Crossfire

by Dale Lucas

  "No, Barney," the Reverend Brown said. Fralene hoped that would settle her uncle a bit. Brown was the only man who ever called her uncle Barney.

  That was when the doors of the sanctuary thumped and opened wide. Mr. Jebediah Debbs strode in, barrel chest puffed out before him, looking almost infernal in a rusty orange suit and waistcoat, a matching Homburg on his melon head, and a long raincoat trailing behind him like a royal mantle. Two men accompanied him—young men with wide shoulders, heavy expressions and grim, determined mouths. Fralene wondered just what Debbs was aiming at, arriving with such a clatter and trailing these two hangers-on. From the looks of the three other committee members surrounding her—her uncle included—they were all equally puzzled.

  "I apologize," Debbs said in his booming basso voice as he marched down the aisle toward them. "I had urgent matters to attend to before arriving, and they could not wait."

  "Knows how to make an entrance, don't he?" Uncle Barnabus muttered.

  Fralene stared. The venom in his voice; the slightest hint of country ham and corn pone. Her uncle was born in the South, but he hadn't been there since he was a child, and he was downright fussy when it came to how he spoke and what impression he made on anyone who heard him.

  That tears it, she thought. He must be feverish.

  Debbs arrived at their pews. He did not take a seat himself. He simply stood in the aisle, officiously planting his thick fingers in the watch-pockets of his waistcoat, then let his two companions take up positions on either side of him. They crossed their hands before them.

  "Down to business, then," Debbs said with a haughty lift of his chin. "Have we considered my proposal of a rally to support our cause?"

  "I didn't know that such a motion was on the table," the Reverend Brown said.

  "It most certainly was not," Ms. Walker added.

  "It most certainly was," Debbs said. "Check those minutes from our last meeting, Ms. Walker, and you'll see that I broached just such a subject—"

  "In any case," the Reverend Brown countered, trying to bring the rising tension in the sanctuary down, "this isn't a formal meeting. We're here to discuss how we feel in light of our… experiences last week. To put it plainly: do we carry on, or do we retire?"

  He looked to the others, seeking even unspoken support from them. Ms. Walker nodded. Uncle Barnabus just looked to Debbs.

  Fralene studied the big agitator. A twisted smile bloomed on Debbs's dark lips—a smirk of self-satisfaction.

  "Just as I thought," he said. "The enemy threatens you, and you're all ready to fold. I thought I was in the company of lions, but apparently, there are only lambs hereabouts."

  "We haven't decided anything yet," the Reverend Brown said.

  "Of course you have," Debbs countered. "You've made your decisions. Well, I'm here to tell you, I've made mine. You can see my decision standing right here on either side of me."

  They all studied the two young men at his elbows, not sure what he meant.

  "Gentlemen," Mr. Debbs said to his companions, "show my colleagues the level of our resolve."

  Each opened his raincoat. Each had a pump-action shotgun hanging by his side from a leather strap over his shoulder.

  Brown seemed terribly affected by the sight. "How dare you," he whispered, "bring armed thugs into a house of God!"

  "These are not armed thugs, reverend," Debbs said. "These are members of the newly-formed Harlem Vigilance Committee. If our protectors are corrupt and our enemies armed, we have no choice but to protect ourselves. If you lot are determined to dissolve the Concerned Citizens Brigade, I'm here to offer you membership—or sponsorship opportunities—for the Vigilance Committee."

  "You're mad," Reverend Brown said. "You're just going to make things worse."

  "Violence isn't the answer, Mr. Debbs.," Ms. Walker added.

  "You are a strutting peacock, aren't you, Debbs?"

  Everyone fell silent. Those words had come croaking out of the Reverend Barnabus Farnes. Fralene couldn't believe her ears. Nor, apparently, could anyone else.

  Uncle Barnabus sat in his pew, hands clasped imperiously before him, eyes down. He said nothing. There was only the sound of his breathing.

  "Uncle Barnabus…" Fralene began.

  "What did you say to me?" Debbs demanded.

  "I said you're a strutting peacock with a mouth as wide at the Brooklyn Bridge," the Reverend Farnes answered. "Didn't you hear me the first time, or are you deaf, as well?"

  The thorniness in his voice was unmistakable. Fralene had heard her uncle adopt a stern attitude when dressing down someone for a failure of character before—lies, deceit, self-pity—but she'd never heard him simply insult someone because he did not like them, or thought them overly proud. The Reverend Brown and Ms. Walker stared at the Reverend Farnes with a mixture of incredulousness and pride. However shocked they were at his words, they clearly, secretly, agreed with the spirit of them. Ms. Walker even had to raise her hanky and hide the smile that bloomed on her normally-dignified face.

  "Now, see here—" Debbs began.

  "Ain't nothin' to see but a fat, blustering carpet-bagger, trumpeting Africa for the Africans, offering salvation with one hand and stuffing his pockets with the other."

  Fralene leaned closer. "Uncle Barnabus, is this really—"

  Uncle Barnabus shot to his feet. "I didn't say a word to you, missy!" he roared, and Fralene felt herself thrust back into her seat simply by the power of his voice. "You ain't part of these proceedings, so just keep yourself close by and quiet, you hear?"

  The Reverend Brown's face grew dark and heavy with concern. "Barney, this isn't necessary—"

  "And what would you know about it, whitey?" Farnes growled.

  Fralene couldn't believe her ears. Her breath caught in her throat. The Reverend Brown's mouth fell open. He didn't just look shocked… he looked wounded.

  "That's right," her uncle continued. "You heard me, Brown. Look at you. If everybody didn't already know your name and know you were a preacher man up here in nigger heaven, you could probably waltz right into a West Egg country club, couldn't you?"

  Fralene rose and laid hands on him, trying to urge him to sit. "That's enough," she said. She'd never seen him like this, and it scared her.

  Uncle Barnabus yanked loose from her, snarling in her face. "Take your hands off of me, you mealy-mouthed little brat! Ain't it enough I fed and clothed you when your parents departed this sickly planet? Now you've gotta tell me my mind when I'm freely speakin' it?"

  "Reverend," Ms. Walker interrupted. "This is most irregular."

  "That it is," he answered. "But it oughta be the norm, you ask me. I've had just about enough of all your preening and whining and bickering—the lot of ya. If any one of you had sand, you'd have been drumming up supporters one by one—but no. Strength in numbers, right? So you come crawling to me, begging me for help, as though I've got nothing better to do than baby-sit the lot of you."

  "I expect an apology," Mr. Debbs said. "And I'll have it."

  "It's in the post," her uncle said dismissively. "Keep an eye out for it, why don't you?"

  The Reverend Brown was on his feet now, stepping up to her uncle's left elbow. He wore a mask of grave concern. He'd known her uncle for a long time—longer than Fralene herself had been alive. He knew this was an unheard-of mode of speech for him.

  "Barney," he said, "come on now—"

  "Get your hands off of me you high yalla house nigger!" the reverend roared.

  Ms. Walker shot to her feet. "I don't think we're ready for this discussion," she said, trying to maintain her composure. "Maybe we should adjourn for the night."

  "I'm not leaving here without an apology," Debbs said.

  "Mr. Debbs," Fralene offered, "I'm sorry. My uncle's a little under the weather—"

  "What do you know about it?" her uncle growled. "What do you know about anything, you spoiled, frigid little minx? When's the last time you did an honest day's work, eh?"

  Fral
ene felt the sting of tears. What was happening? This wasn't like him.

  "Take him home," Brown said. "Call him a doctor. This isn't right—"

  "Call the doctor," her uncle tittered. "She'll call the doctor, all right. He'll come running, too, like a stray dog sniffing a bitch in heat…"

  Fralene actually felt a fist close on her beating heart. Her breath caught in her throat and she could not inhale or exhale. Those words—so bitter, so hurtful. Where had those words even come from? She'd never heard anything so terrible from her uncle's mouth, not in her life.

  Ms. Walker didn't even spare a word. She turned to leave her pew, but Debbs and his bodyguards blocked her path. They were not trying to keep her there—they simply didn't bother to move aside. Debbs was still intent on Uncle Barnabus, his honor challenged. He shook one fat finger at the old man.

  "Everyone will hear of this," Debbs growled. "Everyone will know what a cruel and ungracious man you are, Reverend Farnes!"

  "Coming from a thief and a rabble-rouser like you, Debbs, I couldn't imagine a finer compliment."

  Debbs lunged toward him, his pointed finger becoming a fist. "Now, see here, old man!"

  Fralene's uncle surprised her by pushing right past her and swinging out of the pew into the aisle. He stood toe to toe with Debbs.

  Then he shoved him.

  Debbs stared, gape-mouthed. His bodyguards were shocked as well. What should they do when their employer was threatened by a septuagenarian man of the cloth?

  "Get out!" her uncle roared.

  "You can't," Debbs sputtered.

  Her uncle strode forward, shoving him again. Debbs stumbled backward. His bodyguards retreated without making any move to help him.

  "I said get the hell out of my church, you preening pig!" Uncle Barnabus snarled. He drove Debbs and his bodyguards right down the aisle toward the narthex and the front doors. "Get out and take your field hands with you! You ain't nothin' but a fat bag of wind and I don't suppose I'll take any more sass from you!"

  Fralene looked to the Reverend Brown, to Ms. Walker. They were all equally terrified and perplexed. They hurried out of their pews and followed.

  Debbs's bodyguards reached the doors before he did. Each took one and opened it, providing their employer with a wide escape hatch out into the wet, drizzly evening beyond. Fralene was halfway up the aisle when those doors opened. She saw Debbs stumble out; saw his bodyguards follow; saw her uncle reach the threshold and throw his arms wide to keep the doors from closing.

  When Fralene, the Revered Brown, and Ms. Walker reached the narthex, they saw what waited in the street outside.

  Mr. Jebediah Debbs had brought an armed mob.

  There had to be two or three dozen of them—men of all ages, shapes and sizes, carrying pump shotguns and automatic pistols and revolvers. Debbs stumbled down the church steps and was caught in the welcoming net of his little merry band. He recovered, straightened his hat on his head, then turned to face Uncle Barnabus where he still stood in the door.

  "Come on, then!" Debbs challenged. "Come bully me here and now, with my Vigilance Committee at my side!"

  "Your Vigilance Committee," Uncle Barnabus sneered. Fralene and the others hung back, in the center of the narthex, fearful that something terrible might happen next.

  It just takes one itchy trigger finger, Fralene thought. Just one, and all hell breaks loose…

  "You can take your Vigilance Committee," her uncle growled, "and march 'em back up to your tenements on your block, and you can all chew on my bony black ass, for all I care! If these dumb Negroes think you're a man worth following, Debbs, then they deserve whatever they got comin'!"

  "A reckoning's coming!" Debbs answered, shaking that thick, prophetic finger of his again. "The wheat will be winnowed from the chaff, Reverend Farnes! The faithful from the weak!"

  "Reckon your ass outta here!" Farnes roared. "Every goddamned one of ya!"

  Then he tugged the doors shut, and they met at the threshold with a thunderous crash that seemed to shake the very walls of the church. A terrible silence followed.

  Uncle Barnabus turned and faced his fellows—Fralene, the Reverend Brown, Ms. Lucille Walker. He studied them like they were the lowest forms of life he'd ever encountered.

  "Best close your mouths," the Reverend Farnes said, "'fore you draw flies."

  Then, the Reverend Brown stepped forward and struck him.

  Fralene gasped in spite of herself.

  It was open-handed, and probably not as hard as it could have been, but the sound of flesh on flesh was terribly loud in the wide narthex. Fralene saw something change in her uncle's eyes when he was struck—as though he'd awakened from a sound sleep, or been interrupted in the throes of a nightmare. He blinked, staring into the Reverend Brown's round, blushing face.

  "Adam?" the Reverend Farnes said, sounding bewildered.

  The Reverend Brown saw the change, just as Fralene did—and somehow, that sudden change, even more so than the venom that had been pouring out of him, scared the holy man even more. He looked to Fralene.

  "Get him home," Reverend Brown said.

  Her uncle turned and stared at her, still blinking. His eyes were watery and perplexed. She could see the desperation in them, the fright.

  "Mr. Debbs?"

  "Don't worry about him," Ms. Walker said. "There's more than a little provocation in that man…"

  Fralene laid hands on her uncle's right arm. "Come on, Uncle Barnabus. Let's go home. You just need some sleep."

  "I'm not myself this evening," he said weakly. "Those words..."

  XX

  She found his coat and hat. They waited for the armed vigilantes out front to disperse, then Fralene walked her uncle home, the two of them huddled beneath an umbrella. He was dazed and silent most of the way. It occurred to Fralene to talk about his outburst as they walked—to settle him, to try and get to the bottom of things—but every time she stole a glance at him, she was so stunned by his stricken stare and downturned mouth that she could not bring herself to speak. She just kept walking, and held his arm a little tighter.

  It was only when they were home, their coats and hats hung on their familiar hooks by the door, that she could bring herself to ask him what was wrong.

  "I can't explain it," he said. "I just sort of went away…a daze of some sort. I heard those words, but they sounded like someone else's. Far off. Then, when Adam struck me—"

  "I'm sure he didn't mean it," Fralene offered.

  "It was right and proper," her uncle said, shuffling where he stood, seemingly lost as to where he should go next. "I wasn't myself, and that slap was all that brought me out of it."

  "Would you like some tea, maybe?" she asked.

  He glanced toward the kitchen, then shook his head. "No. No, you go on to bed."

  Then he turned and shuffled off toward his den. Fralene watched him for a few moments, then stepped after him.

  "I could cut you a slice of pie, if you want," she said. "Or some warm milk?"

  He stopped. Straightened. He spoke without turning around to look at her. "What part of 'no' did you not understand, you nagging bitch?"

  It was that voice again. The one he'd spoken in at the meeting. The most disconcerting thing about it was how unlike him it sounded. Not just the words, but the very tone and timbre. It was like someone else's voice, imitating her uncle's, dripping with venom and malice, the subterfuge not entirely complete.

  "Uncle," she said. It was all she could manage. Her voice caught in her throat.

  He slowly turned. His eyes bore into her, dark and contemptuous. "There go the tears," he said, sneering. "Hear the little bitch whine."

  "You can't talk to me like that," she said.

  "I can talk to you any goddamn way I please," he said. "You think this is your house? You think your sweat and tears and hard work went into these walls and these floors? You're a guest here, little girl—a guest of my good graces!"

  She wanted to run away from him, but she
refused to. Something was very wrong—more wrong than she'd ever imagined a thing in her life could be. She'd heard of old men and women going senile, getting confused, sometimes getting hostile or obstreperous because they didn't know where they were, what they were doing, or who they were doing it with. But this was different. He seemed to be speaking in another voice, acting like another person.

  "Well?" he asked. "What do you got to say for yourself, you freeloadin' ninny?"

  She stepped forward, determined not to abandon him. "I don't know what's wrong with you, uncle. Maybe you're sick—"

  "Sick," he sneered. "I never felt better, girl."

  "—or maybe you're just tired or confused. Either way, I'm not walking away from you. Why don't you let me help you up to bed? If you could just rest awhile—"

  He lunged suddenly, a movement so quick, so threatening, that Fralene actually cried out as he did so. His arms stretched out, his palms slammed against the wall, and before she knew it, Fralene was trapped between them where she stood. Her uncle's glowering face hovered inches from her own. "I've slept long enough, missy. Longer than you can imagine. I don't think I'll be warming any covers this night—"

  Fralene struck him, just as the Reverend Brown had—open-handed, right across the face. "Wake up!" she screamed.

  He was stunned for only a moment. The venom never left him. "Wide awake, little girl," he said.

  She had no choice. She threw herself forward and shoved him as hard as she could.

  Her uncle went stumbling backward, collided with a little table beside the sofa, and caught himself just before he went sprawling. He stared at her in surprise… then surprise turned to fury.

  "You little bitch," he snarled, and lunged.

  Fralene dove sideward and plunged back into the foyer. Perhaps if she could get upstairs, to her room, lock the door—

  Her uncle barreled after her, growling as he came. Fralene leapt onto the stairs and tried to climb, taking two and at time—

  But she was too slow, too clumsy. She tripped and fell forward, nearly eating the stair runner and slamming her head hard on the stair above her. One knee had also collided with the leading edge of a stair and it blazed with pain, unlike anything she'd ever felt.