Colors (25 page)

Don’t worry, Obie. I’m here for you.
I throw my thoughts across the table.

“Brother Gramm,” Mrs. Watt gushes. And my mouth turns sour. Startled, I look up at the unexpected guest. “We’re so glad you could join us for lunch. You’re just in time.”

I eye the vulture, dreading the battle about to begin.

“You’ll never remember all their names, so let me just point everyone out—this is my son and his wife, my daughter Melissa, her friend, our neighbors, my sister and her husband, and our dear friend, Mrs. Noble,” Mrs. Watt says. “You met the kids at yesterday’s workshop. Everybody, you know Brother Gramm.”

Brother Gramm saunters around the group, shaking hands. Total smarm. When he comes to me, our eyes lock. I stare deeply into those hated eyes, searching for a glimmer of recognition, but the look on Brother Gramm’s face tells me he has no idea who I am. Or what he once did to me. And still does, repeatedly, in my mind.

So, just a trophy, was I?

“Sit here between Obie and me, Brother Gramm,” one of Melissa’s nephews calls. “Well make room for you.”

The boy pushes Obadiah farther down the bench.

Seeing the trace of a smile on Obadiah’s face fade, I toss a lifeline. “Hey, Obie—you can sit over here if you want.”

The boy shyly shakes his head.

The man sits, and food is passed all around.

The others eat joyfully. I take tiny bites, chew endlessly, willing it all to stay down. My gaze roves back to Miriam’s son while I half listen to the conversation, which mostly centers on the rally and the good it seems to be doing. Brother Gramm speaks of how important children are, all the time laughing and tickling the little ones. I am increasingly uneasy.
When will he make his move? When will he make his move? When will he make his move?
The tape keeps running on a loop inside my head.

Our meal finished, we hear the opening chords of Miriam and her friends.

“Obie,” Brother Gramm says, standing, “Let’s go get a closer seat. Your mama’s about to sing.” He tugs at the boy’s hand.

“No.” The little boy pulls away, and a timid voice says, “I want to stay here.”

“Come on, son,” the man says, grabbing the boy around the waist and hoisting him up on his shoulder, “your mama will want you closer.”

As he carts the boy away, my eyes follow them.

“Such a nice man,” Melissa says.

“And so good with the kids,” her mother adds.

I glue my eyes on Brother Gramm and Obadiah Railston
.

The two move to a lawn chair offered them by a smiling woman about twenty feet from the picnic table. The tall, lanky Brother Gramm sits with Obie in his lap.

Miriam takes center stage of the small park amphitheater.

“This was my first important song,” she says, strumming the introduction to “Can You Feel His Love?” “Feel free to sing along if you want.”

I sing robotically, my focus entirely on the man in the lawn chair and the little boy on his lap.
Keep your hands off him, pervert.
One move and I will pounce.

I no longer hear the music.

“Ann Carino!” Melissa beats my arm. “Can you believe it? She has the most glorious voice ever.”

I don’t respond because my attention is still on Brother Gramm. I refuse to be distracted.

“Neil, did you hear me?” She hits me harder.

“Wh-wh-at?” I push her arm away, but Melissa continues her jabber.

“Don’t you remember I played you some Ann Carino just the other day? I had no idea she would be here….”

Melissa keeps babbling, but I am only aware of the noise. My attention is on the pastor—only on the pastor.

Suddenly, my vision is obstructed by the people who, as Carino sings, stand and hold up both arms, looking to the heavens, swaying back and forth.

Get out of the way,
I want to shout. I stand, craning my head around, trying to see.

The song ends and once again I have an unobstructed view of the predator.

Melissa jerks me down beside her. “The song’s over, silly. You can sit back down,” she prattles on. But I ignore her. I have to stay focused.

Brother Gramm’s hands are clasped around Obadiah and rest in the boy’s lap. I’m sitting at just enough angle to see a smirk on the predator’s face. I know that smirk. Obadiah is still, like a statue. I know that stillness too.

I vaguely hear a familiar voice registering somewhere inside me, the voice of Miriam, at the mic again. I turn to look at her, hoping my telepathic powers are working.

Look at your son, Miriam. Does he look happy?

“Brothers and sisters,” she says, smiling at the crowd, “no quartet in gospel history has been as successful as this next group. These guys have sold over twenty million records and CDs. Give a big hand to the Ullman Brothers.” She walks offstage, applauding, ignoring what is happening just a few feet in front of her.

Four men in matching dark blue gabardine suits with canary yellow shirts and ties to match take the stage. As one of them steps from the group, the crowd joins him in a loud “How y’all are?”

The crowd laughs, whistles, hoots. Obadiah squirms, but Brother Gramm holds him tightly. How can this be happening, here, in this crowd, in broad daylight? Does the man have no shame?

A tiny, tiny chuckle. Deep in my gut. How could I think he had shame?

I recognize the intro to “Knocking on Heaven’s Door.” The Ullmans sing, and the people in the audience immediately begin moving, some standing, others still sitting, but gyrating to the rhythm.

Brother Gramm is moving the little boy in his lap in time to the music. Brother Gramm’s eyes are closed. I can see his face in profile.

I leap up, knocking over a half-filled cup of lemonade.

Melissa yelps as the cold liquid drips on her. The others in our group turn to see what is happening.

“Neil, what’s going on?” she shouts.

I force myself to act calm. “N-n-nothing. I-I just need to use the restroom.”

“Well, you could have been more careful. My skirt is….”

Her voice trails off as I head straight for Brother Gramm and Obadiah Railston.

You’re enjoying that song just a little too much, you bastard.
I fix my eyes to the gyrating Satan in the lawn chair.

The Ullmans finish the number, and Brother Gramm stands. He tugs at his pants. Then he bends over to whisper something to the boy. Hand in hand, they begin to walk to the civic center.

Alarms clang in my head as I quicken my steps.

“Obie,” I call, reaching them. “Mrs. Watt wants you,” I lie. “She said she promised your mom she’d take care of you.”

“No, problem, young man,” Brother Gramm says. “I’ll take good care of young Obadiah, here.” He says it with a straight face.

Brother Gramm and I stand, squared off, staring into each other’s eyes. “Obie’s enjoying himself right here, young man.” The pastor doesn’t flinch.

I see a look I have seen before, and it terrifies me.

Strange thoughts happen in times of stress. Satine’s face appears in my brain.
It’s time, Neil.
I steel myself.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” I say, in a voice full of iron resolve.

“Have we met before today, my boy?”

I shiver.

I was just a trinket, wasn’t I? Your plaything. A game piece. And now you’ve plucked young Obie here from the toy box.

I smile. Afraid no more.

Well, you’re not going to have him.

“Come on, Obadiah,” I demand. “I promised Mrs. Watt I’d bring you back.”

I pull the boy away from the preacher.
No one is going to hurt you, Obie.
He’s not going to hurt anyone. Ever again.

When I have Obadiah safely across the park, I kneel. “Listen, Obie, you’ve got to tell your mom what Brother Gramm has been doing to you. She’ll listen to you. She wants to know.”

T
HE
EVENING
service, the last of the rally, is coming to a close. I sit with the rest of the choir, not really listening to anything. My mind is reeling, thinking about Brother Gramm and Obadiah Railston. And Satine. And knowing I only used her image to give me the courage for what I had to do.

Brother Gramm had delivered his message already, but the pastor’s sermon hadn’t registered with me. My ears were on mute. No words got through. I concentrated on the task at hand.

But scenes kept flashing across my brain, like some weird movie playing on fast forward. I was thrust back in time. I saw my nine-year-old self, helpless. I saw the predator, saw him rubbing, slobbering. I saw the pastor’s smarmy smile as he sat at the family table as if he were a saint, Christ himself, the Good Shepherd leading his flock. Saw my nine-year-old self, trying desperately to convince his mother of what Brother Gramm was doing to him. I heard her denial.

And then I saw Obadiah Railston.

The look of terror in the boy’s eyes.

I saw myself, that afternoon, standing before Miriam Railston in the Family First office. I’d gone to check on Obie, to make sure he’d told his mother everything.

It was then I made up my mind. It was obvious Obie had not had the courage to tell his mother, just as nine-year-old Neil was not brave enough to convince his own mother of what was happening to him.

I promised myself I would save the boy.
Funny,
I’d thought,
was the boy I was planning to save Obadiah? Me? Both?

I’d asked Miriam if I could testify at the evening service. I made up a story, half-truth, half-lie. When I was a boy, I told her, a man in my church—I didn’t mention Brother Gramm’s name, or that he was a preacher; I couldn’t risk Miriam reacting like Melissa had—had molested me. I’d kept my secret for a lot of years. But the rally, I said, had given me the strength to tell my story, to let other children know they shouldn’t be burdened with such a secret gnawing at them.

Miriam had tears in her eyes when I finished my tale. She took me in her arms, hugging me and praying. When she finally released me, she said, “Neil, I know this is hard for you, but this is a perfect ending for our rally. Thank you for coming to me. And thank you for your bravery. Your story will touch so many,
save
so many. God bless you, Neil.”

I only felt a little guilty, lying to Miriam. It was for her son’s sake, I told myself.

And the guilt faded away as the afternoon faded into evening. My memories bolstered my confidence for what I was about to do.

I’d thought of my parents torn away from me. At that point, I sobbed. Sobs of sadness for lost parents, sobs of joy for release from the pastor’s grasp.

I saw a life remade, one still haunted by the past but eager for the future, a life rescued by Aunt Jenny.

I look over at Gramm Peters, sitting smugly on the stage
. Above reproach.
Aunt Jenny’s words echo in my head.

Melissa is yanking me to my feet. The choir is about to sing once again. I huff a huge puff of air, forcing myself to focus on the music and its healing power. But I am already healed. Now it can only strengthen me, raise me up.

The pianist plays familiar strains, the intro to “Suffer the Little Children.” At Brother Kenny’s signal, my fellow choir members—and I—sing. This is our eighth rendition of the Family First anthem this weekend, but for me, it is as if I am hearing it for the first time. The words speak to me in a different way than before. Now, the words reach deep down into my soul.

“Protect them.” The choir whispers the closing and for me that final chord is a prayer.

“How sweet,” Miriam says to the audience, “how sweet to be here—in this place—tonight. This glorious weekend comes to a close, and we have proven family can, indeed be first in our lives. Honor our children, and they shall honor us.”

“Amen, amen” rings throughout the auditorium.

“And now,” she continues, “what better way to end our rally than to hear from one of our children. A young man came to me this afternoon, eager to share with you tonight. Welcome, as our closing speaker, a graduating senior at Cawton County High School and a gifted young man who will soon share his talents through the prestigious MusicTheatreMidwest program.”

Only if this doesn’t backfire on me, Miriam, only if this doesn’t backfire.
But if Scott rescinds the scholarship because of what I’m about to tell the world, then so be it.

I stand and walk to the pulpit. I turn to see Melissa’s jaw drop.

I
SCAN
the sea of listeners. They sit, reverent, oblivious to what is about to take place. I glance again at Melissa, her mouth once again closed but her face showing a mixture of awe, disbelief, and the love I know she has for me. I can get through this. Then I begin….

“I’m a performer, not a public speaker. I usually express myself with others’ words—the words of playwrights and songwriters. In fact, my aunt—who has been my mother for the last nine years—will tell you I don’t talk much. She used to complain, when I was younger, that she had to rely on her spies—my teachers—to find out what was going on in my life.”

I relax a bit as chuckles of knowing laughter ripple through the congregation.

“Until now, she, my aunt, was the one constant in my life. I learned to trust her, to share with her. And she became my only confidant. So, you can see how hard it is for me to come here before you all today.”

“You’re doing fine, son,” a bass voice shouts from the balcony. Others echo encouragement.

“So”—I reach into my choir robe and pull out a folded sheet of paper—“I’ve written down what I want to say. I hope you don’t mind my reading from a script… I’m a little nervous, and I need some help here.”

I wipe sweat from my brow, as more shouts of encouragement come from the congregation. I unfold the paper, slowly, carefully, gathering courage, and begin to read.

“This weekend has been mind changing for me. A spirit has filled me, a courage, and a comfort.”

“Hallelujah!” a woman in the third row thunders. “Praise the Lord!”