'Why?' Percy asked. The man bothered him. All of the talk of taking care of him, of looking out for him reminded Percy of his momma. All of her fiendish attempts at parental provision always had the taint of using you for her own ends.
'Like I said, I knew your daddy.'
'Nah, I don't think so.' Percy brought his spoon to his mouth, blew, winced at its heat and blew again before taking the bite.
Naptown Red cut his eyes. There was nothing hard about the boy. He had trouble believing he was any kin at all to Night. Night was one of the baddest motherfuckers he knew. He came up fierce. Hard. Feared.
'Are you finished?' Queen said without any trace of disdain in her voice despite her wary gaze cast at Red.
'Yes, ma'am.' Percy cleared his arms as she took the bowl from him.
'You could be running the sweeper on them rugs out there,' a voice yelled from the kitchen.
'Right after my cigarette break,' Queen said. 'Gonna take two pulls and call it a break.'
'Look here, boy.' Red leaned towards him once Queen was out of earshot. 'You got to choose which side of the line you going to stand on.'
'I think I have.'
'You in church or something?' A man for bad plays, Red gave him another once-over as if he'd misread the menu. That thing ticked in his chest. Weed took the edge off his anger and he'd been angry for a long time. Pushed into the life, he fucked the world because he felt fucked, but the first and foremost victim was himself. The boy wasn't the one. He'd have to make other arrangements. 'You sure ain't your daddy's son.'
'No, I guess not.' If Percy was insulted, he gave no indication. He simply opened up his comic book and kept reading.
Good Hope Missionary Baptist Church was dedicated in 1891. The church had a lot of history. A lot of history. There used to be a dirt road out front where folks would hook up their horses and buggies. The streets had changed, living in their own separate world, with the economics of poverty: extortion, prostitution, gambling, stolen property, drugs. All enforced by the violence of gangs and subsidized by welfare checks thus tacitly approved by government neglect. Police rarely patrolled for fear of their own safety.
'Lord have mercy, you'll see me on the TV.' Big Momma scooted out of her chair with a dancer's grace heedless of her stiff hip, sore legs, and swollen arms when she saw King come through the front doors. She raised one hand, palm out, and hopped in place. Then she suddenly stomped five times. 'That's how good it was. Do you hear me?'
'I hear you.' King stopped in his tracks. A portrait of Redd Foxx cast his eyes to heaven from his shirt.
Big Momma was hyped up to a near-wail, stoked on a spiritual high, a one-woman amen corner. 'Who did it?'
'God did it,' voices from the hallway called back.
'I just can't keep it to myself. Do you hear me? I done cried and shouted and danced, OK? And I thank God for the rain. When you get the Lord in you, you can't just keep Him to yourself. You got to share Him. It just keeps getting better and better and better. I'll go on a mountaintop telling people what the Lord can do. He'll carry me through. He answers prayer. We been praying 'send some help' cause His people were struggling. Then you rose up.'
'I didn't do anything special.' King stepped back, uncertain if she was actually talking to, or even about, him.
'And He ain't through blessing us through you yet. You know how they say if you take one step, He'll take two? Who did it?'
'God did it!' the voices from the hallway called out.
'Is he in?' King asked.
Big Momma stepped in front of him with a conspiratorial whisper, as if requiring a code word for him to pass. 'Who did it?'
King let out an exasperated sigh. 'God did it.'
'He in his office.'
Pastor Ecktor Winburn felt his calling to evangelize the unsaved as well as the un- and under-churched. Hustlers, drunks, prostitutes, drug dealers, drug addicts, all the left-behind, fall-through-the-cracks folks. He was also in King's life, the man who showed him how to be and live as a man.
King's father, Luther White, ran the streets, hustled, and stole, and thus ended up dead before King had entered pre-school. His mother rarely spoke of the man, though when she did, it was like he was two different men: the would-be gangsta and the man she knew and believed in. When others talked about his father — uncles, friends — there was a near-reverent air. Luther was cool. Admired. Half of them wanted to be him.
All King knew was that he was dead and gone.
He missed having a father, that firmness that could put him in check. Then his mom got hooked on drugs. King could never remember having a one-on-one conversation with her after that. By the time Pastor Winburn came into his life, he'd already seen his share of trouble. Smoked a little weed, getting into fights, telling teachers what they could go do. Because he imagined himself in charge of his life. His life changed after he got caught and arrested for stealing. The court put him in contact with Outreach Inc., who helped get him back on track. It was his then case manager, Wayne, who put him in contact with Pastor Winburn. Once King started going to his church, Pastor Winburn became a bit of a father figure, affecting him whenever they chatted. He helped King learn how to rein in his temper. They went on spiritual patrols, walking through the neighborhood, praying for and talking to folks. Pastor Winburn taught him discipline, and how to be a man, but the life still called. And though many years had passed, King still had a lot of unanswered questions about God. And still struggled with his temper.
'Someone certainly got her praise on this morning,' King said.
'That's what we do here. We praise God not only on a Sunday, but it could be a Wednesday. A Thursday. A Tuesday. If it ends in 'day' we ready to praise.' Pastor Ecktor Winburn leaned back in his chair. A low-cut Afro with gray streaks drew back from his forehead lengthening the appearance of his face. A black suit hung from him as if he was a scarecrow funeral director, his tie too thin. He hunched his shoulders close and bridged his spider-like long fingers, his suspicious eyes taking the measure of him. 'The lesson was on One Accord. If we can't come together down here, what we going to do in heaven? We should be a foretaste of heaven, but we pretty much taste-testing hell.'
'It's bad out there.'
'I don't need to hear tales of how bad it is on the streets. I know all about the rapes, drugs, murders, and violence. You think it's bad now? Fifteen years ago you couldn't slow your car down here without twenty folks running up to you to sell drugs.' Pastor Winburn hesitated, choosing his words with care. King remembered a time when the man shared freely with him. 'Only God has the remedy.'
'God is not my friend. Not these days. Not while things are like this.'
'You ought to come by some time. We a live wire here.' Pastor Winburn lowered his voice.
'I remember.'
'Look here, churches plant where they plant and deepen their roots by drawing on the community they dwell in. When we in the hood, I don't look for my members to come up over the mountain. We're made up of who we are, where we are.' Pastor Winburn smiled and spread his arms in his all-are-welcome embrace. King had heard the sales pitch before. 'This is our neighborhood. I know I taught you that. Not what you been doing.'
'You mean this?' King pulled the Caliburn from his dip. He let the light reflect from it for a moment, then laid it like a sacrificial offering before Pastor Winburn.
'So what I been hearing is true? Is this what I taught you? Is this how you solve problems now, to return fist for fist and gun for gun?' The pastor rubbed the bridge of his nose, the gesture managing to convey disappointment. 'What is this, King? You set up a private police force? Your own little army with you as the general? Are you making your own gang?'
'It's the best defense, because the police don't show. I'd like to do things your way, pastor. But it's hard when it seems no one cares or no one is around. Not the police. Not the church. Not God.'
'Look at you.' Pastor Winburn got up and circled King. 'You always worried about doing something big. You as flashy as any of these other knuckleheads. Forget that all you have to do is reach one, teach one. No, you might as well go ahead and get yourself a cape and put a big K on your chest.'
