The Cost of Knowing, page 13
“I’ve seen Takaa. He looks so badass. I wish we still wore face paint like that. Why does America have to be so boring? Just cowboy hats and lassos and whatever else.”
“Technically the original Americans wore feathers and face paint and beads. Lots of tribes still do.”
“Well, ours doesn’t. The Unguzi tribe doesn’t exist anymore.”
“We’re… the last ones?”
“No, we’ve got cousins all over the US. But none of them really know where they came from. How can they?”
“Why?” I ask. “What happened to the Unguzi?”
“Same thing that happened to so many other tribes in West Cameroon. They were invaded by slave traders. Takaa’s own family was kidnapped by a man named Tobias Lathan and taken to a slave plantation in North Carolina. His descendants lived there for hundreds of years before our ancestor Daniel Alby bought his own freedom in 1818 and the freedom of his family, and moved north to Maine with his wife and six kids.”
“Holy shit, six children?”
“Yup. Eight generations later, you and I are it, bruh.”
And after a few days, I’ll be it.
What the fuck, this is so fucked up.
“Oh my God,” I say, leaning back in my chair and staring at the ceiling. “How long have you known all this?”
“I don’t know, a year or so? I’ve been hearing stories like this one since the accident. I remember lying in the hospital bed after the accident, and everything just came zooming at me. I could barely think. I could just feel. Everything. Hospitals are full of people with regrets, you know. It sucked. But I’ve kind of learned to control it.”
“How?” I say.
“Staying in my room, obviously. No regrets in there but mine.”
We sit in silence, and I notice my hands are shaking. This is no way for a kid to live.
“What do you do when you feel like it’s all too much?” he asks.
He didn’t even have to ask me if I ever feel like it’s too much. He just knows. He knows like I know. Having this… curse… power… whatever… it’s too much for anyone. It’s too much for a grown-up, let alone a sixteen-year-old and a twelve-year-old.
“I don’t know,” I say.
Another I don’t know for him. I’m the big brother here. I’m supposed to have answers. I’m supposed to know shit. I don’t know anything.
“Sometimes,” I say, “I just breathe. I just lie here, just like you’re doing, right there on the bed, and just breathe, and do nothing, and try to think about nothing. Doesn’t always work.”
“I bet,” he says, nodding. He’s focused on nothing, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as I watch his brain work. “Hey, I have another question.”
Oh God, what now? I nod for him to go ahead and ask, bracing for whatever. But I’m still not prepared for this one.
“Do I… do we… ever get rid of our powers? I mean, I thought if you can see the future… you might know.”
My heart is pounding, and I try not to show my reaction on my face. What’s the point in telling him I have no idea how to get rid of this curse? Shouldn’t he have some hope in his last days? Some joy? Isn’t that what my whole mission has become? Bringing him joy?
“Yeah,” I say. “We do.”
Peace like a river washes over his face, and he lets out a deep breath of relief.
“How?” he asks.
The question catches me off guard. Way to go, Alex. How are you going to lie your way out of this one?
“Uh”—I clear my throat—“I’ve never been able to tell. I haven’t touched the right items to figure that out yet, apparently.”
Not the worst lie I’ve ever told.
“Well, we’ve got time. Let’s start thinking! Between my knowledge of the past, and your visions of the future, we should be able to figure this out!”
Before I can cut in, he’s off the bed and pacing and jumping headlong into this discussion, a light flickering in his eyes.
“Okay, let’s start at the beginning. We both got these powers after the accident. Why?”
I’d always wondered that. Lots of kids—Black kids, even—survive car accidents without inheriting some ancient family curse from an African orisha. Why us? Why then of all times? Why weren’t we born with this? What does the accident have to do with Takaa’s wish?
“What was the accident like for you?” he asks me.
I shrug. “I don’t know, man, I don’t really remember it. I just remember waking up in the hospital and being a little freaked out that I knew what was going to happen to my IV bag.”
“I woke up watching people wheel me into the ambulance. Except, I was lying in the hospital bed. I could feel the covers. I could hear the machines beeping. But I was watching the ambulance rattle around me every time I shut my eyes.”
“That must’ve been scary,” I realize. “Terrifying, even.”
He nods, staring down at the floor again, and then he locks eyes with me. Something’s clicked.
“Wait, that’s it! Fear!”
“Fear?”
“We got these powers after the accident because we were scared, dude! Just like Takaa!”
People get scared all the time, and they don’t end up with ancient-family-curse twilight-zone bullshit like this. But I take a minute to consider it. If this thing runs in our family, would it be weird to think it gets triggered by near-death experiences, like Takaa?
“Oh, you know what?” asks Isaiah before I can properly process his existing suggestion. “Maybe that’s how we get rid of this!”
He’s looking at me expectantly, as if what he just said was a complete thought, and now it’s my turn to respond, and what’s taking me so long?
I shrug. “What’s how we get rid of this?”
“Maybe we need to face our biggest fears!”
My chest tightens, and alarm bells ring through my head. Of course the universe would put me in charge of preserving this boy and his ultimate life wishes in his last days, a boy who’s admitting he’s tempted to risk his life to be rid of a family curse. I mean, this is the same universe that gave us this curse in the first place, so I guess this is on-brand of it.
“That sounds like the worst idea you’ve ever had,” I say. “And since it’s you, you should take that statement very seriously.”
He rolls his eyes. “Deadass though! Think about it! Dad won’t tell me why he got into the car. Wouldn’t it make sense that he got into the car to face his fears? Maybe he was afraid of dying? Maybe he didn’t want us to do the same thing?”
Okay, I guess that makes sense. Much to my distress.
“So let’s not go doing that then, shall we?” I ask.
“It doesn’t have to be anything over the top. What if we went and jumped into the river? I’m afraid of going outside, and you can’t swim.”
“The Chicago River??” I snap. “Going for facing our fears here, not dying from them… and I can swim just fine, thanks. Why don’t we go to the gas station down the street and eat some sushi or something?”
“Hell no,” he says. “Bungee jumping?”
I don’t know Aunt Mackie all that well, but I know there’s no way she’d sign off for us to do that.
“I think you have to be eighteen for that,” I say.
We both sit there in silence for a while.
“There has to be something,” he says.
Then, after a while, he yawns.
“Sleepy?” I ask. I glance at my phone clock. Eight fifteen p.m.
“Nah,” he says, rolling over to his side and pulling his legs up onto the bed. I look up. His eyes are shut, and his breaths are getting longer and more drawn out.
“You sure?” I ask. He doesn’t respond at first. “Hey.”
“Huh?” he asks.
“Come on, sit up,” I urge him. “I need your help figuring out where this curse came from. You can’t fall asleep on me now.”
He yawns again.
“Can’t we do it tomorrow? What’s the rush?”
A pang hits me for all the instances I’ve taken my time with Isaiah for granted. All the times we used to play Smash Bros. on our couch in East Garfield Park, and I’d hog the controller. All the times I complained after Mom asked me to walk him to the bus stop.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice faltering. Because what else am I going to tell him? No, Isaiah, we have to figure this out tonight, because you may not have many tomorrows left?
“Yeah,” I say again, staring at my hands. “We can do it tomorrow.”
No reply. I look up at him and realize he’s already fallen asleep, his mouth gently parting about twenty seconds in. God, I hope I’m doing the right thing by telling him all that useless shit about what his future looks like. I hope he doesn’t hate me in whatever afterlife he finds. I hope, like I hope for Shaun, that he forgets all about me, and he’s happy wherever he is, swimming in pizza bites and Lucky Charms. I hope he’s with Mom and Dad. I hope he’s with Takaa. I hope he’s happy.
I lean back in my chair and pull out my phone and open my texts from Talia.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
It reminds me what I decided to do earlier, what I should’ve resolved to do as soon as I saw Isaiah at the bottom of that hole in the ground.
I’m going to buy the tickets.
My hands are shaking as I click the Ticketwizard and press my thumbprint against the home button to log in.
I breathe a huge breath of relief when I realize there are still Shiv tickets left, but I gasp and hold my breath again when I realize they’ve skyrocketed to $210 apiece. Jesus Christ, $420.
But I click 2 from the dropdown menu and go to my cart. With tax and everything, they end up being $445.75. Do people really pay this much for one night of live music? I wince as I click Buy, and when that confirmation page pops up, I stare at it, thinking, second-guessing myself.
It’s rash, it’s probably irresponsible, and it’s… brave? Maybe?
A chill goes up my spine at that, and I breathe and whisper, “Dad? If you can hear me… guide me? Please?”
I think of the photo, and before I can remember the sequence of events, I reach inside my pocket and pull it out, canceling the vision I saw of me looking down at it, sitting there on top of his red flowers. The vision I saw last night. I sigh. Time moves on.
Lying in bed.
Graveyard.
Sitting in my chair.
Darkness.
Flickering lights.
Darkness again. Graveyard.
I hope I’m doing the right thing.
7 The News
I GET THROUGH VISIONS of my apron, my visor, and my dishwashing gloves and stand at the sink washing dishes for about ten minutes before I can feel myself getting sweaty from stress. I’m jittery. Washing dishes should be a standard part of closing a store, not opening it. But as Scoop said, he was here late last night doing paperwork, and by the time he noticed the dishes, he was too exhausted to stay any longer. I sigh and manage to steady my hands enough to wash, dry, and put away bins and scoops back here, but my brain is spinning in a million directions.
Why am I even here?
I can’t focus.
I’m thinking about Isaiah. I’m thinking about what he’s doing right now, and wondering if he’s safe. I glance at the clock. 10:22 in the morning. He’s probably still asleep. Or playing BeatBall, or eating breakfast.
What if he falls off the step stool again trying to get to the cabinet above the freezer?
What if he plugs in his phone to charge it and accidentally drops it into his cereal?
What if he chokes on his food and no one’s around to help?
What if he has a seizure?
What if?
If.
I take a long, deep breath. Cool it, man, I tell myself. He’s fine.
And if he’s not? my brain hisses.
Then there’s nothing you could’ve done.
I need something.
I need a distraction.
The TV in the corner catches my attention, and I reach for the remote with my gloves and flip it on. Scoop sometimes lets us dishwashers turn it on back here, on the one condition that we leave the sound off. Seems counterintuitive to me, since the only way to enjoy the show is to at least have closed captions on, and does he really want us reading the screen instead of just listening to what’s happening? But whatever. It’s not like it matters. We get three channels back here. Cartoons, soaps, and the Channel 5 news, which is always showing some kind of murder or robbery happening in one of the bad neighborhoods, or some kid raising money for a good cause in one of the good neighborhoods.
Right now, it’s a robbery.
Interesting enough. It’s enough of a distraction, anyway. I put down the remote and pick up a silver ice cream bin caked with pink goo stuck in the corners, and I wonder if it’s leftover bubblegum or that sickeningly sweet strawberry powder base.
I start scrubbing, and the pungent smell hits me.
It’s strawberry.
Still better than sherbet, though. I think of Talia, and I wonder if sherbet and s’mores are really that bad of a combo and why I’ve always been too squeamish to try it and whether she thinks I’m less of a man because I’m squeamish, and if I’ve been giving her other clues into the fact that I’m a spineless—
No, Alex, I force into my brain, stop it.
I take a deep breath.
Being a man is more than trying new ice cream flavors. I know this. So why do I let a thought like that spiral into being so hard on myself? I’m employed. I’m pretty athletic. I’m handsome, I’ll admit. I’ve got a gorgeous girl who loves me. Or who loved me. And who still loves me, I hope. And I know my music.
But does any of that really make me a man?
Real men don’t run and hide when they find out a friend is in trouble. Real men stick by them. Leave no man behind, the saying goes.
I nod determinedly, scrubbing with new fury, hoping to scrub the hour away faster.
“I’m doing it right this time, Dad,” I say, as if he can hear me.
Doing it right for Isaiah. Doing what I should’ve done for Shaun.
I blink a droplet of sweat that’s trickled down into my eye, and force myself to look at the TV for filler, anything to take up space where self-loathing would usually be. They’re still covering the robbery. I read the words along the bottom. Break-in at Santiam Estates leaves one dead.
My whole body goes cold, and everything around me seems to pause.
I read it again.
Santiam Estates.
I watch the camera pan from that house with the yellow door—the gray one that Talia loves so much, with the pink flowers in the front—to Mr. and Mrs. Zaccari’s house with the black door, and down the street to a slew of caution tape and blue and red flashing lights.
I’m through the break-room door, down the narrow hallway, and into the lobby before I have a minute to second-guess myself. Scoop is talking to a man in the lobby, something about a football game, when he notices me.
“Hey, champ,” he begins, but when his eyes meet mine, his grin melts into a look of decided concern. “Everything okay?”
I shake my head.
“I’m sorry, sir. I have to go.”
I can feel my throat growing tight and my cheeks getting hot. I can’t cry here, not until I get to my car. It’s happening. It’s happening right now. One dead, it said. One dead, and I already know who it is.
“I’m sorry,” I say, turning and reaching for the door.
“Alex, you just got here!” he hollers, stepping from around the counter and staring at me with his hands on his hips. “I need those dishes done before we open, not to mention the syrups mixed, and the toppings put out.”
He sounds like my dad used to when he got angry. His voice is stern and steady, soft, but not to be argued with. I shut my eyes. I can’t even bring myself to look at him.
“I have to go. I’ll explain everything later, I promise,” I say, turning the doorknob and swinging the door open.
Scoop’s hand is clamped around my shoulder, and I look up at him, startled. His eyes are flashing with something intense—concern? Betrayal? Both?
“If you leave right now,” he says, “I can’t let you back.”
My eyebrows fly up. He can’t mean that. I glance from Scoop to the man who’s so engrossed in whatever’s on his phone screen that he’s not even paying attention to what we’re saying. He’s a Black man in a navy suit, one that’s pressed and looks expensive. And then I notice his hand, which is the same shade as mine, wearing a huge diamond ring, one I’ve seen before. Looks similar to the one from my vision. Am I… am I staring at the man who’s going to buy Scoop’s eventually? I look back at Scoop, wondering if he already has plans laid out or if these two are just friends at this point, or if they’ve only just met. I wonder if I’m looking into the eyes of a man so desperately in denial of his company’s demise that he’s resorted to threatening his only dependable worker into staying.
Whichever reality we’re living in, I can’t afford to think about it. This place will be gone in a few years, whether I’m here to see it or not. I can’t help Scoop. But maybe I can be home to help Aunt Mackie absorb her nephew’s absence, if this is really it.
If Isaiah’s really gone.
I blink back tears.
Dad’s voice echoes in my head.
A man’s not a man without his paycheck.
But a man who doesn’t protect his family is no man either, I think.
“I’m sorry,” I say, to Scoop and to my father, my voice so unsteady it comes out as a whisper. If staying here means letting Isaiah die alone, if it means letting go of whatever idea my dad had about staying employed, if keeping this job comes at the expense of being there for my brother, then fuck it. I yank my arm away and dart outside to my car, where I dry my eyes with my sleeve and pray that however Isaiah went, if he went, that Aunt Mackie didn’t have to watch.
A HUSBAND AND WIFE sit at their dining room table one evening, watching a crime report on the news, sipping tea, and lamenting the violent state of the world. They’re thankful they live in a neighborhood where crime is rare.
