Run Baby Run

by Michael Allen Zell

  Delery planned to take a drive over the bridge to see the Lower Ninth Ward for himself, but he'd read enough to know that, despite the media attention, little support had come. Mainly Brad Pitt's foundation and a few legitimate non-profits.

  He hadn't expected to see so many empty lots on this side of the canal, though. He knew he wouldn't get caught up in looking around and miss the family house. It couldn't be forgotten. Right at the corner of Galvez and Poland. Across the wide busy Poland was a smattering of warehouses and marine businesses. That wouldn't change.

  He looked off to the left instinctively at the Bartholomew intersection.

  The Florida Projects were built on the river side of the Florida Avenue Canal decades ago as housing for whites, his dad had told him in Chicago when they were discussing Cabrini-Green getting torn down there.

  "Bobby, by the time we left New Orleans, the old white projects--St. Thomas, Iberville, and Florida--they were all black," he'd said. "At least people living in those could mix with everyone else. Look at the Desire Projects, though. They put a bunch of poor people in shoddy buildings that weren't fit for habitation the day the doors opened. Stuck in isolation between train tracks on left and right sides. I-10 on top. Florida Canal on the bottom. Limited socialization."

  His voice had raised. "You know what that does to a person. You've studied it. What does it say? It says, 'Take a bus downtown where you make a lousy wage at your crappy job, if you can even get one, and when your shift's over go away to an isolated corner so we don't have to see you anymore.' New Orleans likes its black people in two contexts. Work for us or entertain us. White folks have a problem with black folks as just people. I'll be the first to say it."

  Delery saw he was a block away. He knew his mother and brothers didn't live there anymore, or in New Orleans at all, but he'd grown up in this house during his formative years. A warehouse filled the entire block on the left. Memories from the houses along the right side filled him up.

  It doesn't matter where you're from or where you've been. The house or structure where you were born and raised holds a special place. It alchemically transforms standard building materials into something magical.

  The excitement built inside him. He knew coming back would be emotionally difficult. The family home was in the part of his memory where roads don't run. Delery didn't like them to run there anyway.

  As he got closer, the yard seemed bigger and thicker than he remembered. "The owners must need to do some yard work," he said, finally pulling up in front.

  His mouth dropped. Weeds of all types abounded. He was home, but home wasn't there.

  Delery got out of his car, double-checked the street signs, and walked to the empty lot in disbelief. He saw red paint barely visible underneath the overgrowth. The only remaining part of the family house was the stoop. Three steps made of concrete. Left when the shotgun single was demolished and taken away.

  "It's faded, but this is the red Dad painted when I was in first grade," Delery said.

  He pushed the weeds back vigorously so he could sit on the top step. Delery didn't make a habit of crying, but he let loose and sobbed for a couple minutes.

  He'd been in two worlds his whole life. His tender spot. What gave him perspective and experience beyond most people. It was also what could wound him to the quick like nothing else. Why he lived in two worlds. Not quite fitting in either. Wondering which person he was. Here he was at the source of it. Simultaneously close and far from his family.

  "I need to get it out," he said to himself, "but not aloud."

  "Dad and Mama married in February 1965. George Delery and Celeste Thomas. Made house in this spot on the other side of town from their families because both sides disapproved."

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

  "Mama was pregnant with Robert. The first one. He died when she was giving birth."

  Delery didn't have a handkerchief or tissue, so he leaned off to the side, held the top of his nose between thumb and index finger, and blew his nose into the weeds.

  "Marvin was born in 1966. He also would've been my older brother. Died when he was only three from sickle cell. Painful death."

  Delery paused, thinking of his birthday a couple months ahead.

  "I was the oldest by happenstance. By accident. August 28, 1970. They used 'Robert' again. Looking back, I think it was too difficult for them to say it out loud, so I was always 'Bobby.'"

  His hands were on his knees. He squeezed them.

  "I was still a baby myself when Isaac was born in 1973. Looked so different from me. My little brother. Wonder what he's done with his life?"

  Delery teared up again and promptly blotted with his hand.

  "They had Curtis when I was in kindergarten. Would've been 1976. A toddler when Dad and Mama got divorced. I remember his eyes when Dad and I left. He knew somehow."

  Delery made two fists and started to steadily knock his knuckles together.

  "As part of the divorce settlement, Dad got me. Mama got Isaac and Curtis. We left the state. Dad got a job in Indiana. Union organizing job with UAW. At International Harvester. Went back and forth from Fort Wayne to Chicago a lot for work."

  His knuckle tapping got stronger. Noise from their impact could be heard.

  "Once a week, I wrote a letter to Mama, Isaac, and Curtis. Gave them to Dad to mail. Never got a reply. Stopped writing after 6th grade. Dad wouldn't allow long distance phone calls, so letters were all I had. But... they... they forgot about me."

  His arms were now swinging and his fists were colliding with each other.

  "Fuck, fuck, fuck. What did I do wrong, Mama? Dad said the three of you left New Orleans. Wouldn't tell me where. Said it was better that way. I was a freshman in high school then."

  He violently slammed his fists together once before stopping.

  "All these years. I never looked online. Figured if I was dead to them, what did it matter?"

  Delery had been so deep in his release he was unaware of his surroundings. A mistake in any city, but definitely so in New Orleans.

  He jolted when he saw three teenagers standing off to his right. He hadn't seen or heard them come around the corner. Each had a variation of long white t-shirt, black low-slung pants, and shoulder length dreadlocks. He thought they were young gangsters, and they knew it.

  Delery rose and panicked. He tried to pull fear from his face and broke the awkward silence. "You guys didn't see all that shit, did you?" he asked. For all he knew, his lips had moved with his thoughts.

  One of the trio brushed it off. "You don't have to say anything. Private ish. What you doing sitting out here, though?"

  "This was where my house used to be," Delery said.

  "You lived back here? C'mon. Naw."

  Delery knew what was being implied, and his initial response to them meant he deserved it. "Yeah, I grew up here but moved away when I was still a kid. Before you guys were even born."

  "Well, listen. We didn't mean to get up in your business, sir, but maybe you want to come to this," the spokesperson offered, handing Delery a postcard-sized promotion for a music show.

  "This is you guys?" he asked. "And you don't have to 'sir' me. I appreciate the respect to a sad old man, though."

  They all grinned.

  "You're not that old. But, yeah, that's us. We're students at NOCCA, but the show's at the Musician's Village."

  Delery was foggy. "I've never heard of either of those. Guess I have been away for a minute."

  They schooled him on the high school arts center next to the river, which was actually near his apartment, and the Habitat for Humanity houses only blocks away, built for musicians after the flood.

  They were sweet generous kids and their music sounded interesting, so Delery promised to catch their show the following Thursday. When they were about to part, one of the three who'd
been silent so far, said with a sly grin, "I ain't gonna dap. Nothin' personal. But your knuckles, they ain't touchin' mine. Gotta keep 'em pretty for the trumpet. You dap like you're trainin' to beat Mayweather."

  They all burst out laughing and made introductions.

  "I've had a hell of a day. Nice to meet you guys. And sorry about my first response. Thanks for being cool about it," Delery said.

  He was ready to head downtown. Took Poland to Claiborne and saw everything as expected along the way, except for an older woman walking slowly along the pedestrian part of the Claiborne overpass above the train tracks. She was dressed all in white, obviously on her way to church.

  The peculiar thing was that she was carrying a large beer case almost half her size.

  10

  Hutch's appetite was kicking. Having the Chinese restaurant directly across the street in full view made his stomach worse. He was hoping it'd be open soon, so he could pick up some food and bring it back without anyone seeing him. Otherwise, time to start limping to a truck stop and catch a lift to Houston.

  Traffic on Franklin was steady, usual for Sunday morning, but Hutch's attention casually drifted to the sidewalk directly below him. He jumped inside himself and barely kept from calling out. He'd been smacked like a nightmare.

  "Shit. Granny got it?" he mouthed.

  He was stunned to see a woman slowly pass beneath the window. She was old and moved like it. All in white from head to toe, blending beautifully with her black skin.

  She was also unmistakably carrying the large Abita beer case that flew out the jeep window with Clint Olson. It had the large mark in the corner that Mr. C required of his bartenders for inventory, but was the money in it?

  Hutch scrambled to the stairs, limping and dodging rubble, trying to keep from falling through the weak floorboards. Coughing the whole way. He hobbled downstairs and out the back, pulled himself over two chain link fences, and finally arrived at the sidewalk, adrenaline-filled.

  Looking off to the right, he saw she'd crossed Derbigny and was passing through a group of people. Gliding as if her feet weren't moving, so small were her steps. She turned into a building.

  Hutch took a few steps to read the posted sign. New Grace Tabernacle Full Gospel Baptist Church. He reversed his steps to go back upstairs and stand at the window in wait for her to come back.

  Black churches and white churches are as dissimilar as a placid bath and a vigorous shower. Water in a completely different framework.

  White churches are often pious somber affairs. They tend to have a macabre fixation on the book of Revelations or an unhealthy obsession with the prosperity principle, that wealth is ordained for the devout. All is rigid.

  Typically, black churches are entirely different. Joy for the soul. Music for the ears and body. Blessings for the heart and mind. Also, performances from the pulpit like no other. Despite black culture being routinely co-opted and turned into weak tea for a white mainstream in the U.S., black churches largely haven't been touched. Why? Because it can't be pulled off.

  This is definitely the case in New Orleans when black folks go churchin' and most definitely for those who do so at The Tab.

  The Tab, usual nickname for the seven word version on the sign, had been around for two decades. It was nondescript from the outside. Not a house church or a storefront one. Not ostentatious either. In fact, it appeared almost fortress-like.

  Miss Melba passed through the opened security fence and the door on the right held for her. There was a modest foyer with a greeter's desk on the left and an overflow room off to the side. Music was easily heard pouring through the walls.

  She was known for being devout, so eyebrows raised high, elbows nudged, mouths dropped, and eyes popped when she glided through them all, carrying a beer case on her way to the sanctuary.

  "Excuse me. Would you place a program in my hand?" she asked, announcing, "Only commodities inside. No devil brew in this box."

  A kindly usher opened the door and led her to a seat in a pew off to the right for latecomers. Actions by those who saw her echoed those in the lobby, with the addition of friends who greeted her by name, nodded with a smile, or gently squeezed her arm. Each time she repeated her pat response about commodities. Each time they affirmed in reply.

  Miss Melba placed the box at her feet and joined in the service. Everyone was standing and most were swaying to the choir. Though the music was sublime, the four speakers mounted overhead on the sides blasted the voices and instruments at a level that would humble a rock club. It didn't bother Miss Melba. Her hearing had dropped off plenty over the years.

  In front of her, there were twelve long rows divided in thirds by two aisles. Four short rows in back where she was standing were separated from the larger section by a wide aisle. At capacity, the church could seat upwards of 180 people.

  The walls and ceiling were white. The carpet and pews were blue. All crisp in the post-disaster way that parts of the city looked like they'd just come out of the box.

  The twenty-five members of the superchoir were singing in a hypnotic African-influenced call-and-response way. They were gathered along an elevated stage up four steps on one side of the pulpit. The drummer, keyboardist, organist, and percussionist were on the other. James Brown and the JB's would've taken a few pointers.

  There were two large flat screen tv's on the wall behind them looping through announcements and motivational sayings. Two overhead banks of lights completed the balance.

  All the high-tech equipment was in full force, except for air conditioning. Ladies were fanning themselves. Men were wiping their brows. There was a mix of the nicely dressed, many in white like Miss Melba, and the extremely casual. A few folks were stylin' in a major way, and one young man wore a t-shirt that read "Fallen Heroes" at the top and had pictures of Tupac and Biggie below. If folks had a little money, they were dressing fancy come Sunday. Hair was done no matter what.

  The congregants were regular people of modest means, almost all from the surrounding neighborhood. Their lives were not easy or filled with creature comforts. For a few hours each Sunday they had a place that was theirs to help get through the week. Plus, the house was rockin'.

  After the choir sang a song with the key line, "Let's go back to the old time days," slipping and sliding along the melody and chanting for over a quarter hour, Sister Pastor Yvonne Russell stood from her seat at the edge of the stage.

  She clapped and raised her hands up along with everyone else. When she reached the pulpit, Sister leaned into the mic and said, "Good morning. So happy to see everyone today. But you know, we don't wanna go back to those old days, do we?"

  Everyone either vigorously answered back, "No!" or at least shook their heads.

  "That's right. We're walking through new days. Without Jesus, where we gonna be? In the grave, under the jail, under the grave, in the jail."

  A wrinkled man called out, "Don't forget right on top of the grave."

  Sister Pastor Russell announced the monthly Youth Spotlight winner, Fenny Kendrick. The fourteen year old was dressed in a white leotard and colorful tutu for her interpretive dance of a recorded praise song. She was filled with the Spirit and nervousness, but everyone was supportive of her twirling, particularly when she used her index fingers and thumbs to put her diamonds up to the sky. She was thanked with applause and a gift certificate.

  Next, Sister Pastor announced the church's senior pastor. Though his given name was Terrell Jackson, he was known to all as Slow Prophet, or S.P. for short. Organ music and clapping in unison wove a carpet for his entrance, from a door behind the stage, up to the pulpit. He chastely embraced Sister Pastor Russell, looked out to the pews, and straightened his dashiki.

  "It's a blessed Sunday. Greet those around you. Nobody's greeting you, then you hug yourself," he began in an understated way.

  He was barely thirty-three but had the full hu
sky voice of an older man. He wore black dress pants and sported black sneakers. A large watch on his left wrist was his only concession to modern fashion.

  "Do I look like I'm ready to come correct?" he asked, nodding to the responses.

  S.P. was a man whose weight and appearance fluctuated greatly depending on how many Big Buford's he'd had that week. He admitted as much by mentioning that the devil drove him to drive-thru, but the Lord made a long line that eventually S.P. gave up on.

  All joined hands for prayer.

  "Don't rob God," was S.P.'s call for the offering. Tithing envelopes were passed out. A line formed along each aisle, and two young boys waited in front for the newly filled envelopes to be placed in the containers that resembled flower pots.

  Miss Melba thrust an empty left hand into her beer case, grabbed one of the money packets, inserted a tithing envelope into the case with her right hand, and discreetly tucked the money inside, writing nothing on the envelope. She was at church but wasn't foolish enough to think that mattered with the amount she had.

  She less-discreetly carried the box of money with her and took her place in line, with the stuffed envelope on top of the refolded lid. Those who hadn't initially seen her come in went through the prescribed nudging, eyebrow raising, mouth dropping, and asides. She quietly repeated, "Only some commodities. No devil brew here," all the way to the stage.

  One person responded to her more strongly than the others. He snorted like he'd heard the joke of all jokes, but not a funny one. His mouth hung slack like an imbecile. He flung his arms up, back down, then up again. He shook like a junkie quitting cold turkey.

  The lady to his left smiled. "You've got the faith," she said.

  The Holy Trinity was not the catalyst for his erratic movements, though. D-Day, so called because of his name David Day and the destruction he was prone to unleash, was in a quandary. He'd been trying to get his life right. His face was carved up with scars from several knife scuffles over his twenty-eight years. His mind was carved up by an upbringing far more violent.