High as the Horses' Bridles: A Novel (2 page)

He steps back from the microphone to let Pullsey have his way with the stand, and he gives the audience a cold sneer. Accidental maybe, annoyed at the timing, he’s just gotten started for goodness’ sake. He pulls exaggeratedly at his collar. “Really, I mean I’m standing here telling the truth, brothers and sisters, the life-giving waters are flowing. And maybe, just maybe I’m getting carried away.” He looks up. “Is my time up already, Heavenly Father? Is this a message, the vaudeville hook? We haven’t even had the morning song and prayer yet!” And the entire theater breaks into laughter, a hearty family-table peal of laughter, laughter of relief. Kizowski’s just like us.

“But seriously, brothers and sisters. This is a very special day. Our first day in this new House of God.” He’s backed up considerably from the microphone now, hardly within its reach. Test those lungs, and talk to the cheap seats: “Can you all hear me out there?”

A throaty and high-pitched “Yes!” from the back row answers for all.

“Good,” Kizowski says. “Because I just might save your life!” Some more hesitant laughter from the crowd as Bob Pullsey continues to wrestle with the mic stand. He takes a step back and stares at the mic as if willing it to stay put. It finally does.

“Thank you, Brother Pullsey. Do all of you know Brother Pullsey? No, I’m sure you don’t. We have how many here? More than four thousand, I’m told, from all five New York boroughs. Even Kansas City! I met a sister who came all the way here from Kansas City! But state and borough lines don’t matter in here, not even your ballot! Because we’ve cast our vote for Christ, for the one true God and His Heavenly Kingdom. Let it rule from Heaven over Earth, and over His ever faithful subjects. And are we not faithful? Are we not proud of our Lord God who has paved the way for an authentic service, a fine, clean worship just like our first-century brothers and sisters? And is our God not so generous to provide for us this beautiful house to congregate and have fellowship in these Last Days? A place for us to meet, and associate, and encourage. For today we sit within the House of God!” In a stretched, extended position, he appears to be mid-dive. His pants cuffs lift, revealing three inches of hairless pink ankle. “Are we not a cared-for people? A curious people in search of the unbound soul? Are we not explorers of a true metaphysic? And who else could lead this great expedition but our one true Heavenly Father? Now let us show an appreciation for the brothers and sisters who have worked so hard to get his house ready, brothers like our Brother Pullsey. Welcome to this year’s convention, this year’s New York chapter of Brothers and Sisters in the Lord!”

There is a thundering of applause, and Kizowski himself is clapping as Bob Pullsey bows to the crowd.

*   *   *

Up there, in the balcony, claps Sister Hilda Famosa. She claps for the pastor, and for his speech, but looking everywhere except the stage. She’s looking around for her family. Where are her boys? The service is starting and her family is nowhere in sight. She doesn’t need this kind of aggravation. Not to mention her vertigo. The seats are so high it’s making her flushed.

No seats left on the main floor, so they had to sit in the balcony. Should’ve left the house at least an hour earlier, but nobody listens. And when you have to get two boys—no, wait, make it three because Havi brought his mejor amigo, little Issy, because
his
mother’s all high again, who knows where his father is, and all of them fighting for the shower this morning, plus a husband who keeps giving her trouble. Like she doesn’t have enough since Carlo Junior got his driver’s license. She’s never on time anymore. Why am I without my family? Havi and Issy said they were going to the bathroom, and that was twenty minutes ago. And so Carlo Senior went looking. You better go find mi revoltosos. And who knows where Carlo Junior is, lately chasing any rump that walks. And so their Bibles, and their jackets, and her snake-plastic purse all on the chairs beside her, so nobody tries to sit. She mumbles a prayer to herself, and wonders if this long suffering will make her a better bride for Christ.

And everyone here, in different ways, wonders the very same thing. Will they make a good partner for Christ? But not in one way or in one voice, because this is not a collective power, the funneled strength of a crowd. No, it’s personal, a singular power, within each and every one where lives a now-blooming question: Does God know my name, and does He love me? Am I so lucky?

My name is Hilda, and I scrub the grout and bathroom tiles of accountants and lawyers and their wives. She mouths these words: You love me, I know You love me. But where are my boys? The pitch is pretty steep and getting steeper with each stair and the red velvet chairs feel like bird perches, this high up. Her vertigo is getting even worse. The stars above a long ladder’s reach away. Her hands going pale as she grips the soft red armrest, the kind you find in old movie theaters. Well, that’s what she heard some people say anyway, that this place used to be a movie theater. Tiene sentido, but
here
? Why sit up here? Why not come early and sit down front? Nobody listens. And a little boy sitting by himself right in front of me. ¿Dónde está tu madre? If I’m not careful, and he turns, the boy will see up my skirt.

The ceiling presses closer on the rows behind her, close, and coming down like a sandwich press meeting the way-back wall, stars and all, of the Queens Howard Theater. In any other theater in this world, a ticket taker dressed in cardinal red would stand up here with a handful of Playbills. But not here. Hilda has climbed to where the stairs stop, as far as you
can
go, where the ceiling
becomes
the wall. Where one of the maintenance men, Harold, from Brooklyn, fifty-six and round-faced, came all the way on the N train and walked how many blocks, has already lugged a gallon of paint from the first floor early this morning because some kid, probably not ten or twelve, a boy no doubt, stood up on his tiptoes and scratched away a star above BZ5. Where his father was forced to stoop, because like it or not the sky rushes down like a plaster-cast waterfall of stars. Be careful, or you just might crack your head.

From up here, the highest seat in his house, you can see it all, a crazy mixed perspective, where the clouds crawl high over the heads of husbands, wives, and children now settled in their seats. The applause has stopped. What sermon first? What song? Will there be talk of a new date? Because there’s been rumor of a brand-new date.… These are End Days, the Last Days, and the signs of the times are real, everywhere, and it’s so obvious. The earthquakes on the news. Russia killing all the God-fearing good men and women. Armageddon must be right around the corner. There has been talk among the congregations of a possible announcement, a date of divine prophecy revealed. The hour and the day made known, in honor of this new house of His worship. Since ’75—five years ago, but feels like yesterday—when so many prayed for Armageddon, and the Holy Ghost spoke through the pages of Ezekiel, Daniel, and the ancient dreamer John of Revelation. All their numerical reckonings had been pointing toward a date just right around the corner: Come 1975, the End will be here! The date was wrong. How many subsequent defections from how many ministries? Some got lucky and found a family with these new Brothers in the Lord. Hilda wasn’t around for all that drama, but she heard about it. She was new, and only started coming when someone gave her a pamphlet, “Don’t Be Afraid of Death,” two years ago on a subway. But of course the End didn’t come in 1975, it wasn’t time. But have you seen the TV news lately? The world is falling apart, with volcanoes, and they keep on talking about the Cold War, and how is war ever cold anyway? And the snatching up of the kids. Crack sold on street corners. Ay dios mio, what happens after Armageddon, then? Will the Holy Spirit talk to us today?

Hilda spots little Josiah opening a door by the stairs to the stage. Or maybe he’s not so little after all. Almost the same age as Havi, but he’s so much more mature. Josiah Laudermilk is special and Hilda knows it, too: special like her Havi can’t ever be. He seems a little bit lost, and looking maybe for someone in the audience. Right there, in the front row, a man stands up and motions back to Josiah. It’s the boy’s father, Brother Gill Laudermilk. She doesn’t talk with him too much at church, because he makes her uncomfortable. Muy intenso. Now he’s waving at the boy, and excusing himself, making his way toward Josiah.

Kizowski is saying: “Let’s open our songbooks to page number…”

Josiah walks toward his father, the door closing behind him.

The boy’s father takes him by the shoulder and pushes him along and away toward the back of the hall, under the balcony, where Hilda can’t see him no more. There is a yearning energy filling this place, a spirit she can’t help but receive even as she’s still feeling dizzy. It calms her even as it rises. She reaches one hand toward the stage, as if she expects to be taken, and lifted. But where are her boys?

*   *   *

Just like in junior high school, it’s in the stairwells you find the kids. In the halls and every darkened corner. They ditch parents first chance they get, and the parents don’t mind because inside is not the world outside. No crime, here, not in his house. No borough factions, or fights. Queens, Brooklyn, or Bronx. Best of all, no unbelievers. We’re a clean people, have a good time with your brothers and sisters. But be in your seats before the service begins.

Havi and Issy stand by the water fountain and the restrooms at the top of the stairs. The doors to the balcony are closed, but Kizowski’s voice booms through the walls. You can’t get away from Kizowski. But with enough practice—and boy, do they have practice, church twice a week, sometimes more, for as long as they can remember—with enough practice you tune out the voices. Doesn’t mean you don’t get the message. These boys, thirteen and fourteen, they know it all by heart.

“Look at that,” Havi says.

Issy looks. The girl is maybe thirteen, and coming out of the ladies’ room, Dominican or maybe Puerto Rican, but it’s also, like, she’s a young woman. Not bodily—she weighs no more than what little girls weigh, it’s like she weighs so perfect—but would you look at the way she walks. No time anymore for play dolls or boy crush magazines, she wears a yellow dress with a white stripe around her knees like icing. Issy feels a little dizzy, and he knows a soda will make him feel better, but he also likes the buzzy feeling when his body wants sweets. Right now he wants nothing more in the world than to know her name.

“Girl is fresh,” Havi says.

Issy shoots him a look. Havi always gets the girls, but not this time. No way.

Havi says, “What I say?”

Issy watches the girl walk over to a man, probably her father, who talks with a fat Chinese brother sitting in a foldout chair. The Chinese brother is collecting donations in a tall wooden box with a handwritten sign taped to it: “Contributions for Furthering God’s Good Work.”

Havi whispers, “Bet his chair busts in like five minutes.”

Is she looking? Issy’s small heart hiccups. Nah, she’s not looking …

Brother Laudermilk, Josiah’s father, stands by the door. The door opens again, and hot moist air comes wafting out. The restrooms are enormous. “Like a house in there,” says Havi. Urinals line the wall, each one with a blue flush cake. The air in there can’t be helped, though. The Argentines, Dominicans, Filipinos, Dutch. The Japanese, Ukrainians, Indians, Egyptians. The northern blacks, the southern blacks. Then every kind of white there is. They all come to worship and they bring their neighborhood smells, an invisible map of the world.

Havi says, “Jesus.”

“Don’t cuss,” says Issy, looking away to the girl.

Then Issy looks at Brother Laudermilk, who now glances back toward the boys, flattens his left lapel. Issy half waves, and says, “Thas Josiah’s father. You see Josiah around?”

Havi says, “Nah, I bet he’s in the pisser.”

Issy says, “Looks like he’s waiting for Josiah.”

“C’mon, les’ go, b’.”

“Hey, thas Josiah,” says Issy. “Just look it.”

The door closes behind the boy as he leaves the bathroom, blowing his nose into a stiff paper towel.

Issy waves him over.

Josiah looks at the two boys. His father is chatting with the large man, and with the father of the girl in the yellow dress, and the girl, too. On the way to the restroom, Josiah and father passed a lunch table stacked with heros. He showed his father, and asked for one, please. But his father said, No, wait for lunch. Food weighs you down. A spirit hungry for God is never satisfied. Concentrate on your sermon, son.

Josiah throws away the paper towel and heads over to where the boys are standing, but then hesitates. Should he talk to them? Talk to Havi? He realizes he hasn’t really talked to anyone his age all day. He walks over.

Issy says, “Wassup, what you doing?”

Havi acts like he doesn’t see Josiah.

Josiah nods his head, his father still busy talking. “I don’t know. I’m supposed to be somewhere. I have something to do.” Figures he better not mention his sermon because every time he gives one at church, Havi makes fun of him after. Issy never does, though. Josiah used to think it was because of their parents, that he had two parents and they both went to church. Except then Havi’s father started going to church, too, like his mother, and
still
he acts like a jerk. Issy’s father’s hardly ever around. His mom was, but not so much anymore. He’s practically living at Havi’s. One time, at church, when Issy’s mother was there, she pushed Issy’s head against a wall. Josiah was on his way to the restroom, saw it, and didn’t know what to do. Issy’s mom looked so mad, and she tried to keep her voice low as she smacked at Issy’s head. Josiah went over and took Issy’s hand. He had lied and said, My father wants to see you.

“You so weird, Josiah,” Havi says, shaking his head.

“Shut up, Havi,” says Issy.

“Why? He your boyfriend now? Yo, we should go get Shastas. Josiah, hey, you got fifty cents?” Havi pats at his pockets, like he swears he’s got money somewhere.