Then when I knew it wasn’t Bud, what’d I think next?
Not much.
On television sometimes they put someone under hypnosis in the police stories, say now think back very carefully: What happened, what exactly happened?
The way I saw him was the way I’d see him today, his tiny hands so small for a boy, his lips always wet-looking, his eyes glancing up at mine with that soft, sweet look, his way of saying my name different from how anyone else ever said it. He called me Oh-pull, stretching it out, making it more.
I go back to then. He had on a blue shirt. I swear his blue eyes were that bright that I could see their color clearly, in the sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows Daddy still owed for.
We saw each other for the first time in a burst of asthmatic coughing thundering out of Mrs. Turban, who came up from The Hollow for the healing.
He looked around at her. She always sounded as though she was gagging out her last breath. I saw his hairline and the way his hair curled above his collar, or I make that up.
I make it all up.
I don’t remember anything about the first time I laid eyes on him.
I want it as a part of the mystery, but it isn’t mine to have.
All that is mine about that moment is the sight of V. Chicken, and the sickness back inside me, wanting no part of The Hand, wanting to be anyone but Opal Ringer, embarrassed for myself, the speck of my dream that doesn’t know about the glow coming.
And yes, the worst happened.
Sometimes you feel it building.
You don’t—not in your churches. I’ve been to your churches. If anyone was to call out in the spirit in your churches, the usher’d hightail it down the aisle to find out what was wrong.
We called out.
I never did, but I’ve been listening to others call out since before my head came higher than the back of the pew in front of me.
“Oh Lord, thank you!”
“Yes, Jesus!”
“Yes my Lord Jesus!”
Call out, hold your palms up like you’re feeling for rain. The Power comes in through the palms.
K. C. Keck was receiving those for healing up by the altar railing. People were filing up the aisle. The choir was singing softly: “Some of these days I’m going home where no sorrow ever comes. …”
When they came to the part that goes “And I’m gonna … sit down beside my Jesus … Lord, I’m gonna …” a man in the aisle began to stamp his feet and shout, “Hallelujah!”
Others shouted it, too. “HALLELUJAH!”
People were moving to the music. People were moving.
Beside me, Mrs. Bunch said, “It’s starting, Jesus!”
Normally I was more pleased than anyone when it started; I was at least as pleased as anyone. Because it didn’t always get off the ground. When it did, we got happy, and the offering was always bigger, and Daddy’s face relaxed. … I’m coming to Mum.
A woman in the aisle purely screamed, “Yes! In that house on the other side!”
Folks joined in. “I’m gonna shake hands with the elders, Lord!”
Began shaking hands, everyone, with the ones in front, in back, beside.
At the altar they were all laying hands on a woman kneeling, and K. C. Keck had come forward, was standing there before us with his eyes shut, his arms in front of him, palms up, like he was ready to catch something. He began shouting, “Someone is with us today who feels The Spirit healing him or her. Someone is with us today who knows the Lord Jesus right this minute is working a miracle! Someone feels it! Someone wants to shout with joy!”
“Praise the Lord!” shouted from everywhere. Palms up. Faces cut with smiles and lit up with the light.
I shut my eyes not to see V. Chicken and him, after I saw them give each other these looks.
I opened my eyes to hear the shout: “The pain is gone!”
“Praise the Lord”—everyone, turning to look behind them, and coming forward, carrying her crutch, was none other than Diane-Young Cheek from Central High. My brother had been trying to get her saved for months.
“I don’t need it!” and she was shaking her crutch, walking down the aisle with tears coming from the center of a hurricane of hair.
“Praise the Lord!”—everyone.
Diane-Young Cheek kneeled down at the railing while K. C. Keck kneeled with her, his arm drawing Diane-Young to him, their eyes closed. Keck, praying.
Then Mum came away from the choir, and crossed to the stairs, and I knew what would happen next, knew what V. Chicken and him would have to take back to tell all of you.
I watched Mum go down the stairs, that certain look on her face, blank eyed, smiling, carrying her head high.
Mum kneeled down with Keck, and Diane-Young Cheek, who was prone, slain in the spirit, spread out facedown on the altar rug like she’d been shot from behind.
The choir stopped singing.
The stillness moved in like heavy fog.
I felt my face get hot with shame, my heart going, waiting for her, hating them for being there and making me see Mum through their cold eyes, hating them for how my heart turned against my own around them.
Mum began.
“Theo lam day, theo ta turn, theo, theo ta turn, theo theo—” and Mum was straightening up while she did tongues, with the sun like an omen knifing through the stained-glass windows and pointing in her sweet face. Very slowly her big body began to sway.
People began calling out, “Oh yes! Yes!”
“Theo ta ta, theo ta ta—”
“Yes, Jesus! Yes!”
“Theo, theo,” and Mum’s feet began this slow-motion march, faster into a jerky little jig, until her steps grew wider, sweeping her around, almost like she was waltzing by herself.
She was dancing in the spirit, dancing away, struck by a music from deep inside of her, so powerful it didn’t matter to her no more she was fat.
Four
JESSE PEGLER
ONE
