Power in the Blood

fold and to the right read: “Former Atlanta Pastor Charged with Sexual Misconduct Again.”

A wave of sickness crashed over me, and I began to heave-a deep, painful, dry heave. It was happening again. My world was closing in on me. I felt as if I were suffocating.

“I told you he didn’t need to see that now,” Anna said. “My God, he’s been in a coma for three days.”

“He need to see it now more than ever. He need to finish what he started.”

“Merrill’s right. I needed to see it. I can’t hide from it.”

I looked up at Laura. Her eyes were warm and reassuring. “Lucy,” I said in my best Cuban accent, “I got some splainin’ to do. I’m just not up to it right now.”

She smiled at my lame joke and said, “You have nothing to explain to me. I’ve spent the night with you, remember? I know you. Besides, Anna told me everything.”

“She doesn’t know everything,” I said and laughed.

“She knows a lot,” Laura said and smiled.

Anna smiled, too.

It was overwhelming.

After they left, I went back to sleep. I slept the rest of the night and most of Friday, only waking long enough to eat and move around the room a bit at the doctor’s insistence. Late Friday night I eased into my wheelchair and slowly, dreadfully rolled to Mom’s room. I felt so guilty, a feeling not uncommon to our relationship over the years. I couldn’t believe it had taken me being put in the hospital myself to make me visit her. I had told Laura how important it was for me to reach out to people when they were in crises-death, terminal illness, loss-and that was all true. But, I found that going into the room where my own mother lay dying I had nothing to say-no words of hope, inspiration, comfort. Such is the hypocrite I am.

“Mom,” I whispered when I had rolled up beside her bed.

She didn’t respond. Her back was to me. I sat there and stared at her for a while before I attempted to rouse her again. She was emaciated. Her hospital gown, which she should not have had to wear because I should have brought her one from home, was only tied at the top, revealing a backbone and ribs that protruded so far out as to make her look like a sack of bones. She reeked of urine, sweat, drool, and a few other chemicals that were foreign to me.

“Mom,” I said a little louder this time.

She slowly raised her head and then let it fall back down again. I wheeled around to the other side of the bed. What I wanted to do was to wheel back out of the room and say, “Well, I tried.”

“Mom,” I said even louder and this time directly towards her wrinkled, seemingly lifeless face.

Her eyes opened, and in them I saw fear-fear of death, fear of life, pure fear. In that moment, all of my rage toward this wounded old woman seemed to melt like the numerous candles I had lit for her. Now, in liquid state, it ran out of me, across the floor, and out the door.

She closed her eyes again. I think the closeness of my eyes to hers made her uncomfortable. She probably needed a drink. I sure did. I rolled the chair back slightly, and this time, when she opened her eyes again, that is how they stayed.

“John, John,” she said, her voice warm and refreshingly sober.

“Hey, Mom, how are you?”

“I’m dying,” she said flatly.

Her honesty was so refreshingly simple that I decided to return it. “That’s what I hear. I’m very sorry. I love you.”

“JJ, what happened to you? Why are you in here?”

“I was in a little car accident, but I’m okay. Looks worse than it really is,” I lied.

“John, I’m so sorry.”

“Mom, it’s nothing really.”

“No. I mean for what I’ve put you through. You were always so sensitive. It’s no wonder you turned to the bottle with a mother like me. I just wanted you to know, if I could have stopped, I would have, for you. Hurting you is what hurt the most. God, forgive me.”

“He has,” I said, with as much conviction as I had ever said anything.

“Can you?”

“I have,” I said.

And though that was not the end of the pain or resentment, it was the beginning of the end.

Chapter 37

I was lying on my couch, my head propped on several pillows. It was Saturday afternoon. Anna and Laura had driven me back to Pottersville from the hospital and tripped over each other trying to wait on me once we had arrived. They had already cooked and cleaned in preparation for my homecoming, and my tin house sported a dull shine and the smell of pine. Finally, after nearly three hours, I had convinced them to leave so I could take a nap. They agreed to do so only with the understanding that they would be back and soon.

I attempted to lean forward slightly and sit up some so that I could read the newspaper accounts of what was happening in my life. My entire body was stiff and sore. The pain, like small needles, shot through me in sharp staccato punctures. It took awhile, but when I was finally up, I pulled the papers up towards me, letting them rest in a neat stack on my upper abdomen.

The first story was in Tuesday’s Times. It said I had been suspended pending an investigation into sexual assault allegations. It detailed how the accusations concerned things done in the chapel of Potter Correctional Institution. The report went on to say that although there were no charges filed yet, they were believed to be forthcoming. The article quoted not one source and failed to mention that I had been hospitalized after being beaten by correctional officers.

There were three papers that carried the story on Thursday-the Panama City Tribune, the Potter County Examiner, and the Tallahassee Times. The Tribune repeated what the Times reported the day before, adding only a few minor details, including a quote from some local ministers who said that the Christian community did not need any more scandals and that I was in the hospital in connection with an automobile accident.

The Potter County Examiner, where my uncle was the editor, said that a man is not guilty just because some inmates or their families accused him and that everything the Tribune copies from the Times is not necessarily true. Thank you, Uncle Mike.

The most damaging report of all, however, came out of Thursday’s Tallahassee Times. It detailed the current charges in three paragraphs and then went on to report that the Stone Mountain Home Journal had carried a story nearly two years ago accusing me of sexual misconduct. It highlighted the best parts of the Journal’s articles, including my alcoholism, divorce, and being asked to leave my church. I felt all of the old embarrassment and depression rolling over me like a fog, but the worst was still to come.

Friday’s Times carried an additional article complete with quotes from some of the members of my church in Atlanta and my ex-wife, Susan. The members said how they never would have believed it and still couldn’t. I was, in their opinion, a wonderful pastor and a good man, but they somehow conveyed the impression that theirs was the minority opinion.

Susan said that she knew me better than anyone and that none of this surprised her. She said that, although it was never proven, I was suspected of stealing funds and having an affair with a depressed woman I had been counseling at the time. I was pond scum, she was convinced of it, and soon everyone would know it.

No one mentioned the Stone Cold Killer case or anything else about my work at the Stone Mountain Police Department.

I sat there in shock. My head was light, and the room was spinning. Thoughts shot through my mind at warp