Authors: James Henderson
Sister Bea Hammonds, a rather plump woman, crossed directly to the smaller casket.
Reverend Walker cleared his throat and waved his hand. Sister Hammonds looked confused. He shook his head.
She got the message and moved to the larger casket and raised the lid.
“Amen,” and realized he hadn’t prepared any notes. He’d been so concerned about the dog he’d forgotten to do so.
I’ll wing it.
“We’re gathered today to pay homage to Brother…”
What’s the man’s name?
“Amen…praise God…”
“Rick Perry,” Reverend Jones whispered.
Reverend Walker turned and gave him a withering look:
You
know damn
well that isn’t his name!
“Larry Harris.”
“Amen. Larry Harris. Yes, amen. Larry Harris, our beloved brother, has transcended this world to my Father’s house. Brother Harris waited till the last minute to hop on the bus en route to glory, yet he made it in the nick of time. A minute more and Brother Harris would’ve been left behind. Amen. One minute--sixty seconds between paradise and eternal damnation.
“Often the bus driver sees you running late and he keeps going. He doesn’t have to stop. No, he doesn’t. If he keeps on going, you can’t blame
him
. No, you can’t blame him at all. He’s only the driver of the bus, not the vehicle which determines where you’ll spend eternity.
“A number of you will not be as fortunate as Brother Harris. You’ll wait till the last minute to go to the bus stop and get caught up…in something unanticipated, something unexpected…something unforeseen…Amen!…A traffic jam, an accident, bad directions, your watch was too slow or too fast. Doesn’t matter what caused your delay, you still missed the bus and got left behind. Don’t blame the driver! ‘He could’ve waited for me!’ No, don’t blame him. He’s doing his job, facilitating transport.”
He paused, took a sip from the glass of ice water an usher had set before him and stared into the faces of the congregation. Most looked as if they were at a bus stop, bored and ready to move on.
Reverend Walker accelerated: “Don’t wait until the last minute, amen, to catch the bus. Now is the time to catch the bus to glory. Don’t you want to get on the bus? Do you want your ticket now? Do you?”
Stretching out his right arm: “Don’t take the risk…Get on the bus…while the opportunity is now. Don’t wait until you’re sick, laid off your job, downsized, broke, on your back in the hospital…The doors are open. Step up on the bus. Why don’t you try Jesus? Try Jesus! Please, try Jesus!”
He shook his left leg, the signal for the choir director to instruct the choir.
“Why don’t you try Jesus? He has your ticket. He’s waiting on you.”
No rustling sound of the choir standing. Reverend Walker cut an eye toward Paul Williams, sitting on the duet bench with the organist, head resting on the keyboard, eyes closed.
By God, he’s asleep! Already!
“Wake up!” Reverend Walker shouted into the microphone. “Wake up to Jesus!”
The choir director sat up, eyes bloodshot red, and stared at Reverend Walker shaking his leg as if something had crawled up his pants. Remaining seated, he motioned the choir and they stood up and started singing Amazing Grace.
Reverend Walker sighed in relief. All good, he thought. If this pace continued, he would arrive home in time for the second set of the tennis match between Venus and Serena. He took his seat and closed his eyes.
Thank Jesus.
An anguished, baleful scream rose above the choir voices. “Noooo!”
Reverend Walker hummed the song and patted his black patent leather Stacy Adams shoes to the beat. He didn’t need to look to know that one of the family members was now being assisted by the ushers. He’d witnessed the scene a thousand times. Now the tortured outbursts irritated him more than anything else.
“Noooo!”
On the way home he would pick up a gallon of ice cream and a liter of root beer…watch the match and make a root beer float. Maybe some chocolate chip cookies.
“Not Kenny G! Nooooo!”
Reverend Walker’s eyes snapped open. He hadn’t heard what he thought he heard, had he? Hesitantly, he stood up and peered over the pulpit.
One of the family members, a young man, was struggling against two ushers, trying to get at the smaller casket.
To Reverend Walker’s horror, the young man broke free and ran to the casket and opened it. Gasps from the front row.
There, in a small burgundy-colored three-piece suit, complete with bow tie, a handkerchief in the front pocket and a miniature godfather hat, lay Kenny G.
“Oh my God!” someone yelled.
The young man leaned over the casket and started stroking the dog’s head; then he lifted it out of the casket, the hat hitting the floor, rolling down the aisle.
Now the entire congregation could see the Pekingese, and could see the suit was a partial, no backing whatsoever.
Reverend Walker felt a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach and regretted the Deluxe Breakfast he’d picked up at McDonalds.
More than half of the congregation started for the exits, and several of the choir members were leaning over the rail trying to get a look at what was causing the commotion.
I’m ruined, Reverend Walker thought.
Ruined!
He would have to get a job. A job requiring sweat. At his age, seventy-two, he couldn’t afford to sweat. Not able to stomach the sight any longer, Reverend Walker resumed his seat, put his head between his knees and prayed he wouldn’t be sick.
* * * * * *
Ruth Ann watched, stupefied, as her seventeen-year-old son, Shane, broke free and ran to Kenny G’s casket. She closed her eyes, knowing what would happen next. She prayed she was dreaming.
Please,
God, let me wake up in my own bed
. She heard the casket open. Please, God! She opened her eyes and she was still in church, still sitting in the front pew, a few feet from where her son was caressing a dead dog.
Shirley, sitting to her right, nudged her. “Ruth Ann, shouldn’t you be doing something about this?”
“What you suggest I do?”
“Tell Shane put Kenny G back into the casket.”
“Momma and Daddy raised him--he won’t listen to a word I tell him.”
Robert Earl, sitting on Shirley’s right, leaned forward and whispered to Ruth Ann, “Get your boy. He’s embarrassing the family.”
“You go get him!”
“He’s your son.”
“He’s your nephew. You go get him. If I go up there I’ll knock the daylights outta him.”
Robert Earl frowned at her. Ruth Ann ignored him. “Forget this!” he said, getting to his feet.
“What’s he fixin’ to do?” Shirley asked. “Tell me he’s not fixin’ to do what I think he’s fixin’ to do.” Robert Earl advanced toward Shane. “Ruth Ann, he’s fixin’ to make a scene at Daddy’s funeral.”
A scene, hello?
“Where’s Leonard?” Ruth Ann said, looking away, focusing on a stained glass window depicting a nativity scene.
“Probably with his friend,” Shirley said, not taking her eyes off Shane and Robert Earl. “I told him it wasn’t a good idea for him to come.”
“Boy,” Robert Earl said, approaching Shane, the dog draped over his shoulder. “Put the dog back inside the casket. Now!”
“No!” Shane said. “He’s not going in a hole. He can’t breathe in a hole. I won’t allow it! I won’t allow it! No! I won’t allow it!”
“Boy, the dog can’t breathe now! It’s dead. Stop acting a dang fool and put it back in the casket. Don’t you see everybody watching you?” Robert Earl lunged for the dog, almost catching hold of its rear leg.
“No!” pulling the animal out of reach. “No, no, no, no!” Then he ran.
“Catch him!” Robert Earl shouted, and gave chase. Shane ran down the aisle along the right wall, with Kenny G bouncing on his shoulder, to the rear of the church.
“Stop him!” shouted Robert Earl, only a few feet behind. “Trip him!…Dang it, boy!”
Shane ran up the center aisle and jumped up onto the dais with the ease of a gazelle. Robert Earl tried to do the same, but his right foot caught in the silver latticework and he fell backward and landed with a splat on his back. A moment he lay there groaning. Then he jumped to his feet.
“Give me the dog, boy, or I’m coming up!”
“No, no, no, no!”
With both hands, Robert Earl placed his right Oxford shoe onto the dais. His brown corduroy pants, obviously two sizes too small, ripped, revealing to all who cared to look, an ashy brown fanny.
A woman screamed.
Up on the dais, Robert Earl moved toward Shane. “Give me the dog, boy!”
Backing away, Shane stumbled and tossed Kenny G into the air. Reverend Walker, finally shaking the urge to hurl, sat up just in time for Kenny G to land in his lap.
Reverend Walker shrieked and threw the dog to the floor. Shane got to his feet, snatched up Kenny G, jumped down, ran down the center aisle and out the glass doors. Robert Earl jumped down and gave chase, one hand covering the rip in his pants. Halfway to the doors he stopped. “I’ll never catch him.”
A pregnant woman jumped up, shouted, “This is insane!” and ran the way Shane had fled.
“You’ll never catch him,” Robert Earl called after her.
“Look, Ruth Ann,” Shirley said. “Reverend Walker just lost his lunch.”
“I’m not looking,” Ruth Ann said, eyes closed. “I paid Emma Stewart to videotape the service. I can watch it later.”
Shirley poked Ruth Ann until she opened her eyes. “Look,” pointing. In front of the adjacent row of pews, Emma Stewart lay supine on the floor, a video camcorder beside her. Two ushers fanned her with paper fans.
“Ruth Ann, you lost money on that deal.”
Robert Earl returned to his seat. “I tried.”
“Can we have order?” A new voice on the microphone: Reverend Jones. “Please! Can we have--”
A loud shriek from the rear of the church and then a woman dressed head to toe in white ran up front, arms flailing as though she were in the throes of electric shock.
“Is that Estafay?” Shirley asked Ruth Ann, who had closed her eyes again.
“I don’t know! And I don’t want to know!”
When Estafay hopped onto the dais, Reverend Jones, horrified, immediately stepped away from the pulpit. Estafay snatched the microphone out of his hand.
Reverend Walker, on all fours, gagging, looked up and saw Estafay, her face contorted, said, “Dear God!” and threw up again.
“Jeeeeeessssuusss!” Estafay screamed into the microphone, her head tilted back, thick tendons in her neck. “Jeeeeeeeeesssuusss!” she screamed again and stomped her feet, whirled in circles, wrapping the microphone cord around herself, and started bouncing on her toes.
“Robert Earl,” Shirley said, “isn’t she with you?”