Читать книгу Jesus Boy - Preston L. Allen - Страница 10

I Need Thee Every Hour

He read from the Book of Daniel, then got down on his knees to pray, but there was a knock on his bedroom door and he looked up as his mother stuck her head in: Sister Morrisohn’s on the line.

Elwyn unclasped his hands and picked up the phone. He took a deep breath. He was still kneeling.

Sister Morrisohn said, Can you talk? No, he answered.

Can you listen? You can at least listen.

He rested his head on the bed and said to himself, Heavenly Father, what did I get myself into?

You missed church. You never miss church, she said. I’m putting myself in your place now. I see that you’re not ready for this.

He said: I’m not ready. I really am not. This is bad what we’re doing. I’m not making excuses for what I did. I was flattered by your attentions. I wanted you to like me. I should have known better. You’re young. Are you still there?

I’m here.

I just want you to understand me, is all. Who I really am. I’m listening, he said. He was still on his knees.

I’m a mountain girl, she said. I come from a PO Box settlement about seven miles outside of Asheville, North Carolina. We didn’t go to church when I was growing up. My father didn’t allow it. We didn’t go to school either. We were homeschooled. But my mother was a very religious woman. Some kind of Pentecostal, I believe. We read the Bible every morning when we got up and every night before we went to bed. My mother brought me and my little brother up believing that there was a God in heaven who loved us. She told us we must be good if we wanted to meet her in heaven. She was much older than my father and sickly. She knew she wouldn’t live to see us grow up. She died when I was fourteen.

She paused for a long moment and then he heard her cough and do something else that sounded like clearing her throat before she continued. She was so much older than him, twenty-six years, which made her older than his mother.

His room was dark now because his blinds were drawn and he hadn’t turned on the lights. Outside his room he could hear his parents talking with Deacon Miron and his wife, who was pregnant, and he heard them say his name occasionally, not calling him, but mentioning it as they often did because they were proud of him and remembered him every time the words child or son or young people today were mentioned. He was the perfect example of a good Christian son. Oh, if every child could be like Elwyn, they would say.

What I’m saying, Elwyn, is that I grew up without my mother, so I had but a skewed understanding of how a woman is supposed to behave. My mother had three sisters who would come up the mountain and visit us. Maybe I could be like them; these were wild, beautiful women. Mulattos, every one of them, just like my mother, their sickly baby sister, who would die and leave her children to an uncertain fate in this dark and sinful world.

She paused again, but this time he believed she might be crying. He could not hear her crying. There was something covering the phone, perhaps her hand.

From elsewhere in the house there came the sound of piano music.

It was Deacon Miron’s wife playing “I Need Thee Every Hour” with that heavy left hand of hers. Elwyn suspected she had the book propped open in front of her. Sister Miron was good when she had a book open in front of her, but she could not play by ear no matter how hard he tried to teach her. Sister Miron was a very fat, very pretty girl only about three years older than Elwyn. He used to call her Ginny Parker before she got married. Now she insisted that everyone call her Sister Miron, even Elwyn, who was her first cousin. Deacon Miron, a widower, was in his forties. He was Elwyn’s godfather. He heard them say they would name the baby Elwyn if it were a boy because Elwyn was such a model Christian. He could not hear what they would name the baby if it were a girl because Sister Miron was putting that heavy left hand into her music and Sister Morrisohn was speaking again.

You asked me once what kind of sins I committed before I met Buford. I tried to be a mother to my brother in my mother’s absence—cooking, cleaning, keeping the house for my lazy father—but once my innocence was lost, it became easier to behave like my aunts, who were a very bad example. Drinking. Smoking. Riding into town every Friday night in some strange man’s pickup truck. Not coming back till Sunday morning. I was a woman, but I didn’t really know what a woman was.

I understood sex, but I hated the man I was sleeping with. He was the worst brute. At eighteen, I became pregnant. I lost the baby, which was probably the best thing—God forgive me for saying that—but now I could not live at home anymore. I had to leave. I tried to take my brother with me, but my father would not let me.

Someone out there said, Where is Elwyn?

It was Ginny—Sister Miron.

Someone answered, He’s still on the phone with Sister Morrisohn, I think.

It was his mother.

Elwyn got up from his knees and went to the door and closed it. Then he went back to his bed and lay crossways on it with his legs hanging over the side.

Sister Morrisohn said, I came down and lived with my cousin and her husband until that became a problem. He made me feel I owed something more than the $35-a-month rent I was paying. When I wouldn’t give him what he wanted, he got rough. When I told my cousin, she believed her husband. Never mind that I had a torn dress and a busted lip. I was out on the streets. I got fired from my counter job at Woolworth’s. For the first time in my life, I lost contact with my little brother Harrison. I hooked up with an ugly crowd. Sex, drugs, stealing to eat. I smoked marijuana. I shoplifted. I had lots of boyfriends, though I hated and feared men … Then I met Buford and Mother Glovine. They were ministering at the Dade County jail, where I was being held.

The church was bailing everyone out who would allow Buford and Mother Glovine to preach to them. Buford was such a good man. Not only did he bail us out, he also acted as our legal counsel pro bono. He seemed to be very impressed with me. I guess because I was articulate and perhaps pretty. We debated often, with me usually getting the better of him. He found me a job at the library downtown. He helped me get a little apartment in Overtown. Most importantly, he helped me get my brother away from my father. Brought him down to Miami and then paid for him to go to college up at Tuskegee when he finished high school. Harrison is now an accountant up in Boston.

Elwyn said to her: When I was a kid, I think I remember he used to sit with you and Brother Morrisohn and Beverly.

Beverly never sat with us. She absolutely refused.

I was too young. I remember it wrong.

Yes, you do. You were too young … you are too young. You are a child.

I didn’t mean to make you … mad, Sister Morrisohn.

I am mad. I am nutso.

I need Thee, O I need Thee, he heard his mother singing to Sister Miron’s accompaniment. It sounded good—it would sound better if Ginny would ease up on the bass.

Sister Morrisohn said, I fell in love with Buford immediately. How could I not? He was such a good man. Intelligent. Handsome too. Though nothing happened between us while Mother Glovine was alive. Buford wouldn’t allow it. But she was gravely ill. We married a month after she passed. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe that’s what started the gossip. But we were in love. What did they expect us to do? This caused the rift between me and Beverly, my loving stepdaughter, who is actually older than me, ha-ha-ha. She’s become a real problem for me with Buford’s inheritance. There were vicious rumors about me tricking a senile old man into marriage to get his money. Your grandmother, Elwyn, I’m sorry to inform you, was chief among my accusers. But I loved Glovine … Mother Glovine. She was a mother to me … Our love overcame it all. I had found what I wanted in Buford, a man who would love me in spite of my past. A man who would not abuse me. A man who looked at me every day and said, I am so glad I met you. My life is complete.

She continued through sobs, Isn’t that what we all want? Not once while I was with Buford did I ever think of any other man. Not once while I was with him did he ever remind me of my past.

Elwyn said, Sister Morrisohn, don’t cry.

I loved him at first sight. And you remind me of him so much! It’s just that our situation—our ages, I don’t know what I feel for you or why. With him it was easy. I felt so old when he died. I thought I’d just hide up on a shelf for the rest of my life and gather dust. That day when you came over, you made me feel beautiful again. You made me feel young again. I didn’t fear you or hate you as I had other men, because I knew you were good. I had watched you grow up … You’re still growing up. You’re still a child. Oh God.

Sister Morrisohn, he said, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at 4:30 sharp are best for me.

Yes. You’re so sweet to … teach me the piano three times a week. And I won’t take money from you.

You must take the money. Piano lessons don’t come cheap.

I will not take money from you. You must, or they will know.

But it’s weird.

We’re weird. We have weird love, me and you. Me and you. It sounds so … yeah, weird.

But so right. So … weird.

I wish you were here right now so I could kiss you, my darling. I want to kiss you all night. I want to wake up in your arms. Do you mind that I said that?

I don’t mind.

Outside his room was quiet. He wondered if Deacon and Sister Miron had left. It was rude not to have gone out and greeted them, especially since they planned on naming their son after him. He would make it up to them. He would apologize and say something flattering about Ginny’s—Sister Miron’s—heavy-left-hand music. He was, after all, the model Christian son.

Sister Morrisohn said, I bet when I told you I wanted to kiss you, you blushed.

Elwyn said, Maybe it would be safer if we didn’t call each other so often. We’ll see each other on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

You don’t understand how unpredictable this thing can be. Sometimes only your lover’s voice will do.

I’m blushing now, I think.

I wish you were here so I could kiss you. I’m definitely blushing, Sister Morrisohn.

I wish you were here so I could make love to you, my darling.

Long after her lover had hung up, she kept the phone to her ear like an embrace.

When she pulled away, finally, she went into the kitchen to pour herself a drink. The music from her record player in the living room switched from Tammy Wynette to Chester Harbaugh and His OldTime Fiddle Band to the Louvin Brothers to Jim Reeves. She kept time nodding her head. She liked old-time country music, the kind she had grown up listening to back home in North Carolina. In her father’s house. She liked the heartbreak songs, because she was a heartbreak girl. She liked the twanging and the whining in the music as a complement to the clever, sometimes depressing lyrics. She was a girl who was often depressed. Well, she used to be, but not anymore. Things, she told herself, were going to change. She opened the cabinet and took out the bottle. The wine was the good kind, a little tart with a sharp bouquet. She had kept the bottle hidden from Buford, who like all of the Faithful had disapproved of strong drink. But the Faithful are too strict in their rules concerning alcohol, Sister Morrisohn thought to herself. The Faithful are too strict about many things. Wine is good for the spirit, the Bible says so. Noah invented wine. Jesus turned water into wine. The Faithful are a bunch of tight a**es. She put the wine to her lips. Her spirit soared. There is warmth in the wine. There is warmth in him too. Her mind had gone back to Elwyn. There is warmth even in his voice, she said out loud.

She’d always had a problem finding warmth.

After her mother died, she had sought refuge from the cold fury in her father’s house. She was most unsuccessful in that endeavor. Now that your mother is in the ground, don’t act like you don’t know what we’re doing.

Now he didn’t have to waste all that energy beating her to get her pants down. There was no one to protect her now that her mother was dead. She got pregnant by him again. This time the baby died, thank God. And after that, she grew stronger. When he tried to put his arm around her, she had the knife. He was laughing at her, calling her skinny red ugly. She stabbed him, trying to dig out his ribs. Sent him to the hospital at death’s door. But still laughing: skinny red ugly, and got spirit just like your momma, ha-ha-ha.

She grew into a beautiful woman and had no shortage of men. Though some of them were kind, they never gave a thought to her needs. She hated them, she loathed them, she was dead scared of them—they all hit harder than her father, and they all hit, even the kind ones. Then Buford came. He offered to protect her for no reason other than she needed protecting. This was a different kind of love.

Christian love, he called it, which she thought she knew about because he was not the first married preacher who had fancied her. But Buford’s love was about loving your neighbor as yourself.

Who is my neighbor, Daddyo?

Anyone in need.

You don’t even know me, Daddyo.

I know that you are in need.

You’re just like the rest of them—what you want from me is between my legs.

I have a wife, thank you, and I’m quite happy with her.

That’s what you say now. That’s what you say until you get me alone and show your wild side.

I’m a wealthy man, I don’t need to cruise the jails to find women to sleep with, little girl. I’m Holy Ghost filled. I’m washed in the blood of the lamb. The only high I get is on Jesus. The only wild side I got is I’m on fire for the Lord.

Is that right? That is right.

We’ll see about that, Daddyo.

She smiled, remembering being with him in bed, free at last, after Mother Glovine had died. Wild side? Well, Buford did have his wild side. You could hardly call that Christian. But what he had felt for her, she decided, that brand of love was generous, kind, brave, warm. He had saved her and her brother (her son) Harrison with his warmth.

And here it was again, coming from the most unexpected of sources. Here was a boy, a man, a young man, who was generous, kind, brave, and warm just like Buford. They were about the same height too: 5’9”. They had the penetrating gaze of Sidney Poitier. They shared that beautiful ebony complexion. Out in the living room, Jim Reeves sang “Four Walls.” And Sister Morrisohn lost it.

She beat her chest and cried, Oh, Buford, what am I doing with this little boy? She collapsed on the kitchen floor. She washed the tiles with her tears.

In a little while, the last of the country songs stacked on the record player had played, and there was only the annoying clicking of the needle against the stereo housing. She got up, capped the wine, and put it away. She went into the living room and turned off the record player.

In her bedroom, she stretched out on her lonely bed, where she immediately fell asleep. She dreamt of Elwyn’s penis. How slender it was in her dream, so much less threatening than the sturdy lance he wielded in real life. How warm it made her feel, even in a dream.

She awoke at precisely 5:01, just enough time to prepare herself for night service at 6:00. At night service, Pastor preached a sermon on divine healing, which she found dull, but she said her perfunctory Amens and Yes Lords along with the rest of them. Then Pastor turned it over to the minister of music, Brother Elwyn, who would lead the testimony meeting that would end the night’s service.

Excitement soared through every fiber of her being as her man moved to the piano. She was so proud of him. He was so handsome. She sat up straighter in her seat, which was in the second pew between Mother Naylor and Sister Spann as usual. She approved of Brother Elwyn’s choice of testimony chant for tonight, “I Need Thee Every Hour.” She sang with especial enthusiasm whenever the chorus came, I NEED THEE, O, I NEED THEE, EVERY HOUR I NEED THEE, because she really did need him every hour, but Brother Elwyn kept his eyes lowered. Perhaps he was not sending her a message with his marvelous playing.

When it came to be her turn to testify, Sister Morrisohn arose and said, I thank the Lord for being here. I thank the Lord for being saved and sanctified. I thank Him for giving me the strength to go on after Brother Morrisohn passed. Saints, you don’t know how hard it has been. But the Lord just keeps on providing and providing and providing and providing and providing and providing!

She ended with a shout. A short, robust bark of a shout.

There were cries of “Amen” and “Praise the Lord” from the others. But Brother Elwyn just kept on playing, with his eyes focused hard on his fingers, as though he hadn’t heard.

As she sat down with a satisfied smile on her face, she knew she was being naughty. She shouldn’t have shouted like that, but she was trying to send him a message by shouting like she did during orgasm because that’s how he made her feel every time she was with him. She just wanted to rip off her clothes and fly to him. He was so tight and so fresh and so full of juice. His skin was smooth as a baby’s bottom, his stomach was flat, his arms and legs were lean and strong—he was a lean, strong, fresh-tasting black boy—he looked good enough to eat. She wanted to eat her fill of him, but she knew that was impossible. She could never get enough of him no matter how much he gave her. No matter how much she took—even if he came over more than three times a week she could never suck it all out of him. He had so much. It was spilling over. She wanted to lick his clean, black skin. She wanted to bite him. She wanted to crunch him between her teeth like an apple. There had to be a way to eat him all up.

She shook her head. Three days a week. Not enough, Lord. Not enough.

He kept on playing.

Again she shouted her orgasm shout, which went unnoticed by the congregation among their holiness shouts, Amens, and Hallelujahs. But she kept her eyes on Elwyn.

There it was! A flinch. He had heard her. And he was definitely blushing.

HERE ENDETH THE TESTAMENT OF INNOCENCE