she’s about to have a psychotic break.”

  “Today you’re not a psychologist.”

  “It’s unethical not to help her.”

  “I’ll call nine-one-one.”

  He whipped his cell phone out of his pocket, punched the three digits and waited for the operator. Some of the funeral attendees had gathered around the front like they were in Jerry Springer’s studio audience. Since Jazz was occupied calling for help, I slipped away from him.