Authors: Marcus Burke
“Glory, sister!
Glory!
” shouted a baritone voice from somewhere in the back.
The band readied their instruments and the drummer ran a finger across the chimes and started a slow patter on his snare drum. The sobs and praises from those deeply communing with the Lord subsided. A calm began to fall over the congregation.
Ma had begun sobbing around midservice after Deacon Harris stood from his seat in the middle of the stage, looking
like he had a hot poker sticking up his spine, eyes rolling back in his head, speaking in tongues.
Bishop Jackson moved toward Deacon Harris and poured anointing oil on a rag and slapped it on Deacon Harris’s forehead.
“Speak, Lord!” Bishop Jackson yelled.
His touch crumbled Deacon Harris like a wave splashing a sand castle. Bishop Jackson knelt down and gripped Deacon Harris’s forehead as though his head were a heart and his hand were a stethoscope.
Bishop Jackson closed his eyes and began prophesying.
“We’re living in the last days, sayeth the Lord of hosts. We need stronger vessels to weather these perilous times.” Deacon Harris was still down, half convulsing. Bishop Jackson was kneeling, palming oil onto Deacon Harris’s forehead.
“Do not fear or shun the wicked ones in your life, for I am God and boundless redemption lives through me. Do you believe in redemption? Greater is he who knows my name, sayeth the Lord of hosts. Will you be a vessel carrying the lost back to light? Be a vessel! Stand with me today and watch me restore all that the devil has
stolen
from
you
! sayeth the Lord of hosts.” Bishop Jackson stood, wiped his hands, and walked back to the podium.
Deacon Harris’s eyes began to steady and he came back into himself. The ushers hefted him up off the floor and back into his seat. Deacon Harris’s wife stroked his back and held his hand. As Ma watched the scene unfold, she broke down and started bawling. Me and Nina watched her mortified as the sermon switched gears into Bishop Jackson’s famous pitch about redemption through the blood of Jesus—the one that gets Ma every time.
Ma slid onto her knees in the pew and sobbed into the lap
of her cream-colored Sunday dress. It was like she needed the Lord to plug her in and recharge her battery. The organ pipes bellowed from above the balcony and the overhead lights dimmed to a glittery darkness, reducing Bishop Jackson to a silhouette carved out by the fluorescent glow from the crucifix in the middle of the podium. The bassist strummed into the drum patter and thrummed under the beat.
“Every head bowed, every eye closed. I’m going to pray the benediction,” Bishop Jackson intoned.
I hated it when the lights dimmed inside the sanctuary in New Day Pentecostal. The wails and screams of church elders twitching with the Holy Ghost, barking in tongues—it kinda scared me. It felt like there was some kind of magic in the air, the Holy Spirit flowing around the congregation like vapor, filling folk with the Spirit at random, playing a big game of duck-duck-goose. As I sat in the darkness I always feared the Holy Ghost would envelop me one Sunday like an ill-fitting suit and transform me into a holy roller like the rest. The stained-glass depiction of Christ splayed across a crucifix, bleeding out in his crown of thorns, made everything the color of rotten apples. Sitting in that stiff darkness made me feel like I was in a dungeon, trapped with my thoughts.
I could never catch Tunnetta looking at me from her seat across the congregation next to her father. But when those lights dimmed I knew she was looking, I could feel it, at least I hoped she was ’cause
I
was looking, trying to see her. In the darkness, all the wails and groans reminded me of the same ruckus I’d heard throbbing through the floorboards from my grandparents’ room a few weeks back.
Since I’ve been fucking up and digging myself deeper and deeper into a hole, at night I haven’t been sleeping. I just lie in bed looking up into the nothingness as worries carousel
around my chest. Regrets race through my mind as I lie in bed playing back where I went wrong or how I let things get so messed up with Tunnetta, and I wonder what Smoke will do to me when he gets tired of waiting for me to give him his money.
It was three in the morning, and I was awake thinking on things as usual when I heard the hollow panging of Nana Tanks waddling to the bathroom using her walker. Ever since her botched knee surgery her legs haven’t quite worked the same. I tracked her slow footsteps to the bathroom, the pause, the flush of the toilet, and her slow trudge back. Her steps stopped near what I imagined to be her nightstand. I heard a loud scream and one strong clang from the walker and then it sounded like the fridge upstairs turned over on its side. Nana Tanks yowled like a banshee. My ears popped and I sat up. She wailed into the floor and then went silent and my heartbeat felt like a bee stinging me in the chest.
The entire house woke up and snapped into crisis mode. All preexisting house beefs were put on truce until further notice and everything turned electric. I could hear all the commotion of everyone moving around and it felt like I was hiding under a jungle gym.
“Mother, talk to me! Talk to me!” I heard a few more light thuds and I imagined my mother shaking Nana Tanks. “Call an ambulance!” Ma cried.
I wanted to move but I was too locked in my fear to go and see the chaos rumbling through the floor into my room. I stayed put, listening to the sounds muffled by the pillow I’d clamped over my ears. The boom of the paramedics storming into the house is what got me up out of bed. The red and orange lights pulsed through my shades as I put on a pair of sweatpants.
I opened my door just in time to see the apartment door open and Nana being taken out of the house on a half-bent gurney. Her cheeks pouted down like a bulldog and she had an oxygen mask suctioned to her face. She was tucked in white blankets up to her neck, head slack to the side. Two EMTs were wheeling her out, and when they pushed her through the ambulance doors, I thought she was dead.
The memory now played in my head on repeat, wild and vivid, like the congregants of New Day Pentecostal, stomping feet, clapping hands, screaming in praise and pain. Some people were passing out while others were doing sanctified shuffles up and down the aisles in conga lines.
“Can we all please join hands?” said Bishop Jackson.
This was the part of church I hated most. I’d always sit next to Nina and her hands would sweat. They reminded me of raw chicken flesh. I’d tell her they smelled like cheese and when she extended her hand I’d reach out and hold her wrist. She’d shake her wrist free and punch me in the knee. Or she’d lick a finger and run it along my ashy ankles, pulling at the cuffs of my too-tight high-water church pants. It was like a routine between us.
Today, though, Nina and I watched our mother fizzle down into what looked like a certifiable lunatic. We held hands and locked arms, huddling into each other. I looked her in the face and she appeared so sad, so innocent. I didn’t think I’d ever forgive myself for hitting her like I did.
The saxophonist blew into the rhythm, speeding up the tempo.
“It’s never too late to reclaim all that the devil has stolen from you! Today! If you’ll surrender your life, repent, and accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior, your future will be secured. If you haven’t already, will you accept the Lord
today? If that’s you saying to yourself, ‘It’s time to make a change,’ please come down to the pulpit, I’d like you to join me in prayer. Come on down. Are you ready to be a vessel? Are you ready for the rest of your life today?”
Bishop Jackson stepped down from the podium.
The organ elevated from a shrill moan to a high-pitched trill, drowning out the band’s rhythm. Nina and I held each other in disbelief, listening to our mother melting on the floor, but I doubted Ma was embarrassed. “Ain’t no shame in the Lord” was her motto. She had plenty to cry about but, truth be told, I didn’t know what exactly triggered this.
“Let it out, sister. Let it go, girl.” A pint-sized elderly woman with wax-smooth olive skin rubbed her back and held her hand.
“Will you join me in prayer? Are you ready to start the rest of your life now?” Bishop Jackson’s voice repeatedly crooned through the speakers.
The lady nudged Ma. “Go on, sister, reclaim your life.”
Ma lifted her head and cleared her throat. The lady handed her a napkin and Ma wiped her face and stepped out from the pews, holding the wooden rail. I just about wanted to die as I watched Ma all unraveled staggering down to the pulpit among the other newfound souls.
See, the thing is, Ma’s been a believer four years strong, a faithful servant, pious and devout. She moves like a lily pad on windy waters for the Lord. She takes on all assignments.
Bishop Jackson and his fellow clergymen splashed oil on all the converts’ foreheads and ushered them into a small side room to distribute some literature. As the line of converts entered into the back, Ma walked back to her seat, all shined up with oil like she just came out of a bag of fried chicken. She had regained her composure. She stopped in front of the pew
and looked at me and Nina like we had just as much a role to play in her stress as anybody, then she smiled at us and took her seat. Nina and I knew this was a very bad sign. Before Ma accepts any of the Lord’s assignments, she always answers an altar call and gets herself born again.
Pop’s imminent release from jail was a tension in the house too. Ma and Mr. Watson had a long-standing friendship, so he plucked a few strings in his rich nigga network and set up a work-release-type deal for Pop. Somehow he got Pop’s charges balled up into a year of probation. He was scheduled to be released in a few weeks and the topic of where he was going to reside had yet to be resolved. Mr. Watson assured Ma that she’d receive her child support or he’d garnish Pop’s checks. I knew Ma considered her friendship with Mr. Watson a blessing, but I wasn’t feeling it. Mr. Watson’s goodwill didn’t always seem to do good in my opinion.
“My family, my family,” Ma said as she sat hugging herself, rocking side to side, watching Bishop Jackson as he finished out service, having everyone recite the Lord’s Prayer. When the part about debtors came up, she glared over at me. Service let out and Ma stayed in her seat, smiling up at the ceiling and shaking her head. Nina and I bumped our way out of the pew and waited in the aisle for Ma to snap out of it. When she did, she strong-stomped out of the sanctuary, blowing past us out into the parking lot, click-clicking along. Nina and I trailed her, trying to keep up.
“Ma, where’s the fire? … What’s the rush?” Nina called.
“We need to get to the hospital to see your grandmother and then get home so we can clean up the house. You know your father comes home soon and he likes a clean house.” Ma turned back and smiled at us with that glow, and Nina
stopped in her tracks and balled her fists. Her eyes crammed shut as she took a step back.
“Why you don’t make that nigga go live in a crack-way house?” Nina shook her head at Ma. “You just gon’ keep on letting him in, Ma? Come on.” She rolled her eyes. Ma kept walking.
We reached the car and Ma opened her door and got in. Nina and I sat together in the backseat, a unified front. Nina’s eyes seared on Ma from the rearview mirror. Ma started the car, turned around, and slid her sunglasses down so we could see her eyes.
“Be a vessel? Give your life to the Lord!” She looked at us blankly and sucked her teeth. “Y’all two just need to be born again, y’all been acting like demons in the street. Now I’m taking back what is rightfully mine. I am a child of God and I want my husband back. I want my marriage back. I want my family back!”
She did a little praise dance in her seat and put the car in gear.
“O ye of little faith, why are you so afraid? Your father’s coming back home to live with us and we’re going to be a family again. I am taking back all that the devil has stolen from me.”
She’d never looked crazier to us. She snapped her fingers above her head and pushed her shades back on, turning up the gospel music. We pulled out, passing the giant red hot dog flapping like a dying fish on the Simco’s sign, heading down Blue Hill Avenue toward Mass General to see Nana Tanks. Condemned houses hopscotched the avenue, blistering with peeling waterlogged concert promotion posters.
The golden cross spinning high above the avenue
announced Morning Star Baptist Church as we approached Norfolk Street. Riding along Blue Hill Avenue, I looked at the new Jordans plastic-wrapped in the window of Andrew G’s Fashion. We drifted past Lili’s Market and Nina’s thirsty ass damn near broke her neck watching the dreadlocked man with no shirt on doing pull-ups in the doorway of P&R, the Jamaican beef patty spot. All I could do was shake my head.
We hit a pothole and one of our hubcaps shook loose and sparks clapped from the car’s underbelly. The hubcap raced alongside the car passing Taurus Records, Fernandez Beer and Wine, Ali’s Roti, and Lenny’s Bakery, finally skipping across the avenue to land flat in front of the Morton Street police station.
Apartments sprouted up two, three, and four levels above the first floors of storefront churches, laundromats, tire shops, mini-marts, and mom-and-pop stores. All were stuck together on the strip like gum. Mayor Menino’s slogan, “Moving Boston Forward,” was pasted on green and white billboards and his posters hung everywhere eyes could see. Satellite dishes jutted out from rooftops and air conditioners drooled down on the sidewalk plants. As we passed over Morton Street, the round red and blue “Open” sign blinked at me in the window of Boston Check Cashers.
We got to the intersection of Blue Hill Avenue and Talbot Street and I focused in on a green van parked to the side, where an old Asian man wearing a wife-beater and dress pants sat cross-legged drinking a bowl of steaming soup and selling jungle-patterned rugs. He looked so peaceful amid all the chaos. We pulled past him and the truck selling discounted soon-to-expire breads and pastries on the corner near the Franklin Field projects, swarming with people. We floated past Fire Station 52 into another stoplight. A group of licorice-black
West Indian women wearing blue tank tops and white pleated skirts played netball in Franklin Field as they blared calypso. Pigeons lined the top of Sun Pizza’s long red awning.