No one had been arrested in the attempted murder of Marus Mudrick though there’d been dozens of witnesses to the attack, and the Newark Police Department claimed the Mudrick investigation was “high-priority.”
Ednetta was determined to remain a member of the AME Church, for the time being at least. The Black Prince would sway her to conversion perhaps, in time; but in the meantime Ednetta could not abandon her many relatives who belonged to the church; she could not break the heart of her grandmother Pearline Tice. It was true, she felt the powerful attraction of the Black Prince who taught that Christianity was a “slave religion” that had “emasculated” black Africans; yet, she could not abandon the hope of Jesus in her heart, and the hymns she’d sung in the church on Camden Avenue since she’d been a girl.
Ednetta didn’t like it that her daughter was a Muslim convert—but maybe it would be good for Sybilla, to dress modestly, and associate with girls nothing like the girls who were her friends in Red Rock. It would be good for Sybilla to be kept away from boys—the wrong kind of boys—and men. Good for Sybilla not to live with Anis Schutt any longer.
All that was over. That part of the girl’s life, that was Ednetta’s life as well. When the girl had come swaying on her feet to her, swollen-faced and bruised, but smiling like a drunk little girl proud of herself for doing something right for once—Mama, look.
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.”
The Sisters
FEBRUARY 28, 1988
TRENTON, NEW JERSEY
Dry-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.
“Still Alive”
She 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.
Ten-Thousand-Man March
MARCH 7, 1988
PASCAYNE, NEW JERSEY
Kill 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.
Did he care, fuck he did not care.
Fourteen years they’d been together. Except for Anis staying away sometimes but the place with ’Netta was home.
He’d never have another home, he guessed. All right with him.
Last three days he’d been drinking to numb the pain in his back and legs. Each day starting earlier and the alcohol made him feel heavy like lead in his veins. Used to be, drinking made Anis feel happy but no longer.
’Netta sayin the same with her. Plus God damn di’betes made her crazy-hungry why she put on weight.
Last year or so, the pain in Anis’s back and legs was worsening. Had to sit d
own where he could, outdoors there’s not many places to sit shake out his damn right leg the pain came so bad. Misery in wet cold weather. He’d been young not giving a damn for how he took care of hisself, like the guys on the truck with him. Calling him old man like they felt sorry for him but didn’t respect him.
Driving to Twelfth Street he was blocked again. God damn!
Pascayne PD cruisers, uniformed cops and cops in riot gear along the street like the U.S. Army. And he’d been seeing people running in the street, that age the TV called youths.
Cursed turning the car around in the street not giving a damn if he blocked other vehicles or scraped against some motherfucker parked at the curb. The more you were boxed-in, the more you felt needing to get out. Close behind him a driver sounded his horn and Anis leaned the palm of his hand on his own horn, hard. Thinking Somebody gon die tonight asshole, you keep that up.
Camden blocked at Washburn, too. More people on the street, and more cops.
It was the Ten-Thousand-Man March, he’d been hearing about. Everybody talkin about. Two men he worked with were planning to march, they’d said. Anis thought they had to be crazy, he’d just laughed. Assholes! Like they was Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. and anybody’d give a shit about what happened in Pascayne that was one of the shit-holes of New Jersey.
A march along Camden Avenue to the Pitcairn Bridge and across the bridge to City Hall and the courthouse. Had to be two miles, maybe three. He couldn’t march a mile or half-mile or a block, Christ!
Some Black Muslim march. They’d taken up Sybilla Frye, the Reverend had had to quit his Crusade.
It wasn’t the Nation of Islam, Anis had some respect for. It was the other black Islam-religion, started by some punk incarcerated in a prison and tellin himself Allah gives a shit for him.
(Had Mudrick died? Killed by some racist white man the cops didn’t stop from stabbing him? Asshole boastin he didn’t carry a gun and didn’t wear a bulletproof vest what’d he think would happen to him? Couldn’t remember if Mudrick had died but it served the motherfucker right, interfering in Anis Schutt’s family life.)