Run Baby Run (10 page)

They all burst out laughing and made introductions.

"I've had a hell of a day. Nice to meet you guys. And sorry about my first response. Thanks for being cool about it," Delery said.

He was ready to head downtown. Took Poland to Claiborne and saw everything as expected along the way, except for an older woman walking slowly along the pedestrian part of the Claiborne overpass above the train tracks. She was dressed all in white, obviously on her way to church.

The peculiar thing was that she was carrying a large beer case almost half her size.

10

H
utch's appetite was kicking. Having the Chinese restaurant directly across the street in full view made his stomach worse. He was hoping it'd be open soon, so he could pick up some food and bring it back without anyone seeing him. Otherwise, time to start limping to a truck stop and catch a lift to Houston.

Traffic on Franklin was steady, usual for Sunday morning, but Hutch's attention casually drifted to the sidewalk directly below him. He jumped inside himself and barely kept from calling out. He'd been smacked like a nightmare.

"Shit. Granny got it?" he mouthed.

He was stunned to see a woman slowly pass beneath the window. She was old and moved like it. All in white from head to toe, blending beautifully with her black skin.

She was also unmistakably carrying the large Abita beer case that flew out the jeep window with Clint Olson. It had the large mark in the corner that Mr. C required of his bartenders for inventory, but was the money in it?

Hutch scrambled to the stairs, limping and dodging rubble, trying to keep from falling through the weak floorboards. Coughing the whole way. He hobbled downstairs and out the back, pulled himself over two chain link fences, and finally arrived at the sidewalk, adrenaline-filled.

Looking off to the right, he saw she'd crossed Derbigny and was passing through a group of people. Gliding as if her feet weren't moving, so small were her steps. She turned into a building.

Hutch took a few steps to read the posted sign. New Grace Tabernacle Full Gospel Baptist Church. He reversed his steps to go back upstairs and stand at the window in wait for her to come back.

Black churches and white churches are as dissimilar as a placid bath and a vigorous shower. Water in a completely different framework.

White churches are often pious somber affairs. They tend to have a macabre fixation on the book of Revelations or an unhealthy obsession with the prosperity principle, that wealth is ordained for the devout. All is rigid.

Typically, black churches are entirely different. Joy for the soul. Music for the ears and body. Blessings for the heart and mind. Also, performances from the pulpit like no other. Despite black culture being routinely co-opted and turned into weak tea for a white mainstream in the U.S., black churches largely haven't been touched. Why? Because it can't be pulled off.

This is definitely the case in New Orleans when black folks go churchin' and most definitely for those who do so at The Tab.

The Tab, usual nickname for the seven word version on the sign, had been around for two decades. It was nondescript from the outside. Not a house church or a storefront one. Not ostentatious either. In fact, it appeared almost fortress-like.

Miss Melba passed through the opened security fence and the door on the right held for her. There was a modest foyer with a greeter's desk on the left and an overflow room off to the side. Music was easily heard pouring through the walls.

She was known for being devout, so eyebrows raised high, elbows nudged, mouths dropped, and eyes popped when she glided through them all, carrying a beer case on her way to the sanctuary.

"Excuse me. Would you place a program in my hand?" she asked, announcing, "Only commodities inside. No devil brew in this box."

A kindly usher opened the door and led her to a seat in a pew off to the right for latecomers. Actions by those who saw her echoed those in the lobby, with the addition of friends who greeted her by name, nodded with a smile, or gently squeezed her arm. Each time she repeated her pat response about commodities. Each time they affirmed in reply.

Miss Melba placed the box at her feet and joined in the service. Everyone was standing and most were swaying to the choir. Though the music was sublime, the four speakers mounted overhead on the sides blasted the voices and instruments at a level that would humble a rock club. It didn't bother Miss Melba. Her hearing had dropped off plenty over the years.

In front of her, there were twelve long rows divided in thirds by two aisles. Four short rows in back where she was standing were separated from the larger section by a wide aisle. At capacity, the church could seat upwards of 180 people.

The walls and ceiling were white. The carpet and pews were blue. All crisp in the post-disaster way that parts of the city looked like they'd just come out of the box.

The twenty-five members of the superchoir were singing in a hypnotic African-influenced call-and-response way. They were gathered along an elevated stage up four steps on one side of the pulpit. The drummer, keyboardist, organist, and percussionist were on the other. James Brown and the JB's would've taken a few pointers.

There were two large flat screen tv's on the wall behind them looping through announcements and motivational sayings. Two overhead banks of lights completed the balance.

All the high-tech equipment was in full force, except for air conditioning. Ladies were fanning themselves. Men were wiping their brows. There was a mix of the nicely dressed, many in white like Miss Melba, and the extremely casual. A few folks were stylin' in a major way, and one young man wore a t-shirt that read "Fallen Heroes" at the top and had pictures of Tupac and Biggie below. If folks had a little money, they were dressing fancy come Sunday. Hair was done no matter what.

The congregants were regular people of modest means, almost all from the surrounding neighborhood. Their lives were not easy or filled with creature comforts. For a few hours each Sunday they had a place that was theirs to help get through the week. Plus, the house was rockin'.

After the choir sang a song with the key line, "Let's go back to the old time days," slipping and sliding along the melody and chanting for over a quarter hour, Sister Pastor Yvonne Russell stood from her seat at the edge of the stage.

She clapped and raised her hands up along with everyone else. When she reached the pulpit, Sister leaned into the mic and said, "Good morning. So happy to see everyone today. But you know, we don't wanna go back to those old days, do we?"

Everyone either vigorously answered back, "No!" or at least shook their heads.

"That's right. We're walking through new days. Without Jesus, where we gonna be? In the grave, under the jail, under the grave, in the jail."

A wrinkled man called out, "Don't forget right on top of the grave."

Sister Pastor Russell announced the monthly Youth Spotlight winner, Fenny Kendrick. The fourteen year old was dressed in a white leotard and colorful tutu for her interpretive dance of a recorded praise song. She was filled with the Spirit and nervousness, but everyone was supportive of her twirling, particularly when she used her index fingers and thumbs to put her diamonds up to the sky. She was thanked with applause and a gift certificate.

Next, Sister Pastor announced the church's senior pastor. Though his given name was Terrell Jackson, he was known to all as Slow Prophet, or S.P. for short. Organ music and clapping in unison wove a carpet for his entrance, from a door behind the stage, up to the pulpit. He chastely embraced Sister Pastor Russell, looked out to the pews, and straightened his dashiki.

"It's a blessed Sunday. Greet those around you. Nobody's greeting you, then you hug yourself," he began in an understated way.

He was barely thirty-three but had the full husky voice of an older man. He wore black dress pants and sported black sneakers. A large watch on his left wrist was his only concession to modern fashion.

"Do I look like I'm ready to come correct?" he asked, nodding to the responses.

S.P. was a man whose weight and appearance fluctuated greatly depending on how many Big Buford's he'd had that week. He admitted as much by mentioning that the devil drove him to drive-thru, but the Lord made a long line that eventually S.P. gave up on.

All joined hands for prayer.

"Don't rob God," was S.P.'s call for the offering. Tithing envelopes were passed out. A line formed along each aisle, and two young boys waited in front for the newly filled envelopes to be placed in the containers that resembled flower pots.

Miss Melba thrust an empty left hand into her beer case, grabbed one of the money packets, inserted a tithing envelope into the case with her right hand, and discreetly tucked the money inside, writing nothing on the envelope. She was at church but wasn't foolish enough to think that mattered with the amount she had.

She less-discreetly carried the box of money with her and took her place in line, with the stuffed envelope on top of the refolded lid. Those who hadn't initially seen her come in went through the prescribed nudging, eyebrow raising, mouth dropping, and asides. She quietly repeated, "Only some commodities. No devil brew here," all the way to the stage.

One person responded to her more strongly than the others. He snorted like he'd heard the joke of all jokes, but not a funny one. His mouth hung slack like an imbecile. He flung his arms up, back down, then up again. He shook like a junkie quitting cold turkey.

The lady to his left smiled. "You've got the faith," she said.

The Holy Trinity was
not
the catalyst for his erratic movements, though. D-Day, so called because of his name David Day and the destruction he was prone to unleash, was in a quandary. He'd been trying to get his life right. His face was carved up with scars from several knife scuffles over his twenty-eight years. His mind was carved up by an upbringing far more violent.

D-Day started sweating. Here was a trial presenting itself. He'd heard on the street about a missing beer box of money, and it looked like the old lady standing in the aisle to his right had it.

"Hustler recognize hustler," he muttered.

His internal struggle was strong before seeing what Miss Melba held. He'd spent last night pulling the crutch hustle on tourists. It was too easy, especially on a Saturday night.

He'd limp around with one crutch for support. No one's scared of an invalid, so they'd let their guard down. D-Day would either swat them over the head with the crutch or use it from behind to choke. Whichever route, he could spend a few hours Saturday night and make a week's worth of cheese. At least $500.

The problem was that his conscience was weighing heavy on him. He was back in church for the first time in over a decade, and the temptation of all temptations was so close he could smell it.

The lines cycled through the tithers, including Miss Melba, and they all took their seats.

D-Day looked over his shoulder, so he knew where Miss Melba was sitting. She wasn't leaving before the end of the sermon. He knew that much.

Slow Prophet checked his watch. 11:50 a.m.

"This is from the book of James. Chapter 1, verse 8," he said, holding up his Bible. "A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways," he read.

For the next forty-five minutes, S.P. took that verse and stretched it, sliced it, soothed it, and diced it. He was masterful at his craft, his interweaving and referencing no lesser to the art of Escher or the compositions of Bach.

He always started the same way. "I'm just a man, a vessel filled up by Jesus. He took his time with me, so I gotta take my time with you. And how do I preach?" he asked.

"Slow!" they responded.

He smiled and nodded. "That's right. I start out slow until the Lord tells me to move, to cruise. Until then, can I take my time?"

"Keep it slow, Slow Prophet."

"I said, 'Can I take my time?' Mmm hmmm. Can you walk if you're cut in half? Hoppin' on one leg. Can you drive a car with only wheels on the left side? That car's tippin' over. Double-minded man's like that. Unstable." His words were drawn out, each syllable deliberated.

"Preach it, S.P.," a few called out.

"A double mind's not good for a man," he mused, pointing at his head. "Brings too much confusion. It'll mess with you. Tip you over. Make you hop so much you start crawlin'. This applies for you too, ladies. Oh yes. Can you put on those new jeans, the ones with the rhinestones on the back pockets and the little rips down the front, if they're cut in half? Would you step outside the nail salon if only your left hand's done?"

The woman of The Tab were aghast. "Of course not!"

"Yes, if you're not ready for the blessing, the blessing's... ," he paused and gestured.

"Not ready for you," several said, completing the line.

Miss Melba and D-Day were responding to the sermon in opposite ways. She felt confirmation of her actions to come after church, that she was single-minded by faith. He, on the other hand, was even more torn by the minute.

"Look at your neighbor and tell 'em, 'No more double mind,'" S.P. encouraged. The congregation all earnestly repeated it to those around them.

"You gotta be mindful. If you're single-minded, He's got the power. I wish I had a witness in here."

Hands rose throughout the sanctuary. "C'mon, pastor."

"When's the last night you had a full night's rest? Double mind'll mess with you."

If a black man could have a sickly green pallor, it was D-Day.

Slow Prophet crouched, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his face.

"Time for ole S.P. to get movin'. You gotta move your mind. Gotta be mindful. Tell someone, 'I need some answers and I need some help.'" His request was repeated throughout the sanctuary. He started picking up the pace.

"Can't live life unstable. You need to rewind that double mind. Rewind it now," he exhorted. "Can I get a witness?"

Hands popped up again. S.P. squatted down.

"Cut in half's not pretty, is it? Not pretty on the inside either."

"Help us today" and "No sir" were heard throughout the room.

D-Day was ready to break. He had three ways to go. He could go crawling, clawing, and crying in repentance down the aisle. He could defiantly reject the sermon. Or he could find a third way. Whichever route, it needed to happen quickly.

He chose the latter, or actually, it chose him. "No more crutch hustle. No more stealin'. Get my mind stable. Alla that... after I get the box of money. Jesus want me to have it," he thought.

For the next few minutes, he listened only in a cursory way, responding to S.P. in whichever way his neighbors were. It seemed like he was in a dream. D-Day was planning.