Summer of the Redeemers (13 page)

All of those stories Arly told me churned through my mind like a runaway train. Try as I might, I couldn’t stop the images, and I couldn’t stop staring. The little singer was ablaze, and the Redeemers were feeding
the flame. Someone in the congregation handed him a towel, and he mopped the sweat from his brow without missing a note. The action caused a woman in the front row to stand up and throw up her hands, shouting gibberish I couldn’t understand. Her fingers stretched wide as she threw her head back and let loose a hoarse, guttural cry. In a second she was falling to the floor. The two people sitting beside her pulled her up on a pew and fanned her face with one of the cardboard fans. Shouts of “Amen” crisscrossed the church, coming from men, women, and children. It was as if someone had turned up the heat in the church. The little man sang, and the congregation began to boil.

I didn’t know the song. It had nothing in common with the more solemn hymns I remembered from the Methodist service. I listened to the words and was shocked by the gory depiction of Jesus suffering on the cross. Since the words made me feel bad, I put more effort into watching the congregation. They were rocking and swaying with a vengeance. Up in the left-hand corner there was a woman playing the heart out of a piano and a young boy with a guitar. Standing slightly behind him was a girl in a white dress with a tambourine. She was about my age, and she looked like she was going to cry. She followed every strut and gesture of the little singing man, Brother Rueben. Whenever he came her way, she looked out at the congregation.

If this was Mag, plump Georgie’s sister, it was obvious that Georgie ate his share and hers too. This girl was skinny as a stick, like Alice. Or else she worried the weight off. She was turning and twisting and watching Brother Rueben, and she never missed a lick with that tambourine. From behind the piano another boy stepped forward with a saxophone and joined in the chorus. The entire church was alive. Pews rocked with folks jumpin’ up and shouting and falling back against them. Several women started talking that gibberish and fell out in a faint.

When it seemed that the congregation would surely jump up and bust out the doors, the little singer called a halt to it and turned the show back over to the preacherman. The boys had called him Brother Marcus, and I was eager to see what he looked like. The man who walked up to the edge of the stage was tall and lean, younger than I’d expected. His chestnut hair was pomaded back, and it glistened in waves under the hanging light bulbs. The crease in his pants was razor sharp, and his jacket hugged him tight and had big padded shoulders.

The attention he gave his clothes was very different from the way the congregation was dressed.

For the first time I noticed the plain walls of the church and the lack of any softness. The floor was unpolished wood and the pews were unrelieved by any cushions. There weren’t any plants or flowers on the little table up front, and even in their Sunday best the women were as drab as female mockingbirds. The men weren’t any better in their dark suits and white shirt collars. I could only see their backs, but I knew the shirts were buttoned tight with subdued ties.

In the very front of the church there was a hand-carved crucifix. At first I didn’t pay much attention to it because it was all dark wood. Something in the shape caught my eye. On closer examination, I saw that the figure of Jesus was expertly cut. I could almost feel his anguish and the blood coming from his hands and feet. The more I looked, the more I realized the crucifix was one of the most gruesome things I’d ever seen. The nails in Christ’s palms were so real, the thorns digging into his head. But there was something beautiful in the man’s body. It was the way the wood curved and twisted, shaping the torment of the man. Brother Reuben and the crucifix were certainly the most awe-inspiring things in the church.

The preacherman called for testimonials. This was something new in my experience. I knew what court testimony was, when people swore under oath at a trial. I’d never heard of it in a church, though. To my surprise, the girl with the tambourine took a few steps forward and then stopped. She stared into the audience. It looked as if her whole body quivered, poised on the edge of some tremendous decision.

Before she could do anything, a man in the middle of the church stood up. Beside him a slender woman grabbed his arm and cried out.

“Please, Lucas, please don’t!” She clung to his arm, and as he struggled to move in the aisle, he pulled her along with him. She was holding his arm and crawling on her knees after him, begging.

“Well, Brother Simms, do you have a confession?” the preacherman asked. He acted as if the woman did not exist.

Brother Simms was a tall man, his body filled out with muscle. His gray suit was neatly pressed, and except for the woman clinging and begging, he looked to be a regular man. I could only see the back of his head, though, so I was unprepared when he turned to angrily look at the woman who clung to him. His face was twisted with hatred.

“This woman suffers from the sin of vanity, Brother Marcus.” He spat the words in the woman’s face. In the hush that followed, he shook free of her and she fell to the floor. “My wife is vain. She’s consumed with her looks and her mirror.”

Amens skittered around the room, but all the hand waving and speaking in tongues had slowed up.

“She thinks she’s better than us,” a woman near the front stood up and said. “She won’t answer to her church name. Her husband names her right. She’s bitten by the demon of vanity.”

“Save her, Jesus,” another woman cried. “Save her soul from damnation.”

The woman struggled to her feet in a half crouch. She ignored the congregation and reached up for her husband’s arm. “Lucas, please don’t do this. It wasn’t a crime, what I did. Please!”

From his pants pocket the man she called Lucas pulled out a flattened piece of cardboard. He took it to the minister, covering the church in six long strides.

“Hair color,” he said as he turned back to face the congregation. “It’s the box the hair color came in. My wife bought herself some Lady Clairol. She didn’t want to look old. She wants to stay young. She thinks going gray is unattractive. She thinks she knows better than the Lord what color her hair should be.”

Still crouching, the woman buried her head in her arms and cried. She was wearing a pale pink dress, something that would have looked more in place on a young girl.

The man walked back to her and roughly pulled the pins from her hair. It came down in a tumble, just below her shoulders. It was a dark brown color, a pretty shade.

“She looks like a whore!” her husband cried. With a savage jerk he pulled her to her feet. Grabbing hold of both shoulders, he turned her around in a circle. “See her hair. Ain’t it beautiful? She looks like a young woman, doesn’t she?”

My fingers bit into the windowsill. The poor woman was crying, the tears running off her face, but she didn’t make a sound. At first she tried to hide, and then she got a little backbone and finally held her head up.

“Brother Simms, bring your wife to the front of the church. I think the sin of vanity is one that we can all learn from.”

The woman didn’t make any effort to resist as her husband half pushed her ahead of him to the small stage. The preacherman walked up to her and lifted a strand of her hair and held it aloft. “A painted woman will never enter the gates of God’s kingdom,” he said in a loud whisper. “We must save your soul, Sister Florence.” Brother Marcus motioned to the piano player, who jumped up from her seat and rushed out a back door.

“My name is Susana,” she said in a soft voice. “Susana Hebert. There is no such person as Sister Florence. I’ve done nothing wrong. You may think what you want to, but I know I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Hair dye is a tool of Satan,” Brother Marcus thundered at her.

“My husband has a fondness for the young girls,” she whispered, but it carried clearly throughout the still church. “I was only trying to look young for him.”

Lucas Simms slapped her hard across the face. “Watch your mouth, wife,” he said in an ugly tone. “You’re getting old, and you can’t face up to it.”

The piano player returned and approached the stage with caution. Brother Marcus waved her forward, and in the flicker of an eye he took something she handed him.

“We’re going to redeem your soul, Sister Florence.” Before the woman had a chance to react, he grabbed a handful of her hair. He opened the scissors the piano player had given him. With a quick motion he cut the hair a half inch from the woman’s scalp.

The dark brown tresses fell over her pink dress and to the floor. In the hushed silence she didn’t move or cry out.

“Save her, Brother Marcus,” someone called from the audience. “Save her.”

The dwarf motioned to the piano player, and the rousing chords of a new hymn echoed in the church. The dwarf sang while the preacher sheared. The congregation was louder and more excited than ever before. It wasn’t any snake handling or foot washing, but it was the most dramatic thing I’d ever seen in a church.

“Now take her home and teach her that her value comes from being a good and obedient wife,” Brother Marcus directed Lucas Simms as he snipped the last of her hair. He gave the woman a little shove down toward the congregation as he picked up his Bible and began pacing the stage.

When there was a pause in the singing, he signaled for quiet. “Now who else has a sin to confess? Any gamblers?” He looked about the room. “No gamblers here, praise the Lord.”

The congregation responded with applause.

“How about dope fiends? Any dope fiends in this house of the Lord?” He paused dramatically for a moment. “Well, I didn’t think we had any dope fiends among us. Satan doesn’t work that angle here on Kali Oka Road.”

It was shocking to hear him say my road as if he belonged here. It reminded me that I was an eavesdropper, and that if I was caught, the penalty would be severe.

“What kind of sinners do we have?” the preacher asked. He rocked back and forth on his heels and thrust his Bible forward so that the light from the windows caught the gilt edges of the pages.

The young girl with the tambourine stepped toward him. She said something no one else could hear. The preacher stepped back from her, his face going colorless. He tried to reach out and touch her shoulder, but she jerked back from him. She faced the congregation.

“I got to say this.” She looked wildly about as if searching for someone she couldn’t find. “I don’t have a choice. I got to say this to save my soul from hellfire.”

From the middle of the congregation plump Georgie stood up. He stared at his sister, and some signal passed between them. “Don’t, Mag, don’t do it. Nobody will believe you.”

He didn’t speak loudly, but I heard him. I felt what he said, the fear and pain. Then he cried out loudly, “Don’t do it, Mag! Don’t! It won’t do any good.”

The girl wavered and looked as if she might cut and run, but she didn’t. Behind her the preacher stepped forward. Whatever indecision had held him in its grip, he’d come to terms with it. He reached out to put his hands on the girl’s shoulders, but she sidestepped him. She spoke again. “There’s someone in this church possessed by evil.”

Her words flamed around the room, quieting all talk and movement. In the back row two men stood up and started forward. The girl saw them, and she pointed at them.

“They’re coming up here to quiet me so there won’t be trouble, but I got to say my say. Rev. Marcus has called for testimonials to the Lord. He’s called on sinners to unload the burden of their grief at the altar of God. I saw the forgiveness this congregation showed Mrs.
Simms.” She smiled bitterly. “Well, I’m here anyway, and I don’t expect no kindness. I only want to confess.” She took a breath. “I’ve been fornicating.”

“Listen to this poor wayward lamb of God.” The minister shook his Bible behind her. “Poor little child, she doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

Georgie lurched forward and was jerked back into his seat. He struggled to stand again, and beside him a tall, heavy-set blond man held the boy in place. The man stood up slowly and stared straight at the girl. “Magdeline Scott, get down from there and come over here to your family!”

The words were dark thunder. They rocked the girl until she dropped to her knees. Behind her the preacher stood transfixed, his eyes staring into the back of her head with a look that would have drilled through to her brain if he’d had the power.

“I’ve sinned against the Lord and my family.” The girl buried her face in her hands and started to weep. “I have to confess to save my soul and the soul of—”

The preacher’s hand on her hair was nothing short of a jerk. It was almost as if he lifted her to her feet by the hair.

“This poor lamb has gone hysterical on us. The power of Brother Rueben’s singing has churned up her spirit and confused her mind. We all know Magdeline.” He turned her so that her face was pressed into the lapel of his jacket. He held her with his right hand hard against him. “Magdeline Scott is no whore of Babylon.”

“My name is Maggie!” the girl cried out. “Maggie! Not Magdeline, just Maggie!”

The first whispers began to stir in the congregation. It was as if everyone had held their breath and finally let the air out.

The preacher still had a grip on her hair. “Magdeline is a lamb of God, a sweet child with a voice touched by the Father’s hand. She’s confused. In her desire to seek his grace, she’s imagined herself as a sinner. Isn’t that so, Magdeline?”

His fingers were buried deep in her hair. The girl turned slowly to face the congregation. Her expression was contorted. “Yes, Brother Marcus, whatever you say.”

“Poor Magdeline wants some attention from us church folks. She craves the limelight, and not even her beautiful singing is enough.”

“She needs some attention at home.” A heavy woman from the back of the room spoke up. “If she’s not whoring, she shouldn’t claim to be. If she’s lying, she deserves to be punished for that.”

“Well, it appears that Magdeline has something to atone for, the sin of lying. And lying to achieve prominence and self-importance. I think that’s a sin we can work on together, Magdeline.” The preacher lifted his hand from her hair and stroked her head gently. “Now run along and think about this. I’ll see you in my office after lunch, and we’ll talk about this need you have to draw attention to yourself.”