The Good House Part 17

How could someone who was dead steer his dreams?

"Ho-ly s.h.i.+t," Corey said, and his profanity shocked his ear, as if Gramma Marie were in the room with him. His skin went clammy, from the back of his neck to the backs of his thighs. Could it be something like the ghosts inThe Sixth Sense?

Maybe he couldn't see dead people-but could dead people see him?

Corey's memories of Gramma Marie were almost dreamlike because he had been so young when she died, but he remembered how she used to give him a quarter every time he sat on her lap, pulling it from his ear, or at least that was what it looked like to him with her quick flick of her wrist. Gramma Marie had been dead since 1990, the year he was five and her death ruined Christmas day. She'd been dead for eleven years. Yet, Corey felt an aliveness in the room, something other than himself. He looked around, searching for signs of anything unusual; a flickering lightbulb, movement beneath the curtains draped over the furniture, rustling inside the boxes, unusual insects. He didn't see or hear anything to explain what he felt, but the stillness seemed deceptive. Deliberate.

"Is someone here?" he said, not sure he was really hoping for an answer. If something talked back to him, he thought, he would scream like a third-grade schoolgirl.

But nothing answered. His breathing was the sole sound, heavier now. There was no motion around him. The unnerving feeling that had swept over Corey when he first saw the blue door came again. He nearly shuddered as he knelt over the pages, feeling waves of unease that were almost physical. Corey didn't know what it was, but something was in this room with him.

"Gramma Marie?" he said. He'd never felt like more of a fool, but he couldn't stop talking. "I hope that's you, because I don't know who else it would be. And if you're here, and if you're talking to me in my dreams...does that mean G.o.d is up there with you, too?"

Corey had never thought of himself as religious-Dad took him to church maybe once a year, and Mom wasn't much better. They were both supposed to be Christians, but they didn't act like it, just Christmas-and-Easter Christians who didn't say grace over their meals. Corey always said grace to himself when he ate, even if it was a split second, a habit he'd learned on his own because, h.e.l.l, it seemed like a good thing to do. He didn't take his food for granted, so why not thank G.o.d for it?

Corey figured something was out there, but he didn't worry about what it was, since he planned to live a good life so he and G.o.d would always be tight. To him, h.e.l.l was the conscience trying to be heard, things eating you so you think you have to be punished when you die. He knew a couple of kids who'd already trashed their consciences-one, T.'s brother, had nearly killed a pregnant woman when he ran a red light once. A lawyer had kept him out of jail, but she hadn't helped him sleep at night. Corey didn't like what he saw in people's eyes when their consciences were burning. He saw that look in Dad's eyes sometimes, and he'd probably see it in Mom's eyes too if he looked hard enough. Corey had always planned to treat people right, and if there was a G.o.d, he'd figured G.o.d would take care of him when the time came.

But now, this was something else. Something concrete. Something to really believe in.

"Is all that white light stuff for real, Gramma Marie?" Corey said. His knees felt like liquid as he crouched, so he sat cross-legged on the floor to keep steady. He realized he was having trouble catching his breath. His body had lost interest in normal procedure, but his mind was afire.

He should run downstairs with the satchel and take it to Mom, he thought. He should share this with her. Mom had known Gramma Marie better than he had, and half the time she was still living in the past, in Gramma Marie's world. This satchel belonged to Mom. If Gramma Marie wanted to reach out for anyone, she was probably reaching to her.

"Yeah, I can see it now," Corey said, imagining the conversation: "'Hey, Mom, Gramma Marie sent me to find this in my dream. By the way, she says hi. Your mom says hi, too.' "

No, Gramma Marie had calledhim in his dreams, not her. Just like she'd written.

Mom wouldn't appreciate anything about magic. Mom got embarra.s.sed when anybody asked about Gramma Marie's voodoo, like it was something shameful. Mom might appreciate the pages because she loved Gramma Marie, but she wouldn't treat them like something that might be real.

Corey handled the papers carefully, straightening them before he slid them back into the satchel where he'd found them. He'd read this after dinner, he decided. He'd keep it somewhere safe and get to it later, when he would have privacy, after Mom was in bed. If it was selfishness, so be it, Corey thought. Mom was trying to own every piece of him this summer-his time, his thoughts, his moods-but now he had something he owned all to himself.

She didn't know it was there, so how could she miss it?

Corey took the satchel into his bedroom and hid it under his pillow. Then, he stopped by the bathroom to wash up for dinner. He let the water run a long time in the bathroom sink, staring at himself in the mirror with the fancy bra.s.s frame that looked like something out of a Chinese palace. His own eyes in the mirror startled him, one of the strangest sensations he'd ever had. His heart was pounding hard enough to make him feel like a hard-core punk.

"That's just guilt you're feeling,hombre," Corey told his reflection, like Sean would say.

Gramma Marie's book would be a treasure to Mom, and he was keeping it from her. It wasn't the same as a hurting kind of lie, but it was still a lie. Just like old times, when he'd stolen Gramma Marie's ring from Mom like some kind of crackhead, trying to impress a girl. He'd thought he would feel better about it after all this time, but sometimes he only felt worse.

He planned to show Mom the book when he was finished, but hadn't he said the same thing about the ring? He'd dug it out of her jewelry box, and he'd been surprised when he found it. He'd wanted that ring because he couldn't stop staring at it when she wore it. He'd tried it on for size when he found it, sliding it onto his thumb.Just for a week, he told himself.I'll bring it right back.

Just like now. But this wasn't the same as stealing. Was it?

As he climbed down the stairs, Corey heard his mother's voice on the kitchen telephone. She was arguing with someone, using her lawyer's voice, not that there was much of a difference most of the time. He lost any idea he'd had about talking to her when he heard her stern tone. Maybe Sean was right. Maybe he was scared of her, in a way.

Corey was hungry, but instead of walking toward the kitchen, he went to the living room instead. He climbed onto the sofa, leaning his elbows against the high, curving back as he stared out of the picture window at the front yard. A couple of fawns usually came around dinnertime, and Corey liked watching them eat the apples Mom left for them in the gra.s.s beneath the walnut tree. It was about time for them to show up.

But the yard was empty today except for the rainbow of blooming summer flowers. That was one good thing about Gramma Marie's house; it was d.a.m.n pretty, like a picture in a magazine.

"Mom, did you leave food outside?" he called, after he heard her hang up the telephone.

"I forgot! Are they there yet?" Her feet scurried on the kitchen tiles.

"Not yet."

When Corey peered out of the window again to see if the fawns were hidden behind the shrubbery, he saw something that convinced him beyond any doubt that Gramma Marie's magic might be as real as its promise: Corey made out the olive-green coloring of a vehicle parked on the road, across the street. His eyes seized on the color, knowing what it was before his thoughts caught up.

Just like that, his father reached the top of the roadside steps with a Raiders knapsack slung across his shoulders, grinning like a fool. Seeing Corey in the window, Dad waved. It was the most remarkable sight of Corey's life. He was afraid to blink, or the mirage would be gone.

"Dad's here," Corey said, before he believed it yet.

Corey felt his mother's hands on his shoulders behind him. He smelled raw onions and chicken fat on her skin, so he knew he could trust his eyes. This was real. She saw him, too.

"Is that Tariq?" Mom said. For once, she didn't sound mad. It was the first time in years Corey had heard his mother say his father's name like it meant something to her.

Fourteen.

OAKLAND.

Present-day.

TUESDAY AFTERNOON.

ALL NEGATIVE,"the doctor said, fanning Tariq's records in front of him. "No unusual bacteria or cells, nothing showing in your X-rays, no ulcer. And you said you're not having the pain today?"

Tariq sighed, b.u.t.toning his s.h.i.+rt after the doctor's quick inspection of his abdomen in the small examination area of his office. Dr. Yamuna was a gastrointestinal specialist, the third Tariq had seen since August. Six different doctors in two years, and all of them with the same bulls.h.i.+t. Tariq had worked hard not to get his hopes up, but he felt something deeper than disappointment, nearly unbearable. "Not right now. It's bad at night and when I first wake up," he said.

"Have you traveled in any tropical regions in the past five years? Somewhere you might have picked up a bug we're not so familiar with here?" The doctor's fingers played with his beard.

"No."

"Did you suffer a fall or some sort of injury? I understand you're with the football team...."

Tariq was so tired of repeating himself after two years of doctoring, he could barely modulate his voice. "I work in the business office, not on the field," he said. "No, man, there's no injury. Just this same d.a.m.n bellyache, and n.o.body can tell me s.h.i.+t."

Dr. Yamuna sighed, gazing at him from beneath fuzzy black eyebrows, twin caterpillars. Tariq waited for him to say something more, but Dr. Yamuna remained silent. Tariq could tell he was preparing to move on, ready to go home for the day. It was after five.

"Don't let me turn around in six months and have somebody tell me it's cancer," Tariq said when the doctor had nothing else to say.Or I will sue your monkey a.s.s, he finished to himself. Trouble would rain down on this little brown fool like the skies opening during Noah's flood. Tariq felt his fingers flexing as he imagined what he'd do to this guy if he was f.u.c.king around and missed something big like cancer. Something it might be too late to stop soon.

"There is no sign of cancer, Mr. Hill, I'm happy to say."

"Well, it sure the h.e.l.l is something."

"Have you had any emotional traumas in recent years? Coinciding with the pains?"

This tired old game. Shrinks were nothing but quacks dispensing pills to keep people in a fog. Crack for the bourgeoisie. Maybe Angie had given herself the luxury of losing her d.a.m.ned mind, but he hadn't. As easy as it was to believe otherwise, natural as the temptation might be, he couldn't blame every ache and pain he would feel forever on the death of his son.

This was something else.

The pain in his stomach, at its worst, yanked him out of sleep and made him cry out in the middle of the night. A grown-a.s.s man, yelling into the darkness like a child calling after his mama. He'd broken his arm in two places during a practice his freshman year at U.C.L.A., and then his Achilles tendon had taken him out for good during his senior bowl game. Both times, he'd been in the worst pain of his life. This was another milestone in pain. He'd already racked up more than a month in sick time this year, on the days he couldn't get himself out of bed. A week ago, he'd cried himself to sleep, believing the pain was trying to steal something from him-and was winning at last.

Now here was somebody else trying to tell him it was in his imagination.

"Let me tell you something, Doc," Tariq said, hopping off the examining table. He took two strides toward the doctor, until he stood inches from him. Tariq was a half-foot taller, and he suddenly wanted Dr. Yamuna to remember that. "Don't bulls.h.i.+t a bulls.h.i.+tter, man. I know the difference between imaginary pain and real pain."

"Psychosomatic pains are not preciselyimaginary," the doctor said. Whether he realized it or not, he'd s.h.i.+elded his chest with his metal clipboard. "The pain is very real, but sometimes the stimulus is psychological. Especially in the case of a severe trauma."

"I could teach you a couple things about severe trauma, Doc," Tariq said. His face was hot, his whole body was hot, and he knew he would have to get out of here. It didn't take much to set him off lately, like at the club last night, and right now he could feel just fine about knocking everything from that counter to the floor, including Dr. Ranjan Yamuna, M.D., Ph.D. Right now, it was very difficult not to do just that. He wanted to crack this guy's head against the floor with his heel, the Oakland stomp.

Dr. Yamuna shrank away, pus.h.i.+ng against the counter full of boxes of cotton swabs, plastic gloves, and disinfectants. Another half-inch and he would knock an empty specimen cup to the floor. "I think we are finished today, Mr. Hill. I'm sorry I could not be of any help to you."

A stone p.u.s.s.y, Tariq thought. All brains and no b.a.l.l.s. Tariq eyeballed the doctor, enjoying the way the man's face hardened, bracing. He was scared, and Tariq would love to give him something to be scared about. Maybe that was why his stomach hurt so much-the strain of not being able to act out on the things he really wanted to do. Maybe restraint was bad for his health.

"Yeah, this is a waste of my time," Tariq said, and backed away.

Tariq saw people in the office looking at him funny when he stopped at the billing window to ask if they needed anything else from him. His voice was nice as pie. Nice as a Sunday morning gospel choir. The sister sitting there was what women liked to call "big-boned" but he called just plain fat, looking at him with a stupid expression. He heard a whisper from somewhere behind the part.i.tion, Dr. Yamuna's voice, in a hushed tone people used when they wanted to call the police. Over what? Men like that made him sick.

Just to prove Dr. Yamuna a liar for telling stories on him, Tariq tipped an imaginary hat at the big woman behind the window and smiled his best smile. A smile for the kind of woman he thought was fine, the kind of smile that would make her feel good about herself. She smiled back. No mess, no fuss. Just a brother trying to get some decent medical care for a change, against the odds. He turned to go on his way.

He had to shake off his anger. He had to go take his real medicine.

Tariq climbed into his black Toyota Land Cruiser and headed toward Alameda's Bay Farm Island Bridge. If traffic wasn't bad, Martin Luther King, Jr. Way in Oakland was only a thirty-minute trip. Although he loved the size of his newer wheels, he missed the VW. The funny thing was, he dreamed about the van more and more often-he saw himself sitting in the driver's seat, never going anywhere because in his dreams the van always had two flat tires. The flat tires, to him, were a reminder of how the van was falling apart. He'd had it since 1980, and it had been twelve years old when he bought it, so his engine had cut out five times during the drive from Oakland to Sacajawea that summer. But he'd lived in that van for his first semester at U.C.L.A., while he waited for his scholars.h.i.+p money; at night, he'd read from the light above the dashboard, then fallen asleep across the far backseat. He'd first kissed Angie in that van. He'd driven that van to Las Vegas when he and Angie eloped, playing Luther Vandross and Teddy Pendergra.s.s ca.s.settes the entire way, talking about what to name their baby. Marie if it was a girl. Corey or Harry if it was a boy. Both of them scared to death, but happy.

When he'd gone to see her in Sacajawea that last time, he'd known it would be important to arrive in that van. But the van hadn't been enough to do the job. Not enough to make up for the truckload of s.h.i.+t about to hit the fan. Tariq had flown to Los Angeles for Corey's funeral, and he'd never made the time to go back and drive the van home, or to hire someone. It seemed pointless.

He'd tried calling Angie at her office this morning. Her secretary told him she'd gone home for the week, which probably meant she was in Sacajawea. If nothing else, Tariq thought, the van parked in front of Angie's grandmother's house might motivate her to call him back sometime soon, even if it was only in anger. But he was beginning to give up on that notion, too. When Corey died, all of it had died. He couldn't blame her-he'd disappointed her one time too many-but it was probably no accident that he'd left one of the last relics of his past parked at the place where his future had vanished. That place was only a burial ground in his mind now, the empty van a shrine.

Traffic was mild. In twenty minutes, Tariq had reached Marcus Bookstore, which blended into the gray, downtrodden buildings around it, skeletons of better days at the corner of 39th Street on MLK. The essence of Marcus was preserved inside, a new world. Colors and music and knowledge and beauty, everywhere. That was what he loved about the store, the beauty smack in the middle of the street that could use it the most. Tariq walked in and heard Miles Davis on the store's speakers, blowing his horn. Each time Tariq came here, the music was waiting. Miles. Coltrane. Hugh Masekela. Marcus was the medicine a doctor couldn't give him.

Tariq lost himself in books, which crowded every shelf, every s.p.a.ce. Books were in stacks behind the desk, on tables, in the window. Tariq had strayed away from histories, the only section that used to draw him after Corey died, when he first started coming regularly. He'd discovered thrillers by black authors, and he was hooked. Then, the mysteries. It had taken him all this time to read Walter Mosley, and he wondered what the h.e.l.l he'd been waiting for. Now, he'd come to learn there were black folks writing science fiction-and ifthat was true, he wanted to see it with his own eyes. He hadn't known there were any black folks in outer s.p.a.ce, not from the movies and books he'd seen when he was a kid. That was news to him.

Tariq had never enjoyed fiction before now. Those kinds of books had seemed frivolous, except for the cla.s.sics by Richard Wright, James Baldwin, Claude Brown, and John A. Williams, books his brother Harry had pa.s.sed to him. With so much to learn about the real world, how could he justify wasting hours wandering through realms of make-believe? With so many real problems, he'd never had time to care about imaginary ones. Now, more and more, he found that hedid have the time. He still read a biography a week, but now he read other books, too, leaving them scattered on his nightstand or in his bathrooms, spread-eagled so he could revisit them at his leisure. There were books all over his house.

Tariq didn't need a shrink to tell him he was replacing his addiction to c.o.ke with books, trading one for the other. He could look at his own life and see that. And except for making his eyes ache in dim lighting, Tariq couldn't see a downside to that. He may have lost a h.e.l.l of a piece of his life after Corey died, but d.a.m.ned if he hadn't found something new. Nothing like the old life, nothing like having his son back. He'd give up all the books he'd read, or a chance to ever read them, if he could have Corey back. But his discoveries at Marcus were feeding him, and there were times he felt almost whole again. Brief, glorious times.

Things were as fine now as they'd ever been since the Fourth of July-except for his d.a.m.ned stomach. That was the only thing that was still very much wrong. He and his stomach fought when he tried to concentrate on reading at night, and each night he read until he dropped to sleep, no matter how much it hurt. He made that decision before he cracked open the first page, and so far it was working. No pain was going to run his life.Nothing would run his life.

The store was nearly empty tonight. The only other shopper was a smallish man in a das.h.i.+ki and a necklace of cowrie sh.e.l.ls who called himself Brother Paul. He was a smart man, but although Tariq respected his knowledge of Caribbean politics and history, he wasn't in the mood for talking. He still felt too tight from his doctor's visit. Tariq knew he needed to give himself s.p.a.ce, to keep other people out of range for their own good.

Anger management, the shrinks called it. He'd weathered moods like this once a year most of his life, and it had been h.e.l.l enough then, but now the awful mood came regularly. Three or four times a week, sometimes more. The recurring pain was doing that to him, he was sure of it. It was making him angry. Tariq often wondered if anger might be his natural state now, and his moments of evenness were the exception. Another reason to keep away from c.o.ke or booze: He didn't want to hurt someone, and these days he might. He just might.

But there would be no dodging Brother Paul. He was already on his way.

"Evening, Brother Hill," Brother Paul said, cornering him beside the greeting cards, an array of brown faces and African-inspired designs.

"Hey, Brother Paul...I'm just meeting someone here. I don't have time to talk." As a truly reformed liar, Tariq had come to understand that truth had its place. This past weekend, his nephew had promised to meet him here tonight, and DuShaun was the only person he felt like talking to. Rather than standing here feeling cornered, he could tell Brother Paul to move on. He let the truth set him free whenever possible, one of the perks of not being concerned about what anyone thought about him, except Harry and his nephew.

Brother Paul gazed at him in a way that made Tariq wonder if he'd heard him. "How's that pain in your stomach? What's the doctor telling you?" Brother Paul said.

Tariq felt himself start, surprised. It was the closest he'd ever come to believing someone was reading his mind, and he didn't like the feeling a d.a.m.n bit.

"You've mentioned your problem to me, Brother Hill," Brother Paul said when he didn't respond. "I gave you my book on herbs to take home last week. You invited me to sign it for you."

Now that he said so, Tariq had a stray memory of taking home Brother Paul's self-published book on herbal medicines, one with a rainbow on the cover, but he hadn't thought about it since. Brother Paul wrote New Age healing and self-help books, a taste Tariq had yet to cultivate. He suddenly remembered talking to Brother Paul at some length last week about the pain. The brother was pretty far out there, telling him he should look for a new underground drug supposedly made from African blood, or some such pitiful Afrocentric horses.h.i.+t. Tariq was surprised he'd forgotten a conversation like that, but he'd been doing that a lot lately. Forgetting things, like he had when his face was buried in c.o.ke.

"This doctor didn't know anything either," Tariq said.

"Doctors don't know plenty." Brother Paul spoke like a hypnotist, choosing his words carefully, enunciating slowly. "Some afflictions they don't understand."

"Got that right."

"Your pain sounded very bad."

"d.a.m.n right about that, too."

"It's time for you to get rid of it, Brother Hill," Brother Paul said. The way he said it, he might have had the answer hidden in his back pocket. "Time to make the pain leave."

Tariq stared again, wondering if Brother Paul was toying with him. More than that, he imagined what he mightdo to someone who tried to toy with him right now, a fantasy that held more appeal than his current conversation with Brother Paul. In his mind, he could see himself grab a handful of Brother Paul's salt-and-pepper dreadlocks, pull his face close to make his point clear-Didn't I tell you I don't have time for a f.u.c.king conversation?-then throw him backward with all his strength, watching his legs fly into the air as he fell into Blanche's counter in the back. Just enough to give him a real jolt, knock his teeth together. Tariq liked the idea of that very much.

This conversation was over, Tariq decided. Brother Paul was five-foot-six, a moth of a man. Tariq had never hit anyone that much smaller than him in his life, man or woman, and he'd rather not start today. "Brother Paul," Tariq said, sounding as weary as he felt, "it's time you moved on."

Again, Brother Paul seemed not to hear him. He stared at Tariq with eyes that were sincere and brown, sprinkled with green flecks at the pupils' rims. Tariq had never noticed the green before, and it caught his attention long enough to keep his eyes on Brother Paul's. "You've been seeing doctors for the body. Where's your doctor for the spirit, Brother Hill?"

"You got a sequel to that last book you're trying to sell me?"

"I see your smile, but you and me both know there's nothing to smile at. You're stricken. And I'll tell you how I know: I can smell it."

Anger vanished, with numbness was.h.i.+ng down in its place. Tariq hadn't mentioned the smell to anyone except doctors, least of all someone he knew only in pa.s.sing. "You...smell...?"

"It's very strong," Brother Paul said.

Tariq knew the smell was strong-there was no arguing that-he just hadn't known anyone else knew, too. Tariq had first noticed the rankness in the days after Corey's death, not very strong at first, but omnipresent. Sometimes it smelled like charred garbage left out in the rain, and often it smelled worse. Like something rotten. Like the dead cat he and his friends had found by the curb outside their building when he was eight. Bloated. Decomposing under a hot sun, turning black. Wet or dry, the smell came to his skin, seeping from his pores. Sometimes it was weak enough to barely notice, and other times it was so overpowering, it gagged him.

Again, the doctors hadn't been worth s.h.i.+t. When the smell didn't go away-when changing his soap and deodorant and taking chlorophyll tablets didn't work-he'd made his tour of specialists. A dermatologist first, a neurologist next to check for a brain tumor, an internist just to round it out. Not only hadn't those doctors offered any advice on how he could rid himself of the terrible smell, they'd sniffed him up and down and told him they couldn't evensmell anything. Even on bad days, when Tariq smelled as if he were wearing his intestines outside of his skin.

No one asked him why he smelled that way. No one glanced at him sidelong, or moved away from him, or avoided him outright. Even DuShaun had yet to say a word, or pinch his nose, and they lived in the same house. On bad days, when his own scent made him sick, Tariq sought out crowds to see who would notice. No one did. People brushed against him without looking back. Until now.

Brother Paul lowered his voice, cupping his hand around Tariq's upper arm, his biceps. "Look, Brother Hill...forgive my approach this way, but I have to speak. You know me as a man you see in the bookstore, but you do notknow me. I write books and teach African dance. I'm part scholar, part herbalist, part psychic."

At the wordpsychic, Tariq smiled more widely. He couldn't help it. "Do you see dead people, Brother Paul?" he said, taunting. Corey had lovedThe Sixth Sense; he must have watched that DVD a dozen times in the year before he died, rehearsing for death.

"I don't know much of anything apart from what one of my aunts in Trinidad taught me, a little card-reading, so I don't claim expert status. But I've smelled something on you a long time. I didn't know what to call it, or how to broach it, so I let it be," Brother Paul said. "But it's worse now, Brother Hill. Much, much worse than before. It's...perilous now. I use that word because I mean it in the strongest sense. It's grave. You know that, too. You must know."