What Lies Beyond the Veil(Of Flesh & Bone #1)(38)
The altar is full of people lined up to pray. Only two deacons ain’t got nobody to pray with yet: the only woman deacon, on the end in a deep violet suit dress, and Granddaddy. From here it looks like his eyes are closed, so I can’t tell if he knows he’s alone or not. But I know he’s alone. Before I can stop myself, I stand up and go to him.
“Deacons,” continues the man in the pulpit, “take the hands of the person standing across from you.” Granddaddy, eyes still closed, covers my tiny hands in his. Then he opens his eyes and smiles. I wonder if he smiles at everybody who comes to pray with him, or just me.
“Let us bow our heads.” I do as I am told, pushing my chin down into the soft folds of my dress. I try to peek out from the bottom at Granddaddy, but even with the bend in his back and my eyes rolled all the way to the top, he’s too tall for me to see.
The man in the pulpit prays in a booming voice. Tiny murmurs from the crowd add a chorus underneath. Once the coast is clear, I peek my eyes open and lift my head to look around. Mostly, I look at Granddaddy. Watch the top of his head as it bobs along with the prayer. Study the cracks and bends of his rough hands on top of mine. Inspect the movement of his mouth as quick words depart his lips. It looks like he’s been praying all his life. Daddy always said praying was something people only did when they needed something or did something wrong.
“Kenyatta,” Granddaddy whispers. It catches me by surprise, cause he’s s’posed to be praying and I’m s’posed to be listening. I hope he ain’t catch me watching. But his eyes are still closed tight as he continues. “What do you want to pray for?”
Even though I came up here to pray, I ain’t expect that question. I only came to be close to Granddaddy. But now I gotta act like I wanna pray. I think and I think.
“Can we pray for Momma?” I eventually respond. It’s all I can think of, especially cause of the headshot and the talk with Granddaddy and the talk with Momma on the phone. I wait for Granddaddy to say yes or no, but he don’t. Just nods real small so I can barely see it, then starts to pray. The man still prays loud up front, but Granddaddy prays soft beneath him, like an echo.
“Lord, we thank You for Your grace and Your mercy,” he begins. Seems like praying always begins that way. “We thank You for Your Son, Jesus Christ. We come to You now asking for protection and strength for . . .” He stops, I wait. “My daughter. We ask for protection and strength for my daughter, as she raises two beautiful daughters according to Your divine will.”
The prayer goes on and on like that. I count the times he says Jesus, twelve. I count the times he says mercy, six. I count the times he pauses before mentioning Momma, nineteen. By the end of the prayer I’m bored and he’s crying.
* * *
After church, we make dinner. It’s the first time we’ve made dinner all together since arriving in Lansing. Granddaddy makes fried chicken legs and corn bread. Nia makes macaroni and cheese, just like Momma. Granddaddy lets me help him mash the potatoes in a big, heavy bowl. I even get to pull the corn bread out from the oven when it’s done. For dessert, we have an apple pie that none of us made. It came from one of the ladies at church, the one with the biggest hat and the dripping, fake smile.
We eat at the table together but don’t talk. For once, I don’t watch Granddaddy and Nia. Instead, I stare at the Bible sittin’ cross the room on the little ledge by the door, where Granddaddy left it after church. I think bout Granddaddy’s prayer and bout Momma and secrets, then I think bout Bible study with Charlie and that verse that got me searching for bottles that I never found. I twirl my fork in my hand as I think and think.
“Can I get more?” Nia asks, pointing at the pan of corn bread. Granddaddy nods and says, “Of course, anything for my girls,” and it reminds me of goin’ to the mall and Granddaddy giving us all that money and buying me my favorite dress. All these different thoughts swirl around in my head, til all of a sudden, they fit together into one clear plan. The last plan I’m gon’ need here in Lansing, to get us back home to Momma.
“You like your dinner?” Granddaddy asks, and I realize I been sittin’ here not eating. I take a bite, quick, and nod.
“It’s perfect,” I reply, and it is. Instead of tryna find money, I’m gon’ get Granddaddy to give us the money we need to be together again. Even with Momma at the treatment facility, I bet we still gon’ need money for a new house. So, while Momma focuses on gettin’ better, I’m gon’ focus on fixin’ Momma and Granddaddy. Once I do that, he’s gon’ give her anything she needs to get her girls back.
I smile and chew, satisfied with my perfect plan. Granddaddy and Nia smile, too. Maybe they smiling just cause I smiled first, or maybe it’s cause they got a feeling already that I’m gon’ be the one to fix us all.
PART II
July 1995
5
On Granddaddy’s block of N. Rutherford St., there are only five houses. Two on Granddaddy’s side, three on the other. The other house on this side is at the end of the road, with rotting boards in the window instead of glass. Two of the houses cross the street are flat and small, with fields of green grass out front and porches that wrap around the house. Kinda like Granddaddy’s house, but not so old. That just leaves one more house cross the street. It’s the only tall house on the block, with a sloping roof and two stories that tower over the short, squat houses, directly between them like a giant conductor. The house is brown everywhere but red on the roof and door, with greener grass and cleaner windows than all the other houses. And a chimney that looks like it makes real smoke. This is the house where the white kids live.