What Lies Beyond the Veil(Of Flesh & Bone #1)(37)

“Nia?” I tiptoe toward the noise, slow. I ain’t sure if I’m gon’ find Nia or a wild animal. Either way, I worry I won’t be welcome.

“Hello?” The strange noise is louder now, like a mix between a laugh and a whimper. I stoop down low, put my head where the noise is at. I’m either bout to find my sister or get my nose bit off by a wild possum.

“What are you doing here?” Nia screams. It’s dark in the small crawl space underneath the house where she hides. I can barely see her, but she must see me cause now she’s yelling.

“I was looking for you,” is all I can think to say. A wild possum don’t sound so bad no more, as I look away from Nia’s angry face.

“Leave me alone.” Nia wants the words to be mean, but really, they just sound sad.

“Time to get ready for church.” I back out of her little, hidden place and head back to the house. Even though I know she won’t, I hope in my head that she’ll cry. Sometimes Momma cries, sometimes I cry. Nia is the only one who don’t cry. Seems like once all the secrets started, the laughing and playing stopped. Nia changed, then Daddy died. And I can’t tell if she’s happy or sad with him gone.



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We get to church late, cause after Nia finally came back to the house, she took forever to get ready. She arranged her hair into four different styles before settling on the fifth, then frowned at her dress a full seven minutes before putting it on with slow fingers. She even smeared makeup onto her unblemished face—pink lipstick and blue powder on her eyes—even though I know she ain’t s’posed to.

We drive to the church with none of us talking. Usually I’m the one that makes us all talk, but today I don’t feel like saying nothin’. Instead, I stare out the window and try to fill my head with Lansing, to push out all the memories from Detroit.

The church’s parking lot is packed full of cars, but the church is tiny situated on the corner of a small street that feels busy cause it’s crowded. I wonder how so many people will be able to fit inside. Eventually Granddaddy parks in front of somebody’s house on a side street behind the church. My church shoes are too tight and pinch my toes as we walk in the direction of music and shouting. One hundred fourteen painful steps, then we are there.

The church is overflowing with people. I pat my hair; it’s already turned poufy in the steamy sanctuary. I hope we will stay in the back, but Granddaddy parades us all the way to the front, where we sit in a row so full that even with squeezing in sideways, we still bump knees with everybody. The women around us wear big, fancy hats that stand up off their heads with pearls and ribbons and feathers. The men stand close to their women, dressed simply, waiting for directions. When somebody’s in need, the men are the first ones there with water or tissues or a shoulder where someone can lean. The kids try hard to pay attention, to avoid the strict look of a momma or a granny. They sneak peppermints from a purse, draw doodles on Kleenex, beg for a way out that ain’t gon’ come.

Up in the pulpit, the choir finishes a long, loud song, and then a woman wearing a peacock dress—covered in feathers and too many colors—reads the announcements. I listen to two, one bout an upcoming church retreat and the other bout Vacation Bible School, then I’m bored. The church nurses, dressed in all white and moving silently through the crowd, pass out fans and tissues. A nurse goes by, her hair falling from her modest white hat in black waves. Tiny bits of red lipstick show on her teeth when she smiles. She has glossy skin and hands that look soft like velvet. I accept one of the paper fans that she offers.

“You know, your momma used to be a church nurse,” Granddaddy whispers in my ear.

“Really?” I whisper back. Granddaddy nods, then goes back to watching the pulpit.

I sneak another look at the nurse and imagine Momma with the fans, hair in long braids beneath a plain white hat. Ice cream cone smile. Glowing skin and trembling hands.

The fans at church are always the same, with a happy smiling picture on the front and a bunch of words on the back bout funeral homes. Once I learned what a funeral home was, I asked Momma why church fans would always talk bout ’em. All Momma said was, “KB, everybody gon’ die.” I still ain’t sure what that’s got to do with fans.

The lackluster peacock lady with the announcements finally finishes and takes her seat in the first row. She is followed by a man who reads a scripture from the Bible, then another man who asks all the deacons to come to the front for prayer. I am surprised to find Charlie’s aged face in the crowd, as he stands and proceeds to the altar. Then I’m even more surprised to see Granddaddy stand and head to the front, too.

“Granddaddy’s a deacon?” I whisper to Nia, but she ain’t paying attention. Her focus is on a group of teenagers by the door who seem to be sneaking outside, one by one. I shake my head and turn my gaze back on Granddaddy. Deacon Granddaddy, I guess.

“Do you need prayer today?” The man in the pulpit, with his money-green suit and hair parted right down the middle, reaches his arms out to the congregation. The organ swells and falls in rhythm with his speech. All around the sanctuary people begin to stand. Mommas leave children back in the pews, I bet with warnings to stay put and keep quiet. Men quietly shake hands as they pass one another. Even a few children head to the front. I wonder what they need to pray for. I hardly ever pray on my own, cept when I pray over my food before I eat. I wouldn’t know what to say to God, unless somebody gave me the words.