by CP Patrick
The wooden box looked antique. All eyes were on me as I opened the box and slowly pulled out my gift. It was a gun, an antique gun with a beautiful bone handle and long silver barrel.
The men, excited, leaned forward for a closer look.
The women all smiled. Their smiles said, “Men and their toys.”
Had I not gone into the History of the South room last night, well, I might have been excited. It was old and in pristine condition, probably worth a fortune. But now I couldn’t help but wonder how many Black people had been killed with this very gun. My hands started to shake.
“Thanks, Grandfather. It’s beautiful,” I said.
“Beautiful and practical. You never know when some nigger might come breaking in your home. Especially once you have yourself a fine, young, blue-eyed, blonde-haired wife like your mom here,” he said with a wink.
Mom started to pick at imaginary lint. Dad excused himself and went to the restroom.
I thought of Tammy. She was as far from blue-eyed and blonde-haired as any woman could be. I saw my mom smirk. She was surely thinking of Thanksgiving dinner.
Tammy had come over with her hair in braids and her dark brown skin glowing from our recent trip to the Bahamas. We had returned to the states with tans, full of smiles and stories we shared at Thanksgiving. My parents loved Tammy.
“Better marry her after your grandfather dies,” my dad had said with a chuckle when he first met Tammy. “If not, you won’t see a red cent of your inheritance. And if you do it before then, please make sure I’m around so I can have the pleasure of watching that man die from a heart attack.”
Dad and I had laughed, even though it wasn’t really funny.
Now that I had seen Grandfather’s History of the South room, I didn’t want any part of his dirty, racist money. I returned the gun to the box and decided to go for a walk. I needed fresh air and space to think. The rest of the family went to put on their bathing suits for our traditional Christmas morning swim in Grandfather’s swimming pool.
I crossed the street and sat on the ledge that separated the sidewalk from the beach. I loved the ocean breeze, the smell of salt water in the air. Normally I would hop over and go for a walk along the sand, but the recent revelations had drained me. I just wanted to sit.
A little black bird flew down and landed on the ledge right beside me. It sat so close that I could see the detail on its dark feathers. It had a tiny dark beak and small dark eyes that looked at me as it cocked its head to the side.
It was so close, I was tempted to reach over and touch its beautiful dark plumage. The bird looked at me and then turned its head to look out to the blue water and clear skies.
“Burn that room,” I heard the voice of a woman say softly.
I looked around to see who was speaking, but no one was there. The beach was empty. Just me and the bird. I needed to sleep. Clearly, I needed to sleep. I was starting to hear voices.
“Go burn that room,” the voice said again.
Was the bird talking to me? Shit!
I shifted my body slightly, uncomfortable at hearing random voices talking, and the bird flew away. I watched it fly out over the ocean and into the skies until it was just a dark speck against the blue.
Then I got up from the ledge and walked toward Grandfather’s house. I could hear the family laughing and talking, the children enjoying themselves as they splashed around the pool.
I opened the front door and headed to the kitchen where I knew Grandfather kept his lighter, right next to the humidor. I took the lighter and walked down the main hall toward the History of the South room.
“What are you doing?” my mind was screaming.
But I could not stop. I continued with quick, silent steps. Something was leading me, determined.
I pushed the door open, and the room appeared just as evil as it had last night. I grabbed my grandfather’s brag book off the desk. I turned to the newspaper clipping of poor Henry Simmons, and I set fire to it.
The book caught fire quickly, and the heat burned my hand. I dropped the book on the floor. The area rug caught fire, and the flames slowly started to spread, dancing along the expensive tapestry.
The glass jars filled with charred black body parts started to break open from the heat. They spilled onto the floor and fueled the fire. The fire was spreading quickly, and the room filled with smoke. The smoke detector started to wail an angry warning.
I ran outside to the pool.
“Fire,” I yelled. “Fire!”
PALM BEACH POST
Monday, December 28, 1981
OBITUARIES
Christopher Michael Williams, age 76, of Palm Beach, Florida passed away on December 27. He suffered a heart attack after an unfortunate fire damaged substantial portions of his home on Christmas morning. Christopher was a long-time resident of Palm Beach and key figure in Palm Beach County politics before he retired. He was predeceased by his wife, the lovely Mary Ann Williams. He will be lovingly remembered by his family, including his son, Christopher Michael Williams, Jr. and only grandson, Johnathan Williams; his brothers, George Williams and Theodore Williams, and their wives; his sister Suzanne Williams Smith; and several nieces and nephews. The family will hold a private burial. Those who wish may send a memorial gift to the American Heart Association.
25
WRITE IT DOWN
Louisville, Kentucky (1987)
“I hate it when this happens, Mama!”
“I know, honey,” Mama says. “I know.”
She’s trying to comfort me, but her words ain’t comfort. Don’t help me one bit. All those words do is remind me she don’t understand. Remind me that she don’t know. Nobody knows. And if they do know, they damn sure don’t tell anybody.
It’s the one secret I wish had kept to myself. Been happening since as long as I can remember. Then one day, like any child might of done, I told Mama what I was seeing and hearing from time to time. Worst thing I ever done.
“Let me go get my bible.”
I knew she was gon’ grab her bible. “Ain’t gon’ help, Mama.”
“Don’t know that, child. God stronger than anything. And it’s written that ain’t no such things as evil spirits. No in-between. You live. Then you die.”
“But Mama…”
“Ain’t no ‘but’. It’s life on Earth. Then death. And heaven or hell. And I’m trying to keep you from the latter.”
Mama starts flipping through her bible, the pages held together by tape and the pressure of her hand on the spine. I can see her favorite passages underlined and circled. All on account of me, I’m sure. Ain’t a single one of them scriptures gon’ help me. But no matter what I say, Mama won’t believe me.
Like that time I told her Awiti showed me her face. I was standing, looking in the mirror and getting ready for school. I knew she was near ’cause I could feel her, that cold breeze right up on my back. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, there she was.
She didn’t look much older than me. Her skin was light, and her face real pretty. Long curls every Black girl dreams of.
But it was those sad, dark eyes. I couldn’t stop thinking about those sad eyes, even after she left. That’s why I told Mama I saw her. Boy, she beat me something awful that day. Whipped me so bad trying to “get them demons out” of me, I ended up with a busted lip and two swollen eyes.
Mama didn’t even say sorry. Just yelled at the air and said, “Don’t ever come back ’round here, ya’ hear?”
But of course, Awiti came back. Many times. And that’s why Mama stays flipping through her bible.
“Here’s the passage,” she says excitedly. Little beads of sweat running down her forehead. I can see her roots starting to curl up. When this is all over, she gon’ blame me for sweating out her press.
“Hebrews 9:27. ‘Man is destined to die once, and after that, to face judgment.’” She yells the words into the air and then turns to face me. “Now you repeat them words.”
“‘Ma
n is destined to die once, and after that, to face judgment,’” I say.
“And what’s the scripture?”
“Hebrews 9, verse 27.”
“So you see,” Mama says matter-of-factly as she closes her bible and places it on her lap, “ain’t no such thing as no spirits. That face you see and them voices you hear, that’s a demon.”
I say nothing. I’ve learned it’s best to say nothing. ’Cause whatever I say trying to defend what I’ve seen and heard just gets me into more trouble. Best for me to just nod and agree, repeat whatever scripture she says, and let her pray.
“I think I’m gon’ call on the Pastor.”
“No, Mama,” I beg. “Don’t do that. Please!”
Last time she called on the Pastor to help me, he told her he needed to be alone with me. “Just me, her, and the demon,” is what he said. When Mama left, he placed his hands on either side of my head while he prayed for me. Then I felt his hand under my dress. His other hand was inside his pants moving in a hurry. His fingers poking and pushing at me till he fell over in huff. Said the demons made him do it and not to tell anyone. And I knew it was best not to.
“Please, Mama,” I begged.
“You hear that demon fighting in you, not wanting to get out?” Mama’s excited now. Grabbing her coat and putting on her shoes. “It don’t want me to get the Pastor. That demon ain’t no match for Jesus!”
I’m trying to think of what I can do to make her stay. Anything to keep her from going to get the Pastor.
“No, Mama!” I cry out. “Don’t leave me!”
As best as I can, I start to cry. The tears ain’t real, but I’ve gotten real good at it. Fake crying so Mama will take pity and love on me.
Mama stops. She looks at me, and I can tell she sees her little girl. Her only daughter. Not the child who hears and sees demons.
“Well, all right. Calm down now. I can wait until tomorrow before talking to the Pastor.”
“Thank you, Mama.” I go to hug her, but she flinches. I’m sure she’s thinking of the demons.
She grabs a notepad and a pencil and says, “Write down what the voices sayin’.”
“All right, Mama.” And I start to write exactly what I hear,
Spiritual world ain’t what people think it is. They think it’s a separate place. Apart from the world they live in. But it’s very much the same. Existing on the same plane. Like layers on a cake. We right here with the world of the living. Right on top of one another.
In fact, we more here with the living than they are with themselves. The spirits, we feel each other. See each other. Acknowledge each other. The living don’t do that.
There are many open channels for us to speak to those who are alive. Many ways for us to let you know we are here. And every so often, we find the one. Our one. And we can’t leave them. It’s an unspoken arrangement. When we find that one who can feel us, see us. That one who can hear us. We just can’t leave.
That’s who you are to me, Tina. You are my one. I know it frightens you. But I mean no harm. Makes me feel bad, actually, when I wake you from your sleep. When you cry out for your mama ’cause you feel that heavy weight sitting on your chest. It’s just hard for me not to be near you.
Don’t want to hurt you. That’s for sure. But because you’re an open channel, I have to talk to you. Did I scare you when I showed my face tonight? When you looked up in the ceiling and saw me? I was smiling! Wanted you to know I’m not gon’ hurt you. Did you see me smiling at you?
I know you don’t like it much, but I actually like when your mama tells you to get the pen and paper. To write down my words. I get to speak through you. And you write so well. So beautifully. You capture every word I say.
Did you know I was not much older than you the day I died? My first death, that is. That was the day they came to my village. I think that’s why you can feel me. I think if you were a girl in my village, we would have been friends.
They came and took it all. Everything I loved scattered that day, and we’ve never been reunited. And that day, as my family and my people went in different directions, I died. Even though I was still very much alive.
It was the love for my family that kept me moving forward. If I could just make it to that tree, I would say, maybe they will be there. If I just cross over this river, they might be on the other side waiting for me. These are things I told myself to keep me putting one foot in front of the other. To keep moving forward to find them.
But what I found was trouble. You know how your mama tells you, “trouble has a way of finding you”? That’s me too. Trouble always seems to have a way to find Awiti.
That day, trouble was named Oranyan. He tricked me, Tina. He tricked me with love. Don’t worry, though. I’m gonna stay by your side. I won’t ever let a man trick you. Never.
Sorry to wake you. Just wanted to talk. To let you know I’m here. You got to stop being afraid. You got to stop calling for your mama when you hear me. Can’t tell her you saw me. They won’t never understand what we have, Tina.
These next words just for your mama. I’m not gonna hurt Tina. We friends. I’m Tina’s friend. You can call me by name. All you got to say is, Hey Awiti. That’s how friends do.
And write this down for your mama too. I know the preacher told you to have Tina write out the words I say to her. When the voices speak. I promise you this, if you give this paper to the preacher. If you show him these words, Tina good as dead. They gon’ say she evil. That the devil got a hold of her. And nothing you ever gon’ be able to do or say to make that change. You know who the devil got hold of? Your preacher. Ask him how it felt under Tina’s dress. See what the good preacher has to say then!
Best thing for you to do is read these words Tina wrote. Read them as many times as you need to understand. That is to say, you need to know these here worlds of the living and dead. We all here together. And I found me a friend in Tina. Me and your daughter is friends. Got something to say to me, just call on me. Just say, “Awiti, I’d like to have some words with you.”
“You almost done writing, Tina?” Mama asks. She’s standing far away from me as she can.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “I’m done. I’m gon’ let you read these words, Mama. And when you done, we gon’ rip up this here paper and throw it away.”
“What you say?”
“You heard me, Mama.”
“What’s come over you, Tina?” Mama asks. “You scaring me!” She starts to cry and pray, holding her bible. She got it aimed at me like it’s a gun.
“Don’t be scared,” I say. “We friends.” My voice sounds different. Deeper.
“Why you looking like that?”
“Like what?” I ask. I can’t see myself.
“Don’t sound like you,” Mama says. “And you don’t look like you.”
That’s ’cause I ain’t me. I can feel Awiti in my skin. Breathing through my lungs. And when I speak, it’s her voice. Not my own.
“Tina?” Mama asks, unsure.
“Tina’s all right. You talking to me now.”
And right then, Mama fell out. Strangest place for me to be in, watching my mama laid out on the ground. She fell, real slow, like in a movie. Wonder what she saw. Did she see Awiti? No matter. I’ll deal with her when she comes to.
I pull my blanket off the bed and place it over Mama. Take my pillow and put it under her head. She don’t move, but she’s breathing, so I know she’s all right. I’ll let her rest awhile. Reckon she’s gon’ need a bit of sleep to read what I wrote. I reckon things gon’ change ’round here.
26
questions
Fredericksburg, VA (1990)
Loren loved and hated visiting her grandmother at Bay Ridge Senior Residences. She was fortunate to have time with her MeeMaw, but still, there were depressing moments. They spent most Sunday afternoons reminiscing about Loren’s childhood days and arguing over Scrabble. Every so often, Loren would play her violin in the main hall for entertainment.
/> At least MeeMaw wasn’t suffering from a terminal illness or dementia. She was simply dying from old age, an occasion not afforded to many. Still, Loren missed going to her MeeMaw’s house. Bay Ridge never quite felt like home.
The two had been close ever since Loren was young. Her mother and father worked long hours in their dental practice. So it was always MeeMaw who picked her up from school and took her to all of her activities. MeeMaw nursed her broken heart over ice cream and chocolate chip cookies and attended every single one of Loren’s lacrosse games.
When Loren quit playing lacrosse in high school due to her demanding academics and focus on music, MeeMaw confessed she hated the game. In fact, she had spent most of the time sipping vodka from her water bottle. The memory of their conversation made Loren smile.
During Loren’s high school years, they were often mistaken for mother and daughter. The two were similar in appearance, right down to their blue eyes. Over the years, Loren watched her MeeMaw’s hair change from strawberry blonde to gray to silvery-white.
MeeMaw was once an avid runner. They used to run in local 5k and 10k races, everyone cheering on the grandmother-granddaughter duo. But then MeeMaw’s bones began to fracture and break easily. Now, she was confined to a wheelchair, standing occasionally with the assistance of a walker.
Thankfully, MeeMaw still had her wits about her. Loren could not imagine the day her grandmother would become incoherent. She sighed and entered MeeMaw’s personal code to access the building.
It was a lovely facility as far as senior residences were concerned. The grounds were well-manicured and orderly. Loren had accompanied her MeeMaw during her senior home search. Nothing had seemed quite good enough.
Bay Ridge was the only residence that met most of the requirements. MeeMaw had enjoyed horticulture, so whatever senior residence she entered needed to have a garden. She wasn’t old and senile, so MeeMaw needed a community with others like her—intelligent, wealthy people she could relate to. Seniors who were growing old, encouraged to leave their homes by family members concerned about their welfare and safety.
