Jesus Boy

by Preston L. Allen

  So she sat down at the piano, for it is there that she had always felt most confident, and she positioned her hands over the keys. She played the first chords of “Amazing Grace,” which was her favorite hymn. The women in the church seemed to like it too. She heard their voices now over the thunderous applause.

  They were shouting, “Sister Peachie! Sister Peachie! Sister Peachie!” as she played the hymn. She played through her pain. She played through her self-hate. She played through her self-doubt and disillusionment. Her confidence came back. She heard the voice of God, and He was love.

  She stopped playing just long enough to open her ponytails and free her wild hair.

  The women in the renovated barn loved that even more. They shouted, “Play it! Play it!” and Peachie did. For the first time in a long time, she felt the Holy Ghost power her.

  A half hour later, the adjoining door to their home opened and sevenyear-old Barry Junior walked out and came to her. He was wearing his good suit and his hair was properly brushed and he put his mouth to her ear so that she could hear above the noise. He told her that he was hungry and asked if they could have eggs for breakfast today and he told her that his daddy could not make breakfast for them anymore because he had gotten in the car and driven off after saying he was never coming back.

  HERE ENDETH THE TESTAMENT OF SONG

  VII. TESTAMENT OF A JOYFUL NOISE

  Book of Psalms 117

  O Praise the Lord, all ye nations: Praise Him, all ye people. For His merciful kindness is great toward us; and the truth of the Lord endureth for ever. Praise ye the Lord.

  Senior Year

  It was a Saturday afternoon.

  Benny hung a left on Miami Gardens Drive and cruised the rest of the way to his father’s home.

  Miami Gardens was a much nicer neighborhood than Opa-Locka where he had grown up. The houses were larger here and so were the yards. There was the occasional glimpse of a pool in the backyard, the occasional glimpse of a white face. The neighborhood elementary school, Garden Grove, had no noticeable graffiti on its walls. The cars had less primer on them. Roscoe had done all right for a school bus driver.

  Benny wheeled his Mercedes into Roscoe’s driveway. Roscoe’s house had a well-manicured lawn and an extra room built over the carport. From what Benny could see, there was no vehicle in the carport. He nodded his head and said, “I’m in luck.”

  He chuckled, thinking about what he was about to do. He got out of his car and went to their mailbox.

  The letter was in a sealed envelope with the words FOR ELWYN/FROM BENNY on the front.

  After he put it in their mailbox, he went back to his car and glanced down at his Rolex. It was two minutes past 5. He would get back to his town house in time to have the teleconference with the Chilean bankers and still have time to shave and shower in preparation for his dinner with Marie, who was home on spring break from the University of Florida. She was in her junior year, one year behind Elwyn, the college senior who, Benny knew, was home on spring break too. Benny chuckled again and pulled out of the driveway.

  “Time to make things happen,” he said.

  Exactly five minutes later, Isadore and Roscoe Parker pulled into their driveway.

  Roscoe hadn’t talked much on the way home. Isadore had gone on and on about a late-model Buick Regal she had heard that the church mechanic Brother Pendergast had recently taken into his shop. The owner was interested in selling, she had heard. From the way she spoke, Roscoe knew that she had more than just heard. She had most likely gone to the shop and looked at it. She had probably negotiated a price—a good price, knowing Isadore, who was shrewd when it came to matters of business and money. Now, he suspected, she was feeling him out to see if he had the money to make good on a deal she had already made. Money, money, money, everything was money. And what was so wrong with their old car? Roscoe prepared himself for a long night.

  Isadore got out of the car, still talking about the Buick she had heard the owner was willing to sell, and took the mail from the mailbox. She thought at first that it was some junk mail thing for Elwyn, as all the credit card companies seemed to be courting him these days, but there was no stamp on it. She saw that it was from Patsy’s boy and it was addressed in big letters to Elwyn. Isadore felt weak in the knees. She waited for Roscoe to bring in the few bags of groceries they had picked up. She read the name Benny again and water began to pour from her eyes.

  When Roscoe came inside, he heard her sniffling, saw her heaving angrily in her seat. He went to her. “Beloved, what is it?”

  She pushed him off and flung the envelope at his face, but it flapped off course and missed. The she jumped up and ran inside the bedroom and locked the door.

  Roscoe looked down at the envelope on the floor and read the name Benny and said, “Oh Lord. Please Lord. Don’t do this to me tonight.”

  He went to the bedroom door. He was angry with Benny. Why was he doing this? Roscoe had begged him specifically not to do this. Benny had always seemed like such a nice boy. Now he was deliberately trying to destroy his family. Why would he do this?

  Roscoe wondered out loud how Jesus would react if His outside child had tried to sabotage His marriage. He didn’t like the answer he was hearing in his head because it went contrary to his very justifiable anger: Jesus would have compassion, understanding, and forgiveness for Benny because Jesus would admit that He had screwed up Benny’s life by being a knockabout, no-account bedhopper and creating this situation in the first place.

  Roscoe tapped lightly on the door. “Beloved, we need to talk. And we need to talk right now. This thing has gone on too long, and something has got to be done about it. Maybe something can be worked out. I mean, the boys are both grown men now.”

  There were no words coming from the locked door, only loud sobbing.

  Roscoe said, “Beloved, as the man of this house, I’m ordering you to open this door right now or I’m going to kick it down, you hear me?”

  Then he heard laughter. She was laughing at him.

  Roscoe went into the Florida room and sat in his overstuffed recliner, where it was customary for him to accept defeat.

  But this one was a big one. This one was big.

  Around 7, Elwyn came home from cleaning up the church grounds with the maintenance brethren, and he found Roscoe in his recliner with an envelope in his hands.

  He found the house strangely quiet for a Saturday night. No one was eating. No one was praying. No one had turned on the lights, though the sun had just about set. He felt an ominous mood in the house. His mother was not in her usual places, bustling about, cooking or cleaning or fussing. He said to his father, “Mom home?”

  “In her room.”

  “Is she sick?”

  Roscoe handed him the envelope. “This came for you today.” It was dark in the Florida room with the blinds drawn, a sharp contrast to Roscoe’s white eyes and teeth when he spoke. “Remember, son, I love you.”

  Elwyn took the envelope into the bedroom and sat down on the bed with the lights off. Through the partially opened door, he watched the unmoving profile of his father in the Florida room. His thoughts turned dark.

  Whatever was going on, he figured it had something to do with him.

  And Sister Morrisohn.

  He looked down at the letter in his hand. It had no stamp on it. It was not a credit card offer. He pondered again the darkness in his home and how it might be related to this letter to him from Benny.

  Who was Benny?

  He opened the envelope and found the note:

  Dear Elwyn,

  You don’t know me, but I am looking for someone to play piano at my upcoming wedding, and I hear that you are a great pianist. The wedding is in June, so we have a lot of time left to get together and work out the plans before the big day.

  Elwyn smiled. As a college student, he could always use the few hundred dollars he earned from playing at weddings. But he still could not shake the bad feeling. He did not understand the
darkness in his house.

  He read the rest of the letter.

  We need to get together … I would like to get to know you … I’m sure it’s going to be great … blah, blah, blah … Here is my phone number …

  Sincerely,

  Your brother Benny

  Nothing unusual there.

  And then he read the closing again.

  He thought nothing of it, and he stretched out on his bed. Later, he decided, after he had rested from his labor, he would drive up to Mary’s house and take care of some private business. There was nothing like sex to relax one after a hard day’s labor. He chuckled to himself and soon he fell asleep.

  He awoke with a start and recalled the closing: Your brother Benny, not Brother Benny.

  Elwyn knew then that he had to pray.

  For years he had been hearing the rumors about some boy named, yes, Benny, but he had always dismissed them. Not my father, he would say. Not Roscoe. But his house was dark tonight and his mother was locked in her room and there was this letter.

  Elwyn got out of bed and fell to his knees and clasped his hands before his face and cried out, “Lord, Lord, I beseech Thee, Oh Lord.

  Is there none righteous but Thee? They are all born in sin and shaped in iniquity. Lord. Lord. Lord. What do You want me to do? My heart is heavy. Is there none righteous? Tell me. Lord. Tell me.”

  The next day he arose from his knees with the sun, having prayed all night. He felt nothing, except the pain in his knees and the sadness in his heart for this wicked and adulterous generation.

  “We are an abomination. The Lord should send down hellfire.

  If we were all wiped out, no one would miss us. We’re not worth it. Faithful … the Faithful … we are anything but.”

  Later that day, he confronted his father and received terse, unambiguous answers to all of his questions.

  After that, he did not speak to his father for close to a year.

  I Must Tell Jesus

  The evening still haunts my mind.

  I still feel the oppressive summer heat on the back of my neck. I still see the Florida sky redden with the dying sun, then turn black and speckled with stars. I still see the enormous black tent under which were seated row after row of black people, and quite a few whites, dressed up for churching, the men in handsome suits and ties, the women in colorful dresses and stylish, often flamboyant hats. None of the women wore jewelry or pants as they did in some churches. None of the men wore dreadlocks or braids or sweat suits or athletic footwear or had tattoos or pierced ears or gold teeth. These were the Faithful, the ultrapure and true servants of God, and this was their tent meeting. It was the summer of 1986 and the place was Miami, Florida. There were about a thousand people in all gathered under that tent on the parking lot of the Orange Bowl. I was there to meet my brother Elwyn for the first time.

  There was a tall man preaching that night, but I do not remember a thing he said. I do recall that he roared a lot and he bellowed. He kept repeating something, some sort of catch phrase, some comically exaggerated syllable that I had found humorous at the time, but I have since forgotten what it was. There was another man, also tall but with a smallish head, who sang several hymns. He was someone special, I know, because he had been introduced as some sort of TV star or performer. The Reverend Barry Somethingorother. I humbly admit that I cannot say I recall this singer with particular clarity either, though I do remember him better than the preacher because he was accompanied in his performance by my brother, for whom I had come to this revival meeting under the enormous black tent. I remember the man’s voice.

  I remember that his voice was a good voice. He was a good tenor. But his talent paled in comparison to my brother’s. It was June. My wedding was a week away. I had time off from work and wanted to get some good bonding in with my little brother before the big day.

  There was originally another musician playing, a woman of some advanced age in a white dress and white shoes and a hat, also white, that made me think of those old-fashioned nurses’ uniforms, but for this part of the service she yielded to Elwyn, who had recently returned home after finishing up college. Elwyn would accompany the tall man with the small head on a series of hymns—“specials,” they were called in the bulletin they passed out. When my brother’s name was called by the minister hosting the service, there were cries of “Amen” and “Praise the Lord” and the crowd became noticeably more excited.

  He had told me to expect this, but even with that warning I was not prepared for what I witnessed that evening. He was their favorite, their returning hero, their hometown boy done gone up to college and come back home to make them all proud. They were saying praises for the tall man too, but I believe it was only to be polite because the tall man had been up on the pulpit all along, as he was also a minister of some sort, and it was only after Elwyn’s name was called and he stood up that the assemblage began to titter with this special kind of joy. I heard many a voice say “That Elwyn can sure hit them keys” and “Elwyn’s good” and “Elwyn plays like he’s got thirty fingers.” I tingled with pride and expectation.

  He was dressed in black—black coat, pants, tie, and shoes. Even a black shirt. The only bright color on his person was the red flower that he wore in the lapel of his coat. The bright white open-top grand piano was off to the left of the stage, or pulpit, so I was afforded a side view of him when he sat down. When his pant leg moved, I saw that his socks were black too.

  The first song was called “Yes, God Is Real,” and the audience ate it up. They were on their feet waving, applauding, shouting “Hallelujah!” When the tenor’s voice took him high on the chorus—“Yes, God is real/He’s real in my soul”—Elwyn answered with a funky blues chord from the lower register that had them shout “Yes” and “Praise Him” and “That’s all right now.” When the tenor held a note, Elwyn syncopated the stretch with a seductive beat that had the audience rocking and stamping their feet in time until the stamping of the feet became like a bass drum, or a string bass—it was part of the music now.

  By the end of the song, there was no one left seated. People—men in suits and women in expensive dresses and high heels—were hugging each other, hugging themselves, crying real tears, waving their hands to heaven, rocking back and forth, groaning, and moaning. While the small-headed singer was taking a bow (McGowan! The Reverend McGowan was his name!), Elwyn struck the keys again and they were into a song that I knew from my handful of days in church and Vacation Bible School. “I Must Tell Jesus.”

  If “Yes, God Is Real” made them dance, “I Must Tell Jesus” made them wail.

  The chords he put in this song were richer and more mournful than I ever remembered them being. Heads were shaking. People were wailing long sad notes. Eyes were shut tight as lips moaned in call-andresponse echo, “I must, Lord—I must tell you, Lord.”

  When they got to the chorus—“I must tell Jesus/I must tell Jesus/I cannot bear these burdens alone”—he slowed it down so that every chord would penetrate to the bone, every note would be felt, every note would cause a tremor within.

  After it was over, he tried to get up and leave the piano and return to the relative anonymity of his seat in the pews, but they made him return. They had started back singing the song. He couldn’t let them sing it unaccompanied, so he turned to the piano, and without even sitting down, played them into an almost sonorous wail of pain and lament. But this time he played them too hard. They asked for it, and they got it. His music set loose in them something that should have remained bound.

  For the next half hour it was organized chaos. No one was singing the words of the hymn anymore—they were moaning it, murmuring it, groaning it—as he played it on and on, still standing, like a film clip I had once seen of Little Richard the rock and roll singer in concert. With endless variations of mournful chords and evocative runs and trills that penetrated the tendermost places in the heart and the soul, he played and they responded with an almost tormented wail.

&n
bsp; The preachers had all left the pulpit and were going from person to person in the assemblage, laying their hands on the wailing people’s foreheads and praying for them. It was magnificently moving. I was moved.

  When service finally got back under control a half hour later, a kind woman loaned me her handkerchief and I wiped the water from my eyes.

  I was relieved that I hadn’t done something crazy like run up to the altar and gotten saved.

  Sister Morrisohn and Sister Elwyn Parker

  We met up after service.

  “I am Benny.”

  He took my hand and said, “I know.” Then he embraced me. He was about an inch taller than me and he laid his head against my neck and began to sob. We held each other for more than a minute.

  Again I was moved. Again I felt the urge to do something crazy, something magnificently biblical, like kiss him on his neck and say, “Oh my brother, how have I missed thee.”

  When we got to Sister Morrisohn’s house, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I had encountered her at the tent meeting, where she had been noticeably avoiding serious eye contact with Elwyn through years of practice, I suppose. She had not, however, avoided eye contact with me. She was trying to tell me something with her eyes. Just after the meeting, while people gathered to gossip and embrace, and Elwyn, the star, before he had come to me, was surrounded by a sea of handshakers and neck huggers, his woman slid over to me and said in a hushed tone, “You didn’t tell him about the airport, did you?”

  “No. Should I have?”

  Of course not. I had better sense than that. The first day I meet my brother I’m just going to up and tell him, By the way, I met your woman a few years back. Man, she’s hot. She kissed me on the neck.

  She was wearing an elegant, form-fitting white suit, with a jacket and skirt of the same material and a blouse of undulating white silk. She wore a stylish white hat, pinned to which (along the silk ribbon) was a red rose of the same variety that Elwyn wore in his lapel. Her unadorned black hair flowed down her back magnificently. She wore silver shoes. She was relieved when I told her I hadn’t told him and she said hurriedly, “Thank God. He doesn’t know we ever met. As his lover, I realize I should have told him, but I didn’t. I figured if Roscoe hadn’t told him about you then it wasn’t my place to do so. He and Roscoe already have a funny relationship, but he gets so crazy when I keep things from him.”