Finally I was rescued. A heavy-set man with a pockmarked brown face came down the church steps and said to me in an amiable voice, “Do you need some help, sir?”
I shook my head. “I’m just waiting for the sermon to start. You’re having a guest speaker tonight, Reverend Childe. I’m sort of a friend of his.”
His face lit up. “Ah, yes! So glad you could come. We’ve been looking forward to Reverend Childe’s visit. Quite a few of the flock should be here tonight—normally, we only have services on Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings, but it was our understanding that Reverend Childe was only passing through town, so we managed to arrange this Saturday night revival.”
“I think he’s leaving tomorrow for Cuba Landing. He may have a permanent post down there.”
“Praise God for that.” He shoved his hand at me. “I’m Reverend Page, the pastor here at Haley Baptist Church.”
I shook his hand, introduced myself, asked if Reverend Childe had arrived yet.
“I haven’t seen him so far,” Page said, “but there’s still time yet. Even if he’s late, we can sing a few hymns to get in the mood.”
About that time some of the congregation began showing up. Reverend Page led me into the church, sat me down in the front pew, went back to the front to greet people as they came in.
It was a small homey church, more like a lodge hall than the ornate Catholic affairs I’d grown up with. Tiled floor, wood-paneled walls, and the only real decoration a large metal cross hanging behind the battered wood podium. Behind that was what looked like a jury box, for the choir I guessed. A beat-up piano sat at the far left of the stage.
Over the next few minutes, the church filled up. The entire congregation was black, and not one of them looked at me strangely. Many of them smiled at me. An old woman sat next to me, offered me her hand, said, “So nice to see a new face here.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, and was about to introduce myself when Reverend Page took the podium. Behind him, eight or nine women ranging in age from thirty-something to past sixty filed into the choir loft and sat down. A very pretty young girl settled herself at the piano.
Page stood with his hands braced on each side of the podium and stared around the church. His eyes seemed to focus on each one of us in turn, until the congregation finally settled into relative quiet and everyone looked back at him. Then he said, “Welcome, Brothers and Sisters. Praise God that so many of you could come out tonight! It’s only on rare occasions that we’re able to get together on a weekend evening like this, and I value those times with all my heart.”
The lady next to me barked, “Amen!” and a few others followed her example.
Page said, “There’s more than a few faces that I don’t see here tonight, but their absence is made up for by a few new-comers to our little church. I want all of you to make them feel at home here and at peace with God.”
He looked at me when he said that and grinned, then picked up a black book from his podium. He said, “Our guest speaker is running a little late this evening, so I’ll just go ahead and get us rolling. Let us pray.”
Everyone stood instinctively and bowed their heads. I followed suit, and Reverend Page said, “Our Lord in Heaven. Please hear us as we gather here tonight in Your name, and keep us safe. We are sinners, Dear Lord, mere sinners, but we beg you to take mercy on our souls, and we ask that You bestow Your blessings on us—”
It went on like that for a while and finally Page said, “Amen,” and the word went around the church. I was about to sit down when Page said, “Please remain standing. Pick up your hymnals and turn to page one-thirty-eight.”
The rustling of clothes, a few coughs, as everyone followed his instructions. The old woman handed me a hymnal that had been sitting on the bench next to her. The girl at the piano rattled a few keys, and then the choir led the entire church in “Just A Closer Walk With Thee”.
We were just getting to the end of the song when I spotted Reverend Childe sneaking onto the stage from the right. He walked slowly, his head down, and his lips moved to the lyrics of the hymn as he approached the podium. Page saw him, nodded with a smile as he sang.
The choir wrapped up the number with a rock ’n’ roll flourish, then everyone started to sit back down.
Page and Childe conferred with each other for a few seconds as everyone got settled, then Page nodded, clapped Reverend Childe on the shoulder, and turned back to the congregation. He said, “This is a special night, indeed. I can just feel it in my bones, someone’s gonna get saved tonight!”
“Amen!”
“Amen!”
“Praise God!”
“The Right Reverend Phinneas Childe has come to speak with us tonight, Brothers and Sisters! Please make him feel welcome!”
Sporadic applause, but the profusion of amens and praise Gods made up for it. Reverend Childe approached the podium, gripping his Bible to his chest, and nodded appreciatively to the congregation.
The Reverend’s first words sent my stomach plummeting to the floor and made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
Grinning widely, he waved his arms in the air and shouted in a TV announcer voice, “Helloooooo, niggers!”
And then there was silence. Dead silence.
It seemed to stretch on forever, that sharp and empty quiet that reared up in the church. But nothing needed to be said. I could feel it, coming from every square inch of the place—first a sort of hurt bafflement, then a general anger that shaped itself quickly into hard rage. Behind Childe, Page’s mouth fell open and he stared in amazement at the back of Childe’s head.
I found myself slipping down in the pew until my head barely peeked over the top of the backrest.
Then someone in the back of the church stood up and yelled, “What is the meaning of this?”
That seemed to get everyone going again. Suddenly voices were raised all over the room, angry shouts, threatening words, and more than a few not-very-Christian suggestions. The entire congregation began surging forward as one, fists shaking in the air and violence looming.
Reverend Childe raised his hands and shouted to be heard above the outraged din. “Please, please! Listen to me, Brothers and Sisters!”
Next to me, the old lady screamed, “You got the nerve, you lily-white bag of bones! We ain’t your brothers and sisters!”
More cries of agreement. Someone said, “Get him out of here!” and the men and women of Haley Baptist stampeded toward the podium. Reverend Page stepped in front of them, crying, “People, please calm yourselves!”
“Calm nothing, Reverend!” an old man said. “Who does he think he is, coming into our church and insulting us? He’s got the devil in him, and I say we beat it out of him!”
A rumble of bloodthirsty righteousness followed, very Old Testament, all blood and anger and outrage.
I’d been overlooked. I stood up, began easing my way to the far end of the church. The only thing to do was find the nearest exit and get my ass out of there. So long, Rev. Nice knowing you.
The whole time, Reverend Childe struggled to be heard. But no one was listening. Just as I’d reached the wall and was making my way toward the front doors, he hefted his Bible in the air, then slammed it down forcefully on the floor.
It made an incredible noise, cutting through the shouts and screams of the congregation and echoing vividly throughout the church.
As the echo died, there was an audible gasp from every mouth. I stopped in my tracks and stared. All eyes were on Childe now, and silence again reigned.
Looking back at each and every one of them, Childe said, “There you go. There’s your Bible. Why don’t you just go all the way with it? Why don’t you just stomp on that sucker ’til there ain’t nothing left but a pulpy mass?”
No one spoke.
Childe crossed his arms. “Go on,” he said. “If you ain’t got no respect for what it says, go on and stomp on it.”
The Devil himself had appeared in a cloud of smoke and fire
right there in the middle of the church. No one dared to move or speak. Reverend Childe had just performed an incredible blasphemy, and the anger had turned to numb dread.
Finally, Reverend Page stepped forward, his voice shaking. “Reverend Childe . . . maybe you’d be good enough to explain the meaning of this outrage.”
Childe nodded, then leaned over to pick up his Bible from the floor. He made a show of dusting it off, setting it gently on the podium. Then he pointed to the old woman with a long bony finger. “You, Sister. How did that make you feel?”
She only stared at him, unbelieving. Childe turned to someone else, posed the same question. Still no answer. He asked three more people, “How did that make you feel?” and then the old man who suggested beating the devil out of him spoke up. He said, “Angry. It made me angry as hell.”
A smattering of people nodded, voiced agreement. The fury had died down, but fists were still clenched.
Childe said, “Anger. The righteous anger of men against degradation.”
A confused murmur went through the crowd. Everyone glanced at each other, hoping that someone would understand what this was all about. No one did. The violent atmosphere surged again.
Before it could peak, Reverend Childe said, “Brothers and Sisters, you had every right to be angry. All your lives you’ve heard that word. Nigger. You’ve struggled to be good Christians in a world that sometimes seems as if it wasn’t made for you. You’ve dealt with every kind of humiliation, every variety of degradation. You’ve fought for your human dignity, the dignity God gave you, and you’ve reveled in whatever small triumphs you’ve been able to achieve. And for what?”
His words were met with silence, and my heart beat fast.
He said, “For what? So that some white man could come into your church—your one safe haven—and call you a nigger.”
More mumbling through the congregation, torn between anger and confusion. I had no idea where he was going with this, but I did know that it would be a miracle if he walked out of this church in one piece.
Reverend Page shook his head, said, “This is all very . . . Reverend, please explain what this is all about. You can’t just come in here and—”
“I’ll tell you what it’s all about,” Childe said. “It’s about anger! It’s about rage, Reverend!” He cast his eyes back on the congregation, eyes that suddenly burned fever-bright, glittering. “It’s about hatred! But mostly . . . mostly, Brothers and Sisters . . .” and his voice went low, “ . . . it’s about control.”
That softly spoken word had more impact than all the shouting and screaming. It seemed to ring against the far walls, one lone ghost of a word in the silence.
I felt a cold chill crawl up my back. Strangely, my hands began to ache. I didn’t look at them, not wanting to see that golden glow.
“Control,” he said. “Because, with a word, a single word, I controlled you.”
An embarrassed, uncomfortable moment followed. Eyes shifted, feet shuffled. A few throats cleared.
Holding his Bible, Reverend Childe stepped away from the podium and strolled almost casually out in front of it. He said, “Do you understand that, Brothers and Sisters? I controlled you. With a single, ugly little word, you turned away from God and gave yourselves to hate.” He shook his head with exaggerated sadness. “Ah, God have mercy on us, have mercy on our poor souls. I heard the Devil laughing.”
Another startled murmur went through the congregation. From where I stood, all the parishioners were one being, moving and making noise collectively. One big organism under Childe’s sway. Already, the anger had faded, leaving faces slack and pliable.
Childe started treading back and forth on the stage, his long lean form like a swinging pendulum hypnotizing every mind. “First of all, Brothers and Sisters,” he said gently, “I’m sorry as can be for shocking you like that. Sometimes, the way God speaks through me is a trifle on the . . . eccentric side. I hope you’ll forgive me for saying that ugly, filthy word. But I feel that the duty He’s given me is to shake things up some. To rattle the flock and wake ’em up. You see, good people . . . we can’t take nothing for granted. The freedoms we enjoy, the small dignities we possess, are ours only through the grace of God.”
Then that miracle happened. Someone said, “Amen!”
Another one followed. Then another.
Over the next few minutes, Reverend Childe did the impossible. He made those people love him. Of course, later, I would see him pull it off time and time again, but this was the first time and all I could do was stand there stunned while he made the women swoon, the men cry with emotion, the children shout and sing. Something about the way he looked, the way he talked, the way he moved.
Even I—who knew something about his true beliefs—wasn’t totally immune to his magnetism. I watched him, fascinated, while he spoke of Christian brotherhood, no matter the color of your skin, fighting Satan’s power with the love of God, being ever vigilant for evil to rear its head anywhere, anytime.
As he spoke his pace began picking up, his voice grew steadily stronger, his strolling back and forth on the stage became faster and more frenzied, until he was screaming and ranting, waving his Bible in the air. “We are all God’s sheep!” he said. “All of us!”
The congregation was bursting with love and righteous fervor. The old woman shouted, “Hallelujah!” and someone answered with “Praise Him! Praise Him!” I realized my jaw was hanging slack with amazement. All the anger, all that violence that threatened to explode only moments ago, had dissipated.
Reverend Childe had brought old time religion to the Haley Baptist Church.
After the sermon, everyone headed down to the basement for a dinner of roast beef and mashed potatoes with gravy and the best goddamn apple pie I’d ever tasted. I ate ravenously, despite the insistent pain of my broken tooth, and the dull ache in my fingers.
Almost the entire congregation swarmed around Reverend Childe while he ate. A few people hung back—a handful of wiser men who still felt uneasy about him—but they were in the minority. All the women clamored, standing in line to shake his hand and tell him how much his sermon moved them. Childe would politely wipe his hands and say, “Thankee” through a mouthful of meat. You could smell desire in the air.
After getting halfway through my third piece of pie, I went outside to wait for him. The sun was just sinking behind the clutter of buildings and houses in the west, leaving the sky red. I lit up a cigarette and listened to the distant wail of ambulance sirens and barking dogs and the occasional far-off gunshot. The gunshots made me think of the Bible in my bag, with its clean little hole right through the middle. The image seemed significant somehow, but I couldn’t quite grasp it. I thought of the name inscribed in the inside cover, Jathed Garrity, and Kimberly—whoever that was—and wondered how those mysterious folks would’ve felt about Childe’s sermon.
Ten or fifteen minutes went by before he came out of the church. I’d just decided to leave when he came down the stairs, a small group of people still hovering around him. Reverend Page hung behind, smiling, and Childe shook hands and grinned and said, “Thankee” a dozen times.
He saw me and called, “Hold up, Charlie ol’ son! Don’t go running off just yet.”
I waited. Eventually everyone sauntered off, spiritually invigorated and stuffed with food. Reverend Childe and Reverend Page trotted down, and I went to meet them at the foot of the stairs. Page clasped my hand, said, “Did you know what Reverend Childe was going to do, Brother Charlie?”
I shook my head, and Page said, “It was spectacular, though, wasn’t it? Unconventional, that’s for sure. But it certainly did get the message across.”
“Kind of you, Brother,” Childe said, clapping Page on the shoulder. “It was a right honor to do it. You’ve got the finest congregation here I’ve seen in a long time. It’s a real risky proposition, walking into someone’s church and saying something like what I said, but the Lord’s light’s strong in ’em. It’s obvious you’
re doing God’s work here.”
I stood there watching them stroke each other’s divine egos for a few minutes, then said, “Well, I appreciate the in-vite, Childe. It was fun, but I guess I’d better get moving.”
His face went serious. “What, you mean on down to Florida? Already?”
“Well, probably tomorrow morning. I figured I’d find a room tonight and get some rest. Got a long way to go.”
He shook his head. “I won’t hear of it. Why don’t you come on with me? I got a real nice place all set up and I just know they wouldn’t mind an extra body.”
“That’s nice of you, but—”
“Why, ain’t nothing nice about it at all, Charlie. It’d be my pleasure. Why don’t you come on with me? I sure would appreciate your company.”
He looked so earnest, and I was so low on funds, that I couldn’t really refuse. I smiled, said, “Okay, Reverend. You got yourself a bunk-mate.”
“Well, all right!” he said, squeezing my arm. He turned back to Page, pumped his hand up and down. “Thanks again for allowing me the pleasure of addressing your flock today, Brother. I do believe I got as much out of it as anyone.”
“The honor was ours,” Page said, and I settled in for some more preacher-camaraderie. By the time they were done, the sky was black and the night had grown strangely quiet. Page walked with us to Childe’s car, an early ’70’s model Chevy Malibu, shit-brown and rusty. A bumper sticker in the rear window read JESUS IS MY CO-PILOT.
They gripped each other’s shoulders and pumped each other’s hands some more, and Page said, “Have a safe trip, Brother. And good luck to you down in Cuba Landing.”
Childe thanked him profusely, grinning, and I wondered if his jaw muscles ever hurt. He was still grinning when Page finally walked off back to his church. Then he turned to me. “Well, Charlie, ready to go?”
He climbed in his car, then reached over to open the passenger door.
And then it dawned on me how strange this all was. I stood there for a moment, knowing suddenly that I should just turn around and walk off. The grin on Childe’s face, the outrageous friendliness, the bizarre spectacle in the church, all of it struck me suddenly as dangerous insanity.
The Bastard Hand Page 3