After her mother died, she had sought refuge from the cold fury in her father’s house. She was most unsuccessful in that endeavor. Now that your mother is in the ground, don’t act like you don’t know what we’re doing.
Now he didn’t have to waste all that energy beating her to get her pants down. There was no one to protect her now that her mother was dead. She got pregnant by him again. This time the baby died, thank God. And after that, she grew stronger. When he tried to put his arm around her, she had the knife. He was laughing at her, calling her skinny red ugly. She stabbed him, trying to dig out his ribs. Sent him to the hospital at death’s door. But still laughing: skinny red ugly, and got spirit just like your momma, ha-ha-ha.
She grew into a beautiful woman and had no shortage of men. Though some of them were kind, they never gave a thought to her needs. She hated them, she loathed them, she was dead scared of them—they all hit harder than her father, and they all hit, even the kind ones. Then Buford came. He offered to protect her for no reason other than she needed protecting. This was a different kind of love.
Christian love, he called it, which she thought she knew about because he was not the first married preacher who had fancied her. But Buford’s love was about loving your neighbor as yourself.
Who is my neighbor, Daddyo?
Anyone in need.
You don’t even know me, Daddyo.
I know that you are in need.
You’re just like the rest of them—what you want from me is between my legs.
I have a wife, thank you, and I’m quite happy with her.
That’s what you say now. That’s what you say until you get me alone and show your wild side.
I’m a wealthy man, I don’t need to cruise the jails to find women to sleep with, little girl. I’m Holy Ghost filled. I’m washed in the blood of the lamb. The only high I get is on Jesus. The only wild side I got is I’m on fire for the Lord.
Is that right? That is right.
We’ll see about that, Daddyo.
She smiled, remembering being with him in bed, free at last, after Mother Glovine had died. Wild side? Well, Buford did have his wild side. You could hardly call that Christian. But what he had felt for her, she decided, that brand of love was generous, kind, brave, warm. He had saved her and her brother (her son) Harrison with his warmth.
And here it was again, coming from the most unexpected of sources. Here was a boy, a man, a young man, who was generous, kind, brave, and warm just like Buford. They were about the same height too: 5’9”. They had the penetrating gaze of Sidney Poitier. They shared that beautiful ebony complexion. Out in the living room, Jim Reeves sang “Four Walls.” And Sister Morrisohn lost it.
She beat her chest and cried, Oh, Buford, what am I doing with this little boy? She collapsed on the kitchen floor. She washed the tiles with her tears.
In a little while, the last of the country songs stacked on the record player had played, and there was only the annoying clicking of the needle against the stereo housing. She got up, capped the wine, and put it away. She went into the living room and turned off the record player.
In her bedroom, she stretched out on her lonely bed, where she immediately fell asleep. She dreamt of Elwyn’s penis. How slender it was in her dream, so much less threatening than the sturdy lance he wielded in real life. How warm it made her feel, even in a dream.
She awoke at precisely 5:01, just enough time to prepare herself for night service at 6:00. At night service, Pastor preached a sermon on divine healing, which she found dull, but she said her perfunctory Amens and Yes Lords along with the rest of them. Then Pastor turned it over to the minister of music, Brother Elwyn, who would lead the testimony meeting that would end the night’s service.
Excitement soared through every fiber of her being as her man moved to the piano. She was so proud of him. He was so handsome. She sat up straighter in her seat, which was in the second pew between Mother Naylor and Sister Spann as usual. She approved of Brother Elwyn’s choice of testimony chant for tonight, “I Need Thee Every Hour.” She sang with especial enthusiasm whenever the chorus came, I NEED THEE, O, I NEED THEE, EVERY HOUR I NEED THEE, because she really did need him every hour, but Brother Elwyn kept his eyes lowered. Perhaps he was not sending her a message with his marvelous playing.
When it came to be her turn to testify, Sister Morrisohn arose and said, I thank the Lord for being here. I thank the Lord for being saved and sanctified. I thank Him for giving me the strength to go on after Brother Morrisohn passed. Saints, you don’t know how hard it has been. But the Lord just keeps on providing and providing and providing and providing and providing and providing!
She ended with a shout. A short, robust bark of a shout.
There were cries of “Amen” and “Praise the Lord” from the others. But Brother Elwyn just kept on playing, with his eyes focused hard on his fingers, as though he hadn’t heard.
As she sat down with a satisfied smile on her face, she knew she was being naughty. She shouldn’t have shouted like that, but she was trying to send him a message by shouting like she did during orgasm because that’s how he made her feel every time she was with him. She just wanted to rip off her clothes and fly to him. He was so tight and so fresh and so full of juice. His skin was smooth as a baby’s bottom, his stomach was flat, his arms and legs were lean and strong—he was a lean, strong, fresh-tasting black boy—he looked good enough to eat. She wanted to eat her fill of him, but she knew that was impossible. She could never get enough of him no matter how much he gave her. No matter how much she took—even if he came over more than three times a week she could never suck it all out of him. He had so much. It was spilling over. She wanted to lick his clean, black skin. She wanted to bite him. She wanted to crunch him between her teeth like an apple. There had to be a way to eat him all up.
She shook her head. Three days a week. Not enough, Lord. Not enough.
He kept on playing.
Again she shouted her orgasm shout, which went unnoticed by the congregation among their holiness shouts, Amens, and Hallelujahs. But she kept her eyes on Elwyn.
There it was! A flinch. He had heard her. And he was definitely blushing.
HERE ENDETH THE TESTAMENT OF INNOCENCE
II. TESTAMENT OF INNOCENCE LOST
Book of Genesis 3:6
And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat.
Epistles I
1.
Dear Elwyn,
Now that I’m married, I can forgive you. I see things differently now. I
forgive you, my dear friend, my dear brother in the Lord.
Yours,
Peachie McGowan
2.
From Elwyn James Parker to the Lord, then torn up into tiny little bits and discarded:
Make me not to want it. Make me to look at it and laugh. Take it away from me. Hide it from me in the cleft of a rock. Cover it from mine eyes. Harden my heart against it. Give me the victory over it. Make me pure again. How can I enter Your house in my vileness and shame? How can she? She is the devil. “Such is the way of an adulterous woman; she eateth, and wipeth her mouth, and saith, I have done no wickedness.” Proverbs 30:20. Take her away from me. Hide her from mine eyes, O Lord. Amen.
3.
I forgive you, Elwyn. Marriage has doused the fire of my anger and given me time to reflect. I now have a clearer perspective on things. I forgive you, Elwyn, as well as Sister Cooper and Sister Morrisohn, for the part you played in ruining my wedding.
Sister Cooper turned the Faithful against me. She’s your grandmother and I mean no disrespect. She’s the one who started calling me “skinny nothing.” Someone that you know real well told me that she even called me “an harlot” in missionary meeting. She is just so much more perfect than me. Lucky her. With perspective, I see that sh
e and her generation were able to live a perfect Christian life because they lived in an easier time. Work and then school and then church. They did not have TV. They were allowed to marry at 14 and 15 without a stigma. They were expected to marry young. I mean no disrespect, but Sister Cooper should ask herself why she got married so late. Was she too ugly? Or was she a miserable cow like she is now? Christians shouldn’t be miserable. In other words, don’t mess up my wedding just because you got married like twenty years later than everyone around you. No offense, Elwyn, but is she jealous because I’m light-skinned? Someone told me that she is very skin conscious. I’m not giving you any names, but you can trust my sources (you know who my mother-in-law is). I don’t have a problem with skin. I would have been just as happy marrying a dark-skinned man like you. If I had been in love with you, I mean. I’m not saying I didn’t like you at one time, but Barry is the man for me. You just have to learn to deal with it.
And Sister Morrisohn. Let me tell you about Sister Morrisohn. She has the nerve to pull rank on anybody? Do you know the woman was in jail? Do you know she stole Brother Morrisohn from his wife? I hear they used to do it right in the bedroom while Sister Glovine was there hanging on for her last days. She’s a sex maniac. That’s why Beverly Morrisohn hates her and is going to take her to court to win that fancy house she lives in. You’ll see. And she’ll win too. Sister Morrisohn is a jailbird. She’s well-dressed-up now with Brother Morrisohn’s money, but she’s still a tramp. I hear she’s a heavy drinker too. I have good sources. They’re people you know. She had the nerve—she and her Missionary Society sisters—to meet me and my mother at the bridal shop. She played up to my mother saying, “Oh, I was not a virgin either when I married Buford. If you’re not a virgin, you can’t wear white. Here’s a nice blue one. Blue is nice.” We already had a nice dress picked out, but my mother trying to do what’s right got all caught up and confused and I ended up with that blue dress. I hate my wedding pictures. I hate my wedding pictures, Elwyn, but I love my husband. How do you like that?
And you, dear friend. You were my best friend. I’m going to admit something secret here, so I trust you will destroy this letter after you’ve read it. I did love you at one time. I think around fourth grade. I thought you were cute. And again around eighth grade. Remember when we went to the youth prayer retreat at Camp Dilmore? Or was it up here in Lakeland that year? At any rate, it was the year our team came in second to the Jacksonville Fifth Street Faithful in the volleyball competition. Remember we beat the Orlando-Evans Faithful by two points in the tiebreak for second? I don’t even like sports that much, but I remember everything so clearly. I thought you were so cute in your white shorts. I prayed for you each time you went up to serve. You were the best server on the team that year and I believe my prayers had something to do with it. On the bus back to Miami, I wanted you to kiss me. I even held your hand while we talked. About music, I’m sure. BORING, and you did not kiss me. I don’t know what I would have done if you had kissed me. I was deep into you that night. I went to sleep with my head on your shoulder. You didn’t even put your arm around me. You were stronger than me as always. You didn’t feel it burning like I did, or you felt it but fought it off. But that was fine. I was talking to Barry at the time, so it turned out for the best.
After all the feelings and friendship we shared for all those years, Elwyn, you betrayed me. You insulted my husband at his own wedding. I knew you were jealous of him, but I didn’t think you’d go so far. You played boogie-woogie at our wedding. I know it’s called gospel. I know what gospel is, knucklehead. But you were just showing off as usual. Oh, everybody just loved it. You’re such a fine musician! But it was Barry’s wedding, not yours. You had no right. You had made a deal with him, remember? He was so upset. I tried to defend you. I said, “He meant nothing by it.” Barry said, “Yes, he did. He hates us. I bet he doesn’t give us a wedding gift.” Elwyn, I checked every gift. None from you. Barry was right. It hurt me so.
But I’m married now and happy and I forgive you. I always considered you so strong in the Lord. I envied your strength. What your childish, selfish performance at the wedding shows is that none of us is perfect.
Love,
Peachie
The Little Preacher
My father and I were eating chicken cacciatore at a restaurant called Mama Louisa’s near the TWA departures inside the Miami International Airport. A hundred languages chattered around us as travelers from every part of the civilized world hauled their luggage through one of the busiest and most culturally diverse hubs in America.
My father and I didn’t know it, but we were being watched.
I had just come from college out of state and I would only be in town for about a week. He had insisted on picking me up, though I was perfectly willing to cab it home. He rarely got to see me, he said. He really missed me sometimes, he said. We could eat dinner together at the airport and bond a little. I figured it was some kind of religious thing he was going through. I said, Okay.
The restaurant was loud with Italian music, but not too busy, and the chicken was good. My father, not one to waste food, was wolfing his down. We talked about things small and large, skyrocketing gas prices, trouble in the Middles East, the fierce look of young black men’s attire. We laughed loud even when our jokes weren’t all that funny. He kept his head down, mostly looking at his plate, so I was afforded a good view of his head and found myself wondering if I would go bald that way, receding from the front and then thinning in a perfect circle on top.
I was also wondering what his game was.
I certainly liked his company. We got along just fine—the few times we saw each other. The problem was that lately he had been doing a lot of things like this restaurant deal. Bonding things.
I looked hard at his full face and hoped he wasn’t dying or anything like that. What could it be? Well, I’m only human, so I allowed myself to hope. I allowed myself to hope for the best possibility of all—that my father was here to come clean about me with his family.
I was so excited that I couldn’t eat.
My father took notice of this and set his fork down at the side of his plate on the folded napkin. For a few moments neither of us said anything. Finally, I set my fork down too and said, “This is cool, man, but what’s it all about?”
“I guess I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be, man.” Now his nervousness made me even more nervous. But he had let me down so many times that I had learned to let my natural cool take over. I leaned back in my chair and opened my hands, palms up. “It’s just a thing. Say what you got to say.”
He pushed back, stood up from the table, and straightened his tie. He always wore a tie. All of them wore ties at that church. “You’re right. Lemme go take a leak. And I’ll set everything straight when I get back.”
“Is it going to be good?” I said after him.
He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll let you be the judge.”
My nervousness was completely under control now as I watched my father go through the swinging doors of the bathroom, for I had remembered who he was.
How weak he was.
He couldn’t go through with it, whatever he had come here originally planning to do. He could not.
I understood then that his little trip to the bathroom was a way for him to stall and come up with a new story to tell me. He would come back and say, “I’m thinking about taking a night class and I want your opinion,” or, “I’m thinking of changing jobs.” We would talk about it and laugh, and we would both know that this was not what he had planned to say. We had been through this before.
But today was different.
Today we were being watched.
And the person who had been watching us from another table spotted the opportunity. I was alone. The person crept up behind me. I felt two hands on my shoulders. Before I could shake away, a sweet kiss was planted on the back of my neck.
I whirled around and there before me stood the m
ost beautiful woman I had ever seen.
She was about 5’7”. What curves this honey had. Her face was as fair as some lightly tanned white people, but with the striking angles and prominence of a Nubian beauty. Her hair was pulled back tight and roped down to her waist in a magnificent, lustrous braid of black. My heart left me to go buy a plane ticket to wherever she lived, though she was kind of old for my taste. I figured she was at least in her thirties. Maybe older.
I maintained my cool and spoke to her, but already the expression on her face was broadcasting that it had been a mistake. She was as surprised as I was. You see, the kiss had not been intended for me, but for another.
Just my luck.
We exchanged embarrassed laughter.
“You look like someone I know,” she explained. “At least from behind … hmmm.”
“Well, yes. You’re right. But the man you were eating with, he looks like someone I know also. So when I saw you two together, I assumed you were this other person I know. His son.”
I chuckled. “You kissed the back of my neck. Hmmm.”
“I sincerely apologize. What was I thinking?” She blushed. “But that man looked so much like my friend Roscoe, and so I assumed you were his son.”
“That is Roscoe,” said I. “And I am his son.”
“Roscoe Parker?”
“You know my dad?”
“Oh my God,” she said.
In that moment, the beautiful woman and I suddenly understood the manner in which we were connected. The revelation brought a mischievous smile to my face.
But she said, “Oh my God,” and then fled.
She had no other choice but to flee before my father came out of the bathroom and learned the truth about her and his son. Not me, but his other son. My brother. For it was my father’s face that had drawn her to this table and her lips to the back of my neck. But I was the wrong son.
I was Benny Willett, a college student with a 4.0 GPA and a stomach full of Italian chicken and broken promises. I was nobody special.
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