Tambourines to Glory (12 page)

“She’ll be here directly.”

Sure enough, directly Marietta and Buddy arrived loaded down with things to eat and drink, including Buddy’s carrying a dozen cans of beer, three of which he promptly opened, handing one to C.J. and offering another to Marietta. But she declined. C.J. demurred, saying he did not drink beer. But Buddy made him feel like less than a man if he couldn’t drink that weak stuff. No kid likes to be made out a sissy in front of a pretty girl, even if he is a junior saint, so C.J. drank the beer, and shortly felt it. Meanwhile, in spite of Buddy, he got acquainted with Marietta.

“That’s a pretty name.”

“And yours,” asked Marietta, “what really is your first name?”

“My first name’s just C.J.”

“What does C.J. stand for?”

“C.J., that’s all,” said the young man. “I only got initials for a first name.”

But Buddy cut in, “Christ Jesus, baby, Christ Jesus, that’s what it stands for.”

“Mr. Lomax is just kidding, Marietta,” said C.J.

“C.J. is one of them holy and sanctified boys,” said Buddy.

“I was raised up in a gospel church, but—”

“Probably won’t even take a chick to the movies.”

“Sure I will,” bristled C.J.

“Never see you around the pool halls,” insisted Buddy.

“Well, with school work and all—”

“Where do you go to school, C.J.?” asked Marietta.

“First year college at City,” said C.J.

“Can I look at your guitar, kid?” asked Buddy. “I used to beat out a mean blues before I left Savannah.”

“A blues? Sure, if the Sisters don’t mind.”

“A little blues won’t hurt the Sisters. Hum-mm! You got a nice box here.”

“I play in the college orchestra sometimes.”

“You’re lucky to be in college,” said Marietta.

“My Korean GI money,” said C.J.

“What are you taking up?”

“Chemistry. I can analyze that Holy Water Sister Laura dispenses in church. I wish she’d let me test a bottle while I’m here tonight, so I can tell what makes Jordan Water different from that we have in New York City.”

“That Jordan Water costs a dollar a bottle, boy,” drawled Buddy, “so nobody’s giving none away.”

“Well, maybe I’ll buy a bottle at church tomorrow.”

“I would advise you to leave that water alone,” said Buddy.

“Why?” asked C.J., puzzled.

“Just advice, that’s all,” said Buddy as the first eight bars of a down-home stomp rolled off the guitar strings. “How do you like my blues, boy?”

“Right nice, Mr. Lomax. Marietta, whereabouts are you in school—high, or what?”

“Second year high school. But you know the schools down
South aren’t very good, especially for colored, and—” She was speaking louder and louder as Buddy’s blues mounted, too. “Well, I’m afraid I won’t match the girls up North here.”

“You look real smart to me, Marietta. Besides, you’re so pretty you scare me.” But the boy had to shout his last few words. Buddy was drowning them out with the blues, sniffing at the same time at the scent of food from the back of the house.

Apron on from the kitchen, Essie put a stop to it. “I knowed that couldn’t be C.J. playing that loud. Buddy, the neighbors! They’ll hear all them blues coming out of our apartment and think we’ve forgot the gospel.”

With a belly chord, Buddy tossed the guitar to C.J. “Here, kid, you can play the kind of stuff the Sisters like. But them gospel songs sound just like blues to me.”

“Buddy! At least our words is different. But we don’t need no music now, boys, nohow. We’re about to put the steaks on the fire. Anybody want to wash up for dinner?”

“I’m a clean boy myself, thanks,” said Buddy.

But C.J. spoke up. “I do, Sister Essie.”

“I’ll show you the place,” said Essie, “and when you’ve washed your hands, son, come on out in the kitchen and cut the watermelon. Dinner’ll soon be ready.” C.J. followed Essie down the hall.

“He’s country,” said Buddy, with a head-down smile. He was looking at Marietta. “Baby, I’d like to show you something.”

“On the guitar?” asked Marietta.

“No, not on the guitar.”

“What?” He was very near her now.

“You’ve only met two men in New York so far.”

“Why, I’ve only been here an—”

“I know. You met
me
first,” said Buddy. “It’s up to me to school you.”

“School me?”

“That’s right. That gospel boy of a C.J. ain’t dry behind the ears yet. Men don’t start asking a sharp little chick like you what school you’re in.”

“Sharp?”

“Stacked, solid, neat-all-reet, copasetic, baby!”

“Thank you, Mr. Buddy.”

“Don’t
Mister
Buddy me. Just call me Buddy, that’s all—Big-Eyed Buddy—with eyes for you.”

“Mama told me you’re Miss Laura’s friend.”

“Marietta, Laura is as old as your mama—and I’m mighty near as young as you.”

“Still and yet, you’re her friend, aren’t you?”

“I’m her friend. But, Marietta, I’m gonna show you something. I’m gonna show you how fast a real Harlem stud moves in.”

“Moves in?”

“On a chick.” Before she could pass, Buddy’s arm swept her to him. His body was warm. The old symbol of the earth suddenly sounded as if beaten by the sun in the first Garden. “We start like this,” he breathed. Buddy kissed her.

“You told me you liked your steaks rare—with the blood oozing out,” said Laura very quietly from the doorway. She had come to call them to dinner.

Before Marietta could struggle free, he dropped his arms. “I do,” Buddy said.

“And your women tender?”

“Could be,” said Buddy.

“You, Miss Marietta, I guess you’re not as innocent as you look.”

“I tried to get past, Aunt Laura, but—”

“Then get past, honey,
get past quick!
As for you, Buddy-boy—”

“Aw, come, old chick, don’t get blood in your eyes.”

“Nor on my hands?” asked Laura. “I never knowed a Negro yet that didn’t bleed—if cut.”

Essie’s voice rang out in the hall. “Let’s go, everybody, dinner!”

“Come on, Buddy, get your steak,” said Laura.

LUCKY TEXTS

A
fter Marietta came, Laura didn’t bring Buddy home so often. After services they went elsewhere in Laura’s car. The big new apartment was quiet, and Essie had a chance to get acquainted with her daughter. Only C.J. was there sometimes, properly courting the kid. Essie liked C.J. for he was a clean, quiet gospel boy, bright and not bad-looking. Marietta liked him, too. But even when he held her tightly in his arms on the silky couch, nothing electric happened as had happened that one and only time when Buddy moved in behind the magnet of his chocolate shadow. About that, no one said a thing to Essie—not Laura, Buddy, or Marietta. Now Marietta avoided Buddy.

The Tambourine Choir filled the new church with music, and
Marietta became a part of the singing. When her mother introduced her to the congregation she had, all alone, begun a chorus of “Rise and Shine and Give God the Glory.” All the instruments and voices had supported her and the whole church sang too, along with the singing in Essie’s heart that her daughter had come to her at last. That night, taking advantage of the wave of wonder in the church, Laura chose to introduce the Lucky Texts of which Essie had no inkling. As Marietta took her seat in the banked choir loft and the singing died down and Essie sat fanning in her big red chair, Laura stepped forward and thanked God for Essie, Marietta, and the Tambourine Chorus.

“And now,” she said, “I’ve got something new for you, church. After this fine chorus that you are going to hear on the air waves of the nation soon, and before I introduce our up-and-coming TV quartet, the Gloriettas, I got a surprise for everybody, right out of the Book—the Bible. And not one, but four surprises. I am going to give you four texts for the week—Lucky Texts, picked out with prayer and meditation on my part from the Holy Book. For each Lucky Text, members and friends, I want you to drop a quarter—or a dollar for all four—in the tambourines as they pass. Girls of the Offeratory, circulate amongst the congregation for their free-will gifts.”

Essie leaned forward. “Laura, you gonna stop the services to take up a collection now?”

“I am,” whispered Laura. “This is a special collection, so just hold your horses, Essie.”

She turned again to the people, opened the big Bible on the rostrum and fingered its gilt-edged pages.

“Friends, I want you-all to write down the numbers of these
Lucky Texts, and study these texts all during the week—until I give out some more next Sunday. Get your quarters ready, your dollar bills, and your pencils. Now write.”

Laura pretended to look at the Bible, wetting her thumb to turn its pages, but what she really looked at was a slip of paper she had lying on the rostrum.

“Psalms 9 and 20,” she said. “Got that? 9 and 20. Now drop a quarter in the tambourines. For each text a quarter. Give God His, folks, and you’ll get yours! … Next text: Leviticus 2-16, Chapter 2, verse 16. Take down all three numbers: 2-1-6. Twenty-five cents. You’ll have no luck if you don’t give God His’n. 2-16, yes! Aw, let ’em clink! Let the holy coins clink! … Now, again, ready? Revelations 12-3. Got it? 12-3. Let me read that text to you. Listen: ‘And there appeared another wonder in heaven; and behold a great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns, and seven crowns upon his heads.’ What a text! What a mighty text! Revelations 12-3! Yes, one-two-three! And in the text itself,
seven
heads and
ten
horns—the number
seven
and the number ten. Look up this text yourself—Revelations 12-3. … And now the last one. Oh, what a great text, too—Sister Essie’s favorite! But I ain’t gonna tell you what this one is. Just write the number on your pads, then look it up yourself. Read it and see for yourself. So take the numbers down—Job 11-7. Carefully, now! Write it right—Job 11-7. I said 7, 7-11, or 11-7 either way. Yes, bless God, children! 11-7, that’s right. Job 11-7.”

The rhythm of Laura’s phrases and the magic of the numbers, the 3, the 11, and the 7 to top them all, caused many among the crowd to cry aloud “Thank you, Sister Laura! Thank you!
Thanks, thanks! Thank you!” The tambourines were filled with money when the ushers returned to the rostrum. Laura estimated two, maybe three hundred dollars.

“There’ll be some numbers played tomorrow,” Buddy could not resist crying from his third-row seat.

Essie said, “Just listen at that Buddy taking everything wrong.”

Laura said, “Amen!” as if she had not heard. “Now a little holy music. Let me introduce to you for another happy time our singing pride, our Temple’s fine young women, the Four Gloriettas.”

The two gleaming grand pianos trilled, C.J.’s guitar joined the pianos, Birdie’s drums rolled, the trumpet played a golden note, and four buxom girls came forward shod in golden slippers and mauve robes to sing a song about the glory of touching God’s garment that ended:

For many there living in the tenements of Harlem, to believe in such wonder was worth every penny the tambourines collected.

SET TO ASCEND

“S
eventeen converts last night, including the man with one eye and one arm. This church is growing, Essie. But big as it is, it’s already busting at the seams.”

In the big room under the stage of Tambourine Temple as the midweek preliminary song service drew toward its close, with the choir singing upstairs, Laura and Essie were robing to make their entrance. As usual Laura was talking.

“Since I gave Buddy that red car for his birthday, Essie, I’ve been having to drive myself—or else get a chauffeur. So what do you think? I’m gonna
get
a chauffeur.”

“Ostentation is a sin, Laura.”

“So’s having too much money, according to you. But there’s
nothing I love as much as
too
much money. And the way it’s pouring in every night upstairs, I’m gonna stack up loot on the living room table next year and stare at it.”