“They done lock my baby up and you don’t tell me nothing about it,” Ruth said as soon as I set foot in the kitchen where she was heaving over a steaming pot.
I couldn’t lie. I had to confess the whole story. I assured her that there was nothing to worry about anymore because everything was sorted out through mediation. Her baby would therefore not go to jail. But that was not good enough. She felt that I had betrayed her when she thought we had developed a bond between us. It showed that one could never trust people from Africa. They could easily sell one just as they sold the African Americans into slavery.
When Obed returned from wherever he had been she welcomed him with: “Where were you at, boy? Fondling girls’ breasts?”
He glared at me accusingly. I shook my head to say it was not me.
“You don’t toy with ghosts, boy. Especially them ghosts that died violently like Nicodemus died,” said Ruth as she walked out of the kitchen. “God knows what’s gonna happen to you, boy,” her voice continued from her workstation. “You don’t amount to no good with them ghosts and Indian witchcraft.”
I told him about Beth’s call. His face brightened when I mentioned her name. He lamented that there were three whole months before he could paint the three-story building. I never thought I would see the day when Obed was looking forward to some labor. The very Obed who would not even split firewood for his mama!
“If it’s any consolation,” I said, “I admire you for trying to explore the culture of your Native American people. But you need to learn about these things…consult people who know…serve periods of apprenticeship under genuine shamans and hand tremblers and scryers…so that you don’t turn a great culture into some buffoonery.”
“You didn’t say none of that to Mama. You didn’t tell her it’s a good thing.”
“From what I have come to know of your mama, no one tells her anything.”
“She likes you, man. Thinks you’re the best thing since sliced bread.”
“Not after my foolish outburst about Orpah’s drawings and now the secret that I kept from her about your arrest.”
“Still, she likes you. If I didn’t know her no better I’d say there’s a thing between you two.”
I burst out laughing. What a preposterous thought! I remembered touching Ruth on the shoulder one day when she had said something funny and I was laughing. She froze and gave me a stern look. I withdrew my hand quickly. That is the problem: I come from a place where people are physically demonstrative.
I had not been aware that Ruth could hear every word of this conversation from her workstation until she brought it to my attention by hollering that it was exactly as she had suspected: I was leading her children on a path to hell.
That was the second crime I had committed against her in one day.
Both the quiltmaking and the church-going crimes were committed through my gross ignorance of the politics of the village.
Apparently Ruth heard that I had expressed an interest in quiltmaking and the women at the Center had offered to teach me. They were excited about the whole idea. Although quiltmaking was traditionally a woman’s occupation, at the Center they had begun to introduce two or three men to the art, and one was proving to be very good at it. So I was quite welcome to learn as well, they told me. It did not bother me that Obed was against the idea, and felt that I — a role model and an ascetic votary of my own sacred order of professional mourners — had betrayed him by reducing myself to a common quiltmaker. Ruth, on the other hand, felt betrayed because I was now in cahoots with her enemies — people who interfered in her family affairs by trying to teach Orpah how to quilt when she, as Orpah’s mother, had decided the “girl” must never touch a sewing machine until she learned to respect the heritage of her people. But through it all I could also see some jealousy, that now she would no longer have the monopoly of her own personal African. I was now going to be Barbara Parsons’ African and Irene Flowers’ African as well.
The church thing was really a result of my curiosity to see what was going on in that little chocolate building by the road. I passed it every time I went to mourn quietly at the graveyard where Kilvert families — the Tablers, the Flowerses, the Mayleses, the Quigleys, the Jenkinses, the Kennedys — sleep in peace under piles of fresh flowers. So, one Sunday I decided to walk into the church.
I was surprised to find only five people, including the pastor, in the church. They must be the owners of the four SUVs parked outside. The pastor was conducting a thirty-minute Sunday school for his flock of four before the service could start. I kept on hoping for his sake that more people would come and fill the five pews on one side and seven pews across the aisle. Even inside, the church was like a dollhouse, with brown wooden panels on the walls. Brown is the color. There was a wall tapestry of Jesus holding a lamb, in shades of brown. Framed pictures of Jesus as a shepherd surrounded by sheep, in shades of brown.
“When will the resurrection come?” the pastor asked his congregation.
“When the trumpet sounds,” they responded in unison. They were reading from the pamphlets they were holding.
“And remember, no one knows when that will be,” said the pastor.
The service began. Sister Naomi played the piano and the congregation sang “He Hideth My Soul.” Another woman stood behind the lectern at the pulpit rolling her eyes to the heavens while she sang above everyone else’s voice. Above the piano too. They all sang in unison and I had never heard such atrocious singing in my life. The pastor punctuated the song with Amens.
And then he preached. “God is the spirit,” he said, “and you cannot worship him except in spirit and in truth.” He preached to the three men and two women as if he was preaching to a multitude of thirty thousand. My only disappointment was that he was not hoofing. I know of hoofing from black television preachers. I find it very entertaining when they dance about and speak and sing at the same time with the organ taking part in that conversation. I remembered the story Obed told me about his own hoofing experience. Ruth prophesied that he would come to no good when she caught him and two of his friends, one of them Nathan, engaged in a hoofing competition—“back in the day,” as he put it. He had invented a contest where boys gathered and competed on who was the best hoofer. “You don’t take God’s name in vain, boy,” Ruth had said, “otherwise you won’t come to no good.” Fortunately she never got to know that it was worse than she thought. The boys were seasoning their preaching with words that were far from Godly — words about women and sex. All this was done to the music of Nathan’s harmonica. The more comedic and vulgar the hoofing, the better the chances for the performer to win the contest.
The preacher’s booming voice brought me back to the little church. He was attacking the Catholic concept of purgatory, but added: “That’s the blessing of being in America, you have the right to be wrong.” Then he told us about a judge in Haiti where he worked for many years as a shepherd of the lost sheep. The man went from being a judge to a busboy at a restaurant in Florida when there was a change of government in Haiti. But he kept his faith. So should we, even in times of the worst of adversities.
Then it was time for testimonies. I was asked to introduce myself and testify. I told them my name and that I was from South Africa and I was glad to worship with them. I left out the professional mourner part. But I knew that they already knew I was Ruth’s African. The pastor told me he was Brother Michael and welcomed me to the church. He expressed his hope that I would attend the service every Sunday.
An old man testified: “I’m glad to be here since this morning. I’ll come back. Thanks for the prayers.”