The Syndicate (13 page)

“Can you be here by 10 a.m?”

With my promise to see her in a few days, I hang up. I haven’t gone to church since my parents died, and I don’t want to start now, but this girl has me curious. Plus, it gives me a reason to see her
and
to scope out the people she hangs around.

For the rest of the week, I avoid Henri like the plague. I don’t know if Alexandru talked to him, and, even if he didn’t, I have no interest in conversing with Henri.

On Sunday morning, I dig out my only pair of dress slacks and a button-up shirt with a blazer. I wore this at my first Circle, before I figured out that sweats would do.

I arrive at her door a few minutes before ten, avoiding the pretense by not hiding the fact that I’m early. She doesn’t bother with pretenses either, because she opens the door before I even knock.

My stomach stuns me with an internal cartwheel. She’s wearing a lavender dress, fitted to her knees, with a small white sweater. Her hair is in a loose up-do, making her look hot and sophisticated at the same time.

“Hey,” she says. “Come in.”

“Thanks,” I reply, moving forward.

She’s close enough for me to kiss her, but I hold back. It feels awkward, not having seen her for a week.

“I’m almost ready. Hang on.”

She hurries down the hall as if she’s late, and after a few moments she returns to the foyer with a pair of tan, strappy shoes with a sexy-looking heel. I watch as she puts one hand on the wall and leans over to put on each shoe with her free hand. I find myself smiling as she tries to maintain balance.

“There,” she says, popping up. “Ready?”

“Always,” I say, opening the door.

“I like the Sonny Corinthos look,” she says, passing over the threshold.

“Who?”

“Never mind,” she answers, smiling as she walks ahead of me.

My gaze zeroes in on the way her curves fit perfectly in that dress. She turns, and I’m not sure if I’ve looked up in time. She’s holding back a smile.

“So, how have you been?” she asks.

“Good.”

“Good.” She turns around, and like a magnet my gaze travels down her back again, until I realize we’re headed toward her car. “We can take my truck,” I say.

“No, my car’s fine.”

This unsettles me, because I’m not too keen on girl drivers. This mostly stems from the fact that I don’t trust my sister behind a wheel. And now, I feel no different.

“I like to drive,” I say.

“Me too.” Her alarm chirps, and she stands right at her driver’s door. I stop at the curb with my hands in my pockets. I feel weird. I’ve already committed to going to church with this girl. The last thing I want is to be driven around by her. “Look,” she says, putting her hand on her hip. “I’ll drive there since you don’t know where it is, and you can drive back.”

I consider it for a minute and agree, not really wanting to make a production of it. The next thing I know, I’m sitting in the passenger seat, at her mercy.

“So, you like MJ?” she asks.

“Who?”

“Come on,” she says, backing out of the parking space. “Don’t tell me you don’t know who Michael Jackson is, either?”

“Of course I do.”

She smiles. “Good. I was beginning to think you lived in a cave under that mansion of yours.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” She laughs, hooking her iPod into the jack. “My favorite album of his is
Thriller
. Is that okay?”

“Sure. Whatever you want.”

She puts it on with the volume low.

“So, I’m glad you called,” she says. I’m surprised by her good spirits. I don’t know how I expected her to be, but I’ve never seen her more confident—except for the time when she groped me in her foyer.

“You’re in a good mood,” I say.

She laughs, shifting her manual gears smoothly as we turn onto the main road. “I told you, I’m not always a basket case.”

“I never said you were.”

“But you were thinking it.”

“No—”

“It’s okay. I don’t blame you. But I told you, I’m over it.”

“That was fast.”

“Yeah, well, with my mom, I’m used to having moments every now and then where I break down, let it all out, and then I’m fine.”

I’m not sure what to say, so we ride along listening to music for a while. It’s nice to see her so refreshed, but at the same time her fears are what made me want to help her so much. Without that, I’m not so sure I’d be willing to risk my family’s trust for her. Or would I?

“So you’re not worried about anything anymore?” I ask.

“Of course I am. Are you kidding? But I’ve gotten it out of my system. You know how I feel about it, and you’ve made me feel better. So, I’m okay with whatever happens.”

“I didn’t think I had that much power.”

“Oh, I don’t believe that,” she says, smiling slyly. She turns up the music and leaves that last thought to ruminate between us. My mind wants to wander to last weekend, but I try to keep it clean.

“Speaking of blocking things out…” She flips to the next song as“Thriller” starts to play. “I don’t need to tell you why I’ve never liked that song.”

I smile as she skips to “Human Nature.” “So where are you taking me?”

“It’s a historical church on a country hillside. It takes about thirty minutes to get there. You’ll like it.”

“You go there every week?”

“No. Just when I feel like I need answers.”

“What kind of answers?”

“Just ones that’ll keep me from seeking them from you.”

Interesting.
Sounds like the place I need to be, but I almost feel jealous at the idea of her not coming to me when she needs something.

“I can still give you answers,” I say, disbelieving that I’m putting myself out there like this.

“I know.” She looks at me. “But your answers are toxic.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She looks away, turns up the radio, and smiles. I turn it down. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask again, offended.

“I didn’t mean toxic. I meant….tempting.”

Tempting?
I suppose both of us know all about that. I look out the window. “About last week…I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

I think for a minute and then decide on the truth. “No, but if you are, I don’t want—”

“I’m not. But I’d rather not talk about it on the way to church.”

“Right,” I say, finding myself holding back another smile.

A short while later, we pull into the small parking lot, and she’s right: it’s already drawing me in. Somehow, I’m confident that this tiny white church will give me some answers too. Maybe even a good cleansing while I’m at it.

We step out of the car, and I wait for her by the hood. Even with her heels on, she’s considerably shorter than me, and it highlights her vulnerability. I cringe at the thought of someone doing anything to harm her, but she doesn’t skip a beat. She beams her full smile at me and slips her arm through mine.

We walk like that across the gravel parking lot, and every so often I feel her grip my arm tighter as she maneuvers her way across the gravel. Once inside, I see exactly what Rosie was talking about. Although small in size, the church is packed with people, all of whom are African American. We’re greeted at the door, handed programs, and take our seats in one of the back pews.

My first thoughts are uncomfortable, because I feel like more than a few people have stolen glances at us, wondering why I’m here. However, those thoughts dissipate as I look around and get a familiar feel.

Orange and red stained-glass windows line the walls. A small choir pit is in the front right corner, and a podium and microphone are in the center. Though the atmosphere is quite different from what I’m used to, I’m looking forward to seeing how it’s done here, on the little hillside Baptist church. A church where my family’s targeted enemy has taken me.

Just then, the pianist begins to play a soulful tune as the choir stands. The preacher enters from a small door to the left and takes his place at the podium. I like him already. He’s older, dark skinned, grey hair with a matching beard, and glasses. He’s the leader here, and those sitting around me are his people. The responsibility is something I respect.

He raises his arms for us to stand. “Please join the choir in singing the opening hymn.”

By the time the fourth verse rolls around, we’ve been signaled to sit and I’ve taken a look at my program to note the name of the preacher: Reverend Webb. I’ve also surveyed the room, which is filled with predominately senior citizens, many of whom are women in large hats decorated in everything from flowers, artificial fruit, and ribbons.

I would’ve loved to see Rosie sitting in here by herself. My thoughts are interrupted when Rev. Webb begins to lead a prayer. It’s the longest prayer I’ve ever heard, and somewhere in the middle I feel Riley nudge my knee. I open an eye to see one of her legs crossed over the other, angled close enough to me that it’s touching my leg. I squeeze my eye closed, blocking out the electricity that’s brewing in my thigh.

After the prayer, I expect her to realize her knee is still touching mine and move it away, but she doesn’t.

The thick silence surrounding our bodies is broken by the choir singing another song. Upbeat like the opening one. The pianist has barely hit five keys when the whole church starts humming and singing along.
Not bad
, I think.

Obviously, Riley is in agreement, because I feel her leg start to move up and down as she taps her foot to the rhythm of the crowd’s claps. By the time the chorus rolls around, I feel like they’re singing to me.

Not my brother, nor my sister, but it’s me, O Lord, standin’ in the need of prayer.

Not my brother, nor my sister, but it’s me, O Lord, standin’ in the need of prayer.

It’s me, it’s me, O Lord, standin’ in the need of prayer.

I feel my own foot begin to tap as my mind absorbs the feeling that I do need something.

One more song goes by like that and then we observe a scripture reading, another prayer, and offering.

This puts us in here for about an hour so far. Based on Rosie’s rundown, I’ll be here another hour, and I’m wondering what they could possibly have planned for so long. Right away, I discover more songs. This time slower, but equally rhythmic and enticing.

The choir digs deep inside to belt out portions:

Leaning on the everlasting arms. Leaning,

leaning, safe and secure from all alarms. Leaning,

leaning, leaning on the everlasting arms.

I feel Riley’s shoulders swaying back and forth ever so slightly. Admittedly, I feel like doing the same, but don’t. I just keep my eyes on the pianist. About halfway through the song, I see Riley’s hand go up to her face a few times. After the third or fourth time, I sneak a glance her way. She wipes a subtle tear from her face with her eyes closed, taking in the lyrics.

Without planning it, I reach my hand over and pat her knee gently, and something in me decides to keep my hand there. Just as I do, I feel her body give into my arm and her head lean into my shoulder.

Feeling her against me like this brings a softness to my nerves and limbs that I’m not used to. We stay that way for the rest of the song, and I wonder how long she’ll stay nestled against me like this.

Finally, an hour and ten minutes into the service, Rev. Webb begins his message. I’m watching him with an intense curiosity.

I don’t know where he’s going at first, because he’s talking about time-sensitive mailing materials, about how we get notices in the mail and have a certain date to reply. Before long, I’m getting it.

He says that people have to make a decision, and we aren’t guaranteed a certain amount of time to make that decision. Sometimes people decide to do God’s work, but it’s either too late or they don’t mail the reply to let God know.

Not only do we have to make the decision in time, we have to mark it, put it in the envelope, stick a stamp on it,
and
mail it back. We can’t just decide, but then let the deadline pass, because if we do, it’s like we never made the decision to begin with.

I’m sitting here, fully aware that he’s talking about God, but I can’t help but think about a decision I have to make. I’ve obviously made a few so far that have kept Riley alive, but I haven’t committed fully. I haven’t put it in the envelope and mailed it, so at this point I can still change my mind
. Do I want to mail it? Do I want to keep her safe that badly? Will I risk everything for it? For her?

I tune out the benediction and glance down at Riley. She’s no longer resting her head on my shoulder, but her body is no doubt still leaning into me. I absorb the energy she’s giving me, and realize my hand is still on her knee. I also realize the answer to all of my questions.

I don’t know why or what it will cost me, but yes. She makes me feel like someone I’m supposed to be. Someone I’ll never be if she’s gone. It makes no sense, but I don’t care anymore.

I don’t even realize the service is over until she takes my hand from her knee as she stands. Easily, she keeps holding on to it as she guides me into the aisle. I’m introduced to several people, all of whom act like they’ve known Riley forever.

A plump woman with an overwhelmingly large chest walks straight up to us and hugs Riley, and then me. It’s something I’m not used to since my mother died. Then a thin, lighter skinned elderly woman with a cane comes over, offering hugs too.

“Aw, my child, it’s so good to see you again. And look what we have here. Yes, you are just so precious. Who is this?”

“Nana, this is Vasi. Vasi, this is Nana Mary.”

Okay.
“Hi,” I say, nodding.

“Aren’t you a handsome fella.”

I look down, embarrassed by the affection. My family was that way. But somehow amongst all the code and service to the Circle, I’ve almost forgotten what affection feels like. The realization makes me miss my parents that much more.