The Sacrifice (34 page)

Upside-down she’d scrawled words in Magic Marker on her naked body. The hard little bruised and bitten breasts with red-berry nipples, the skin taut against her ribs, the flat belly she’d written in black ink you could just manage to read—NIGRA BITCH KU KUX KLANN.

Mama, see? They don this to me. This what they done, an the other, an they left me like this, and you found me . . .

Quickly Ednetta said
Not me. Better somebody else, not your mama.

So it was happening, without Ednetta ever agreeing, that Sybilla wouldn’t be returning to Red Rock after this day. She wouldn’t return to that nasty high school where there were drugs, stabbings and shootings and all kinds of ugly sex acts right in the school building, and the teachers and administrators helpless to stop it, or indifferent, and that was a good thing, Ednetta thought—but it was a surprise, and something of a shock, to learn that Quarrquan had arranged for Sybilla to live in Newark, in a Muslim household only a block from the Temple; Ednetta had just learned that she could only see her daughter with the permission of this “foster” family, and with the permission of the Black Prince. There was no doubt, Sybilla would be better off enrolled in a special girls’ school taught by instructresses in the Faith. The girl’s Christian religion hadn’t gone very deep in her, Ednetta supposed.

Or maybe, it had been beat out of her by her stepdaddy’s fists.

“From this hour forward, in the name of the Prophet and in the name of Allah, you will live in
hope
, Aasia Muhammad! And you will bring
hope
to others dwelling in darkness and yearning for the light . . .

“Your heart must be open to Allah. For all is Allah, and there is not anything that is not Allah.”

FEBRUARY 28, 1988

TRENTON, NEW JERSEY

D
ry-swallowing the white pill, that left a bitter taste on her tongue.

If the Black Prince knew! But the Black Prince would not know.

It was the Sisters’ task, to prepare Aasia Muhammad for the rally.

Bright blinding lights, restless noise of the crowd like those big green insects eating—one of the plagues of Egypt.

The mother wasn’t allowed near Aasia, by decree of the Black Prince. Ednetta Frye shamed and humiliated and nothing Aasia could do, she’d turned away from
all that.

The Black Prince was addressing the crowd. The Black Prince in his radiant white robe, arms lifted in a blessing.

The Black Prince spoke the language of the Prophet. No more beautiful and sacred language had ever been uttered, than the language of the Prophet.

The audience did not know this language. Yet, the audience was
eager, like children, to echo the Black Prince’s words in an incantatory call-and-response.

She was one of those seated on the platform beside and behind the Black Prince. Eyes lingered on her hungrily. She was cloaked in white, and her long white sleeves to her wrists. And her long white skirt covering her ankles. And her white head scarf covering her tight-plaited hair stiff as a Brillo pad, that was itching her scalp without Mama to intervene.

Eyes lowered. Always, eyes lowered. The eyes of strangers moving over her hungrily, she must not acknowledge.

The black girl shamed and debased by “white cops.” Hurt so bad, only the Kingdom of Islam has saved her and will demand justice for her and for her sisters shamed and debased by “white cops.”

High up inside her, there was a sharp pain. It was not a steady pain but a quick-darting pain you could forget, until it recurred. This pain was too strong for the white pill to numb so it was always a surprise when it came sharp as it did—but then, it was not a constant pain. At first she’d thought
I will start to bleed. In these white robes!

But there was no blood. None of
that blood
.

For weeks now, there’d been none of
that blood
. After the beating she’d been having a period every fifteen days, twelve days, and bad cramps, but now the periods seemed to have stopped. She’d overheard the Black Prince saying she’d become too skinny, and a black girl does not look good if she is skinny. A daughter of the Prophet should exude health.

On the platform she sat as still as she could. This pose, the white pill did help.

Sat with her shoulders raised, her ankles crossed. Hidden beneath the long white skirt. And her head bowed, and her eyes near-shut.

It was easier, to keep her eyes shut. It was not a good idea to be glancing out into the audience, looking for faces.

Among strangers you look for a familiar face. How many times she’d seen Mama in an audience!—also Aunt Cheryl, Grandma Tice, Martine, Anis Schutt . . . Seeing Anis Schutt in some tall thick-bodied man at the rear of rows of seats or standing in the aisle not sure if he’s staying, and that was a shock to her, she’d regret. But also she’d seen teachers out in the audience, a woman like that neighbor who’d found her in the fish-factory cellar, faces not attached to names and in any case these were not the actual people, it was stupid for her to imagine they were, that they’d come some distance to see
her.

(Oh!—she’d heard, Jaycee Handler had been interviewed in the
National Inquirer
. Claiming Sybilla Frye had come to visit him in a youth facility at the time she’d said she was being held captive by “white cops” in Pascayne.)

(She’d heard this nasty lie. And other neighbors were telling of her and Mama, on Third Street. There was talk of a “grand jury” in Passaic County to investigate Sybilla Frye, Ednetta Frye, and the Mudrick brothers. The Black Prince had comforted her, now she was a daughter of the Prophet of the Kingdom of Islam the secular state had no authority over her. He would protect her, he promised. Any summons or subpoena served to her, the Black Prince would tear up on the steps of the Pascayne courthouse, for Allah had ordained him as the protector of Aasia Muhammad and the secular law would not dare confront him.)

Tonight was Trenton. A nighttime rally in the Trenton Armory, estimated three thousand people in the chilly, high-ceilinged place though she could not see them clearly even if she’d dared to lift her eyes, for there were bright lights shining onto the stage.

Against the night sky of Trenton was an illuminated sphere like a fallen moon, she’d marveled at it as they’d driven south into the city and was told that was the state capitol building for this city was the
capital city
of New Jersey.

Several cities she’d been taken to, in just these few weeks she’d
become Aasia Muhammad, a daughter of the Prophet. Sweetened goat’s milk she was given each night by her Sister-Mother to help her sleep, for her new family did not like her screaming in the night, in fear of bad dreams. And the sweet milk, like the white pill, helped numb the sharp-needle pains high inside her and if she was lonely for Mama, her Sister-Mother would hold her, and rock her to sleep.

On cue, “Aasia Muhammad” would rise from her chair, and move to center stage, where the Black Prince looming above her in his radiant garments would take her hand. The Black Prince would lead her to the pulpit where a blinding light awaited her like a burst sun. The Black Prince would introduce her to the reverent audience and she would speak her careful, memorized words.

“Hello! I am ‘Aasia Muhammad’—I am your sister in the Faith. My name was once ‘Sybilla Frye.’ You know of me—a ‘shamed black girl.’ But now, I am one of you. The Prince is seeking justice for me bringing war against the white Enemy. Please help him in this righteous war, and Allah will bless you.”

Inanely she was smiling, as the audience erupted into cries and sobs. Gently the Black Prince tugged at her arm, not at all impatiently for it was not the way of the Black Prince, to betray impatience with any of the faithful in a public setting.

A glance of disgust was enough, to wound. Aasia Muhammad understood.

She’d stumbled, returning to her seat. For a terrible moment it seemed that she might faint—fall clumsily onto the platform. Such a fainting spell had not been practiced, and would be an outrage to the Black Prince.

But she did not faint. A ripple of apprehension, then relief ran through the audience, that understood how she’d been kidnapped, beaten, raped, tortured, left for dead . . . Any weakness of the daughter, the faithful would forgive.

Following the deafening applause she was led offstage. She would not see the Black Prince again that night. Perhaps, she would not see him for many nights.

In the sharp cold air that smelled of a river she was being walked to a waiting car. She was homesick suddenly for that other river—nobody ever gave a glance to, in Red Rock. But you could see it walking to school, and you could smell it. And by Grandma Tice’s building you could see it. Her legs were feeling weak as a child’s legs. The pavement here was covered in something white and gritty like metallic filings—she was trying to recall the word for
snow
. Out of nowhere a figure approached her, a woman with a face that seemed wrong—a white face, like a joke-mask.

“‘Sybilla Frye’? Excuse me—please—you don’t know me, Sybilla, but I—I am—I’m the sister of Jerold Zahn . . .”

It was forbidden to Aasia Muhammad to speak with strangers unless directed by the Black Prince. For all strangers are the Enemy.

She did not speak, but she paused to stare openmouthed at the white-face woman.

Not a woman but a girl. A girl her age? Older? With anxious eyes, a wounded mouth.

There’d been white girls at school who’d been friendly to Sybilla and Martine. She’d been friendly to them.

Well, not really—just seeing them in the girls’ restroom where nobody was supposed to smoke, or out back of school, or at the Wawa. White girls hanging out with black guys, sharing joints, cans of beer, street-jive-talking.

“Sybilla Frye? I’m the sister of—Jerold Zahn . . .”

The name was one of those knives thrown at her. The Black Prince had cautioned her never to reply, she would be protected from the Enemy, yet she heard her voice startled and faltering:

“Who you sayin? Don’t know no ‘Jer’d Zehn.’”

The Sisters were moving her along. The Sisters hissed at the white girl to get away, before she was hurt.

“Please, Sybilla! You accused my brother of a terrible thing—you know it wasn’t true, please will you admit it? We are begging you, please . . .”

Aasia was shaking her head
No no.

Aasia did not remember that name. Or, Aasia could not speak with the white-face Enemy.

Left behind in the parking lot the girl called after them. Forlorn as a child, calling after them. Aasia heard
Please please please we loved my brother so much
like an echo in one of those bad dreams.

S
he knows me—of course. She knows what she has done to me and to Jerold and my family. She knows.

I think she is sorry for what she’d done. She will not recant, but she is sorry. I think I saw that in her eyes.

In one of her eyes, that locked with mine. The other eye appeared to be damaged.

We can forgive her, I think. The others, we can’t forgive.

But the girl, we need to forgive the girl.

Daddy? I spoke to her in Trenton last night, the girl.

In her eyes I could see how sorry and shamed she was.

We couldn’t speak. They were taking her away.

Yes—she knew me. She recognized Jerold’s name.

She said, I am sorry.

With her eyes, she said this.

We have to forgive. There is no other way.

Exhausted she slept at his bedside. On all sides, machines were monitoring the father’s life. When she wakened with a start she saw that her father was very still, scarcely breathing. In another ten minutes, her brother Lyle would be bringing their mother. How cruel it would be if Daddy died before Mom arrived to say good-bye to him, she prayed that God would not be so cruel.

But her father was still alive, steadily breathing. The machines were monitoring his life. If there was a sudden crisis, another stroke, the machines would signal an alarm. She leaned over her father, with a pang of joy she felt the faint breath.

Still alive.

MARCH 7, 1988

PASCAYNE, NEW JERSEY

K
ill you one of them. The time come now.

That black-feather thing tormenting him.
Ain’t gon die a righteous death if you fail in this, Anis.

It was like the thing had him by the throat. Way it say
Anis
you could hear the disrespect.

He’d found the gun on a shelf in the closet and was carrying it now in his left-leg-trouser pocket. Seemed like the right time at last.

Been meaning to take time to clean and oil it. Had not fired the damn thing in—how long?—had to be years.

Then, he’d missed who the fuck it was he’d been aiming at. Anis in that old rattletrap Plymouth, and the motherfucker in some big-ass SUV cuttin him off on Crater by the bridge, and Anis aimed out the window and fired and the look on the motherfucker’s face!—had to laugh, remembering.

Bullet just went wild, he guessed.

Driving on Crater now, why he was thinking of this.

Camden Avenue was blocked by cop vehicles. All day he’d been hearing about the “rally”—“march”—“Black Prince”—“Sybilla Frye.”

Nobody would say to Anis Schutt
Ain’t that girl your stepdaughter? ’Netta Frye’s girl?

Nobody would dare say to Anis Schutt
You gettin any of that money they’re making on that girl? She your daughter ain’t she?—or was?

Anis wasn’t living in the row house on Third Street any longer. Collection agency tryin to get him to pay eight hundred dollars back rent and “damage” but fuck that, he’d just laughed. Last he’d heard, Ednetta was taking away the younger children to live with relatives in South Carolina. Told him she wasn’t afraid of any “grand jury”—she would swear to tell the truth the whole truth so help me God and she would
tell the truth
in the white man’s face about them cops raping and beating her girl—but must’ve changed her mind, he’d have told her it was a God damn good idea to change her mind, news came to him the woman was gone.