Three Nights In Mannford

by Cynthia Conner Goyang

  Three Nights In Mannford

  Copyright © 2021 by Cynthia Conner Goyang

  All rights reserved. No part of this book, including icons and images, may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the copyright holder, except where noted in the text and in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Scripture quotations marked NKJV are taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Scripture quotations marked KJV are taken from the King James Version.

  Cover and interior design: Harrington Interactive Media (harringtoninteractive.com)

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

  “We wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.”

  Ephesians 6:12 (KJV)

  The City of Mannford is in the midst of battle. One of epic proportions. A battle between good and evil, between life and death, between heaven and hell.

  A voice cries out:

  Straighten your path, Come forth from there, from there, from there, from there. Do not remain, for death — slow, sure death — grasps you who dwell within who do not, have not, will not escape the onslaught of this cosmos. Over all hovers One Way: the Divine, with Light and Brilliance. But beneath the surface crawls rank, insidious malevolence.

  Mannford lies between. Fork in the road—which way? Choose! This day!

  Decide—Define—Seek the Divine!

  Night One

  Chapter

  1

  Mannford - The City - The Surface

  Mannford’s a growing city, watched over by her founding fathers. A city of sheer beauty, it stands on a hill nestled among snowcapped mountain peaks and balmy valleys laid low. This twenty-first-century megalopolis is a flash of flesh, ready cash, luxury accommodation, pristine architecture — doors open wide to those of reputation and stature.

  A social climbers’ paradise, Mannford is fashionable, exceptional, brimming with affluence. Here and there, fragrant whiffs of Louis Vuitton fill the air at fundraisers for a worthy cause. Clink, clink of Waterford wine goblets; summers on the lake; opera glasses raised to view Othello.

  But on the other side of the tracks, worlds apart, a separate reality subsists — crime-ridden, crowded over, underfed. Still, over all hovers gifts given of the Creator. Through the wounded walls laughter seeps, somehow. And as it seeps, creativity leaks — and colors those bleeding, wounded walls.

  In between stands Mannford’s middle class. Pleasant porch swings on a summer night; chipped, white-painted picket fences spring up from green grass with a few dandelions flowered in. Smile cheerily, wave neighborly to those down the way. Two-car-garage doors roll comfortably down just before families settle in their dens for a quiet Mannford night.

  To some among Mannford’s midst: escapism, complacence, indifference. To others disquiet; and to the faithful few: faith, hope, and love.

  Mannford - Unearthed

  Foul, putrid pus oozes and leaks from clammy, translucent imp-beings that swarm about. Deep beneath Mannford, within crevassed subterranean walls, the evil things teem — hate-filled, hideous, hissing, biting, and being bitten as they claw and jostle each other for position. Each evil imp has nervously sensed, indeed sniffed, the acrid sulfur of principalities and powers looming nearby. The imps begin to grapple ruthlessly over and through each other. Each battles brutally, contending for the chance of being allowed relief from their arid place of confinement.

  Principalities and powers that prowl the air fly in, and — in an instant — hover hideous above the imp-beings. The spirits of Hate, Confusion, Lust, Chaos, and Violence appear, sent by Satan to survey the foul demonic fissure. They observe the repulsive imp-beings within with utter contempt. Then they open their cavernous mouths and vomit abhorrent, slimy, black, reeking filth down upon a mass of the evil imps. Fueled by the most wicked commands and designs, they snatch the ones whom their emissions have marked and fling them — foul and vile — to the four corners of Mannford to wreak havoc and effect destruction.

  Chapter

  2

  Marquise turned his car tuner to SiriusXM Traffic and rolled out from the House of Fade (his thriving barbershop) and onto the interstate.

  “An accident on I-20 has traffic backed up to exit 319,” the announcer declared. “Expect delays.”

  He sighed heavily. “I just had to take I-20. Accidents, a million accidents!” he muttered to himself.

  Squaring his sunglasses on his nose, he drove on as the late afternoon sun shone into his black Escalade SUV, its brilliant rays escaping around the sun visor to beat down squarely on him. Without delay, Marquise maneuvered to the far left lane to avoid the upcoming slowdown in traffic. Ahead, he could see the smoking vehicle. Although the car had been cleared to the road’s shoulder, gawkers were jamming up traffic while slowing down to look. As he drove past the accident, he glanced once, then twice, and then finally clenched his strong jaw in sheer shock.

  “What?” He said out loud. On the gravel-strewn shoulder of the beltway was an older black woman lying on her back. She had been moved out of the way, just enough to keep from being run over by scores of passing vehicles. Her right shoulder was tattered, her stomach exposed. A trail of blood seeped from her nose. Her overturned car, crumpled and smoking, lay scrunched next to her. She’d clearly been thrown from the car when she veered off the road and hit the concrete barrier.

  “Unreal!” he mumbled. He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw the emergency warning lights of an ambulance just behind him. His ears rang as the siren screamed its approach. Marquise passed by, relieved to know this poor woman’s help was near.

  “Man, oh man. What a trip!” He shook his head and drove on. A few miles down the way, he took exit 321

  Once off the beltway Marquise made his way closer to home. He pushed back his dreadlocks and switched from SiriusXM Traffic to the Hip-Hop Nation. The sounds of Jay-Z filled his car as he rolled past familiar Mannford landmarks — the Museum of Natural History and the amphitheater where many big-name, A-list stars and musicians performed.

  A few miles farther lay City Park in the hood. Brothas stood by and showcased they SLAB — Slow-Loud-and-Bangin’ — to the hilt; elbow glistenin’; trunk-tremblin’; shout-outs emanatin’; and hip-hop reverberatin’ from poppin’, gleamin’ trunks.

  The banging hip-hop sounds followed him as he continued his roll down near Smitty’s Bar-be-cue. The aroma of smoked ribs, beef brisket, and sausage filled Marquise’s nostrils. The long-standing, off-white clapboard building — stained by wood smoke and time — stood on a slight, grassless incline. Marquise’s mouth watered. He slowed his roll, tempted to stop, and grab a couple of rib and brisket plates, but thought better of it.

  “Naw, maybe tomorrow so Keiana won’t have to cook.”

  He drove until he got to the ShoppersMart convenience store and gas station at the corner of Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and Main Street. After pulling in next to one of the gas pumps, he got out. As he walked toward the store, he glanced around with amazement and a certain sense of satisfaction at the mixture of humanity. Folks in hardhats, coveralls, and steel-toed boots who had just clocked out of their twelve-hour shifts at the gas plant joined others clad in uniforms — and still others in business dresses, suits, ties, and fancy pumps or well-shined shoes — all there to grab Pepsis and paper towels, beer and lottery
tickets. Blacks, whites, Hispanics, East Indians, Asians — a melting pot was right here at the ShoppersMart. A couple of giggling teen girls, probably from Mannford East High, entered the store in front of him.

  “Oops, ’scuse me, sir,” said the first, who bumped against Marquise in one of the store’s narrow aisles.

  “No worries, young lady,” Marquise said.

  “Ooh, he cute,” the other girl whispered to her friend loud enough for Marquise’s ears. Both girls giggled some more as they made a beeline for the candy aisle. Marquise chuckled and watched the high school kids gathered both inside and outside, as they carried on noisy, laughing conversations.

  East High lay just down the street. To the high schoolers, ShoppersMart was a readily accessible after-school hangout. But Marquise realized that to the diminutive Asian shopkeeper, the teenagers were a necessary evil. He watched the shopkeeper’s pointed glare at the girls to let them know in no uncertain terms that their allotted time to make their purchases was nearly up. To avoid theft and damage, ShoppersMart allowed only a few kids in at a time. Having been a long-time customer, Marquise had seen many a teen wait their turn and then sift in two by two to grab Gatorade, Pepsi, beef jerky, hot pickles, Snickers, and Cheetos a-plenty before rejoining their companions outside to continue their raucous trek down the street.

  Marquise grabbed a six-pack of beer and his guilty pleasure, a bag of ranch-flavored sunflower seeds, and then stood in line to pay for his goods and gas. The shopkeeper stood stoic, often glancing sideways at the students while ringing up his customers.

  Marquise laid his things down at the counter. “Ima put forty dollars in on the vehicle at pump four,” Marquise said and pointed out at his Escalade.

  The man nodded quickly and rang up the sale. “You want bag?”

  “Yeah, man. That’ll work. Thanks.”

  The man set the pump, dropped Marquise’s items into a flimsy plastic bag that said, “Thank you!” on the side, then returned to staring at the high schoolers.

  Marquise stepped to the door just as a well-dressed, graying-blond-haired man entered.

  “Heat’s no joke today,” the man said and grinned, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  “You better know it, Mayor,” Marquise said, smiling in return.

  Marquise had met Mayor Truman Henderson three years before at Mannford’s Back-to-School Bash. The popular charitable event had been growing larger every year. Food, jumpy-houses, face painting, free sports physicals, and loaded backpacks were just a few of the community’s contributions to the school-bound kiddos every August. Marquise participated annually by giving free haircuts.

  ’like the way he shows up for the kiddos every year, Marquise thought, eying the mayor. Seems to be a pretty decent dude — for a politician.

  “So how many heads of hair did you do this year, Marquise?” Mayor Henderson asked.

  Marquise threw his head back and laughed. “Too many to count.”

  “Way to go. You truly perform an excellent service to the community. If only everyone . . .” The mayor’s eyes turned noticeably sad as he shook his head. “Yes, if only everyone.”

  Marquise stared at Mayor Henderson, puzzled by his sudden shift in mood and comments.

  The mayor recovered quickly and smiled a politician’s smile through perfectly capped teeth. He patted Marquise on the shoulder. After the two had fist-bumped goodbye, Marquise moved toward his car.

  “Come on over soon and see us at the shop!” Marquise called as he walked backward away from the store.

  “I may just do that,” Mayor Henderson said and grinned, running his fingers through his thick graying hair.

  “I’ll be looking for you.” Marquise said, pointing his finger at the other man.

  “You got it,” the mayor said, smiling brilliantly. “We’ll get all this taken care of.” He waved at Marquise and proceeded into the store.

  Marquise chuckled at the politician’s one-size fits-all-circumstances comment. As he turned back toward his car, the rays of the early evening sun nearly blinded him, and he cupped his brow, amazed that his sunglasses didn’t help block the light’s intensity. “Whew! Too bright and too hot,” he said as the August heat and humidity rose from the pavement.

  While pumping gas, Marquise overheard someone cluck her tongue.

  “No shame! She ain’t got no shame!” an elderly lady said to her elderly sidekick. They both clucked their tongues again.

  What are those ole biddies gabbin’ about? He looked around and grimaced. Whoa! Oh boy. Ooh, no, she didn’t! Only in Mannford. Man! A woman who must have been every bit of sixty but trying to look thirty stood bent over, pumping gas into her vehicle. She was clad in a barely-there, flimsy, see-through top and cut-off, butt-cheek jean shorts. “Summertime in Mannford,” Marquise mouthed to himself. He chuckled and shook his head.

  A warm Mannford breeze blew in off Lake Cleburne, ruffling through the trees and whipping up small bits of debris. Marquise glanced up at the sky. A few rain clouds had moved in. Might get a few drops by tonight or tomorrow.

  After filling his tank, he got in the car and pushed the ignition switch just as a middle-aged lady, dressed in a Malcolm X T-shirt, walked to the side of his car. She motioned for him to roll down his window.

  “Let yo’ window down, boy. I ain’t gon’ bite you,” she said with a decidedly southern accent.

  Man, what she want? He pursed his lips and cracked his window.

  “Here,” she said, thrusting a flyer at him. The smell of cigarette smoke hit his nostrils as she pressed her yellow, discolored fingertips onto his recently washed window. “Hey, pretty boy, don’t think yo’ yella’ skin gon’ stop them cops!” she said. “Happened here now could happen to you next. Come on out tonight. Downtown. You hear? We gotta stop ‘em! Give this flyer to yo’ friends. We just printed some up real quick.” She pushed another flyer through the window slit.

  He shook his head, annoyed. What in the world she rantin’ about? Yellow skin? Wow! Why that crazy woman gotta go there?

  Jaw clenched, he laid the flyers on the passenger-side seat. Then he turned on SiriusXM Watercolors Jazz and chilled to Grover Washington Jr.’s “Mister Magic.” He pulled out, made a quick U-turn onto Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, and drove on to the crib.

  “Hey, baby, you home?” Keiana called from the kitchen.

  “I’m home, Shawty,” Marquise answered. He dropped the flyers on the coffee table and strode through the living room that his girlfriend, Keiana, had decorated with a flair for comfort. Overstuffed furniture of pale blues and taupes, thriving ferns, and colorful art prints accented the room. Marquise breathed in the delicious aroma of Keiana’s cooking. He quickened his step, put his six-pack in the fridge, plopped his sunflower seeds on the kitchen counter, and then took in his bae.

  Man, she looks good! Marquise let his eyes move over her beautiful curvaceous form, noting the way the small of her back slightly curved down to her firm and ample behind, the way her slim waist moved down to thick thighs. His eyes lifted back up to her face. Oh, those soft, full lips. Make a full-grown man go crazy! At the sight of her sweet little upturned nose he thought, Always makes her look just a slight bit like she goin’ go and do somethin’ naughty. Her caramel-colored skin was flawless and pleasantly fragrant.

  Marquise shook his head. Man, that girl cute, he thought. He quietly thanked The Man upstairs. He came up from behind and planted a kiss on Keiana’s soft, sweet neck. “Hi, girl. Mmm, you smell so good, baby.”

  Keiana laughed. “I smell like chicken, Marquise, like fried chicken.”

  “Nothing better than my shawty’s perfume and chicken!”

  “Boy, go away. You hot!”

  “No, you hot!”

  Keiana laid the salad bowl on the kitchen island and turned toward Marquise. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him to her.
/>   Marquise bent and kissed her gently on the lips. “You’re good, baby,” Marquise whispered.

  “You too, Marq.”

  “Dada, Dada, Dada, Dada!” called seven-month-old Baby Nisha as she banged her little hands on her highchair table-top. She flashed her best two-toothed grin at her daddy.

  Marquise and Keiana looked at Nisha and then at each other and burst out in laughter at their baby girl. They bent over on either side of her and kissed Baby Girl’s chub-cheeks.

  “Look at her, Ke, she looking just like her mama,” Marquise said and smiled.

  Keiana laughed. “She’s my lil’ mini-me.”

  “Sure is.” Marquise laid one more kiss on Keiana and then turned his attention to his baby girl. “How’s Daddy’s girl? How’s my bay-bay?” Marquise planted many smacks on little Nisha’s chubby cheeks and ruffled his hands through her baby-soft black curls.

  “Here, Marquise,” Keiana said, handing Marquise the dinner plates.

  “Oops, here, baby,” Marquise scooted over to help finish laying the table and then sat down with Keiana and Nisha. Crispy fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, chef salad, rice, and fluffy dinner rolls. Keiana had done it up.

  “We got any more of those hoppin’ jalapenos in here, baby?” Marquise asked, trotting toward the fridge.

  “Check the side door.” Keiana chuckled. “I forgot to lay those out.”

  “Can’t forget my jalapenos. Whoop! Here they arrr-re,” Marquise sang in his best tenor voice.

  Keiana rolled her eyes. “Boy, come on here!”

  “This is how we do it, Mm, Mm-Mm, Mm-um, this is how we do it!” Marquise sang. He grabbed the jar of jalapenos and a cold beer and did his best James Brown dancing-shuffle back to the table.

  “Marquise, boy, ooh wee!” Keiana burst out laughing. Little Nisha joined in with a chortle and another flash of that grin.

  “You want some, baby?” Marquise asked as he put the jalapenos on the table.