The Cost of Knowing, page 17
“Isaiah, have you talked to our ancestors who were… taken from Africa?”
“Yeah,” he sighs, pulling his knees up to his chest and making the bed sink a bit lower. “I mean, not directly of course. Not all of them are buried in Elginwood. But the ones who are have passed on the stories to me. I’ve seen a lot of… stuff.” I immediately wish I hadn’t asked. He’s clearly uncomfortable.
“Y’know what? Forget I even asked that—”
“No, it’s okay. You should probably know. His name was Kando. He was the son of Takaa. The guy who asked to ‘know the unknowable,’ ” he says with air quotes, “or whatever bullshit.”
Under normal circumstances, I’d tell him it’s not good to swear, but I have to agree with him on this one: Takaa was kind of a jackass.
“What happened to his son, though?” I ask.
“Kando? He married the prettiest girl in the village,” he says, his eyes lighting up as he recalls the story. “Her name was Ursa. Our great-great-great-great… and lots more greats… grandma. Takaa saw that they’d be invaded by huge slave ships, and Kando and his wife were going to be kidnapped, so he moved the village away from their coastal settlement, farther inland, where he thought they’d be safe.”
I’m fascinated now. Isaiah tells everything so straightforward, but since he chooses simple words, I can easily imagine them. Our family. I can see Takaa standing like the king he was, looking out at the ocean from the shores of Cameroon, maybe doing something dramatic and badass like picking up a seashell and foreseeing the slave ships coming for his people and refusing to go down without a fight. I see him raising his spear into the air and letting out a battle cry so loud his whole village can hear it and knows to move out.
Then Isaiah’s words sink in.
“Where he thought they’d be safe?” I ask.
He nods and pushes himself off the bed, his feet meeting the floor with a thud.
“A huge storm rolled in,” he says, lifting one hand into the air and moving it fluidly over his head. A deep rumbling begins, low at first, from somewhere behind me. I glance over my shoulder and look at the window, blinds closed, and I wonder if that’s actually thunder I’m hearing, on a summer night in the middle of Chicago. Isaiah continues.
“Takaa, Kando, Ursa, and the rest of the village packed up and hiked into the mountains through the rain.”
A sharp explosion cracks through the whole house, startling me off the bed. My heart is racing.
“What was that?” I ask Isaiah, not expecting an answer.
“You can hear that?” he asks.
Our eyes meet. His are wide with awe and fascination, but I’m sure mine look as freaked out as I feel.
“Is that… from the story?” I ask. This can’t be real. Isaiah shrugs and chuckles.
“Guess you’re hearing what I hear all the time,” he says.
“Dude, this is badass.”
“Not always. Close your eyes.”
I give him a look that I hope says you better not try anything funny while I’m not paying attention.
“Come on,” he says.
I do as he asks. I welcome the darkness. I take a deep breath, smelling the musky scent of my room, feeling the soft carpet under my feet.
“Ursa was pregnant,” he says.
Behind my eyelids, it’s still dark, for a while, until a faint yellow glow flickers to life in the distance. It grows and expands, warping into an egg shape, darkening in the center, forming a face wrapped in pink cloth. It’s a woman, with one hand over her belly, staring at me with the most intensely dark eyes I’ve ever seen. My breath catches as she smiles at me, and then turns to leave. She takes a hand in hers from the darkness, and everything else flashes to life, as if someone’s flipped a light switch in my head.
“It was a treacherous climb,” says Isaiah. “Falling rocks were a constant danger.”
I’m standing on a four-inch-wide ledge fifty feet up a mountain face behind the woman in pink. I look down at my feet, and they barely fit on the ledge side by side. I swallow the temptation to open my eyes and look straight ahead as I feel the floor shake beneath me. A huge boulder slams into the ledge just a few feet in front of us, sending two men careening off the side, with rocks and mud falling behind them. The woman, who I know is Ursa, screams and grabs hold of the man in front of her. I catch a glimpse of a man in front of both of them, tall, with a long staff and a red cloth wrapped around his waist. He looks over his shoulder in my direction and says a single word: “wámsɛn.”
“Ah-wam-sen,” I say out loud.
And somehow, I understand what he’s saying to them.
Hurry.
Before I can think, the ground beneath me melts, my stomach skyrockets into my throat, and I go tumbling down the mountain. My eyes fly open, and I’m back in my room. I touch my chest, my shirt, just to make sure I’m actually here and not about to fall to my death.
Isaiah sits down next to me, his eyes closed, his palms up.
“Scared?” he says with a grin.
“What happened to them?” I demand. “Ursa couldn’t have fallen to her death, could she? What about Kando?”
“Kando broke both of his legs in the fall,” says Isaiah. “Takaa continued up the mountain, but Ursa wouldn’t leave Kando. The rest of the tribe continued up the mountain with Takaa. Ursa and Kando were taken aboard a slave ship called the St. Lucia and taken to North Carolina, where they were separated. Takaa watched the ships leave from the mountain, couldn’t take the shame and the pain, and jumped off.”
My mouth hangs agape. I’m at a loss for words. That’s it? That’s… how their story ends?
“What about the baby?”
“You don’t want to know, man.”
I don’t want to know? How can he say that? That’s our great-times-whatever-grandma or -grandpa he’s talking about. Of course I want to know.
“Yeah, I do,” I say.
He glares up at me. “Fine. Ursa had the baby. They told her it died.”
“And…? What happened?”
“They sold her to a family in South Carolina. Her name was Sadie.”
“Our great-times-whatever-minus-one-grandmother.”
He shakes his head.
“Great-times-whatever-minus-one-aunt,” he says. “Our great-times-whatever-minus-one-grandmother was the daughter of Ursa and a man named Isaiah Matthew Weidner. A slave owner.”
Fuck.
I feel my neck getting hot, and I look down at my arm, at the color, a dark brown the same color as Aunt Mackie’s mahogany dining room table. Medium tone. A few shades lighter than Ursa’s.
“Come on, man,” says Isaiah. “You had to know that, right?”
I guess I should have. Every time Black History Month rolls around, the details about how plantation owners treated their slaves, what they did to them. You don’t hear much about the beatings, the rapes, the murders, the illegitimate children who were taken in as house slaves. I’ve always known in the back of my mind that there’s a slew of undocumented crimes against my family that will never see justice. Being Black in America means being constantly reminded of the darkness you come from, without knowing details about the darkness you come from. But to see Ursa’s face, and know what happened to her, to see firsthand what I’m a product of, makes me physically ill.
I might throw up again.
“And,” I say in realization, “his name was Isaiah?”
Isaiah nods. “I hate it. Dad named me after him.”
“Why would he do that?”
He scrunches his nose in disgust.
“I don’t know. He said it was to ‘right the wrongs of history’ or something. I swear when I grow up, I’m changing my name, especially if I blow up.”
I spot the perfect segue into a new subject that won’t upset him so much, and I take it.
“What name would you pick?”
He shrugs. “I guess it doesn’t really matter. I’m not blowing up anytime soon. I can’t even leave this room without being scared of everything and everyone. How am I supposed to get on a stage one day?”
“I’ll protect you,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. “You gon’ follow me up onstage every time I perform?”
“Nah, I didn’t say that,” I laugh. “But I could at least be there. In the audience. You could just look at me and know that ain’t nobody gonna laugh at my brother as long as I’m there.”
His mouth curves into a smile, and he folds his arms in defiance.
“Izzy.”
“Izzy? That would be your name? Like the pizza place?”
“No, Izzy like Izzy Rufus, BeatBall wizard and king of the synth.”
“Or Lord of the Synth.”
His eyes get huge.
“That’s genius! You wanna come on tour with me? Izzy Rufus, Lord of the Synth has a ring to it!”
I chuckle. “What would I play?”
“You can rap!”
“I can rap other people’s words.”
“If you can think up something wicked like ‘Lord of the Synth’ just like that, you can freestyle,” he says.
“Can you?” I ask.
“Yeah, duh.”
“Then do it.”
“Well,” he says, swinging his arms and sucking his teeth, “I can’t just do it. I have to be inspired.”
Exactly what I thought.
“Well, I’ve got some inspiration for you,” I say.
He looks at me so skeptically, I have to laugh.
“What is it?” he asks.
“I’ll show you. Get your shoes.”
“Huh? Are we going somewhere? It’s getting dark out.”
“We’ll be sneaky.”
Isaiah looks up at me like I’ve lost my entire mind, and I’m pretty sure I have. But I have to convince him somehow.
“I know the perfect thing to do that scares us. Wanna know what it is?” I ask.
His eyes grow wide and he nods excitedly. Please, let this be a good idea.
“You sure?” I ask, pulling out my phone, canceling the vision of me unlocking it, and unlocking it. He nods again. “You have to promise not to freak out, and not to ask questions.”
“You didn’t… kill anybody, did you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I need your help burying the body.”
His eyes are wide as saucers until I look up at him and smile.
“Asshole,” he giggles.
“Still think so?” I ask, holding up the phone screen to him. His eyebrows meet in the center of his forehead, and he squints at the screen before taking it in his hands. One of his fingers brushes against the back of my hand, and I thank my lucky stars I can only see the future based on what my palms touch. That was way too close.
“Oh my God, are we going to see—” he squeals before I can shush him.
“Yes.”
“But how did you afford—”
“No questions, remember? You can either have answers, or a trip to see Shiv.”
“Wait, but how are we going to go without Aunt Mackie? There’s no way she’ll let us.”
“We’ll sneak out,” I shrug, with the confidence of someone who’s sneaked out before—i.e. not me.
“Wait, just one more question?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
He glances at his lap before continuing.
“How is the Shiv concert going to make us face our fears?”
I take a deep breath and sigh. “I’m kinda secretly hoping it won’t. I’m… scared, Isaiah,” I admit. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever admitted it. “I think if we’re meant to get rid of this curse tonight, maybe we have to be afraid? Maybe being afraid of something maybe happening will be enough to cure us?”
“Mrs. Zaccari thinks it’s scary enough,” he giggles.
I have to smile at that. And then he admits something of his own.
“I’m… scared too, Alex.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod. I can’t imagine. Isaiah’s still just a kid. His feet dangle off the side of my bed, and his small frame is drowning in one of dad’s T-shirts, the collar hanging lopsided off his bony shoulder. He looks up at me and nods determinedly.
“But I want to be normal,” he says.
“Me too.” I nod, although who’s to really define what “normal” even is? Especially when it comes to brains. Neurotypical, though? Can’t help but feel like that’d be… nice.
“No, I mean… I want to go out and do things, and hang out with people and… not be scared when I leave my room.”
“This is perfect then, right?” I exclaim. “You’re facing your fears by going to this concert, and I’m facing my fears by…”
By being around Isaiah until it happens.
“… quitting my job to hang with you all day. Including this concert.”
“Quitting your job scares you?” asks Isaiah.
I shrug. “Well, yeah.”
“Why?”
Oh, how do I explain this?
“Remember when Dad took us to volunteer at the dry-goods donation center for the homeless? And… he told us to get good grades and work hard so we don’t end up… you know…”
“He never told me that,” says Isaiah. “He just told me I was doing a good job helping people.”
“Well, he told me,” I say. “And I never forgot it, and I never forgot that a house like the one we had in Garfield Park would be in my future unless I kept a good job. So quitting one feels…”
“Scary,” he says. “I get it now.”
“But it’s okay to be scared,” I add. “That’s what Takaa didn’t realize, right? That it’s okay to be scared? That it’s okay to regret the past?”
He smiles. “Yeah.”
I stare at him for a long moment, hoping, praying, that whatever ancestors can see us from wherever they are right now keep him safe tonight. Whatever exists, let it protect us, let it protect him.
Let Takaa protect him.
Let Shaun protect him.
Let Mom and Dad protect him.
“Race ya!” he yells suddenly. He darts for the door and sprints down the hall to his room.
“Isaiah, where—?”
“Getting my shoes!”
I smile. For once in my life, despite my fear, I’m pleased with myself. A warm feeling settles in my stomach, and I take a deep breath. I remember King Takaa. I remember his face as that huge boulder came tumbling down the mountain and his son fell with it. And I know that whatever happens, however Isaiah goes, I’ll have done the right thing. We’re not going up the mountain. We’re making the most of the time we have left.
No matter how terrifying.
With trembling hands, I get through visions of my jeans, my T-shirt, my socks, my shoes, my jacket, my keys, my wallet, my phone, and my phone charger, and Isaiah and I push open the window to my room and climb out onto the driveway.
10 The Lights
ISAIAH AND I WALK the whole twelve blocks, since I know parking will be a nightmare, and since the fresh air does wonders for calming nerves. The sky is black. No stars. No moon. Just the whitish-yellow glow of streetlight after streetlight above us. The storefronts here are all closed. We walk past a coffee shop that Talia swears has the best hot chocolate in Chicago, and the only coffee shop I’ve ever seen that carries tayberry syrup.
Hecho con tayberries reales, she says.
I picture her face, and something cold and unwelcome settles in my stomach. Isaiah looks up at me, but I keep my focus on my feet.
“Did you two break up?” he asks. It drives a spike straight through my chest.
“You readin’ minds now?” I ask, half-joking.
“Nah.” He shrugs. “I just know you don’t feel this strongly about many things. Music, and Talia. I know you don’t usually get so worked up over music, so that just leaves Talia. Is she okay?”
I remember the last words she said to me.
It already feels like I have.
She thinks she’s lost me. And I guess, in a way, she has. I already know we’re going to break up at some point, when her hair goes dark again, so what’s the use in opening up to her? What’s the use in telling her how I feel? I’ve already lost her.
I shake my head, wishing it was that simple. Wishing I was that simple.
“Yeah, she’s fine.”
He sighs, and I’m sure he doesn’t believe me.
“You can tell me, you know,” he says. “I won’t tell.”
No way. Why would I dump all my issues onto him when we’re already scared to death, and supposed to be out here trying to get rid of this curse so he can have peace?
“It’s okay, Isaiah,” I say.
“Are you?” he asks.
“Am I what?”
“Okay.”
I look down at him. He’s got his hands in his pockets and his eyes on his shoes. He doesn’t look at me when he says, “It’s okay if you’re not okay. But… you should probably tell someone you’re not. And, I guess, since we’re brothers… you could tell me?”
My heart swells at his words, at the hope that I might confide to him my biggest secret—the thing that weighs me down every morning when I try to get out of bed, the thing that makes me feel guilty for getting to exist while one of my best friends doesn’t. I could tell him about Shaun. I think of how good it would feel, what a relief it would be to tell someone. And before I catch myself, I say it.
“I’m not okay.”
My eyes prick with tears. Isaiah looks up at me and I look him dead in the eyes.
“I’m not,” I say again, dragging my sleeve across my eyes. “Sometimes it feels like my brain is too full. Like my thoughts are moving too fast and I can’t keep up. And… Talia doesn’t know about the curse. And I don’t really want to tell her, because this shit sounds crazy. Know what I mean?”
He nods up at me.
“I know,” he says. “I feel like no one would really get this. Not even Aunt Mackie. I’m glad I can talk to you.”
It melts me.
“And I’m glad I can talk to you,” I say, deciding to do something brave. I reach my arm around his shoulder, my fist balled for my own protection, and pull him against me as we walk. He’s warm, and as he wraps his arm around my waist, I soak in the feeling. I forgot how good it feels to hug someone. Not romantically. Just because.
