“Exposed? You’re the one divinely takin’ names. Nobody called me Francis but my mother. I can guarantee you that.”
Apparently he was as wide open as me.
“How much could you see about me?” I asked.
“Not everything. Some things were crystal clear, but other stuff was hazy. Sorta like bad reception on a television.”
“That’s exactly what seeing demons is like! Sometimes I can see a demon like I’m looking at you, but I might only see one when there are dozens nearby. Or angels. There can be a legion of angels, and I’ll only see a few.”
“Dang, girl! You can see angels, too?”
“And people.”
He tilted his body toward me, excitement bursting out with his flurry of questions. “What kind of people? Like ghosts? Or saints?”
“Like how Jesus saw Moses and Elijah when He was praying.”
“You pray like that?” He looked like he was about to fall over. “With so much piety that the prophets come and kick it with you?”
“Naw, boy! What I see isn’t based on performance or anything. At least I don’t think it is. If I had to depend on my works I ain’t seeing nothin’!”
“Who have you seen? And tell me what angels look like. Do you get scared when they show themselves? Do they speak to you? This is crazy!”
My hackles went up. “It’s not crazy! No crazier than us seeing and feeling each other’s thoughts because we prayed together. I’m as sane as you are, and I don’t do this junk on purpose. It just happens.”
“Whoa, Emme. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“What did you mean? Crazy is crazy, isn’t it?”
“I meant I’ve never met anybody with those kinds of charisms. I’m amazed, that’s all.”
“Charisms?”
“Gifts. From the Holy Spirit.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He watched me like he thought I’d sprout another head. Thank God the waitress showed up, an energetic sistah with a ponytail weave that bounced whenever she did. She asked if she could take my food away and refill his coffee.
“Yes, please,” we said at the same time.
The synchronicity between us unnerved me. Like he could still read my mind.
When the waitress left he asked, “Has what happened between us happened to you before? Like somebody else touched you, and they got your gift and you got theirs?”
“What I got ain’t no gift. And no, it’s never happened to me before.” Since I didn’t like where this was going, I flipped it. “What about what you? I could feel stuff all of a sudden. Tell me about your gift.”
He shrugged it off. “It’s nothing, really. I feel things. When that man with the demon came into Walgreens the whole energy in the store changed; like, an oppressive, heavy vibe came in and drained all the peace and love out the store. And I feel other things. Sometimes I can feel people’s suffering. I feel their story. And they’re always sad stories. You know? The feeling feeds me information. It’s hard to explain.”
“You don’t have to explain it now. I think I’d rather see stuff than feel it.”
“Why is that, Emme?”
“Feeling is too hard.” I stared at crumbs on the table that had escaped my Lumberjack Slam.
“You’ve been hurt a lot. I saw the men who … hurt you.”
My head shot up. “I don’t wanna talk about it. A’ight?”
He nodded. “It’s cool. If it makes you feel better I didn’t get digital movies and surround sound. Mostly I saw you. The vulnerable you who is intelligent and strong and could use a few breaks. I like what I see.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. He blushed.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“Yes you did.”
“Then I shouldn’t have meant it like that.”
For an uncomfortable few moments neither of us spoke. He looked toward the kitchen rather than at me. I suppose he needed to break the power of whatever was weaving the two of us so tightly together.
“You go up in your head when you feel like things are getting to be too much for you, don’t you, Francis?”
“Tell me more about seeing,” he said, ignoring my question again. “What’s going on when it’s all weird and hazy?”
“Heck if I know. All I can tell you is that when it’s not clear I see clouds, light, colors, shadows. But sometimes I don’t see anything. And I can’t adjust the focus at will. Sometimes the veil lifts, and whatever separates us from the spirit world is moved to the side for a moment. But God won’t let me see everything. Maybe I couldn’t deal with it. All I know is one moment I see, and the next I got on a pair of Men in Black Ray-Bans. And I see through those glasses darkly. You know?”
“I do now,” he said.
Francis’s expression turned earnest. I knew he was about to ask for something. He didn’t disappoint me. “Something is happening between us, some kind of God thing. I want to know more about you, Emme.”
He was cute, but I didn’t know if I wanted that. But man, when I looked into those eyes …
Now would have been a good time for God to say something to me. But He wasn’t tryna holla right now. I compensated by tryna gather enough information to make an informed decision. “You say you’re not a minor. But that could mean you’re only eighteen. How old are you? No evasion, okay? I’m losing patience with this little dance.”
“I’m twenty-one.”
“And when did you turn twenty-one?”
“A few days ago.”
He wasn’t too old for me.
He sipped his coffee. Watched me a lot. Made beats on the table, and I could tell he had mad rhythm skills. I guess he was gathering his courage. He got down to business. “I’d like to keep talking to you, Emme. I mean that sincerely.”
“We can sit here as long as you’d like. You keep buying the coffee, and I’ll keep talking.”
“I’m ready to go. It’s been a long night.”
I glared at him. His gaze shifted to his hands, as if my scrutiny embarrassed him. Or was he ashamed that he couldn’t hide his interest in wanting more from me, despite his trippin’ about my age?
I asked him point blank, “What do you have in mind? And you’d better be straight with me.”
“Are you always this difficult?”
I searched his face for any hint of something unsavory. I didn’t see anything, but didn’t know if it was because he was so fine and a part of me was diggin’ him, or not. “It’s almost four now. I’m tired. You must be tired. W’sup?”
He blurted out, “I know a place you can go that’s safe.”
“I’m listening.”
“You just have to come home with me.”
I rolled my eyes toward heaven. “Wanna speak up now, God?” I prayed aloud.
God didn’t say jack to me.
I sat in that booth, posture rigid, arms crossed, with my gaze roaming to and fro, checkin’ out everything and everybody but Francis.
I listened to the quiet chatter of the few patrons, and the droning voices of the staff pouring out of the kitchen. Some whack-sounding smooth jazz played in the background.
I had to count the cost here. Okay, he had treated me like he was a Good Samaritan in every way, and maybe he was finishing the job. In the story, the Samaritan did take his boy to a safe place.
Then again, every pimp I’ve ever met—and I’ve met a few—played the same game. They be all nice, treating you like a straight-up princess, and the next thing you know you’re spending time with their “friends” and you don’t have to do nothin’. Until you do.
Not Emme Vaughn.
Wouldn’t have been hard for him to read me this time. My face said it all.
He leaned over the table. “It’s the home of a priest. He’s been known to take a troubled teenager in before.”
“A priest?”
“He’s an old man, Emme. And he’s terminally ill. And a woman—a nun—is staying there
to take care of him. And she don’t take no stuff from anybody. Nobody’s gonna do anything they aren’t supposed to in that house. I promise.”
“And where is this place?”
“It’s in Inkster.”
“Inkster! I ain’t going to Inkster!”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with Inktown. It’s full of good people.”
“I grew up in Inkster. I know all about it. I’ve got plenty of bad memories from the projects, bro’, and I left a few people behind I ain’t tryna see.” I didn’t tell him that, on the other hand, there were a few who would be good to see, and I’d be tempted to risk whatever freedom I had going to see them. But those I wanted to avoid …
Naw. I couldn’t do Inkster.
Or was the street the bigger risk?
He asked, “Is somebody after you?”
I played his game and ignored the question.
He gave up after a long pause. “Emme, nobody’s gonna turn you in to foster care thirty-three days before your birthday. Not where I’d take you.”
“How did you know—”
“I know a lot, Emme. And it didn’t take some shared spiritual charism for me to figure that out.”
“People say they’re gonna help, and they end up …” I thought about Ray. “Not helping.”
“You have my word, Emme.”
“Your word don’t mean nothing to me.”
“It means something to me.”
“Why do you live with a priest and a nun?”
A sheepish expression crossed his face. “I just do. And I didn’t want it to sound like I’m a dog, asking you to come home with me.”
“But you are asking me to come home with you, clown!”
“But not like a dog,” he said.
I forced the air out of my lungs. I couldn’t buy his story. Why would he live with clergy? “I knew you were too good to be true. You told me that crack lie ’cause you think it’d be that easy. Man. Are all men animals?”
“I said I live with a priest and a nun! What sorta crack lie is that? Not that I smoke crack or tell lies.”
“I’ve heard all kinds. You wouldn’t make a good pimp. You ain’t even a good mack.”
“I don’t have any pimp or mack aspirations, so I’m cool with that. I’m telling you the truth, Emme. I can prove it without you even having to get in my car again.”
“How?”
“Let me make a call. And if you’re not convinced, pray about it. But I think God will give you a yes. You can trust me, Emme. What other options do you have? All you’ve got is forty dollars. How long is that gonna last?”
He was right. And no other bright ideas were falling out of the sky. This time I sighed. “Make your call.”
Once again I wished I could see the future instead of demons.
He pulled out his cell phone. Dialed a number, put the phone to his ear, and waited.
Voice mail must have kicked in. He hung up, and dialed again. Repeated the process two or three times until he got an answer. I watched him like a pot of grits cookin’.
He looked perfectly calm. “Hello, Mother Nicole? I’m sorry to call so late, but I want you to talk to someone. She’s important to me.”
He waited and listened to what she had to say. Then he blushed and showed me that dimple again, and his grin made me soften toward him and whatever whack conversation he wanted me to have with whoever was on the line.
He did call her Mother Nicole, but what if that was some kind of hint so she’d play along?
He handed me the phone as if it were a peace offering. “I know you’re salty with me,” he said, “but I’m not trying to trick you. I didn’t want to say much to Mother Nicole so you wouldn’t think I was setting the conversation up. You can ask her whatever questions you want. Go ahead. Take the phone.”
I took his phone and held it to my ear. It retained the faint scent of whatever cologne he wore. “Hello.”
The voice on the other end greeted me with a hearty, “Hey there.”
I could tell two things right away: She was white and older than him. Not that her voice sounded like a little old lady’s, but she had a kind of authoritative voice, like she’d lived through a lot, in years and experience, and didn’t take no stuff.
I cleared my throat. I felt kinda stupid talking to a strange white lady on somebody else’s cell phone at, like, four o’clock in the morning, but what else was I gon’ do?
“W’sup?” I said into his cell that smelled sweet and musky like his cologne. “Is your name Mother Nicole for real?”
“It’s really Mother Nikolai, but nobody spells or says it right, so yes. I am Mother Nicole.”
“Francis tryna take me home.”
She sucked in her breath, then dramatically exhaled. “Oh my! He lets you call him Francis. You must be very special, indeed!”
“Not really. Check this out: I told him I don’t know him like that. He said you would vouch for him or something.” I added for kicks, “You’re not really his girlfriend, are you?”
She cackled into the phone. “Lord, have mercy! Frankie must be laughing his head off now.”
“Naw. He ain’t laughin’. And he heard me ask you. He gay?”
“Heavens no!”
“Is a girl who’s, like, almost eighteen too young for him?”
“I don’t think so. Of course, that depends on the girl.”
I winked at Francis. “I know, right? Tell me about this place where y’all live.”
“It’s the house Father Miguel lives in. I don’t know how much Frankie told you, but I’m here for Father Miguel’s hospice care. The house belongs to All Souls Catholic Church, and Frankie has been staying here for three years, but he can’t take care of Miguel all the time. He really needs a nurse at this point.”
“Why he staying with a priest?”
“You’ll have to ask him that yourself, lovie.”
“Is this on the up-and-up?”
“It’s as straightforward as they come.”
“How many teenagers has this priest dude taken in?”
“Just Frankie. And he’ll take you if you come.”
“I haven’t decided yet. Is he a freaky molester priest?”
She sighed. “He does not molest people. Let me ask you a question. Why does Frankie want to bring you home?”
“I don’t know. He said he wants to talk more.”
“That must be some conversation, because he’s never brought anyone home.”
“He said something about being a Good Samaritan and me needing wounds healed.”
“He’s a good judge of the walking wounded. Why don’t you come? See what happens.”
“Am I gonna be safe if I ride with him?”
“I’d trust my godson with my life,” she said. “And I don’t trust just anybody.”
“For real?”
“Absolutely.”
I said a quick, silent prayer asking God if it was cool to go.
Francis must have been happy. God gave me His yes.
We got back to the Camry, and he opened the door for me and waited while I got myself straight. As soon as I put my seat belt on, I closed my eyes to rest them and promptly fell asleep.
I woke up to the feel of Francis’s hand moving my hair off my face and his voice whispering my name. I rubbed at my eyes, trying to wake. When I opened them I saw his peering at me. I sho’ could stand waking up and seeing him every day.
“Did I sleep the whole way here?”
“Yeah, it’s okay.” He gave my hair one last stroke. “I like your hair. It’s so long and beautiful. Are you tryna dread?”
I jerked myself up. “Naw, I ain’t tryna dread!” My hand went defensively to my unintentionally budding locks. “My hair is a hot mess. Kiki was supposed to put it in cornrows before—”
Don’t go there, Emme.
I tried to calm down. “So, we’re not in Kansas anymore, huh?”
“Nope. Welcome home, Emme.”
We’d parked in front
of a little bungalow house right next to a church, just like Mother Nicole said. I turned my gaze toward the house of God. “That must be All Souls. Cool name, by the way.”
“Don’t let the name fool you. Father Miguel isn’t as accepting as his parish’s name suggests.”
“So, you’re Catholic?”
“Not yet. But you could say right now I’m being initiated into that particular body. I’m still working through some … issues. What about you?”
“I went to Pentecostal churches most of my life. My mama had this rosary, though. Never did teach me how to use it.” I fingered the black beads around my neck. “She told me these can protect you from demons.”
Not that it had protected Mama.
“Dang. We so aren’t gon’ work,” I teased. “My mama said Catholics and Protestants don’t mix.”
“I’m not Catholic yet.”
He laughed when I startled, like National Enquirer Boy, at his comment. But he turned serious fast. “My father says the same thing, but most of the time I think he’s talking about me and him. My mother was Catholic, but wouldn’t let me have anything to do with the Roman Church. She raised me a Protestant.”
“She must have had a serious beef with the Church.”
“Yeah. I’m sure that beef was my father.”
“What about him?”
“He broke her heart.”
“Did he break yours, too?”
“Does it all the time.”
Then blam! An invisible fifty-foot wall shot up between us. End of conversation. I was tired anyway. I stretched out my arms and legs, then folded back into myself.
“I feel so sleepy I could stay right here in the car. But not in Inkster. When I lived here, those projects across the church’s parking lot were a war zone. Ain’t no way I’m sleepin’ in the ride, not even if your church was inside this Camry.”
“Girl, the projects better watch out for Emme Vaughn.”
“You think?”
“I know. But it’s okay to be vulnerable sometimes, as long as you’re strong when it counts.”
Shadows from the night covered his face, but I could still see how pretty he was. “I guess it must always count. Because I don’t seem to get too many breaks to be vulnerable.”
“I know what that’s like. You ever read The Message?”
The Exorsistah Page 5