Rhythms of Grace (6 page)

God knew me.

The background music faded, but the talking still sounded like singing to me. “Wel-come to Mount Olive, where Jesus makes the difference,” he said in one long breath.

I smiled at the way Jesus mentioned himself like that. He didn’t even blink when he said it either. I looked around. Nobody seemed to have a clue what was going on. Pretty slick. Maybe he visited a different church every week. Maybe he was at all of them right now. He was God, after all, even if no one here seemed to know it. I winked toward the podium. His secret was safe with me.

Jesus seemed very amused by my winking, which was totally cool. I looked down at my left thumb, still a little crooked from a broken bone that never got set. Being here with Jesus was worth everything, even that.

“All visitors, please stand,” he said, taking his eyes from me and looking around the church.

I knew I should probably get up, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.

A man, his wife, and three daughters stood to the left of us. I’d seen a couple of the girls around before. The older one seemed pretty serious. The younger one blew Brian a kiss when her father wasn’t looking. She was too little for it to be a flirt, but that one was going to be something. The middle one stared straight ahead, holding her father’s hand. When the man spoke, his big voice surprised me. Still, he had nothing on Jesus. “I’m Richard Shiloh, pastor of Shekinah Baptist. And this is my family.” When he was finished, he smiled like a movie star.

I rolled my eyes. Compared to Jesus, this guy was totally lame. Somebody must have told him that church was a play too.

Brian gave the little girl a funny look and then stared at the floor, counting the floor tiles like he did at school when he was waiting for the rest of us to finish our work. He had no business in Joyce’s class at all, but his temper got him into trouble. I tried to get him to join the debate team and use all his arguing to good use, but he wasted it all on the teachers, who’d finally washed their hands of him. I never understood why Brian had to always be counting or reading or thinking something. Not me. Not me. I knew how to suck inside myself, roll up, and fly away. It was staying put that was hard.

“Good to have you, Brother Shiloh. We’ll have to send the choir over one Sunday. Talk to Sister Thelma after service and we’ll make the arrangements.”

A lady with a beige face and a brown neck waved her hand from the organ. My jaw dropped again. It was the lunch lady from school, but her face was an entire different shade than it was during the week.

Brian stomped on my foot. Lightly this time, at least. “It’s makeup. Don’t stare.” He said the words without opening his mouth. Another of my friend’s many useless talents. And Miss Thelma had some useless talents of her own evidently. Makeup was supposed to make people look better, wasn’t it? Who would use it to do
that
?

A nervous-looking man with a high-pitched voice stood next, explaining his being new to Testimony and looking for a church home. Two women on the other side of Brian hung on his every word, especially when he got to where he worked. I sucked a piece of gooseberry from my teeth and took it all in. Even if Jesus hadn’t shown up, church would have been . . . riveting.

I smiled at that, using one of Brian’s favorite words in my head. On summer days, the back of the cereal box could become “riveting” if Brian was bored enough. I would lie then, agreeing with Brian about how scary all the chemicals sounded in my favorite cereal, but this time I meant it. Mount Olive Missionary Baptist Church was absolutely riveting.

Just like the eyes of Jesus, fixed on me now. Had I done something wrong?

Duh. He can read your mind, Mr. Riveting.

Just as I was about to apologize for all my silly thoughts, the giant black Jesus leaned over the pulpit and said, “What about you, young man. How’d you get here this morning?”

As if he didn’t know. I paused before answering, wondering if God was really going to take the charade this far. When he rested back and folded his arms, I figured that he meant it.

“I-I came here to meet you. Miss Eva and Brian have told me about you and all, but I really had to meet Jesus for myself.”

A savage kick bit my shin under the pew as the crowd erupted in laughter. Miss Eva’s face flushed pink, her face a curious mix of shock and pride. I bit my cheek again, but not to keep from laughing. Maybe it was a school play after all. If so, Jesus was sure playing his part well. A little too well.

The man looked stricken. “Me? Oh no, son. I’m just a man, Reverend Wilkins. And we don’t come to church to see people, we come to see Jesus. Right, church?”

“Yessir. That’s right,” Miss Eva said, her pink flush turning purplish. The fan was going so fast and hard that I dared not move or risk a paper cut.

I slumped against the pew, now totally confused. Brian was right. As always. This was a horrible version of
Masterpiece Theater
. Only scarier.

The music drifted in again. Soft at first, then louder as a line of kids our age trailed in, wearing the same robes as Jesus-who-wasn’t-Jesus had on. At the front of the line was a tiny girl who had to be Reverend Wilkins’ daughter. An hour ago I would have said she was an angel. I didn’t even bother to try not to stare. She was beautiful, like walking music. And not the on-the-top-of-the-water music either. She was the low notes in the deep end.

Brian was staring too and I wanted to kick him for it. He’d probably seen that girl a thousand times. He only wanted her now because I wanted her, and I usually let Brian have everything he wanted. Except for the rolls. And this music girl with a kid body and old woman eyes. “Wade in the Water” eyes.

“Who is she?” I whispered, the way Brian had done earlier. It came out quiet and cool just like he did it. Any other time, I would have paused to reflect on the wonder of the feat, but this wasn’t any other time. I’d watched Brian fall for girls since fourth grade, but I’d never found one that I really liked until now.

Brian had a dreamy look on his face. “I can’t remember her name, but I’m going to marry her.”

I lost it then, right on the front pew. I grabbed a handful of afro and tugged with all my might, letting go only when I remembered where I was. Brian’s eyes doubled in size. He looked like he wanted to punch me. We’d only fought once since kindergarten, but this morning would probably be the second time. And I didn’t care.

I gritted my teeth and waited for Miss Eva to knock me off the pew with that fan, but she didn’t. Nobody even looked our way anymore. All eyes were on her, watching, waiting for her to begin.

When she did, I knew that I’d had it wrong. She didn’t look like an angel. She sounded like one.

Brian was not impressed. Though no one seemed to hear us, I could certainly hear him. “You are going to regret that, fool. You watch. My hair was perfect. Perfect!” He hissed the word through his teeth.

I tried to scream over the music and tell him that his ’fro had been totally sideways since the second strain of “Amazing Grace” but I had no time to play games with him.

My wife was singing.

“She’s mine,” I said, hoping my face conveyed how crazy I felt. Crazy scared Brian more than actual fighting. That’s why I’d pulled his hair.

The youth choir stood to sing the next verse. In the back row was the tallest kid I’d ever seen. Although right now Brian was looming pretty large over my shoulder. His ’fro was turned down at the edges now, sweated out like a floppy hair hat. I was glad he couldn’t see it. This was war as it was.

Brian dug a hymnal into my side. “She’s yours? Zeely? Man, please. She’s like a foot shorter than you and she’s not even your type. If you think Rev is Jesus, she’s Jesus’ daughter. For real. Them Wilkinses is crazy.”

Still wrapped up in her singing, I didn’t respond. Zeely. What a wonderful, beautiful name. It fit her perfectly. What didn’t fit was Brian’s angry reaction and his speech patterns. He was out of control, but I could play that game.

A foot shorter? I stared at her, sizing up her small frame, then looked back at Brian’s eyes. I realized then that he hadn’t been looking at my Zeely at all. His eyes were fastened on a big-boned girl in yellow on the top row, her afro bigger than Brian’s by a good inch. A serious feat.

Oops. “So you’re not looking at Zeely?”

Brian took a deep breath. “Of course not. We’re not even friends. They’re too good for me. And you too. Things are bad enough without you pulling my hair and all like you’re nuts.” He squinted at the tall girl. “Everybody always treats me different. Like something is wrong with me. But not
her
. I thought she’d moved away.”

Zeely came down off a high note. So did I. “Who moved away?”

My friend was growing tired of me. “Her! The dance—”

He almost finished his sentence, but Miss Eva’s fan crashed down on his head and knocked the last letter out of his mouth. Brian looked like he wanted to cry.

If it were anyone but Brian, I would have laughed. Mama hit me harder than that to make me turn off the TV.

Zeely finished her solo. Everyone clapped but they stopped after a few seconds. Everybody but me. I gave her a standing ovation.

Brian yanked me down by my jacket pocket. Well, it was his jacket pocket actually, but still . . . I hit the bench so hard I was thankful that the pockets were the fake kind. Just flaps. Eva’s fan fluttered like a butterfly on the other side of me. The choir fought through their giggles to start the next song.

Until Brian’s hot breath hit my ear, accented with rage and spit, I probably would have never stopped clapping. “Will you quit it? See that big guy on the top row? The one with the big head and the really white teeth?
That
is who Zeely is going to marry. I think it’s crazy, but their parents have already agreed.”

That shut me down. I scanned the row again. That dude looked like a grown man. He did have some nice teeth. Nice tie too . . .

“Stop staring.”

Okay, they had me there. I looked away, but not before making my first church vow. It sounded like what they made me say in family court, but I meant every word.

If he wants her, he’ll have to beat me to it. So help me God, she’s
mine
.

5

Zeely

“Zeely, this has gone on long enough, sweetie. It’s time to stop. You’re just playing with fire and I wouldn’t be a good mother if I didn’t put a stop to it.”

I knew it would come to this eventually. I’d gotten too lazy. Grown too bold. Ron had moved back up to the front row, joined the choir. People were starting to talk and we were starting not to care. This was the day I both dreaded and prayed for every morning.

“Mother, I’m seventeen now, grown up. I think I should be able to pick who my friends are.” My breathing stayed steady. I pushed back on my bed, shoving Ron’s letters into my pillowcase. He wrote things for me in the morning and passed it to me at lunch. The next day was the reverse. Sometimes, when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I risked it all and brought my notebook home.

Our notebook.

Lately, that’d been every day. I thought once that a page was torn, that my marker was out of place, but now I wondered if someone else hadn’t been reading it, tearing pages as they flipped through. I swallowed hard now, praying that my mother hadn’t read it, that she didn’t know what fire burned beneath my long skirts, what passion roughed my unmade face. The way she looked at me now—and the way my father didn’t—told me the truth I didn’t want to face.

They knew.

My mother pressed her hand to her throat. It was Saturday night and her nails were already filed into perfect ovals, long, full, and covered with clear polish. Once she’d worn a light-colored polish, a dusty rose that someone from her job had given her. Mrs. Terrigan and the other women from the church they’d grown up in had expressed concern that her worldly behavior might affect the younger women. If only they knew that we were already affected and not by some old-timey nail polish either. Daddy had complimented her on it several times, but didn’t say anything when she threw it away. Neither did he say anything now.

“See, that’s just it, Zeely Ann. You think that because you’re getting older that you can choose, that now is the time for you to be making the big decisions of your life. It isn’t. Now is hormones and emotions, nonsense that you’ll forget when you settle down with Jeremiah and start your family. We have a plan for you—”

“Doesn’t God have a plan for me?” I was on my feet now and my voice was loud and high, like when I sang the Negro spirituals at church. Daddy didn’t like them much. He said they were too painful. Those songs were like books to me. When I sang them, I saw those people torn away from love, from life, and trying to create it new in a place that made no place for it. No place for them.

I closed my eyes for the slap sure to come, waiting for the sting. My mother didn’t tolerate backtalk. “Rebellion is as a sin of witchcraft,” she would say and she’d beat the devil out of you. For my brothers and I, the remedy had been total and permanent, and then came a skinny white boy to sit in the front row of church and give me a standing ovation. It’s been over two years and he hasn’t stopped clapping. If I’m honest, I haven’t stopped singing. Only now, it’s a new tune: Why? That’s the focus of all my thoughts these days. None of the rules I once accepted about what I can wear, who I can love, where I can be seem to make sense. It seems to me now that maybe the God in my Bible and the god in my house are not the same. I don’t want to do wrong, Lord knows I don’t, but they aren’t making it easy.

I’ll talk to your father. I’ll do anything. I just want to marry you.
I’ll die if I don’t. Please, don’t give up on me. We can find a way.
God will make a way.

If my mother had read our notebook, what had she thought about that? What did God think?

My parents glared at each other as if they were trying to answer the same questions, only without saying any words. There was anger in my mother’s eyes, accusation. Gentleness in my father’s. Forgiveness. I wondered if it was for himself or for me.

Both.