I sat on the ground beside her. “If that happens, what will you do?”
Poppy’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “Actually, I’m learning exorcism now.”
“Of course you are.” I shook my head. “You are an interesting woman, I’ll give you that.” I paused. “What were you going to do that scared Reggie so bad?”
Poppy leaned closer and lowered her voice. “It was a bluff. For now. But technically, the closer he got to death, the greater the chance I could flex my magic over him.”
I stared at her. “You mean…”
“Puppet him like a zombie.” Poppy sighed and rubbed her temples. “I’m almost sorry I didn’t get a chance to try.”
I put a hand on her shoulder. “Poppy, is there anything I can do for you? Anything that will help?”
Poppy’s expression turned serious, almost begging. “Yes. Can we stop at the gas station down the road and get me some peanut butter cups? I need a dozen of them.”
I grinned and shook my head. “Fine. We’ll get you some peanut butter cups.”
“If they have them, can we get the—”
“The hearts.” I pushed myself off the ground. “This isn’t my firstrodeo.”
Black Bond
Maurice Broaddus
There will be a day sometime in the near future when this guide will not have to be published.
—Victor Hugo Green,The Negro Motorist Green Book
Rashad Ewing always relished his road trips with his best friend, even after Jerald had died. Slowing through rural town squares—always bookended by speed traps—he was careful to ease off the gas even if he was only doing the limit. Just in case. Despite the quaint cafés and craft shops, the streets were somehow both unwelcoming and uninviting.
“The American flags out here have Confederate vibes,” Rashad said.
“Like they wave with a hard ‘r.’ ” Jerald Blufton shifted in the passenger seat, still thin enough for a stiff breeze to send his emaciated hands scrabbling for the nearest handhold to stay upright. Several days’ growth of gray and black hair sprawled inconsistently across his face. His glasses kept slipping down his nose. He adjusted the thick, red knit cap that clung to his head.
Rashad couldn’t help but wonder why his friend would still need prescription lenses in the afterlife. Perhaps death froze one’s appearance for eternity, which left him wondering whether he ought to drop a few pounds in case he had to haunt someone later. Thiswasn’t the rabbit hole of thoughts he wanted to continue down. “Black people got no business ‘exploring’ southern Indiana.”
“Nah, we exploring Lyles Station like we Christopher Columbus: That shit’s been discovered and inhabited. Except by us.”
“That doesn’t make it any better. This trip definitely ain’tGreen Bookrecommended.” Rashad loved history, devouring all such books.The Negro Motorist Green Bookserved as a travel guide for black folks during the Great Migration, outlining the safe places to stay, restaurants, gas stations, and so on. They’d taken a wide berth around Martinsville, the historic epicenter of Klan activity in Indiana, but were cognizant that this area was still full of sundown towns. All white on purpose. Not a place to be after dark; not exactly friendly by day. To be fair, Indianapolis had its share of sundown suburbs. Even sundown neighborhoods.
“Visiting Lyles Station was the good Lord’s vision. ‘For I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me.’ ” Jerald was always ready with a Bible verse, some word of encouragement. Being dead, he might have had breakfast with Jesus for all Rashad knew. A question he intuitively understood not to ask, since there were probably some answers Jerald wasn’t allowed to give. Or Rashad ready to hear. “However, let the record reflect that this nature detour was your idea.”
“Let no one ever doubt how much I love you if I’m willing to traipse through the woods with you.”
“It was my dying wish. You couldn’t deny me,” Jerald said.
Fidgeting slightly in his seat, Rashad gripped and re-gripped the steering wheel, unable to shake the disquiet, the unease, in his soul. He’d tired of losing friends. Jerald would make the third one this year. One to violence. One to a random accident. Now one to nature’s fickle, yet cruel, hand.
The county road rose over some abandoned railroad tracks before winding through the undulating hills. Shifting into off-road mode, the SUV spat gravel, leaving behind a cloud of dust. Rolling down his window, while not quite slowing, Rashad reached for his camera. His large hand engulfing the camera looked like a catcher’s mitt grabbing a child’s toy. He aimed in the general direction of a covered bridge and snapped a few pictures. After a dozen in quick succession, he glanced at a sample of the shots. Satisfied, he set the camera back into the nook of his car door.
The overpowering, putrid odor of burning feces filled the vehicle; the last earthly scent that followed Jerald into eternity. Rashad wasn’t used to the smell, though he knew better than to comment on it, knowing how it made his friend self-conscious. A mental haze settled on Rashad, accompanied by a vague wooziness. He had barely enough time to pull over to the side of the road before his eyes glazed over and his mind drifted. His spirit viewed his body as if from outside of it. The world went black as his essence rushed down a dark tunnel. On the other end of it, light exploded in a kaleidoscopic flash and…
He and Jerald were back in middle school. Eighth period, show choir, the only two boys in the class. At the dress rehearsal for their next performance, the kids practiced taking the risers to arrange themselves on the stand for their concert. He waded through a cloud of too much perfume and Right Guard over underarm funk as they jostled for position. Everyone was supposed to wear a red Polo Ralph Lauren shirt with black pants, but Jerald’s family couldn’t afford a name-brand shirt. So he wore a knockoff short-sleeve red polyester shirt. One size too large. Bought at a garage sale. None of the students picked on him, but they made a point of avoiding him.
As Jerald swayed in the bass section, his voice often cracked in its attempts to grow into itself. Rashad was a rich baritone, his voicestrong and controlled. He scooted over to Jerald, providing a steady pitch for him to tune himself to. Startled at first, Jerald inched away. Rashad held his notes steady, his head bobbing to the flow of the music. In a mix of relief and appreciation, Jerald’s tremulous voice found its anchor in Rashad’s cadence until the song ended.
To express something approaching gratitude, Jerald offered him a piece of grape Hubba Bubba. “If you’re gonna stand that close, at least do something about your breath.”
