by Regina Harris Baiocchi
Kill what needs to be killed
Ghost weeds grow around our abandoned house in Tornado, Tennessee. After being away twenty years, they wave at me through tall grass like old friends swaying in rhythm with the wind. I am tempted to wave back but I barely recognize them. Memory is buried beneath the dusty storm house inside an adjacent hill. The underground storm room is cool, dark, and safe. No matter how angry tornadoes get, they respect the steel-reinforced door and its oak façade.
Like the weathered storm door my memory is splintered. Ripening pecan and crabapple trees smell of home. I missed the breezes that blow freely without high rises, concrete, and city bustle blocking them. Suddenly, the distance grows between my Chicago apartment and the home of my ancestors. I inhale deeply, and then wade through knee-high weeds toward my newly inherited house.
When I reach the steps to the front door, I turn back and survey the yard I just negotiated. The mailbox that mother’s Papa built is leaning but stands guard. People often laugh at our address: 1 Redbrick House on East Crooked Road, Tornado, TN, 38369. Memories revisit me.
Standing in the sun, basking in sweet air, I spy the ghosts of workmen lined up at Gran-a-mi’s kitchen window waiting to buy sandwiches she sold to stretch Papa’s railroad pension. Smells of potted meat, onions, and biscuits linger lazily in the air. I had not thought about Gran-a-mi’s lunchtime hustle in years. I smile.
Swatting mosquitos, I remember that: “A safe human being stands in the marketplace with a smile on her face: blessing what needs to be blessed and killing what needs to be killed.”1
The ghost-men wash their faces and hands with Papa’s water hose and find shady spots beneath pecans and crabapples. Sometimes Gran-a-mi cranks up her scratchy radio or blows a tune on her mouth organ for the men’s entertainment. Gran-a-mi’s music is why I fell in love with the Blues—at the tender age of four.
Fishing the skeleton key from my purse, I pray. It still works. Hallelujah! The door creaks as I bump it open with my hip. Resting my shoulder bags on the floor, I survey the modest home where Mother Rain and her six sisters were born and raised. Like Mother, all my aunts left home when they married or went to college, except Aunt Mae. Aunt Mae, the youngest, attended Gibson County College so she could stay home with Gran-a-mi. She married James Brown. Not the Godfather of Soul, just regular ole James Henry Brown from Tornado, Tennessee.
Aunt Mae and Uncle James Henry’s first child was stillborn. They tried again to no avail. That’s when Jimmy Hank took up with a floozie in Springfield. Rumor had it that Jimmy Hank needed to prove he was not shooting blanks. Aunt Mae always said Booker was the best part of Jimmy. Aunt Mae died last year and left this place to me since I’m the oldest grandchild of the eldest daughter.
“Emma, is that you?” a man calls out as he walks in the front door.
“Who is it?” I am plugging in chargers for my cellphone and laptop.
“It’s me, Booker Lee—here you are.” He enters the room.
I rise to find the burliest man I’ve ever seen holding my suitcase. He looks to be seven feet tall. “Sure hope you’re not claustrophobic.” I blurt out to a virtual stranger.
Booker Lee stares at me.
“Your head,” I point. “It’s almost touching the ceiling.”
Booker’s laugh is hearty and infectious. I laugh too, until the discomfort I feel from his stare kicks in.
“Thanks for covering everything up,” I motion toward the furniture as I fiddle with the phone and laptop. “How much do I owe you for the bills?”
He waves me off. “Unless you have an air card, you’re wasting your time plugging those in,” he says switching gears.
I ask, “Why?”
“The closest cell tower’s quite a piece up the road,” he explains.
I’m disappointed and don’t take his word. “How far?” I ask.
Booker Lee breaks into a mock drawl. “Yall northerners think everybody Down South is a farmer, but I’m Regional IT Director for Bell South,” he laughs deeply. “So, I know a bit about that cellphone and PC. By the way, where you want the suitcase you left outside?” He raises my suitcase as if it’s empty.
“Just put it anywhere. I left it because it was too heavy for me to carry, and the driver wouldn’t wade through the weeds to bring—”
“—Oh, I can start cutting you a path through the front and back,” Booker says.
I nod. “Can we get something to eat first? I’m starving. I didn’t eat on the plane, and the driver didn’t have time to stop. Where’s the closest place to grab a bite?”
Booker laughs. “Has it been that long since you been here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Closest place to grab a bite is in your Grandma’s kitchen. Only café in Tornado closed when I was in high school. If you wanna drive 30 miles to get fast food, I’ll take you. But we’ll lose a day’s work.”
“What about a grocery store?” I ask.
“Follow me,” he says. “I went shopping this morning in Springfield. Picked up a few things I thought you’d like.” We walk into the kitchen.
A bowl on the table is filled with fresh fruit. Booker opens the refrigerator to reveal my favorite staples. Conspicuous on the fridge door is a carton of almond milk.
“How did you know I drink almond milk?”
“Same way I know you like tofu and chia seeds. There’s almond butter in the fridge, and Ezekiel bread, and berries in the freezer.”
“Who told you what to get—”
“I have my sources,” Booker smiles. “Have a seat. I’ll whip up a veggie omelet.”
“I can’t let you do that. You—”
Before I state my case, Booker has washed his hands and is cracking eggs into a bowl. He motions for me to sit. I am tired, so I sit at Gran-a-mi‘s kitchen table.
“What you been up to?” he asks.
“I hope you have receipts for the groceries, utility bills, and the tax bill.” Booker waves me off again.
“Tell me something good,” he says.
I lower my defenses. “It’s been twenty years since I been here,” I begin.
“Everything seems the same. Just like I remember.” I look around the kitchen: Formica table and matching chairs must be older than I am. Jell-O molds and copper-bottom pots hang neatly on one wall. Even the window sheers look familiar.
Running through the laundry list of things I’ve done (college, marriage, divorce, career moves) suddenly depresses me.
“You okay?” Booker seems concerned.
“I’ll set the table,” I say, to change the subject. Opening cabinets and peeking into the pantry until I find, I’m-not-sure-what, I assemble matching place settings. Bending to smell wildflowers in a mason jar, I catch my stride again. “Your turn,” I say. “What’ve you been up to, Booker?”
“Same song, different band: high school, then undergrad and grad school at Fisk, married my college sweetheart, Aileen. Caught her with my best friend—in my bed…. I’ve been at Bell South since I graduated Fisk. I tried to forgive Aileen, but she got pregnant by my ace-boon-buddy. So, I went my way, and they went theirs—But listen, soups up!”
Booker turns the prettiest omelet onto one of Gran-a-mi’s good dishes, sits down, extends his hands, and asks me to bless the food.
“God is great. God is good. We are thankful for this food. Bless the hands that prepared this beautiful meal. Amen.” I squeeze Booker’s strong hands, then try to let go long before he does. I pour scuppernong juice into wine glasses as he butters his toast.
I raise my glass, “To cousins,” I say. We clink and sip.
“You know we’re not cousins, don’t you?” He begins eating.
“What do you mean?” I am taken aback.
Booker chews slowly and swallows. “I’m not really your cousin, Emma.”
I am spooked but finally manage to ask, “Who are you—if you’re not Booker Lee Brown—Aunt Mae and Uncle Jimmy Hank’s son, my first cousin?”
Booker rips into his infectious laugh, but this time I don’t laugh with him. “I’m Booker Lee Brown, James Brown’s son. But your Aunt Mae didn’t birth me.”
He peers at me, as if for a reaction, then continues. “Your Aunt Mae raised me ‘cause my birth mother left me with my daddy ‘cause she didn’t want kids. Mama Mae raised me on the condition that Jimmy hit the bricks.”
“You can’t be serious!”
Booker shakes his head. “I figured you didn’t know.”
I am speechless.
We eat quietly, glancing at each other occasionally. After a while, Booker takes his plate to the sink. “Better get to work before I get lazy,” he announces. He looks at my nearly full plate. “You don’t care for my cooking?”
“It’s delicious,” I say. “I’m just not as hungry as I thought…” My voice trails off, no doubt betraying how nervous I am. Around Booker. This man whom I grew up thinking was my cousin. I am alone. In this secluded town where the closest neighbor is at least thirty acres in any direction.
Booker opens the back door. As if he reads my mind, he turns to say, “Blood is thicker than mud, Emma, but love and shared history is what makes folk kin.”
He walks out. I am glued to my chair until I hear chopping noises. Peeking from behind Gran-a-mi’s sheers I watch Booker cut down branches, thistle, and selfheal, making the paths he promised.
Bless what needs to be blessed
I am half asleep when Booker returns. I feel him before I see him. He wraps me up in the top sheet from my bed and carries me to the riverbank. My groggy eyelids open to complete darkness. For some reason, I thank God I had not died in my sleep. Last night, I dreamed of playing my yet-to-be-written music at a vintage piano. Cool dawn air tickles my toes.
What’s going on? I wonder. Booker whispers:
Be still. You’re okay in my loving arms, he spooks me again. Like he did before. Was it yesterday? It’s only been a day since I came home to Gran-a-mi’s? It seems like Eternity.
The night before, when I uncovered the furniture to go to bed, it wasn’t Gran-a-mi’s but my own. From my apartment in Chicago. My bed. My sofa. My desk. My bureau and chifforobe with my clothes—I had not packed—hanging inside. I uncovered the piano that is not Gran-a-mi’s spinet Papa won in a craps game. It’s the Bösendorfer Imperial I secretly promised myself but could not afford and never mentioned to a soul.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” Booker says, in a warmed-up voice, more awake than mine. “Looks like you slept well. You’re probably wondering why I brought you outdoors this time of day?” He doesn’t wait for my reply. “Well,” he begins, “Let me—I’m gonna tell you a story and I want you to receive it with an open mind….
“Since the Age of Baby Boomers, planet rulers have been observing and tracking us through hypodermis chips—”
Oh, God, have I been abducted by aliens? I wonder.
“It’s not what you think. Please hear me out: Colonizers, in anticipation of massive population booms, centralized everything: banks, commodities, water, thoughts, feelings—you name it. To monitor everything, everyone is put on the One World Chip System at birth—”
“So that’s how you knew what groceries to buy for me.”
“Yes—but we’re getting ahead of the story. I’d like to begin at the beginning if you let me.” Booker brings his face too close to mine. I feel and taste his breath. But it is too dark to make out his expression.
Reluctantly, I agree.
“At Southern Bell my team monitors chips in Tennessee and its eight bordering states. We have triangulated home bases in Memphis, Nashville, and Tornado.
“Unbeknownst to you, I was programmed to track you from conception. I heard your music from Aunt Rain’s womb. Sometimes I would put my ear on her belly when she was pregnant. In the beginning that was the only way I could hear you. As time went by, I could hear you from across the room, and then from anywhere in the world. I’ve been listening to you all your life, all my—”
“Is this some kind of mind-control game you’re running on me?”
“No, Emma. I promise you. I swear on my life. Please hear me out…”
Even if I don’t believe him, he knows so much about me that he has the drop on me. I may as well make it as painless as—
“There’s no pain involved,” Booker says. “It’s my job to take care of you and make sure you’re not just okay, but happy.”
The only thing that would make me happy is to be at home, in Chicago, in my apartment. Alone. Away from you and this god-forsaken nightmare, I think. And then I try not to think. What’s the use in thinking if he can read my thoughts?
Booker continues his story as if I’ve said nothing, thought nothing.
“On the day you were born, the midwife shooed me out of the room because she believed a child should not witness a birth. But your mother insisted I be present. When you came out, I was the first person you reached for. The midwife tried to steer you towards Auntie Rain, but your mom insisted I be the first to hold you because she knew I will also be the last.”
Why do I have this sinking feeling that life as I know it ended yesterday? Little did I know when I waded through that brush of weeds that this place would be my twilight zone.
If I could see his face, maybe I wouldn’t be so scared.
“You can see my face,” Booker’s voice sounds suddenly sweet. He turns my body to face the River. Chilled dew grazes my feet. The River’s darkness faces me as if in a standoff of sorts.
“Look deeply into the River: with your eyes, your ears, your sense of smell, taste, touch, and intuition. If you listen closely, the River will tell all.”
I listen to the River with closed eyes. Her southbound waters run gently, steadily as if someone is chasing her to the gulf to be washed into the sea. I think of Lake Michigan. I miss its shore, its waves: tall in storms, meek in milder times. Why isn’t River more like Lake Michigan? If I could hear the River’s tide catch its breath against the shore, maybe I’d find comfort.
Then I hear it ask, “Why did you take the lives of your siblings?”
But I have no siblings.
“That’s my point,” River retorts, “and I have no Lake Michigan.”
“Can you hear the River?” Booker asks. “…When you hear the River, you will see my face: every tale it’s ever held and future tales that will come my way.”
I ignore him. River has my tongue. River has my ear, eyes, and all that I am.
“As long as you speak to me,” River volunteers, “no one can hear you but me. Not Central Computers, not Booker, no one.…”
I smile with the River and see Booker as if for the first time. His back is pressed against mine. I feel the warmth of his girth melting away dawn’s chill. I ask River, Is Booker for real? Should I trust him? Should I be afraid? Why does he know me? Why don’t I know him?
“Yes… Yes… No…” River says.
“Because he was programmed to know you, and once things kicked off, he fell in love with you and his mission.
“You know Booker as well as he knows you and you’ve been searching for him in all the men you ever loved. They felt Booker too. That’s why they couldn’t love you. It’s not that they didn’t want you. They knew deep down they could never fulfill you.
“Booker is your messiah, and you are his,” River smiles and keeps running.
River is nature. I know I can trust nature, I think.
“Of course, you can,” Booker assures me. “What did the River say?”
That’s between me and River, I think for a while.
He smiles and thinks, Now you can see me.
“Tell me the rest of the story,” I plead. “Was my dad there when I was born? What did Daddy have to say about all this?”
“Of course, your Daddy was there. He questioned my presence at first, especially when your mom insisted I hold you while the midwife cut your cord. I was the first person in the world to kiss you. You rested your bloody head in the crook of my left arm as the blood of your cord ran into the cup of my right hand. Intuitively, I drank it. Your flavor pleased me. I smiled and hummed as I licked you from my fingers.
“At first, I thought you tasted like concord grapes, but it was scuppernong. Yours is like scuppernong nectar, and I love it! When the midwife saw this, she knew who we are to each other, and so did your Daddy. Aunt Rain always knew. She told him you are her wash-belly baby, but he didn’t want to accept that: his firstborn could not be his last.
“Your dad was hesitant because he always wanted other kids—at least one boy. But he knew the moment he laid eyes on you that you were every child he would ever want or need.”
That explains the strength of my masculine side. Sometimes I think I’m as much male as I am female.
“Everyone is,” Booker says. “But for me, you’re pure feminine, just as I am pure masculine for you….
“Remember when you met Zatemba?”
I gasp. Still new to the depths of this newness, I cannot fathom how Booker knows Zatemba.
“Yes, I know Zatemba,” Booker says. “You think of each other as soul mates. But you’re more like soul siblings. When he was being born in Burundi on the same day and time as you, his messianic female was with his parents and midwife too. She was living in Congo when you were in Chicago. Her name is Safia. They are reuniting in the village home of his maternal grandmother just as we reunite today in the village home of your Gran-a-mi.”
Hush your thoughts!
I blink in effort to take in so much.
Become what needs to become
Booker resumes my story. “Your midwife inserted chips in your sea of qi points. Each insertion caused you to whimper but you never cried. Your fontanelle sucked in chips so hungrily. The other three points absorbed them naturally too. You accepted your destiny happily then as I pray you will now. All you ever did prepared you for this moment.
“Your birth zip code, 38369 has been in all your addresses throughout your life. Your Chicago address, 693 East 8th Avenue, Penthouse-3 begins with your favorite position, followed by trinity (your favorite number), followed next by the house of the moon that governs your zodiac sign, which leads back to the trinity.
“It is no accident that your last home was Chicago’s only steel-frame building with red-brick reinforcement at each corner: N, S, E, W, like a vane—same bricks used for Gran-a-mi’s place. All apartments you’ve ever lived in faced Gran-a-mi’s and were grounded by 38369.”
My head nears implosion. Booker has never been to any place I lived outside Tornado. How could he know? Did he search them online?
“I don’t want to rush you, Emma, but if you take me as your husband before your birthday, I’ll be promoted to Executive Regional Director. I’ll make Regional VP if we get pregnant on our wedding night, and Executive VP at our child’s birth.”
I don’t like fast friends. They don’t last. They’re mere flashes in time.
Booker’s telepathy is stronger than mine, We can recalibrate time as we wish, he thinks. Soul mates can do that with each other.
The thought of recalibrating time intrigues me, tamping down the cranial implosion I feel brewing.
Booker whispers, “I have loved you since the beginning of time.”
Booker has always been kind to me, I say to River.
“He has,” River agrees.
We have always been each other’s crush, I remind River.
“Since before you were born,” River reveals.
He does not envy anyone or covet anything.
River nods. “He knew about the Bösendorfer. He knows you almost bought the Fazioli concert grand, but no mere 88 keys can compete with Bösendorfer’s 97-key, 8-octave perfection—though Fazioli comes close. Think of your future music. Together.”
What about Aileen, Mama Rain, Daddy, and Aunt Mae? I ask River.
“What about them? You know Aileen ain’t coming back, not after what she did to Booker. Your Mama and Daddy knew you and Booker would be together. Aunt Mae prayed for Booker’s happiness—yours too!” River announced.
Why would Aunt Mae pray—for my happiness? Who told her I was unhappy? I ask.
“You did. Your actions tell her and everybody else that you are unfulfilled. Mae and your Mama counted the days you would come to Booker. We all want—it must be your decision.” River is patient.
Things are moving too fast, River, I try to explain then catch myself.
“Your world is moving at whatever pace you and Booker set.”
Why did Booker know about me, and I did not know about him? I question.
“You knew,” River insists. “You’ve always known it was more than a crush. Remember the times you dreamed about Booker?”
I was just a kid, I think.
“Yes, you were just a kid?” Booker hears my thought, “And so was I.”
Booker’s back against mine feels like the home I always crave. I spent my whole life searching for this kind of feeling. Yet I cannot surrender.
I return to River: Booker is not boastful; nor does he indulge in self-pride. I’ve never known him to be dishonest, self-serving, or evil in any way.
“You know him better than you think,” River assures, “Booker loves you without conditions. He will never keep score. Trust him and he will protect you. Persevere with him to realize your every hope and dream.…”
But he wants to start now. It is too quick, I protest. I don’t know if...
“Now is all you have. Give yourselves to each other…
“You’ve known each other all your lives…
“Let him love you for a spell. If you don’t like it—and I know you will—then go back to your windy city of wild onions.” Suddenly River’s voice sounds like Booker’s.
I turn to Booker. He looks at me in dawn’s amber light. I rest my head on his shoulder. My arms ask him to hold me. I bury my head in his chest. His eyes wait to meet mine. He kisses my cheek.
The brush of his lips travels to mine. Booker takes me slowly, deliberately, and I take him. He pits my plum until I burst with the power of daybreak. Then he mounts me, tarrying until we see Zatemba and Safia locked in our ethereal bond. Tornado morphs into Chicago, Burundi, Congo, and our planet shifts to recalibrate time. We explode together: startling thunder and blinding lightning. I feel the soul of our son and then our daughter whisper into my womb as Booker’s thoughts speak to me.
We are married. Before God and River.
Regina Harrtis Baiocchi
1Boe, Meredith, “Li-Young Lee on Desire, Violence and Surrendering: A conversation with Li-Young Lee, author of The Undressing.” Chicago Review of Books 21 Feb. 2018: Web.
Regina Harris Baiocchi writes notes and words to fill vessels called music, poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Regina authored Indigo Sound, Urban Haiku, Blues Haiku, Variations in Black Music and founded Haiku Festival Chicago. Her latest CD is Hammers, Pipes & Strings. “Scuppernong” (fiction) and “smudge” (Fibonacci, pandemic poem) debuted in Rat ‘n’ Rooster Journal of Speculative Fiction & Poetry.
