The Ancestors

by Brandon Massey

  Nobody could see it, or them, or her light, but him. Nobody believed him, or could fathom what crept up from the vents at night, or why he had to pray hard into the steam of the vents. No one but those that see, understood. Demons were tricky, if you didn’t know how to send them back down into The Pit.

  But where was she?

  Chapter Two

  Aziza threw up her hands and let out a harsh breath in disgust. She’d told the movers that she’d wanted them to be at her apartment by 8:00 AM, which would have given her enough time to get her things over to her grandmother’s house before noon. That way, she could unpack, utilize the day efficiently, and perhaps be able to get a good night’s sleep. Worry had broken her rest for weeks, and now she just wanted the whole ordeal of changing locations and lifestyles to be over.

  For once, the weather was cooperating with her plans. True, it was cold and blustery outside, but at least they didn’t have to contend with the sudden ice storm that had hit the Delaware Valley just a few days prior. The storm had blown in from nowhere, followed by unseasonably high temperatures, which melted the ice—only to be followed by sub-zero temperatures. And the last thing she’d wanted to consider was moving what little bit of furniture she still owned down slippery streets and pavements over to the narrow Fitzwater Street. But on the positive side, she thought, the streets were indeed dry and clear now, despite the light precipitation the evening before. All she needed was for the freakin’ movers to come! Why couldn’t she bring such a simple task to closure?

  Getting relocated to Ma Ethel’s house felt like a conspiracy had mounted against her. Everything that was supposed to go smoothly had become so unnecessarily complicated that it was positively maddening. Even the smallest effort became a part of a larger domino effect that then triggered another major issue to contend with. It was like being back at the law firm!

  Pacing about, she took inventory of her belongings again. A futon, a stereo, her law books, her clothes, photo albums, a laptop and printer . . . her collection of fancy dinner dishes—none of which were real china like her grandmother’s treasures. “Pitiful,” she whispered to herself in disgust. Where was she going to put her large Oriental rug, or her bed, for that matter, in her grandmother’s home? Where would her expensive collection of African Art fit—next to the funeral home calendar with the trio of JFK, Martin Luther King Jr., and Jesus?

  Their tastes totally clashed, just as their beliefs had, and there was no way to really blend their styles together. Ma Ethel’s place was an overstuffed, turn-of-the-century floral world, filled to the brim with bric-a-brac, knickknacks, and doilies on every conceivable surface. Conversely, her minimalist style demanded space and simple lines. Clutter made her insane. That was the same thing she hated about her estranged grandfather’s so-called antique shop. It literally gave her the claustrophobic sensation of being trapped, as did having too many old family pictures around. She hated dark corners skirted by dust ruffles and little porcelain ornaments. Why her grandmother had kept junk from a man she’d divorced decades earlier begged the next question—why couldn’t the elderly just let go of the past and throw things away!

  Aziza looked around at her once orderly, Swedish modern, less-is-more lifestyle, and winced. The art would have to go into storage, like the rest of it. There was just no place for it at Ethel’s, and the recent storms had made the walls treacherous domain for a numbered piece of original artwork. The damp basement was no better. In fact, it seemed as though the whole house was imploding from age, and was dying right before her eyes—just as her grandmother had.

  If only she’d had the time before this move, she would have continued her negotiation with the legitimate antique dealers to get them to take the entire contents of the Fitzwater house, lock, stock and barrel. Then it would have simply been a matter of gutting the house, getting the necessary repairs done, and she could have moved in her belongings. But everything was off, timing-wise. Even the sale of her Saab could have waited another month—but she’d needed the cash, and didn’t need her insurance to go up just because she was moving home to the old neighborhood, to a house without a garage.

  Everything was out of sync and impacted every other ensuing decision. She’d had to get out because of the timing of her lease. She couldn’t keep paying her high rent, because of the timing of her severance from the firm. She wasn’t able to get her own practice off the ground, because of the timing of the holiday season. She hadn’t been able to file for unemployment, because she’d resigned. So even the timing of her temper was bad. She hadn’t been able to get a realtor out to look at her grandmother’s home in order to sell it because of the timing of the storms, and the housing market had gone soft. Again, bad timing.

  Then the storms made showing the house in its present condition, with fallen ceilings and evidence of a bad roof, impossible. With her money dwindling, bringing in a construction crew was ridiculous to consider. Now, even the timetable of her move today was starting off wrong.

  She could almost hear her grandmother’s voice telling her to stop pacing, and to “Stop wearing a hole in the floor, chile.” She needed a cup of coffee in the worst way, but even her coffeemaker was packed. If she unpacked it and plugged it in, the movers would probably show up just as the coffee was starting to brew. The morose thoughts about the way her luck was running also held her captive within the building. If she left the apartment to dash down the block to the little coffee shop, she’d probably miss the movers. Then they’d probably tell her that they couldn’t do it today, and when they could, it would probably rain, or snow, or there would be another ice storm . . . maybe a damned hurricane for the second time in Philadelphia history! So instead she’d have to continue to burn up her nervous energy by walking around in circles and double-checking everything again, and again—albeit with a serious attitude.

  Refusing to give in to the temptation to weep, Aziza headed toward the telephone. Her objective was to give the moving company a piece of her mind. She was tired of waiting on people . . . the right job, the right man, the right opportunity, the appropriate recognition of her ability.

  The movers were forty-five minutes late, and counting. The rest of the stuff she was waiting on was way overdue, years late! As she smashed each number on the cordless unit, she began to mentally string together her argument. They were late, which violated her contract with them, thus they should have to offer some level of remuneration for the affront since her time was valuable . . . invaluable. Today, she would not allow herself to be violated. Not today and not any other day from this day hence, she mentally affirmed. When she got voicemail, she hung up.

  “Damn! You can’t even have a good fight in the morning anymore !”

  Aziza glanced around the apartment for something to do that would keep her from jumping out of her skin. She’d obviously been too efficient. If she’d waited until the last minute, then she could have made them wait. But after all, wasn’t that what had gotten her nearly fired, then blackballed? Being too efficient, too thorough, and way too apolitical? Instead of being made a partner, she’d been on the wrong side of the argument against a few influentials, and had rooted for the underdogs. Stupid. Her wins and the significant financial spoils she brought to the firm notwithstanding, she was politely ostracized, until her sense of dignity could bear it no longer.

  They had gotten rid of her the “Old Boy” way—neat, clean, and without exchanging any words that could come back to haunt them legally from an EEOC perspective. They just made it hell to work there, and she’d been the one to quit, so they weren’t liable. Stupid! What had been on her mind?

  After it was all said and done, she’d been locked out of anything short of ambulance chasing. And, once again, timing was not on her side. She couldn’t just up and leave the woman who had raised her. How was she supposed to look for a job in another city with Ma Ethel at death’s door? There had been no one else, and her grandfather would have been useless. What was she supposed to do, leave Ma Ethel in the
hands of Abe Morgan . . . the man her grandmother had divorced for reasons that had to be so horrific that the poor woman refused to discuss it?

  As far as she was concerned, at that point, they were then the only two left in their family and all they’d had was each other. Now, even that had been taken away . . . Ma Ethel. She’d been the only person in the world who’d really loved her, and she’d loved her grandmother back—just as hard as she’d fought all of her career-breaking cases. Now it was a family of one.

  Aziza swallowed hard, tasting tears, and looked out of the window. Maybe it was time to just do nothing for a while, and say, “Peace, be still.”

  Terror forced the air from his lungs as he watched her get into the large van from his rest post across the street in the park. He’d stood there all day waiting for her to come down and go to work, but that never happened. And he’d only gone across the street again to rest for a moment. Had that van been loaded with her possessions?

  It was too late in the afternoon for her to be moving about, too near dusk, and they were taking her away. He wanted to run after the van, but knew that would create a scene—then he’d possibly never find her again. He’d have to ask old man Abe . . . something he dreaded doing . . . because the old man could see. Might be able to see what he wasn’t yet willing to admit to himself.

  Rashid cast his gaze upward to the waning sun and said a prayer. He thanked Heaven that they hadn’t taken her away while he was asleep. It might have been days before he suspected she was gone. Besides, no one would have listened to him if he’d asked them to check her apartment to see if she was alive or dead. The last person he wanted to upset, too, was old man Abe, in case his hunch proved right.

  Conversely, if they’d found her harmed in any way, they’d have sent him to Death Row for sure. He would have been on the news as the local newspaper vendor who did it—the vet with a thick psychiatric file, who had inquired about the black princess who had had a good job. The whole thing would be an open-and-shut case, with him cast as the stalker-murderer. It was all a part of the grand plot. He knew how those things generally went down. If anything, he was always able to read the newspapers all day long, and could read between the lines.

  He tried his best to walk quickly behind the vanishing truck, pretending that the cold weather increased his gait. But, as a black man, he knew better than to run anywhere in the Center City business district, not even if he had on a jogging suit.

  When he lost sight of the vehicle, he turned around in circles, trying to sense her direction, all the while praying that she wasn’t going outside of the city limits. They’d gone down Locust a block, then headed south. In the distance, he was sure he’d seen it then turn west. He’d walked as fast as he could, until the traffic filled in behind his target and obliterated it from his line of vision. That’s when he panicked.

  “Southwest, no, no, no, go to higher ground . . . Mother Bethel . . . east, bright light . . . find bright light . . . or, go all the way down to Twenty-third!”

  Words tumbled in his brain and then from his lips, and he bit into them to keep from speaking too loudly. He needed to think, but it was getting dark outside. His mouth tasted salty, warm. Strangers were with her, and it was getting dark outside.

  “Find hallowed ground, safe haven, hallowed ground.”

  If she wasn’t somewhere safe, then he had to find hallowed ground himself in order to chant protective prayers for her until daylight, when he could resume his search.

  His eyes scanned the block ahead of him, and swept the terrain for any sign of a holy place. All of the storefront churches had been closed along the strip, a few bars were open, and the doorways of those buildings seemed like black, bottomless pits. He was too far from Mother Bethel, and too far from Greater St. Matthews. Everything was getting darker before him, and the shadows in the alley entrances began to shift and laugh at him. People seemed to move in slow motion.

  Rashid could feel his legs pumping faster and faster. Tonight he had to get to safety before total nightfall. He knew it deep inside his mind’s eye. Every sensory perception he had warned him that tonight it was really bad. He needed reinforcements. The darkness in the shades was not like it usually was on his normal patrols. This time it was disorienting.

  This time, he’d possibly be caught, trapped, and pulled down into the vents or the subway. A low growl came from a dark corner within a small space between two buildings, forcing him to spin, turn, and run in the direction of the higher-numbered blocks.

  Cutting across the street without looking, he heard a car screech, a horn blow, and a curse follow him in the distance. Then he saw it. A place familiar, but he couldn’t be sure. The opalescent beacon of a haven called him. It was a building wrapped in the pearl-like rainbow light only offered by holy ground, almost as bright as Mother Bethel’s. If he could just touch it, he knew that he’d be safe for the night.

  Abe Morgan hated vagrants. He was always chasing them away as he locked up for the evening. “Dis ain’t no church mission, brother. If you been fightin’, you need to move along and go see a doctor ’bout that lip.” It was the same thing every night, somebody looking to bring their bad vibes to his door. Abe held his head for a moment. Something was wrong. The hair stood up on his neck. Something evil was near, he could tell and it blurred his thinking.

  Rashid whirled around at the sound of the familiar voice behind him, and almost lost his balance. All he could do was blink and stare at the tall, lean figure that occupied the doorway of the South Street building. Still disoriented, he wiped the warmth away from his mouth with the back of his hand, and kept his feet firmly planted in the spectrum of light that flowed onto the sidewalk. “It is too a church! Open up! Mr. Abe, you know I’m no druggie or robber, but I do need to come in and pray.” He was back at the shop, but somehow his benefactor didn’t know him. The shades had taken him over.

  The elderly man standing before him shook his head in sheer disgust, squinting. “My store, and the steps outside my store, is only for people who are my customers. Look at you—bleedin’ from the mouth, all dirty and probably drunk, or high—”

  “—You’re just messin’ with me, trying to make me think I’m bleeding when I’m not, and trying to tell me this ain’t a church step because I’m not a dressed-up, formal member of your congregation—but I can see good lights here! They’re the only ones on the block, now that it’s dark outside. You’re the Trick-master, Ol’ Slew Foot, and you’re trying to get me away from the protection of light. I know whatcha tryin’ to do. Just like you took her away! But I ain’t havin’ it! I command you in the name of the Most High to open up this sanctuary to me!”

  Rashid could feel his heart racing and slamming against his breastbone as though it would explode through his chest. What the hell was he saying? None of it made sense. The shades had to be laughing. When the old man suddenly smiled and stepped behind the door, fear burned the saliva away from his mouth. Pure evil had obviously become so strong that it could stand in a beacon of light on a church step and forbid him entry. Tears stung his eyes and he wiped at them with raw anger. When he tried to speak, he could feel his vocal cords vibrate down in his Adam’s apple, but nothing formed in his mouth but a gurgle. Suddenly, it felt like he couldn’t breathe, and he opened his lips wide to suck in a large gulp of air. Rashid said a prayer in his mind. It was a silent, urgent plea. Within seconds he felt something release him.

  “Dat you, boy? Rashid?” Mr. Abe said, peering closer and opening the door a crack. “Didn’t have on my glasses and normally you in here before dark. Wasn’t sure—cain’t be too sure.”

  “I have prayed, and prayed for my sins, and the Father has forgiven me! I was in the military and I take responsibility for what I’ve done. But you cannot keep me out of this church tonight! Get thee behind me, Satan! This is my Father’s house.”

  “Dis ain’t no church, boy. It’s an antique shop . . . some calls it a junk shop. You know that. But you worryin’ me wit your crazy tal
k all of a sudden tonight. My granddaughter told me you might flip out on me one day and go crazy. Said you might be using that funny stuff, too. Said I needed to take care . . . I ain’t believe her till I seen you like this. Hmmm . . . not sure I should open the door.”

  “Let me in! Please, old man, the shades is out tonight!”

  Rashid’s words congealed into pain, until his vision blurred and he found himself leaning against the doorframe of what he knew in his heart to be a church, no matter what old man Abe said. He would not be put out of the light.

  Abe Morgan stared at the young man who kept touching parts of the building and looking at the ground. The way his eyes held a mixture of pure terror and conviction . . . the way he reverently touched the air just a fraction above the surface of the concrete, as though there was something palpable there that he couldn’t himself see.

  “You does have the gift of vision,” Abe murmured in awe, changing his position and approaching the strange soul in his doorway. Despite the possibility that the person before him might be lethal, Abe held out his hand. “You know who I am? You remember you sweep for me for some food and a cot in the back? You know I don’t keep no money in the store, right?”

  “Mister, I don’t know nothing except there’s lights at your door—healing lights that keep the demons back. This place never had lights like this before.”

  “Brother, brother, listen to me,” the old man’s voice soothed. “You can come into my antique shop that you claim is now a church, for a cup of tea. I’ll make you something to eat to fill the hole in your belly—then you gotta go move on. We can’t keep up our arrangement if you having mental blackouts. The cold air and an empty stomach done addled your brain. I ain’t Lucifer, so I ain’t gonna let you die in front of my shop in the street like a dog, dat ain’t Christian. But, I ain’t the Salvation Army or a mental ward, neither, so you cannot stay here all night while you acting crazy. But, I damned sure ain’t about to judge a man in uniform for what he had to do. Okay? Peace?”