Jesus Boy. Preston L. Allen

his son. Not me, but his other son. My brother. For it was my father’s face that had drawn her to this table and her lips to the back of my neck. But I was the wrong son.

      I was Benny Willett, a college student with a 4.0 GPA and a stomach full of Italian chicken and broken promises. I was nobody special.

      As I watched the woman’s bouncing backside flee the airport restaurant, I was filled with the wonder and mystery of my brother, the little preacher for whom the kiss had been intended, my little brother Elwyn Parker, whom I had never met.

The Boy from Opa-Locka

      When I got up the next morning, I heard voices in the house and not just my mom’s. They were already here.

      I went into the bathroom and brushed and flossed my teeth and took care of some other urgent business. Someone pushed on the door, which had no lock. I didn’t want to be seen in the middle of my business, so I hurriedly yelled, “I’m in here!”