Shake Down the Stars (13 page)

“I'm so sorry. You're right, Mrs. Edwards. I'm sorry.” I hang my head farther. I have never felt more ashamed than I do right now. “It'll never ever happen again, Mrs. Edwards. I swear.”

“You bet it won't. You're going home—without pay. Use the rest of this week and Christmas break to do what you need to do. That gives you sixteen full days to get your act together. But when you return from break, Miss Nelson, I want all of you back. No more absences, no more missed meetings. If you mess up a single time, I'll do whatever I have to do to have you suspended. I'll do whatever it takes and will fill out every bit of paperwork. I do not care about your donation to the school; I care about our kids, and the only reason I'm not suspending you now is that I know you care about our kids, too. I know you're a good teacher because of what you've accomplished with your students in the past. I want
that
Miss Nelson to return two weeks from now. If I can't get one hundred percent of her, I'll settle for ninety-five, but no less. Miss Nelson, do we have an understanding?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Good. Now please go home and take the weekend and your vacation to figure out whatever it is you need to figure out so that I won't have to fire you.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

I get my purse and briefcase and slink out of the office toward the exit doors, my head hanging low in shame.

I
knew the Reverend's church had quadrupled in size since I last attended as a teenager, but seeing the three interconnecting buildings and immense stained-glass windows help me fully appreciate what a one-thousand-member church actually means.

I'm here out of desperation. After Gladys sent me home yesterday, I'm ready to try anything to get my life back on track. Hence, the “miracle,” as Mom is calling it—my visit to tonight's Friday evening service.

Mom called last night while I was stargazing. There's currently a storm taking place on Saturn, large enough for amateur stargazers to see. Gigantic plumes of smoke rise from Saturn's lower region as if being discharged from a locomotive, billowy and caterpillar-like in shape. Because of the storm's location and length, astronomers are calling it Storm Alley. I listened to Mom as she went on about what a great speaker Bishop Thomas is and how he uses science as part of his sermons. He's so popular, she told me, the Reverend was lucky to get him on the Friday before Christmas.

I hadn't had a drink all day (I'm going to sober up or else), and her voice was grating on my nerves, but I managed to offer the appropriate uh-huhs and listen as she sang rhapsodically about the bishop. When I told her I'd go, making sure to leave out the info that I was almost fired that day and much in need of a miracle, she went on about God having a plan for me
—
“Praise Jesus! You won't regret it, Piper. I promise you!”

So here I am.

From the droves of sheep flocking to tonight's program, it appears that the entire congregation skipped catching a Friday night movie so they can hear tonight's guest speaker, Bishop Ron Thomas of Atlanta. I follow one of the men wearing a T-shirt that says
PARKING
as he leads me to an empty space. After cutting the engine, I find the pack of cigarettes I bought on the way here. I'm sure it's bad form to smoke in a church parking lot, but I'm craving a drink so badly, it's either light up before going inside or not go at all.

The air is filled with the kind of excitement that makes it seem as if we're attending a rock concert. I'm in no rush, though, and watch the hordes make their way to the building while quietly smoking my cigarette. It's not until I reach the nub that I smash it underfoot and join the gridlocked crowd at the front of the church.

Ushers lead us inside. There are two elevators against the back wall and ushers handing out programs at various entrances. After taking the elevator to the second floor, I find a seat in the front row of the balcony. There are so many people, I half expect peanut vendors to walk up and down the aisle. One thing's for sure: The Reverend has come a long way since preaching in the movie theater where I was forced to hear his sermons every Sunday.

Down below, there's a massive Christmas tree decorated in white lights and silver and white ornaments. A four-piece band plays while two young men wearing microphones jump and run back and forth in front of the stage and up and down the aisles, clapping their hands above their heads and pointing at people as they call out cheers.

“Do you love Jesus?”

The crowd responds,
“We love Jesus!”

“Do you love God?”

“We love God!”

“I can't hearrrrrr yooooooou!”

“We love God!”

On and on until I'm praying for an aspirin.

Once the church is full, the organist shifts into a quiet hymn. The screen behind the podium rolls down as one of the cheerleaders steps on stage and asks everyone to close their eyes. He then leads the congregation in prayer. I close my eyes but feel like a charlatan. I don't think of God so much as the image of Storm Alley lining the underbelly of Saturn. I know I've been here only five minutes, but watching a storm take place thousands and thousands of miles away already feels more holy than this.

The band switches into a different song as the choir starts to enter. The two women on either side of me, the entire congregation, in fact, are on their feet at once and start clapping and raising their hands toward the ceiling. The choir enters from two different entrances, one person after another as if there's no end. It's a mixed choir and a relatively mixed crowd, which is no small feat when one considers how segregated churches can be. They follow one another up to the stage, clapping and walking on beat, all dressed in bright yellow robes decorated with purple and gold Kente cloth. Once they're on stage, Mom and the Reverend walk out hand in hand, waving to the congregation like politicians. The Reverend kisses Mom's cheek, and she finds her seat in the front-row pew. After a minute or two she turns and begins searching the church. When our eyes meet she blows a kiss and waves. I honestly don't remember the last time I've seen her this happy to see me, and I smile and wave back.

The music dies, and the Reverend nods his head solemnly. He's handsome with slicked-back hair and big white teeth. “Good evening, saints.”

“Good evening.”

“I don't know about you, but I serve a mighty God. I say, I don't know about
you
, but I serve a mighty God!”

People suddenly stand on their feet and start whooping it up.

I listen passively, meanwhile. Everyone has always fallen for the Reverend because he's handsome and charming, but for all these years, he and I have never exchanged a meaningful conversation. I was grounded on a regular basis for “disrupting” Sunday school or Bible class because I dared to ask questions I thought were perfectly reasonable: Why did Mary have to be a virgin? Did she remain a virgin while she was pregnant? Or, how can anyone possibly believe humans were created in a day when it's been proven it took billions of years for humans to evolve from bacteria?

Charles never said anything to me directly; punishment came through Mom. “Just shut your mouth during Sunday school. It's all based on faith; that's how we know.”

I could sometimes hear her and Charles arguing about me, too. “You have to get her to behave appropriately, Margaret. She's the child of a minister now. I can't have her sneaking off when she's supposed to be in Sunday school.”

“I'm feeling good today, saints!” he says now. “Hallelujah! I'm feeling sanctified!”

I clutch my stomach. I wish I felt something even remotely close to sanctified, but I feel more akin to a veteran experiencing post-traumatic stress and have to fight the urge to run out. I watch Mom nod in agreement with whatever the Reverend is going on about. I suppose she could honestly believe everything he preaches, but she sure did a three-sixty once he showed interest in her and told her he was a child of God. She abruptly stopped going out on dates, stopped drinking, and stopped bringing men home. To this day I'm not sure if she truly accepted Christ in her heart or Charles; maybe it's both. I'm not sure, but whatever the case, she's not the most loving Christian in the world. At least my unsaved mom had a sense of humor.

The ushers open the doors, and the last of the stragglers walk in. I lock my gaze on a young couple. The guy isn't as tall as Spencer, but he may as well be his doppelganger with his goatee and globe-shaped Afro. He has his arm around a woman carrying a toddler. I drop my head at the thought of my husband—
ex
-husband—with his new baby. It still hits me hard: Spencer being a father to someone other than Hailey. I can't get my head around it.

The choir finishes its song, and the Reverend goes on again about how sanctified he is and how he's not of the earth. “I am only visiting this place! My real home is the heavenly realm! We are only passing through, saints! One day we will return to the arms of our heavenly Father! Amen?”

I feel myself growing increasingly irritated. Why do Christians hate Earth so much? It's a perfectly fine planet. What would they prefer? Uranus? Four hundred degrees Celsius on a good day? Or Neptune? A beautiful sky blue but more than two hundred degrees below. They should be grateful to be here. We have the sun and plants and animals. Water. Insects. Everything here is a miracle, and I can't imagine their mythical heaven being any better—not as beautiful, anyway. I mean, gold streets and harps? Yawn.

I stare at the Reverend, feeling fifteen all over again, forced to sit through three-hour services
plus
Sunday school. And the Reverend always played up the false modesty once we were home: “I think they understood the Lord's message today, Margaret. He was speaking through me, and I was surely his vessel and servant.”

I turn my gaze to the couple with the baby. Spencer's doppelganger holds the baby while his wife wipes the baby's nose. I quickly look away. I'm starting not to feel so hot, frankly. I want a drink. I want a drink real bad. I try to focus, but it's as if the Reverend's head has turned into a bottle of scotch. I remember my cigarettes in the car, and all too quickly I'm telling myself that I'll go out for a quick smoke and then return to hear the guest speaker. Knowing how the Reverend likes to hear himself talk, I'll have a good twenty minutes before he even introduces the bishop.

I excuse myself as I step over people and practically race down the stairs and make my way outside. I head straight to my car and find the cigarettes. I stare at the few stars that are visible, exhaling my first drag with a deep sense of freedom and relief.

“Smoking will kill you.”

I turn and see a man walking toward me. He wears a yellow suit that makes him look as if he belongs in a jazz quartet circa 1930, and he's skinny enough that the suit makes him look like an elongated banana. Matters aren't helped by his odd doo-wop-looking hairstyle. He does the dopey-man chuckle. “You're one of them bad women. Smoking like that when you should be inside the church, hearing the Word.”

“You're one to talk. You're at least thirty minutes late.”

He steps closer. “I got caught in traffic; but as they say, better late than never.” Chuckle chuckle. He raises his Bible, which has to be as heavy as he is. “I made it, though, praise God. I'm just in time to convince you to put out the poison stick and come inside with me.”

I think of Eve and how bored she must have been stuck in paradise with a mindless man who was too busy naming animals to converse. No wonder she was more interested in the snake. Which reminds me of another problem I had back when I was forced to go to church: Why was Eve the bad guy? What's so wrong with curiosity?

“I'll pass.” I take a drag of my cigarette. “I want to finish my poison stick,” I tell him. “Besides, I get the gist. You Christians are adored and special, while the rest of us are going to hell where we'll burn for eternity. Yee haw!”

He laughs nervously. “What's your name?”

“Jezebel.”

He brings his Bible to his chest like armor. “I should get inside. I'm late as it is.”

“Why don't you stay out here and keep me company?” I lean back and give the hood of my car a pat. I then take a puff of my cigarette and cross my legs.

“Keep you company?” His voice practically breaks.

I stare into his eyes, feigning to put him under my spell. He laughs nervously and shrinks back while clutching his Bible. “You afraid of me?”

“No.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“There's no problem.”

He's a cheap form of distraction, but it's kind of fun making him nervous. I figure I'll fool around a little, have another cig, and give church another try. I take a step closer and move his jacket aside with my fingertip. “Don't be afraid,” I whisper. “I won't hurt you.”

•   •   •

I
get the feeling it's been a long time since Henry or Harry or whatever the hell he said his name is has had sex. His hands race against each other as though if he's quick enough, God won't catch us making out in the backseat of my car, but he can't figure out what he's doing and, thanks to his clumsy skills, minutes in and we're both still fully dressed. He grabs at my thigh. “Easy now.”

“Sorry.” He then starts to unbutton my sweater but can't get past the first button. Frustrated, I begin to help him. When my sweater finally opens, his eyes practically fall out of their sockets, much like the old cartoons where the cartoon dog sees a bone or cute poodle and loses it on the spot. I lean back and wait—
and wait
—while he tries to unfasten my bra. Total amateur, this one. It's as if he were still a virgin. Then again, considering I'm in a church parking lot, he just might be.

“You're not a virgin, are you?” I ask.

“No, ma'am!”

Ma'am?

I'm about to tell him to never use that word again when I hear a noise outside. I try to see if someone's there, but every time I move one way, Harry or Henry's elongated head blocks my view. I hear what sounds like a cough and tap him on the shoulder. “Hey, did you hear that?” He's too busy trying to unhook my bra to pay attention. Whoever is outside tries to open the door, but it's locked and the person begins pounding on the window instead.

Harry or Henry turns enough that I see a face peep through the window. Mom's face.

“Piper Michelle Nelson, you'd better get your ass out of that damn car before I drag you out!”

She starts pulling at the door so hard the car rocks back and forth as though we're caught in turbulent seas. “Get out, I said! I know you hear me in there, you heathen! Get the hell outta that car!”

Harry and I rock this way and that. He struggles to fasten his belt. “Oh, dear Lord! Jesus, help me. Please, Lord.”

Mom gives up rocking the car and starts pounding her fists on the roof instead. “Get out of the damn car!”

Harry turns and sees whom we're dealing with. “Oh Lord! That's Sister Wright! Oh help me, Jesus!”

“Open the door,” I tell him.

“There's no way I'm opening that door, ma'am!”

“Stop calling me ma'am!”