The Ancestors

by Brandon Massey

  All of her colleagues got to work on sizzling, high-profile cases, with lots of resources at their disposal, while she’d had to quietly structure a defense, without assistance, for some poor working mother, or broken down old man, until the corporation in question buckled and surrendered under her meticulous arguments—just to keep it out of the news. The hours, alone, had been the death knell to any social life.

  But what had killed her career was her politics, which also meant that her firm couldn’t represent the offending corporation until after the case was closed, because it would be a conflict of interest. Even though she’d win, it would always result in a Catch-22: her winning a huge portion of the spoils for the firm, but alienating the firm from future long-term, lucrative retainers from the corporations she’d won against. The firm told her that it was “just business, nothing personal,” and that she was just too good for her own good, and had unwisely chosen the wrong side, for the long haul, every time—which had been what killed her long-term career with them . . . “Sparkling young attorney though she was . . . with an amazing skill-set.” Aziza shook her head and groaned, closing her eyes tightly as she worked the muscles in her shoulders.

  Maybe she could hang her shingle to just tackle that specialty area, “David versus Goliath Law,” instead of trying to be all things to all people. She shook her head and allowed tears to drop, then chuckled as she wiped them away.

  All of her so-called legal friends and colleagues had mysteriously distanced themselves from her. It was in the best interest of their own careers, and quite understandable given the circumstances. There were no real childhood comrades to call today, since she really hadn’t had a childhood. School chums were more competitors than friends, and were certainly not the people with whom to bare one’s soul . . . and Ma Ethel was gone . . . a stroke had taken her . . . even though when she was alive, Ma Ethel never could understand her granddaughter’s driving ambition. Hers was a different era with different rules . . . none of which Ma Ethel was familiar with. And the fleeting men in her life . . . Aziza let her breath out in a rush of despair. She didn’t want to think about that disastrous trail of competition and dysfunctionality she’d left in her wake throughout the years.

  At least she’d had a great education to fall back on. Good thing her mother’s life insurance money had supplemented her expensive education. It had served its purpose, and she’d done her part by getting scholarships to make the money last longer. She’d been an “A” student, ever mindful of where her education came from, and had become an attorney. Now, there was no one to monitor whether or not she ever fulfilled her own dream to become a judge. Perhaps she’d go back to school and become an artist and use the third floor as a studio for herself. It just wasn’t fair.

  Melancholy weighed on her. Aziza chuckled quietly, allowing the sad tone of her own voice to echo through the room. There might be a certain crazy freedom to it all, she reasoned, one that she hadn’t experienced before. “Maybe God has a plan, huh, Grandma?”

  She wondered what it would be like to just hang out in South Street coffee shops—since all she needed to afford were the annual taxes on the house, which were nominal, and to figure out how to hustle up the utilities, and a medical and dental plan. Maybe she’d find an eclectic lover who was a writer, or painter, or a musician . . . and she’d work on erasing her past trail of corporate sharks and fellow attorneys who didn’t have a soul, but who felt her ambition was too emasculating to forge a commitment.

  Banishing the memories, and the foolish turn her thoughts had taken, she made a mental note to call a realtor later in the day. She’d tell them to find some young couple, or students going to the nearby University of the Arts, to take the place. That way, she’d be assured that there’d be people in there who stayed up all night long, who also played music and danced and had friends over—though she wasn’t sure if she was ready for a young couple to engage in lovemaking over her head.

  Aziza let out another sigh. No, art students would be better. A couple, of any age, would be too depressing.

  Again she allowed her tear-blurred vision to sweep the room. She still needed to hook up her stereo, set up her home office, and unpack her kitchen appliances. While Ma Ethel had been a veritable cast-iron-skillet chef, her kitchen didn’t host the modern appliances of a microwave, coffeemaker, juicer, food processor, or food dehydrator—standards for a ten-minute, health-conscious, executive working-woman chef of the new millennium.

  Pushing herself away from the task of puttering in the dresser drawers, Aziza set her priorities and goals for the day. First a shower, quickly followed by coffee, then she’d connect the technology in the spare bedroom and transform it into an office. Too bad, she mused to herself as she crossed the room, that she didn’t think to get the movers to haul the twin beds up to the empty third floor apartment—but they’d really pissed her off so badly yesterday that her decision-making capacity had been severely affected. Pain in the butt though it was, she’d drag each piece upstairs on her own volition, board by freakin’ board if necessary.

  By then it would be 9:00 AM, and she could call a few realtors and post her ad for an apartment in the local art rags. Then she could unpack her kitchen gadgets and make room in the cabinets for her pseudo-china and flatware. Once that was accomplished, she could then go out to run errands. She needed to get in a total grocery list of fresh vegetables and fruits, which meant going down on Washington Avenue to the Italian Market. But, before that, she’d need to scout out, and pin down, an antique dealer who’d not only pay for, but would also haul and remove, most of the remaining furniture from a bygone era. She’d just have to steer clear of her grandfather’s shop. He’d never approve of her selling off Ma Ethel’s wares, and would probably go through another tirade about it being bad luck. She’d offered him first choice at taking whatever he wanted when she’d lost her job, and he wouldn’t hear of it . . . old people got on her nerves. Practicality never entered into their decisions.

  With a cleared-out space, she could effectively decide when to get her furniture and art out of storage, and plan another van-load delivery. But the first order of business was to take a shower.

  Chapter Six

  On his third round of dousing, Rashid’s skin stung and burned beneath the salty mixture that his host had concocted as bath water. None of his arguments had prevailed as old man Morgan required that he thoroughly scrub his body with a bar of some sort of terrible-smelling, homemade brown soap in water treated with, of all things, a capful of laundry bleach. Then, after what the old coot had called phase one, he’d been subjected to a steaming cauldron of bath water with eucalyptus and a bunch of twigs floating around in it. After that, his dignity was further offended when the old man burst in on him and demanded that he scrub every inch of his body with what looked like a large, hard-bristled dog brush.

  The smell alone had made him want to gag. He couldn’t tell which had cleared out his sinuses first, the bleach or the eucalyptus. Not to mention, he was still groggy and disoriented from having slept uninterrupted for a full seven hours, through the night, for the first time since childhood. Now his tormentor required yet another bath, this time with so much rock salt and sea salt in it that his skin was turning ashen.

  Rashid allowed his body to slump down under the water’s surface, and indulged his full senses in the warmth that surrounded him. Reluctantly, he had to admit that it did feel good to get the newspaper ink and grime off of him more thoroughly than a quick shower, and his scalp had a stinging-clean feeling that he hadn’t experienced in a while.

  Vapors that smelled like a church swirled around his head, and he peered at the strategically placed pots of incense along the edge of the tub, which hosted white sage leaves, and frankincense and myrrh crystals. As aggravated as he had been by Abe’s cleansing process, somehow it also gave him an overall feeling of security, if not safety . . . better stated, peace—which was also a very new sensation.

  “You ready for phase two?”
Abe said in a low rumble, edging into the small bathroom, clutching a hot-water bottle in one hand that had a long hose attachment clamped shut with a metal seal, and closing the lid on the toilet with the other before taking a seat on it.

  “I don’t suppose that knocking, or privacy, is a part of the routine around here, either?” Rashid scowled at his new drill sergeant when the old man chuckled.

  “You ain’t got nothin’ I don’t have or ain’t seen before—and this ain’t about getting you ready for no beauty contest. It’s about work. Spiritual work. Gotta start fresh and clean in body, mind, and spirit.”

  Undaunted, Abe Morgan handed him the large hot-water bottle that had been slung over his lap as he’d sat down. “When you’re done cleaning off the outside, you’ve gotta clean out all of that garbage inside your system. You might have worms and parasites in general and definitely from eating in restaurants where the other side might have tried to poison you. Always gotta worm a new pup,” he added with a sly wink. “The body is the temple. I won’t bust in here while you do this part. Guaranteed.”

  “Do what?” Rashid was incredulous as he stared at what looked like an overfilled enema contraption. The long plastic nozzle that dangled at the end gave him the shivers. “I know you don’t think—”

  “It’s what you think, but won’t give you as deep a clean as a colonic, though. For now, it’ll do. Cleans out your colon, where poisons reside. You’ll be on some clear broths, teas, and very light meals for a few days. You gotta take a whole juiced garlic bulb by mouth daily, with unfiltered vinegar, cayenne to get your circulation and resistance back to par, and other internal cleansers like echinacea, golden seal, dandelion root tea, lobelia, burdock root, licorice root, ginger, fennel—clean it out. We fast while we pray.”

  “Are you crazy?” Rashid stood and grabbed his towel, casting the rubber bag into the sink. “First of all, I’ll be griping and sick as a dog. You’re so worried about the way things smell around here, whaduya think is gonna happen if I do this?” Pure indignity swept through him, and he roughly toweled off his body as he spoke in fits and spurts of anger. “Second of all, I don’t eat meat, and don’t get a decent meal most of the time anyway, so there shouldn’t be a whole lot up there for you to be concerned about. Third of all—”

  “Third of all, you’re hardheaded and don’t know what I know, and ain’t lived as long as I’ve lived. Plus, a good, strong colonic will be rugged enough on the first clean-out to kill that morning boner you’ve got, too. Although, once your physical system gets fine-tuned, well . . . everything will work better, which might not be easy for you to deal with. We’ll just have to address that problem, if your mind can’t kill it, with some other herbs I have, like saltpeter. We’ll cross that drawbridge when we get to it. For now, stop arguing with me, boy. How old do you think I am?”

  Embarrassed, Rashid turned his back to his tormentor, shook his head and continued to towel off his body, refusing to answer. “Where’s my clothes?”

  “Put this tea tree oil and pine sap on them little cuts and abrasions, and use the jojoba oil and aloe all over, even on your scalp,” Abe quipped pleasantly, ignoring his question. “Give your new skin a drink of moisture, and drink that gallon of distilled water I left for you over an hour ago—before you pass out, fool. This routine I’m putting you on requires plenty of hydration. And, by the way, brush your teeth with that baking soda and mint-leaf-oil paste I left you in that cup over there.”

  Rashid shot Abe a look of disgust, and took the skin treatment items from the rim of the sink and began applying the mixtures.

  “Now, again, I ask you, how old do you think I am?”

  “Eighty-five,” Rashid mumbled, as he haphazardly applied the skin balms, “but you look ninety, if a day.”

  Abe laughed and walked to the door, motioning toward the hot-water bottle he’d left where Rashid had flung it. “Thanks for the compliment, son, but you ain’t even close.”

  Both men stared at each other for a moment, and Abe’s grin widened.

  “Once you clean out your body, put on the karate whites and slippers I’ve left you on the radiator. They should be nice and warm by now, and will feel good on a clean body.”

  “Where are my clothes?”

  “Your rags are where they should be. Burned in the trash can in the alley.”

  “You had no right!”

  Abe shrugged and leaned against the doorframe, seeming amused. “No ID, pictures, nothing of note but filth and street grime to claim in them clothes. Mighta brought in some trails for the shades to follow, or mighta brought in one through the door with you. Couldn’t take chances. Here’s your money,” Abe said with a smile, tossing a roll of bills to Rashid. “But it’s wet. Dipped it in holy water to ensure that it is only used for, and came from, Divine purposes.”

  Rashid just shook his head and set his bankroll down carefully on the edge of the sink. This old man was worse than a drill sergeant.

  “So, I am working on your color chart now,” Abe continued. “Spirit needs to move me to decide which colors you’ll need to wear daily, and when, for maximum protection. Certain colors are symbolic, and we must pray every step of the way for every action we undertake. I’ve been praying for guidance on the subject of our next move. We’ll pray for clarity, then begin easy today with some basic yoga stretches to get you in shape . . . we do need to keep the body in a state of readiness. You will have some more elimination system cleansing teas, a little broth, and some light whole grains for breakfast, then I’ll show you how to clean out your living space properly with prayers of authority to oust anything that doesn’t belong where you are.”

  “My space?”

  Abe Morgan sighed. “How to prayer-cleanse-out the four corners of a room, and cast out evil, and how to remove dust that could harbor shadows, with essential purification oils and incense. You must energy-balance the mind, the body, and the spirit, as well as anoint the environment. I will also give you a full meridian foot massage at the end of the day. You have been wounded in the core of each of your centers of balance, and as a warrior of light, we cannot have that.”

  Rashid just stared at the man before him, speechless.

  “Then, after you regain your strength, this old man who is a lot older than you think, will proceed to teach you how to defend yourself using those three centers of body, mind, and spirit—by kicking your butt the first time, to indisputably prove the point.”

  “You’re older than ninety?” Rashid stood before his challenger, no longer as concerned about covering himself, still damp and naked except for his towel. “Now, I was born yesterday. Okay, Mr. Abe. Whatever you say, but would you let me get dressed without an audience ?”

  “I’m no liar, and I don’t generally provide food, baths, foot massages, a place to sleep, and the finest silk aikido-samurai fighting gear for any passerby urchin that just falls into my door with a long story and no last name. And I’m not some weirdo who likes the company of young men, nor do I enjoy seeing you without your clothes on, so you can stop the unnecessary coyness and modesty around me. Go do what I’ve told you, and meet me downstairs for lesson number one, and stop wasting time this morning. Like I said before, we’ve got work to do—but you ain’t nowhere near ready, and if you might have to travel back in time, you’re gonna have to have yourself way past ready.”

  Each argument with the antique dealers had worn a hole in her brain. By midafternoon, all she could do was sit in the park across from her old apartment and stare at the barren trees. Not one of them would agree to set up an appointment to even come out and look at the treasures in her grandmother’s house, let alone agree to haul it out of the place that she’d have to accept as her home.

  Strange, but they did this all the time, she thought. Any antique dealer would normally be interested in new finds—why now was she meeting such unnecessary resistance? They’d all given her every standard, noncommittal answer in the book . . . it’s the slow season, maybe in the spring; we
just got a big shipment in. Everyone had an excuse.

  The thought of paying movers again, simply to take away the things she didn’t have space for, then to have to just donate all of that history to a salvage joint, made her want to cringe. She couldn’t do that, and would have felt a lot better about the decision knowing that someone else would cherish and use the pieces. If her grandfather wasn’t so stubborn, she would have felt better if he would have taken it.

  Aziza pushed herself up from the bench and looked down at her cooling cappuccino. Okay, so maybe she’d give Pop one more try, even if it caused another row about her sanity. Maybe, if he thought that she was indeed just going to chuck everything, he’d be moved to save it himself. Hell, at this point, she’d pay to have it moved to his shop and would help him tag and catalogue every piece, if he’d just get it out of her living space. Anyway, she could be assured that he’d hang on to it forever, or until someone worthy who’d appreciate it would take it home.

  Marching with conviction, she pushed past the wind and strode down to South Street, rehashing her argument over and over again in her head as she walked. She knew what the recalcitrant old man would say, and she knew that she’d have to fully hear him out, and seem to hang on his every word, before she’d be allowed to go on her way.

  As she approached the block that housed her grandfather’s storefront, Aziza steadied herself and drew in a deep, mind-clearing breath. This was gonna be a tough sell, but she needed closure. When his tiny marquee came into view, she hesitated again, then pushed on, stepping up to the door and ringing the chime.