Then why were there so many people at her funeral? Why had the chairs been put aside so that the crowds could be squeezed in? Why so many tears, and why would there be so much singing to come? The answer, as he gave it, though he had not meant to conclude his sermon this way, was to say that like Christ, whose sacrifice was the bridge between God and man, Stella Jo Pierce McIlhenny’s sacrificial life had become a bridge between whites and African Americans on Flowers Avenue. Without fanfare, notoriety, or the prospect of reward that could be seen with human eyes, she had accomplished what politicians and preachers had never been able to do. Now that she was gone, now that the Master had promoted her to the ranks of heaven and deservedly awarded her crowns, would any of them step into the gap, live as she had lived, bring healing to the churches--to the ’hood--to Calneh? Were there any who wanted to join Stella in making their world a street of angels?
Of course he had concluding remarks upon his concluding remarks. The main one was a question: Was there anyone who didn’t know the driving force in Sister Stella’s life? Was there anyone who wanted to bow for a brief prayer to meet her Master? Were there any who wanted people to some day celebrate their passing like they were for Sister Stella?
A dozen hands went up. He called those people aside, and before he quietly began to minister to them, he gave Rev. Willimon the microphone. John asked if there was anyone who wanted to share a story about Sister Stella. Immediately, hands went up. Hermione recounted the day she had met her at the county jail and what it had meant to her, and how Stella had invited her to a picnic and brought her to repentance. Theodora brokenly related the story of Alliance’s fire (omitting Erwin’s part in the matter) and how Stella had seen to the sale of two of her son’s sculptures for the rebuilding of the church. Carl Rames, Jefferson Davis Elementary’s first black principal, told of how she had been a model of perseverance to him. Mr. Takesugi, with his interpreter at his side, haltingly spoke in English of her graciousness to a stranger in Calneh.
Scores of people could have spoken of her generosity, of freely letting out her property for their vegetable gardens (until her health had finally failed her), and the Sunday dinners she spearheaded to feed the less fortunate in the neighborhood, but it took only Ioletta, her co-laborer, backed up, of course, by a chorus of amens.
To some in attendance, perhaps the biggest surprise was that Duane spoke not a word, though most would have allowed it was because of his grief, or that he simply was not the extroverted type, easily able to speak before crowds of more than a dozen. Regardless, after the first few had spoken of their friend now passed into heavenly realms, the floodgates opened. People crowded the steps of the gazebo, clamoring for the microphone, which Rev. Willimon kept firmly in his grasp, ready to assist but not willing to allow anyone to wander from the purpose at hand. He glanced in alarm at Cedric, as the numbers swelled. It would be nightfall before everyone had spoken, if something was not done.
Cedric, wise in the ways of weddings and funerals, took the microphone and asked for silence.
“When you all are done here, Reverend Johnny will deliver the benediction,” he announced, his voice rumbling pleasantly. “Afterwards, the services in honor of our dear sister will adjourn to the cemetery for all who wish to come for the interment. And after that--well, after that, all are welcome to Alliance Baptist for a time of food and fellowship.”
What might have taken hours was cut to 20 minutes. People reasoned, rightly so, too, that much of what they wanted to say could be said over dinner. Rev. Willimon bowed his head and uttered the benediction. That was perhaps when the most electrifying part of the celebration occurred. During the prayer, which was longer-winded than necessary (to those eager to move on to Alliance’s fellowship hall for eats), people saw Angel hobble up to the minister on his elbow crutches and hold out one hand.
Sensing Angel’s presence, his eyes opened before his utterance of the “Amen.”
“Brother Angel?”
Angel motioned for the microphone. Willimon gave it over, at the same time glancing wonderingly at Cedric, who nodded in approval. Angel cleared his throat.
For a long moment, the world in Anna Lee Odoms’ back yard held its breath. There were few in the multitude who had not heard Stella’s stories of how Angel could talk, that he just never seemed to want to, even if none of them had ever actually heard him utter a single word. Was he to speak now? Or, as Ioletta always thought, had Stella’s tales been nothing more than a fantasy to comfort her own mother-heart?
Anticipation built, as Angel cleared his throat again. He tottered, laboring speechlessly over the microphone. Maybe he could only croak like a frog. That’s what everyone thought they heard--one or two croaking sounds. Anticipation quickly turned to uneasiness, and the uneasiness to painful, sweeping embarrassment. His tongue ran over his weathered lips. Once more he cleared his throat.
In the next instant they heard him begin to hum. Coming from him, the sound was more eloquent than any words most of us are ever likely to speak. The tune was Will the Circle Be Unbroken? As on the day Hermione, the prodigal daughter, had come to the picnic and returned to the Heavenly Father, his humming was more like the music of angels than of men. Through the first verse no one moved, not even to wipe away tears, and no one seemed able to breathe. On the chorus, Hermione came and linked arms with Angel. As tears ran unchecked down his face, she took up the song, beginning again from the top, her voice soaring over the crowd. On the second verse, the musicians joined in and the crowd began singing along.
In some ways the celebration was just beginning. Calneh is not at all like New Orleans, especially when it comes to funerals like you see in the movies or on TV, or read about in the National Geographic, where the mourners accompany the funeral bier in a train of humanity, everyone dressed to the nines, singing When The Saints Go Marching In and expressing their grief in the language of jazz. Leastwise, Calneh is not usually like that--but there was definitely that flavor to it, if perhaps somewhat diluted by Flowers Baptist’s more straitlaced members. The musicians continued on their instruments and started out, the crowd parting for them to make their way from Anna Lee’s yard. The pallbearers followed with the coffin and were trailed by Angel, who bumped along in company with Duane, his twin brother. Supported by Lamarr (in his full-dress Army Major’s uniform), Ioletta was next, followed by Hermione, who walked hand in hand with two teenagers, Theron and Luke. Yet more musicians followed before the multitude, everyone singing as they went, squeezed through the gate and eventually trickled out of sight.
Anna Lee watched from the gazebo’s steps, while Chance bolted shut the six foot high gate to their back yard. She saw him frown, his eyes surveying the damage to shrubbery and flowers alike, as he walked back to her.
He watched as she dried her tears on a lace hanky. “One thing about plants, they do grow back,” he said, sighing heavily.
“It doesn’t matter one whit, darling.”
“Really?” He said, giving her a curious look.
She stood and brushed off her dress, then took his arm and aimed him toward the house.
“Really,” she said. “In a few weeks I’ll be preparing it for a vegetable garden, so why should it matter?”
“Vegetable garden!” He started, dumbfounded by the idea. His wife had never before been interested in raising vegetables.
“Not for us, darling, for the neighborhood.”
****
AFTERWORD
I think you would be pretty hard pressed to recognize the old place on Flowers Ave., if you drove up to it nowadays. Of course, most of the old timers wouldn’t recognize Flowers Ave., either, if they hadn’t stayed around to see all the changes the Yuppies brought, including the rise in property values and taxes. I don’t know how a lot of them make it on their limited incomes, but somehow they keep hanging in there. Although, when it comes down to it, there are neighbors who likely help them when things are tight. I know
some folks who give regularly to help out but keep it on the hush-hush because they want all the credit to go to God.
Momma’s place, as you know from reading this, was long overdue for improvement. The first year or two after I was let out of jail, I couldn’t find work much better than busing tables at a restaurant because of my being an ex-con, so I started working on the house. I can’t say I jacked up the house and put in the new foundation all by myself or personally redid the plumbing to the street (I was smart enough to know better now rather than later), but the Craftsman style exterior was all my work. The interior took longer than the rest because I wanted everything perfect, and people tell me they think it’s real special. Cal, my old cellie (who taught me drafting and all I really know about reading and writing), when he saw it, his eyes about popped out of his head. Pretty much the only thing I haven’t gotten around to doing up right is the porch, which mostly just needs the screens built in to keep out bugs on hot summer evenings.
It’s a good thing my daddy taught me how to work, even if we were on the road most of the time. Bert Davies knew how to work. It’s just a shame he spent most of his life figuring how to avoid it by stealing from others. Looking back now, thinking about him kidnapping me, I almost wonder if he didn’t grab me just because he was too lazy to make a kid of his own. Certainly, he wasn’t the sort you could feature doing those things that need to be done afterwards, like changing diapers or feeding a kid, or tossing him a baseball when he’s old enough.
I wrote and asked Bert about that once, but he never did answer my letter. I imagine he smiled, though, when he read it. He might have cussed a bit, too, but I bet he had a chuckle, after he thought about it for a while. Bert wasn’t stupid--a fool maybe, but not stupid.
Some people, reading this, might be offended by my calling Ol’ Bert my daddy, especially when he stole me away from Leonard and Stella Jo like he did. But to defend myself, I really don’t remember anything of Leonard and living here with him and my real mother and my twin brother. The only memory I have of a father is Bert, of traveling around with him and Mertie from a young age, keeping one step ahead of the law, though early on I didn’t understand anything of that. Some people might wonder, too, how I could completely forget my own folks and living in Calneh on Flowers Ave. and going to school at Jeff Davis Elementary, when I was as old as six or seven when Bert and Mertie grabbed me. The only answer I can give is to say I don’t understand it myself. All I know, being on the road, moving around a whole heck of a lot, and being told to properly introduce myself as Mark John Davies all the time, those are the things I remember from my childhood. If people don’t like that answer, I can’t help it. Besides that, the only other thing I really remember about my early childhood is the nightmares, of being grabbed by aliens and carried away in a space ship. But you know about that from reading this book, and I really don’t like talking about that alien junk because it gives me the creeps.
Not that anybody really wants to hear that much about me, anyhow, especially after reading about what a jerk I was to my mother and brother later on. There must have been something in me, though, that wouldn’t let me completely forget my folks and Flowers Avenue. Otherwise, why would I have crashed my Camaro through the fence and broken down the door to the house, if there wasn’t something hidden away in my brain to call me home? I don’t mean to minimize the idea of God answering my mother’s prayers. But did God have to send me to jail for nearly ten years?
I know, some people have told me yes, that it took that long to straighten me back around, and jail was what finally did it. This sovereignty of God thing confuses me, at times. Me, there are times I just like to ask Him if he knows what He’s doing. But don’t get me wrong, I don’t ask it irreverently. Sometimes I just wonder if He’s sure.
My brother, Michael, who everyone around here except for myself calls Angel, I don’t think he ever asks those kinds of questions. Even if he did, I don’t suppose he would tell anybody about it, considering he still doesn’t say more than a handful of words in any given year. My theory is that hidden inside his twisted, deformed body, there’s really this magnificent place, this place where he spends most of his livelong days talking with God and singing songs of worship that we only hear as that constant humming of his. For the rest, his statue making and all, that’s an expression of his hands, I guess, imitating God, seeing Him making people out of the dust. I don’t know for sure, mind you--it’s just a guess on my part.
He does most of his work indoors now. Once the neighborhood started improving and a lot of the newcomers involved themselves in local politics and in their neighborhood associations, they forced everybody into cleaning up their yards. They certainly didn’t want our place looking like a cemetery.
I can’t say their meddling bothered me much. Before they ever came knocking on our door, I had drawn up plans for a new, higher fence and a proper workshop where Michael could work in comfort year round on his projects. That’s what the building with the massive skylights and sliding barn doors is for. I knew Michael wouldn’t care for it if it wasn’t like working outdoors, not after years of having the sun shine down on the back of his neck. People from out of town, or from around the world, like to think of it as Michael’s studio, and of course it’s where they come when they want to buy one of his angel sculptures.
When I’m not working on the house or drawing up plans to help out one of the local architects, I negotiate the sale of his statues for him and do the traveling to make sure they’re properly installed. In the States, at least. On account of my felony, Cecily Odoms takes care of the details when we sell anything for overseas. She lived in Europe for a lot of years before coming back home to help move her folks to Lake Havasu for their retirement. Havasu’s a town out in the state of Arizona, if you don’t know. They thought they’d like to move to some place where it wasn’t so humid or rainy, and the doctor recommended it because of Captain Odoms’ emphysema.
It looks like Cecily might stick around, too. Folks around here wouldn’t be too surprised to see her marry Lamarr, who took over preaching for Rev. Champion at Alliance after retiring from the Army as a colonel. You bet it would make some people uncomfortable, though most folks would understand, I think, them growing up practically as neighbors, and him losing his pretty wife Kyla when a damned drunk plowed into her car last year. Rev. Lamarr’s tough, though, he was back to preaching a week later, even though old Rev. Champion could have filled in for him. I’ll bet the old folks would have loved to see Rev. Champion in the pulpit a little longer, even if he is in his nineties--but Lamarr, he does all right for himself. Alliance Baptist has just kept on growing ever since he took over the reins. In fact, now and then there’re a lot of white folks who attend his church. Michael goes there at least half the time, I’d say, although I suppose it might be mostly to hear Hermione sing or one of her choirs.
Myself, I prefer Flowers Baptist next door. For my tastes, all that shouting and carrying on is a bit much. Besides, Rev. Johnny has me ushering every Sunday, says I’m his right hand man. The church has grown so much in the past few years, he certainly needs a right hand man. Once in a while, when he or his assistant, Rev. Ronnie Tatum, can’t be around, he even has me help with his Wednesday night prayer meeting. I just wish my momma, Stella Jo, was still here to see all that’s been happening and how her sons are doing. I think she’d be real proud. I know Momma Ioletta sure is proud of us boys.
THE END
To the Reader
About the Author
As of this writing, Joe Derkacht lives in Newberg, Oregon, where he is the sole caregiver for his elderly mother. He has lived up and down the West Coast, in cities large and small, and grew up in a small beach community (pop. 247) where he had plenty of time to fantasize about future writing projects. He has been involved in lay ministry for many years and earned a diploma in biblical studies from The King’s College in Los Angeles, California: hence his inte
rest in religious-themed literature. He has also written novels and screenplays in the Fantasy, Science Fiction, and Spy-Thriller genres, some of which he may later release as ebooks.
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