The Voices of Martyrs

by Maurice Broaddus

  §

  Writing filled the days, scribbles that scratched toward the truth, each second a graveside marker, a matter of figuring out how to end the story. He lived a life steeped in regret. Not the man, the husband, he was meant to be. Neither able to do right by her nor live without her. He drifted until he found comfort in dead things and found purpose, knitting together some of the broken bits inside of him by simply not letting go of any part of her.

  The first time he told her he loved her, she said she didn’t believe him. Trust was a razor, she said, and belief had to be earned. The threat of competition, the possibility of her absences reduced his breath to hollow gasps. He mourned her loss though she was still with him. The memory of her, a ghost that wandered the hallways. His heartbeat, an aching flutter whenever she neared; her presence, a shadow within him. His thoughts drifted to her. Her skin the smell of crushed dandelions and jasmine. Her touch along his arm, the gentle tread of a spider along its web. He had words to describe his love.

  §

  [But it was the love written in the margins of journals. His alone.]

  The Volunteer

  Everyone called the church “The Underground.” It began as a joke, as their services were held in the basement of United Presbyterian Church. The building was everything he loved in a building. Mostly that it was old, over a hundred years old. Things that withstood the rigors of time had been tested and found true. It had turrets, a slate tile roof, its design held prisoner by an architect’s demented whimsy. And it had character. Like all old buildings, it had personality. Hallways that went nowhere. Nooks and crannies and misplaced alcoves that served no purpose. He volunteered for so many programs, such as the Exile and Restoration—the E/R, they liked to call the ministry—as much to be in the building as to be with her.

  She waited at the top of the stairs, head held high. Not asking for pity, nor accepting it. The old building had been grandfathered in, not having to meet the code for being handicap accessible. The people rushed to carry her down the steps, held aloft as a queen in procession. Every night, the same routine. It took him weeks to screw together the courage to talk to her.

  “What is that you’re wearing?” he asked when she noticed him staring at her. She noticed everything. Her eyes were cerulean. They weren’t really, but he believed the word cerulean wasn’t used nearly often enough.

  “An asymmetrical caftan, cut on the bias.”

  He didn’t know what that meant. He only knew that her dress had a kente cloth pattern. A bead necklace draped her, long loops bunched around her neck like a high collar then swooped along her top. She jangled as she moved. With her accent, her English was succulent. No, it wasn’t the right word, but it described the sensation he felt when he heard her speak, which made it the right word after all.

  She toyed with the edges of her caftan, tugging at it in an unconscious way, drawing attention to her chest and he found himself staring. He leaned against the wall in an awkward posture, hoping to not loom as tall over her. Nor did he wish to seem like he was constantly trying to look down her top. She didn’t appear to care either way.

  Her feet were hooks. He pretended not to notice and figured it impolite to ask. Not everyone was comfortable with some of the refugees being vampires, but the church’s mission wasn’t to judge.

  “How long have you been in this country?”

  “A very long time. I was the first. I made the way for the others. I look out for them. That is my role, sweetie.”

  With practiced ease, she punctuated many of her questions with endearments: “You still doing okay, honey?” or “Can I get you anything, sweetie?”; as if she learned English by being a waitress in a local diner. He could never be that familiar with people he barely knew, much less strangers. He barely shook the hands of the people he did know well. But he loved the way she said “honey” and “sweetie” as if she meant them just for him. He bathed in the words, allowing them to soothe him.

  “Are you all …” Twirling his finger as if waving a wand at the rest of the people who milled about in the church basement, he realized that he did not know how to finish the question about the nature of her people. Words had traps he had found, because he was no good with words. Often, without meaning to, he insulted those around him. After a while, he found it safer not to speak at all.

  “We are one people though different groups. Different bloodlines. Each with their own history and ways of doing things. In the end, we all serve the tribe. My mother was Asante. My father was Fante. So I speak Twi and Fante. And English. How many languages do you speak?”

  “I’m doing good to speak American.”

  And she laughed. Never had he seen someone laugh or smile more. “My name is N’Kya.”

  N’Kya.

  Such a beautiful name. He had to have her say it because his tongue was far too clumsy to pronounce it correctly. N’Kya. From her lips, her name had music. As he saw it, she made music with her lips. Say her name … N’Kya.

  He had a name once, he remembered when he mattered to people.

  The E/R had the run of The Underground for the last few weeks. The ministry worked with people displaced from their country for one reason or another. He had been displaced from his home when his wife declared that he wasn’t a man because he couldn’t provide for her in the way she wanted nor was a fit example for their children. His dreams were the toys of infants long overdue to be put away. With no warning or fanfare, he found himself displaced. Not that E/R could’ve helped him. Unlike the clients of E/R, he had food, clothing, transportation, a place to stay, and spoke English so he didn’t need many of the services E/R provided. Still, he was an extra set of hands to help care for the people.

  “So, what do you do?” The words tumbled out of his mouth, clumsy and awkward. “For them, I mean.”

  “I sew.” The words leapt from her mouth with such conviction. As if she were the embodiment of sewing. Colors for eyes. Fabrics for her body. Needles for fingers. Thread for vessels. Her hands trembled against the armrest of her wheelchair. His mother’s hands shook like that when her blood sugar dipped too low and she needed to eat. Wizened, useless things that seemed so dark against his. Not that he dared to touch her. “Back home in our village, sewing was an important skill because clothes are very important. Not just to protect but also to define. Clothes set people apart, but first they have to be made. We brought that skill with us.”

  “I wish I had a skill,” he said.

  N’Kya laughed, but not in that hurtful way that his wife used to snicker at him when he shared something about himself. No, N’Kya’s laugh was a revelation. “Come, let me show you what we do.”

  He fell into a seat beside the table, as if the force of her request compelled him to sit. The surrounding ladies glanced up at him with hungry eyes. Hungry, but not predatory. Their faces possessed a stoic grimness like the beauty of porcelain figurines, watching without comment as N’Kya wheeled behind him. A young woman whose face seemed ancient when he glimpsed her out of the corner of his eye, piled a bolt of fabric before him.

  “We aren’t little children waiting to be taken care of or exploited,” N’Kya said. “Pick a piece, sweetie.”

  “Which one?”

  “Whichever one speaks to you.”

  “How will I know if I get it right?”

  “It whispers to you and you alone. How will we know if you got it wrong?”

  He flipped through a velvety material; though he enjoyed the texture of it, it wasn’t quite right. Then a kente cloth pattern with green as its focal color, but that wasn’t for him. He settled on a black fabric broken by strands of gold. The material was lush, but not like velvet. “This.”

  “Good.” N’Kya ran her hand through the material then along his fingers and up his arm. “You’re a natural.”

  He nearly stopped breathing.

  In high school, he loved a girl once. Her name was Amanda Fisher. During French class, she sat in front of him. And when their teacher�
��who never wore a bra and always stood beside him giving him a clear view of her—passed out homework, Amanda’s hands brushed against his. He froze every time, holding the memory of that contact for as long as he could or until the kid behind him snapped him out of his moment.

  N’Kya rolled close to him, filling his empty spaces. Her presence brushed along his neck.

  “I think I’m supposed to say something, but I don’t know what,” he said.

  “Then don’t say anything. Sometimes silence is the greatest wisdom.”

  “Is that a saying of your people?”

  “Our people have many sayings,” N’Kya said. “And even more secrets.”

  “Tell me a secret.”

  N’Kya smiled. Two of her teeth had lengthened, her tongue lolled between the protrusions. Her mouth matched her eyes, hungry but not predatory. It was an exquisite smile. “You’ve been chosen.”

  “By who?”

  “By us. By me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re lonely, too. But you’re also not ready yet. You haven’t found your place.”

  She had been out of place, too, once upon a time. Her wheelchair was superior to the old wood crutches she got by on in her old country, she said. There, she had been abandoned to beg for a living. Until one day she was called and, when she was ready, turned. She became one of the tribe, and though her body changed, it was not made whole. Had she been a child, she would have remained a child. Or had she been an amputee, she wouldn’t have suddenly grown a new limb. Still, she made the choice and joined her people to minister to their souls.

  He remained unafraid.

  “Did you dream that your life would be like this?” he asked.

  “I expected to grow up in a village.”

  “No one expects to grow up in a village.” He tried to picture a village, but all he imagined was dirt and straw-thatched huts held together by dry mud.

  “Why, because your massive cities are so wonderful?”

  “Well, yes.” He knew that “yes” wasn’t the right answer and that the question itself was one of those traps of speaking, but he didn’t have anything clever to say instead.

  “That’s why your American Dream is doomed to fail, sweetie.” She could condemn his lifestyle, values, and national illusion all she wanted, as long as she ended it with “sweetie.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “All your country is about—all your churches try to protect—is based on two parents and their children. Even if there is only one child in that family, that’s not enough to support your way of life.”

  His way of life involved going to work and then coming home to watch television while his father ignored him from the other room. Though displaced, he had a place to stay, even if it had meant moving in with his father. That wasn’t so bad, as he never had much of a relationship with his dad. He liked taking care of his father, though the elderly man went out drinking every night. Although the volunteer occasionally wrote checks for things he didn’t remember buying or using, his was a sedentary lifestyle perfectly supported by his own efforts. He asked, “How so?”

  “Not enough support. Your relationships become as disposable as any other material object in your life. Like poorly chosen fabric. Now in a village, you have parents, children, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins all together, bracing one another. Different and many threads weaving together to create a stronger tapestry. It’s all about family.”

  Family sounded wonderful when she spoke about it. For him, family meant more people to eat the things he bought and put in the refrigerator. And more people to turn the heat up too high in the house. And more people to argue about what to watch on television. Which she agreed with, but made it sound like those were exactly the things to be treasured.

  §

  Church at The Underground was on Sunday evenings. Some people objected to the time because it didn’t feel like church time. Saturday nights they could live with and call it the Sabbath. Sunday mornings were the expected church time. But Sunday nights interfered too much with their football game viewing schedules.

  The church service lasted an hour. For the first twenty-five minutes, the congregation sang: pop choruses reminiscent of seventies rock ballads for the regular attendees; Negro spirituals in an attempt to make their African guests feel more at home. No one knew the words or understood the melody, a congregation united in awkward singing. For the next twenty-five minutes, the pastor went on about shame and choosing to live by lies you came to believe about yourself.

  The last ten minutes were for Communion. A large wedge of freshly baked bread. The body that was broken for us. Two sets of shot glasses. The colorless ones were filled with grape juice. The pink ones were filled with wine. Not everyone wanted wine. The blood that was shed for us.

  The volunteer checked the time. When the service started, there were only a handful of folks. Though they were encouraged to attend the services of the hosting church, none of E/R’s refugees had bothered to attend. But there was a meal afterwards, so a few refugees, joined by the local homeless, drifted in as the service wrapped up.

  They also always arrived at this time, a murder of crows roosting at the periphery of their community. He didn’t need to turn around to know who had entered as a shiver of fear rippled across the refugees.

  Kwame.

  His name had no melody no matter who said it. Tall and elegant, a curtain of night falling onto a stage. His skin tone ran toward mahogany, dark and rich. His pupils were too white against his skin. And he never smiled.

  They were overdressed for the service. Clothes told their story. Most of the regular congregants arrived in shorts or jeans or whatever casual wardrobe they had. Perhaps misplaced empathy, not wanting to make the homeless feel out of place, guilt by privilege. The homeless didn’t particularly notice or care.

  The volunteer didn’t have anything resembling fashion sense. He didn’t believe in wearing clothes that had ads on them. If he were going to be a billboard, he wished to be paid as such. He was not made for low-cut or hip-hugging anything. His midriff remained quite concealed, thank you very much, beneath a crumpled blue T-shirt that read “Superdad,” a Father’s Day present from his children before he was displaced. He couldn’t picture their eyes. He also had a pair of jeans whose brand he had forgotten, but he only had the one pair. That was the thing about jeans: few people looked closely at them. They were just jeans. Every pants.

  To him, Kwame was just a man in a fancy suit, but when N’Kya spoke about clothes, he paid attention.

  “He hasn’t changed,” N’Kya said. “He sports that same turn of the century look of when he first ventured from home and spied gentlemen of leisure. Dark gray saque jacket, like smoke, double-breasted with peak lapels. His sleeves worn short.”

  All the volunteer knew was that he hated the way Kwame wore the clothes. So regal. So commanding. The people stared at him with awe-tinged fear. A suit all too American on its surface and yet not, cinched too tight around the arms and waist, drawn too tight at his calves. Bold, square buttons. Colored inner lining fabrics. The matching pants flared a bit at the calves, accommodating the heavy boots he wore. He knew what those boots must have hid.

  “The fabrics were a dance, honey. Materials conjoined together to tell a story about the article of clothes as much as the clothes told the story of the person who wore them. Look at Kwame’s chorus.”

  Three women shadowed Kwame, a blur of lime green and fuchsia. They walked tall and proud. Walked was too small a word. Their bodies glided between shadows with a mix of grace and sensuality, the way a tongue licked along the top of a lover’s lip in a languid brush. The curves of their bodies demanded to be noticed, yet with the menace of excoriation should a glance linger.

  “They have remembered that modesty protects and inspires allure. There is a sensual mystery to fabrics. I designed that look for them,” N’Kya continued. “Three different dresses, one story. All of that lime green, Dutch wax print e
dged in fuchsia tabs. The fabric itself an artificial construct. Colonization, imitation, assimilation. Patterns used to set them apart and define prestige. The tangled history of Europe and Africa all in the simple play of fabrics. It is only fitting that we ended up in America.”

  “They were pretty dresses.” He loved their boots. They went all the way up to their knees. They reminded him of superheroes.

  “Even their boots hold secrets.” N’Kya eased back in her chair and shifted her weight. She drew her legs under her and draped them with her dress. It felt like a private moment, and he wanted to allow her space without embarrassment. Embarrassment wasn’t the right word. If he had the correct cloth, he would sew something regal and proud, with a high collar that shielded all but deserving eyes. It was the only time he ever saw her slump, even in the slightest. “He won’t make me jealous.”

  Perhaps he called himself being chivalrous or protective, perhaps he simply didn’t want to let his jealousy get the better of him. Either way, he found himself stepping to Kwame. “Can I help you?”

  “I’ve come to look for any of my people who may have arrived recently. Those forgotten by their own. Those who would die a slow death trying to fit into your world. Those whose needs you might not wish to meet.” Kwame stepped to him and leaned in close. His voice was decadent. That was definitely the right word. To the volunteer, it sounded like an entitled basketball player who got into too much trouble. His breath smelled of hot iron.

  “We have food. You and yours are welcome to join us for dinner.”

  “We hunger, but you don’t want to feed us,” Kwame said.

  “We also have clothes, if any of your people need them.”

  “I don’t want any of your clothes.”

  “But they’re perfectly good clothes.” The volunteer reached for the donation box. On top was the red sweater his grandmother made for him. A garish shade of red, like a prostitute’s lipstick, with three bears across the center, each wearing a Christmas stocking. He hated the sweater and never wore it.