The Perfect Place

by Teresa E. Harris

“The Lord heals,” Great-Aunt Grace replies.

  “I can’t breathe.”

  “You can whine, you can breathe, girl. Now, let’s go.”

  I drag myself out of my chair, and Tiffany and I follow Great-Aunt Grace outside. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, I realize we have to walk there, and my Mary Janes are already pinching something serious. Since it’s Sunday, I phone in a favor to God: Please save us.

  We make it to the middle of Great-Aunt Grace’s road, and Moon pulls up beside us in a long car the color of a pickle and just as lumpy, his windows down and the oldies blaring. Great-Aunt Grace pretends not to see him. Instead, she’s got her eyes on Dot, who’s on her way to the car parked in her driveway. She’s wearing her Sunday best: a full magenta suit and a hat big enough to land a helicopter on. She glares at Great-Aunt Grace, who glares right back and says, “Mornin’, Dot, you old fool.” If this were a cartoon, steam would be coming out of Dot’s ears. Great-Aunt Grace walks on. Tiffany and I follow, Moon still coasting beside the three of us and Great-Aunt Grace still pretending not to see him.

  “Aw, come on, Gracie. I told you I was busy,” he calls out to her.

  She doesn’t stop walking. “Busy doin’ what? Hidin’ while I took on half the town?”

  “I wasn’t hidin’!” Moon says, indignant.

  “You sure enough were.” Great-Aunt Grace stops walking and stares at him, sweat beading on her brow. “You’s a coward, Moon, simple as that, but I reckon I’ll let you drive us anyway.”

  Moon jumps out to open the passenger-side door for Great-Aunt Grace, and we slide into the back seat. She doesn’t thank him, nor does she say a word to him as we drive. Every now and again, he shoots her a nervous look. At last he heaves a great sigh and says, “All right, I should’ve come by when I heard the sheriff and ’em were on their way to your house. I’m a coward. Happy now?”

  “I reckon so,” Great-Aunt Grace replies. Moon breathes another sigh, this one of relief, and launches right into his all-time favorite topics: the scarcity of his favorite brand of cigarettes, the price of gas, and lazy Byron, who should be fired from H&H Auto Service.

  “I’m telling you, Gracie baby, I drove past there yesterday, and instead of workin’ like he supposed to, Byron’s useless behind got his head poked into the passenger-side window of some girl’s car.”

  “That’s Byron for you,” Great-Aunt Grace replies.

  “It sure is,” Moon says, making a sharp left. “He’s a sorry sight. But what’s worse is the stores that sell my smokes is dropping like flies. Can’t even get ’em up at Sammy’s no more. And I’m gonna have to put this car to rest and start hot-stepping it with you pretty soon. Thanks to this war with the Islamists, gas costs as much as diamonds these days. Now, don’t get me wrong. I ain’t one of them lefties, no, ma’am. My great-grandfather’s father fought for his freedom in the Civil War, my daddy fought in World War One, and I faced off against Charlie over in Vietnam. And now look at me, spending half my social security check on gasoline!”

  Is hot air the same as gas? Either way, Moon is full of it. I hum along with the oldies on the radio to drown him out.

  Soon we pull up to Mount Holy Baptist Church. It’s a huge white house with stained-glass windows and columns, smack in the middle of a great big lawn with a parking lot on one side. Moon makes a left into the lot and parks in a spot a few yards away from a side door. He gets out to open Great-Aunt Grace’s door. Tiffany and I scramble out, and that’s when I notice that Moon is wearing shorts and a T-shirt.

  “I don’t know how the Lord is going to feel about your outfit,” I tell him, shaking my head.

  Great-Aunt Grace gives him a hard once-over and says, none too happily, “Moon can’t seem to make the time for church.”

  Moon takes Great-Aunt Grace’s hand and kisses it. As he does so, he winks at me.

  “So you just drive her here?” I ask, jerking my finger at Great-Aunt Grace.

  “Yes indeedy. Every Sunday. Pick her up, too. Come back around one thirty?” he asks.

  Great-Aunt Grace frowns. “Better make it two.”

  I almost choke on my own spit. “Do you mean to tell me church is four hours?”

  Great-Aunt Grace looks at me. She’s wearing makeup. Deep brown foundation that hardly matches her skin, and some kind of burgundy lipstick and blush. I bet she calls the blush “rouge.”

  “Do you know how long Jesus was up on that cross?” she asks me.

  I shake my head.

  “A heck of a lot longer than four hours. Now, tuck in your lips and let’s go.”

  Tiffany looks up at me as we follow Great-Aunt Grace toward the door.

  “We’re going to die in there,” Tiffany says mournfully.

  I nod. Because it’s true.

  Sixteen

  EVERY eye is on us as we cross the lawn and head toward the church. Conversations come to a halt as we approach people and pick up again in whispers when we pass.

  Great-Aunt Grace seems completely unfazed by all this. In fact, she seems to come alive under the weight of this gossip. When she hears someone mention her face-off with the sheriff, she dives in headfirst to talk about how some folks are nothing but a bunch of fools.

  “Dot wanted him to break into my house to search it,” Great-Aunt Grace says to two women. “Nothin’ but wrongdoers themselves, Lord knows.”

  “Sounds like you got somethin’ to hide,” says one of the women, fanning herself.

  “Ain’t no one searchin’ my house without a warrant, Barbara, and if folks wanna try, I got somethin’ for them that they ain’t liable to forget.”

  Great-Aunt Grace moves on. I reach up and smooth my un-smoothable hair and keep my eyes on my too-tight Mary Janes. I don’t know a word to describe the insanity of the woman Mom left us with.

  We enter the church. Great-Aunt Grace stops just inside the door and scans the room before turning to us.

  “Now, this is how it’s gonna be. I’m an usher, so I’ll be seatin’ folks, and when I’m done, I’ll be sittin’ up front. You two will be sittin’ up there at the end of the last pew, right where I can see you.” She points at a balcony, jutting like a cliff over a sea of red carpet and deep brown pews.

  “Wait. They let you be an usher?” I ask.

  “Who’s gonna tell me no?”

  Probably no one. Ever. I take Tiffany by the hand and start up the stairs to our seats.

  “People are staring at us,” Tiffany says.

  “Don’t stare back.”

  I try to follow my own advice, but I can’t stop checking them out. Most people look at us and then quickly away. One woman whispers audibly to the man beside her, “I didn’t even know that crazy old woman had family. Poor things.”

  With Tiffany at my heels, I hurry to our pew and all but collapse into it. It was hardly a long walk, but I’m sweaty and out of breath all the same. I pull my inhaler out of my dress pocket and take a puff. Then I close my eyes and imagine I’m someplace else. Flying down the highway with Mom in the Explorer, getting closer and closer to Dad. But when I open my eyes again, I’m still in Mount Holy Baptist and the church is starting to fill up. People are milling around, talking, their voices drifting up to the church’s high, painted ceiling.

  Two women with hats like skyscrapers sit down in front of us. “I can’t see,” Tiffany whines.

  “It’s church, Tiffany, not a concert.”

  One of the women turns around and smiles at me. The other whispers something in her ear, and just like that, her smile disappears.

  “Just deal with it, Tiffany.”

  I lean back against the hard wood of the pew. I can see Great-Aunt Grace showing people to their seats. She’s working the middle aisle, and she’s not playing with folks. When a man doesn’t want to move down to make room for a couple at the end of his pew, she fixes him with a hot stare. He scoots down so fast, it’s a wonder he doesn’t leave skid marks.

  A tall girl walks slowly down the aisle,
her arm wrapped tightly around a small, stooped person wrapped in a shawl or a blanket. I watch as the girl helps the figure into a seat. One by one, she removes the coverings until a woman is revealed, wearing a scarf on her head despite the heat. Just before the girl sits herself down, she looks up into the balcony and our eyes lock. It’s Pamela. I find another place to rest my eyes.

  I choose the stage, where there’s a huge painting of black Jesus, staring down at his clasped mahogany hands. Then, for no reason at all, I look around for Terrance. I spot him almost immediately, sitting beside an old woman. He yawns without covering his mouth, and the woman swats at him with her fan. Must be his grandmother, out to save his science-loving soul. Byron is leaning against the far right wall with his arm draped over a girl who’s not Sasha. She’s giving him all her attention, and he’s not even looking at her. I follow his gaze to a long-haired girl sitting a few yards away. What did Great-Aunt Grace say about him? He’s got more women than he has sense.

  Soon almost everyone is seated and the church is packed. Dad always says that black folks generate heat, and boy, that’s no lie. The temperature inside Mount Holy Baptist has gone up a good twenty degrees.

  A few people are still looking for seats. One of them is a woman so big, the ground should quake beneath her feet. But it’s not her size that makes me stare as she barrels up the stairs toward us. It’s what she’s wearing—a huge purple hat and a tight purple mini-dress that clings as much to her ample stomach as it does to her ample bosom. Heads turn as she passes, the women rolling their eyes and the men sneaking looks at her impressive cleavage. She joins the women in the pew in front of us.

  “Well?” she says to all the folks who have turned to watch her every move. Their heads snap forward. She sucks her teeth and pulls out a fan.

  “Morning,” says one of the women with the stupid hats. “Where’s Raymond today?”

  “Back at the diner, minding my business,” the big woman says, and laughs.

  “You still, uh, practicing them dark arts at your diner?”

  The woman plops one hefty arm on the back of the pew and turns to face the women and their preposterous hats. “There ain’t a thing dark about telling the future, Ms. Green,” she says, and turns back around.

  Telling the future?

  “Jane?”

  Now the woman turns to look at me with heavily made-up eyes. “That’s my name, child,” she says. “What you calling it for?”

  “I have to ask you something.”

  She faces front again. “If it’s about my dress, I don’t tell anyone where I shop. My style is couture and I’d like to keep it that way, thank you very much.”

  “What? No. Is it true that you can . . .”

  I stop and look at Jane. Really look at her. Terrance was wrong. She can’t possibly tell the future. Psychics are supposed to wear long swirly clothes and go barefoot, not run around in tight purple dresses and sky-high heels with gold sparkles. They should wear scarves of many colors. And they’re supposed to have an aura of mystery about them. With the outfit Jane has on, I’m pretty sure I can see all her secrets.

  “Well, get on with it before the service starts,” Jane snaps. She reaches up to pat hair that’s not out of place. Her movements have their own soundtrack: the light, tinny sound of two armfuls of gold bangles clinking against each other. Now those a psychic would wear.

  “I wanted to ask you about my—” I look over at the other two women to make sure they’re not listening. They’re not. They’re too busy talking behind their hands and shooting dirty looks at Jane. Tiffany watches them, fascinated. “I wanted to ask you about my future,” I blurt out.

  Jane doesn’t turn around, but her back stiffens. “You staying with Ms. Washington, ain’t you? My neighbor, Lucinda, had her favorite bracelet stolen two weeks back.”

  “I don’t know anything about all this stealing stuff. I just got here a few days ago. So will you tell me my future or not?”

  “Not here.”

  “But—”

  The church goes quiet. Not even the rustling of a fan or the turning of a Bible page can be heard. Great-Aunt Grace and the rest of the ushers make their way to the bleachers set up on the small stage. A man as wide as he is tall makes his entrance, wearing a brown suit and shoes. His suit is tight at the thighs and upper arms.

  “He looks like a turd,” Tiffany whispers, and laughs at her own joke until her eyes get watery.

  The man steps to the podium. “Before I get started bringing forth the word of the Lord,” he says, “Sister Eunetta Baxter would like to remind all of you that if you signed your children up for our annual Jesus Saves summer camp, the first session begins on Monday morning. If you want your child to attend but haven’t yet signed up, Sister Baxter said to come and speak to her.”

  Eunetta is sitting in the front row. She stands up and addresses the congregation. “As Pastor Burroughs says, the Lord always makes room for one more.”

  What about two? I chance a look at Great-Aunt Grace. Is she still trying to send us to that camp? My eyes find Pamela again. It’s like I can’t stop myself. And I can’t stop myself from looking for Jaguar, too. I see the back of a head of a girl who could be her, sitting in the first pew, and another in the fourth. I’m not sure, but I start sweating all the same.

  “Now, let’s get down to business. I’d like to welcome you all back to another Sunday at Mount Holy Baptist Church,” Pastor Burroughs shouts. “For those of you who couldn’t make it, well, the Lord knows who you are.”

  Laughter rings out. “Amen,” says one of the women with the stupid hats in the pew in front of us.

  “Now, ladies and gentlemen, you know that we have been victims here in Black Lake. Victims of self-righteousness and greed.”

  I can’t be positive, but I’m pretty sure Pastor Burroughs cast a look in Great-Aunt Grace’s direction when he said “self-righteousness.”

  “Many of us have been robbed.”

  “Amen!”

  “Burglarized!”

  “Yes, Lord!”

  “Stupefied!”

  “That word doesn’t really work in this context,” I whisper to Tiffany, but like everyone except me, she has her eyes on Pastor Burroughs. Everyone else, that is, but Byron and his girlfriend. He’s staring at the floor. She’s staring at him.

  “Now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls of the congregation, we will not be defeated by the plights of our community. No. We will rise above them, in Jesus’s name. Amen.”

  “A-men.” The stupid-hat woman again. I have a feeling she’s going to be saying that a lot today.

  “Like Jesus, we will turn the other cheek, but like God, we will strike the thief down.”

  I find Great-Aunt Grace among the ushers. She watches Pastor Burroughs, her face stone. Pastor Burroughs wipes his forehead with a handkerchief he’s pulled from his breast pocket. He’s just getting warmed up. I can tell. “We will not falter; we will not cower. Because the Lord stands behind those who stand up in the name of righteousness. Yes, Lord. God-ah has our backs. Can I get an ‘Amen’?”

  “Amen!”

  “I say, can I get a ‘Praise the Lord’?”

  “Praise the Lord!”

  The whole church is alive now. It’s like a pep rally, feet stomping, folks standing up and shouting. And the pastor jumping around the stage, stretching God’s name to two syllables, screaming loud enough for the heavens to hear. They can’t possibly keep this up for four hours. But they do. Two women faint and have to be brought back with fans and ice water.

  Tiffany and I have only been to church a handful of times. Dad says he can get his dose of God without being preached at, thank you very much. But the energy at Mount Holy Baptist is nothing short of electric. Both of us are on the edge of our seats. The pastor calls for a song, and everyone stands up. Neither Tiffany nor I know the melody, but we get to our feet and clap along with the rest of the congregation anyway.

  The words to the song say something ab
out living your life in God’s light. There are too many people for the singing to be in tune, and the choir, full as it is of old ladies, sounds like a bunch of goats. But the song and the clapping and the foot-tapping are enough to make me feel all tingly inside.

  Once the singing is over and we take our seats again, the pastor wipes his brow and says, “Let us bow our heads in a final prayer.”

  All around me, heads go down.

  A while back I prayed once—just once. The way you’re supposed to. I clasped my hands, got down on my knees, and looked up to the sky. I did all that when Dad left the first time and Mom seemed to lose her mind, mad enough to slam the kitchen cabinets one minute and crying her eyes out the next. I asked God to send Dad back to us right away, and he did. But it was two weeks later. Now it’s been months, and I can’t sit around waiting for God to pay attention again.

  I poke Jane in the back. Her head snaps up.

  “I need you to tell me where my father is. Right now. Please.”

  I’m speaking just lower than a whisper, but the woman next to Jane looks at me and puts her finger to her lips.

  Jane shakes her head, her back to me. “I said, not here.”

  “Please. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  Jane breathes in through her nostrils and then out through her mouth. “Look, it doesn’t work like that. I can’t tell you where your father is.”

  “Well, can you look into the future and tell me when he’s going to come back so we can be a family again?”

  “Psychic predictions cost five dollars.”

  “I left my money at home.”

  Jane turns around in her seat and looks at me. “Guess you better join in on this prayer, then.”

  The woman beside Jane looks about ready to explode. She shushes me again, but I act like I don’t notice.

  “Please,” I say to Jane. “I’ll pay you later. I promise.”

  Jane says nothing.

  “I wouldn’t lie in church.”

  Jane considers this. Then she faces front, closes her eyes, and bows her head, looking for all the world like a woman deep in prayer. She turns her head slightly and says quietly to me over her shoulder, “It seems you’ve spent some time being jerked around by things you can’t control. You’re unhappy now, but you gotta be willing to make sacrifices. Happiness doesn’t come easy, Lord knows that’s the truth, but you gotta hang in there and fight for it. And you can’t go giving up hope, either. If you do, it’s like giving up the will to go on.”