by Evie Rhodes
Someone sneezed, and Ms. Virginia said, “There, there, child,” as she patted the head of Shelly, smoothing the soft, thick black ponytail. Shelly was very young and very vulnerable. She rarely ever spoke, but she sneezed at the oddest times. It was a symptom of her fear and nervousness. Ms. Virginia gave her a comforting stroke, and she settled down.
Shelly was the youngest of the group, seven years old. She had been a child prodigy. At the age of six she could do trigonometry and calculus and work most any scientific formula created by some of the top minds in the country.
Me had wanted her for his very own. He claimed her and swallowed her spirit whole. She was actually from the shores of Jersey. Newark. Her face was still on the cartons of milk for locating missing children.
Ms. Virginia adjusted her bifocals. She peered across at Rashod through the huge vacuum of space. “This is a mighty fine predicament we’ve got ourselves in, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yeah. Check that. We’ve got to get ourselves out of it, Ms. Virginia.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet. But, there’s gotta be a way.”
“Rashod,” Ms. Virginia said.
“Yes, ma’am?” Ms. Virginia was one of the few adults Rashod had always shown respect to.
“We’re dead, you know.”
“I know. But I have a feeling we’re not at our final destinations. It’s like we’re stuck in the in-between, or something. And since we can talk and see each other as we looked when we were alive, that must mean there’s something we can do. I guess . . .” Rashod’s voice trailed off.
Ms. Virginia thought for a moment. Rashod had always been a bright boy; he’d just never used it. Maybe it was his time to use it now, in this strange place.
“I reckon you’re right, Rashod, so we’d best start figuring it out.”
“I’ve been wondering,” said Rashod. “Have you noticed that everyone here had something that was special about him or her? That they’re all gifted in some kind of way? Well, except for me.”
“You stop that nonsense, boy. Ms. Virginia’s not going to listen to that foolishness. You know me better than that. What do you mean, except you? You’re just as gifted as the rest of them,” Ms. Virginia stated emphatically, hurt by Rashod’s lack of self-esteem.
Rashod hung his head in shame. “No, I’m not. I’m just a crackhead. Well, I was a crackhead.”
“What you were, Rashod, was a brilliant, gifted young man, especially with those sketches, who was a bit misguided. Or maybe you just couldn’t handle what you knew. Some of the most talented people I’ve ever known or heard of were drug-addicted. Sometimes I just think they’re scared of those gifts and the things they know, so they run, and they run hard. You sure figured out how to break through these barriers. As far as I can see, you were the first one who did.”
A smile lit up Rashod’s face.
It reached his eyes. Ms. Virginia was the first person he’d known who understood. He was scared. He’d been scared of what he’d seen in people, scared of what he might achieve and how he might be perceived. Scared of competing with his brothers and their talents, so instead he had run away.
Hearing it put so plainly restored something to him that he had been missing for a long time.
Unwilling to let Rashod ruminate too long, Ms. Virginia said, “So what’s your question? I know you’ve got some—I can feel it—and we’d best be moving ’fore Me wakes up.”
Rashod cleared his throat. “Well, it’s like I was saying, Ms. Virginia; all the people here, well, all of us seem to have some special quality that attracted Me. When he killed the guard at the Schomberg Center, he didn’t swallow his spirit.
“When he went to visit Whiskey, he didn’t kill him or swallow his spirit, either. You remember Whiskey, right?”
“Uh-huh,” Ms. Virginia said without further comment.
“Ms. Virginia, what I’m trying to say is, all the spirits that Me possesses are of an elite class of African-Americans. The man has swallowed our gifts and our histories.”
With those words Rashod triggered the unholy sight of Me, swallowing the words from all the books in Ms. Virginia’s store, save one. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? Save one?
Ms. Virginia leaned forward, her scholarly mind working overtime and her presence suddenly rejuvenated with an excitement beyond measure. “That’s it, Rashod.”
“What’s it?” Rashod asked, puzzled.
“That’s the answer. Oh, my God.”
“What’s the answer, Ms. Virginia?”
Ms. Virginia had turned inward almost as though Rashod weren’t there. He practically had to pull her back to their realm.
She started and then shared with Rashod what she was thinking. “Me swallowed all the words from all the books in my store. He swallowed every word in every book, save one. All that was left were pictures or illustrations, nothing else.”
“The only book he couldn’t touch was the Bible. It was the only book left in the store that wasn’t defiled.”
The implication and dawning reality of what she had witnessed stunned Ms. Virginia. Me and whoever else he’s involved with is trying to cover a secret, a trail.”
Ms. Virginia wasn’t as strong in the spirit as Rashod, so she had not witnessed all that Me had done, as Rashod had. So she asked, “Did you say he did the same thing at the Schomberg Center?”
“He did that and more. He swallowed all the words on all the rare manuscripts, documents, and histories. All the rare archives, Ms. Virginia. And there was another thing he did.”
“What?”
He melted the pictures of all the authors that were hanging on the walls. He hated them, Ms. Virginia. His hatred was so strong, it rocked this vacuum. You must have felt it. He melted their images right off the canvases. Then he swallowed their names, dates of birth, and deaths, as though he wanted to erase them from history.”
Ms. Virginia let out a shocked gasp.
“That’s it, Rashod. Don’t you see? Throughout time each of those authors and those books must have been exposing him in some way—bits and pieces, maybe, about his identity.”
Ms. Virginia took a long breath before continuing, “Some of those books are biographies, about great people who have been assassinated in our time. Who would want to assassinate or kill people who were bringing the truth? In the beginning was the word, and the word was God. Words are a powerful thing. The authors—he must equate them as having some kind of power over him.”
She paused.
“The power to reveal his identity. Maybe in a way that people would really understand. Maybe there’s one who has the power to reveal his plan and pull the covers off his actions. Maybe they have the power to give the people recognition to see him. To see him when they didn’t know that they were.”
Ms. Virginia halted to think. Rashod didn’t move. For a time it was silent. Rashod knew she was onto something. He waited patiently.
It was all coming together for Ms. Virginia. “He’s been swallowing the gifts because the generations have been failing to honor God with their gifts, which left him an open door to go after them.”
“What do you mean, Ms. Virginia?” Rashod said.
“When the people misuse their gifts, Rashod, they’re in danger of losing the blessing that goes along with them. God is deserving of honor and glory. He hates sin. Now, I know you’re young, but you see and hear the movies, the stories, and the music.
“Some of it is the narrow road to destruction, particularly for our people. We all haven’t been honoring God with our gifts. In many ways we’ve been glorifying Satan. Worshiping the material things of this world, not respecting things of the spirit. We only respect what we can see, feel, and touch.”
Rashod’s eyes grew as big as saucers, for he had many a memory of what Ms. Virginia had just said, and he was only nineteen years old.
“And so,” Rashod picked up where Ms. Virginia left off, “the only book he hasn’t been able to touch is the one
that’s holy. The Bible. It’s the only book that was written and inspired by holiness itself. Jack, Ms. Virginia. So, if the writers throughout time have been revealing bits and pieces of him, but we are a people out of grace, then that means . . . Ms. Virginia, if he’s able to do this, then he must be . . . he must be . . .” Rashod’s voice trailed off.
“He’s the beast, Rashod, under direct orders from Satan. That means if we’re here, we’re in big trouble.” Ms. Virginia’s bifocals misted over.
Rashod put a hand over hers. “Maybe not, Ms. Virginia. I ain’t no religious student or nothing. But I know that time after time throughout the history of the Bible, God has always come back again and again to save his people, no matter how many times they’ve fallen out of grace. Right?”
Ms. Virginia sniffed. “Yes, that’s right, son.”
“Jesus Christ was descended from the house of David. Ain’t that right, Ms. Virginia? And he was the savior.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Even through her fear Ms. Virginia was proud of Rashod. She’d always known there was something special and smart about him. Now she was discovering he was brave, too.
“Maybe there’s another plan in effect. Maybe we don’t know all the pieces yet. Satan doesn’t have the power to totally destroy the Lord’s people,” Rashod said with hot conviction.
“Perhaps Jesus will save us from this place. Look.”
Rashod pulled out the tiny black charcoal scroll he had scooped up from the broken head of Othello in the Schomberg Center. The paper was old, crackled, and parched. Slowly he rolled it open.
Engraved inside was a miniature cross. It was stained with what looked like dark blackish-red blood that was centuries old.
“I found this in Othello’s head, when Me cut it off in the Schomberg Center. Me never even saw it, Ms. Virginia.”
“My Lord Jesus,” was all Ms. Virginia could utter.
Suddenly Rashod was glad for Rozzie. Everybody thought she was a crazy woman. She was a bag lady—wore winter clothes on ninety-degree days, and things like that. She walked around Harlem picking up things off the ground and putting them in her bag—invisible things that no one but her could see.
That woman shot more heroin than any three men put together. Her arms were covered with scabs and sores.
Rashod had had the pleasure of witnessing this once when she was looking for a place to hit. There wasn’t a clear spot on her arms. The tracks trailed every inch of her flesh.
She was the one who had taught Rashod about the Bible. She had even dragged him to a small out-of-the-way church one Sunday, where, in a lucid, moving moment, he had gotten baptized and accepted Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior.
He had figured he didn’t have anybody else, so what did it matter? Roz had also taught him about Jesus being descended from the house of David. She knew all about the houses of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, too.
Roz had loved Jesus with all her heart. Without a doubt she was one of the most hard-core junkies Rashod had ever met. But she had been absolutely convinced when it came to Jesus Christ.
Rashod had felt sorry for her.
She had deserted and abandoned her daughter for old King Heroin. She hadn’t seen her daughter for many years. She spent almost every waking moment of her life trying to forget about her child by shooting heroin—that and picking up invisible things from the ground.
One day when they were getting high, Rashod had finally asked her the question: “Roz?”
“Yeah?”
“What is it that you’re always picking up from the streets of Harlem and putting in your bag?”
Her runny eyes had cleared for a moment. She had stared at Rashod directly. “Why, I’m collecting the souls, Rashod. I’m collecting the souls for my brother, Jesus. Satan is trying to hide them. But he can’t hide them from my brother, Jesus.”
49
Tracie had been taken to a safe house. The church. She was stunned when she realized that arrangements had been made for her to stay at the Pentecostal House of Prayer. It was the same church she had visited, with the two flames of fire burning beside the Bible.
She was given a small private bedroom and connected bath on a separate floor from the church. Her boys were given equal accommodations, except they were sharing a room.
It appeared they had been expected, and they were welcomed warmly. What in heaven’s name had brought her back to this same church, seeking refuge? She didn’t know, but she was grateful. It was a strange set of circumstances, to be sure.
After seeing that Dre and Michael were settled in, she went to her own room. She was still ruminating over the fact that Souljah Boy had merely touched the cut Pee Wee Morgan had made in Dre’s neck, and the flow of blood had been instantly stanched. The scar itself had healed.
It brought back memories from long ago.
What was happening to her life? She didn’t know. Or maybe the question should be, what was happening to the life she used to have? In any case, she was too exhausted to ponder so many questions to which she had no answers at the time.
And it was a good thing she didn’t know that in another part of the brownstone, not so far away, there was a man praying for her in sackcloth and ashes, and he was coming up on the third day—because that bit of information would surely have freaked her out.
There was a quiet knock at the door. “Yes?” Tracie called out.
“It’s Reverend King,” a quiet voice answered.
It was the pastor with whom the arrangements had been made for her and her sons to stay the night.
“Coming,” Tracie had said.
She pulled open the door to find the Reverend King standing with a Bible, two candles, two candlestick holders, and a lighter in his hands.
“I thought you might enjoy having these. If you light the two candles on either side of the Bible, it can produce salve for the weary soul.”
The Reverend King smiled and handed her everything he had in his hands. He pointed to a table that was situated under a crucifix.
“There’s a good spot for it. Good night.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much,” Tracie said, touched by his generosity of spirit and not believing her good fortune in receiving the Bible and candles when she had been yearning to go sit in the church and just look at it. But she hadn’t wanted to ask.
“Good night, Reverend.”
“Good night, child. Sleep tight,” the pastor said, and then turned away to descend the stairs. Tracie would never know that he had watched her the day she entered the church, while she stared at the Bible and its leaping flames of fire. He’d known that she would return.
Tracie smiled. It had been a long time since anyone had called her “child” or bidden her to sleep tight. But his words were exactly the medicine she needed after her ordeal. She would need a good night’s sleep because the next day she needed to visit the old woman.
She also needed to find out why, at the last count, fifty young black boys had been slain in Harlem in the same manner as her sons.
In a single night.
Had Pee Wee killed all those boys? If so, why? She knew why he had killed Randi and Rashod. But why would he kill all those other boys? And how could one person massacre fifty young males in a night?
Some of them, it was reported had been taken out of their beds from their homes in the middle of the night. Slaughtered before sunup. This was a nightmare.
Tracie couldn’t remember ever hearing of such an odd atrocity. The police had an APB out on her, thinking that because of the nature of her own sons’ murders, she might be able to shed some light on this insane situation. Now that Pee Wee was dead, they would certainly step up the pace.
Thus, she had needed to seek shelter in the church. Somewhere that no one she knew would ever think to look for her. The refuge at the church was courtesy of Souljah Boy, though what would make him pick this one out, she didn’t know.
Then there was Ms. Virginia’s store and the Schomberg Center. All the words we
re missing from the rare manuscripts there, just as Renee had reported happening at Ms. Virginia’s store, Visionaries. Tracie had thought that Renee was losing it at the time.
Apparently she hadn’t been.
Now Renee had added something new to her story. Apparently it had recently been discovered that the only book in Visionaries that didn’t have the words missing was the Holy Bible. It was intact. Every letter, every word, and every page of the Bible was exactly as it had been.
Tracie knew that Renee had played her part; now it was up to her. Renee had given her valuable information; there was nothing more that she could do. Renee was the number one girlfriend, without a doubt a valuable ally.
Tracie’s head had begun to ache from the constant flow of questions. She was confused, and she didn’t understand any of it. But she knew that the matter wasn’t closed with her discovering her sons’ killer. And Pee Wee Morgan’s death was not bringing closure to the entire situation.
In fact, if anything, it had created more of a puzzle.
Now she needed to know if her sons were part of a bigger picture. Was Pee Wee playing her to hide the massacre he had planned to inflict on Harlem?
If so, he had played her right up until the end, just like a fiddle. Were her sons’ deaths just a cover for what was to come?
She had to talk to that old woman. She had seen something connected to her. Tracie needed to know what it was—soon. It was the only possibility she could think of, and she wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
Anita Lily Mae Young would talk to her if it was the last thing she did. She just needed to know why. That was all. Why? Why were her sons really dead? And why were fifty other boys just like them dead as well?
“Stop it. Just stop it,” she told herself aloud.
Tracie went over to the table. She set up her Bible and lit the two candles. Suddenly there was a warm feeling of serene peace that came over the room as she stared at her own personal copy of the Bible and the two burning flames of fire.