Gathering

The fluorescent lights create a pulsing beat of nothingness. A nothingness so bright that I gotta squint to see it. I like when the lights are off. When my mind is left to create the world around me. When my senses are untethered to the false realities of what others want me to see. Taking me back to our little cabin in them trees, few steps up from the creek.

They say they’re not sure what’s wrong with me. That my stories don’t make sense - the things I seen were never things to see at all. That them envelopes were never real, them names in my gatherer weren’t sent from someone and that Ma had been sick too. They say “we’ve been blind to reality.”

But tell me, if a blind person were to tell you to be careful, what would you think? When they tell you to watch out for the step in front of you, how would you react? They call me crazy… I don’t ascribe to the word crazy. I don’t ascribe to the thought that them people weren’t supposed to die.

I tried time and time again to read to them the story of Abraham and his son, but they wouldn’t listen. They wouldn’t take the time to listen to me with their eyes to hear that I was simply doing what I was told to do. My family been doing this for years. Why would I stop? Ma told me this would happen if they ever found out what we did.

I guess looking back my instincts were trying to prevent me from ending up in this place. But I mean $20,000. Twenty thousand fucking dollars. Them were the exact words that came out of my mouth that day when I opened up that envelope.

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I could see the dusty manila envelope on the first step of the porch. The screen door seemed to open on its own, creaking on its wooden hinges like it was telling me it was time. I was tired. Tired of having to remove someone else’s air in order to make sure I could continue to breathe my own. Tired of knowing my purpose was tied to someone else’s existence. My complaining was hushed by Ma’s voice in my ear, reminding me that this was what we were born to do.

Her eyes squinting, I felt like I could almost see her pupils dashing back and forth behind them thick gates of eyelashes. She was always making sure that my eyes heard what she was saying.

“We all have a purpose in this world Sweet, some just choose to ignore it but we don't have that luxury. Our purpose keeps the clock ticking. It keeps the big hand meaning minutes and the little hand meaning hours. Do you know what that means?”

“No Ma…” was always the response in my head. I never did know what she meant, 20 years later and I still had no clue. But I knew it had to do with my purpose and that was all that mattered.

Ma’s lecture played like a record on low volume in my head.

“It means that we are keeping order. When people bring names to us, and we do what we are told, we are protecting the future. My ma, your Nana, would explain it like this,” Ma’s accent switched to the high-pitched, buttery voice of Nana…

“Most of them people in that town way up the road. They don’t know right from wrong. But every now and then God puts a little name in they ear and then they realize who’s doing most of the wrong. But they don’t know what the hell to do with that name. That’s why we are on this earth, Cakes.’ You know, your Nana always called me Cakes.

She’d say, ‘Cakes, our God-given purpose is to help protect them people down there. And don’t you ever question if what you doing is right because it is. Some people ain’t meant to stay on this earth long, some people God gone call on home early and we just doing what we supposed to do to get them there.’ Your Nana had a way of laying our purpose out in the most beautiful of ways, I’m not as good as her but you know what I’m trying to tell you…”

Ma’s tenacious lecture faded into the background as I bent down to pick up the envelope. It felt like I was picking up something heavier than them rocks in the creek. I was confused by its weight, but let the thought pass. I sighed, tearing it open, grabbing the hundred dollar bills and counting to make sure it was all there. A folded up check fell out as I flipped the envelope over. The folds of the check made it look like someone was trying to make the whole piece of paper disappear. The memo line had a name on it, but I remember thinking that I wasn’t ‘pposed to get another name ‘till next month.

Then I saw the amount on the check and it felt like my heart froze for just a second..

Memo: Jacqueline Corde- 2626 W. Lane Dr. - $20,000 - get it done tomorrow.

Shit. $20,000. Twenty whole thousand fucking dollars. Shit. It was the most money I’d ever seen in the context of potentially being mine. But when the fuck was tomorrow. And what the fuck was so special about Jacqueline Corde.

I wondered if Ma ever had ever seen a number this big written out for her. “Jacqueline Corde - $20,000.”

Something about the name was so eerily familiar. Had I met a woman named Jacqueline in a dream? Or maybe I'd seen her name on a torn receipt in the trash bin in the kitchen. Jacqueline Corde.

The name roamed ‘round in my head as I walked up the wooden stairs of the porch back into the house. I grabbed the yellow pen from behind my right ear, wincing as it collided with my cut from gathering the name last week. I reached into the bottom pocket of my cargos and felt for my gatherer. My fingertips met the engraved black leather cover, calming my nerves. I didn’t know what the Jacqueline Corde name was doing to me. My fingers found the small black chip bookmarking the last page I wrote on and I flipped open the little black book, scribbling down ‘jacqueline corde - 2626 west lane dr. - $20,000”

I closed the black leather cover and watched my chest raise up and down faster than usual. I breathed in deep, trying to collect myself. I had no idea what the hell was happening. I thought for a second that someone might be poisoning me, like maybe that sheet of paper was a trick and I'd actually touched some arsenic or something. My throat was tight, like every swallow was a black eight ball trying to roll down. Then I knew, my body was trying to tell me something, but my mind was steadfast just like Ma taught me.

Tomorrow would be no different than all the other days. I’d knock on their door, meet them at their steps, ask if I can come in and we’d have a drink. They’d wonder why this beautiful stranger was choosing to spend time with them and then they’d close their eyes.

It was the name though. Corde. I grabbed my gatherer, I remember trying to see if some other names would jog my memory.

1910 Names

James Harding - $25

Daryn Corde - $60

...

Flipping through the little black book’s pages I could smell the generations of my family’s work. I could damn near see my hands turning into Nana’s as I went back to pages of 1935, to the names that were gathered by my Nana.

1930 Names

Bill O’Neal - $1,200

Winston Corde - $1,000

...

I'd never noticed the family name “Corde” showing up multiple times.

“It couldn’t be the same family,” I thought aloud.

The money we came into doing our purpose was by chance, random mandates from them people in town trying to do what was best for their families. Not some conspiracies trying to take out family names.

“It must be a coincidence. Ma would have told me if we were destroying the same family over and over,” I was having an argument with myself, one voice in my head, one voice talking out loud.

“There’s no way,” my inner voice pushed.

My vocal chords responded, “Ma always told me ‘the gatherer is what matters. That little black book where you keep track of the good you done. The fact that you are helping gather these names and send them on they way is what matters. Not the name itself.’ Right.”

The thoughts in my head pushed back, “But what if the name did matter…”

That night my thoughts went ‘round in circles. Something was making me feel like I shouldn't go through with it. I laid up, staring at the ceiling, thinking about my Ma and Nana. I shook the thoughts away, shut off both voices for a sec and then repeated my purpose aloud, just like Ma would always tell me to do.

“Tomorrow I’ll go to 2626 w. Lane Dr. to Ms. Jacqueline's home. I’ll sit in front of the house across the street and wait. Wait ‘til no one is home but her. I’ll knock on her door, meet her for the first time on them pretty steps, ask if I can come in and have a drink. She’ll wonder why a journalist like me wants to interview her. We’ll laugh for just a bit, sit like old friends and then she’ll close her eyes.” My nerves calmed, Ma, Nana and all the generations before them were with me. It’d all be fine.

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That’s not what happened clearly. Because I'm here. Long story short, the Corde’s knew I was coming. They’d been waiting two years for me. The names in the gatherer did matter. The Corde’s purpose and ours was intertwined but no one understood it, no one but Ma and Nana, and now me.

The doctor keep asking me the same thing. “So, tell me why do you think it’s okay to ‘remove people from this earth’, I think that’s how you described it. What makes that okay?”

I say, “the sound of bones cracking was once the lullaby I fell asleep to. It was the reassuring, peaceful sound of keeping order. So can you blame me for finding beauty in upholding my family’s legacy? Can you blame me for falling in love with the scent of a powder that had the ability to take away someone’s breath and at the same time make right your life given purpose?”

“I can't help that my mind wanders in the empty streets of what you people call twisted fantasies, the only address I've ever had was death.”

“Doctor, matter of fact let me ask you this. Is it so wrong to be so at peace with the loss of life? You know our purposes ain’t too much different, ‘xcept mine come from God.”

Looking at his eyes, I can tell he not hearing me. I can tell none of this means anything to him. So I’ll say it in a way that makes sense.

“ I mean it was 20 thousand fucking dollars.”