Street of Angels

by Joe Derkacht

  “Shut up,” he muttered. There was a light switch here somewhere. It couldn’t be as bad as his fears told him. There probably wasn’t any black widow spider in residence, and there probably wasn’t any family of furry tarantulas lying in wait, either. (He thought of the tarantulas now because he had once seen one as big as a dinner plate in Mexico, and ever since then whenever he thought of spiders the memory eventually surfaced--usually sooner than later.)

  Shoulda brought a flashlight, a voice nagged. But of course there was no need for a flashlight when a light switch was nearby. He pushed on with his left hand and scrabbled along the wall for the switch he knew must be there.

  But it wasn’t. Slowly, his temper was rising. Who’d built this place? Didn’t they know where a light switch should go? Giving up, he tried the opposite wall. After several frustrating moments of gritting his teeth against his anger and his fears, the switch came to hand. Light as yellow as candlelight shone down from the top of the first landing, loosing incredible relief through him. Eyeing spider webs and gingerly knocking them aside, he started up the stairs.

  At the same instant, the light blinked. Instinctively he leapt upwards, vaulting steps, and stumbled, falling forward, barely bracing himself with his hands as the light went out. Thankfully, it stuttered back to life, flaring redly like a smoldering wick. Less thankfully, before he could regain his feet it went out, accompanied by a quiet pop!

  He was in darkness, caught between floors, his mind suddenly racing. In the dim light he had seen a profusion of more webs. Crawling, he came to sit on the landing. In the excitement of the moment, he hadn’t felt his shins impacted by his fall, but now he did, and in the darkness he moaned. As the pain faded, his imagination grew, teeming with furry tarantulas, black widows, brown recluses.

  Something scurried across his ankle, and he nearly shouted.

  Mice! he quickly reassured himself. It had to be a mouse. Had to be! No spider was that large. Images of Bilbo in Mirkwood flashed into his mind and of dwarves stung by spiders to be hauled up like beef carcasses into the trees.

  Slowly, he regained control of his breathing. The chills down his back lessened, the images fading with them, to be replaced by questions and self-accusations. Did he really have to do as pressured by certain people in his own church and in the denomination? Was it necessary to spy on Cedric’s Thursday night service? He was the shepherd, as Cedric had said, wasn’t he? Why should he worry about what the denomination thought, when they were part of an independent denomination not controlled by a hierarchy of officials in some faraway denominational headquarters? Hadn’t the elders taken a vote?

  As he continued to sit there, rocking himself in the darkness, he began to feel very stupid. The truth was, if he looked deep within, it wasn’t only the denomination or a handful of people in his own congregation who were the problem. As the weeks had passed, and now nearly three months, nagging voices in himself had joined in with those voices outside himself.

  So what was he to do, turn around, crawl back downstairs in the darkness? Or should he go up, finish what he had begun? Why not just sit in on Cedric’s services and listen as he pleased? Or would the black congregation think he was spying on them? Wouldn’t they be right? Worse yet, he worried he might feel like some weird specimen of humanity, one white man in a sea of black faces... when in actuality there were people from his own congregation, a handful of them, who stayed every Sunday after his own sermon was done for the day. (Deep in his heart, he knew those few white faces wouldn’t reassure him all that much.)

  What is wrong with me, God, that I feel this way? What’s wrong with the world that I have to skulk about my own church to listen in?

  He heard no answer, whether audibly or through the still small voice that is a whisper within the heart. But then, why should he expect to hear an answer to what was abundantly obvious?

  “You could do this Sunday, instead,” he whispered to himself. But no, the music and singing reverberated through the church walls, seemingly calling him upwards, ordering him to mount the stairs and go about the business of what he had come to do.

  If only he had stayed for the service that first week, after welcoming Cedric and his congregation to Flowers... But he had felt like it would be an intrusion that day, too, like they might feel he was sitting in judgment on the way they did things. Still, there was the matter of doctrine... some people insisted Cedric was not as Baptist as he said. He should see what the man really taught, shouldn’t he?

  Are you gonna climb the stairs or turn and run out of here? He asked himself.

  His mind made up, he stood and found the wall with his left hand. No railing--maybe that was why the stairwells had been closed--for safety reasons? No. The extra balcony seating simply hadn’t been needed for years. He inched forward, right foot extended in search of the next set of steps. Flailing the air with his right hand to clear the way of spider webs, he rushed to the second landing.

  His eyes watered and he felt his air passages closing up. Tomorrow, first thing Friday morning, God willing and the creek don’t rise, he would sweep and vacuum the stairwells. Years of dust had accumulated on these stairs, centuries of dust, it seemed to him. Breathing through clenched teeth, he searched for another step with his foot. A loud report echoed in the stairwell, dry wood cracking under his full weight. He froze for an instant, the noise echoing in his mind if not in his ears. Had someone heard? Were those footsteps? What if someone ran to investigate? He waited, frightened at the intake of his own breath and the pulse of blood in his ears.

  Music drifted through the enclosing walls.

  The top of the stairs couldn’t be too far distant. How many spider webs? he wondered, as he resumed his climb. That was his real question. Brush one aside and two replaced it, sticky silk clinging tenaciously to face and hair. His skin crawled and prickled again at the thought of spiders.

  If he’d been a cursing man, this would have been the time for it. He gnawed his tongue as he reached the third landing, the darkness bearing down heavily upon his shoulders. Crazy thoughts popped into his mind like popcorn in a hot kettle: Cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth. Finally, as he approached the fourth landing, a ray of hope appeared. Light shone thinly around a door.

  O God! He nearly shouted aloud in relief. Yanking the door open, he burst onto the balcony. He could breathe again! Gyrating crazily, he beat at jacket and shirt and pants and ran both hands through his hair to dislodge spiders and their webs. Several seconds passed before he realized the music and singing had disjointedly ground to a halt. In the time it took for him to raise his eyes from his shoes to look over the balcony railing, the silence seemed to have stretched into an eternity.

  O God, no, he moaned, feeling the blood drain from his face. Suddenly faint, he raised his hand and waved half-heartedly at Cedric, who stared at him from behind the pulpit, eyebrows arched and forehead furrowed in a startled expression.

  Quickly recovering, the black minister looked toward the piano side of the stage and raised one hand to direct his congregation in song. “Why don’t we begin with verse one again, Brother Sampson?”

  When Rev. Champion looked again, eyes gravitating to the balcony, Rev. Willimon had vanished. What on earth was the man up to, he wondered, and why the lunatic windmilling?

  John Willimon landed at the bottom of the stairs and was on his way out of the church. As they say in the South, his face hurt. He felt he wouldn’t be surprised, come tomorrow morning when he looked in the mirror, if his face was scorched red from sheer embarrassment.

  Instead of turning in at the gate, when he came to his house, he walked on by. As sure as the day is long, his wife would discern something wrong the moment he stepped through the door. He kicked himself as he walked around the block. He could hear her wheedling now. Not that he had done something immoral or unethical--well, maybe unethical,
now that he thought about it, that is, if you were fussy or super technical.

  If he didn’t want to explain himself to his wife, though, how would he possibly explain himself to Cedric?

  Well, Cedric, it is my church, and I felt it incumbent upon me to spy on you and your congregation. There have been rumors, you know. We can’t have you doing anything fanatical or teaching false doctrine, now can we?

  He shook his head and kicked himself again. What a fool he’d been! Why couldn’t he have simply asked Cedric if he would mind him sitting in on a few of his services? Why did he have to go and make a complete buffoon of himself?

  Thinking back, he wondered if Cedric had been the only one to see him on the balcony. He didn’t think the pianist had, intent as he was on his music and following Cedric’s lead. Of the half dozen elders seated on stage, he wasn’t at all sure. While they were positioned at a bit of an angle, it wouldn’t have taken them much effort to turn their heads to follow Cedric’s gaze up at the balcony. But the curious thing about Alliance’s elders, now that he looked back upon the moment forever seared into his memory, was that the men’s eyes were closed. Now, why would that be? He asked himself. One or two of them even had their hands raised, as if in a posture beseeching God. He would have to talk to Cedric about that. First, he wanted to know why people would have their eyes closed when singing hymns, and if it was fanatical, he would have to do something about it. He couldn’t very well have fanaticism raging through his church. Well, not his church. His church building. He was responsible for whatever went on in Flowers Baptist--whether it was among his own congregation or that of the black congregation. Flowers Baptist had been put into his hands to oversee, and oversee it was what he would do.

  After three long, miserable trips around the block, he went in at the gate to his yard. He shook out his jacket and examined it carefully under the porch light for spiders. He was standing there, mentally preparing himself, when the door opened without warning.

  “Open sesame,” he joked, and immediately walked past Carol to the hall closet.

  “I was wondering where you were,” she said. She looked on anxiously, as he draped the jacket over a hangar and placed it beside his black raincoat.

  “Nothing to worry about,” he answered with forced cheeriness, at the same time studiously avoiding her gaze. “Nothing at all.”

  She frowned, her lips compressed instinctively in a straight, motherly line. “Jonathan Louis Willimon, you tell me right this moment, what is wrong with you?”

  “What?” He cried in surprise, his face hurting all over again.

  ****

  Chapter 29

  Startled by a loud noise, Reverend Champion looked up from his morning devotions. Was someone breaking into the church? Surely 7:00 was too early to expect John Willimon, who was not one to arrive before 8:00 or 8:15. Besides, the man’s office was on the opposite side of the building. Well, it couldn’t be a burglar or someone of that ilk, he decided. At least he didn’t think any burglar worth his salt would possibly make such a racket. It was as if the person, whoever it might be, wanted to be heard. As Cedric was about to rise from his chair to investigate, someone knocked on his office door.

  It swung open, revealing Willimon in blue jeans and an old, paint-spattered chambray work shirt. A light bulb peeped from a shirt pocket. In one hand he awkwardly clutched two brooms, in the other a Hoover vacuum cleaner. He grinned lopsidedly.

  “Sorry to bother you this early, Cedric.”

  “Oh, no bother, Brother John,” he answered politely, giving him the once over. “Just spending time with the Lord.”

  “Oh--oh I’m sorry,” he stammered. The man’s just spoke volumes. “I wanted you to know it’s me here so early, rooting around in the broom closet, so you don’t have to worry any. I’m cleaning the stairwells to the balcony today.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, I thought I better, with you possibly needing the use of the balcony soon.”

  “Ah,” he said, the light dawning in his eyes. “I suppose that’s why I saw you on the balcony last night.”

  “Weell... yes!” He agreed too eagerly. “As a matter of fact, I wanted to see if it’s still usable, you know. Mostly I just ran into a lot of spider webs and dust balls.”

  “The balcony will hold how many people?”

  “About 120. That should be sufficient, don’t you think?”

  “Sufficient?” He asked, brows knit in thought. “We’re not quite filling the sanctuary now. I’m not sure why you’re concerned about us adding a balcony.”

  “Oh, well just to be prepared, you know. Things keep on like they have, you’ll need those extra seats in no time at all.”

  Cedric steepled his fingers and momentarily rested his chin on them. He glanced reluctantly at his open Bible, at long passages highlighted in yellow.

  “If you allow me, John, I can help you later, in an hour or so, when I’m through here.” He brightened, and looked at him hopefully. “Or you could let my church janitor do the job when we’re ready to use those seats you’re talking about--there’s no rush, is there?”

  “Oh, no, I wasn’t looking for help--” Willimon protested, backing up and inadvertently dropping both brooms. Turning crimson, he bent over to recover them. “It’s something I want to do, really it is, Cedric.”

  “Ummh. Well, thank you for letting me know and all. It’s kind of you to--to notify me like you have.”

  “Oh, sure. Anyway--you just go back to your prayer time.”

  Cedric watched, remaining seated while the struggle with brooms and vacuum cleaner went on, followed by Rev. Willimon’s awkward exit. Frowning, he went to the door and eased it shut, once again wishing for his old office. When thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly, was the admonition he practiced, at least weekdays. It was much easier and simpler to do in the privacy of his office than anywhere else. That was why he had for many years been at Alliance Baptist by 5:30. There he could read and pray without distraction to himself or anyone else. Because of his habit of reading aloud from the Bible and praying with unrestrained fervency, at home he would have disturbed his wife’s sleep. Besides, by 8:30 or 9 in the morning, when calls started coming in from the congregation and the church secretary buzzed him on the intercom every few minutes about every concern under the sun, it was too late for practicing the type of personal focus that would bring him in tune with the Spirit and carry him through the day.

  Seeing Willimon in his mind’s eye, he shook his head with regret. Obviously, in spite of his objections, the man expected him to help with the cleaning. Why else two brooms? Reluctantly, he closed his Bible. As a guest of Flowers Baptist, how could he do anything less? The fact it interrupted his personal time with God didn’t matter, nor that it was irritating, quite frankly, to have someone intrude upon his schedule. He was reaching for the doorknob, when he heard a quietly spoken “No.”

  No? he wondered. “No,” came the answer, this time insistent. Having learned to obey that inner voice long ago, he returned to the desk and his Bible. He was a guest of Flowers Baptist, yet God evidently didn’t think that was a proper reason for interrupting his prayer time. Still, he couldn’t feel completely at ease about the matter--John was cleaning the stairwells to help him and his church.

  Continuing his prayers quickly became a struggle. Not even the fact he didn’t need the extra seats helped to assuage his conscience. He had been clear with the man, hadn’t he? Still, he didn’t feel an ounce better. It didn’t matter, either, that his own congregation paid their fair share, that they weren’t freeloaders, and that they had pitched in to improve the building in the weeks--could it really be months?--since their move to Flowers Baptist.

  He shook his head at himself. He knew God’s leading and all the reasons he shouldn’t feel bad about not helping with the stairwells. Nonetheless, it tro
ubled him deeply, proof of just how treacherous the conscience could be at times. Which made for good sermon material. Healing The Conscience. A good title, he thought. No. Instructing The Conscience. Even better, how about Training Up The Conscience In The Way It Should Go? He smiled to himself, feeling buoyant and on the verge of forgetting his dilemma. Wonderful, how the Holy Ghost brought him his sermons every week.

  #

  Genuine guilt is not a welcome guest even in the heart of a righteous man. Perhaps it should be said, especially in the heart of a righteous man, and even less so to one who feels lower than a snake’s belly. What does a seared conscience, one that no longer acknowledges right or wrong, care about guilt? A tender conscience is quite another matter; it turns not simply a pointing finger, but a brutal fist, upon the right sort of psyche. That’s why he, Jonathan Louis Willimon, felt his heart fall into his shoes the second he took his leave from Rev. Champion.

  No time for guilt, though. Just throw up a steel door in the soul. Stumbling and bumbling to the stairwell, burdened as he was by janitorial gear, he rushed to the scene of the previous night’s debacle. With the door open and hallway lights on, he charged up the stairs, clearing the way of spider webs new and old with a broom in either hand, like two swords cutting through enemy defenses.

  Next in order of business was to screw in a fresh light bulb, followed by more fetched from the supply closet to replenish yet other fixtures with empty sockets or burned out bulbs. Then the real business began, which he prosecuted with a vengeance. Starting on the highest landing, he stabbed his broom into all corners and swept like a madman, whisking away floor paint along with accumulated dirt, forcibly throwing paint chips and dust balls high into the air, from which they all swirled onto the steps below.