Last Call by Laura Pedersen

Author:Laura Pedersen
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780345471956
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2003-12-30T05:00:00+00:00

chapter thirty-three

By the first week of August the summer heat lies in a thick blanket across the ground. The air no longer cools during the night and the pitch in the driveway adds a sticky residue to anything left on it for more than a moment, including a person’s foot.

On Sunday morning, Hayden, Rosamond, and Joey pile into the station wagon and travel down Atlantic Avenue toward the intersection of Utica and Pacific, in the neighborhood known as Bedford-Stuyvesant. Flags from Honduras, Haiti, and Jamaica announce the types of cuisine at the various restaurants. Islamic and Catholic schools stand directly across the street from each other. Hayden finds a parking spot on Pacific Avenue and the three make their way to the Grace Tabernacle Christian Center Church of God in Christ.

Inside the hot sanctuary sits a predominantly black congregation, with a few tan and white regulars, and several rows of Evian-clutching tourists in the back pews. The chance that a parishioner is wearing a neatly pressed suit or a fancy dress and a matching woven hat with cloth flowers and netted veil increases with proximity to the altar. The women in the front pews clutch well-worn Bibles and plastic lace fans that click like metronomes as they stir the heavy air. Both Bibles and fans double as disciplinary devices for the swarm of little children in their Sunday best who squirm and giggle and run pell-mell between the rows of wooden benches.

Rosamond is amazed at the contrast between this busy and lively place of worship and the hushed atmosphere of the convent chapel, where noise by humans is viewed as a disruption. Whereas here the confusion of people bustling about seems to contribute to an ambience that soothes and reassures.

“If anything is going to make me a believer it’s gospel music,” Hayden whispers to Rosamond as the service begins. “Wait ’til you hear this.”

The soaring but rhythmic hymns reach deep into the souls of the congregation and many close their eyes and wave a hand or a purse-sized Bible above their head or rock back and forth as if in rapture of the Lord. All three clap their hands to the uplifting choruses and harmonies of “Oh Happy Day.”

An African American woman wearing a brightly flowered dress adorned with two strands of large white pearls and a corsage of orange carnations and baby’s breath shuffles to the front of the choir. The only incongruity to her outfit, which would be more than appropriate for a wedding, is the pair of fuzzy pink bedroom slippers on her feet.

There’s an air of expectation and everyone sits up a little straighter. For a few moments she simply stands before them, swaying and nodding down at the floor as if in a trance. At last she is upright and looking out at the crowd with large brown luminous eyes and a knowing smile, the way a cleanup batter sizes up the pitcher and the playing field. And the congregation seems to collectively inhale as if anticipating that she’s deep in concentration, preparing to hit one out of the ballpark.

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