“Give me the programs.”
J.P. cocks his head and raises his left eyebrow. I always hated the fact he can do that and I can’t.
“I’ll give them to Dad. You go home and get some sleep. Only one of us needs to piss him off today. It’s my turn.”
“Hmph. You looking for a fight, Lala. You always wanna be the one to go at it with Dad.”
“Give me the damn programs, J.P. Go home.”
My brother hugs me one more time.
“How much you wanna bet Dad hasn’t finished his sermon yet?” I crack a smile.
“Sis, I’d be stupid to take that bet. You know he hasn’t finished it.” J.P. laughs and strolls to his car, an electric-blue Ford Mustang with a white racing stripe down the middle. The car smoothly turns over. He sticks his arm out the window, throws a peace sign and drives off.
I’m alone again on the block. Calvary Hope Christian Church stands before me, a sandy limestone juggernaut. At the bottom of the church, deeply chiseled, is the year of construction, 1891. I crane my neck up, to see the top of the bell tower. Every time I do this and try to take in its great expanse, I feel the same: a seven-year-old girl whose life cannot be separated from this structure, only defined by it.
The small ache in my head is constant. My jaw is tight. I’m frowning. My jaw aches only when I frown. Momma always scolds me when I do that. She says it makes me look older than my age.
Walking toward the newer building, I reach for the keys in my pocket. The wind always seems sharpest on this side of the church, next to the empty field littered with a buffet of trash and old car parts. I grab the key to the church without even looking at it. I know the shape and weight of the brass and insert it into the lock. I shake it until the tumblers give way, and the lock finally relents.
* * *
During the late spring and summer, the urban pasture is lush and green, wildflowers sticking out and defiantly displaying their beauty among the junk. But for the moment, the haphazardly discarded items are all one can see and the potential is obscured.
I understand how the state of the deserted pasture is a reflection of my community. I understand how remaining behind walls of worship and offering plates and gospel music does nothing to change my side of the city. I understand how religion without action makes it worse. But even good people grow complacent. And it comes at a high price. That’s how Auntie Alice died. Good people doing nothing.
Elder Alma stands in front of door, tall and broad with a warm smile. “I heard you struggling with the door. I was gonna help, but you always figure things out, baby.”
I smile. Old black people, elders, always figure you need a lesson about struggle because they had so much of it in their lives. Maybe they think it makes us stronger. So they’ll teach, but they won’t coddle. They’ll oversee, but they won’t hover. I’m not annoyed at Elder Alma. She wasn’t trying to be mean. She was being herself. You can’t ever fault people for being themselves. Unless you’re my father, Reverend Jackson Potter Sr., then you can fault people for anything and everything under the sun. Must be nice.
I open the door reading REVEREND JACKSON BLAISDELL POTTER SR., and he is hunched over his oak desk staring at a dog-eared sheet of paper. A yellow notepad with a few lines sloppily written on it sits untouched in front of him. Old football trophies and a degree from seminary school are prominently perched on the shelf behind him.
Beside him is the old Bible, falling apart, the spine bound and rebound over many years with tape. The desk and the Bible I see almost as much as I see him and I think they are so much a part of him, each one cannot exist without the other.
The lamp gifts a cloudy circle of dirty golden light. A new desktop computer sits behind him, but my father refuses to use it. He prefers the old-school method of writing by hand. His handwriting is horrible. Momma calls it “chicken scratch” in that rich soprano voice of hers. Even when she’s talking, it seems like she’s singing so when she’s insulting you, it still sounds like some wonderful compliment.
Knocking lightly on the door, I catch my father’s attention. He quickly folds the piece of paper, sticking it into the old Bible and acts as if he’s resuming the task of writing. “Yes?”
“Still working on today’s sermon, Pops?”
“Touching up. Only touching up.”
“Church starts in about two hours. Will you be finished touching up then?”
He’s lying and I know he’s lying, and I want to call him on it so he knows I can’t be fooled like the other people in this building, but I don’t.
He looks up from his paper. “Stop biting your bottom lip.”
I let my lip go, a light throbbing the only evidence I was biting it in the first place.
“I have the programs. J.P. is headed home. He won’t be here today.”
“You know, I don’t expect much from you and J.P.—”
“Spoken like a parent who expects too much.”
“Watch your tone.”
“I’m alive and so is J.P. I’m assuming that’s the best news a father can expect. His children are alive and thriving.”
“My children can thrive in the church,” he retorts. He turns his attention back to his unfinished sermon. “How’s Ruby?”
This is my cue to stick to pleasantries, but I’m not doing that. I made that mistake already with Ruby. “She’s not coming to church either. I’m worried about what she’ll do, living alone with Lebanon.”
Dad puts down his pen and sighs long and heavy. “Maybe give her some space. It’s a difficult time for her. For all of us.”
I roll my eyes. “Give her space? That’s the last thing she needs right about now.”
My father stands up, cocks his head and clenches his left jaw. “For once, just listen to me, stop being so disrespectful. Give Ruby some time to grieve, to be alone with her family.”
“The last of her family is buried in Restvale Cemetery.”
“Layla, she has—”
“No one, Dad. Ruby has nothing and no one left, except us.”
“She has her father.”
“Who drinks and beat her Mom!”
“Layla!” My father stalks from behind his desk. It still terrifies and amazes me how fast, how stealthily he can move. “Leave this alone. I’m telling you for the last time,” he whispers. His eyes are dark and his fingers are meaty and firm around my right arm. He doesn’t shout. Shouting draws attention and listening ears. We’re a perfect family and we can’t have someone in the congregation witnessing a fight, people talk, rumors swirl. It’s best to leave our dysfunction in the home and out of the church.