Team Seven

by Marcus Burke

  Ma slid onto her knees in the pew and sobbed into the lap of her cream-colored Sunday dress. It was like she needed the Lord to plug her in and recharge her battery. The organ pipes bellowed from above the balcony and the overhead lights dimmed to a glittery darkness, reducing Bishop Jackson to a silhouette carved out by the fluorescent glow from the crucifix in the middle of the podium. The bassist strummed into the drum patter and thrummed under the beat.

  “Every head bowed, every eye closed. I’m going to pray the benediction,” Bishop Jackson intoned.

  I hated it when the lights dimmed inside the sanctuary in New Day Pentecostal. The wails and screams of church elders twitching with the Holy Ghost, barking in tongues—it kinda scared me. It felt like there was some kind of magic in the air, the Holy Spirit flowing around the congregation like vapor, filling folk with the Spirit at random, playing a big game of duck-duck-goose. As I sat in the darkness I always feared the Holy Ghost would envelop me one Sunday like an ill-fitting suit and transform me into a holy roller like the rest. The stained-glass depiction of Christ splayed across a crucifix, bleeding out in his crown of thorns, made everything the color of rotten apples. Sitting in that stiff darkness made me feel like I was in a dungeon, trapped with my thoughts.

  I could never catch Tunnetta looking at me from her seat across the congregation next to her father. But when those lights dimmed I knew she was looking, I could feel it, at least I hoped she was ’cause I was looking, trying to see her. In the darkness, all the wails and groans reminded me of the same ruckus I’d heard throbbing through the floorboards from my grandparents’ room a few weeks back.

  Since I’ve been fucking up and digging myself deeper and deeper into a hole, at night I haven’t been sleeping. I just lie in bed looking up into the nothingness as worries carousel around my chest. Regrets race through my mind as I lie in bed playing back where I went wrong or how I let things get so messed up with Tunnetta, and I wonder what Smoke will do to me when he gets tired of waiting for me to give him his money.

  It was three in the morning, and I was awake thinking on things as usual when I heard the hollow panging of Nana Tanks waddling to the bathroom using her walker. Ever since her botched knee surgery her legs haven’t quite worked the same. I tracked her slow footsteps to the bathroom, the pause, the flush of the toilet, and her slow trudge back. Her steps stopped near what I imagined to be her nightstand. I heard a loud scream and one strong clang from the walker and then it sounded like the fridge upstairs turned over on its side. Nana Tanks yowled like a banshee. My ears popped and I sat up. She wailed into the floor and then went silent and my heartbeat felt like a bee stinging me in the chest.

  The entire house woke up and snapped into crisis mode. All preexisting house beefs were put on truce until further notice and everything turned electric. I could hear all the commotion of everyone moving around and it felt like I was hiding under a jungle gym.

  “Mother, talk to me! Talk to me!” I heard a few more light thuds and I imagined my mother shaking Nana Tanks. “Call an ambulance!” Ma cried.

  I wanted to move but I was too locked in my fear to go and see the chaos rumbling through the floor into my room. I stayed put, listening to the sounds muffled by the pillow I’d clamped over my ears. The boom of the paramedics storming into the house is what got me up out of bed. The red and orange lights pulsed through my shades as I put on a pair of sweatpants.

  I opened my door just in time to see the apartment door open and Nana being taken out of the house on a half-bent gurney. Her cheeks pouted down like a bulldog and she had an oxygen mask suctioned to her face. She was tucked in white blankets up to her neck, head slack to the side. Two EMTs were wheeling her out, and when they pushed her through the ambulance doors, I thought she was dead.

  The memory now played in my head on repeat, wild and vivid, like the congregants of New Day Pentecostal, stomping feet, clapping hands, screaming in praise and pain. Some people were passing out while others were doing sanctified shuffles up and down the aisles in conga lines.

  “Can we all please join hands?” said Bishop Jackson.

  This was the part of church I hated most. I’d always sit next to Nina and her hands would sweat. They reminded me of raw chicken flesh. I’d tell her they smelled like cheese and when she extended her hand I’d reach out and hold her wrist. She’d shake her wrist free and punch me in the knee. Or she’d lick a finger and run it along my ashy ankles, pulling at the cuffs of my too-tight high-water church pants. It was like a routine between us.

  Today, though, Nina and I watched our mother fizzle down into what looked like a certifiable lunatic. We held hands and locked arms, huddling into each other. I looked her in the face and she appeared so sad, so innocent. I didn’t think I’d ever forgive myself for hitting her like I did.

  The saxophonist blew into the rhythm, speeding up the tempo.

  “It’s never too late to reclaim all that the devil has stolen from you! Today! If you’ll surrender your life, repent, and accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior, your future will be secured. If you haven’t already, will you accept the Lord today? If that’s you saying to yourself, ‘It’s time to make a change,’ please come down to the pulpit, I’d like you to join me in prayer. Come on down. Are you ready to be a vessel? Are you ready for the rest of your life today?”

  Bishop Jackson stepped down from the podium.

  The organ elevated from a shrill moan to a high-pitched trill, drowning out the band’s rhythm. Nina and I held each other in disbelief, listening to our mother melting on the floor, but I doubted Ma was embarrassed. “Ain’t no shame in the Lord” was her motto. She had plenty to cry about but, truth be told, I didn’t know what exactly triggered this.

  “Let it out, sister. Let it go, girl.” A pint-sized elderly woman with wax-smooth olive skin rubbed her back and held her hand.

  “Will you join me in prayer? Are you ready to start the rest of your life now?” Bishop Jackson’s voice repeatedly crooned through the speakers.

  The lady nudged Ma. “Go on, sister, reclaim your life.”

  Ma lifted her head and cleared her throat. The lady handed her a napkin and Ma wiped her face and stepped out from the pews, holding the wooden rail. I just about wanted to die as I watched Ma all unraveled staggering down to the pulpit among the other newfound souls.

  See, the thing is, Ma’s been a believer four years strong, a faithful servant, pious and devout. She moves like a lily pad on windy waters for the Lord. She takes on all assignments.

  Bishop Jackson and his fellow clergymen splashed oil on all the converts’ foreheads and ushered them into a small side room to distribute some literature. As the line of converts entered into the back, Ma walked back to her seat, all shined up with oil like she just came out of a bag of fried chicken. She had regained her composure. She stopped in front of the pew and looked at me and Nina like we had just as much a role to play in her stress as anybody, then she smiled at us and took her seat. Nina and I knew this was a very bad sign. Before Ma accepts any of the Lord’s assignments, she always answers an altar call and gets herself born again.

  Pop’s imminent release from jail was a tension in the house too. Ma and Mr. Watson had a long-standing friendship, so he plucked a few strings in his rich nigga network and set up a work-release-type deal for Pop. Somehow he got Pop’s charges balled up into a year of probation. He was scheduled to be released in a few weeks and the topic of where he was going to reside had yet to be resolved. Mr. Watson assured Ma that she’d receive her child support or he’d garnish Pop’s checks. I knew Ma considered her friendship with Mr. Watson a blessing, but I wasn’t feeling it. Mr. Watson’s goodwill didn’t always seem to do good in my opinion.

  “My family, my family,” Ma said as she sat hugging herself, rocking side to side, watching Bishop Jackson as he finished out service, having everyone recite the Lord’s Prayer. When the part about debtors came up, she glared over at me. Service let out and Ma stayed in her seat, smili
ng up at the ceiling and shaking her head. Nina and I bumped our way out of the pew and waited in the aisle for Ma to snap out of it. When she did, she strong-stomped out of the sanctuary, blowing past us out into the parking lot, click-clicking along. Nina and I trailed her, trying to keep up.

  “Ma, where’s the fire? … What’s the rush?” Nina called.

  “We need to get to the hospital to see your grandmother and then get home so we can clean up the house. You know your father comes home soon and he likes a clean house.” Ma turned back and smiled at us with that glow, and Nina stopped in her tracks and balled her fists. Her eyes crammed shut as she took a step back.

  “Why you don’t make that nigga go live in a crack-way house?” Nina shook her head at Ma. “You just gon’ keep on letting him in, Ma? Come on.” She rolled her eyes. Ma kept walking.

  We reached the car and Ma opened her door and got in. Nina and I sat together in the backseat, a unified front. Nina’s eyes seared on Ma from the rearview mirror. Ma started the car, turned around, and slid her sunglasses down so we could see her eyes.

  “Be a vessel? Give your life to the Lord!” She looked at us blankly and sucked her teeth. “Y’all two just need to be born again, y’all been acting like demons in the street. Now I’m taking back what is rightfully mine. I am a child of God and I want my husband back. I want my marriage back. I want my family back!”

  She did a little praise dance in her seat and put the car in gear.

  “O ye of little faith, why are you so afraid? Your father’s coming back home to live with us and we’re going to be a family again. I am taking back all that the devil has stolen from me.”

  She’d never looked crazier to us. She snapped her fingers above her head and pushed her shades back on, turning up the gospel music. We pulled out, passing the giant red hot dog flapping like a dying fish on the Simco’s sign, heading down Blue Hill Avenue toward Mass General to see Nana Tanks. Condemned houses hopscotched the avenue, blistering with peeling waterlogged concert promotion posters.

  The golden cross spinning high above the avenue announced Morning Star Baptist Church as we approached Norfolk Street. Riding along Blue Hill Avenue, I looked at the new Jordans plastic-wrapped in the window of Andrew G’s Fashion. We drifted past Lili’s Market and Nina’s thirsty ass damn near broke her neck watching the dreadlocked man with no shirt on doing pull-ups in the doorway of P&R, the Jamaican beef patty spot. All I could do was shake my head.

  We hit a pothole and one of our hubcaps shook loose and sparks clapped from the car’s underbelly. The hubcap raced alongside the car passing Taurus Records, Fernandez Beer and Wine, Ali’s Roti, and Lenny’s Bakery, finally skipping across the avenue to land flat in front of the Morton Street police station.

  Apartments sprouted up two, three, and four levels above the first floors of storefront churches, laundromats, tire shops, mini-marts, and mom-and-pop stores. All were stuck together on the strip like gum. Mayor Menino’s slogan, “Moving Boston Forward,” was pasted on green and white billboards and his posters hung everywhere eyes could see. Satellite dishes jutted out from rooftops and air conditioners drooled down on the sidewalk plants. As we passed over Morton Street, the round red and blue “Open” sign blinked at me in the window of Boston Check Cashers.

  We got to the intersection of Blue Hill Avenue and Talbot Street and I focused in on a green van parked to the side, where an old Asian man wearing a wife-beater and dress pants sat cross-legged drinking a bowl of steaming soup and selling jungle-patterned rugs. He looked so peaceful amid all the chaos. We pulled past him and the truck selling discounted soon-to-expire breads and pastries on the corner near the Franklin Field projects, swarming with people. We floated past Fire Station 52 into another stoplight. A group of licorice-black West Indian women wearing blue tank tops and white pleated skirts played netball in Franklin Field as they blared calypso. Pigeons lined the top of Sun Pizza’s long red awning.

  A flock of geese flew overhead in a sharp V, honking off their clown horns. Ma looked up at the geese and smiled and started drumming the steering wheel as she sang along with the Kirk Franklin playing on the radio, “No more cloudy days, they’re all gone away.”

  I sighed as the light turned green. I looked at Nina as we rode whizzing past the seagulls perched on the black steel fence outside Franklin Park Zoo like skulls on sticks. Every couple of houses, little clusters of black kids sat on their stoops hefting Bibles like suitcases, looking spit-shined and pristine in their mini-tuxes and sequined dresses, waiting their turn to get a dose of the Spirit. As we pulled into Grove Hall, a line of suited black men, all dark-shaded wearing black top hats, strolled across the crosswalk to enter the big mosque.

  The number 28 bus cut us off as we pulled into a red light, coughing a trail of black smoke. Ma pumped the brakes, unbothered, and kept singing, “I feel like I can make it! The storm is over … now!”

  The red light changed to green, and I shook my head as we took off, wishing I believed it was true.

  Nana Tanks was asleep when we got to the hospital. Ma talked to the doctor as me and Nina sat quietly beside her bed. The doctor said she’d be released to a rehab facility in a few days and that she’d be able to come back home in a few weeks. After the doctor left the room Ma said a prayer and rubbed some prayer oil on Nana Tanks’s forehead and we left too.

  When we got home from the hospital, Ma was still acting weird. She walked into the living room and turned on the afternoon gospel on WILD AM 1090 and sat on the couch still wearing her hat, coat, and gloves.

  We wor-ship youuuu! Hal-le-luuu-jahhhh, hal-lelu-jahhh!

  We wor-ship youuuu ’cause you are Goddd!

  Ma sang along with the chorus and I heard a loud thud in the living room. I stood up from the kitchen table and she was on her knees, arms stretched toward the ceiling like she was outside on a cliff welcoming the rain or signaling a plane. Her earrings sparkled in the sunlight and her eyes were closed. I could hear her whispering to herself, “Yes, Lord. Yes, Lord. I receive it. I receive it.”

  The song faded out and the radio cut to a commercial. She snapped out of it and stood up. I didn’t even look at her. Every couple of months Ma gets “born again” and charges up on some new divine crusade. She gets her mind set on an idea, any idea, and if you ask her questions about what she’s doing she says, “Being led by the spirit,” and walks away. When she’s like this, there’s no reasoning with her. It makes me want to chew off my own fingers sometimes when all I’m looking for is a straight answer.

  The last time she pulled this crap, she started waking me and Nina up at five thirty in the morning to sit in the living room, drinking water and praying as a family while old tapes of Bishop Jackson preached in the background. Her crusades never last. After a few weeks, she tires out and things fizzle back down to normal. It’s weird, I know, but according to her, if God said so then that’s all that matters. Long story short, I could tell she was charging up. With that misty look in her eyes I knew she was about to start acting all brand-new about some life-changing idea. I just hoped it wasn’t too drastic.

  Everyone gets high, it don’t matter the method, one way or another everyone’s gotta ease up the pain some way, and Ma’s fix comes every Sunday at church. I looked up the hallway and Nina rolled her eyes at me and gave me the finger. The family crisis truce from Nana Tanks’s being in the hospital was officially over. We saw her and she was fine. I gave Nina the finger back and she yelled out “Ma!” and I swung my hand down and banged my wrist on the table.

  “Yes, Nina?” Ma called back.

  Nina laughed and stepped inside her room.

  I cradled my forearm between my belly and thigh, and Nina replied, “Never mind.”

  Ma shrugged her shoulders. “You know what, Andre?”

  “What?”

  “You need Bible study, Andre.”

  She pointed at me and I didn’t answer her.

  “A Friday night Bible study. It’ll be good reason to keep y’
all reckless behinds off the streets causing trouble. We’ll host it here in the living room.”

  Here she goes talking ’bout “we.” I wanted to shake her. A Friday night Bible study hosted at our house? She’s crazy, with the way roaches graze all over the place like lazy cows and stampede into the walls and the floorboards whenever anyone turns on the lights or steps into a room. I don’t even like having company over. When the house is quiet, sometimes I can hear the mice squeaking in the walls or scurrying around playing jail tag.

  I wanted to ask her if she was trying to ruin my rep at school and around the way but I already knew the answer I’d get.

  “Don’t worry, Andre, you’ll see.”

  Again I didn’t answer her.

  She grabbed a staple gun, a stack of rainbow-colored construction paper, and a black marker and went into her room. She came back out an hour later wearing a hoodie, sweatpants, and jogging shoes. A rectangle, clearly the stack of construction paper, bulged from her stomach. She gave me a wide-mouthed drunk-on-Jesus smile and strutted into the hallway. She tilted her head down and glanced up, slowly sliding her sunglasses on all dramatic.

  “Going for a walk to cover the neighborhood in prayer. Be back soon.”

  She flashed me the peace sign and walked out the door humming an old hymn to herself.

  Maybe if our block was a warm circle cake, it would be just as easy as walking around the neighborhood humming a hymn, waving her arms in the air like magic wands, and her prayers would frost over everything and it’d be all good. The beef between me and Nina would be over. I’d be debt-free and we’d all be at peace, drinking lemonade and smiling. One big happy barbeque and nobody would get the stank-eye for wrapping a plate in tinfoil to take home to eat later. It’d be sunny and beautiful, but Ma ain’t dumb, she knows shit don’t work that way. She can feel the beef brewing on the block, heating up the sidewalks, she knows it’s gonna be a hot summer.

  After she left I rode my bike to the store to get some munchies. She walked around the neighborhood every day, I knew her route and avoided it. I peeped the first flyer for the “Battel Bible Study” as soon as I hit the parkway on my way back home from the store. Ma must have lost her goddamned mind, putting our house phone number on the flyer too. She’s so corny, she even drew a little lighthouse under the words “Battel Bible Study: Coming soon … so tell a friend!” She wrote it all in bubble letters. I looked up the block and the flyers rainbowed at me from every telephone pole I could see up the parkway.