The Crossover (21 page)

“Prince said the tea really helped the rash (psoriasis) on his scalp,” mom said.

Prince was a short and stocky Puerto Rican. He always wore a black fedora to conceal the scabs that covered his scalp. If he wasn’t wearing that black fedora it was a black doo-rag. In the entire time I’d known Prince, I saw his scalp just once and that was by accident; it was hideous. Prince never used the herbal tea and cotton balls to bathe his scalp as my father suggested. He had other aspirations.

“Mom, Prince bought the tea from dad and sold it as marijuana. When Prince brought the first bag home, his brother David thought it was weed and smoked it. David said it was the best weed he ever smoked. The rest is history; Prince developed an extensive network of clients in the suburbs. Prince made enough money to pay his mom’s house off after eight months in the business,” I said.

Prince was two years younger than me but he was mature beyond his years. I got Prince his first job working with me at a large printing company doing janitorial work at night. Within two months of his employment, daytime employees made numerous complaints of theft. The company director insisted that Prince and I be polygraphed or the cleaning contract would be terminated. Some thought we were singled out because were young black kids. But it wasn’t about race at all; we had unrestricted access to the entire building at night. We both passed the polygraph with flying colors and the contract continued. The theft ceased shortly afterwards.

After I joined the Marines, Prince confessed it was him. How a fifteen-year-old kid beat a skilled and veteran polygrapher was beyond me. But that was Prince.

“Clay, I also remember your dad got a call from the police station to collect you and Prince after Vanessa’s party.”

“Oh yeah, he got into a fight over a girl,” I said.

Some thug pulled a gun on Prince at a house party. While everybody stampeded for the door, Prince remained cool and defiant. While Vanessa was on the phone with 911, Prince removed his black fedora and handed it to me. When Prince exposed his scalp in public, I knew danger was imminent. Somebody was going to get hurt. Prince approached the guy and put his head to the barrel. It was psychotic and scary. People were climbing out of the windows to get away. Prince looked up and with one punch dropped the guy. Prince picked the gun off the floor and pistol-whipped him to unconsciousness. When the police showed up they took Prince and me to the station. They thought it was Prince’s .45 as it was in his possession. The other guy went to the emergency room. We were later released and my dad picked us up.

I heard police raided his house in 1982 and seized his supply. It never made it to court; apparently it’s not against the law to sell tea leaves. A hit was put on Prince after he was exposed in the papers. Prince was killed in a drive-by shooting in front of his mother’s house one year after he graduated from high school. Prince was definitely wired different than most but he was the brother I never had.

Mom continued to wash dishes and I zoned out thinking about Prince. My reminiscing was cut short by a pressing question I wanted answered. I wanted to know who Gerald and Delcine were.

“Mom?”

“Yes, dear,” mom replied, with her back to me washing dishes.

“Who were Gerald and Delcine?”

Crash!

Mom dropped a plate on the floor. It shattered into hundreds of little pieces. She turned around slowly. Her face had pain written all over it. She stumbled before bracing herself against the sink. Mom reached for her cigarettes but there was one problem. She quit when I was in the third grade. I knew something was terribly wrong.

“Mom, are you okay?” I asked as I flew out of my chair out of concern. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

My mother grabbed the golden cross around her neck and kissed it.

“We don’t talk about that anymore. I don’t feel well. I think I’m going to lie down, dear,” mom said as she removed her apron and walked to her room. She closed the door.

I upset my mom. I felt terrible and sick to my stomach. I knocked on her bedroom door and apologized. I could hear her praying. I would never mention those names to mom again. But I knew someone I could ask, my paternal grandmother. We called her Big Ma.

Big Ma was the matriarch of the Thompson family. Big Ma’s parents were born into slavery. She had seen it all. She witnessed her own brother lynched for challenging a zoning law that prohibited blacks from buying property on the other side of Woodward Avenue. Big Ma married Poppa; he died before I was born. She was feisty and had an answer for everything. She resided at
Swan’s Nursing Home
on the east side of Detroit.

“Come on in, sugar. Let Big Ma give you a hug. How have you been?”

“I’m living in England now, Big Ma. I retired from the Marines and the Lord’s been good to me,” I said as I kissed her on the cheek.

Big Ma was in and out of coherency most of the conversation until I mentioned Gerald and Delcine. She sat straight up in her bed and her eyes came to life. She was back to the old Big Ma, sharp as ever.

“Who you been talking to, boy?” Big Ma demanded.

I felt like I was six all over again. I was anxious.

“No one, Big Ma,” I replied.

“So how comes you know about dem two?”

“I read it in dad’s diary.”

“Lawd, forgive me,” Big Ma shouted, waving her hands in prayer.

This had to be something extraordinary. Big Ma’s response only deepened my curiosity.

“Come here, boy. We promised not to speak bout this ever again. I’m about to break my promise. Lord, help me.”

I gave Big Ma a drink of water and I waited for her to enlighten me.

“Gerald and Delcine were my first tenants in that old house on Barr Street. Dem folks was sho nuff evil. They rented the downstairs and the basement and turned our house into a den of sin. Prostitution, gambling, drugs, they was into everything. They never paid no rent. Gerald had one leg shorter than the other and walked with a limp. He had a special shoe with a big heel to walk proper. Delcine was on the friendly side and kept a lot of men company. Me and Poppa couldn’t live there anymore so we moved away to Grand River Boulevard. Gawd put an end to all that filth, he sho did.”

“Wow. What happened to them?”

“Some fool shot and killed them in the basement over a gambling debt.”

“Was that arranged at the family meeting on Christmas eve?” I asked.

“Family meeting? Boy, that meeting was ten years later.”

“You lost me Big Ma. How could the meeting take place ten years later. They were already dead?”

“When yo momma and daddy moved there in 1959, Gerald and Delcine were lying in their graves, but their spirits never left that house. Gerald had a distinct walk and Delcine always wore those stilettos. We heard them all the time. They were thieves even in death. I thought yo momma was going to have a nervous breakdown. Only prayer kept her together.”

Again I found myself trying to get on the logic train. It left the station before I got there.

“Ghosts? You mean Barr Street was haunted?”

“Look at me, boy. This is Big Ma talkin’. We had a gathering that night, the whole family. We all decided there was only one way to deal with the devil. You gotta fight fire with fire. We burnt that building down to the groun’. Poppa lit the match. The family vowed never to discuss what happened that night. We didn’t want the grandkids to know about ghosts and spirits; we thought they would be better off.”

Big Ma took a couple of breaths and held my hand. The story took a lot out of her. I think she relived it. Soon she was snoring soundly. I kissed her on the forehead before I left.

I inherited my faith and my beliefs from my parents. I respected their rationale for withholding this troubling and unexplained phenomenon. I had no choice but to embrace a stern fact. Maybe ghosts really do exist.

My mom fixed another world class meal and I eagerly awaited the surprise she promised me after dinner.

I followed mom into dad’s den and she had an old reel-to-reel projector set up.

“Clay, I found this super 8 movie when I was looking through your dad’s things. Take a seat,” mom said as she turned off the light.

It was my dad and mom’s wedding in July 1959, in color.

“Mom, is that you?” I asked.

“Yes, dear. That was one of the happiest days of my life.”

I was glued to the footage on the wall. My mom was an absolutely stunning bride at the tender age of 18. I saw my dad; it was like I was looking in the mirror. I was his double. It was a captivating experience. I saw Poppa for the first time walking the earth. He was a big man and the leader of the Thompson clan back then. I saw other relatives that died before I was born. It was strange to see them speak to the camera; voices heard fifty years after their deaths.

I patted my mom on the back during the exchanging of vows. She wept.

“Clay, sometimes I wished I had left first.”

“Mom, don’t say that. Don’t ever say that,” I complained.

That was the first and only time I chastised my mom, but it hurt me.

We lightened up the mood afterwards over coffee. She had some exciting news. Her new church had recently bestowed her with the title of ‘Mother’ for her Sunday school contributions and mentoring of wayward kids. I was proud of my mom.

I was all packed up and I had a couple of hours before I headed to the airport. I spent half of that time capturing my last moments in that house on video. I filmed every room and my mom preparing for her Sunday lesson. She smiled at the camera.

I couldn’t leave without taking a picture of the church. I needed to have a photo of the church my father dedicated his life to.

“Clay, where are you going?”

“I’ll be right back, Mom.”

I drove the same route my dad drove for over thirty years and reminisced. I parked across the street from the church. It was just before noon and the sun was shining bright. I stood in front of the church and snapped shots from different angles. After I took my last picture, I noticed a light was on in the pastor’s study. The main entrance was unlocked. I opened the door.

“Anyone home?”

I could hear a slight echo as my voice reverberated throughout the sanctuary. A distinguished young black man, about 30ish, stood atop of the stairs.

“You are in the house of the Lord. May I help you?”

“I’m sorry. I used to worship here about 30 years ago and I noticed someone was in. I was hoping to run into an old church member. I’ll be leaving, sorry to bother you.”

“I’m the new pastor, Kenneth Smith. What is your name?” he said as he descended from the top step with a bible in hand.

“Sir, my name is Clay Thompson,” I replied, as I noticed the absence of my father’s portrait in the corridor.

I wanted to run out of there, but I was compelled to stay.

“Are you Rev. T’s son?”

“Yes, sir. Did you know my dad?”

“Did I know your dad? That’s funny. Your dad mentored me. About twenty years ago your dad and mom allowed me to stay with them under one condition. That I attend bible study and stay off drugs. He introduced me to a new way of studying the bible in a way that changed my life.”

I knew what program he referred to but I didn’t comment.

I was confused because my mom told me about the power struggle that forced her out of the church and the man before me was clearly a man of God. We continued the conversation in his study. I asked him direct questions.