the trees blur, I wanted nothing more than to be through with it all: the bus ride, the troop, school—all of it. But we were going home. I’d see the same girls in school the next day. We were on a bus, and there was nowhere else to go.
“Go on, Laurel,” Daphne said to me. It seemed like the first time she’d spoken the whole trip, and she’d said my name. I turned to her and smiled weakly so as not to cry, hoping she’d remember when I’d tried to be her friend, thinking maybe that her gift of the journal was an invitation of friendship. But she didn’t smile back. All she said was, “What happened?”
I studied the girls, waiting for Octavia to tell me to shut up again before I even had a chance to utter another word, but everyone was amazed that Daphne had spoken. The bus was silent. I gathered my voice. “Well,” I said. “My father and I were in this mall, but I was the one doing the staring.” I stopped and glanced from face to face. I continued. “There were these white people dressed like Puritans or something, but they weren’t Puritans. They were Mennonites. They’re these people who, if you ask them to do a favor, like paint your porch or something, they have to do it. It’s in their rules.”
“That sucks,” someone said.
“C’mon,” Arnetta said. “You’re lying.”
“I am not.”
“How do you know that’s not just some story someone made up?” Elise asked, her head cocked full of daring. “I mean, who’s gonna do whatever you ask?”
“It’s not made up. I know because when I was looking at them, my father said, ‘See those people? If you ask them to do something, they’ll do it. Anything you want.’”
No one would call anyone’s father a liar—then they’d have to fight the person. But Drema parsed her words carefully. “How does your father know that’s not just some story? Huh?”
“Because,” I said, “he went up to the man and asked him would he paint our porch, and the man said yes. It’s their religion.”
“Man, I’m glad I’m a Baptist,” Elise said, shaking her head in sympathy for the Mennonites.
“So did the guy do it?” Drema asked, scooting closer to hear if the story got juicy.
“Yeah,” I said. “His whole family was with him. My dad drove them to our house. They all painted our porch. The woman and girl were in bonnets and long, long skirts with buttons up to their necks. The guy wore this weird hat and these huge suspenders.”
“Why,” Arnetta asked archly, as though she didn’t believe a word, “would someone pick a porch? If they’ll do anything, why not make them paint the whole house? Why not ask for a hundred bucks?”
I thought about it, and then remembered the words my father had said about them painting our porch, though I had never seemed to think about his words after he’d said them.
“He said,” I began, only then understanding the words as they uncoiled from my mouth, “it was the only time he’d have a white man on his knees doing something for a black man for free.”
I now understood what he meant, and why he did it, though I didn’t like it. When you’ve been made to feel bad for so long, you jump at the chance to do it to others. I remembered the Mennonites bending the way Daphne had bent when she was cleaning the restroom. I remembered the dark blue of their bonnets, the black of their shoes. They painted the porch as though scrubbing a floor. I was already trembling before Daphne asked quietly, “Did he thank them?”
I looked out the window. I could not tell which were the thoughts and which were the trees. “No,” I said, and suddenly knew there was something mean in the world that I could not stop.
Arnetta laughed. “If I asked them to take off their long skirts and bonnets and put on some jeans, would they do it?”
And Daphne’s voice, quiet, steady: “Maybe they would. Just to be nice.”
Every Tongue Shall Confess
AS PASTOR EVERETT MADE the announcements that began the service, Clareese Mitchell stood with her choir members, knowing that once again she had to Persevere, put on the Strong Armor of God, the Breastplate of Righteousness, but she was having her monthly womanly troubles and all she wanted to do was curse the Brothers’ Church Council of Greater Christ Emmanuel Pentecostal Church of the Fire Baptized, who’d decided that the Sisters had to wear white every Missionary Sunday, which was, of course, the day of the month when her womanly troubles were always at their absolute worst! And to think that the Brothers’ Church Council of Greater Christ Emmanuel Pentecostal Church of the Fire Baptized had been the first place she’d looked for guidance and companionship nearly ten years ago when her aunt Alma had fallen ill. And why not? They were God-fearing, churchgoing men; men like Deacon Julian Jeffers, now sitting in the first row of pews, closest to the altar, right under the leafy top of the corn plant she’d brought in to make the sanctuary more homey. Two months ago she’d been reading the book of Micah and posed the idea of a Book of Micah discussion group to the Deacon Jeffers and he’d said, “Oh, Sister Clareese! We should make you a deacon!” Which of course they didn’t. Deacons, like pastors, were men—not that she was complaining. But it still rankled that Jeffers had said he’d get back to her about the Micah discussion group and he never had.
Clareese’s cross-eyes roved to the back of the church where Sister Drusella and Sister Maxwell sat, resplendent in their identical wide-brimmed, purple-flowered hats, their unsaved guests sitting next to them. The guests wore frightened smiles, and Clareese tried to shoot them reassuring looks. The gold-lettered banner behind them read: “We Are More Than Conquerors in Christ Our Lord,” and she tried to use this as a focal point. But her cross-eyes couldn’t help it; they settled, at last, on Deacon McCreedy, making his way down the aisle for the second time. Oh, how she hated him!
She would never forget—never, never, never—the day he came to the hospital where she worked; she was still wearing her white nurse’s uniform and he’d said he was concerned about her spiritual well-being—Liar!—then drove her to where she lived with her aunt Alma, whose room resounded with perpetual snores and hacking and wheezing—as if Clareese didn’t have enough of this at the hospital—and while Alma slept, Clareese poured Deacon McCreedy some fruit punch, which he drank between forkfuls of chicken, plus half their pork roast. No sooner than he’d wiped his hands on the napkin—didn’t bother using a fork—he stood and walked behind her, covering her cross-eyes as though she were a child, as though he were about to give her a gift—a Bible with her very own name engraved on it, perhaps—but he didn’t give her anything, he’d just covered her wandering eyes and said, “Sing ‘On Christ the Solid Rock I Stand.’ Make sure to do the Waterfall.” And she was happy to do it, happy to please Deacon McCreedy, so she began singing in her best, cleanest voice until she felt his hand slide up the scratchy white pantyhose of her nurse’s uniform and up toward the control-top of her pantyhose. Before she could stop him, one finger was wriggling around inside, and by then it was too late to tell him she was having her monthly womanly troubles. He drew back in disgust—no, hatred—then rinsed his hand in the kitchen sink and left without saying a word, not a thanks for the chicken or the pork roast or her singing. Not a single word of apology for anything. But she could have forgiven him—if Sisters could even forgive Deacons—for she could have understood that an unmarried man might have needs, but what really bothered her was how he ignored her. How a few weeks later she and Aunt Alma had been waiting for the bus after Wednesday-night prayer meeting and he drove past. That’s right. No offer of a ride, no slowing down, no nothing. Aunt Alma was nearly blind and couldn’t even see it was him, but Clareese recognized his car at once.
Yes, she wanted to curse the Brothers’ Church Council of Greater Christ Emmanuel Pentecostal Church of the Fire Baptized, but Sisters and Brothers could not curse, could not even swear or take an oath, for