The Bastard Hand (3 page)

“Well, no. I don’t think so anyway. But doesn’t the Bible say . . . uh, I don’t know, something about coveting thy neighbor’s wife or something?”

He peered at me through cigarette smoke, one eye half-closed. “Now, Charlie. Did you suppose that woman was my neighbor?”

I laughed and he said, “I surely do hope I haven’t offended you, Charlie.”

“No, not at all.”

“Good. I don’t consider my ideas revolutionary, not one bit. I just believe in a personal interpretation, is all. The biggest danger of Christianity today is folks believing everything they hear, just because some Bible-thumper who don’t know any more than they do tells ’em. People gotta be more than sheep.”

I said, “I bet your sermons really raise the roof. No offense. I’d be willing to bet some folks don’t like to hear that kind of talk.”

He shook his head. “You’re right about that. And if that was what I actually said, why, my preaching days would’ve been over long ago.” He finished his cigarette with a mighty pull, tossed the butt on the floor, ground it out with his shoe. “I don’t say none of that stuff when I’m preaching. When folks come to hear a sermon, they come because they’re scared of this world, and they want promises of a better one. And they want to know that, in order to reach that better world, they have to work for it. They have to suffer and be obedient and do what someone tells them. If they don’t hear all that, they ain’t satisfied. So. I give those good folks what they want. And they go away feeling better.”

“Don’t you consider that a bit . . . I don’t know . . . dishonest?”

“Not a bit, Charlie. Is there something dishonest about bringing a little hope into someone’s troubled life?”

“And you say you aren’t revolutionary.”

“Ain’t nothing revolutionary about it. Faith has always been strongest in the hardest times, Charlie, and the people who make those times so hard have always profited from it. Back in the Dark Ages, those . . . what do you call them? . . . feudal barons or whatever. Why, they made slaves out of the common folk, and encouraged religion amongst them. Why? Because if those common folks believed that all that suffering would lead them to Heaven, then they wouldn’t bother revolting or upsetting the balance. Even the slaves that used to work the cotton fields down in the Delta had them some religion, and them slave-owners made sure all the blacks had Sunday morning off to go on to church. And now, these days, people work hard and they sweat and they cry, and they wonder what it’s all about. What’s the point to all this turmoil?”

“And preachers give it to them.”

“That’s right. Now tell me, Charlie. What’s wrong about that?”

Sighing, I put out my cigarette in a little tin ashtray next to my chair. The Reverend looked at me, smiling. I said, “I’m gonna have to hear one of your sermons sometime.”

He leaned toward me, his eyes wide. “Would you like to, Charlie? Would you really like to?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He slapped his hands together, rocked on his chair. “Praise God! It just so happens that I have an engagement this very evening. A little Baptist church down on Lamar Avenue. You know where that is?”

I shook my head.

“Well, I hardly know myself, but the kind folks down there gave me directions. I talked to them last week, told them I was coming through town, and they were just thrilled to death. I can give the directions to you, if you like. I’d be just pleased as punch if you could make it, Charlie. What do you say?”

I thought it over. I hadn’t been in a church in years, and the thought sent a brief shimmer of anxiety through me. But it wasn’t as if I had anything better to do. Besides, I sort of liked Reverend Childe. He was different, and maybe a little deranged, but I liked him.

I said, “Okay, Reverend. I’ll be there.”

He clapped his hands together again, nearly came up out of his seat. He pulled a pencil and paper out of his pocket, scribbled directions, handed the paper to me. He said, “Seven o’clock sharp, Charlie. They’re gonna sing a few hymns, say a few prayers, and then I’m gonna address the congregation. Afterwards, there’s gonna be free eats down in the basement, so bring your appetite!”

He stood up, pumped my hand a few times, said, “Don’t forget now, Charlie. I’m looking forward to seeing you.”

“I won’t forget,” I said. “If you’d told me right away there’d be food, I wouldn’t have taken so long to decide.”

He laughed loud, and the few people in the laundromat glanced at us.

Reverend Childe turned to wave at everyone. A couple waved back. He turned his huge grin back to me, said, “God be with you in the meantime, Charlie.” Then his long legs carried him out the door and away.

I sat there staring after him for a few minutes, reeling in his wake. Right on time, the dryer holding my clothes shuddered to a slow stop. I walked over, started pulling my clothes out and shoving them haphazardly into my bag.

Then something very strange occurred to me. The Reverend had left empty-handed.

He hadn’t been there to wash clothes at all.

I spent most of that day kicking around the city, sponging up whatever atmosphere I could find. Lunch was some greasy chicken and baked beans that knocked my savings down to seventy-five dollars and some odd change. I used the change to take the bus up Poplar Avenue. At Overton Park I got off to look around.

The Brooks Museum of Art and the Memphis Zoo were there among the trees and jogging paths and picnic areas, but I didn’t really have the money to expand my cultural horizons. Instead, I made my way to the small man-made lake at one end of the park and sat down to read the Bible I’d swiped from the laundromat.

By five o’clock, Adam and Eve had pissed off God for the last time, Cain had gotten away with murder, Noah had built an ocean liner and rode out some bad weather, and God had shown his sense of humor by throwing a monkey wrench into the construction of the first skyscraper. Through all of this, millions of people had been killed, the angels had shown themselves to be amazing bastards, and anybody crazy enough to observe that this was an awful damn violent God was, of course, slaughtered mercilessly.

Not important. What was important was that I finally finished Genesis, and I felt good about it.

Kyle hadn’t spoken to me all day, and I couldn’t help but think he wanted to leave me alone so that I could get the most out of the Bible. Take solace where you can, I could imagine him saying.

Thinking of Kyle made me think about the previous night, and the blade in my chest. And the glowing hands.

Something was happening to me. It was true. Unless I was just having a weird spell, experiencing some crazy residue from the Institution.

But it didn’t matter. I still didn’t want to think about it. It was time to start worrying about how to get to Reverend Childe’s sermon, anyway.

It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. A bus on East Parkway, running right by Overton Park, took me all the way to Lamar, then a simple transfer south until the Tennessee-Mississippi state line was only a few minutes away. Just as the Reverend’s directions said, the Haley Baptist Church was right there on Lamar, next door to a run-down auto repair shop.

It was only six-thirty, so I hung around outside and smoked cigarettes for a while. Groups of black kids and homeless folks drifted by, and every single one of them looked at me, wondering what the hell I was doing in their neighborhood. I began to wonder myself.

Finally I was rescued. A heavy-set man with a pockmarked brown face came down the church steps and said to me in an amiable voice, “Do you need some help, sir?”

I shook my head. “I’m just waiting for the sermon to start. You’re having a guest speaker tonight, Reverend Childe. I’m sort of a friend of his.”

His face lit up. “Ah, yes! So glad you could come. We’ve been looking forward to Reverend Childe’s visit. Quite a few of the flock should be here tonight—normally, we only have services on Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings, but it was our understanding that Reverend Childe was only passing through town, so we managed to arrange this Saturday night revival.”

“I think he’s leaving tomorrow for Cuba Landing. He may have a permanent post down there.”

“Praise God for that.” He shoved his hand at me. “I’m Reverend Page, the pastor here at Haley Baptist Church.”

I shook his hand, introduced myself, asked if Reverend Childe had arrived yet.

“I haven’t seen him so far,” Page said, “but there’s still time yet. Even if he’s late, we can sing a few hymns to get in the mood.”

About that time some of the congregation began showing up. Reverend Page led me into the church, sat me down in the front pew, went back to the front to greet people as they came in.

It was a small homey church, more like a lodge hall than the ornate Catholic affairs I’d grown up with. Tiled floor, wood-paneled walls, and the only real decoration a large metal cross hanging behind the battered wood podium. Behind that was what looked like a jury box, for the choir I guessed. A beat-up piano sat at the far left of the stage.

Over the next few minutes, the church filled up. The entire congregation was black, and not one of them looked at me strangely. Many of them smiled at me. An old woman sat next to me, offered me her hand, said, “So nice to see a new face here.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, and was about to introduce myself when Reverend Page took the podium. Behind him, eight or nine women ranging in age from thirty-something to past sixty filed into the choir loft and sat down. A very pretty young girl settled herself at the piano.

Page stood with his hands braced on each side of the podium and stared around the church. His eyes seemed to focus on each one of us in turn, until the congregation finally settled into relative quiet and everyone looked back at him. Then he said, “Welcome, Brothers and Sisters. Praise God that so many of you could come out tonight! It’s only on rare occasions that we’re able to get together on a weekend evening like this, and I value those times with all my heart.”

The lady next to me barked, “Amen!” and a few others followed her example.

Page said, “There’s more than a few faces that I don’t see here tonight, but their absence is made up for by a few new-comers to our little church. I want all of you to make them feel at home here and at peace with God.”

He looked at me when he said that and grinned, then picked up a black book from his podium. He said, “Our guest speaker is running a little late this evening, so I’ll just go ahead and get us rolling. Let us pray.”

Everyone stood instinctively and bowed their heads. I followed suit, and Reverend Page said, “Our Lord in Heaven. Please hear us as we gather here tonight in Your name, and keep us safe. We are sinners, Dear Lord, mere sinners, but we beg you to take mercy on our souls, and we ask that You bestow Your blessings on us—”

It went on like that for a while and finally Page said, “Amen,” and the word went around the church. I was about to sit down when Page said, “Please remain standing. Pick up your hymnals and turn to page one-thirty-eight.”

The rustling of clothes, a few coughs, as everyone followed his instructions. The old woman handed me a hymnal that had been sitting on the bench next to her. The girl at the piano rattled a few keys, and then the choir led the entire church in “Just A Closer Walk With Thee”.

We were just getting to the end of the song when I spotted Reverend Childe sneaking onto the stage from the right. He walked slowly, his head down, and his lips moved to the lyrics of the hymn as he approached the podium. Page saw him, nodded with a smile as he sang.

The choir wrapped up the number with a rock ’n’ roll flourish, then everyone started to sit back down.

Page and Childe conferred with each other for a few seconds as everyone got settled, then Page nodded, clapped Reverend Childe on the shoulder, and turned back to the congregation. He said, “This is a special night, indeed. I can just feel it in my bones, someone’s gonna get saved tonight!”

“Amen!”

“Amen!”

“Praise God!”

“The Right Reverend Phinneas Childe has come to speak with us tonight, Brothers and Sisters! Please make him feel welcome!”

Sporadic applause, but the profusion of amens and praise Gods made up for it. Reverend Childe approached the podium, gripping his Bible to his chest, and nodded appreciatively to the congregation.

The Reverend’s first words sent my stomach plummeting to the floor and made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.

Grinning widely, he waved his arms in the air and shouted in a TV announcer voice, “Helloooooo, niggers!”

And then there was silence. Dead silence.

It seemed to stretch on forever, that sharp and empty quiet that reared up in the church. But nothing needed to be said. I could feel it, coming from every square inch of the place—first a sort of hurt bafflement, then a general anger that shaped itself quickly into hard rage. Behind Childe, Page’s mouth fell open and he stared in amazement at the back of Childe’s head.

I found myself slipping down in the pew until my head barely peeked over the top of the backrest.

Then someone in the back of the church stood up and yelled, “What is the meaning of this?”

That seemed to get everyone going again. Suddenly voices were raised all over the room, angry shouts, threatening words, and more than a few not-very-Christian suggestions. The entire congregation began surging forward as one, fists shaking in the air and violence looming.

Reverend Childe raised his hands and shouted to be heard above the outraged din. “Please, please! Listen to me, Brothers and Sisters!”

Next to me, the old lady screamed, “You got the nerve, you lily-white bag of bones! We ain’t your brothers and sisters!”

More cries of agreement. Someone said, “Get him out of here!” and the men and women of Haley Baptist stampeded toward the podium. Reverend Page stepped in front of them, crying, “People, please calm yourselves!”

“Calm nothing, Reverend!” an old man said. “Who does he think he is, coming into our church and insulting us? He’s got the devil in him, and I say we beat it out of him!”

A rumble of bloodthirsty righteousness followed, very Old Testament, all blood and anger and outrage.