42

Dre. Andre, actually. Andre Burlingame. He sat in a semi-stupor in Souljah Boy’s crowded living room. Souljah Boy had a one-bedroom apartment in the Abraham Lincoln projects, and every room in the house was stacked and littered with books, papers, DVDs, videos, tapes, and recordings of every kind.

There was barely anywhere to sit. Souljah Boy had moved a stack of manuscripts, essays, and papers from a small footstool so Dre could sit down.

Dre had gone to Souljah Boy’s apartment in his current state after having been summoned by one of his many confidential contacts to 139^th Street and St. Nicholas Avenue the night before to shoot photographs of another murder that had taken place in Harlem.

He had already delivered the ones of Randi to his contact. They were at the Amsterdam News. He wasn’t going to let them bury his brother’s life like so much garbage, so he figured the close-ups would shake somebody into action. He hadn’t counted on the second set of photographs he was to take being of his brother Rashod. But they were.

He had arrived to discover that another one of his brothers had been slain. It had shaken him to his very core. He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t stay on the streets. It looked as though somebody was trying to kill all of them.

So he had gone to Souljah Boy’s apartment. He didn’t know where his mother was. He didn’t know where his now only brother, Michael, was. He’d been calling the house, and no one answered. He’d paged Tracie and gotten no answer, either. He hoped they weren’t dead, too.

He had sat on the footstool with Souljah Boy’s aging documents and many papers scattered at his feet. He had not moved from that spot since his arrival.

It wasn’t helping matters that Souljah Boy was different, too. More reserved—he didn’t know—more something, as if he had been dipped in a ray of light or something. His world was being turned upside down.

Souljah Boy’s face had a sheen almost like when a person sweated hard and glistened with the moisture of it, except that Souljah Boy’s face was dry.

He looked as if he had swallowed the sun and it was shining from inside him. Maybe he was just losing it . . . seeing things that really weren’t there.

Finally Dre had voiced his worst fear: “I hope Tracie’s not dead.”

“She isn’t,” Souljah Boy replied.

Dre looked over at him from lowered long, silky lashes inherited from Tracie. “How do you know? Rashod is, you know.”

“I know Rashod is. But Tracie isn’t.”

“Somebody’s killing my family, man. Straight up. Maybe we’re next. We should have police protection or something.”

“You don’t need police protection, Dre. Nobody’s gonna kill you.”

Suddenly something stuck out in Dre’s mind. “How did you know Rashod was dead? I just told you.”

“I hear things, Dre.”

Dre nodded. That was probably true. Souljah Boy was plugged into his own brand of information sources. Dre let it drop. He’d never known Souljah Boy to tell a lie in his life, even when they were kids. Even when Souljah Boy knew that the truth would land them in hot water, especially with Tracie. He would tell it anyway. Then they would all endure Tracie’s wrath.

Dre had constantly told him to stop doing that truth crap when they could get in trouble, but Souljah Boy had his own mind.

“The truth will set you free,” he had told Dre once when they were in trouble.

“The truth will get our asses kicked,” Dre had replied. And sure enough, it had. But that hadn’t ever stopped Souljah.

Dre was silent for a time. Souljah Boy just watched him intently.

“How do you know, man, that we won’t be next?”

“Because I know.”

“How do you know?” Dre repeated, not satisfied with Souljah Boy’s answer. Though he would never admit it, he suddenly found himself wanting to hear some of Souljah Boy’s religious ramblings. He needed to hear something, anything that was going to make him feel better.

But whereas Souljah Boy usually answered almost any question with some type of spiritual coating, he had not done so, so far.

Souljah Boy sighed.

He knew Dre couldn’t handle much, but he was seeking comfort in the spirit. Souljah Boy needed to give him something. Maybe it was time he grew up to the real world anyway.

“Your family is under the protection of Jesus Christ, Dre.”

Dre snorted, although subconsciously this had been exactly what he was looking for. “You think so, son? Then why are two of my brothers dead? Some protection.”

Souljah Boy was patient. “Sometimes things happen for a reason. They are for a higher purpose. Besides, Dre, just because they’re dead doesn’t mean they aren’t under his protection.”

Dre was exasperated. “Stop talking to me in riddles, Souljah. Dead is dead. They’re dead.” Dre began to wring his hands so Souljah Boy wouldn’t see them trembling, but of course, he did.

He had known Dre would tremble before he actually did.

“ ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—’ ”

Dre cut Souljah Boy off. “Don’t start this again, Souljah.”

Souljah Boy got up. He went to the bookshelf. He removed a big old black and gold, ancient-looking book. It was so dusty he had to blow dust off the cover. He returned to sit across from Dre.

He opened up the Bible, turning to the Twenty-third Psalm.

“This is exactly where it does start, Dre. Close your eyes and just listen and feel. Don’t question. Just listen. Okay?”

Dre nodded, even though he was starting to feel somewhat foolish. He had always told Souljah Boy not to do this, to live in the real world; now he was listening because he suddenly didn’t know what was real anymore. His world as he had known it was gone.

So what was there?

He realized he didn’t know. Which meant he had nothing to lose by listening. Besides, Dre had always known there was something special about Souljah Boy, that he was different.

He didn’t know what it was exactly, but he knew that Souljah Boy was connected in a different way from the rest of them. Maybe whatever looked over Souljah Boy, whatever resided with him, would protect Dre and his family, too.

What was left of it. After all, Souljah Boy, as far back as he could remember, had always been a part of his family.

Definitely there was something that was moving with him. It always had been. Dre had just never accepted it or really looked at it, was all.

“Okay,” he agreed, closing his eyes. “Go ahead and read, Souljah.”

“ ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. Amen.’ ”

Souljah Boy finished reading the scripture.

As Dre listened to the reading with his eyes shut tight, images had appeared before him. He had heard the words differently. The word “application” had sounded in his mind as though on the wings of the wind. Application. He would have to apply those words to what was happening.

He opened his eyes. “I was wrong, wasn’t I, Souljah? I said Harlem wasn’t the valley of death. I said, ‘This is Harlem, not the valley of death.’ But I was wrong wasn’t I? Harlem is the valley of death.”

“In Harlem, Dre, is both death and life for us and our people. Believe that.”

Dre couldn’t stop himself. He was waterlogged. He would have been embarrassed if his life weren’t in such tragic condition.

The tears slid from his eyes unabashedly.

And he had been so mean to Rashod the last time he had seen him, while he sat there drawing some stupid sketch—actually maybe not stupid, but definitely weird.

Dre regretted his attitude. He wished he could take it back and do it differently. But now he couldn’t. Rashod was dead, too. Rashod was one of the images he had seen while his eyes were closed and Souljah Boy was reading from the Bible.

Souljah Boy rose from his seat. He laid the old Bible on a table. He hugged Dre. In that instant Dre felt the arms of many holding him, although all he saw was Souljah.

Souljah Boy released him and stood back. “Go home to Tracie, Dre. She needs you to come. She’s at home now.”

Souljah Boy pulled Dre to his feet. Then he issued him a prophecy. “There are many more hurdles to overcome, Dre, but your family will survive. There is one who can save all. Have faith.”

With that, Souljah Boy showed Dre the door.

 

 

Dre arrived home to find things just as Souljah Boy had said. Both Tracie and Michael were there. However, there had been no time for teary reunions, recriminations, or explanations.

The minute Dre had entered the house, Tracie, having received a phone call from Renee Santiago and having awakened from having exactly the same dream once again, had instantly declared to both Dre and Michael, “Come on. We have to go.”

From the tone in her voice and the look in her eyes, they had both known it was no time for questions.

And with that, Tracie Burlingame had fled the brownstone with her two remaining living sons in tow. They had left with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

She had managed to escape only moments before the police arrived.

The number one girlfriend, Renee Santiago, had delivered one high-placed favor. Not only had she put Tracie Burlingame up on what was going on and the fountain of blood that was spraying Harlem, she had also imparted some serious wisdom unto Tracie, which was good, because she would definitely need it.

Her parting words to Tracie were, “Have faith, girlfriend. Have faith.”