“He was baptized at the Church of Our Blessed Redeemer Who Walked Upon the Waters same as you, she informed me. Buford Morrisohn stood as his godfather and I, Elaine Franklin, now Morrisohn, stood as his godmother. My friend Patsy—my best friend Patsy—gave him my last name. It was only after the bad blood between Isadore and Patsy came to a boil that it was decided that all relations with Patsy and her son Benjamin Franklin would be cut off. The Faithful have known about Benny all along. Benny is not one of their discoveries, but one of their discards. He is like Ishmael, cast off into the wilderness with his mother. We got rid of him to save you, she informed me. And try as I might, Benny, after hearing that I could not continue my thrusting.”
I Am One of the Faithful
I am one of the Faithful,” I said to my brother.
“Were,” my brother said to me.
“Elaine Morrisohn is my godmother.”
“Was,” he said to me. “She told me they had it annulled.”
“You can have a godmothership … annulled?”
Elwyn put his hand on my shoulder. “See what I’m saying, brother? You can’t trust people older than you.”
At that point I was so low I was almost inclined to agree with him. “It’s not old people you can’t trust. It’s you people. You Faithful. Why do you even call yourselves that? I can’t believe you … you cast me off.”
“It wasn’t me. I was just a kid. And what are you complaining about? You did great. Look at you. College graduate. MBA. Businessman. You earn more money in one year than Roscoe makes in ten.”
He indicated my car with a nod—the Mercedes.
“You’re certainly doing better than me. You’re doing better than I ever will,” my brother said.
“That’s not the point at all. I had no family growing up. I was alone. You don’t understand. You’ll never understand. I kept a scrapbook on you. I wanted to know everything about you. You were my brother. I had these fantasies about who you were. About what games we would play if we were together.”
“Hey, man, take it easy.”
“Why can’t you understand this?”
“But I do understand,” he said. “When I found out about you, after the anger, I kept filling in the blanks. I would go back and say, When I was here, Benny was there. When I was this, Benny was that. When I was in kindergarten, Benny was in kindergarten, like that.”
“That’s not exactly what I’m talking about, but, yeah, okay, stuff like that.”
Elwyn looked at me. He was trying to see something in me. We were brothers, but would we ever be friends? Could we ever be friends?
He shook his head again and got out of the car. I got out of the car too, and after taking note of my uncertain surroundings, I set my alarm with a click of the remote on my keychain.
“Don’t you worry,” he assured, as we walked up the driveway to the front door of the house where his wife lived. “You and Marie will make it.”
“I know we will,” I said defiantly. I put my finger in his face. “Because I’m not one of you,” I told him. “I love her. And she’s not my sister.”
Laughing, he reached the door and knocked on it. It was 2:15 in the morning. I felt weary and worn and sad, like the lines of the famous old hymn. Elwyn said to me, still smiling with mirth, “Well, I love Sister Morrisohn, and she’s my grandfather’s wife. And your ex-godmother.” He didn’t have to add that, yet I was too worn out to fight with his arrogant butt anymore.
“But the thing that hurts me more than anything,” he continued, his laughter waning, “is that now I know with a certainty that she and I can never be together. I can forgive her for Brother Morrisohn—she had no control over that. She did not know that he was my grandfather, but she always knew that Roscoe was my father.”
“What are you saying?”
“She knew. Roscoe was her friend, and she became involved with his son. How would you feel if one of your childhood friends became involved with your child?”
“I see what you’re saying.”
“And furthermore, and worst of all, how do I know that she and Roscoe, back when they were young and they were friends, did not share more than a friendship?”
“Well, in light of all that has happened, she would have told you that.”
“Maybe not.”
“Well, you should have asked her. You should ask her.”
“I could not.” He shook his head sadly. “I cannot.”
“So then it’s over?”
“No. Never.”
“But—”
“I love her. She will ever be mine.”
The way he said it was so over-the-top ridiculous that I started to laugh, but I stopped when I saw that he was crying.
He tried to cover the tears by hiding his face in his shirt.
He sniffled and sobbed while I watched, uncertain what I should do. After a while I reached out and gave him a tentative hug.
After a while the tentative hug became a real hug. Then we composed ourselves.
“Does Sister Morrisohn know that you’re married?”
“She knows, and she hates me for it. She’s been withholding the loving as punishment. Tonight is only the second time we’ve been together since I got married a month ago. We did it right after the wedding. We did it hard. I think she was trying to take me back from my wife or something. When that didn’t work, she cut me off cold. But tonight was good. We’re back together again. You know how it is.”
“No,” I said. “No. I don’t know how it is.”
He sighed. “Read your Bible. Most of the great men of God were in this same situation, but back then you could marry more than one woman. I understand now why that was.”
Gone was the sensitive, weeping brother I had embraced mere moments ago, and standing in his place again was the original arrogant, vainglorious knucklehead, to whom I said, “Please tell me why that was, Elwyn. Please tell me why the great men of God could have three or more wives back then. Call me ignorant, but it sounds a bit sexist and chauvinistic to me. Polygamy?”
“I see you’re being sarcastic,” he replied with a smirk. “I’m not going to argue with a nonbeliever and his ungodly feminist ideas. The Bible is the Bible. A great man of God must marry for love and also to ensure the continuation of his line. Quite often the one you love is, for whatever reason, not capable, nor fit, to bear your children. In such cases, you must have more than one woman.”
I looked at him, and I guess my jaw was hanging open or something, because the expression on his face told me that the one on my face was like someone having a conversation with a strange alien creature that had just dropped in from outer space, except that the strange alien creature had been living on this planet and behaving this way for like two thousand years while building great civilization after civilization and conquering lesser creatures and getting them to see things his way. So it was okay to have two women. Or three. What of adultery? Well, the Bible is the Bible. That was his explanation. This was my brother. I wanted to laugh at him or shoot him. I couldn’t figure out which.
Then a mischievous grin spread across his face and he punched me playfully in the shoulder. “I’m just kidding you. I love Elaine Morrisohn with all my heart, okay? I wish I could marry her. I just wish. If I could marry her, I would never want for any other woman. I would never cheat on her. There is no one else in this world for me, but her,” he said earnestly. “But this is the way it’s got to be. I can’t leave her. And I can’t have her. I’m caught between a rock and a hard place.”
I was relieved to hear him say that. I asked him, “Does your wife know about Sister Morrisohn?”
Elwyn put a finger to his lips and shushed me. “No way. You must really think I’m crazy.”
He knocked on the door again, harder this time, and the lights went on inside the house. I heard chains being unhooked, bolts being slid. I heard an alarm being turned off with a series of coded beeps. The door finally swung open, and I saw for the first time his other woman
, his young wife, my sister-in-law. She was very tall, about six feet, though not very attractive. There were big pink rollers in her hair that matched the big pink slippers on her feet.
She was at least six months pregnant.
Elwyn gave her a dry, unromantic peck on the cheek and put his arm around her, presenting her. “Benny, this is my wife Mary. Mary, this is my brother Benny. He’s getting married next week. I’m going to play at his wedding, honey.”
I leaned in for a hug and she extended her hand for a shake. We shook, said hi and hi, while trading polite, toothy smiles with each other. Then she and Elwyn went inside the house, and I got in my car and drove back down to my condo in Miami Beach.
HERE ENDETH THE TESTAMENT OF A JOYFUL NOISE
VIII. TESTAMENT OF FIRE AND LAMENTATIONS
We may live in a tent or a cottage, And die in seclusion alone;
But the Father Who seeth in secret, Remembers each one of His own.
We shall shine as the stars of the morning, With Jesus the Crucified One;
We shall rise to be like Him forever, Eternally shine as the sun.
—Judson W. Van DeVenter, “We Shall Shine as the Stars”
The Leap
The Church of Our Blessed Redeemer Who Walked Upon the Waters was packed for the first night of the revival, with people squeezed so close together that chairs had to be brought from the nursery and the dining hall. Still there were many people standing along the back wall of the church.
And it was hot. A noisy fan labored in each corner, and the stained glass windows of the building were wide open, but the blanket of thick July heat was not thrown off.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the tissue I kept in a box in the piano seat. I loosened my tie. As the pianist, I had my own fan, but trust me—this was not a good night for the central air to conk out.
Sharing the pulpit with Pastor were the Reverend Dr. Barry McGowan—Peachie’s ex-husband—on break from his TV show at church headquarters in Lakeland; the Evangelist Rev’run Lewis from Tifton, Georgia, who had traveled to Miami by chauffeur-driven Winnebago to work his annual miracle; and a white minister who wore no tie.
When the musical portion of the service concluded, I only half listened as Rev’run pronounced sentence on this “weak and abominable generation” with his famous “Lake of Fire” sermon. I knew the sermon by heart. As far back as I could remember, Rev’run had been preaching the “Lake of Fire,” his best sermon, on the first nights of his revivals, realizing, perhaps, that his audience would grow thinner and sleepier, and would carry less pocket change as the week advanced.
It was my job to remain alert, prepared to render inspirational accompaniment should Rev’run launch into song or melodious prayer. So I picked my teeth, wiped away sweat, fanned myself, yawned, and picked my teeth again without appearing irreverent or inattentive—a simple trick for me since I had been the church’s pianist on and off for most of my life and consistently for the past five years since I had graduated college. The main thing on my mind that night was how I would pay this month’s bills.
If I didn’t get any sub work, I’d have to cut at least ten yards, which worked out to two yards a day—unless I planned to work weekends. My church paycheck, $200, would be cut on Friday, and I could steal another $150 from Visa. My MasterCard was maxed out. I would have to borrow the rest from my mother. Or Sister Morrisohn. Perhaps I should definitely cut a few yards on Saturday.
Rev’run was walnut-brown and fat. His head was bald, his lips beet-red. Tonight he wore a double-breasted suit woven from the finest mint-green polyester. His swollen midsection strained against the buttons. On the pinkie finger of each hand, he wore a gold ring on which was inscribed The Holy Ghost Is with You (his left hand) and Behold the Son of God (his right). The Church of Our Blessed Redeemer Who Walked Upon the Waters frowned upon jewelry, but we made an exception for Rev’run.
Pastor once explained, “Rev’run is a divine instrument of God. Let God alone hold him responsible for his eccentricities.”
Rev’run preached rhythmically in a majestic baritone and punctuated his message by stomping a foot or pounding the lectern with a fist. When Rev’run ended a phrase or caught his breath, he grunted his trademark syllable, “AH,” and the congregation echoed his cue with shouts of “My Lord,” “Oh Lord,” “Yes Lord,” and “Amen.”
Rev’run bellowed, “You say your hearts belong to Jesus-AH.”
The Faithful cried, “My Lord.”
“But y’all bearin the wrong kinda fruits-AH.”
“Oh Lord.”
“You say you’re an apple tree-AH, but I see bananas on your branches-AH. You claim to be a Christian-AH, but I see malice in your heart for your brother-AH. You say you love the Lord-AH, but you spendin your time makin goo-goo eyes at your neighbor’s wife-AH. All the vices known to man, you is doin ’em-AH. You smokin-AH, drinkinAH, womanizin-AH. Some of you even manizin-AH. Stay with me now-AH. Yes! You sodomizin-AH. But you foolin yourself thinkin God ain’t lookin-AH. But Oh-AH!—”
“My Lord.”
“Oh-AH!”
“Oh Lord.”
“Oh-AH!”
“Yes Lord.”
“Oh-AH!”
“Amen.”
“Hallelujah-AH!” he wailed, raising his large hands toward heaven. “I believe the poet when he says-AH, ‘Vice is vice and vice versa-AH.’ And let me tell you, brother-AH, and sister-AH, and mother-AH, and father-AH. You goin to the lake-AH—”
“My Lord.”
“To the lake-AH!”
“Oh Lord.”
“To the lake-AH!”
“Yes Lord.”
“To the lake of fire-AH!”
“Amen.”
“Hallelujah!” Rev’run shouted. He clapped his hands and laughed victoriously.
The congregation followed his lead. The Spirit was moving.
Sister Naylor screamed and fell to the floor—fainted dead away, except for her trembling legs. The ushers, clearing a path through the extra chairs and stools, rushed to Sister Naylor, threw the velvet shawl over her legs, and dragged her to the back of the church.
Deacons Arnold Blake and Trevor Miron, who had been feuding over money bet on a football game, who had sworn never again to share the same pew, who had come close to exchanging blows at last week’s prayer meeting, found each other in the happy confusion and embraced, tears flying everywhere. It would take more than five dollars to lure them into the lake of fire.
Sister Elaine Morrisohn—president of the Missionary Society—rolled her gray eyes heavenward and entreated, “Try me, Lord. Try me.”
I found her words sadly ironic, for I had indeed tried Sister Morrisohn, who had been my lover since I was sixteen. She had been my lover for … twelve years. I had been trying Sister Elaine Morrisohn for nearly half my life, and it was good.
Up on the pulpit, Pastor clapped his hands and commanded, “Heed the words of God’s anointed. Heed his words.”
The famous Christian entrepreneur and televangelist Reverend Dr. McGowan, a tall man with a small head, closed his eyes tightly, and soon tears were streaming. He stretched his arms around his torso and began to rock back and forth in his chair. He groaned, “God is good. God is so good.”
Trapped in her web of dark senility, my old grandmother struggled to her feet and began to tell her life story in a loud, rasping voice. When she regained control of her mind, which happened only rarely, she apologized for having spoken out of turn and dropped back into her seat. A few minutes later she was up leaning on her walker again, saying: “My mother, being part Indian, never used a straightening comb in her life, but she had such pretty hair. Not like this old dry head I got from my father …”
“Try me, Lord,” said Sister Morrisohn. “Try me.”
“Heed the words of God’s anointed,” said Pastor.
“God is good. God is so good,” said the Reverend Dr. McGowan.
The white minister was the only one who seemed to be as
unaffected by the proceedings as I was.
Unlike the rest of the men, the white minister wore neither a tie nor a jacket, just a simple white shirt and a pair of black slacks, which weren’t particularly well pressed. He sat with legs crossed in the plush throne-room chair, reading the advertising on his handheld cardboard fan. Sweat rolled off his pink face, soaking his shirt. He stared at the front of the fan—Martin Luther King Jr. and family in church. Moments later, he flipped to the back of the fan—the Brigg’s Funeral Home. Then he flipped to the front again, and after that the back, and so on, only occasionally breaking the pattern to wipe away a lock of sandy brown hair that had fallen to the front of his face and obstructed his view.
Was it possible that in the whole building, I alone noticed the man spinning the fan from front to back, back to front?
Yet not even I was prepared for the leap.
The white minister hopped to his feet with a loud thuh-dump. He latched onto Rev’run’s shoulder and slung the fat preaching man from Georgia into the famous entrepreneur and televangelist Reverend Dr. Barry Sebastian-Bach McGowan’s lap.
All at once a hush fell over the church.
When the white man grabbed the microphone, deafening feedback squealed from the speakers. He was about to speak. We all leaned forward to hear what he would say. The white minister shouted into the microphone, “Sontalavala, Sontalavala, Ghila! Sontalavala!”
With that, he clapped a monstrous Bible to his chest and leapt from the five-foot-high pulpit without touching one of its seven steps, ran down the path those standing in the aisle quickly cleared for him, and sprinted through the stained glass doors of the church.
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