Dominion (45 page)

GC and Ty drove up to the 7-Eleven, where on the side facing the road, the boys were chillin’ and kickin’, everyone from original gangsters to tinies.

“Hey, homes, sup?” The brothers slapped skin all around.

“Yo, GC, what it
is
, baby!”

“Who da man now, locs?” GC asked.

“Who da man?
You
da man, cuz.”

“Ghost! How you be, my brotha?”

GC and Ghost embraced, patting each other on the back, showing the respect of officers in the presence of enlisted men. Ty had never been this close to Gray Ghost, and now that he was he took the opportunity to look at the outer corner of the Ghost’s left eye. He’d heard he had five teardrop tattoos. Sure enough, he saw them. Some said each stood for a year spent in prison. Others said each stood for a rival gang member killed. Either way it put Ty in awe.

“Well, here de boys,” GC surveyed the group, “hangin’, bangin’, and slangin!”

“Hangin and bangin’ anyway. Not much slangin’.” Ghost pointed to a dealer a block away, peddling product to two customers. “Punk there, he doin’ the slangin’. He sellin’ me cheap, and all the cluckheads goin’ to him. He use more than he sell, but he costin’ us today, cuz.”

“He didn’t buy from me,” GC said. “Gettin’ his product somewhere else, huh? Undercuttin’ my homie? We gotta pay that boy a visit tonight, Ghost. What say?”

“Say right on, homes. We maybe smoke dat nigger. Righteous.” The two gave each other a knowing look, slapped skin, and said no more about it.

“Daddy, you have to read to us,” Keisha begged.

“Not now. I’m too tired.”

“Mommy, can
you
read it to us? The first Narnia book? About Aslan the lion? It’s almost to the end, but Daddy hasn’t read it to us for the longest time. We want to know what happens.”

“Your daddy’s the reader.”

“But he never has time.”

“Clarence, do you want me to read it to them?” Geneva felt trapped.

Clarence shrugged. “Whatever.”

She didn’t want to, she wanted him to. But looking at the eyes of her children, she decided it was better Mom than nobody. She watched Clarence walk to his office, shoulders slouching, and close the door.

Celeste handed Geneva the book, as if passing her a royal scepter. “This is where we left off. They just killed Aslan.”

Geneva read about Susan and Lucy coming to the dead lion. “And down they both knelt in the wet grass and kissed his cold face and stroked his beautiful fur— what was left of it—and cried till they could cry no more.”

“This is very sad.” Geneva looked at the children. “Are you sure you want me to keep reading?”

“Yes!” Keisha said.

“Yes!” Celeste echoed.

Jonah nodded.

Geneva read how they took the muzzle off the lion, how they tried to untie him, but the cords were drawn so tight they could do nothing with the knots. The girls grew cold; the sky gray. Hours later they walked away, feeling nothing good could ever happen again. After a time they heard a great thunderous noise where they’d left the lion’s ravaged body. They ran back to discover “the Stone Table was broken into two pieces by a great crack that ran down it from end to end; and there was no Aslan.”

The girls mourned that the body had been taken. Despairing, they suddenly heard a voice behind them. “They looked round. There, shining in the sunrise, larger than they had seen him before, shaking his mane (for it had apparently grown again), stood Aslan himself.”

“Aslan’s alive?” Keisha asked, eyes wide. Geneva saw the light in Celeste’s eyes and the smile on Jonah’s face. She continued reading.

“Oh, Aslan!” cried both the children, staring up at him, almost as much frightened as they were glad.

“Aren’t you dead then, dear Aslan?” said Lucy.

“Not now,” said Aslan.

“You’re not—not a—?” asked Susan in a shaky voice. She couldn’t bring herself to say the word
ghost.

Aslan stooped his golden head and licked her forehead. The warmth of his breath and a rich sort of smell that seemed to hang about his hair came all over her.

“Do I look it?” he said.

“Oh, you’re real, you’re real! Oh, Aslan!” cried Lucy, and both girls flung themselves upon him and covered him with kisses.

“But what does it all mean?” asked Susan when they were somewhat calmer.

“It means,” said Aslan, “that though the Witch knew the Deep Magic, there is a magic deeper still which she did not know. Her knowledge goes back only to the dawn of Time. But if she could have looked a little further back, into the stillness and the darkness before Time dawned, she would have read there a different incantation. She would have known that when a willing victim who had committed no treachery was killed in a traitor’s stead, the Table would crack and Death itself would start working backward.”

With shouts of joy and roars of exuberance Aslan leapt high over the girls and landed on the other side of the Table. The girls chased him. He tossed them in the air with his huge velveted paws and caught them again. It was a great romp. A celebration of resurrection.

And Aslan stood up, and when he opened his mouth to roar, his face became so terrible that they did not dare to look at it. And they saw all the trees in front of him bend before the blast of his roaring as grass bends in a meadow before the wind.

The children in the Abernathy home seemed connected with the children in Narnia. They wouldn’t let Geneva stop reading, and she didn’t want to stop either. She read of Aslan going to free the people who’d been turned into statues by the White Witch. Finally, she read of the great battle and the defeat of the Witch.

“Aslan is not a tame lion,” the book said several times.

No, Geneva thought. He is not.

“Come on, Clarence. Stop whining, will you?” Geneva spoke to him from the passenger seat as he drove through North Portland.

“I’m not whining.” He almost smiled in spite of himself. “I’m sulking. There’s a difference.”

“It’s only a Bible study. Two hours a week. What’s the big deal?”

“I just don’t like to feel pressured. I choose my own friends.”

“Pastor Clancy hand-picked the people for this group, and for some reason he chose us.”

“Didn’t ask to be chosen. Sunday’s one thing. Wednesday night, that’s something else.”

“Clarence, you’ve been readin’ the Bible for years. You and Jake talk about it all the time. You used to read it to the kids.” The “used to” stung Clarence. “So what’s your big problem with havin’ a Bible study with some church folk?”

Clarence sighed. “It’s not my church. Just don’t think I’m gonna get much out of this group.”

“Well, with that attitude I’m sure you won’t. Maybe you need to stop thinking about getting and start thinking about giving.” Clarence stared straight ahead, saying nothing. “You know what, Clarence? Every time you start to lose an argument you just shut your mouth and get sullen.” She sighed. “Come on, baby, give it a chance. A group of mixed nuts, that’s what Pastor Clancy called it. A sampling of blacks, whites, Hispanics, Asians, and an American Indian—every ethnic group in the church. A little experiment in racial harmony. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“The experiment could blow up in our faces. I just don’t think you can force a racial mix.”

“Who are you, George Wallace? With that approach schools would still be segregated. Besides, nobody’s forcing it. They’re just trying it. You work with whites and Asians and Hispanics and God knows what else at the
Trib.
Why can’t you do it in a Bible study?”

“I want my private life to be relaxing, you know? You can talk about racial harmony till you’re blue in the face, but it never seems to do any good.”

“So we just give up, is that it?”

Clarence retreated into silence. He turned on the overhead light just a moment to look at the directions Geneva had gotten from Pastor Clancy. He turned onto Weber Road, swerved around a broken beer bottle, and pulled up in front of the Edwards’s house.

Geneva reached over and squeezed his hand. “Just give it a chance, baby. That’s all I’m asking.”

Clarence nodded. “Well, at least it’s a potluck. Where there’s food, it’s never a total loss.” He squeezed her hand back. He got out, went around, and opened her door. They headed up the cracked, rough-edged sidewalk to the front door, Clarence carrying the fried chicken in a Tupperware bowl.

“Welcome, Abernathys!” John Edwards extended his hand. “Come on in, you and your fried chicken both. Glad you made it.”

“Glad to be here,” Clarence said, avoiding Geneva’s glance.

The other couples were already there, milling around the living room, engaged in small talk. Clarence noted the women hovering over the table, laying out the food. Two white men and an Asian stood on the other side of the room. It sounded like they were talking business and high finance. John Edwards had resumed a conversation with another black man Clarence had never seen. A Latino man and the person Clarence figured must be the American Indian had formed their own group of racial leftovers.

Typical. This is going to be an experience all right.

John Edwards got the group’s attention. “Welcome to the United Nations Bible study group.” Nervous laughter rippled over the room.

“We’ve got just about everybody but Arabs and Jews, and if any went to our church, I’m sure Pastor Clancy would have invited them too.”

John introduced everyone by name, led in prayer, then said, “Let’s eat.” Clarence moseyed on up, engaging in small talk and answering questions about working at the
Trib.
People seemed genuinely interested.

“So, what do you do?” Clarence asked Ray, the Indian.

“I’m a PI. Private investigator.”

“No kidding?”

“Yeah, I was a Detroit cop for fifteen years. Last five as a detective. It’s that Indian blood in me, you know—fingers in the dirt, ear to the ground, listen to the train tracks, you’ve seen the movies.” He laughed. “I’m pretty independent, so four years ago I took an early retirement from the force and set up my own business.”

“What brought you out here?”

“Family. Kathy’s parents live nearby. She wanted to be close, and I was ready for a change. Took a year or so to build the business. Now I’ve got more work than I can handle.”

“Know any Portland police?” Clarence said.

“Sure. Quite a few. You?”