Chango's Fire (22 page)

After the singing dies, I hear coughing and suddenly remember my real reasons for being here. God has nothing to do with it.

A brother opens the service with a prayer in Spanish. Pastor Maritza Sanabria walks up to the platform.

“If I speak in tongues of men and of angels but do not have love,” Maritza says in Spanish, the service is all in Spanish, “I have become a sounding piece of brass or a clashing cymbal,
aha, así.”
I'm impressed, fixed in my chair. She knows her Bible well. “And if I give all my belongings to feed others and if I hand over my body, that I may boast but do not have love, I have not profited,
no asi, aha.”
She is quoting Corinthians, so now, like a good pastor, she is picking up speed. “Love is not jealous,
verdad?
She has learned well from all those years attending our Pentecostal bake sales. The congregation is nodding after her pauses.

“It bears all things,
verdad?”

They nod.

“Believes all things,
verdad?”

They nod.

“Hopes all things, bears all things,
ah así, mismo.”

They nod.

“And it accepts all things, all things, all people, healthy or sick,
no es verdad?”

She is apiece of work. Now she is breaking away from Corinthians and taking her sermon somewhere else. Some social issue, I am sure.

“So should we shun, should we ignore, should we disfellowship people from our church when all they've done is follow what the Bible says?
S
í mis hermanos, there are people who did the right things, followed the word of God, and were still punished.”

The congregation is puzzled, no one is nodding. And as confused as they are, I feel that they know their pastor sets them up like this every week. I feel they know Maritza has a revelation to tell them.

“I want to call up to testify La Hermana Garcia,
alleluia.
You all know her, you all love her, now you all will hear from her.
Con elfuego de Dios ella va hablar.”

Maritza steps aside and Sister Garcia nervously gets up from her seat. When she reaches the pulpit, she can't speak. Her lips move but no sounds escape. The congregation starts urging her on, murmuring, “Speak, speak, testify, testify.” She tries again. It is very humbling for her, her days as a star saint are over. Some tragedy has befallen her that has made her see herself as a human and not as some perfect creature.

“Before becoming a member of this church, I was arrogant,” La Hermana Garcia sobs a bit. “I thought the Lord would prevent anything evil happening to me or my family.”

I listen as Sister Garcia recounts her experience.

“My sister's husband is positive. He didn't tell anybody.” No one is murmuring, no one is shouting to the Lord, no one is doing anything that I can remember being associated with what church is supposed to be like. They are just listening. “At the hospital, when they first told my sister she was sick, my sister said, ‘But my husband never looks at women. He always comes home to me and he only goes out with his friend Raymundo.'” In unison, the entire congregation moans. La Hermana looks at the ceiling as if she is looking for God's mercy,
“Ay Señor Santo.”
She is not crying or nervous, she is speaking from her heart and feels these things need to be said. “My sister died last year. I had to tell the brothers it was leukemia.” She swallows hard but is not sobbing. “I needed to … tell the truth …” It is very brave of her to be up there, alone. Addressing strangers, whether they are your brothers or sisters in Christ, they are still not part of your immediate family.

Maritza comes to La Hermana Garcia's side along with another brother, and they walk her back to her seat. Maritza picks up the sermon again, she speaks about teaching women that marriage is the cure. Abstinence and marriage. And that yes, the Bible says God loves a good marriage and we shouldn't fornicate. She quotes some texts backing this statement up and then she throws that splitter, that curve her congregation is famous for. “La Hermana Garcia's sister did all these righteous things, she only had one man in her life and it was her husband, and the monster still found her.”

The congregation is quiet and Maritza spews no prophecies. No yells or cries and shouts to God. She thanks the Lord once in awhile, but her sermon is subtle and gentle. “The church is a place many of us turn to in times of sickness and death. But if we have to lie or keep silent, then there is no comfort,” she says.

Then Pastor Maritza Sanabria invites an ex-pastor of a rival church to the pulpit. This pastor tells how he has lost his only son to the monster and how he, too, had to lie to keep his position as a pastor in good standing, until his conscience could no longer let him sleep and he had to tell the truth. He was then kicked out of his parish, “for a man who cannot tend to the needs of his family cannot tend to the needs of his congregation,” he says.

After the ex-pastor gives his testimony, Maritza calls up to the pulpit two guest speakers from some public health agency to address the congregation on matters concerning HIV. They have with them charts, pamphlets, free condoms and needles for the brothers and sisters to pick up after the service. They speak in Spanish but say they are from an African American Baptist church in Harlem. They explain how their congregation is also dealing with high infection rates. Many ministers, they say, used to believe the monster was a punishment from God, and that many of their brothers were dying and no one did anything because it was all a part of His plan. Until someone important in their congregation died. A leading member died, and so they now fight the epidemic with the word of God along with educational pamphlets they pass out. But more important, they now speak about it, they've chosen to tackle the monster in the church.

A
fter the somber service, some people go home in anger and shock, but most stay to socialize and gossip. Trompo Loco begins to put away the sound system and to put the songbooks back in order. The table where the brothers from the African American church had set their pamphlets is not approached. Those who stayed are very hesitant, and nobody wants to take any material.

Then a hesitant and shy Pacheco led by Maritza walks over to the table.

“No pa
‘,” Pacheco says, “I don't do that anymore.”

“I'm not saying anything, Pacheco,” Maritza says, “I just want my brother to be alive that's all.” She picks up those things that Pacheco is shy about and puts them in his pocket. Pacheco doesn't take them back out, he wipes his running nose and thanks the African American brothers at the table and walks away. Then Maritza takes a handful of condoms from the box and puts them in her purse. I roll my eyes, as if she's actually going to have that much sex. All show. Then I watch as everyone looks at each other not knowing exactly what to do. Papelito holds the hand of Minerva Vega, the ex-prostitute, and they both take some literature as well as condoms and even sign some petition or something.

Big Black walks over and he doesn't take anything but he shakes the hands of the African American brothers. Pabellon, who is blind, Sandra, who is deaf, and Chuito, who is mute, also go over, and although they don't take anything, they look around and, as a group, handle the goods. They do their best to describe to each other what the others can't see, hear or speak about.

The revirginized girl and her mother don't go near the table. Others do but slowly, as if the table bites, they begin approaching the table cautiously and ask questions. Antonio is at the table, as if he isn't afraid of anything. La Hermana Garcia and the ex-pastor, who had both given accounts of their experiences with the monster earlier, walk over to the table. “For the first time,” she says, looking at some of the information that is scattered all over the table, “I was able to weep in my own church for the death of my sister.” And the ex-pastor says, “Amen,
hermana.”

Just then Helen walks inside the church with Greg. It's not every day white people enter Maritza's church. Right away they size them up, worried that Helen and Greg might be INS. To ease the tension, Papelito walks over to Helen and Greg.

“
S
í?” Papelito introduces himself, even though I'm sure they've seen each other before.

“I hope I'm not intruding,” she says, “I live upstairs and always wanted to see this place from the inside. I mean I can hear it from my apartment upstairs.”

“Just a church. But the service is over,” Papelito answers.

Helen looks around, spots me.

With a happy, shy face Helen then says to me, “We have to talk, okay?”

“Yeah, soon,” I tell her, and she blushes.

Helen goes over to the table where all the pamphlets are neatly displayed. She wants to see what they're about.

“Can you show me where the contribution box is, Julio?” Greg asks me like he can't see it for himself. I point at it, but he wants me to accompany him. The box is only a few feet away, but he wants me to show him where exactly. Then Greg drops a hundred-dollar bill in the box. His eyes hold mine for a second. He wanted me to see his generous act.

I notice Helen looks up to Maritza. Like she idolizes her. Maritza, on the other hand, brushes her away with a polite handshake and goes over to where Antonio is and holds his hand. No surprise there. It is Maritza at her best. Here is the most feminist of all feminists and she is dating a guy who complains that this is the only country where you go to jail if you hit your wife. Not only that, but he is married. Maritza, without even knowing, or maybe she does know it, has become like every other pastor. She can't practice what she preaches. I don't blame her. Who could follow all those fucking rules anyway. It's impossible to be that saintly, before you know it something will get blemished. Someone will find all these dead cheerleaders in your closet. I don't care who they are, how pious, they will be found out.

“Julio, what you been up to, my good man?” Greg says. “Given thought to working for the party? Come on, four years of that jerk from Texas is enough.”

I just make a nice face and tilt my head. I let him talk, because I think he enjoys talking.

“Think about it. Wouldn't it be nice if you could start by organizing drives to get these people their documents and then straight to the voting booth?”

“Why? They love Mexico.”

“Why? Why? Because now they're in America, they should become citizens and vote. Democrat, that is.”

“Maybe they never came here to be Americans,” I say, and Greg shakes his head as if he knows that I'm wrong even before I finish saying it. “Maybe they just came here to work.”

“No, no, no. These people are just shooting themselves in the foot. The party has always sympathized with the poor.”

“Has it?”

“Of course it has.”

“Really?” I decide to throw something at him. “Listen Greg, I thought Carter was the sweetest of men, but my neighborhood was burning while he was in office.”

“Carter?” he shouts, then sucks his teeth. “Carter? That's ancient history. Julio, this is the New Democratic Party.”

“Greg, I'm not good at this stuff, you might want to talk to Maritza.”

“All right, Julio,” he says my name like he knows me, like we're friends. Like he has known me a long time. “It's too bad. You could have been a special liaison for the Democratic Party,” he says, as if I had just turned down the job of my life. Like Special Liaison Stoned Joan.

I go outside to clear my head.

One of the mothers across the street had been with me in junior high school. Her kid is skipping rope, maybe about six or seven years old, and is as beautiful as her mother has been.

Greg and Helen follow me outside. Helen is shaking her head, a bit amused.

“What a church. Maritza is awesome. The woman is awesome. Where was this place when I was a kid? Did you know there was a transsexual in attendance?”

“Oh, that's Popcorn,” I say, continuing to look at the girl I once knew, who is now a mother. I remember she used to call me Eskimo. And her family was the first family on my block to get cable.

“Popcorn is an old friend of Papelito,” I tell Helen.

“I need a drink. Does anyone need a drink?” she says.

Then the girl I once knew, who is now a mother, picks up her daughter and takes her inside the projects, and I feel real jealousy. I want her life, her joy, single mother or not. I want to be like her. I want to point at the woman and say to Helen, that's what I want us to be. Like that. To complete that.

“Look, think about it,” Greg says to me. “Here's my card.”

Another card. I take it.

“How much does the job pay?” I ask him.

“Pay?” Greg looks at me incredulously, “it's volunteer work. But the work is so rewarding. Think about how many people's lives you'll be saving. Making them Americans so they can vote. Democrat, of course.” Greg hugs Helen good-bye and hails a cab with no problem.

When we are alone, Helen kisses my cheek.

“Helen,” I say, gently pushing her away.

“Let's get a drink, come on.”

“Helen,” I say, pushing her away again. “What's Greg doing in Harlem?”

“Why do you care?” she says, frustrated that I'm not paying attention to her. “I don't know, following Clinton. He loves that party.”

“And you, Helen,” I ask her, “what are you doing here?” As if I don't want her around. Which I do.

“Me? What am I doing here? You didn't ask me that the other night,” she says. “I'm just trying to understand all of this. Get to know you.” She gets close again.

“Helen,” I say, brushing away that wonderful smell of almonds. Her hands are cold and soft. Her hair is straighter than I've ever seen it, and the artificial light pouring from a lamppost shines it to gold.