The Exorsistah

by Claudia Mair Burney

  Now he tells him! Man!

  “Why you ain’t say nothing when he did it?”

  And of course Roach Boy skedaddled like I was possessed and about to give him a beatdown.

  Cutie looked mad, but he didn’t let his manners drop. “Can you please get these things off of me now, man?”

  I told Methuselah I planned to file a complaint with the district, regional, and national Walgreens managers, call the NAACP, and get Rev. Al Sharpton, Jesse Jackson, and my cousins and ’nem if he didn’t free my friend with the quickness.

  I had no idea where my cousins were, but I’d find those roughnecks if I needed to!

  Guard Methuselah apologized profusely and uncuffed my boy.

  Cutie remained cool about it. “That’s okay, man.”

  “No it ain’t,” I said.

  He chuckled. “Yes it is.” He looked me over. “Are you hurt?”

  “Yeah! And I’m suing.” But I only had a few scratches and bruises. And a sore butt.

  Cutie gestured toward the doors. “Let’s get out of here before we end up on the next episode of COPS.”

  “I ain’t tryna see the cops, either. I don’t want no more drama tonight.”

  “Amen to that,” he said, and like a gentleman ushered me to the door.

  Cutie opened the door for me as we exited Walgreens and walked through the darkness to the parking lot. The night seemed more menacing than ever, especially since I knew a possessed man lurked somewhere in the shadows.

  Cutie’s voice jarred me out of my fears. “Are you sure you’re okay, chica? Do you think you need some medical help?”

  “I don’t have any ID on me. And I can’t take any chances. What if somebody on the emergency department staff thinks I’ve been battered—and not by a demon? The first person they gon’ look at is you.” I tried to stretch a kink out of my neck. “I’m fine,” I said, turning my head from side to side. “What I wanna know is what are we gon’ do about the possessed man? We can’t let him go.”

  “He’s already gone. Hombre is in God’s hands now. I’m more concerned about you at the moment. He pushed you pretty hard.”

  I frowned. “I don’t understand why we didn’t get the demon, or devil, or whatever it was out of him.”

  “Some only go out by prayer and fasting. It can take months sometimes.”

  “I did pray. And fast, too! I might not have fasted on purpose, but I haven’t eaten a bite since yesterday morning. And what do you mean months? I ain’t never heard of that.”

  “Don’t worry about that now. Our mission is to get you fed.”

  I meant to say “okay,” but instead I started shaking. I looked into his face and saw compassion in him like I saw demons in the possessed man. I wondered if that’s what it looked like to be possessed by God. By love Himself. Cutie’s grace touched me, until the bottom dropped. I fell into his arms.

  He held me by the waist, and for a second I felt that flurry of butterfly activity in my belly. Then I got a flash of heat and nausea. Hunger slashed through my crushin’ on him and chased the butterflies away.

  “Ohhhhh,” I moaned.

  “Hey, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “My blood sugar must’ve crashed. I need to eat.”

  I would have wobbled to the ground, but Cutie’s strong arms held me up. I felt like somebody plunged me into U2’s “Vertigo” video. On the inside I spun around like that demoniac.

  Cutie’s voice penetrated my swirling brain. “Hang on, okay, chica?”

  All I had the strength to do was whisper a prayer. “God, I’m in Your hands as much as I’m in his. Please don’t let this guy be a sociopath.”

  I dropped my head on his neck, completely spent.

  I had to admit, the brother impressed me. First he put himself between a demon and me and then he carried me to his beat-up, old, gray Camry and tucked me inside. He took me straight to Denny’s. He even convinced the people at the restaurant that all I needed was some food. Brotha got a sistah fed fast!

  Now I sat in a red vinyl booth, with a Lumberjack Slam breakfast, a tall glass of OJ, and a hottie who knew how to play demon hunter, gentleman, and hero in front of me.

  He had coffee.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  But my gratitude didn’t quell my anxiety. Talk about showing my underbelly? He could have done anything to me in the state I was in.

  But he didn’t.

  Of course that didn’t mean I had to trust him.

  Whether or not I trusted Cutie, the least I could do was make conversation. I tried, but every bad thing that had happened to me that night sprang to the forefront of my thoughts and blew out of my mouth. “I was scared when you put me in your car.”

  “I know, chica. I heard your prayer. I’m not a sociopath, okay? I was concerned about putting you in my ride when you were in such a vulnerable position too, but I needed to get you some food. I would have carried you over, but a brotha walking around with a barely conscious young woman might have bought us some unwanted attention. And that would have defeated the purpose.”

  “You got that right.” I speared my pancakes. “For real, though, I’m embarrassed that I let myself get so jacked up.”

  “You shouldn’t be. You were hungry, and all that warfare drained your energy. The Good Samaritan hooked up the brotha he found. I’d have been wrong to leave you laid out on the street.”

  I wanted to make sure my instincts were right about him. “Why didn’t you call an ambulance?”

  He paused. Rubbed his finger around the rim of his coffee cup, but he didn’t take his eyes off me. “I thought about doing that at first, but I know what it’s like to be that hungry. And some of the things you said made me think you didn’t want authorities on to you.”

  I expected him to ask me what I was hiding from, but he didn’t. Interesting. I decided to grill him some more. Maybe he really did know what I was going through. From experience.

  “When you said ‘I know’ to me at the bubble-gum machine, you weren’t playing around, were you?”

  “Nope. I don’t play around.”

  “How do you know I’m not a criminal?”

  “Demon’s ain’t all I can feel.”

  “You bought me breakfast. Gave me forty duckets. Do you always spread the love like that?”

  “I wouldn’t necessarily call the money I’ve invested in you a lot of paper.”

  “So you pass out bread like that to anyone who needs it?”

  “I try to be generous, but no, most people don’t get that much from me. I might give ’em some change or a couple of bucks. But … I don’t know … it’s like I said. You remind me of somebody.”

  “Who?”

  He didn’t answer me.

  Jealousy sliced through me. I tried to ignore it. “She must have been the bomb.”

  Again, he left whoever she was to my imagination, but I wanted him to keep talking. How else could I figure him out?

  I ventured another question. “What do you do? Why are you out at three o’clock in the morning? You a Scripture-quoting drug dealer?”

  “It’s Friday night. People do go out at night who aren’t tryna sell dope.”

  “The clubs close at two A.M.”

  “But musicians aren’t finished breaking down at two. And sometimes they have to talk to people after the show. I’m in a band. I’m almost always out late on the weekends.”

  Okay, him being a musician was hot. But I needed to contain my enthusiasm.

  He leaned forward, moving his coffee cup aside. “Do you know what three A.M. is?”

  “No.”

  “It’s called the witching hour. It’s the reverse of the holy hour—three P.M.—when Jesus died on the cross. Demon activity is strong at this time of night. When I saw you standing there gazing with longing at the bubble-gum machine—that is, before you started checkin’ me out—I was worried about you. The witching hour is not the time for one of Jesus’ little lambs to be out and about, hungry.�
�

  True dat. I’d had enough demons attack me around that time to know it was so.

  He went on. “The night is full of predators.”

  “The night is full of more than that.”

  “That’s right. It’s full of demons and their charges, along with the normal zoo full of hustlers, pimps, and wannabes who will see a pretty little morena like you and pick up on that hunger you got goin’ in your belly. You could have done worse than have a Good Samaritan stumble upon you.”

  “I know that, a’ight? I said thank you. I’m grateful.”

  “So what’s the next step gonna be?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where do you plan to go after you leave here?” He took a long drag on his coffee, set the cup down without taking his eyes off me.

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure where I’ll go. Maybe I’ll stay here for a few hours, if I can. Barnes and Noble opens at nine.”

  “If you remembered the story of the Good Samaritan, part of the hook-up was to take him somewhere to heal his wounds.”

  “I didn’t get hurt that badly.”

  “More ways than one way to be wounded.”

  “You don’t even know my name. How do you know if I’m wounded or not?”

  “Wounded girls don’t have anyplace to go. They’re the ones who faint from hunger and who are more afraid than they let on. They think a bunch of slang will make them look tough, not realizing they can speak like their intelligent selves, and still be perceived as strong.”

  “I am being myself. I slip with the Ebonics when I’m mad.”

  He didn’t argue with me. Just went back to his spiel. “I’ve met a few wounded sistahs in my day.”

  “Like the one I remind you of?”

  His expression turned serious. “She wasn’t a girl. She was a woman.”

  “Oh, it’s like that?”

  “What’s your name, wounded girl?”

  Might as well chill and stop pressing him about the mystery sistah. Now that he’d called her a woman, I didn’t think I’d like his answer.

  “My name is Emme Vaughn.”

  “Emma?”

  “No. Em-me. It sounds like the television award, Emmy, only I spell it with the letter ‘e’ at the end instead of ‘y.’”

  “Em-me.” He nodded like he liked the sound of that.

  I thought of how content I could be, just being quiet and staring at him. His exotic Afro-Latino looks compelled me. His black curls glistened, even in the harsh fluorescent lighting, and that skin, all earth and clay—looking, made me want to reach out and touch him.

  But I ain’t touchy-feely.

  The set of his jaw was a little stern. It begged to be soothed, but his eyes? Nothin’ hard about ’em. I saw light—the God kind—in his warm, welcoming eyes, and not because they had gold flecks in them.

  “What your name?” I asked.

  “Call me Frank.”

  “Call you Frank? Is Frank some kinda moniker or something?”

  “Maybe that’s my name, Emme Vaughn.”

  “Or maybe you’re lying, brotha Frank’s-not-your-real-name.”

  He drummed his fingers on the table for a few moments. “Why don’t you finish your breakfast?”

  I took a bite to humor him.

  He slouched back against the red vinyl of the booth. “You can call me Frankie if you don’t like Frank. I don’t like it so much now that I’m older, but you can call me that.”

  “And how old are you anyway?”

  “I’m old enough to know better than do whatever madness you think I might be up to. How old are you, Emme Vaughn?”

  “I told you my age.”

  “Sixteen?”

  “That ain’t what I said.”

  “Oh, you’re fifteen.”

  “I didn’t say that, either.”

  We could go round all night. I didn’t want to admit it, but I might have met my match in him. I gave in. A little. “I’ll be eighteen in thirty-three days.”

  “But you’re not eighteen tonight, are you, ma? You’re a minor. And I’m not. I want to help you out, Emme. Feed you. I was hoping, if you felt like it, maybe you could tell me about that … you know … that thing you do.”

  “What thing is that?”

  He glanced around the restaurant. Lowered his voice. “You see demons.”

  It tickled me how he said it. Made me want to tease him. “So, you think I’m like that little boy in the movie The Sixth Sense, only I whisper, ‘I see demons.’”

  He tilted his head toward me and gave me a sly smile. “Some people believe seeing dead people is seeing demons.”

  “Others believe that souls of the dead can possess people, too.”

  “You got experience with that, Emme?”

  “This time I’m the one who’s not gonna answer.”

  “Come on, Emme. Show a brotha a little love. I want to know what it’s like. You gotta admit that’s a heckuva skill.”

  “Maybe I don’t like showing love to people whose name I don’t know.”

  Laughter spilled out of his mouth and caught me by the heart. Good laughter, without a hint of anything sinister. I let the sound of it wash over me in waves of something that felt like joy.

  Oh, Lord. Is he as all right as he seems?

  He shook his finger at me. “Ah, ah, ah. Me no tell, but nice try.”

  “What kind of Latino name do people diminish to Frank?”

  “You’re as persistent as a pit bull, Emme Vaughn. I told you, girl, call me Frank. Or Frankie. Do you prefer Frankie? You seem like you’ll be one of my Frankie people.”

  “How many Frankie people do you have?”

  “A few. And they’re all special.”

  “Females, all of ’em. Right?”

  Again, his laughter tickled my heart, leaving its fingerprints.

  “You ever been to jail, Frankie-is-not-your-name-either?”

  His eyes widened, and he twisted his lips into a smirk. “Jail? Wait, I thought we were ’sposed to be talking about you.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Do I look like a thug to you?”

  “I don’t think there’s one look for thugs. And I ask because you mentioned avoiding the police.”

  “You wanted to avoid them, too. That’s wisdom in some cases.”

  He leaned back against the vinyl and crossed his arms, but kept his eyes on me, with that smirk on his face. I’d asked him several ways and still hadn’t gotten an answer. So once again, I posed the question. Differently. “Were you falsely accused of something like all brothas say they are, and had to go on lock-down?”

  “No, I was not falsely accused of something and had to go on lockdown.” He really had a laugh about that answer.

  “So you really did something?”

  “Are you done, Emme Vaughn? Eating, that is.”

  “Oh, I’m done all right.”

  “I’d like for us to pray together and give thanks. We were in too much of a rush to get food into you before. Do you mind?”

  I shook my head. Way to get off the subject.

  He reached for my hand and grasped it. Something akin to electricity jolted me.

  Aw, man!

  I felt fireworks, and something more—something different. It was as if we made some kind of soul connection that went as deep and wide as one of the Great Lakes. Heart deep. Maybe even deeper than soul deep—spirit deep. It was like I could feel him in my secret place—the place reserved for God only. How did this brotha get all up in my secret place of the Most High?

  And somehow I was transported into that same place inside of him—like I was walking around inside his heart of hearts, and it was a good place to be.

  Yet I still heard every word of him thanking God.

  “We give You thanks, Almighty God, for all Your benefits. And may the souls of the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace. Amen.” He released my hand, and I opened my eyes to find him staring at me.

  “
You got inside of me,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I saw and felt you in my … I don’t know, chica. It was like you were in my soul, as clearly as I’m sitting here.”

  “Bro’, you’re trippin’.”

  “I’m not, and you know it. It was weird, but when I touched your hand and we prayed, it was like I could see you without having my eyes open. You were praying with me, but you were thinking about how you could feel me. And you were trippin’ on it. But I watched you. I saw and felt all of it.”

  His head went down like he was searching for what was happening and the Formica might have the answer. “All right. This is too crazy, we need to—”

  “Francis?”

  His head shot up. “What did you call me?”

  “That’s your real name.”

  He blinked, looking astonished. He buried his face in his hands, as if that would erase his confusion. Looked back at me. “This has never happened to me before, and believe me, I’ve experienced some tripped-out things. How did you discern my real name?”

  “I could feel … I don’t know … some warm, peaceful feeling, and then there it was. I just knew it.”

  His fingers drummed the tabletop with excitement. “That’s amazing. I don’t tell anybody my real name. It ain’t even on my ID.”

  Whatever we’d experienced had a lingering effect that went beyond our physical touching, and although it wasn’t as powerful as when we were praying together, I could still feel his mind racing. One thought stumbled on the heels of another, ideas tripping and falling inside.

  He shook his head. I could feel something nagging at him—something about me, but I couldn’t quite reach it now. I wondered if I could find what troubled him if I touched him again.

  “Just say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “What’s bothering you.”

  His face turned serious. He bought a little time splaying his fingers out on the tabletop and watching his hands. Finally he said, “Okay, I will. I saw you fasting. Too much. You’ll get sick if you don’t eat more than one meager meal a day.”

  My head snapped up, “You know I do that, too?”

  “Besides the fact that you are thin enough to be a runway model, yeah, I saw it.”

  Suddenly I didn’t like this thing. “I’m feeling a little exposed.”