by David Haynes
“Marshall Field Finney, how much of a heathen are you, child?” Lucille clamps the errant arm to the table, pinning it with her own iron claw. I feel like a porcupine caught in a steel trap.
“Who will now give thanks to Lord Jesus for the bountiful blessings of this day?” she asks.
“Might I?” offers Artie. He catches my eye to see if I see the gleam in his.
“Young man, what’s your name, Arthur? Please to bless our meal at this time.”
Artie takes off in this high falutin tone that sounds like Jesse Jackson, or something. He works in all the right “heavenly fathers” and “we thank you humblies,” and “in-the-name-ofs,” and the whole time I’m pulling back with all of my might on the clamped arm. Lucille doubles her strength to assure my continued capture.
Finally, there is a hearty amen. Without warning my own hand is set free and snaps up almost slapping me in my own face.
“Bless your heart,” Lucille says to Artie, and he gets this “aw shucks ma’am” look on his face, for which I kick him good and hard in the shins.
“Shoot, Marshall,” he says. He acts as if his leg’s broke in two, which it would have been if I’d wanted it to be, but didn’t. “You play too much,” he whines.
“Shame on you—treating guests so,” Lucille scolds. “You gentlemen enjoy your lunches. Don’t pay this heathen here no mind,” and then to Todd she says, “You sure got a head of red hair on you,” which is as much as she ever says to him. As if he were some sort of big white baby doll or something. All the same, Todd gets to blushing bright red.
“This is a lovely lunch you’ve prepared, Miss Lucille,” says Artie. Just then I have a whole mouth full of chewed sandwich. I open my mouth in his direction so he can get a good look at it.
Lucille gives him this “no-trouble-at-all” pat on the hand and tells him to help himself because there is plenty more. Saying that to Artie and Todd is pretty much the same thing as giving Dracula a free pass to the blood bank. I’ve about lost all appetite at this point, so I sit back and glare across the table at the Hoover twins who have inhaled every morsel of food laid before them.
“Look at that face on that boy,” Lucille says of me to Artie and Todd. Then to me she says, “Your face’ll freeze in that position and you’ll never catch a wife.”
“Huh,” I say (—a great comeback!) Artie and Todd think this is the funniest thing in the world and are almost sick with laughter.
I am relieved when finally Lucille asks if anbody wants anything else. She asks this after frick and frack have already eaten two bowls of chocolate chip ice cream and about drained a gallon of iced tea. Already little pot bellies have popped out on each of them as if they were knocked up. They wisely beg off more of anything.
“Well, then,” says Lucille, grabbing one elbow of each and lifting them from the table. “It’s been lovely, and I guess you youngsters will be on your way. You must come and visit again soon.”
Before I am able to protest—which I might not anyway, considering the shameless way our boys have carried on—Lucille is ushering them through the living room and wishing them a good day. I believe this is what’s known as the bum’s rush. She waves to them from the porch.
“Little old red-haired thing,” she purrs. She turns to me. “Now we’ll have time for that little talk.”
“Shit,” I say under my breath. I have no intention of talking or listening for that matter.
“I heard that,” she answers. She orders me to empty out the dryer, indicating that she will iron while I fluff and fold.
No rest for the wicked.
*
“Those are nice friends you have there. So mannerly and refined.”
Even at the state penitentiary they behave when fed. I don’t say this out loud, of course.
“Kind of long hair on that one. The white one. But a sweet boy all the same. And your other friend—what was his name?”
“Attila?” I say.
“Yes, Arthur. Such a fine young man. I figure there’s hope for you yet with such friends as this.”
What am I: an axe murderer? I don’t say this either.
After a period of folding and fluffing, Lucille says, “Rosie told me about your little stunt on the phone.” She dumps a load of folded towels off the chair and orders me to do them over again. The right way.
“Don’t bother saying anything,” she says. “Just listen to me good. This here is Sam and Rose’s business. It’s none of your concern. You understand me? Do you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, really quiet.
“Like this, fool,” she says. She grabs a towel and shows me the Lucille Robinson method. She makes a full-sized bath towel into a compact rectangle as hard as a brick and only a little larger. “Practice that,” she orders.
“You’re lucky—can you imagine?” she goes on. “What if your daddy found out? Don’t worry about me. I won’t say a word—but I should. Don’t thank me, either. I’ve know Sam Finney too long. You’d be laid out in a coffin, arms crossed in a new blue suit. You know that, too. Don’t you?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Mr. Sam Finney. What on earth it was, attracted my baby to that? He was what you call the silent type. Didn’t say nothing unless absolutely need be. A ladies’ man. Everybody knew about him. Walking around with two or three heifers at once. Never seen nothing like it in my life. A dog.” She stops long enough to crack open a window, to say there’s never enough air in these cheap houses.
“You have to forgive me, baby. Talking about you daddy. But never in my life had I seen a man so … mannish. It was hardly civililized, if you ask me. But then no one did. Wouldn’t you know, Rose hadn’t met him too long, and there they were up and getting married.”
She goes on and on. The best I can remember, something as follows:
“Desmond and Shirley rest my sweet sister’s soul—had that Sam over for supper, I recall, and all of us relatives, too. Rosie was no more than eighteen at the time.” Lucille moves the iron back and forth in a rhythmic rocking. She takes a long drink of iced tea, swallowing it slowly, as if the tea were as thick as tar. On she goes:
“They were nervous you understand—him being twenty-four and what you call already an experienced man. Sam Finney sat there not saying a word. But do you know he never took his eyes off that girl all night. Like he expected her to vanish in thin air or something. Her sitting there all shy, but lighting up the room, anyway.
“Put those towels in the linen closet. Do it right and none of your monkey business. And get me some more iced tea: this iron’s like to got me on fire.”
I do this and I do that. Just as I’m told. I check the dryer for lost socks. I check the time as well. Surely the boys have already left for the movies. Here’s Lucille going on and on about everything in the ancient world.
“Marshall,” she says to me. “You must have some shirts to iron for school.”
“My clothes don’t need ironing,” I tell her.
“Don’t need it, huh.” She sets the iron up. It whistles as the steam rushes out. “Look at what nice well-kept things your friend wears.”
“Barbie.” I say.
“Yes, Arthur—he makes a nice appearance indeed. As does your mama. Back in those days Rosie was a high-spirited thing. She’d set every occasion to life with her laugh and with those eyes. Strong-willed. No one told her what to do. Have you ever heard your mama sing, Marshall?”
“No, ma’am,” I say, and then I realize that that might not be true. Surely I’d have heard her sing sometime. There must have been a time when she was happy, and how could I have forgotten that? “I mean, I guess I don’t remember,” I say, changing my story.
“Yes, you do too remember, Marshall Finney. Back then she had a full, warm voice. Just like the late Miss Mahalia Jackson, rest her soul. Smooth and mellow like a warm afternoon. Rose sang all the time: Love songs and the Lord’s praise.”
I have this strange mix of anger and emptiness because I don’t hear anything at a
ll. I decide I’d better meet the boys at the show: maybe it’s not too late. This has gone on too long.
I’m gonna call some friends,” I say.
“Sit,” she says. “Your friends’ll keep. I might not.”
So I sit. Maybe I’ll fetch, roll over, and play dead too.
*
“That’s why I objected, you see,” Lucille drones on. She is now mending hems, sewing on buttons. “To the marriage, that is. My girl, so full of life. With that man. I knew he’d drive every ounce of spirit from her. I knew it. May the Lord have mercy on his soul.”
I sit there on the couch for a long time waiting for the next pronouncement. I try to imagine Sam and Rose back in those days. Young Rose, not much older than me, maybe at a party or a dance. Sam, hair all black, dressed in some fancy stud clothes, maybe in tangerine-colored pants and red shoes. They might be slow dancing to a record by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. Or maybe they have gone to Rose’s prom. Sam has pinned a too-large orchid on her lemon-yellow formal dress.
They are no one I know, but, then where am I anyway? Where is Marshall in all of this?
“Marshall,” Lucille says, sitting beside me and placing a hand on my arm. She has turned on the bowling tournament. It is right here we’ll sit until dinnertime. “Marshall you never have asked me about her.” A chubby man in a peach-colored shirt rolls two strikes. “You want to know—I’m sure you do. Ask me about her.”
Then there are some beer commercials.
“You want to know where she is. Ask me.”
“She did what she wanted. She left. That’s where she is.” A man in a red shirt is angry because he has two spares in a row. Big money rides on every ball. This is what bowling is like. One ball and then another and then another. Every time there is a strike Lucille and I pop up like toast. Meanwhile her hand pets my arm.
“This isn’t about you, Marshall,” she says.
She knows nothing. A dried-up childless busybody. “Let’s watch the game,” I say.
“You’re so much alike.” She says. “You’d’ve liked my Rosie a lot.”
As if she were someone I didn’t know.
*
Sunday morning, everybody in Washington Park knows they better let Marshall sleep. So I’m plenty pissed when here’s Lucille got up in what looks like a nurse’s uniform, only blue, and a hat with some sort of little net up front, announcing it’s time for church. Church is the last place I had intended being on this particular day.
“It’s late. We can’t get to Union Gospel,” I say into my pillow. I am content that that’s that, and she’s discouraged.
“Get up, I said. For your information Full Gospel runs continuous services all day Sunday, every Sunday.” She says this in a way too spirited for almost any basic sentence.
“I aim to check out the preaching right here at Park Baptist. Ten A.M. Which gives you a full twenty-five minutes to get presentable.”
I groan and pull the covers over my head.
I’m waiting,” she bellows.
A new voice chimes in: Big Sam’s. “Get up and go,” he orders.
Swell. Double-teamed, on a Sunday, no less. I get it together, though. This involves peeling a navy blue suit out of its cleaning bag. Sam spins me around checking for tags. Then he straightens my tie. I notice he’s got canary feathers all over his face.
“What are you smirking at?” I ask.
He whispers, “I’d like to see this show myself.” He propels me in the direction of the door where Lucille waits. She is carrying a shiny blue handbag the size of a hatbox. Martians could live in this purse. Here I am going out in public with a woman toting a giant-sized glow-in-the-dark purse.
“Twins,” she says, holding her sleeve next to mine, and then she says to Sam, “Sam Finney! Your heathen soul needs saving, too. You best get in line with the rest of us sinners.”
“See you in hell, Lucille.”
*
At least Park Baptist is peaceful: A boy can get in a good nap there. Park Baptist is Reverend Alan T. William’s church—Reverend Alan T. Williams, that’s the way he introduces himself, oily hand extended. You’d think every Sunday here was the Academy Awards, too, the way everybody’s looking around to see who’s there and who’s not there.
You should see them when Rose struts in, wearing some silky red dress, a wide-brimmed lid shading her eyes, this holier-than-thou-art look on her face. A couple of these old sisters near have strokes. Thank God Rose only shows up twice a year.
I always have to remind myself that the point of all this church mess is so as not to burn in hell.
Rev. Williams is pretty cool, though. He knows what keeps the money coming in.
Sometimes Rev reads a poem, after which there is always singing and a prayer. Once, in a sermon, Rev told us how hard it was to get service in some of the larger department stores. He reminded us that as Christians our patience is tried at every turn, yet we must learn to abide. He told us to call the manager and complain.
This is information that people can use. None of that hellfire mess. Apparently everyone in the Park agrees. Rev. Williams gets bought a new Cadillac with some frequency. Last year the deacons paved the lot so as he could park it on nice, fresh asphalt.
Lucille and I arrive just after ten at the end of the organ processional. It very well could be the moving conclusion of Prince’s “Purple Rain” for all I know. That’s not unlikely either considering the organist, sister Lonnée Evans, plays electric piano evenings in a said to be up-and-coming multi-racial rock-and-soul outfit of local origin.
Lucille picks a fairly central pew. Just two rows ahead of us I spy Artie, perched between Miss Ida and Betty. Each of them is dressed to the nines. Artie turns around and waves, catching Lucille’s eye. She gives him an audible “Hi, sugar,” and, to me, says, “There’s your little friend,” all of this just as Rev. Williams pulls up to the pulpit to start his sermon.
“Good morning, brothers and sisters,” he begins. There is a polite echo of “mornings” to him. “Shall we pray?”
We all bow our heads, but when I look down I notice I am wearing one green sock and one blue one. So does Lucille. Her mouth falls open and a half-done Lifesaver rolls out of her onto the floor—a disaster because now she will have to fish through the enormous space capsule purse to locate another one.
Rev prays. He talks to God as if he were a close friend or a poker buddy. Rev talks to everyone that way. That’s how one probably ought to talk to God. One also ought to assume that God is not hard of hearing, using what you’d call a reasonable tone not the siren-like howl you get in some of these places. Rev finishes with a quiet “amen,” which is echoed everywhere almost silently. Except to my left where there is a hearty “AMEN, PRAISE HIM,” loud enough to wake the dead.
Sneaky Artie turns around and back so fast that even I almost don’t catch the grin on his face.
Rev. Williams, a well-known vegetarian in these parts, selects for his subject this Sunday the “preciousness and sanctity of all of God’s creations”—fairly heavy-duty business for a place such as Washington Park. Rev believes that just because you ain’t rich, doesn’t mean you have to have an immoral diet. According to Artie—who you will find every Sunday in that same pew between Betty Lou and Miss Ida—his antimeat sermon is an annual favorite, timed not coincidently to open National Eat More Pork month, the signs for which fill every wall of Miss Ida’s store with gleeful pink pigs. Needless to say this sermon creates a bit of tension between Miss Ida and the Rev. And why are those pigs smiling anyway?
He starts off slowly—with a story about how he had many childhood pets that he loved, as, he is sure, did many of the congregation’s young people. At this point many of the church members shift their weight and dig around absent-mindedly in their clothes. Lucille gets a round, open-mouthed expression on her face, which is either confusion or disbelief. Maybe both.
Lucille’s right with him, though. Appreciating it, too. She begins nodding in agreeme
nt about five minutes into it. Finding a thread of some sort to follow, she adds “praise him,” “uh huh,” and a moan to her responses.
Rev builds to an albeit subdued crescendo. “So I say to you my friends that in every leaf on every tree …”
The voice on my left comes in with a loud “Yes sir.”
Rev halts, looks stunned, but only for a second because he’s finally got some life out of this crowd, and on his favorite sermon, too. He’s gonna go with it.
“In the smallest sparrow …”
“Yes, sir.”
“… the largest animal that roams the great forest …”
“Tell it, sir.”
I can feel eyes all over the room on us and up ahead Artie and Betty are nudging each other deep in the pew.
“… yes, in all of these God has placed his spirit, placed the very essence of life.”
“Praise him.”
I look over at her, but she is wrapped completely in the sermon.
“Let us rejoice …”
“Hallelujah.”
“… let us rejoice, I say …”
“Hallelujah.”
Rev’s voice is one octave and several decibals above normal. Here and there new voices join the call and response.
“… let us rejoice in his presense.”
“Yes, yes.”
The room seems to buzz and glow. My face is burning, so I look down. “Let the manifestation of his presence …”
“Go on now.” Even Artie and company beam and join in.
“… let it fill our hearts.”
“Fill our hearts.”
“Let us strive every day in every way to appreciate, preserve, and protect: let us love all of his gifts of life.”
“Amens” all around as Lonnée draws out the first chord of “Jesus Dropped the Charges.” As we sing Lucille grabs my left hand and clutches it tightly in hers. I am crying, though I don’t know why. Perhaps because my fingers are being crushed.
As the plate passes Lucille presses a dollar into my hand, squeezes it so that the bill drops out automatically, then passes the plate herself. This is surely the best haul Rev’s seen in months: dollar bills ooze over the edges of the plate.
