Abe closed his eyes briefly, chasing away the rising excitement inside of him and forcing his voice to remain calm and steady. He’d found him. It had to be him. “Maybe they did.”
“Give me a break.”
Each man stood back from the other and surveyed his opponent’s countenance.
“Did you get beaten, molested?”
“Yes. Beaten. Molested, no . . . well, they tried, but I held my own against the pervert before he did me, and had to do time in juvenile detention. Really learned how to defend myself in that hole. Maybe that’s how I wound up in the Midwest. Only vaguely remember my mom and grandmother before they died. They were the only family I had. Right after juvenile detention, I went into the service. Stayed in the service from there.”
Rashid tried to scavenge more memories. The stint at the orphanage was still a murky recollection. He could only seem to remember moving from family to family . . .
Abe forced himself not to visibly cringe, or to reach out to embrace Rashid. “Did you ever consider that you had been sent on a path—taught how to defend yourself, taught how to break ties and survive while focused on a singular goal? Did you ever consider that the prayers and Biblical lessons you learned while in a Christian orphanage prepared you to pray while under siege? Did you ever consider that maybe you’d been allowed to travel around the world in order to learn that all people are God’s children? Many people have lived their whole lives and don’t know that. Oh, yes, the teachers were always sent—you just didn’t know it at the time.” Too many missing elements were coming together. Abe could hear the voices within the mirror whispering a warning about getting too close too quickly, which he consciously ignored.
Rashid stared at the old man in front of him, and rubbed his chin. “Okay. But those were some hard lessons, brother.”
“Correct. Hard lessons—hard and fast instructions given to someone who had much to accomplish in a short period of time, perhaps. And what did you do? Each time you found yourself under attack . . . in danger?”
“Began praying, then pushed myself harder, focused . . . became a third-degree black belt by the time I was fifteen. At least they let us learn something useful in kiddy prison. You do sound like my martial-arts teacher, come to think about it.”
“Then those dark early experiences began your path. At each stage in the journey, a teacher appeared. The Most High will often use the dark to provide a tool that leads to wisdom—like judo. He uses the forces of evil against itself after a tragedy to accomplish something positive. It is your choice whether or not you decide to bring that knowledge into the light. That is what is called, free will.”
“And the women?”
“Strengthened your soul to the point where you can endure without one.”
“And . . . now?”
“And now, something chased you to my door tonight, just like something Divine led you here a year ago. You will take a salt bath to clean your aura, and then rest. You’re safe inside the shop of light, and can sleep without fear.”
“I haven’t slept without fear since I was five years old.”
“Neither has my granddaughter.”
“It’s her voice,” Rashid said quietly.
Abe just stared at the man before him, then swallowed hard and turned away from the eyes that haunted him. “I know.”
“This favor . . . tell me now, old man, for real.”
“She needs a sentinel. The shades chase her.”
Rashid stared at Abe without blinking for a moment. “I know,” Rashid said quietly. “Today a truck came and took her away, though.”
Abe nodded. “A confluence of events has made her move back into my ex-wife’s house. Ethel, her grandmother, was a prayed-up woman; could keep the shades from her door . . . although our daughter, Aziza’s mother, couldn’t.” He began gathering blankets from a shelf behind the register as he continued to speak, refusing to look at Rashid.
“What happened?” Rashid’s question was met with silence.
“Demons came into the house, possessed my daughter’s husband—he killed her. Aziza was hiding in a closet when the police found her.” Abe drew a shuddering breath. “That’s my favor. Don’t let them get her. I’m old, ain’t got much time left before I have to go back.”
Rashid remained stone still. “Is that why she’s so angry with you . . . because you divorced her grandmother?”
Abe looked away. “I remind her of the terror. Her grandmother put everything into logical context. Domestic violence, people having mental collapses. I speak of things that haunt her dreams . . . shades and such. It’s safer to believe in the logical.”
“Been there,” Rashid said quietly. “But you said you have to go back.”
“I do.” Abe rubbed his palms down his weathered face. “Son, I am so much older than you can know . . . I’ve been places you can never imagine.” He let his breath out hard. “Did you ever consider what would happen if one point of history changed? If one fact got altered?”
Rashid simply stared at the old man before him.
“Our family and our people got robbed. Something went back and altered the past, the shades slipped through . . . it has taken me years to find the exact change, which fact got transposed and twisted—but I’m going back.” Urgency made him speak quickly and come near Rashid, his eyes frantic. “If I go back, you have to be her sentinel on this side to guard her. They’re trying to wipe out my line. If they do, all those with the gift to see the lights and the shades from Madagascar will be gone. We can’t let that happen. This family wasn’t supposed to dwindle down to just Aziza then die out! We’re the balance keepers!”
“Whoa, whoa,” Rashid said gently. “Easy, old dude. First you thought I was the one with issues . . . now hindsight being twenty-twenty, you’re the one who needs meds and—”
“We will begin our work in the daylight hours. You will read—a lot,” Abe announced, walking across the room. “You will exercise your mind, your body, and your spirit to their limits. You will keep this shop clean, you will keep your body temple clean, you will keep your language clean, your thoughts pure, and you’ll get to continue to provide me with live-in store security, or find somewhere else to live. That will be your job, and I will pay you with food and shelter and teaching. Period. You must find yourself first, before you can guard The One.”
“And why would I do all of that with you sounding crazy? You’re talking about time travel, old man.” Rashid hardened his gaze as he stared at his wanna-be benefactor. “I don’t think so,” Rashid replied after a moment of consideration. “Not.”
“Because you owe her; it was her voice and you know it,” Abe said quietly. “Isn’t that what’s been clawing at your insides . . . to know who she is, and why you feel compelled beyond your own comprehension to protect her? I may have the answer to that riddle.”
“Then tell me, and I’ll be on my way. I’ll watch over her, but you’re outta your mind if you think you can go back in time to change the past. If I could, there’d be so many things that would be real different, trust me. But you can’t!”
“It’s not that simple, and I won’t discuss anything with anyone that I don’t know well enough to be sure it’s safe for her.”
“And how do I know you aren’t a danger to her or me? You sound nuts. How do I know you’re not?”
“You don’t, I don’t—so we share each other’s space until we find out. You have one part of the puzzle, I have another, and I suspect she has the missing third of the trinity of information. So, are you in, or out?”
“I’m out,” Rashid said fast, moving quickly toward the door.
“And the shades? They aren’t real either, I suppose?” Abe just stared at Rashid, slowing his exit until they both understood.
“Why? Why are you doing this, making me stay here and go through all this purification mess? You didn’t before—so what’s it to you now?”
“Now you know. Now I know. We’ve gone a layer deeper. The dance is mo
re complex between us. Every time you leave and come back to the light, there is a risk factor that your spirit has been compromised by the unclean. You must stay in the light, boy, from this point forward. Haven’t you seen the shadows gathering force, getting stronger, darker, and denser with every day that passes? It used to be easier to send them back into The Pit, wasn’t it? Perhaps a week ago, when they gathered at night, you would have walked without fear, am I right? But tonight, there was something that spooked you—because your inner being knows that you were not strong enough alone, this time, to contend with whatever is outside this door. Your soul knew it needed to go to the next level of training. Stop fighting His will! If I am wrong, open the door and leave of your own accord, and I will pray that your soul reaches Heaven. But, if there’s just the slightest doubt in your mind about your readiness to contend with what’s out there, I suggest you stay. Tell me. What is your choice?”
Abe Morgan’s words had given Rashid serious pause. There was no way around it. He looked toward the heavily grated plate glass store-front window and had to mentally confess that he’d been terrified of the strength of the gathering darkness.
Until now, if he felt it, or saw it, or encountered it in a person about to commit a crime, he’d been able to pray out loud and stare the evil away from an innocent person he was trying to help. But what he saw tonight was worse than he’d ever seen. What’s more, the streets were probably slithering with the shadows in search of him tonight. The way the metallic-tasting acid built on his tongue told him all he needed to know. The streets, even in the daylight, might be dangerous.
“But why does it have to be this particular location of light? Why not any of the other points of origin?” Frustration trapped him as he and the old man reached a stalemate.
“We’ll discuss this specific source of the light, later—and only when you are ready. And that’s my call, after being informed of your readiness from On High—not yours.”
“I’m ready to discuss it now!”
“No, you are only ready when your spirit has accepted total, not partial, surrender to God. And, at the moment, you have only partially given yourself up to Him. Thy will be done, not your will be done. Peace, be still, Rashid. Listen for once with your soul, not your ears.”
Rashid hesitated before speaking, and gazed at the countenance of his host. “What if I don’t want to stay in here with you, or to do all of this sh—er, I mean, crap? I’m a free man. Got that? What if I just walk out this door?”
“Suit yourself. Let the shades chase you all night, then. Your choice. But, if you go out of this door tonight, I remove my offer for good. It’s now, or never. Choose, but choose wisely.”
Rashid paced to the front door and peeped out of the window, then spun around quickly to face Abe. The rage of the trapped shone in his eyes.
“Why couldn’t I have just made it to the church steps! You must have tricked me—”
“No, I kept telling you this wasn’t a church, but you were so frantic and intent on getting in here that initially you wouldn’t listen to me.”
Rashid walked in a circle in front of the door, pacing in agitation. “Aw, maaaan . . .” Why in the world did he have to mistake this store for a damned cathedral, and accidentally get caught in it after dark?
Abe smiled. Tonight he finally understood why he’d inconvenienced his life by taking in the most unlikely stranger. He’d move Rashid in closer to the ring of safety inside the store, rather than make him sleep in the back on an old rickety cot. “Because,” Abe finally said, nonplussed. Still smoothing out a set of blankets on a sofa that had been on display for sale, and pulling off the tag, he answered the unspoken question in Rashid’s mind, much to his guest’s apparent surprise. “Rule number one, in God’s universe, there are no accidents.”
Chapter Five
Dawn lazily stretched through the windows as though in no particular hurry. When the first of its rays turned the room a dusty gray, Aziza shut her eyes and drifted off to sleep. Dozing off and on, her head bobbed almost to the rhythm of her breathing. She remembered her grandmother sitting up all night in that same chair she now occupied, with sewing on her lap and a cup of tea on the small oval table beside her. Funny, but it never occurred to her until now that Ma Ethel might have been as terrified as she had been last night, to close her eyes in her own home.
Fatigue had turned the insides of her eyelids to gritty shutters, which slid across her irises with an uncontrolled weight of their metronome timing. She had to get moving. There was no way she’d make it through another evening without rest. That meant that all that didn’t get done the night before, now had to be done while there was still available sunlight.
Aziza allowed her strained line of vision to settle on the closet door. She’d already tucked up and pinned back all of the furniture skirts so that she could see under every chair and sofa in the house. She’d removed all of the tablecloths, remade the twin guest beds, so that the comforters were tucked under the box springs and no longer draped to the floor, and she’d dusted until there was a gleam to every surface. The originally opaque floral shower curtain had been removed and replaced with a clear, more modern version. Old pictures had been removed from the walls, and remanded over to the custody of the damp tomb called the basement. She’d even installed a latch lock for that door, and had moved a small end table in front of it.
Every closet had been gutted of its contents, with an outer latch installed to keep the doors closed. The only closet left for her to deal with was the one she now faced—Ma Ethel’s closet.
She sat in the chair and considered her options. The third floor didn’t require her attention, as it had been made and kept pristine during her earlier weekly visits while her grandmother was still alive. Plus, it was totally empty, and sealed off from her living quarters by a wall she’d installed for her grandmother. The unsuccessfully implemented plan was that tenants could come in through the front door, collect their mail, and use the sealed-off front staircase to get to the third floor without coming through the rest of the house. The main living room, entire first floor, and the full second floor could be accessed through the back kitchen staircase. Aziza stretched and worked against the kinks in her shoulder blades. Her grandmother had been as stubborn as a mule! Rent from that unit would have supplemented her grandmother’s fixed income, and perhaps would have offered her a little added security, if she’d had the right tenant.
When she lived with Ma Ethel, she’d wished that there had been a tenant to occupy the third floor . . . someone within earshot should she need to call out—someone who would make living sounds, and who would give justification for the creaks and groans that the house offered up on its own all night. But, no, Ma Ethel had been steadfast about not wanting anyone to live up there again, ever since Aziza’s parents had died. It was a waste of damned real estate, all over superstitions and what not. Tragic though it was, the fact that her mother and a neighbor had died up there was no reason to seal off the place forever.
Bad luck did not simply take up residence in an apartment. Pop Abe had no doubt frightened the good sense out of her otherwise rational grandmother. It was all pretty basic, as tragedies in the black community went. Her father had been diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic. Her mother and a neighbor were just the victims of a troubled man. It had nothing to do with the place; it was the insane individual who’d inhabited it.
Aziza let her breath out in a rush and stared at the closet door . . . the doorway that had called to her as a child . . . the place that told her to hide in it to be safe from the raving man that was hunting her . . . the door that didn’t have a lock, but sealed itself shut with her on one side and her father on the other . . . the door that kept her young eyes from seeing, but could not block her from hearing, the gunshots that struck down her mother and an elderly neighbor. It was the same door that Ma Ethel had found her curled up behind . . . the same door that the policemen couldn’t wedge open—but that had easily unlatched for her gr
andmother, who had prayed the door open.
Her insides began to churn at the memory. She’d call a plasterer and seal up that old passageway to the unseen, and have another closet built—one that was long and modernized and mirrored and that opened with sliding doors. But how was she ever going to get rid of the permanent stain on her mind, and what plasterer could ever seal over the place in the middle of that bedroom floor where the police had finally stopped her father’s mental pain? There were only two small bedrooms on the second level of the house. One was too tiny to consider; the other one had a history. Trying to live alone on the third floor was out of the question.
A new coat of paint and totally new furnishings, her own, were in order. With the old stuff still in there, with nothing changed in the last thirty years that she could recollect, it was as though she could still see her bloodied father lying sprawled at the foot of that old bed. Boarding schools, then college, then her own apartment had been her salvation until now.
Maybe she would take a colleague’s sarcastic advice, and open a community legal clinic. Hell, at Twenty-first and Fitzwater Streets, she lived right in the community again. She was the genuine article—a community-volunteer lawyer! Perhaps she could even turn the third floor into an office, then write off a third of the property on her taxes . . . it would be a practical use of the space.
But then she’d be mired in what the community was still mired in—domestic disputes and divorces, defending criminal activity, and settling accident cases. It was too close to her own past . . . courts, family dramas, gunshots, and dead bodies. That’s why she’d thrived on defending people against large corporations . . . she could root for the underdog, get the facts, but it was cleaner.
Puttering as she considered her fate was a way to stave off a case of bad nerves. Okay, so she’d won sexual harassment suits, flagrant EEOC violations, and workers’ comp claims against some of the largest firms in the Delaware Valley, and that had gotten her frozen out of corporate law. How did those frightened, out-gunned clients find her behind that protective, bulletproof shield of a prominent white law firm? And, when they sat before her with their gut-wrenching stories of personal violation, how could she turn them away? But, despite the nice settlements for her clients, and the firm, there had been a personal price, a sacrificial cost, for taking on their causes.
The Ancestors Page 5