Spells & Prayers

Tulsa, Oklahoma - June 1, 1921

Charles sat with his body pushed all the way back into the corner behind the heavy Davenport sofa. His feet were tucked tightly against his bottom, his back was hunched over, and his chestnut brown hands gripped a black, leather notebook only a shade or two darker than his own skin. His face was pushed close to the page as he read the strange words in a frantic whisper, more like a chant. He could still smell the oil soaked into the cowhide of the notebook’s cover as well as the scent of the crisp, new pages. Most of the words were in English, but he was still able to read the few words that were not. He started at the top of the page and read to the bottom and then started again back at the top, just like Granny had instructed. A sharp kitchen knife was hidden behind the sofa as well, within his reach.

The sound of his own voice and its repetitive chant competed at times with the outside noise of screams filled with pain and terror, gunshots, explosions, and the crackle and pop of a raging fire as it devoured the homes and businesses of his hometown. But it was the sound of the whoops and cheers that struck him with the most horror - by far the worst sounds that thrust their way into his ears. The fact that he didn't jump up and flee in a panic as everything in him pushed him to do, was a testament to his faith in his Granny. His faith that she loved him deeply. His faith in her ability to protect him and keep him safe. His faith based on the fact that for every one of the 12 years of his life, she’d done exactly that.

When the first sounds of the attacks came upon his neighborhood, Granny’s first thought had been of him. She’d grabbed the little, black notebook from a dresser drawer in her bedroom, flipped it to a certain page and shoved it into his hands.

“You know how to read. I taught you good. No matter what happens, no matter who comes, you keep reading this here page, over and over. Start at the top of the page, read to the bottom. Then, start over again. Put all your feelin’ into them words and know that no thing will harm you. You hear me now, boy?” she queried anxiously, her hands weighing his shoulders down.

"Yes'm..but what about Mama and Papa?” Charles had asked.

“That’s where I’m going now,” she answered, “To help them. This here house ain’t gon’ burn. The protection on it is too strong - stronger than even them devils what’s running through Greenwood right now. You stay in here ‘til it’s safe to come out...”

Granny paused and closed her eyes briefly. She took a deep breath in and out then continued.

“If’n I don’t get back, you find a way to get to your Uncle Rance and Aunt Mary back East. Check in the bottom drawer of my dresser and you’ll see letters with a return address and money for the train. Take all the money you find.”

“No, Granny! Noooo!” Charles wailed, his shout stepping on the end of her last sentence.

She tightened her grip on his shoulders. Her clear, dark eyes stared intently into his.

“You. Live. Boy. Ya, hear me now?” she asked fiercely. “You live. That’s how we win.”

Charles wrapped his arms around Granny and swallowed past the hard lump in his throat.

With his face smushed against her solid body, he replied, “Yes’m.”

He breathed in her lavender perfume. Felt the yellow silk, flowered dress against his cheek, admired how pretty the color looked against her caramel colored skin, and sank into the cozy, full-bodied warmth of her hug.

He knew his Granny had visions. Visions that came true every time. Always right. Never wrong.

She hugged him for a few more minutes whispering faint words over him one last time, then gently removed his arms and led him to the corner behind the sofa. She went into the kitchen and returned with the sharp knife. After hiding it carefully and safely behind the heavy-set couch she kneeled and said:

“Read.”

He read the page. Granny interrupted him twice to correct his pronunciation of a word or two and when he was done she said, “Now remember, you keep reading no matter what. Same page, over and over.”

She touched his cheek gently, stood up, and left.

He was all alone in the house.

Granny was on her way to their family-owned general store. To Mama and Papa. Down the road. Where they kept several rifles.

Long after she left, Charles kept chanting. Fear filled his slight body as twilight began to darken the room. Still, he chanted - blocking out the sounds of terror in the streets. After a while, he began to tingle. Slightly at first, but then the intensity began to slowly increase. Eventually, the sensation became so strong that it felt as if a beehive had broken open inside of him and a thousand bees were buzzing all through his body, in his skull. Still he kept chanting.

Suddenly, his stomach flipped over and a wave of pain crashed through his heart. He stopped chanting and abruptly a keening wail erupted from his soul, ripping through his raw throat. Hot tears leaked from his eyes.

They were gone. His family was gone. He knew it. He could feel it.

BAM! BAM! BAM! THWACK!

Charles heard the front door slam forcefully against the wall as it flew open, just as the bitter pain of his loss had begun to seep into his spirit.

He gripped the leather of the little, black notebook tighter than ever and laid his eyes on his grandmother’s slanting script. He began chanting again. Now, however, there was no fear. Only rage and pain, which he funneled into every word he spoke.

He could hear the sound of boots entering his home. One pair of boots stumbling around. Only one man. Breaking and smashing his way through Charles’ family, through the boy’s beloved memories.

Charles kept chanting. And the sound of it - or something else - drew the man toward him. Charles could hear the heavy tread of footsteps approaching the couch he was hidden behind. Then they stopped. There was an odd pocket of silence. No chanting, nor any sounds of violence outside. In that space of quiet, a pale face appeared, peering down at Charles over the top of the Davenport.

Charles saw thin lips twisted into a disdainful sneer and crooked teeth exposed in a mouth surrounded by a scruffy beard. The nauseating smell of sweet liquor on sour breath slid into Charles’ nostrils as watery, grey eyes attempted to stab him with their hatred. For a moment, Charles thought he saw a flash of red in those eyes but it came and went so fast, later he was never sure if it had actually been there. Gathering up the fullness of his own hate, of his own disdain, of his own rage, Charles channeled those emotions into his spell for what seemed like an endless two, three minutes of time. He glanced up every few words or so, waiting for the man to attack, preparing himself to grab the knife.

But the man did not attack.

Charles glanced up from the notebook one last time and noticed that the man was oddly still, his facial expression frozen in hate. Dropping the notebook, Charles stood up slowly, holding onto the wall, his legs stiff from crouching so long. He walked gingerly around to the front of the sofa. A glistening pool of blood stained Granny’s beloved burgundy Davenport sofa. He took a few more steps around the unmoving man and from a different angle saw that there was a thick shard of glass slicing through the man’s shirt and into his torso. Charles kicked one of the motionless legs, and the man tipped over and slid slowly to the floor landing with a dull thud, his eyes still wide open.

The man was dead.

Charles spat on him. Then kicked, and punched and stomped the lifeless body until he exhausted himself. He sat breathing hard for a moment, and noticed that the sounds of the outside mayhem were subsiding.

Eventually, he dragged and pushed the body into the corner where he’d had to hunker down all day in fear for his life. He maneuvered the heavy couch as best he could to block the body from view, and threw some pillows on it to hide the blood, though it seemed to be blending in with the fabric of the couch. Next, he wiped his hands on his trousers, picked up the notebook, the last thing his Granny had given him, closed the front door and slid their roll top desk in front of it to block the entrance. He propped a chair under the doorknob of the back door, then went upstairs to Granny’s room.

It was dark now. He was afraid to turn on a light bulb, so he lit an oil lantern, keeping it low and away from the windows as he rummaged around in Granny’s dresser drawers. It didn’t take long for him to find the letters with his Uncle Rance’s address on it. Near the letters, taped to the back of the bottom, right drawer, was a thicker envelope. He pulled it free and opened it. It was the money. More money than he’d ever seen! Most of it in hundred dollar bills. Charles had never even seen one of those before. Did not know they even existed. He began counting the money slowly and carefully. Three times. It was a little more than $20,000! After the trauma of the day, his mind was shutting down. He couldn’t really think right, but one question formed clearly in his foggy thoughts as he counted: How had Granny come by so much money? Tired and knowing that travelling at night was a bad idea, he returned the money to the envelope, laid down on Granny’s bed, and began to cry. Completely worn out, he eventually fell into a strangely, fitful sleep.

The next morning, he packed a sack with the notebook, the letters, photos of Granny, Papa & Mama, and some of his mother’s jewelry, including a cameo necklace with a picture of her in it. Most of the money though, he hid in his shoes. One neat stack of bills split evenly under each foot. It was uncomfortable, but the safest thing he could think of. Next, he put five $1 bills in his pocket for train fare. He left quietly and carefully through the back door as dawn was breaking. It would be the last day he ever set foot in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Epilogue

Newark, New Jersey - June 14, 1969

Angela sat fidgeting next to her Grandpa, waiting at some bureaucrat’s desk. She did not know why Grandpa made her come with him down to the Social Security office while he pretended to be deaf and senile, but he always did. Soon, the employee returned to her desk. Her short, black afro sparkled with sheen and her powder blue eyeshadow made her look like a movie star.

“Okay, Mr. Freeman. This is the form you need to complete in order to straighten out your payments. I guess this pretty, little girl is here to help you? How old are you sugar?” The woman smiled at her.

“I’m 12,” Angela said aloud while thinking, “I am NOT a little girl. But I’ll take the ‘pretty’ compliment.”

Grandpa just nodded and smiled politely, holding onto a cane he did not need.

By now, Angela knew all of her grandfather's details so she began immediately filling out the form:

Name: Charles Freeman - D.O.B.: 01/25/1909 - Place of Birth: Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Spouse: Lula Mae Freeman née Sumter - D.O.B. 11/09/1907 - D.O.D.: 05/15/1968

It had been just over a year since Big Mama had died but Angela still felt a pain in her heart as she wrote down her grandmother’s information.

Last year had been an awful year. She’d lost her grandmother to cancer. Black folks had lost Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. to murder. The Vietnam War was still going on and though people protested, it didn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon.

The weight of it all had caused Angela to spend long hours in her room, away from everybody in a deep funk.

The only thing that brought her out of her blues were the two good things that happened last year. The first good thing that happened was Grandpa got nicer. He began telling her what his life was like when he was a kid. Angela learned that when he was only twelve, just like her, he’d lost his grandmother, mother, and father in one awful day. And he’d had to leave his home and come all the way to New Jersey to live with his uncle. With very few words and little emotion, he spoke of hoping and waiting for weeks for word that his family was somehow still alive. Those words never came. It was such a sad story that she stood up and hugged him when he was done telling it. It was the first time she could remember doing that in years. He was a little stiff at first, but eventually he hugged her back.

The weirdest part of the story to Angela, was the “book of spells” he got from his grandmother. Angela could tell he really believed it had saved his life that day. When she asked him where his Granny got the spells from, he’d told her that it came from his grandmother’s, grandmother. Not the book itself, but the spells. His grandmother was the first one who could read and write, so she wrote down what she was taught. Then she gave it to him before she died.

It was a crazy story. And Angela’s mind was totally blown when Grandpa gave it to her! The actual little, black notebook he’d used. He said he didn’t need it anymore - that he’d studied it but only used it twice after that first time.

Angela had put it in a drawer next to the Bible that Big Mama had given her to take to Sunday School every weekend. Big Mama had been a petite woman with a huge spirit, strong opinions, and an unshakable faith in God. She knew Big Mama would NOT like that book next to her Bible! But sliding that drawer open and seeing those two books together made Angela feel like her grandparents were still connected, still together somehow, instead of each being on different sides of the door for life and death.

The other good thing that happened in 1968 was Michael moved next door. He became like a big brother to Angela. He taught her how to play basketball and introduced her to his high-school girlfriends, making her feel cool and definitely NOT like a little girl. He cheered her up a lot. But when she found out that he would be 18 years old in August, she became agitated with worry and couldn’t stop thinking about him getting drafted into the war. What if he was killed? What if he came back shell-shocked and didn’t remember or care about her anymore? What if he came home a junkie and started doing terrible, evil things to get dope?

She started having nightmares. One night she woke up from a dream where Michael was sitting in a jungle wearing a green camouflage uniform and eating brains from his helmet. She somehow knew those were her brains. In the dream, Big Mama and Grandpa each had a bow and arrow and they were shooting arrows at Michael that just kept bouncing off of him as he calmly continued his meal.

Angela woke up from the dream sweaty, nauseous, and frightened. To calm herself, she drank a glass of cool water, then slid the drawer of her night-stand open. She pondered the two books she saw there….which one? Which one could help Michael? Could maybe help her?

Eventually, she fell asleep, still uncertain.

The next morning at breakfast, in between munching on spoonfuls of cereal, she asked Grandpa a question.

He was sipping coffee and had made himself some scrambled eggs.

“Grandpa?” she asked.

“Ummm-hmmm.”

He was behind a wall of newspaper, barely listening to her.

“Did you ever wonder that if you had prayed to God, instead of doing the spells, everybody might have lived? You, your Granny, and your parents?”

He was silent and still behind his newspaper.

Angela continued hurriedly, “I mean because in Sunday School, in church service and even Big Mama was always talking about the power of prayer. But now she’s gone, so did prayer help her? I don’t know. I mean I don’t even know the difference between a spell and a prayer. They seem kind of the same or similar….”

Grandpa lowered his paper and looked at Angela. She could see pain in his expression which made her feel awful.

“I was only 12. I did what my Granny told me,” he said in a tight voice.

Angela nodded, “Okay. Sorry, Grandpa. I know.” She got up and refilled his mug of coffee.

He grunted and shielded himself with the newspaper again.

It wasn’t until later, seated cross-legged on her bed looking at the two books lying on her orange bedspread that she realized Grandpa had answered her question.

She reached for the Bible and felt her grandmother’s spirit smile upon her.