Expired (4 page)
6
A
few days later Tracie Burlingame was in the cemetery, throwing fresh dirt on top of Randi's lowered coffin. The dirt landed with a loud thump, or at least that's what it sounded like to Tracie's ears.
few days later Tracie Burlingame was in the cemetery, throwing fresh dirt on top of Randi's lowered coffin. The dirt landed with a loud thump, or at least that's what it sounded like to Tracie's ears.
At her side was Dre, who was firing off rapid shots of the funeral and its surroundings. Michael and Souljah Boy were also with her. Directly behind Tracie stood Renee Santiago, a close friend of Tracie's. She was stylish as well as bold, and quick with her tongue. The rest of the mourners were crowded behind them.
Renee stared at the back of Tracie's black-veiled head. Then she diverted her attention to Rashod, who was standing on the other side of the grave, across from Tracie. He was watching his mother. Open hostility and resentment flared from his eyes.
Surprisingly, he didn't look high. If he wasn't high, it'd be the first time in years she'd seen him without the aid of ole crack cocaine.
Tracie stared down at the single rose lying on top of the dirt on the coffin. Souljah Boy had thrown it in after the dirt hit the coffin. Tracie looked over to where Rashod had stood, to find the spot where he had been standing empty.
At the curbside in a van, a camcorder was recording the services. The police photographer was snapping still photographs. His photographs included Andre Burlingame, for they found it curious that he was personally photographing his own brother's services.
Off in the distance, Lonzo and Monica observed both the services and the visitors. One by one, young men went up to pay their respects to Tracie Burlingame.
Sean Richardson, seventeen years old, was first up. “Randi was the greatest shooter in Harlem. I'm sorry, Miss Burlingame. I'm gonna miss him. He was my best friend.” Tracie nodded serenely.
Next Jimmy “the Runner” Boyd, sixteen years old, made his way over to Tracie. “The NBA got cheated. Randi was poetry in motion.” He imitated the shot stance that had made Randi famous in Harlem. “Swish,” he said, “he was all that. He was my boy, Miss Burlingame.” Tracie touched his cheek softly, wiping away a tear before it could fall.
Next came Little Rock; he, too, was sixteen years old. “My boy was a legend, Ms. Burlingame. This ain't right. If we find out who did it . . .” He punched his hand with his fist.
Tracie looked at him steadfastly. She lifted the veil off her face and kissed the boy's cheek. Her eyes changed colors three times in fast succession, affecting the grief-stricken boy. He blinked, unsure what had even happened. He'd never seen anyone's eyes change colors like that.
“That won't be necessary, Little Rock. Randi will live through our memories of him.”
Little Rock nodded. “Whatever you need . . .”
“I know,” Tracie said.
Renee Santiago hugged Tracie tightly. She looked at her pointedly. “Rashod could use some attention, Tracie.” She lowered her voice. “Soon.” She walked away. Tracie watched her make her way through the crowd.
Souljah Boy pressed in close to Tracie. He placed something in her hand before walking away. Tracie opened her palm to see a page ripped from the Bible, the Twenty-third Psalm.
That night, inside Tracie Burlingame's brownstone on Riverside Drive, the wars were inwardly raging. Randi was dead, and the emotions of her remaining sons were running high. She would have to deal with them sooner or later.
Michael was closeted in his room, incommunicado.
Dre lay in the middle of his queen-sized bed, fully dressed, with his booted feet on the bed. He pondered the airline ticket in his hand. One wall of the room was full of photographs and poster shots.
There were great ocean shots, sunsets, trees and mountains that Dre had taken during the hiatuses Tracie financed for him. There were lots of Harlem community scenes. The shots were bold, brash, and startling in their depiction of the streets of Harlem and its residents.
He had captured the stark reality of the borough in an ethereal way, a way that made one pause for thought. Dre was a talented photographer. He had managed to capture the soul of the city and its people.
Every photograph had a grainy, misty quality. The rest of the shots were mostly black-and-whites of family and friends.
Camera equipment, video cameras, and leather satchel cases filled every available space, along with a ton of computer equipment and all its accessories. A miniature basketball court sat in one corner of the room.
Dre continued to ponder the airline ticket. Under “Destination” were the words “Los Angeles.” Dre sighed. There was a knock on the bedroom door. He didn't answer. The knock sounded again, more persistently this time.
“Come in, Souljah,” Dre called knowing it was him. They were close, so they had it like that at times, each knowing when the other was around.
Souljah Boy walked in. He closed the door behind him. Souljah Boy's real name was Daniel Thomas Caldwell. His instincts were razor sharp, and his intuition was not normal. He detected grief, as well as something else, in the air. He couldn't put his finger on it. His spirit registered it only as something nameless.
Where had that come from?
Since Daniel Thomas Caldwell was so formal-sounding, and there was nothing about him to suggest he be called Danny for short, his grandmother had given him the moniker of Souljah Boy, which was a perfect fit, and everyone he knew called him that.
His grandmother had declared that he was an old soul since the day he was born. She had flipped the Bible open in front of his face hours after he was born, and she told everyone who'd listen that that child had focused his eyes on the word and reached out to touch the Bible like he knew what it was for real.
From that moment on she had secretly dedicated him to Christ and given him the name Souljah Boy. It fit him like a glove. No one knew for sure if the story was true about Souljah Boy, but he was always walking around with the Bible.
His knowledge of scripture was astounding. And for sure he was Harlem's ghetto scribe.
Consequently, the only place you ever saw the name Daniel Thomas Caldwell was on a legal document.
Dre hit the ticket against his leg. He looked tired. Souljah Boy sat on the foot of the bed. Dre didn't bother to move his feet.
“So, what's up, Dre?”
Dre gave Souljah Boy a long look. “I don't know, man. Somebody flipped the script upside down on me. Threw shade. You know what I'm saying?”
Souljah Boy nodded. “What about L.A.?” He indicated the ticket Dre held in his hand.
Dre tossed his head from side to side on the pillow. “I can't leave my moms now, man. Maybe once things are straight.” Dre held up the ticket. He stared at it as though an illumination to solve all his problems would appear.
Souljah Boy reached into his pocket and extracted a pocket-size Bible. He flipped to a page and started reading: “ âYea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .' ” Souljah Boy stopped to give Dre a close look.
Dre leaped off the bed. He went over to the window. “Knock it off, Souljah.”
“ âI shall fear no evil . . .' ”
“I said knock it off, yo.”
“Why?”
“Because this ain't the valley of death. It's Harlem.”
Souljah Boy snapped the Bible closed. He stared intently at Dre. “Randi's dead.”
“And I'm alive. I'm an image maker, Souljah Boy.”
“All men are made in the image of God,” Souljah Boy said.
Dre ignored him. He grabbed his camera. The flash exploded in Souljah Boy's face. Light surrounded his head like a halo. Dre clicked off a rapid succession of deft shots.
He had difficulty breathing as he turned and aimed the camera at the window. He took a shot of the full moon, hovering like a suspended ball in the sky. “The ultimate shot of all time. That will be me, Souljah. Images come from the living, man.”
“Evil lives among the living, and legends are made bigger once they're dead,” Souljah Boy said.
He rose, picked up the sponge basketball off the floor, and swished a shot into the hoop in the corner of the room. The ball dropped through the hoop in slow motion, in a perfect arc. Souljah Boy glanced at a smiling picture of Randi Burlingame up on Dre's wall.
“Men create images, Dre. Some they can't live with. Out of men's hearts sprouts evil. But only God can create a man. Only God can truly right a wrong. Remember that.”
Souljah Boy walked out of the room, clutching his Bible. He closed the door softly behind him as Dre stared at the empty spot he had left behind.
7
A
nita stood in the middle of her cramped apartment, with yards of colorful fabric draped across her arms. She twined the material across the mannequin that stood before her. It was busy work, and right now she needed to be busy. It had already started, just as she had known it would.
nita stood in the middle of her cramped apartment, with yards of colorful fabric draped across her arms. She twined the material across the mannequin that stood before her. It was busy work, and right now she needed to be busy. It had already started, just as she had known it would.
Sometimes her second sight carried a burden. Sometimes she saw things she didn't want to see. Disturbed, she worked quickly, wrapping the cloth this way and that way, the design draping itself across the mannequin easily from her experienced fingers.
She would stay off the streets of Harlem for a while. After all, she had accumulated a small fortune. It was not as though she needed to work every day. She did so because she loved being around people. She loved the streets and the electricity that filled the streets. She was in tune with the special harmony of the people that populated Harlem.
Nowhere else had she ever found the spirit that surrounded these people. She greatly appreciated being a part of that. However, she had decided she would cool her heels for a bit, stay off the streets and out of sight. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Or so she hoped.
Something was brewing just beneath the surface of Harlem, like a tidal wave that hadn't yet reached shore. She didn't know what it was, but she didn't like the feeling. It was queer.
And that Tracie Burlingame was like a magnet, attracting the wrong kind of things. She was a patchwork quilt. Anita didn't like what she had seen on her. It gave her a bad feeling, as if it were the tip of the iceberg. Yes, she would definitely stay off the streets.
Her apartment was littered with antiques and fabrics from every continent, and pictures of the famous graced almost every inch of wall space. Models, politicians, composers, musicians, and athletesâyou name a famous person, and you would pretty much find them on Anita's wall.
All had been given their place, and space along her coveted walls. She loved people who possessed gifts.
Mannequins sat in every corner of the living room, all draped with their own designs. A rich array of vibrant colored fabrics covered the walls, sofas, and chairs. Silks, velvets, chintz, and soft transparencies littered the room.
There was also a scattering of Tiffany lamps. She was a collector. Crystal balls sat in brass holders; some dated back as far as the eighteenth century. Decks of cards sat in their designer cases, ready to be used at will. Ready to tell a story. Ready to reveal a secret. Sometimes ready to turn a life upside down. Oh, well. Their job was not to feel, only to tell.
Anita heard a noise. She looked down to find one of her five rabbits nuzzling an empty bowl next to the couch. She knew what that meant. It was time for them to eat. She had five black rabbits. Their coats were sleek and as shiny as velvet.
Anita had spoiled them shamelessly. They slept on the couch amid an array of colorful stuffed pillows. She fed them romaine lettuce. The little rascals loved music. They especially liked instrumental jazz, classical, and hip-hop. You name it, they were there. They loved a good beat. They would curl up on a pillow and listen for hours to the music, a contented look on their distinct little faces. Their whiskers would pucker in musical peace.
Anita smiled down at Pesky, the one who had brought her attention to the fact that it was dinnertime. He lived up to his name, because he was the one who kept Anita on the straight and narrow by nipping at her heels when she entered worlds that didn't include them.
But, that was all right, because Pesky knew what it took to bring her around. And right now he knew it was time to eat. He had her attention.
Anita filled the bowls with the fresh lettuce she had acquired from the market. She watched as they scrambled forth.
She was about to return her attention to the mannequin when the kitchen shutters banged open loudly. “Goodness,” she said.
She walked toward the kitchen, intending to close the shutters. Something stopped her in her tracks.
The man standing before her was tallâhuge. His eyes gleamed brightly. His bald brown head glistened. It shone as though it had been dipped in floor wax. It looked like a brown, shiny globe.
He had the sort of disciplined posture of one trained in the military. She could see his biceps bulging beneath the army jacket he wore.
The strangest thing about him was, he stood silent, not speaking a word. But, Anita could hear voices emanating from him. A symphony of voices was swelling from within him, but he never moved his lips or spoke a word.
A clammy wetness broke out on Anita's palms. She rubbed her hands together. Suddenly the voices turned raucous. She recognized the tone. She had heard them before. She had heard those same voices emanate from Tracie Burlingame, the patchwork quilt.
Astounded, she took a step back without even realizing she had moved. She stared at him. She couldn't see through him the way she would have liked. For some reason, her sight had been blocked, and she couldn't dig beneath the layers of this huge thing that stood before her.
“What are you doing in my house?” she finally asked.
The bald mountain stared back at her without answering. Anita swallowed past the lump in her throat as she tried to design the next question. “Who are you?” she asked.
His deep baritone voice shook the room. “I am Me,” he answered.
“Who is âme'?”
“Me is Me,” he said.
Anita sighed. She could see they were getting nowhere with this line of questioning. She decided to get straight to the point, although a part of her fearfully tried to hold back.
“What do you want?” she asked, all the while fearing the answer.
A voice spoke, but his lips didn't move. The voice was clear and distinct. “I have come for the gifts. The gifts in Harlem.” His eyes roamed the walls, scanning the pictures of the precious, famed African-Americans.
Anita gasped, “No.”
Another, very high-pitched voice spoke, different in tone this time. “We must all be gathered together.” The bald mountain looked into her eyes. His gaze didn't waver.
Anita saw a slight movement in his biceps beneath his jacket. Someone sneezed, but it wasn't either him or her.
“Okay.” Anita had had enough. “Don't you be coming in here uninvited, playing no games with me. I'm an old woman and I don't have time for games. State your business clearly.” The Louisiana spunk she was so well known for found its way to the surface, and although she sensed imminent danger, she decided to face it down.
It was the only way. People who were too scared could be had. “Gone ahead.” She slipped into her dialect. “State your business, I said.”
“I came to collect the gifts. You have the sight.” He removed the block to her second sight, allowing her to see. What she saw rocked her world. It rendered her speechless. She shivered in the cozy warmth of the room.
“I am Me. Do you understand?” he asked.
Anita nodded.
“Good. Now you know my name. You will see a great many things come to pass in the time to come.”
He closed the shutters on the kitchen windows. He walked through the small alcove to the front door, opened it, and was gone. The door shut softly behind him.
Anita bowed her head in horror. He was the collector.
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