Passage

  PASSAGE

  A NOVEL

  KHARY LAZARRE-WHITE

  SEVEN STORIES PRESS

  New York . Oakland . London

  Copyright © 2017 by Khary Lazarre-White

  A Seven Stories Press First Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Seven Stories Press

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  New York, NY 10013

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication

  Data Names: Lazarre-White, Khary, author.

  Title: Passage : a novel / Khary Lazarre-White.

  Description: A Seven Stories Press First Edition. | New York : Seven Stories Press, 2017.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017001142 (print) | LCCN 2017021833 (ebook) | ISBN 9781609807849 (E-book) | ISBN 9781609807832 (hardback)

  Subjects: LCSH: African American young men--Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / African American / General. | FICTION / Coming of Age. | FICTION / Literary. | GSAFD: Bildungsromans.

  Classification: LCC PS3612.A979 (ebook) | LCC PS3612.A979 P37 2017 (print) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017001142

  Printed in the United States

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Dedicated to:

  my father, Douglas Hughes White

  my mother, Jane Lazarre

  my brother, Adam Lazarre-White

  and

  my grandmother, Lois Meadows White

  My memory stammers; but my soul is a witness.

  —JAMES BALDWIN

  The interpretation of our reality through patterns not our own, serves only to make us ever more unknown, ever less free, ever more solitary.

  —GABRIEL GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ

  CHAPTER 1

  1993

  T his here is the story of a man. It is the story of a man who could fly, or believed he could, all depends on who you ask. This is the story of a man and his dreams. His name was Midnight Blue, and he was a man. Blue measured about six foot four, he was as slim as sugarcane, and he walked with the lanky lope of an aged but deadly wolf. He was so thin that his collar was always rumpled, bein’ that his neck couldn’t fill out his shirt. But could that man wear a suit. He was smooth, like a shadow. He always wore his dark brown hat, with the rim bent, ever so slightly cocked to the side. He walked slow as could be, like he had all the time in the world, which he did.

  See, no one knew when Midnight was born—he just appeared one day, over thirty years ago, lookin’ just the same as he do today. They say he walked from Mississippi, but I hear he might a come from down deep in Louisiana. Folks say he meddle with that Voodoo, but you know how folks talk. They say that ’cause he’s so good at what he does. He’s a gambler, and until you seen what cards can do in Midnight Blue’s hands, you ain’t seen no cards. This man takes the gamble outta gamblin’. He’ll sit in your house, play with your cards, by your rules, and still win every damn time. It’s like him and those cards have known each other for alotta years, and they on real good terms. That’s why folk say he come from Voodoo Land, ’cause those cards must talk to him, whisperin’ in his ear where they gonna fall. Blue’s that good.

  Now, he might a walked to the Crossroads and sold his soul, or he might really know somethin’ about Voodoo, but one thing I know for sure, he ain’t no cheater. In fact, last man that called Midnight Blue a cheater took one look from Blue, and his ebony black eyes, and ran hisself to the swamp, ravin’ mad. That man got lost and wolves took to his body. Way off in the distance you could hear his screams that night, somethin’ awful. Blue ain’t been ’cused a cheatin’ since.

  They say that man saw into Blue’s ebony eyes, and beneath his blue-black skin. They say he saw his own worst fears, his nightmares, come to life. That’s why folk say that Midnight Blue ain’t named for his dark, blue-black skin, but instead for the midnight he can bring. A midnight so dark that it can erase a man’s mind, leavin’ nothin’ but the haunted songs of Delta Bluesmen who done sold their soul at the Crossroads, and now are cryin’ out for its return . . .

  It had been the same for years now. Warrior woke up angry. Just plain old surly mean. Angry at existence. He always knew that he had just awakened from exhausting nightmares, but he never remembered his dreams. He knew he was tired . . . and angry.

  Pain is so damn hard.

  Well, do you want to live or die?

  I don’t know . . . you tell me . . .

  So you want to die?

  It isn’t about what I want . . .

  As each word echoed through his mind, Warrior slowly pulled himself up and went to take a shower.

  He turned the water on hot, letting the steam rise, then paid tribute to his daily ritual of strengthening. The water ran through his eyes, covered his face, and warmed him. He allowed it to do what water does: breathe life into his body. He listened intently as his anger washed away and he heard the words of evil spirits drown. When he finally stepped out, his eyes were bloodshot—testimony to his struggle. Back in his room Warrior slowly dried off and began to dress.

  He chose his clothes carefully. He understood that he had to dress smooth, but not too smooth. His clothes always matched; his shoes and his shirt the same color, in deference to the style of the day. Warrior never dressed to attract attention, or conflict. He never wore name brands or clothing with the designer’s mark placed in a conspicuous way. He wore colors that allowed him to blend in, to lie low. His clothes were the only thing that gave him some sense of camouflage; nondescript earth colors were his cloak.

  The perfect armor is that of the chameleon, you can’t strike what you can’t see. Warrior sought some, any, protection from the ever-present eyes. A well-worn hood always gives some relief. People can still stare, they can still watch you, but they can’t invade your space in the same way. They can’t turn their accusing eyes on you, announcing that they know what you are . . .

  You don’t know me. That’s why you stare so damn hard, ’cause you trying to understand me. Understand your fear and it will set you free. You think you the one that’s got me in chains, but you got it all wrong. There’s a law on the street: If there’s something you fear, if a nightmare is on your heels, don’t run. Stop. Turn around and face it, fight it if you must. ’Cause only by conquering your terror will you be able to walk the street, because if you run, you will become one with your nightmare. It will be your shadow. Its spirit will live in your blood, and you will need its company, its presence, to validate your existence. You look so hard, but I’m too complicated to be understood in a glance. How those chains feel?

  Warrior looked up at the collection of hats hanging from dozens of nails on his wall. He chose one that matched his outfit, and slid it into place. Without the hat, no look is complete. It turns the tide. Pull it down real low, and now you’ve got the advantage. You can look at them, but they can’t see your eyes. His dress now complete, Warrior left his room.

  As he entered the kitchen, he growled in mock fury, “What little munchkin’s been eating my cereal!”

  His sister giggled as he snatched the cereal box on the table. Only warm milk and soggy flakes were left in her bowl. She never finished her meal. Her smiling face was that of an innocent spirit. Her huge dimples and toothless grin reflected love and trust. She had cleaned up with money from the “Tooth Fa
iry.” With her quarters she bought more candy, which only rotted more teeth, and she slowly became a toothless, rich candy maven.

  Their father had once said to Warrior when he was younger, “There’s blood . . . and then there’s strangers. “

  Warrior always remembered those words. They were verses in his self-made holy book. His mother made sure that Warrior continued to feel those words. She always said to him, “A man is only a man if he shows his love to those he loves. What’s the point of lovin’ someone if you never let ’em know?”

  That was a struggle for any man growing up. Be hard, maintain your guard, show nothing, live by the motto: “Guard your grill.” These are times when men wear masks. Nothing meant more to Warrior than his family, his mother, his sister, and his father who still lived in their old house in Brooklyn. His life was their life. They were his religion.

  Blood runs deep . . . and only spirits can run with its flow.

  Walking hard through the cold morning streets, shoulders hunched, neck tightened, body taut from that biting February wind, Warrior moved quickly down the busy Harlem sidewalks, filled with morning commuters. As Warrior joined their flow, he thought,

  So much to take care of in one life. Languages to learn, places to see, sensations to feel. Every one is always looking for the meaning of life, shiiit, this world is filled with simple pleasures. Spending twenty-four hours . . . straight . . . with one you love. Eating a ripe, cold pineapple, after a long hot day. Eating a mango just about anytime. Holding your son or daughter in your arms in a field under the sun. Giving hope to the broken spirit of a child. Making love on a sweltering day continuously, as we sweat and love . . . and sweat and love . . . and sweat . . .

  A beauty passed by and broke his train of thought . . . “Hey gal . . .”

  He returned to his internal conversation,

  Everybody is always searching for the meaning of life, and here, I got the answer, and I might not even be able to use it. Enjoy love, enjoy blood, listen to the word of an elder, open your eyes, free your senses, feel the beauty around you. Here I am, living in this concrete jungle, surrounded by pain, with a life expectancy of days. “And what do you want to be when you grow up, Little Warrior?” How about alive . . .

  You slipping, man, walking down the street, looking all sad, be aware of what’s going on around you. Any moment they might come for you. Genocide and ignorance move fast, you gotta move faster. When they finally call your name, there ain’t no hiding. Those two are so bad they’d chase the Devil outta his Christian Hell, and take over. Those religions don’t know nothing about these demons. Once you’ve seen their face, there’s nothing left to fear. And we don’t.

  Warrior shook his head to try to alter his thoughts. He had to get on the train for the long ride to his school. A place he did not want to go—but was going all the same. His mind needed to be more at rest before he arrived. He put his earphones in, to quiet the conversation.

  Warrior got off the crowded train to walk the final few blocks. The school, a massive building of cold, gray stone, doesn’t seek to prevent problems; it seeks to contain them—a holding facility that crushes inspiration, fuels conflict, and leaves most who enter its doors with a debilitating sense of hopelessness, and when you’re hopeless, well . . . The huge granite and stone blocks speak volumes of this philosophy. Every day students line up to walk through a metal detector and have their personal belongings rifled through. At this kind of school the security guards take perverse pleasure in harassing students and exerting their minimal power. They send students to the dean to be suspended if they don’t like how the child looks at them. All too many of the teachers have no training in managing a class and teach a dumbed down curriculum that dulls the senses. Inspiration is hard to come by—and for students who want to soar, day in and day out they are reminded this is not to be their future.

  As Warrior opened the doors, he looked up at the clock on the opposite wall and laughed to himself. He knew that she had been waiting, and he knew he was gonna hear about it. As he walked into the cafeteria, he saw her. She was sitting at a table in the back, leaning against the wall reading, but not paying much attention. Her legs rested on a chair. Tall, a deep brown skin, with ancient eyes, her aura is straight-up fly. She is wearing jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt, always comfortably dressed, but low key, real smooth. Not flashy or provocative, but in a way that accentuates her form. Seems like the clothes she wears are struggling to be closer to her. She’s a track runner; no, make that the track runner. She’s never lost in the 100, 200, or 400 meters. Not freshman year, not sophomore, not junior. She. Can. Move. And what a sight are her legs. Between her eyes and her legs, that’s full warning to any man that here is a woman to be reckoned with. She brings laughter.

  That’s my girl, not my girlfriend, but my . . . well . . . I guess sometimes strangers do become blood. Wise and fine, and knows it. I’m gonna get her that hat that says, “All That,” since she thinks it, she might as well let it be known. For real though, it’s good to see her face. I can talk to her for hours and she always understands. You find a friendship like that, in this hard world, you gotta care for it like you would with a child . . . with love and honesty. With her, I’m comfortable in my skin; she makes me laugh and think. Sometimes pushes me where I don’t want to go. When I’m with her it’s like all the voices around us merge into a dull murmur, and it’s just her and me. Gotta remember to be gentle, there’s no need to be hard here. But it can be hard to take it off.

  And then she answers.

  “What’s up, baby.” She elongated the word of affection, and as always, smiled at him when she talked to him, like she’s joking, or knows some secret.

  “Wha’ sup,” Warrior replied.

  “You said that you’d be here at eight, you are late,” she said, smiling.

  “I can’t control the trains, ya know.”

  “More like you can’t control your alarm clock!” She let out a deep belly laugh.

  “Yeah, whatevah.” Warrior smiled, taking a seat opposite her.

  “You know, ya can’t keep a sister like me waiting?”

  “Why not, I do it all the time?”

  “Anyway! Am I gonna tell you my man problems first, or do you get to tell me your women stories?” She asked it as if there was a question.

  “Like always, you go first,” he said.

  “Good . . .”

  As she began to speak on their daily topic, his mind wandered. . .

  Have you ever been totally at ease with another person? Completely comfortable in their presence, as if your spirits were playmates long before they came into your bodies? It’s not safe to trust anyone this much, it leaves you open. They can wield that bond like a sword and cut out your soul, or someone else can use that bond to get to you. It weakens you as a soldier. But Lawd knows, even this here soldier needs another’s strength. Blood may pass on, they may act a fool, they may leave you for long periods of time, but they always blood, and their souls always watch over you. And if you try to separate yourself from blood, if you deny their claim, it will leave scars that will never heal. The kind that have deep roots. The kind where, when you run your fingers over them, they feel smooth and kinda nasty. The skin is dead, there’s no more life left in it. So when you touching that kind a scar, you ain’t touching skin, you touching death. This world’s given me plenty of scars, I ain’t gonna take none a the blood kind. I’m not trying to wear any death on my skin. True blood will always love ya, scars and all.

  “What’s wrong?” Her voice shook Warrior out of his thoughts.

  “Nothin’,” Warrior replied, slowly shaking his head.

  “Nothing? You’re sitting there staring off into space, looking like the world’s on your shoulders, while I’m tellin’ one of my most interesting stories, and you say nothing? Who do you think you’re fooling, little boy?” As she teased him, she laughed, but this time, it only veiled her concern.

  “I was just thinkin’ about family, about s
cars. How do you avoid ’em? How do you love those you’re close to, and not get scarred?”

  “You don’t,” she replied. “You love those that are close to you, and when the scars come, they come. You can’t avoid ’em, you just go on loving. You don’t have any control over the pain, but you do over the love. And if someone you love comments on the scars you bear, look ’em right dead in the eye and tell ’em, ‘I got these scars protecting you from the demons, would you rather have had me let them loose?’ Besides, scars can be beautiful, too.”

  “The wise one has spoken,” he said, laughing.

  “I’m serious,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

  Warrior stopped laughing. He nodded his head and looked into her ancient eyes. “I know you are. And it’s true, you can’t keep runnin’ from things, or you’ll never find your own path,” he said.

  “Exactly. People are always trying to avoid pain, as if they have some say. Women learned a long time ago that running from pain wasn’t possible. It will come. You just have to be able to deal with it when it arrives. Plus, everyone needs some pain. Pain is what makes the good feel so good. You need some contrast. Something to remind you how much you need love,” she said.

  “Men would be wise to learn that lesson,” Warrior said, realizing the weight of her words.

  “Yes, we would be a lot better off if they listened more,” she replied.

  Warrior decided to tease her. “They? What about me, don’t I need to listen?”

  She wasn’t in the mood for games anymore, and so she looked at Warrior intently. “No. You already listen. That’s what makes you different. You listen, and you teach. If anything, you hold on to too much pain.”

  “Please. It ain’t just me, all my boys have seen too much pain, that’s the damn problem,” he said.