Passage Page 5

  His sister looked at the snowman and said in hushed tones, “He’s beau-tee-ful.”

  Warrior nodded in agreement. He took her hand and they looked one last time at the snowman. Warrior then picked her up and began their walk home.

  After a few moments, Warrior felt a prickling on his neck and turned around. The snowman was some distance away, and Warrior could just make out the outline of its shape. He couldn’t see any features other than the roundness of the snowman and his eyes. The sun shone brightly, its rays reflecting off the copper of the pennies. At a distance, the snowman’s eyes seemed only to be made of metal, and as they walked away, Warrior couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

  Warrior and his sister walked up the stairs to their apartment, drinking the last of the hot chocolate he had bought for them. A large cup for each, his sister’s with extra whipped cream. She could outdrink Warrior when it came to hot chocolate; she was the undisputed queen of the hot chocolate drinking world. When Warrior told her that he would get her some hot chocolate, her eyes had lit up, and since he had handed her the giant cup, she had not uttered one word. Not one. As Warrior unlocked their door, she emptied the last of her cup, burped, and looked up at Warrior, smiling with a ring of chocolate around her mouth. Warrior finally unlocked the fourth lock of the door, and they walked into their welcoming and warm living room.

  Immediately his sister ran to their mother who was sitting in a dark burgundy red easy chair, reading. The chair, sunken by years of sitting, now conformed to the body of its most important sitter. Warrior’s sister took off her coat and dropped it behind her just before she jumped into her mother’s lap.

  “I made angels in the snow, and we made a giant snowman with pennies for eyes, and Wawia got me a hot chocolate and everything,” she announced as Warrior picked up her discarded coat and hung it up.

  “Well, that sounds like quite a day for you, young lady. Did you thank your big brother?”

  Warrior’s little sister stuck her chin up in the air and looked down at her mother, “Yes, and I told him that I loved him.”

  “Well,” laughed their mother, “isn’t he lucky.”

  Her daughter’s eyes suddenly became very serious as she said urgently, “I love you too, Mamma.”

  “I know you do, baby,” their mother said, hugging her daughter close.

  Warrior left them talking and went to his room to take off his wet clothes. After wrapping a towel around himself he went into the bathroom. He turned the water on as hot as his body would be able to stand, and let the steam rise until he couldn’t see, allowing its moist heat to warm his chill. As he stepped into the shower, he let the water continue the task of warming and relaxing him.

  Warrior leaned against the wall of the shower and thought about what he would do for the rest of the evening. It was cold and already dusk, and he wanted to be inside, but he also wanted to be away from the apartment. He needed more space. As the water ran down his face, Warrior decided that he would go see his father. He usually visited him on Sundays, and his father would come to see him during the week, but he wanted to go today. He needed to talk to him, he didn’t know about what, he just needed to talk. Even though Warrior saw his father all the time, at least twice a week without fail, he missed his daily presence, he missed his voice. Warrior let the heat of the water warm him fully one last time, then turned it off, stepped out of the shower, dried off, and returned to his room to get ready to go.

  He dressed in long underwear and thermal socks. He picked out a pair of his loose-fitting black jeans and slid them on. At the side of his bed he kept multiple pairs of shoes. He chose his warmest boots, dark chocolate brown, waterproof and lined with wool. He tied the boots tightly and stood. Next he chose a thick sweatshirt: black for the night he would return in, and hooded for the bright train he would be on for over an hour. He could pull it up and close out the eyes. Warrior pulled the sweatshirt over an undershirt, then put on his brown leather coat and looked in the mirror. The coat was a few years old and it looked worn but smooth. It had no name brand on its breast, and its shine had been dimmed through wear. Warrior nodded approvingly and opened his door. He realized just as he was about to walk out of his room that his ears might still be open to the cold. If the wind was cutting hard enough, the hood he wore would not keep the chill out. He grabbed a black skullcap and walked into the living room.

  His mother and sister were still talking. Warrior’s mother looked up and saw her son dressed and ready to go. As always when he left the house, her tightly held face spoke volumes about her fear of the streets.

  “Where are you goin’, shuga?” she asked.

  “Yeah! Where you goin’!” echoed his sister.

  “I’m goin’ to Brooklyn,” Warrior replied.

  “To see your father?” his mother asked.

  “Yeah, I won’t be back till late,” he said, answering her unasked question.

  “Well tell him we said hello, all right?”

  “Of course. I’ll give him your love,” Warrior replied.

  “And mine too,” his sister added.

  “That’s what I meant, little one,” Warrior said, kissing her on the cheek. He kissed his mother too, and began to walk away. His mother’s words caught him.

  “Be careful out there, those streets can be dangerous, especially at night.”

  “I know Mamma. I will be.”

  Warrior walked to the front door and unlocked the locks. He opened the door and turned to close it. As he shut the door, Warrior looked back into the living room at his mother and sister, his sister on his mother’s lap, enveloped in her arms, laughing and whispering in each other’s ears. He gritted his teeth and felt his face get hot. He thought of the pain of never seeing them again as he closed the door, carefully making sure to lock each lock. As he locked the final one, Warrior reached out and touched the steel door, whispering,

  Watch over them . . .

  He walked down the street and sped down the steps to the subway, taking them two at a time. As he entered the station his train was pulling up, and Warrior quickly hopped on, glad to not have to wait in the urine-filled air. There were a few empty seats, and he sat down as the train left the station and moved downtown.

  He was glad to be on the move, to be going to Brooklyn. He was at peace knowing he would soon see his father. Warrior thought about his parents, about how much he loved to remember when they were together. They seemed perfect for each other, both strong, both loving, both full of energy and laughter. They had seen a lot of pain in their lives, and they had learned to move on. His mother, through family and her teaching—his father, through family and his music. When they had separated it was not done in anger, but in resignation. They still loved each other, Warrior thought, they just couldn’t live together. They used to fight all the time, but theirs were fights filled with love, and they never turned brutal or mean. They were fights bred out of frustration. Warrior remembered the day when they sat him down and told him that they were separating. They told him that he would be moving uptown with his mother to go to school, and that he would spend weekends with his father. They had all cried, but this was one time when Warrior’s tears brought no change in the decision, and his mother’s arms brought no relief. After a while Warrior stopped crying when he saw how many of his friends had no father around at all. He had a father he loved with all his heart, and a man who returned that love.

  Warrior looked up as the train stopped and saw that they had reached midtown. The car was filling up, and as always, the seats around him remained the last ones to be filled.

  Don’t want to be too close to my rage.

  At the next stop, more people came into the car, and finally the seats around him were taken. So many people had boarded the train that after the few empty seats were taken, many still had to stand. The train moved on toward its next destination.

  As Warrior looked up to survey the faces of the people in the car, his eyes fell upon a woman whose soft demeanor iden
tified her as a commuter returning to suburbia. She looked up and into Warrior’s face. She averted her eyes. Moments later, she glanced quickly at Warrior, who had long since looked away, and then clumsily reached down for her shopping bag that lay at her feet. She nervously pushed through the crowded space and went into the adjoining car. Warrior slowly shook his head.

  Why do they always think that we want to attack or rape them? They’ve seen too many movies . . . The ones raping you, lady, are your fathers, your brothers, your sons, and your friends. Not us. They’ve been lynching us for four hundred years for their crimes. A brother minding his own business strung up, ’cause someone said he looked at one a “their” women wrong. Then they castrated the man, just so he couldn’t look at none a “their” women wrong in the afterworld. Your men sure did like castrating us though, musta liked the feel of our thing in they hands.

  And today, you can see it in their eyes, how much they wanna feel that power. They got all the money, the influence, the nation power, the war toys, but they ain’t got the physical power, they ain’t got the soldiers. We got more soldiers than them in this world, millions upon millions. And here, on these streets, they can’t stand it that they can’t look us in the eyes, that they gotta hide behind locked doors, shut windows, security guards, and their money. When we walk down the street they fear us, they fear our power and that drives ’em mad. One a us can make four a them cross the street, we just walking, not studying them at all, and they run in fear. They don’t like that. They wish they could have the old days back, the days when we stepped off the sidewalk for ’em. The days when we lived in fear of hooded men in white coming in the night. Now they run, lock their doors, and move away from the cities, just because of their fear of hooded men in black. That fear gets in all corners of your mind. Runs rampant. How does it feel?

  Warrior sat in the now emptied car as it made its last stop downtown. He closed his eyes and listened to the beats of his music thumping in his ears as the train entered the tunnel to take its passengers to Brooklyn.

  CHAPTER 3

  As Warrior walked up the stairs to the front door of his father’s brownstone, he turned off his music, ending the staccato drumbeats and words of rage in his ears, and reached into his pocket for his keys to the front door. He acknowledged that certain Brooklyn flavor, that strong Caribbean feel around him, and he inserted his key into the lock as the sounds of neighborhood reggae screamed from windows cracked open to allow some of that project heat to get out, reggae beats demanding that the listener dance. He stamped his feet removing the snow on his boots, pushed open the heavy oakwood door and walked inside. As soon as the mighty door swung shut behind him, sealing out the cold, Warrior stood in silence.

  A few years ago his father had spent the money to have soundproof windows put in, and they now kept all outside sound where it belonged: outside. Warrior stood still for a few moments, his ears becoming accustomed to the quiet. The windows had given the inside of the house a distant echo, as the sounds from within bounced off glass and walls. Every sound in the house could be heard, from the humming of the refrigerator to the ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room upstairs. Warrior took his shoes off—the rule in his father’s house—and closed his eyes to listen.

  The sounds of Miles slid down the banister of the staircase in front of Warrior, rose and seemed to playfully encircle his head. All the sounds of the house were part of the music, but they were dominated now by Miles’ horn playing on the system, and his father playing his bass.

  I can hear Daddy’s foot keeping time, his soft, low voice scatting to the music, and his bass singing the Blues, backing Miles, and sometimes, leading. The air is filled with voices, if you know how to hear. I learned of books, history, famous people and their teaching with my mother, I learned to love that kind of knowledge with her. In this place though, I could always close my eyes and listen my way through history.

  Heard the drums of communication beatin’ out peace treaties between the Igbo and the Yoruba. Heard Asante children’s voices announcin’ festival, running from village to village. Heard philosophers philosophizin’ at the great University of Timbuktu. Heard the screams of Black bodies shackled. And the silencing of the Middle Passage . . .

  I heard the cries of children thrown into the ocean and the battle shouts of their parents who jumped. It was here that I heard the sounds of history times and was introduced to the spirituals. It was here that I first remembered the sound of a mother’s cry as her child was torn from her arms.

  Heard the sound of centuries of the whip, beating. Heard the sounds of hushed whispers and of feet running through the brush. Heard the words of ancient Black women whose ancient curses were just now coming to pass.

  It was here that I first heard the sounds of trees creaking and rope swinging. It was here that I heard the sounds of Tubman leading, Turner killing, and Malcolm preaching. It was here that I heard the voices of millions, women and men who had spoken and demanded that I never forget. It was here that the word free-dom danced. It was here, in this place, that I heard.

  Warrior opened his eyes and hung his jacket on one of the heavy worn hooks at the foot of the stairs. He grabbed hold of the banister and began to walk up the dark staircase. The entire house was lit with muted lights set under thick lampshades. The house was not somber, just easy on the eyes. The dimness did not change during the day, the lights were simply turned off and the sun’s rays maintained the constant hue of brown. The furniture was covered with dark colors, deep reds and bottomless blues, all of it extremely comfortable, either bought that way or having become so after years of use. Warrior’s body would simply sink into whichever chair, couch, or bed he sat on, melting into its expanse. The floors, and the staircase that Warrior climbed, had been constructed from a dark, dark brown wood. A strong wood. It was the same floor from Warrior’s childhood, and though it was obviously old and worn, it was neither cracked nor dirty, just smoothed from wear. The house was warm. It smelled of cooked down fruit and sweet liquor. This was home. He realized that the house combined his parents’ personalities and taste: her touch, his sound, her colors, his lighting.

  Warrior removed his hand from the banister and walked into the living room. His father’s head was bowed and sweating. His mouth was open, and his eyes were closed. He wore jeans and a loose-fitting rust-colored vest, nothing else. His feet were bare, and his hands gently caressed the bass. The sounds were clearer up here, and Warrior could hear the voices. He watched as his father spoke to them with his fingers, and Warrior heard them answer.

  The place was kind of messy, Warrior thought. He noted the music sheets littering the floor, the scattered tapes and records, and the plate of half-eaten food sitting on the table, the thought of nourishment postponed by the call of the voices. He stood watching as Miles’ song slowly faded out, and his father’s face contorted, his lips mouthing the sounds only he heard, his fingers sliding up and down the bass in one last furious riff. As the bass cried its final cries, Warrior’s father thrust his hands off it as if the heat of the voices, the cries of the strings, had burned his fingers, and exclaimed as if something stank, “Damn! I was f-flowin’ boy!”

  Warrior clapped his hands together and laughed. He nodded in agreement saying, “Yeah you were, Daddy! Yeah you were . . .”

  Warrior walked over to his father’s side as he laid his bass down, gently, and hugged him.

  “It’s good to see ya, Daddy, real good.”

  His father put his arms around his son, kissed him on the side of the face, and said into his ear, “You too, son, you too.”

  Warrior went over and sat down on the burgundy velvet couch, sinking in deeply. “And Mamma and little sister send their love and say hello,” Warrior said.

  His father smiled a smile that came from deep inside, and said, “Yeeaah. Tell ’em the same, and that I’ll be by sometime this week.”

  Warrior nodded, and his father looked at him as he finished picking up some of his music s
heets and putting them into a pile.

  “So what have you been up to?” his father asked.

  “Not much, just survivin’, what about you?”

  “Been playing my music, wrote three new songs this week, and when I get the time, been eatin’.” His father laughed and hit his bare stomach, which was showing the first signs of expanding.

  “Speaking of eatin’,” Warrior said, “even though it’s cold, that chicken and rice sitting over there looks good as hell.”

  “There’s plenty in the kitchen. Chicken, saffron rice, and some candied yams. I had a feeling you might come over tonight, so I made extra. Let’s warm some up, and while we do that, we can talk about what the hell we gonna do with these damn Knicks!” His father got up, disgusted at the mention of the one subject that had always gotten both father and son heated, even though he was the one who had brought it up. He walked to the kitchen shaking his head, and Warrior followed.

  After a heated conversation about how either of them could shoot better than most of the players on the Knicks, Warrior and his father returned to the living room with warmed plates of food. Warrior’s mouth watered as he ate. His father always cooked with spices upon spices—pepper, garlic, butter, brown sugar, and hot sauce were everywhere. The chicken, cooked till browned, of course, fell off the bone, and the yellow saffron rice and bright orange yams were so good they even looked pretty. “Damn, Daddy . . . This . . . is . . . good,” Warrior said, licking his fingers.