by Nino Cipri
“She’ll be aight,” Karina puts in. “She was struck by an angel.”
Kia swats her. “Shut it.”
“A Brazilian angel.”
Kia wraps both arms around her friend from behind and covers the girl’s mouth. “Ignore her, C. What did you wanna ask about?”
“You take care of all these kids, right?” I ask over Karina’s muffled giggles.
She pulls away Kia’s hands and straightens herself. “Indeed I do.”
“Every Saturday?”
“Unless the Ministry of Whiteness decides to take a night off.”
I squint at her. “The Min…”
“Never mind, C,” Kia says. “She here every Saturday, yes.”
“You see the old guy get hit by that wheelbarrow from the construction site last weekend?”
Karina shakes her head and puts a stick of gum in her mouth. “Uh-uh.” She offers me a piece. I decline. Kia grabs one and starts chewing loudly. “I heard about it though. And the lady who ran into a city bus the next day. She lived, though, I heard. But yeah. Whole lotta disaster up in these streets, man.”
“You seen anything weird, like, around the park?”
“Besides white people jogging through Bed-Stuy after dark?” Kia says. They both fall out laughing for a minute and then collect themselves.
“Nothing really. Same ol’ usuals. Drasco and his cat parade. The cops making rounds. That’s it.”
“What about the kids?”
“You wanna ask ’em?” Karina stands and makes a pretend megaphone with her hands. “WHAT WE GON’ DO WHEN THE REVOLUTION COME?”
An eerie choir of high-pitched voices rises in the night around me. “Burn them houses and kill them sons!”
I boggle at Karina. “What the hell is that?”
Little white kids pour off the slide and swing sets. They repeat the line in unison as they make their way towards us.
Karina shrugs. “Song my grandma usedta sing. It gets their attention.”
“I don’t think…”
“WHAT WE GONNA DO WHEN THE CITY BURN?” Karina yells.
The kids bustle in around us. “Light them motherfuckas in they turn,” they chant.
“Karina … do their parents know you have them—?”
“Shit, I hope not. I’d probably get fired. I get nothing but tips and thank-yous so I’m guessing nah. I swore them all to secrecy. Right, soldiers?”
“Ashé!” comes the yelled response.
“Ashé, though?” Kia says. “You confusing these children, Karina.”
“Hell, I grew up confused, why shouldn’t they? What’d you wanna ask ’em, Carlos?”
Pale, expectant faces stare up at me. They all have big cheeks and wide eyes. “Anybody … notice anything … strange?” I ask them. I don’t really know how to talk to kids. Not living ones, anyway.
They just keep staring at me.
Karina furrows her brow and stamps one foot. “Ay, soldiers. Tell Mr. Carlos the truth.”
A pudgy hand goes up.
Karina points at the kid. “Musafa.”
“You gave them African names too?” I ask.
“Naw, their parents did that. You know how some them white parents be.”
All I can do is shake my head.
“Jimmy has fingerprints.”
“Shut up!” Another little boy yells. His blue eyes well with tears.
“It’s true!” Musafa insists.
“Jimmy,” Karina commands. “Come here, love.” The little guy waddles through the pediatric mob, sniffling back a sob. “Yes, be strong, little mister, don’t cry now. Lemme see your hands.”
He holds up both palms but there’s nothing strange—no ink, no prints to speak of.
“Musafa, what you mean Jimmy has fingerprints?”
A girl in the front with strawberry blonde pigtails and a bright pink jump suit stands up. “Not on his fingers.”
“Where, Esmé?”
She walks up to us and lifts Jimmy’s superhero shirt. “On his body. Look.”
I crouch down to squint at the shimmering blue markings on the boy’s torso. Musafa was right: little handprints crisscross his back and sides. They’re not from dirt though … these are ghost prints. “Shit,” I say.
“Ooooh!” the crowd of kids hums.
“What we say about what mommy and daddy find out?” Karina says.
“Nothing,” they answer as one.
“Alright, then.” She looks down at me and I can tell she’d just been playing cool for the kids’ sake. Her eyes are wide and worried. “What … the hell … is that?” Karina whispers.
I stand up and turn because something flickers at the edges of my consciousness. My hand goes to my cane-blade as I scan the perimeters of the park. Nothing.
“Carlos?” Karina says.
“Keep the kids close,” I say. “Especially Jimmy.”
“What is it?”
At the far corner from us, a car brake screeches and someone lets out a stream of curses.
“What’s happening?” Jimmy moans.
I’m about to tell Kia to keep an eye on things when I realize she’s nowhere in sight.
“Where’s Kia?” I demand, fighting the edge out of my voice.
Karina spins around, panicked. “I don’t know … there!”
Kia has her back to us as she fast-walks toward a fat kid and a girl with a massive weave by the northeast corner.
“Fuck.” I hop the small fence around the playground and break into a run. An eruption of translucent fluttering bursts to life along the northern edge of Von King Park. I hear a revving engine, see a newspaper fly up into the air beneath a street lamp and start to drift down like giant falling leaves.
“Kia!”
Kia
Rennard Deshawn White.
Dark brown like me and round, and those perfect arms, thick as my thighs with great dangling dollops of flesh. Folds I’d have sunk into on a lazy Sunday, some Sunday locked forever in my imagination, some faraway woulda-coulda type shit, as in coulda been all mine but instead, instead, instead …
Rennard Deshawn White, sitting serene and stupid like a beached whale on that park bench in Von King, Maritza perched on ya lap, long manicured fingers in ya fro. Fuck this.
If they’d been making out that woulda been predictable. Fine. Make out. That’s ya girl. Alright. But this … this uninhibited performance of domestic bliss? Unacceptable. No little teenage love affair has any business looking this much like an ol’ middle-aged couple—no way, no how. It’s a ruse. Unacceptable, and unacceptable shit gets called as such, that’s how I move. And regardless of how I move in general, this how I’m moving now: flushed forward on long strides, fists tight at my sides, face tight so they know I truly will smite down a bitch, lest they test me.
I’ll not be tested.
No plan, no words formulated to blast out upon arrival, just fire and the simple truth that this shit, this shit, this shit will not stand. Nuh. Uh.
Maritza turns first. Renny’s eyes are still closed, his head leaning back, a pleasant smile still splattered across his big, stupid, beautiful face. Her fingers stop weaving through that ’fro, face crinkles into a shrill frown.
“What happened, babe?” Renny murmurs, and it’s then, in the second before he opens his eyes, that I remember my own eyes, my newly damaged face, what a true disaster I must look like. My mouth drops open, panic rises in me, and instead of fire, nothing comes out. Air. I wonder if I can vanish before he sees me, just be a story Maritza tells and surely she’s kidding, Kia would never roll up on us like that, right? Right?
A commotion rises from the edge of the park, newspaper flutters down in the orange glow of a streetlight. I remember the disasters everyone keeps talking about and then Renny looks at me, face scrunched with concern, and opens his mouth.
The voice that says my name isn’t his, though. If Renny did speak it got run over by Carlos’ hoarse shout from behind me. I’ve never heard Carlos sound scare
d. The next thing he yells is “Run!” but I don’t run, I turn to look at him.
The motherfucker is crazy. Carlos Delacruz barrels full-speed toward me from across the park. I don’t know where he thinks I’m going to run to. I don’t even know what I’m running from. Then his eyes go wide at something in the air between us, something I can’t see, and he pulls a long, shiny blade out of his cane. Behind me, Maritza lets out the girliest scream I’ve ever heard. I stumble back a few steps and I’m about to run when an icy grip slides around my ankle then up along my leg and swings me around.
A thousand tiny icicles needle into my neck. Pain blurs the world around me, a dull roar and a cloudy haze. Then the haze lifts and I’m looking into two bulging, translucent eyes and then a shimmering face, its mouth stretched out into a scream, chipped, malformed teeth, buckets of gelatinous drool, an eternity of darkness down its throat. This is a child’s face, haggard and broken but still so young. Those eyes burrow into mine; I realize the ice on my neck is from its two tiny hands, crushing my windpipe.
The face takes up my whole vision—it’s pressed up so close to mine I feel the chill air around it, its stale breath—but a figure stirs in the hazy world beyond this thing. Carlos. He’s poised to strike, that blade of his raised and ready. The thing turns and I see Carlos clearly—his brow furrowed and frown uncertain.
I’m trying to figure out why he doesn’t just kill this demon-ass child mothafucka when the creature hurls into him, throwing Carlos on his ass. The sudden absence of pain is the first breath of air after drowning. I gasp, scramble a few steps, and then break into a run.
* * *
So many people have come out to the park on this warm end-of-winter night, like their collective presence can somehow ward off whatever evil’s been plaguing this place. Surely that thing, that horrible, broken-faced, icy demon child of fucking frosty death will find one of the many other folks here to attack once it’s done eating Carlos’ soul or whatever. Or maybe getting shoved will wake Carlos’ aloof ass up and he’ll take care of business finally.
Either way, I’m out.
I dip and dodge between concerned onlookers, ignoring the stares and the feeling that hasn’t left me, cross Lafayette, veering out of the way as a biker flies past and curses me out, and then cut around a corner and run hard. I don’t know where I’m going—everything inside screams away; far, far away from that hell. I pass the junk lot with its dazzling dragon mural where the old guys used to play dominoes and the bodega I used to get candy at with Karina. Start to slow as a stitch twists my gut, cross another street, and then my hands are on my knees and I’m leaning over like I’m gonna hurl. Then I do hurl, right there in the street, just watery yellow crap—bile, I guess? And I look up, back toward the park, and then I scream.
It’s just a hazy flicker in the night but there’s no mistaking it: the demon child is a block away, swimming at me in watery, uneven strides with its arms outstretched. I can’t move. A city bus passes, oblivious to the nightmare my life has suddenly become, and the whoosh of air wakes me up. One more glance—the thing launching upward into the sky, mouth stretching wide—and then I turn and run again.
My breath is still short—I don’t have much left—and immediately the sharp ache reopens beneath my ribs. Carlos is whoknowswhere and I have nothing to fight with, no idea even how, but I won’t get got running. If that little spectral fuckmonster can touch me then I can touch the hell outta it too. I whirl around, fire raging in me again, ready to die.
It’s closing on me from above, long fingernails stretched out, mouth twisted into a silent howl. My left leg shoots back and I pivot just so, twisting my body out of the way. The ghostling rushes past with a chilly gust of air, spins back around, and charges. For this perfect second, I am smooth. Born from unholy terror, this is my ginga. I don’t know how long I have before either this grace and precision abandons me or I get strangled again, so I anchor my right leg and spin-kick the little motherfucker in the face.
The air is cool and thick on my leg. The ghostling hurls backward and there’s Carlos, face creased with fury. He yanks the thing right out the sky mid-tumble and shoves it into a black burlap bag.
I’m sitting on my ass, my breath sudden, fitful gulps, and my whole body shivers. Behind Carlos, a whole slew of shiny translucent figures stand gaping at me. Carlos follows my eyes. “Oh,” he says.
I feel strangely calm. Everything slides into place. “Am I dead?”
Carlos shakes his head. “Nah. But your life will never be the same.”
Carlos
A muted daybreak opens across the warehouses and fancy new high-rises around us. The East River sparkles beneath the growing dawn, still alive with the last of Manhattan’s shine.
We absorb it in silence for a few minutes, then I rake out a Malagueña and offer Kia the pack.
“No thanks, man. I want to reach voting age without my larynx rotting out.”
I shrug and light up.
“So.” Kia puts her hands in my pockets and keeps her eyes on the gray sky above the rooftops. “Turns out you’re not some crazy hallucinating guy.”
I bark a laugh. “And neither is Baba Eddie.”
“Well, I knew that. And all the glowing guys that were standing around you?”
“My team.”
“They’re … dead.”
“Very.”
“And the little fuckmonster that attacked me?”
I nod. “Also dead.”
“Not dead enough.”
A seagull circles in front of us, caws its complaint, and then veers off toward the bay.
“I guess I always thought the whole ancestors thing Baba Eddie always talking about was more like a metaphor, you know? Like, he puts down food for them and smokes cigars with ’em and shit, but I thought that was just like … you know, symbolic.”
“Nope.”
“And you, Carlos? You’re dead too?”
“Half.”
She shakes her head. “Alright, man. It’s just a lot.”
“I know. And I know last night was scary. Really scary. And we’re gonna figure out what the hell is going on, Kia.”
“What…” She pauses. Collects herself. “What am I supposed to do now, Carlos?”
“I wish I could tell you everything’s just gonna be alright,” I say, “but that’s not a promise I can make you, Kia. You gotta live your life, but you gotta be careful. You have the Vision now, you’re gonna be seeing ghosts.”
She shudders. “Like, everywhere? Man, I can’t handle this shit. I didn’t ask for this.”
“Not everywhere, just … around. And I know it’s a shock at first, believe me, but you have to stay sharp. Just keep away from them. If one starts coming at you, you gotta run. I mean, most of them are harmless, really, and I don’t want you to walk around the rest of your life being afraid of the dead…”
“No, why would I ever do that?”
“Look, right now, it seems like something’s after you. And we got this one but we can’t be sure there ain’t another one out there looking for you.”
“Great.”
I crouch and unstrap the short blade from my boot. It’s sheathed in a metal holster wrapped in worn leather. I hold it out with both hands, the way Riley handed me my first blade.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a blade like mine. It kills ghosts.”
“Carlos, man…”
“Kia, take it. I don’t usually give things to people, especially not ghost-killing things. This is important.”
She scowls, arms crossed over her chest. “Where am I supposed to keep that thing, man? You do realize I’m black, right?”
“I…”
“Can’t be walking ’round Brooklyn with a dagger hanging off me just chilling like ayyy. You read the newspapers? You gonna pay for my funeral when the cops blow my ass away?”
“Kia, I—”
“Y’all brown folks don’t get got like us, C. You might get ya ass beat for bei
ng brown, especially gray-ass brown like you. But I’m black. Ain’t no kinda ambiguous either. Unambigously black. They shoot us for having a wallet or a sandwich or just walking down the street, how Imma roll with a medieval-ass ghost killing-ass dagger?”
“You…”
“I need you to be up on shit like that if we gonna be friends, C. This is my life. I’d like to keep it.”
I finally stop trying to get a word in edgewise and take it in. She’s right. I hadn’t thought about it. My blade stays safely hidden away in my cane and I still get side-eyes from every cop I pass. And I’m light gray-brown. Cops been on the rampage in this city, killing with impunity, and all the victims black. Unambiguously black, as Kia said.
“You right,” I say. “It’s different for me. I hadn’t thought about it like that.”
“’Course you hadn’t.” She takes the dagger. “Imma rock with it though. I’ll figure out how to hide it.” An unruly glint sparkles in Kia’s eyes. She draws the knife and it makes that shhiiinnnggg sound they do in movies and the blade catches the orange glow from the rising sun, damn near blinding me. “Oh, fuck yeah,” Kia whispers.
I step back. “Careful now. Listen…”
She sheaths it up again and smiles up at me. “Go ’head.”
“You trying to really kill a ghost for good, you stab or slice at the head or torso. One or two good cuts and that’s it, the deal is done. Most the time. A particularly strong one might last longer. If you cut at the limbs you might incapacitate it but it won’t be gone.”
“How a ghost die though? They not dead already?”
“It’s called the Deeper Death. Means they’re really gone, like ether. Just gone.”
“Cool.”
“Not cool.” I stern up my voice. “Be careful with this thing. Sometimes when folks are new to seeing spirits they just bug out and stab up any ol’ ghost wandering by. Never rush to the kill. Find out what’s going on. But stay ready. Shit gets hairy fast with the dead, even if most spirits aren’t gonna try to hurt you.”
“If they do,” she says, drawing the blade again, “they gonna taste Ethereal Juniper.”
I frown. “Ethereal Juniper though? Try harder.”
