The Sacrifice (26 page)

G
od
damn
.”

He’d tripped on a step. Hurrying, breathless, and he hadn’t glanced down, or having glanced down hadn’t seen the step, for his vision was occluded and the beat of his blood strong and distracting in his ears and there were strangers watching, whose faces he couldn’t see—a TV audience? And these blinding lights?

“Jesus help me . . .”

Waking then, abruptly. Sweating. And for a moment not recalling where he was except
not home
.

Not in his own bed, in his home. But in a spare bedroom, in a lumpy bed, at his brother’s place in Newark.

For he and Klarinda had had a rare quarrel and the consequence was that in the heated aftermath he’d said God damn it all right, he would move out, and Klarinda said she thought that might be a good idea, for now.

How furious he’d been! How quick to be wounded, how sensitive
to Klarinda’s every word, every glance these past several weeks—his wife whom he’d loved for too long perhaps, he’d become overly dependent upon the woman, and so weakened in himself, as a man.

Unlike his brother Marus: dependent upon no female, on principle.

Hot-faced, shaking, relenting just slightly, for his pride had been grievously wounded by the woman’s accusations, if she so distrusted him, if she had no faith in him—if she wanted him to move out
he would
.

And gazing at her husband with frank pitying eyes Klarinda had said: “Yes. I think so, Byron. As long as you’re aligned with
him.
That might be a good idea, for now.”

Excited by the prospect of combat, he could not easily sleep.

In dread of public failure, exposure and humiliation, he could not allow himself to sleep.

Recalling how in the hot damp darkness of their mother’s womb he’d fought for nourishment, most desperately he’d fought against
being consumed
by his larger twin. For sometimes it happens, more often than a surviving twin would wish to think, that the larger fetus drains life from the smaller, and sucks the smaller being into itself to lodge like a secret tumor in some region of the chest, the gut, the skull.

Some measure of prenatal memory lay deep within him, the instinct of an animal that has never seen the prairie, for instance, but knows how to raise itself cautiously on its rear haunches, and then its front legs, and its head lifted warily, for the flat landscape is a place of predators.

There are animals for whom all landscapes contain predators, as there are animals for whom all landscapes contain prey.

“Time to escalate, Brother.”

“Why do you say that? ‘Escalate’—how?”

Dreading what plan Marus had next.

Aligned with his brother Marus, Byron Mudrick had at last received the public attention long withheld from him: TV and radio interviews, a joint-profile titled “The Crusading Mudrick Brothers of New Jersey” in
Essence
, the most astonishing respectful coverage in the
New York Times
, the
Washington Post
, the Newark
Star-Ledger
, the Trenton
Times
, the
Nation
and
Mother Jones
as well as black publications.

Yet, despite this early, vertiginous success it had begun to be evident that interest in the Crusade for Justice for Sybilla Frye was waning by the second week of December. A spike of publicity in the New Jersey–New York City area would bring with it almost immediately thousands of dollars in donations to the Care Ministry of Central New Jersey, and pledges for more, but these quickly leveled off as a fickle public became distracted by other racial issues, and outrages, publicized by the media.

After the near-disaster of the “march” along Camden Avenue to the Pitcairn Bridge and across the river to City Hall . . . Narrowly, chaos had been averted; the deployment of hundreds of law enforcement officers had saved them, ironically. If there’d been fewer cops, the crowd would have swarmed out of the church and along the avenue, like a great beast without a brain; older and slower individuals would have been trampled; stores would have been looted, vehicles and buildings set afire, and the Crusade for Justice for Sybilla Frye would have ended, as such poorly organized gatherings often did, in the destruction of the marchers’ own neighborhood. Reverend Mudrick had protested to TV cameras the “Nazi-Racist Police State” that curtailed the march before it had begun, but Byron Mudrick had been greatly relieved; only a half-dozen individuals had been
injured in the melee, that had been contained within a single city block; police had arrested few marchers, hadn’t used excessive force so far as Byron knew, and, thank God!—had shot down no one.

Inside the church, Byron had heard gunshots on the street. Like the white-skinned journalists and media people trapped in the first several rows of the church he’d been terrified by the sudden explosion of energy his brother Marus had unleashed, with the reckless aplomb of a boy tossing a match into dried tinder.

Having exhorted the crowd to march out of the church and across the river to City Hall, Marus had held back, himself. He’d escorted Ednetta Frye and the girl out of the church, at the rear, to take refuge in Reverend Denis’s house next-door.

Byron hadn’t had any warning that Marus was going to make the announcement he’d made from the pulpit of the church, charging his followers to march across the river seeking “justice.” He’d been stunned, appalled. He’d been terrified. His brother had always behaved unpredictably, following his instinct for attracting attention and provoking controversy; but Byron could not forgive him for not having confided in
him
.

Jesus! My brother is insane.

Reckless, vicious . . .

But I’m the one who will be disbarred.

Afterward, Marus said with a shrug that he hadn’t consulted with Byron because he’d known that Byron would have counseled him against the impromptu march. And Byron said, incensed, “You are right, Marus! You are absolutely right.”

“You’re a conservative by nature, Brother. I’m a radical.”

“You’re a
Christian
. You can’t betray the basic tenets of our religion.”

“Brother, there are ‘conservative’ and ‘radical’ Christians. Jesus
Christ was hardly ‘conservative’—He died for his radical beliefs, and we must emulate him.”

“You don’t want to die for your beliefs, Marus—don’t be ridiculous. Like King? Like Malcolm X? Not you.”

Wanting to add, with a younger brother’s disdain
Beliefs! As if you have any.

Yet calmly Marus said, clasping his fingers across his sizable belly with an air of satisfaction: “You are very mistaken, Brother Byron. When Marus Mudrick walks out into the streets, when he stands at a pulpit, he is exposing himself to—whatever will happen, that is the will of God. This is the truth of my life, as I have explained many times.”

Byron laughed, uneasily. He resented his brother taking on this vatic tone, that was so obviously hypocritical; yet, Byron never ceased to feel that, in some way, Marus believed what he was saying, while he was saying it.

“My identification is,
I am a Christian. I am a Christian minister who bears witness for Christ
—that is who I am.”

In this, Marus Mudrick meant to establish his territory as a black Christian, like Martin Luther King Jr. and Jesse Jackson; unlike the visionary Malcolm X, and Marus’s contemporary Louis Farrakhan, celebrants of an exclusionary black religion.

(Marus’s only serious rival in black activist causes was the black Islamic leader known as “The Prince”—reputedly, an ex-convict who’d anointed himself Leopaldo Quarrquan. His headquarters were in Baltimore but Quarrquan often traveled to the New Jersey–New York City area, which Marus considered his territory. Byron had cautioned Marus not to provoke a feud with Quarrquan, for it would only go badly for Marus Mudrick, if he did: the Kingdom of Islam did not hold itself, even rhetorically, to the principles of Christianity.
Quarrquan was reputed to have arranged for the assassinations of Kingdom of Islam rivals; he’d long been associated with the death of Malcolm X, whose murderers had never been identified. Yet in his reckless way Marus Mudrick charged his rival with “deceit” and “duplicity” within the black community, and “betraying Christianity”; in interviews, Marus dared to point out that at the time of Malcolm X’s assassination in Harlem, on February 21, 1965, the head of the Kingdom of Islam Leopaldo Quarrquan had been living in Newark, only forty-five minutes away.)

Byron said irritably, “How can you call me a ‘conservative’? I’ve been fighting for black rights in the courtroom all my adult life! As I am a lawyer, I’m bound by the law—to a degree. I do believe in revolution—legally. I don’t believe in risking the lives of innocent, naÏvely trusting people. Sending those people out to march on City Hall! What if the police had panicked and begun beating and shooting them? What if people had died?”

Marus frowned, and shrugged. He’d removed his glasses and their imprint was visible on the flat wide bridge of his nose. Thoughtfully he said, as if this were in confidence to his brother, “There must be sacrifice in revolution. At any time, any one of us might be chosen.”

“You can choose for yourself, if you want to be a martyr. Martin Luther King chose for himself. But you have no right to choose for other people.”

“You don’t understand, Brother. I am the people’s
leader
. They look to me for hope, and I give them hope. ‘The Crusade for Justice for Sybilla Frye’ is but one chapter in the epic of Marus Mudrick’s life—it may be a prominent chapter, or a minor one. We don’t—yet—know how far it will take us.”

“What do you mean, ‘us’? What about the girl?”

“The girl is blackness violated, scorned and debased. The girl is the perfect black victim.”

“Well. Unless the girl comes forward soon with more information, and can describe her assailants more specifically, there isn’t much farther we can go with this ‘perfect black victim.’ It was a terrible mistake for her mother to remove her from the hospital before the examination was complete and a rape kit was assembled.”

Byron spoke contemptuously, as if to say
Rape kit! There was never any rape, and we know it.

Byron spoke hotly, and waited for Marus to contradict him.

But Marus only said, stiffly, with a shifting of his lower body as if he were having digestive pains, “Nothing the Fryes did was a ‘mistake’—they acted instinctively. It’s unfair for you to judge them, Brother Byron, with your fancy law degree.”

“You should have asked me to interview them, before you took on this case, Marus. Or at least to be present when you spoke with them initially.”

“Why’d I do that? You’d of scared them off, Brother Byron. With your legal-ese and big words. Mao would have recognized Sybilla and Ednetta and honored them—peasants, the material for revolution.”

“Mao? You’re quoting Mao?”

“Mao spoke most clearly, Brother—‘courage in battle, no fear of sacrifice, no fear of fatigue, continuous fighting’ . . .”

“Quoting Chairman Mao! In your three-piece suit and elevated shoes. Fuck you, Brother.”

Byron laughed incredulously. Had he moved out of his home, was he risking his marriage of two decades, for
this
? In an instant, not knowing why, he was furious with his brother and would have liked to strike Marus’s smug, fat face.

Except, when they’d been boys, Marus had been the one to slap first, and hard.

Punch, pummel, pinch, kick. Hard.

Byron snatched up his worn leather briefcase, and headed for the door.

With brotherly mockery Marus called after him in his mellifluous preacher’s voice: “Brother, bless
you
.”

H
e’d told them it wasn’t safe.

In the (rented, run-down) row house on Third Street. In the two-floor duplex where she’d been living with Anis Schutt since before that trouble at the Polk Clinic when she’d had to quit and pay back money she hadn’t even stole—and Sybilla had been a little girl.
That happy time. O Lord.

Wasn’t safe in Red Rock where she’d lived all her life. Where her friends and family lived, and Sybilla’s friends and family. And Anis Schutt.

Gravely the Reverend explained: rumor was, Pascayne PD had a “hit” planned for her and her daughter.

Sometime before Christmas, possibly. If they remained in their house they were “living targets”—a SWAT sniper in plainclothes would be sent—so quick, they wouldn’t know they’d been hit.

Ednetta was terrified. Sybilla said in a whiny voice, “Oh shit, Mama! Where we goin to live, then?”

For a few days they stayed with Ednetta’s sister Cheryl and her kids which was a strain on the adults in such close quarters but wonderful for Sybilla and Martine who could share Martine’s bed and watch TV together; but Martine went to school each weekday, and Sybilla had to stay home sulky and fretting. And Ednetta disobeyed Marus Mudrick’s wishes by slipping back to the row house on Third Avenue, where Anis Schutt was living.

It was imperative, the Reverend said, that he could reach Ednetta at any time. If something happened, and he needed to contact her.

“He tellin us what to do all the time, seems like,” Ednetta complained to her sister; and Cheryl said, in her snide-sister way, “You went to
him
, ’Netta.”

“Sister Ednetta? Look at today’s newspaper.”

In Cheryl’s kitchen, and the kids screeching. Ednetta cupped her hand over the receiver trying to explain to the Reverend that there wasn’t any newspaper at her sister’s and the Reverend said curtly, “Then get one. I’ll call back in ten minutes.”

Cheryl sent one of the boys out to fetch a paper.

At 939 Third Street the
Pascayne Journal
came every morning. Reverend Mudrick had paid for a subscription. Since what had happened to Sybilla, and the first of the articles in local papers, Ednetta had begun to read the local paper, or at least to quickly skim it, for the first time in her life on a regular basis.

Now, newspapers were accumulating on the front stoop of the row house, or moldering with wet on the ground. Anis rarely picked up a newspaper though when he was home he watched TV local news to check, as he’d say, who’d gotten arrested or killed that day he might know. (Seeing the face of someone newly deceased whom he’d known Anis would say with a pained smile
That do it for you, bro!)