by Evie Rhodes
Outside on the street, Whiskey flipped his cell phone shut. Mission accomplished. Everything was secure. His gold pinkie ring glistened under the streetlamps. He had one thing on his mind. She had been on his mind all afternoon. Her name was Tracie Burlingame.
Try as he might, he couldn’t get her out of his system.
12
Right after Tracie Burlingame received the worst phone call of her life, a strange phenomenon bestowed itself on Harlem. Beneath the ground, underneath layers of soil, a shaking began. It was really just a light tremor to begin with. But it built itself into a full-scale quaking before anyone really understood what was happening.
It shook the borough of Harlem so thoroughly and quickly, it left reams of doubt in its wake. It was over almost before it had begun. Strangely enough, it left not a trace in its wake, save the actual experience.
The mystifying effect was only felt in Harlem. None of the other boroughs—Brooklyn, the Bronx, Staten Island, Queens—or even the rest of the borough of Manhattan was affected. Therefore, Harlem would have a hard time reporting this phenomenon.
After a while the people of Harlem began to be unsure if that was what they’d really felt. After all, this was the East Coast, and earthquakes happened out west. There had never been one recorded before in Harlem. It left not a trace, although it shook them so thoroughly it would have rocked on the Richter scale had it been recorded.
The quake became an inside joke. In some circles it became taboo even to speak about it. The truth notwithstanding, it couldn’t be proven or explained.
People would be thought crazy, or just trying to reclaim a spotlight they had been slowly losing with each generation. The only attention they had these days was when politicians descended upon Harlem to kick off the African-American vote or to raise money.
Maybe it was a sign. Who knew? People were beginning to be unsure it had even happened.
But there was one man who knew what it was. He knew it was definitely a sign. He knew it meant it was time for a shift in the balance of things. That was why he was in Harlem. It was time to collect the gifts.
He stood watching the killer of Tracie Burlingame’s son playing phone tag with her. Tiring of this and knowing it was a good thing that he had come when he did, he decided to move on. He would scour grounds for the night that were more fertile, far more fertile.
He needed to take care of the gifts. He would start with the minor ones and build up. Like the Legos he played with. He loved Lego because he could start out with one colored little block and build and build, until it was towering far above the ground.
Tracie Burlingame was worth much more than the talents of her sons. Inside her, unknowingly, she carried the pattern of many of the gifts to come in Harlem—and one very powerful gift that must be prevented at all costs.
When the time came, he would suck the gifts right out of her being. Yes. He knew Miss Burlingame was a spiritual patchwork quilt. He also knew that she waxed prophetic.
This fool, his comrade, wanted to play with her and toy with her. He was playing with her flesh. Me would take down her spirit. He would not play with her. When the time came, he would destroy her.
What she carried in her being was valuable beyond words. It could alter the course of history. What she carried was also dangerous, because it reflected out to people with the vision, such as the Louisianan seeress.
But just as he had told the seeress, she would see more than that before it was all over. Then she would die. That he hadn’t told her.
Well, he knew for a fact that Tracie Burlingame would only be allowed to hold on to what she had for so long. After all, Tracie was nothing more than the host, so to speak. Satisfied with the greatness and wisdom that had been granted him, he walked the streets of Harlem.
He walked with his tall frame hunched over. His huge hands were stuffed in his pockets. His bald brown globe of a head gleamed under the streetlights as he ducked into the shadows to avoid the glare beaming from the lights.
He decided he would begin with a small gift. He headed over to 125th Street. The woman who owned this bookstore was a disseminator of information. He watched the woman as she began the process of closing down the dusty old store.
As he watched, he noted the certificates and little gold plaques hung on the walls, which reflected her achievements and those of others. Her little shop was chock-full of books. She had black history books. There were books on theology and the seminary, African-American books, memoirs, biographies, and autobiographies as well.
Even the ceilings of her store depicted the gifted and famous. Posters hung with pride from the sagging ceiling. There wasn’t an inch of space that didn’t reflect black pride.
He smiled ruefully to himself. All the books crammed onto the shelves of the dinky, dusty little shop reflected pieces of him in one way or another. That was the puzzle he could not allow some smart-alecky know-it-all to try to figure out. That was one of the reasons he needed to collect the gifts.
He watched the old woman with the silky gray hair, every strand laid in place. No doubt she was one of Miss Burlingame’s elite clientele. Her carriage was erect. She carried herself proudly, tall, with a hint of arrogance.
Her air was like that of the great professors who, once they had taught their students the astuteness and wisdom of how to arrange the words of the English language to create vision, preened at their own images. They preened at the continuity of vision they had pumped out.
Oh, but he knew. This woman had taken up space here in the hopes that, between the pages of the knowledge she sold to the public, there would be one who would string together the truth about him. Well, she would not see it in her lifetime. It was time for her to join the others. They must all be gathered together.
He walked into the shop just as Ms. Virginia, as she was known through out the borough, had closed out the register. He stood with his brown, bald head gleaming under the single bulb she had left on while closing the shop.
He found the light irritating, but it was necessary for now. Later he would crawl and hunker down into his little room of darkness, where all was right with the world . . . where he could recuperate from the light.
Ms. Virginia looked up at his entrance. “I was just closing, young man.”
She was a nice woman who always wanted to help someone in need. Sometimes just as she was ready to close her doors, someone would run through needing that last-minute item. Students looking for research, or others who just couldn’t wait till the next day. She was always accommodating. She loved books. She could talk about them for hours, even when she was about to close.
The man didn’t respond.
“Well,” she said, “if you really need something, just go ahead; I’ll spare you the time.” She smiled engagingly at the man.
He didn’t move. So she asked, “What’s your name?”
“Me,” he said.
She looked up from marking the cash-out envelope. “Young man, I meant your given name.” She knew about all the strange names the kids gave themselves these days. She personally thought it was ridiculous. Why didn’t anyone like to use his or her Christian name these days?
“I know what you meant,” he said. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Something in his tone was downright disturbing. She peered through her bifocals at him. Suddenly his being erupted in raucous laughter, but his mouth never opened. A symphony of voices swelled up from within him. But his lips didn’t move.
He decided he did not want to kill this old woman in a way that would bring them running just yet. But die she would. He already had a place picked out for her. Besides, this shop needed to be closed down. Her death would provide that. He saw the fear well up in her eyes, bulging behind the bifocals.
She looked out onto the street. Ms. Virginia was shocked that she didn’t see anyone. This was a 125th Street in Harlem. There were always people on the street when she closed her shop, but not on this night. He wasn’t moved by her search. He knew he had the area locke
d down.
She thought about the secret button that had been installed in case she was in trouble. All she had to do was hit it. The police would be immediately summoned. As she discreetly tried to reach for the button, she discovered that her hand was struck with a paralysis, and she could not move it, try as she might.
The man stood stock-still, watching her. His face was a mask devoid of any expression. His features molded together, forming a sort of blandness. He wanted to get this over with. He was still standing under the single lightbulb. He could feel the rays beaming down on him. Beads of sweat popped out on his head and face. He hated the light.
Slowly as she watched him, she felt the tentacles of his being absorbing her. It was a weird feeling, like being sucked in by a sponge. She began to understand that she was dealing with something sinister, dark, not of normal understanding.
The man was giving her the creeps. The shock of this information rooted her to the spot. And while her mind screamed in protest, not a single word or scream left her lips.
The man watched her steadily. He could actually be merciful at times. There were times when he handled things in what he called his gentle way. He liked this woman. He liked her strength and her dignity despite the circumstances.
She would be a welcome addition. Still, that didn’t change anything. He would have no choice but to swallow her gift; he would just do it mildly. He would spare her the vengeance that he sometimes struck with.
He slipped off his army jacket and showed her his biceps. The faces immediately began to speak to her. They rose up under his skin, their features live and animated. Some of them travailed in great agony. All of them were well trained and under his command for when he needed to use their voices.
And they spoke to her about things past and present, things she could identify with. Spoke to her about the mysteries in her books, all of which would be recorded in her mind, then erased as information not needed.
The man opened his mouth, and Ms. Virginia beheld an unimaginable sight. The words stored on the many pages in all the different books floated off the pages and into the mouth of the man who stood before her. He swallowed the words whole.
Unable to fathom or hold up under such an unholy sight, Ms. Virginia felt a small explosion in her chest, like a tiny fire being ignited. Then she fell to the floor.
The man checked her pulse. There was none. Ms. Virginia had died on the spot of massive heart failure. Me opened her mouth. He put his mouth to hers, sucking out her spirit, along with her gift. He absorbed them inside himself, and Ms. Virginia took her place in his biceps along with the others who had gone before her.
Her gift tasted sweet. It was the gift of intelligence.
13
Still shaken by her spooky telephone conversation, Tracie sat between Michael and Dre on the plush sofa in the living room of her brownstone. The entire room was done in white and silver. The room was sleek with angles. The entire brownstone was prewar, boasting high ceilings and long windows.
Tracie looked at the old-fashioned hourglass sitting on top of the fireplace mantel. The sand in the hourglass was at the bottom. Tracie tried to empty her mind of all thought, but she was having difficulty achieving this.
She took Michael’s hand in hers. She pressed it to her lips, kissing the blue and gold class ring. Dre and Michael were very precious to her. This fact had been rammed home with total clarity since the loss of Randi.
“Hey, Rebound,” she said to Michael. “You were on the court today, right?”
“Yeah, Mom. You know I was.” As good as Michael was, he was somewhat shy, and sometimes it embarrassed him the way people acted over his basketball skills. He was often compared to Earl “the Goat” Manigault because of his extraordinary leaping skills on the court.
For him it was just something he did. He loved the sport. It was second nature for him, as it had been for his brother Randi. But for Harlem he was an Earl “the Goat” reincarnation. The community loved its own stars.
Even his Mom flipped out over his skills at times, the same as she had with Randi. He sometimes played on the same court the Goat used to play on, and the crowds came in great numbers at the sound of his name.
It saddened him that he would never be able to play with his brother anymore. He and Randi used to put on quite a show for the neighborhood over on the 135th Street courts. The crowd went wild because they were brothers.
Afterward they would always go to Sylvia’s Restaurant to eat barbecue ribs, macaroni and cheese, and collard greens, to replenish their energy.
Tracie turned to look at him. “Good. Never neglect being on the court. Because you, baby, are going to be the greatest rebounder basketball has seen for a long time. But they already know it,” Tracie said with pride lilting in her voice.
She turned to Dre, careful to keep the fear that was creeping up and down her spine out of her voice. She said casually, “Dre, I think you should still leave for L.A. You’ve got your ticket. I don’t want this to—”
“I ain’t going right now, Tracie. I ain’t leaving you. That’s all there is to it.”
Michael jumped into the conversation. “Dre’s right. Now isn’t the time for anybody to be going anywhere.”
Tracie hesitated before speaking, keeping her tone cool and nonchalant. “Actually, I think it’s the perfect time. Michael, you can go to that basketball training camp we were talking about. Dre can go to L.A., where he can shoot sunsets and mountains. There aren’t any mountains in Harlem. Rashod. Rashod needs to go somewhere, too . . . ” her voice trailed off.
A soft click invaded the silence. Tracie turned toward the sound to see that the red dot was lit on Dre’s camcorder. The boy videotaped and recorded everything. He was a fanatic.
Tracie was annoyed, but she decided now was not the time. One day he was going to videotape something that shouldn’t be taped. He needed to learn some discretion. She was proud of him, but she didn’t like the idea of him always recording things at random in the house.
Dre looked at Tracie. He stood up, looking down at her from his great height. He was mad as hell. He knew what she was trying to do. It wasn’t going to work. Things were not normal. He wasn’t going for her playing hide-and-seek, pretending, that they were.
Randi was dead. His death was not an accident. It was murder. As much as he couldn’t stand that toy detective Monica, he had to admit she had some real points. Somebody was throwing shade. Something was wrong. Who would want to murder his baby brother? So, in his opinion no one needed to go anywhere until they knew what the hell was going on.
Determinedly he said, “Ain’t nobody leaving you right now, Tracie, so forget it.”
Tracie knew he was angry, because that was the only time he called her by her first name.
“I mean it,” he said. He turned his focus on Michael. “Michael, get in touch with Rashod. Tell his dumb ass I wanna see him.”
Dre stormed across the room, intent on leaving, when Tracie jumped up from the sofa.
In a pained whisper she said, “Expired. They . . . told me Randi expired. How the hell does one do that, damn it? He’s not a canned good. I mean, he wasn’t . . .” Tracie looked off to a faraway place that only she could see.
The vision insinuated itself right in her face, the memory so painful it cut off her breath. It wouldn’t budge. There was no avoiding it. She saw herself when she was younger. She leaned over a man’s broken body. Her eyes roamed the man’s body, stopping when they reached his feet.
There were no shoes on his feet. And there was no blood on the ground. But there he lay, broken and dead. A scream erupted from her throat, shattering the memory.
The pain of Randi’s loss swelled in her heart. Tracie’s eyes swam with unshed tears. “When a woman has a baby, it’s her job to protect him. Do you know what I’m saying?” Michael and Dre exchanged looks.
Suddenly she saw Rashod sweeping a low bow in front of her and saying, “I also pay my respects to the Destroyer.”
&nbs
p; She blinked away the image, struggling to bring herself back into focus. Dre and Michael exchanged confused looks this time.
“Ma,” Dre said.
“Ma,” Michael parroted him.
Tracie didn’t acknowledge them. Instead she began to sing a lullaby “ ‘Rock-a-bye, baby, on a treetop; when the wind blows, the cradle will rock. When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall . . .’ ”
Dre ran over to her. He gripped her by her shaking shoulders. “Stop it.”
Tracie hiccupped. “Randi . . . rock-a-bye, baby . . . Randi . . . rock-a-bye, baby,” she repeated over and over again.
She was like a scratched record that was stuck in a groove. In a flash she pulled out of Dre’s grip and grabbed the poker from the fireplace, smashing the glass table sitting in front of the sofa. She sent glass raining clear across the room.
“ ‘Rock-a-bye, baby . . . rock-a-bye, baby,’ ” she sang as she smashed the glass to smithereens, hitting the pieces over and over again with the poker.
Dre and Michael were stunned. They had never before seen their stylish, classy, sophisticated mother out of control. Her eyes looked wild; her hair was disheveled—that definitely never happened—and makeup streamed down her tear-stained face.
They witnessed her breakdown with pain in their hearts. It was not a pretty sight to behold. They both wished they had not been present to witness such private grief. Dre was about to stop her again, but Michael held him back.
He shook his head. He knew it was better to let her vent than to stop her. It couldn’t do anybody any good just letting her rage build up inside. Better she got rid of it. Although the sound of her calling Randi’s name in connection with the song she had always sung to them when they were babies and little kids was not only eerie but was causing an internal meltdown inside him.
Later, after she was settled down, he would cruise the village to get his nerves under control. He would slip into his second life just as a ballerina slipped into her slippers before a performance.