We Are Not Like Them(19)

This time, I’m not surprised to hear “Leroya,” and I glance over at my mom guiltily, reminded of how upset my parents were when I announced—emphatically—that I was changing my name, the wounded looks on their faces. But Momma is all smiles now, beaming up at Pastor like she’s presenting a prize.

Stepping into Pastor’s embrace, I feel like a little girl, like Leroya again. I’m happy that he’s teasing me as he always did back then—like when I would press him with questions about why Jesus looked so white in the storybooks.

“People need to see themselves in Jesus, Leroya,” he’d said. “When you see him, maybe you should see a whip-smart little Black girl.”

He stands back, placing both his hands gently on my arms, holding my body away, appraising me. “You’re all grown up, ain’t you, and as beautiful as ever. Just like your mother here.” This is another thing about Pastor Price: he was always a flirt.

“You’re doing good work, God’s work, on the news. I watch you all the time. Don’t I, Sandra?”

“You do, you do.” Momma grins so hard her face might crack. Shaun looks bored and small. Gone are the days when our parents stood right here in this vestibule gushing about his soccer talent, his game-winning goals, his scholarship to Temple, his big future. My little brother used to cast a large shadow. That was before. Now he hardly takes up any space at all.

Pastor Price leans in and lowers his voice. “So this is some mess with Jenny.” Growing up, Jenny used to come to church with us. I always had a strange sense of pride that Jenny could hang, that she could be one of us, so comfortable being the only white person in the crowd. It was ironic given I was the one who had plenty of practice being the “only one” in countless places and situations, including ending up at one of the whitest high schools in Philly, but it had never come quite as easily for me—in fact, some nights I fell into bed depleted from the effort of it all.

Before I can work out how to respond to Pastor’s comment, he’s moved on. “We’ll talk more this week,” he commands. “God sent you to us, Leroya. And right on time. We need your voice, your power, your influence. They’re going to cover for their own. They always do. We won’t let them get away with it this time. We need you to tell our story. Call my office tomorrow, you hear?”

His tone of collusion doesn’t feel right. I’m a journalist, not an activist. But then again, I may need his help and connections to get to Justin’s mother, and I know better than to try to parse the nuances here anyway, so I just smile.

Pastor Price grabs Momma’s hands in his. “I’m praying for your mother, praying hard. And the ladies’ prayer group is headed to the hospital to see her this afternoon. Sister Marla’s a strong woman.”

We nod in agreement and gratitude, and Momma gives an overly detailed update about Gigi’s condition. Meanwhile, I watch Shaun duck away to the other side of the lobby, where he discreetly drops a $20 bill in the tithing box. The gesture pinches my heart. I know full well that he doesn’t have twenty to spare. I gave him a hundred bucks last week so he could pay his phone bill.

“How’s he doing?” Pastor Price has followed my gaze, his concern plain. “He doing okay with the moving job?”

After a year of struggling to find someone who would hire him, Shaun finally landed a job with a local moving company, thanks to Pastor Price, who knows the owner.

Momma stands a little straighter. “He’s fine, fine.” She’s quick to remind everyone of this and then move the subject along. She does it whenever anyone dares mention what happened to Shaun. It’s “family business,” akin to an NSA document stamped CLASSIFIED. But we never discuss it with one another either. We don’t talk about why Shaun lives at home, or the crushing debt, or the fear and resentment that cling like a shadow to our entire family.

“We’ll see you next week, Pastor,” Momma says. I can tell she’s happy for us to slip away.

There’s a sharp chill in the air as we step outside; the temperatures have plummeted even since this morning, so now December feels like December, cold and gray like it should be. It’s a comfort when things are as they should be, which is why I don’t mind when my ears turn numb almost instantly. Momma dashes off to a women’s auxiliary meeting in the annex next door, while Shaun and I, compelled by good manners, are forced to linger on the vast stone staircase, flocked by people I haven’t seen in years, showering me with praise.

“Look at you, beautiful girl. You’ve done so well. Ms. Sandra is so proud.”

“I watch you all the time.”

“You’re the best thing on the TV.”

It’s overwhelming to be in their favor like this.

Shaun shifts restlessly next to me as Ms. Nettle, whose mothball smell nearly bowls me over, is delivering a lecture about how I need to do a story on her grandson’s new business, a mobile barbershop he’s started in a converted RV.

She clearly knew better than to talk to me while Momma’s around, let alone ask for a favor, since Ms. Nettle is Momma’s sworn enemy after she blackballed us from getting into Jack and Jill when Shaun and I were younger. Ms. Nettle, who’s descended from one of the first Black families to settle on the Main Line and the original members from when the organization was founded in 1938, held sway over who was worthy of being admitted into the local chapter back then. When word got back to Momma that Ms. Nettle said she and Daddy weren’t “professional enough,” Daddy’s response was, “Who cares, why do you want to hang around with those bougie folks anyway?” But Momma’s pride never recovered from the slight.