51
“T
racie.” He had called her name, the calling of which sounded like it was blowing on the wings of the wind. Tracie felt her name rising, billowing up from the inside of her. She felt it rather than heard it.
Gone were the Bible and the flaming candles blazing staunchly beside it. For some reason Tracie thought of the flaming sword with the guardian angel the Lord God had put outside the Garden of Eden upon Adam and Eve's banishment from the garden.
Tracie frowned. Now, where had that come from? And how had she gotten on her knees? She didn't know, but she was on them.
All around her was a bright blue sky and clouds. Just miles and miles of endless blue sky, and clouds that were fluffy white, like big feathered pillows. It was as though she were kneeling in the middle of the atmosphere. The whole idea of gravity was not a factor in this place. She was like a balloon that was at one with the air.
Up in front of her, someone was walking toward her. Tracie squinted, trying to get a better look at the person who was venturing closer to where she was kneeling. Laura. It was Laura Peyton. Tracie hadn't seen her since she was a child. What was she doing here? Where was here? Tracie wondered.
Tracie tried to remember. Yes, she had been looking at the Holy Bible and the flaming candles casting dancing shadows on the wall, and then . . . and then she was here.
Laura Peyton looked radiant, serene.
Tracie thought she looked like an angel. The spirit of her had always been so, but her physical demeanor was different. She was Laura, that was for sure. She looked like Laura, and yet there was a totally different quality about her, as though Tracie were seeing a dimension of her she had never noticed before.
Laura stopped in front of Tracie. She reached out a hand to smooth her black, silky locks of hair. “Remember the healing, Tracie?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” For no reason at all, tears sprang to Tracie's eyes.
Laura shook her head at Tracie's tears. “It is a time for joy, child, not sorrow. Real joy. Just remember that the path to most things that are holy is fraught with many stumbling blocks along the way. Only you can know when you've reached holiness, Tracie. You know that by your belief.”
Tracie blinked back the tears. And the reservoir that had been stored inside her long ago, the one she had tapped into when she was a child, the reservoir of innocence and childlike faith from which she had received the healing, rose up inside her like a spring day.
Her body suddenly felt light, as if the strain of it were no longer there. As though she had laid her burdens down.
Old Laura Peyton smiled and nodded. She was the same woman who, in life, had imparted faith to Tracie when she had hit her head on the radiator. “Have faith, Tracie, and believe all that you will see here, because there is no untruth in this place. When you return, you will know all that you need to know. But you will win by belief.”
“Win what? Tracie asked.
Laura only smiled serenely at her, which brought Tracie to another question. “Are you dead, Laura?”
Laura made the sign of the cross on Tracie's forehead, and then she outright laughed at her question. “Child, I have never been so alive.” And with that, Laura was gone.
“Wait!” Tracie screamed out to her. “Someone called my name.”
“I called your name, Tracie.” Again the voice rose as if on the wings of the wind. It was felt more than heard by Tracie. And, now in Laura's place, there was a book lying in front of her.
She read the cover. “The Ancient Book of Prophecies,” Tracie whispered the title out loud.
As soon as she had the book open, the pages beckoned to her.
Come.
Tracie reached out a hand, and then she turned to look behind her.
The Holy Bible was directly behind her. The cover had opened, and the pages began to flap rapidly as though a great wind were flipping them. The Bible closed when each page had been turned.
She felt her name again. “I called your name, Tracie.” Tracie had been touched by the
Unspoken.
She turned back to the book in front of her, and as her hand touched it, she was pulled through to begin her journey. There she beheld many things, and many things beheld her.
Graced. That's what she was, purely graced.
Tracie was walking to the beat of a different drummer. It was to a tune no one heard but her. But that was okay, because she was like two going on ninety.
She had always walked as though she knew a secret nobody else did, and now it was true. Her stroll through the streets this time would be much different.
Tracie Burlingame ran in the spirit just as she had run on the streets of Harlem, as though she had a victory to reclaim.
And she did.
Before she left the path, she threw her head back, threw her arms out spread-eagled in the air, and said the two words that left her spiritually on holy ground.
The mere utterance of those two words left her standing in the spirit. “I believe!” she shouted to the
Unspoken,
“I believe!” With that, it began to rain on Tracie, a baptismal flood. “Thank you, Jesus.”
At the very moment that Tracie Burlingame shouted, “I believe!” the old black preacher, praying in the sackcloth and ashes, said, “Amen,” ending his three days of repentance for Tracie Burlingame. And then he closed his eyes in eternal peace.
52
T
he fruition of many things before, about, and surrounding Tracie Burlingame had come to a turning point. It was time for the branches to bear fruit. And, as in any vineyard, the weeds had to be cast out. They had to be thrown into the fire so that good fruit could come to bear.
And so they would be, because Tracie's branch, of which she was not in full understanding, was attached to the true vine. In that vine was great power.
Tracie found herself standing at the front door of Anita Lily Mae Young's apartment. Although she had some answers concerning the deaths of her own sons, she was compelled to understand what had happened to the other young boys in Harlem.
Without a doubt, Anita Lily Mae Young knew something; she had always known something. Tracie had just been too arrogant and self-important. She had been too much of a diva to read the handwriting that had been on the wall.
She had had literally no preparation for things she could not see. So therefore, she had no basis by which to judge.
There was no way she could have imagined that she would go from where she was in her life on the day she had decided to toy with Anita Lily Mae Young to this day that stood before her.
And yet that day had been an omen for her. She had laughed to herself, thinking this old woman a fool. She had been bored. She had simply wanted to amuse herself with one of Anita's readings that day.
The events that had been set off in her life were catastrophic concerning that one sunny, sweltering day on the streets of Harlem. No, she had not been prepared. How could anyone be?
Tracie pulled herself back to the present. She was not at all at ease with the killings of her sons. The answers that she had diligently thought would bring her some semblance of peace had not. Pee Wee Morgan's death had left an open gap rather than a closed chapter.
Having run parallel to the street and criminal underground pipeline for a good portion of her life in Harlem, Tracie understood that she had been set up.
She had been manipulated and led to sources and information that were not all that they seemed to be. And she knew that this meant she was in trouble, because she had been lured into a trap not of her own making. On the streets the fittest of the fit survived. Those with the knowledge and power ruled the course of events.
Tracie thought about all she had seen. She diligently hoped that she was standing on the right side. Deep inside she knew she was.
When Anita beheld Tracie standing at the door, she just pulled it open wide and let her in. No words passed between them. The path had already been established.
It was a different Tracie that Anita looked at. Gone was the cover-girl makeup covering her exquisite features and accenting the high cheekbones. The flashing eyes now held depth, inquisitiveness even, and light.
Her eyes shone like rays of sun shining through crystal. Tracie looked at Anita through naturally long lashes without the aid of cosmetics, and Anita realized that she was a stunning womanâeven more than Anita had noticed before, because a sort of natural glow was lighting her from the inside out.
Tracie's hair was swept back from her forehead and hung in a black, sheetlike sheen straight back from her face and down to her shoulders. She was unadorned in any way, yet she was adorned. Anita was astonished by the change in her, although she didn't dare say so.
Tracie made her feel as though she were standing in front of a black princess, descended from royalty, with the spirit and meekness of an angel. One who knew her true power. One who had come to give, not to receive.
“Come on in, Tracie. Tracie Burlingame, isn't it?” Anita said.
Tracie smiled. “Yes.”
“I've been expecting you.”
“Yes, I know you have,” Tracie replied meekly.
Tracie stepped into the small foyer. Anita led her into one of the most uniquely decorated rooms Tracie had ever laid eyes on. Yards of fabric covered the sofas and walls.
Pictures upon pictures of so many of the famous hung in gilded frames from the walls. The room was an array of antiques and splashes of vivid colors and silks. Tracie noticed the mannequins draped in different designs and decided that Anita was also a woman of great class and style.
Old Louisiana style was what she possessed. Tracie smiled. Those were deep roots with a tinge of class about them.
There was also something different about her since Tracie had last seen her on the streets. It was as if a harsh covering had been peeled away, revealing a pearl underneath the layers.
Anita had not failed to notice that Tracie didn't carry herself with the same arrogance that had struck her originally. She could sense the strength in Tracie, but it felt as if it was contained.
She actually
walked
toward the sofa, as opposed to her original “look at me” strut that captured the eye of almost any person the instant she entered a room.
Tracie sat down demurely on the couch. She crossed her legs at the ankles. Anita shook her head to clear it just a bit. Then she took a real look at Tracie Burlingame.
She peered though the layers, looking for the spiritual patchwork quilt that she knew Tracie was.
It was not as immediately apparent to her as it had been on that first day, out on the streets, when she had seen it on Tracie. That quilt had been her haunting, and now the woman who represented it was sitting in her living room as though it were the most natural place in the world for her to be.
As Anita reflected on what had been revealed to her, she decided that perhaps it was in relation to the path of things.
There was nothing she could do to alter the time or events. It had been written, and so it would be. She had sworn she would have nothing to do with Tracie Burlingame. She had, in fact, become a recluse in her own apartment and shut down a lucrative source of income because of what she had seen on this woman sitting across from her.
Yet here they both were, entwined in a path not of their making, and yet bound by the sacraments of the spirit.
Incredible. She would have to have lived it, seen it, and been given it to believe it, and so she had. As Anita's second sight came into focus, she saw that the spiritual patchwork quilt had in fact become more vivid.
The voices were raucous, shouting. But there was a different tone to them this time. The hollowed-out patches had become hallowed in their being. Anita gasped, sensing a different spirit on the horizon.
The black patches that were seekers had been alive with movement before, but now they were still. There was no movement in them. That was because two of Tracie Burlingame's sons were dead. The hunter had captured them.
And then the sharp, lizardlike tongue whipped out. It lashed and thrashed around, looking to swallow and devour. Anita had seen enough.
She shut off the sight because she was allowed to.
She sat back in her place on the sofa. The entire quilt was now bathed in an extra, invisible layer, but it was there.
Tracie settled herself and looked over at Anita. She had known that Anita was observing her, weighing and calculating the costs and risks. But, Tracie had come into some understanding of her own, so she said, “Ms. Young, the quilting is the laurel of my being, of my wind. It is my eternal wind.”
Tracie was silent for a minute. “I guess you can call it my essence, so to speak. It represents the fruit, which in turn are the generationsâthe seeds, in a manner of speaking. It also represents past, present, and future.”
“So it does,” Anita said without elaboration.
“I know that's what you saw on the street that day.”
“So it was.”
Tracie looked down beside her to see an antique trash pail filled with an array of crystal balls. The trash was overflowing with them. Their colors glistened; they had come from almost every corner of the globe.
Why were they in the trash?
Tracie gave Anita a questioning look. Before she could form the question, Anita said, “I won't be needing those anymore.”
“Why?” Tracie inquired, although she thought she might know the reason.
Oddly enough, the old woman took Tracie's hand in hers and said, “Because I've been given real sight . . . just as you have.”
Anita lapsed into her southern twang without even realizing it. “And I ain't no longer got to rely on false symbols or trickery, Tracie. There ain't no falseness in the eternal living God; everything about him is real, and so I ain't got no need of those things anymore.”
Tracie nodded, thinking about the cards Anita used on the streets of Harlem.
“I ain't got no more use of the cards, either,” Anita said. “None of that. What I got myself is a pure sight now, and forgiveness by the Lord Jesus Christ. I'll see what he gives me to see and I ain't gone be peering through little glass balls or cards to do so anymore.
“I found out those things ain't of him, and they stirs up the wrong spirits, girl. I had a real gift all along, and I ain't never needed them there things. I just didn't know it. If the Lord wasn't merciful, I coulda lost what gift I been given.”
Me suddenly surfaced in Anita's mind. She heard him say, “I have come to collect the gifts.”
Anita shivered.
So, the pearl was shining through the peeling, Tracie noted. Tracie covered Anita's hand with her own and smiled. But as she did, Anita drew back as a sense of impending doom swamped her being. When she looked down, she was no longer holding Tracie's hand but instead she was holding a piece of fabric, a piece of the patchwork quilt, a black patchâand it was alive with movement.
Anita raised her head.
Tracie Burlingame was staring at her with eyes that had become as wide as Frisbees. The whites of her eyes glowed pure in their color. Her pupils flashed hazel-green with golden specks. She said not a word.
But she was gripping Anita's hand to the point that her nails, which were buffed and manicured but not colored, were slicing into Anita's flesh.
Sensing a presence, Tracie looked over at a beautiful French covered chair to see two things. Anita's black, silky-looking rabbit Pesky was the only rabbit in sight. He had taken refuge under an old wooden desk. The hairs on his back were standing straight up like the hairs of a cat.
The second thing she noticed was her dead husband, Raymond, sitting in the chair, looking at her. He had a look of such profound longing in his eyes that it knocked the wind out of Tracie.
Her body became one tight spasm of pain.
Tracie loosened the grip on Anita's hand at the sight of him.
“Raymond?”
Raymond crossed his legs. He sat back in the chair. He had always been a sharp dresser, and today was no different. He was Saks Fifth Avenue from head to toe. His trousers had a razor sharp crease that matched the grin that he gave Tracie.
“I've missed you, Tracie.”
Tracie was stunned. She couldn't believe Raymond was sitting in front of her. She ignored the part of her brain that was trying mightily to yank her back to her senses.
“Raymond, I . . . I've missed you, too.” Tears sprang to Tracie's eyes but did not fall.
“Come to me, baby.” Raymond sat forward in the chair. Tracie rose from her seat.
“No,” Anita said.
Tracie halted.
She looked at Anita as though she were in a trance. “Ms. Young, this is my husband, Raymond. He's my children's daddy.”
Tracie's voice dropped to a pained whisper. “I'm so glad to see him. I'm glad he came to visit. I haven't seen him in such a long time. You of all people should know this is possible.”
“It ain't so, Tracie.” Anita grabbed her arm, but Tracie pulled loose from her grip.
Raymond stood up. He looked at Tracie endearingly. No more words were needed. He held his arms out to her. Tracie's heart soared. She took a step toward him.
Anita was bugging. She was willing Raymond's presence to leave the room, but she discovered she had no power here to do so. The only person who could do that was Tracie.
Tracie halted once again.
She tilted her head. When she did, the shining sheet of black hair fell over her shoulder, creating a cloud of illuminating beauty.
“Mommy . . .” The voice sounded as though it was far away, as though it were coming through a tunnel. She recognized it instantly as Rashod's.
“Fight, Tracie. Fight.”
Why was Rashod saying that? Where was he? Tracie looked around like a person who had been stranded on a desert island, who was seeking help.
“Look at him, Mommy. Please, Mommy. Just really look at him,” Rashod said.
Tracie did.