Expired Page 7

  Tracie continued to sing and bang on the smashed glass with the poker.

  In his tiny, dark room saturated with the spirit and gifts of Ms. Virginia and the others, Me’s body shook with the raucous voices, which were acting out Tracie’s rage.

  The patchwork quilt floated before his eyes, grabbing him, trying to smother him. He had to fight his way out. He struggled out of the army jacket, to free his biceps. He needed the wisdom of the faces.

  It was the newest of the lot, the spirit of Ms. Virginia, that came to his rescue and spoke. Her eyes were keen behind the bifocals bulging from his biceps. “Don’t be afraid, Me. Soon she will be here, and you won’t have to be frightened anymore. There, there,” she soothed.

  Me calmed down a bit. He had known she would be a good addition, an old woman with a wise head. His breathing was shallow, but he began to calm as he curled up into a tight ball in the small, dark closet space in his room.

  Anita, who was stretched out on her sofa and sipping from a cup of Celestial Seasonings lemon tea, looked out her window to see a patchwork quilt floating in the wind. One of the black patches detached itself and floated free of the others.

  The black patch was a seeker in a state of discovery. Seek, and it would find. It was being hunted. The hunter was right behind it. Anita closed her eyes. She moaned at the sight of it. She knew, if the hunter caught up with the one who was represented by the black patch, that he would be the next one to die.

  Tracie Burlingame, spent from her rampage, sat in the corner of the living room, weeping, with her sons huddled close beside her.

  14

  Later that night, after they had finally managed to get Tracie settled down in bed, Dre and Michael went off on their separate ways. Before Dre went in his room, he said, “Michael, call Rashod and tell him to meet me at The Lenox Avenue Lounge in an hour. That fool is gonna have to get in line; I’m sick of him.”

  “Sure thing. But you know what, Dre? Don’t be too hard on him. This is a lot on him, too. You know how sensitive Rashod is.”

  Dre snorted. “Yeah, well, he’s got a funny way of showing it, son.”

  “People are different. But still he’s our brother, so you’ve got to respect his boundaries,” Michael said.

  “Aw, I’m gonna give him some boundaries, all right, and if he crosses any of them, I’m gonna smack him around like I’m the new Ali.”

  “Come on, Dre, hitting people ain’t ever solved a thing.”

  “Maybe not, but it sure as hell will make me feel a lot better.” Dre took off down the hallway. He’d call Souljah Boy and tell him he’d meet him after he squared things away with Rashod.

  Michael shook his head at the futility of it all. Rashod was the black sheep of the family, self-designated. There was always some sort of feud brewing about him.

  Michael actually got sick of it sometimes. But Tracie and Dre wouldn’t leave him alone. Whenever he stuck his head out of the hole for a minute, they were on top of him, starting the crap all over again. Michael knew that no matter how many recriminations they threw at Rashod, it didn’t matter. A man was what he was.

  Only that man could change it.

  Sighing, he went to his room. He called Rashod with the information, then set out for his own charted territory. He dug down in the bottom of his drawer, removed the false bottom, and selected several hot, black pieces of leather-and-chain clothing. He threw them in his duffel bag and headed off for Chelsea.

  Normally, he would go on down to the village, but he had changed his mind. He was in the mood for something new. He would cruise Eighth Avenue and see what he could get into.

  He jumped on the C train, got off at Fourteenth Street, and headed down Eighth Avenue. The moment he hit Eighth, he was in his stride. He hadn’t gone two blocks before he was hit on. He found himself sitting at a corner table in the bar with a gorgeous light-skinned woman, with the clearest brown eyes and longest natural eyelashes he had ever seen.

  She was a bodybuilder, toned and well muscled. After one drink they both knew they had scored for the night. The only thing left was where things were going to take place.

  The light-skinned, brown-eyed wonder knew just the spot, so that worked for Michael just fine. The instant he was suited up in the black leather and chains, two things happened. The first was a delicious thrill of anticipation that coursed its way through his body, leaving a trail of sweet sensations.

  The second was dark, black despair. What was he doing? He felt as though he were entering the dungeons of hell.

  Yet he couldn’t stop himself. He was drawn to this world like a fish to water. Maybe that was why he needed the punishment. He was dancing with darkness. He needed to feel the pain.

  An unrecognizable voice rose up and cried out of Michael’s mouth as the first lash landed across his flesh. “Oh, yes.” Then Michael was tunneling—spiraling, actually—down into a deep, dark well.

  Randi was dead, and the well was there. It was a huge, gaping black hole waiting to swallow him. It was waiting for them, his family. It was waiting for all of them, the offspring of Tracie Burlingame.

  There was a strange twist inside Michael, and something happened that certainly had never happened before.

  Michael awoke as though from a slumber. He hovered outside his body in the black leather and chains, and he watched the light-skinned, brown-eyed wonder salivating at the next strike.

  Before he knew what was happening, he heard the following words fly out of his mouth: “Lord, forgive me, for I know not what I do.” He backed away, stunned, into a corner of the room. He watched his own body sag at the weight of the pain on the bed.

  The light-skinned, brown-eyed wonder was startled at the words, and the whip literally flew out of her hand at the sound of them. The chains slid from Michael’s shoulders and from around his neck, onto the bed.

  Red, bloody teardrops began to fall from the ceiling, landing on top of Michael’s head and dripping down the sides of his face. That was all the brown-eyed wonder needed. She backed out of the room in stunned fear, leaving the door open behind her.

  The spot where Michael was huddled in the corner, watching, shook. Before he knew it, he was back in the aching body on the bed. “Lord!” he called out again. “Lord, forgive me, for I know not what I do.” He collapsed weeping onto the bed. A wind swept through the room. The door closed.

  Michael looked at the door. Down on the floor he noticed a black ashlike substance being sucked underneath the door. Silver crystals sealed the opening.

  A feeling of peace permeated the room. Michael lay down on the bed, exhausted. He fell asleep, but not before he noticed one lone, red teardrop on the back of his hand.

  In her bed, Tracie Burlingame tossed restlessly from side to side. Unseen hands were grabbing at her, pulling at her. She was fighting them, but she couldn’t get away. In front of her was a big, black, gaping hole trying to suck her in.

  She fought against the currents that pulled her body toward the hole at warp speed. Up in front of her were her sons, and the current was sucking them toward the hole, too. Randi was dead, and she couldn’t see him. She sobbed out loud, but she never awoke.

  15

  Anita was in a deep, unconscious state of mind. Sometimes when she entered these states, there were others who would visit and talk to her. Right now she was alone. “Master, where are you?” she cried out, but there was no answer.

  Sometimes the old wise one would help her out, but he was not to be found in this realm. All she could hear was the echoing of the atmosphere.

  There was the patchwork quilt again, floating through the air. The quilt was her haunting. She couldn’t seem to distance herself or back away from it, as she sometimes did when she received unpleasant sights and revelations. The manifestation of the quilt would not be deterred.

  As she watched, one of the black patches transformed to a silky white. It was the purest white she had ever seen. It quivered in the breeze.

  Anita was being pulled d
own deeper into the realm. She had never been as deep as this before. She struggled but couldn’t regain consciousness. Her gift allowed her the knowledge of knowing when she was in an alternate state of mind, and usually she could bring herself out.

  However, this time she couldn’t.

  As she descended, she saw babies. “Oh, my God,” she said. Dear God, there were a lot of them. So many little black babies. A force was snatching them and then wrapping them, bundling them up. Her eyes opened wide in amazement. The babies were being wrapped in pure, silky white swaddling. Anita shivered.

  She entered the second realm. Here, there were women, crying out from their given tasks. Their wombs opened up, bursting forth with more babies, who were immediately snatched, wrapped, and bundled in the pure, silky white swaddling.

  She entered the third level. Suddenly a white arrow shot through the air, descending with the speed of light. Where was it going? Anita didn’t dare blink. She watched as it pierced the realms and landed in the soil that was Harlem. Anita gasped.

  She thought of the patchwork quilt that was Tracie Burlingame. She thought of the huge bald-headed man, and as she did, she received a vision. Books upon books upon books floated past her. The cover art and the pictures were intact; however, all the books had no words in them. The pages were all blank . . . save one.

  Tracie Burlingame could no longer fight the currents, and she was whisked down into the black, gaping hole. Her screams went unheard as she fell through the realms.

  As she descended, she saw babies. “Oh, my God,” she repeated exactly the same words as Anita. Dear God, there were a lot of them. So many little black babies. A force was snatching them and then wrapping them, bundling them up. Her eyes opened wide in amazement. The babies were being wrapped in pure, silky white swaddling. Tracie gasped.

  She entered the second realm. Here, there were women, crying out from their given tasks. Their wombs opened up, bursting forth with more babies, who were immediately snatched, wrapped, and bundled in the pure, silky white swaddling.

  Then she saw someone she recognized. “Oh, no. No!” What was happening to her? Tracie screamed, a hollow sound that bounced off the atmosphere.

  A woman was looking at her. When Tracie peered across the atmosphere, tiny electrical shocks seized her body.

  The image that had appeared before her was her own. The woman spread her arms, opened her legs, and so many little black babies dropped from between her legs. They were falling into the atmosphere and disappearing. She couldn’t see where they were going. Tracie howled. She screamed until her throat was raw. It was to no avail.

  She entered the third level. Suddenly a white arrow shot through the air, descending with the speed of light. Where was it going? Tracie didn’t dare blink. She watched as it pierced the realms and landed in the soil that was Harlem. Tracie gasped.

  Then she saw a patchwork quilt quivering in the wind. She was treated to a sight of a huge bald-headed man. The biceps on the man were stunning. As soon as she saw him, she was treated to a vision.

  Books upon books upon books floated past her. The cover art and the pictures were intact. However, all the books had no words in them. The pages were all blank . . . save one.

  Tracie Burlingame and Anita Lily Mae Young were entwined in identical visions. And this was only the beginning.

  16

  Dre watched Rashod enter The Lenox Lounge from a back table. It was too bad they weren’t here to enjoy some of the jazz the lounge was famous for. Dre in particular had a real ear for jazz. Rashod, on the other hand, didn’t know a thing about jazz; all he knew was hardcore hip-hop. He didn’t listen to the soft stuff.

  One way or the other, it was a moot point, because the brothers were here in direct opposition to each other, so neither of them would notice anything other than their antagonism.

  Spotting Dre, Rashod made his way over and took a seat. The two young men sized each other up without speaking.

  Finally, Rashod said, “So, what do you want?”

  “I want you to show some respect to my mother,” Dre replied nastily.

  Rashod rose from his seat. “You know what? I don’t need this.”

  In a flash, Dre covered the distance between them and slammed Rashod back in his seat. Rashod hit the chair with a dull thud, the air knocked out of him. “I’m not playing with you, Rashod. This is a family meeting, minus the rest of the family.”

  Rashod jerked out of Dre’s grasp, but he didn’t move from the seat.

  Satisfied, Dre took his seat again while the bartender eyed them nervously, hoping there wasn’t going to be trouble.

  Rashod turned his seat around so he could watch the bar. He took out his little mini sketch pad and a small piece of charcoal that he used for tight situations like this one. He intended to trace the bar and its occupants. His fingers had nimbly begun to move across the pad.

  Dre looked at him. He was going to say something and then chose not to. He really didn’t care if Rashod sketched, as long as Rashod kept his behind plastered to that chair. In a softer voice Dre said, “Rashod, Tracie’s hurting over Randi. She has three sons left. You’re one of them. You need to knock off the bull.”

  Rashod’s fingers had mysteriously taken on a life of their own, and they now traveled across the pad with the speed of light. Rashod had absolutely no control over them. It was strange. He had never quite sketched with this depth before. He didn’t interfere, because he couldn’t.

  Instead, he decided that as long as he was a prisoner in this chair, he might as well converse with Dre. He loved his brother, although Dre was a pain in the ass at times. And in Rashod’s opinion, Dre had no sight at all when it came to Tracie. “Tracie is what she is, man.”

  “What she is, is your mother, son.” Dre lapsed into the code of speech of the New York City streets. Rashod didn’t care. He refused to be sucked in by some meaningless, street maternal code meant for bonding, like two animals in a mating dance.

  “What she is, is a destroyer. She destroys everything she touches. That’s why Randi’s dead. She should never have touched him.”

  Dre sighed. There was just no reality when it came to Tracie and Rashod. Sometimes he wished he had been born into another family, one without the drama.

  “Look, Rashod, all I’m saying is, Tracie is worried about all of us now that Randi’s gone. You’re making it harder. She’s your moms. You could at least stop by the house to check her out. Or not be so damned cold when she talks to you.”

  Rashod’s fingers still moved across the pad. He looked at it and frowned, still unable to stop the flight of the charcoal. “Dre, look. The chemistry just ain’t right with me and Tracie. You know that. Why the hell you think I hit my pipe? So I can forget about her. Besides, she doesn’t care about us; all she cares about is money.”

  “That ain’t truth, man, and you know it.”

  “What I know is that you’re blind when it comes to Tracie Burlingame, Dre, and one day it could cost you.” Rashod looked down at the completed sketch. His fingers had ceased moving of their own accord.

  Generally, he traced whatever was in his line of vision at the time. He had set out to trace the bar, along with its occupants. He had also intended to trace Dre’s crazy face. However, that was not what he had produced. In fact, he wasn’t quite sure what he had produced, but it was definitely not what had been in his line of vision.

  Seeing the strange look on Rashod’s face, Dre leaned over the table to look at the sketch. Rashod was a talented artist, he knew. He had a way of capturing things in a certain light.

  What Dre saw on the pad made his blood run cold. A man was chained to a bed, outfitted in what one would take to be black leather and chains. His face was a picture of raw agony, his head was thrown back, his mouth was opened, and a spirit rose up, hovering just above him.

  Around his neck and shoulders were chains. Drops of rain, descended from the ceiling of the room, pelting the man. The body of the man looked as though it was surroun
ded and caught up in a haze.

  The man in the picture bore an eerie resemblance to their brother Michael Burlingame.

  17

  The following morning Tracie was dressed in her workout clothes, poised and back in control. She had shaken off her dream the way a construction worker shakes the dust from his clothes.

  Not being able to handle what she’d seen, her consciousness had simply discarded the information. Tracie had absolutely no recollection of the dream.

  The doorbell rang. Tracie opened the door to see Monica and Lonzo standing on her porch.

  She looked beyond them to see that an early morning jogger was out. Her next-door neighbor was walking her little Pekingese dog. Other than that, the neighborhood was just waking up, with the exception of the two wide-awake detectives who were standing before her.

  Tracie brought her attention back to the two of them. She stared at Lonzo. “I don’t believe I caught your name the last time we met, Detective,” she said to Lonzo. “Of course, I know yours,” she told Monica.

  Lonzo smiled seductively at Tracie while drinking in every inch of her. “I’m Detective Alonzo Morgan. Most people call me Lonzo,” he said. He extended his hand. Tracie didn’t bother to shake it. After a moment of hanging his hand in the air, he felt foolish and pulled it back with a sheepish grin.

  “What do you want?” Tracie hadn’t moved out of the doorway, nor did she invite them in.

  “We need to talk to you again, and we’d like to search Randi’s room,” Monica told her.

  “Why?”

  Lonzo jumped in. “There have been some new developments, and we need you to identify something for us.” He hoisted the duffel bag on his shoulder.

  Tracie hesitated, then decided to let them in. They looked at the broken shards of glass from the table all over the floor, then back at each other. Finally, they looked at Tracie.