Midnight Without a Moon(43)
Revival was a weeklong ordeal, where “sinners” were assigned a special pew up front. Monday night through Friday night, they sat on that bench, gloom covering their faces as they waited for “a sign from de Lawd.” Saved church members took turns praying for them at the altar. And during each prayer, the “mourners” (biblically known as sinners) were required to kneel before the mourners’ bench and pray along. Once a mourner received a sign from the Lord, he or she “crossed over” and became a candidate for baptism.
I didn’t want to go through all that trouble, sitting on a special pew at the front of the church while folks prayed over me like maniacs, spraying their spit all over the place. Nor did I want to spend the whole week, while home, praying “without ceasing,” stopping only to eat. The “mourners” even had to keep a pious face while working in the field (which wasn’t hard to do, considering the circumstances). They weren’t even allowed to talk to anyone until after they received their sign and crossed over. All their time was spent “mourning” for their sins.
But Ma Pearl was right about one thing. I had felt as if I had all the time in the world—?until the Chicago boy was killed. With the way colored folks were being murdered in Mississippi, I knew I needed to give a little thought to my soul.
“What about Fred Lee?” I asked. “And Queen?”
Ma Pearl took a bite out of a chicken thigh, as she had already stripped the drumstick down to the marrow. Breaking her own rule, she spoke with her mouth full. “They goin’ too,” she said. “All o’ you shoulda been to the moanin’ bench long time ago,” she said. “Don’t know why I let y’all lay up in my house loaded down with sin nohow. I shoulda sent all o’ you to the bench back in June.”
She paused, wiping grease from her mouth with a dishrag. “Twelve, thirteen, and fifteen,” she said. “All y’all too dirn old to be running round here without religion.”
I scooped candied yams onto my fork, but didn’t eat them. I thought about how Queen had been to the mourners’ bench three times already and had never crossed over, regardless of how many times Ma Pearl knelt right down beside her at that bench and prayed over her until her voice gave out. What if I, like Queen, never received my sign? What if I humiliated Ma Pearl year after year by going to the bench until I was nearly grown, and I never got religion? I was about to make a case for myself, but Ma Pearl started up again.
“Shoulda never let that boy start preaching,” she said, referring to Reverend Jenkins. “He ruin’n y’all with all this nonsense ’bout being saved by grace. No wonder y’all cain’t git a sign. The preacher ain’t taught you how to ast for one.”
Reverend Jenkins used to preach at an African Methodist Episcopal, or AME, church before he started preaching at Greater Mount Zion. He didn’t believe in the mourners’ bench, but he suffered through it for the old folks’ sake. Reverend E. D. Blake used to be our preacher. Every Sunday it was fire and brimstone, until Papa and some of the other deacons found out about Reverend Blake’s questionable behavior outside of church. He left Greater Mount Zion and began preaching at Little Ebenezer soon after. Reverend Jenkins started filling in after that. He was well received by Papa and the other deacons, and he stayed permanently. But Ma Pearl favored Reverend Blake and his preaching, regardless of how folks claimed he behaved when he wasn’t wearing his preacher’s robe.
From the kitchen we heard the front door open. “Yoo-hoo! Housekeeping!”
I wanted to get up, leave my tasty food, and run. Aunt Clara Jean was here. And from the rumble of feet, it was obvious she’d brought those rowdy chaps of hers, too.
“Back here!” Ma Pearl called from the kitchen.
“Lawd, Jesus, something smell good back here,” Aunt Clara Jean said as she lumbered toward the kitchen. Like Ma Pearl, she was big, boisterous, and brusque. A perfect mismatch for tiny, sweet Uncle Ollie.
“Mama, what you cook?” she asked as she pulled out a chair without an invitation. “Junior, y’all go on outside ’n play hide-the-switch or something,” she said, shooing her little ones away. “Queen, you go on in there and lay down.”
“What’s wrong with Queen?” Ma Pearl asked.
“Sick,” Aunt Clara Jean answered. “Done thowed up everything she ett today.”
“She ain’t got the summer flu, is she?” Ma Pearl asked.
Aunt Clara Jean reached across me and grabbed a chicken wing from the pan in the middle of the table. “She ain’t got no fever or nothing like that. Jest said she wadn’t feeling good, then started running to the bathroom to thow up.”
Queen entered the kitchen. She looked whiter than any one of the Robinsons. Pale skin. Droopy eyes. And dry lips.
Ma Pearl beckoned to her. She placed the back of her hand on Queen’s forehead. “She ain’t warm,” she said to Aunt Clara Jean. “What else ailing you?” she asked Queen.
“Just a little headache,” Queen said, placing her hand on her forehead.
“Git you a glass o’ that tea and go back there and git’n the bed,” Ma Pearl said.
Queen nodded, got a glass from the safe, and poured herself some tea.
After she left the kitchen, Aunt Clara Jean leaned toward Ma Pearl and, with her forehead creased, whispered, “You reckon Queen might be ’specting?”