We Are Not Like Them(16)

It’s been a while since I’ve been to church, but exultation is like muscle memory. For a blissful moment, I don’t feel stressed or self-conscious; I feel rejoiced. One of those rare moments when I understand what people mean when they say they’re filled with the Spirit. The sanctuary of this church is as close as I’ve ever been to feeling God. Back when I was a little girl, my insides wound up so tight I felt like I was suffocating, these gleaming pews on a Sunday morning were a kind of escape, from thinking about tests and grades and the kids who called me “Oreo” and said I talked so white when I used the SAT vocab words Mom had been drilling me on since kindergarten. I need this now, a cocoon from the outside world, even if only for an hour. A respite before I have to return to work, and to covering the story for which I’m now the lead reporter, the one about how my friend’s husband shot an unarmed Black kid.

By the time I arrived at the station Thursday night, after downing two espressos to counteract the vodka, Scotty was already huddled with a crew in his office, desk strewn with Burger King wrappers, the smell of grease and the anticipation of a big story charging the air. As soon as I walked in, his focus shifted to me.

“I want you front and center on this, Riley.”

I must have given him a look, because his next question was, “Is that a problem?”

No, of course it wasn’t. Of all the beat reporters, the rest of them white or Asian, I knew exactly why this was “my story.” I’d take it too; I had to, I wanted to—it was going to be a big one, maybe national. “No, Scotty, no problem at all.”

My first call was to a sergeant in the Twenty-Fifth District whom I’ve been cultivating since I started at KYX.

He finally called me back after midnight and confirmed what the tingles had already told me: “You didn’t get these names from me, but everyone’s gonna have them by morning. Kevin Murphy and Travis Cameron.”

When Jenny called a few minutes after that, I froze. Finally, before the last ring sent her to voice mail, I dashed into a conference room, slamming the door behind me. I didn’t know what I was supposed to say, but I needed to know she was okay.

We only talked for two seconds. But last night, as I reported live in front of the Twenty-Second District—Kevin’s district—I kept picturing her watching, her reaction, her biting furiously on her lip, as I spoke into the camera. “If Justin Dwyer doesn’t wake up from his coma, the officers involved—Kevin Murphy and Travis Cameron from here at the Twenty-Second—could be indicted for murder.”

Jenny was calling again by the time I reached my car to head home after the broadcast. Of course she’d been watching. She said she always watches my broadcasts. I couldn’t bring myself to answer this time. She’d know if I sent it straight to voice mail, so I stared at the phone as it rang and rang and then waited for a message that never came. I spent the rest of the night pacing my apartment.

So when Momma called last night, as she’s done every single Saturday since I’ve been back, to ask if I was finally coming to church, I gave her an answer that surprised both of us.

“Yep, I’ll be there.” I needed church. I needed something.

Momma reaches over and takes my hand in hers, warm and papery. “I’m so glad my baby’s here.” It’s not always this easy to please Momma, and the thrill of it makes me happy. Shaun, though, not so much. I lean over to my brother behind Momma’s back as she sways and swings to the music. Shaun is standing, stiff and sullen, like he’s determined not to let the music get to him.

“I’m surprised to see you here.”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t be if I had my way. But you know, ‘house rules.’?”

Shaun is always railing against Momma’s ironclad mantra, “In my house, you’ll do as I say;” he hates that he’s a twenty-seven-year-old man living at home, hates everything that’s gone wrong in his life to lead him here.

We’re whispering, but of course she hears. Momma always hears and then has the last word. “Don’t act like God is punishment, boy. God is a gift. And that’s exactly why you’re here. To remember that.” She starts clapping and singing even louder, as if she can channel the spirit to Shaun.

As the choir winds down, everyone is flushed and primed for Pastor Price, who lumbers up to the cherrywood pulpit. The imposing figure of Christ looms behind him, but even Jesus himself is no match for Pastor Price. He’s divinely exultant in his vibrant purple robes, his dark skin gleaming against the rich fabric, the lines of his strong jaw clenched as he prepares to give his flock the holy word.

“It’s a beautiful morning to praise the Lord, ain’t it!” Pastor’s baritone thunders up to the rafters. He hasn’t aged a bit since I was a kid, even though he must have rounded seventy. He’s led this church for more than forty years, and in that time has become the de facto leader of all the Black churches in Philly.

Daddy sometimes grumbles that Pastor likes the limelight a little too much. Momma will counter that even outside of the church, he’s doing God’s work, and so what if that means he doesn’t mind a crowd or a camera. He’s earned his stripes as a civil rights crusader and still has the scar up his arm from being beaten with a baton during Freedom Summer. Then she’ll remind us about how he’s “friends” with Obama. I don’t know about that, but Obama did visit one Sunday when he was on the campaign trail in 2012. Of course people here still bring that up every chance they get. Gigi loudest of them all. Apparently, our future president complimented her hat. When she’d told him he should get Michelle one just like it, Obama had winked and said he didn’t know if his wife could pull it off nearly as well. Or so the story goes.