Early the next morning, Sam put on his nicest clothes and tiptoed out of the apartment. He’d been feeling guilty about how mean he was to Tutu when he went home to get his stuff, and he decided to make amends by showing up at her church. Besides, he had to hear Leon sing again.
The prospect of navigating Harlem by himself was alarming, but if Kim could do it, he could. So he took the train uptown, endured the side-eye and muttered cracks after all the other white people got off at 96th Street, and exited at 145th Street. “Never ever leave the train at that stop,” his mother warned him whenever he went to the city alone. How bad could it be?
Up on street level, the sun was bright, and the sidewalks were a multicolored parade of ladies in hats and gents in overcoats. A couple of little kids giggled and pointed—“Hey, freckle-face!”—but everyone else was too busy meeting and greeting and hurrying to church to pay him any mind. “Religion is the opiate of the masses,” per Karl Marx. But not one of the masses Sam passed on the sidewalk looked drugged. Maybe dope was the real opiate of the masses? On the wall of a boarded-up building on St. Nicholas Avenue, someone had spray-painted “Capitalism Plus Dope Equals Genocide” with a stencil of a black man jabbing a hypodermic needle into his arm. So what did religion plus capitalism equal?
He walked and looked and tried to look like he wasn’t looking. On the avenues, stuff for sale was spread across the sidewalk—frayed old magazines, cheap handbags and luggage, gaudy wigs, knock-off watches, tie-dyed dashikis, velvet paintings of African beasts and black superstars. Reflections brimmed and quivered like water in the shop windows. Heads floated by in the buses. Sam swam through it all without stopping.
He was so lost in thought that he nearly walked right by Tutu and Leon waiting for him outside the narrow storefront that was now the Saints Alive Baptist Church. “That’s the best you could do?” Tutu said by way of greeting, giving his rumpled khakis and unironed white shirt the once-over. She looked like Queen Elizabeth in her matching blue coat, hat, gloves, and shoes. At least Leon seemed happy to see him. He was taller than Sam remembered and rangier—his perfectly pressed dove-gray pin-striped suit fell short of wrists and ankles, his Adam’s apple bobbed restlessly above his shirt collar. When they shook hands, Sam thought he detected a little skyward roll of the dark brown eyes. “Well,” sighed Tutu, “maybe Jesus doesn’t care how raggedy you look—but I sure do.” And with that she swept them inside. There was no bragging about “my boys” this time. No greetings from Miss Lila or Miss Mary Jane or Miss Jolene. Tutu slid into the pew, followed by Leon, followed by Sam. Church—again! My grandmother must be rolling in her grave. Someone two rows back sneezed what sounded like “White boy!” Sam felt his face go scarlet. Tutu wouldn’t look his way, but Leon leaned over to whisper, “She got up on the wrong side of the bed, is all. Nothing a little praise and worship won’t soothe.” For which he received a jab in the ribs from his grandmother, and this time Sam definitely saw the eyes roll. Co-conspirator!
An ancient lady in huge fake pearls tottered over to the organ, the white-robed choir rustled to their feet, and the service began. Someone shouted out a hymn title—“Hush”—and the choir laid down the first line and then the rest of the congregation joined in.
Hush.
Hush.
Somebody’s calling my name.
Hush.
Hush.
Somebody’s calling my name.
Oh my Lord, oh my Lord, what shall I do . . .
Sam stood when everyone else stood and sang when everyone sang and clapped when they clapped. He hummed the words he didn’t know. Leon, standing beside him, hit every note in a resonant tenor and when he swayed from side to side, he and Sam brushed shoulders. Sam felt his feet starting to dance. Then the preacher took his place at the pulpit, raised his palms over his head, and made them quake like leaves. “Brothers and sisters in Jesus, welcome to God’s house on this refulgent winter morning!” Sam caught Tutu’s eye as they all took their seats again and she gave him a little nod. Praise the Lord!
Sam raked the stamped-tin ceiling with his eyes, but Jesus refused to show Himself again. Must be on account of all those godless Commies and unrepentant dope fiends he’d been hanging around with. He sized up Leon out of the corner of his eye. Had he ever smoked dope or had sex? Unlikely. Certainly not on Tutu’s watch. Leon had a couple of years on Sam—but he still seemed to be on the other side of the great chasm. His cheeks were smooth and shiny, his dense coiled hair about a week out from a crew cut. Sitting there with his hands folded in his lap and his eyes on the preacher, Leon was at home and at peace in God’s house.
Sam tuned back into the service when he heard the name Job repeatedly intoned by Pastor Ball. “Can faith in God survive the worst punishment God can inflict? I’m not talking about humbling and chastisement—I’m talking about devasTAtion. CaTAstrophe. Total loss of EVerything and EVeryone you value. God strips it all away like that”—he snapped his fingers—“and you love Him still? Do you? Would you? That’s what happened to Job. Job was the perfect man—he had it all—money and children, land and happiness—and God let the Devil take it all away because the Devil bet against him. ‘There’s nothing perfect about Job except his money,’ the Wicked One jeered at God. ‘Take his property, kill his family, cast him to the gutter, and I wager that the perfect man will curse thee to thy face.’” The pastor opened his Bible and read: “‘And the Lord said unto Satan, Behold, all that he hath is in thy power; only upon himself put not forth thine hand.’ Old Satan didn’t waste any time. The Devil went and killed Job’s servants and burned up his sheep right quick. He sent a great wind from the wilderness to carry off Job’s sons. He tore down his house and ripped up his fields. And what did the perfect and upright man do when he had nothing left? Did he curse God to his face? Did he sink into despair? Did he sign his everlasting soul over to the Devil? No. Job tore his clothes, shaved his head, fell on the ground, and prayed. Yes, that’s right, brothers and sisters, Job worshipped the God who had let Satan lay him low.”
“Amen.” “Praise the Lord.” “Blessed be the name.” The souls were kindling.
“Now, didn’t the good Lord make a wager on us? Weren’t we like Job when God and Satan rolled the dice? We had land—a whole continent! We had riches and children and contentment—and God let the Devil take it all away and make us slaves. He took our homes and children. He took our freedom. He took our very bodies. Naked—outcast—enslaved! The Devil has had his way with us for all these many years—and the Devil’s not done with us yet. Why? Why us? Job asked the very same thing—and listen to what God replied: ‘Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind, and said, Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without knowledge? Gird up now thy loins like a man; for I will demand of thee, and answer thou me. Where was thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? declare if thou hast understanding.’ Now I stand before you with the Lord’s own challenge: Declare if thou hast understanding. Declare! Who among you dare to question God? Did you see the foundations of the earth laid down? Did you? Did you?” He pointed his index finger from face to face. “In the darkness of your ignorance and sin, you have the same choice as Job. You can curse God to His face or you can praise Him. You can loot and burn, you can pick up a gun, you can taunt the police and blow up buildings—or you can bless the name of the Lord. The choice is yours, I say. Go with the Devil or go with God. Now, who among you chooses God? Who will dare to bless His precious name? Who will cast out hatred and embrace love?”
“I will.” “Yes, Lord.” “Take me, Jesus.” “Glory.”
That is not a fair choice, Sam was thinking. Why does it have to be one or the other—curse or praise, burn or bless, God or Devil? Life doesn’t work that way. But the joyful noise drowned out his brain.
Tutu had one hand in the air and the other on her Bible. She wasn’t looking at Sam or anyone else but Preacher Ball. Her shout swelled the chorus: “I will.” They all rose, Sam with them, and the choir broke into song again.
I’m so glad Jesus lifted me.
I’m so glad Jesus lifted me.
Satan had me bound; Jesus lifted me.
Satan had me bound; Jesus lifted me.
Satan had me bound; Jesus lifted me.
Singing glory, hallelujah! Jesus lifted me.
“Now, who among you brothers and sisters in Jesus has heard of potter’s field?” the preacher resumed, segueing into his sermon. Sam saw Tutu snap to attention. Potter’s field was one of her favorite subjects. Whenever she was feeling sorry for herself, she used to mutter about it under her breath. They’re not going to bury me in potter’s field. Once they haul you off to potter’s field, nobody can find you ever again. Potter’s field is nothing but the Devil’s ash-pit. Eventually, he figured out that she was talking about a pauper’s grave—but he had no idea until now that potter’s field was in the Bible. Pastor Ball laid it out for his rapt congregation: Back in the days when Jesus walked, potter’s field was a fallow plot outside the Jerusalem city walls where potters came to dig and cart away the red clay soil. Judas Iscariot bought that clay field with the thirty pieces of silver he got for betraying our Lord. But when Judas went to take possession, his body burst and his guts gushed out on the thick red ground. Divine retribution! From that time forth, potter’s field—the Field of Blood, as it was called—became a cemetery for homeless strangers in the Holy Land, a cursed spot where foreigners were tipped without ceremony into unmarked graves. Now Sam understood at last why being buried in potter’s field so terrified Tutu. To be buried in potter’s field meant you died poor and alone and unmourned, your name and deeds erased as if you had never lived. More than anything in the world, Tutu wanted to be laid to rest in a cemetery plot beneath a headstone set on a green lawn of mown grass. A grave that someone could visit and weep next to and decorate with flowers. And it dawned on Sam what the root of the problem was: money. Pastor Ball declared that if you paid enough into the Saints Alive Everlasting Life Fund, the church would reserve you a burial plot. Double your gift and you’d get a gravestone. From the stricken look on Tutu’s face, Sam could tell that she hadn’t paid enough. Once they haul you off to potter’s field, nobody can ever find you again. Sam and Leon exchanged a look, and Leon shook his head just a fraction.
All those years working for his family and she still couldn’t afford a decent grave?
“We’re working on it,” Leon told Sam afterward as they walked back to the apartment together. Tutu, lagging behind with Miss Lila, was out of earshot. “Every dollar I bring home from packing groceries, ten cents goes into the Fund. Same with her pay from you all. We’re about halfway there.”
“How much you need altogether?”
“Five hundred for the grave, another five for the stone.”
“So you got enough for the grave already, and now you’re working on the stone?”
“We got two hundred thirty between us. Almost halfway to the plot. But now that your parents are”—Leon dropped his eyes—“you know—”
“Not anymore,” Sam broke in. “She didn’t tell you? They can’t fire her—or they lose me for good. I’ve got them over a barrel.”
Leon gave him a look as they walked in step down the avenue. “Let me get this straight. You’re—like—blackmailing your own folks so Granny can keep her job?”
Sam nodded, beaming. He was expecting gratitude—but Leon kept his head down. “I think she’s pissed at you, Sam. No—I know she’s pissed. You broke the Fifth Commandment—you know, honor your father and mother? She’s not gonna be happy till you move back home.”
“Well, that’s not happening until they apologize.”
“She told me you were stubborn. ‘You’d never know it to look at him but that boy can fight’—her very words.”
“Seriously?” Sam was dying to know what else Tutu said about him—but it would be too uncool to ask.
“Granny cares about you, man. She’s always going on about Sam this and Sam that. It used to make me a little jealous.” Leon turned but he didn’t break stride. “Until I met you—then I decided you were all right.” He shoved Sam with his shoulder. “For a white guy.”
Sam grinned but didn’t trust himself to say anything.
they laughed until they cried, all three of them, telling stories over lunch about Tutu’s secret hiding place and that certain party and how she dug channels in their scalps with her nails when she shampooed them. “She did that to you too?” Leon and Sam asked simultaneously and cracked up all over again.
When the laughter finally died, Tutu heaved a sigh, looking from boy to boy. “When are you going back, Sammy? They ask me about you every day.”
“Tell them I’m fine.” His mouth curled in contempt. “I’m keeping up my grades—I even passed the calculus test—that’s all they care about anyway.”
“Your mama went and called Kim’s mama.” Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “They’re thinking about calling the police.”
“Let them try and they’ll never see me again. You better remind them about the rules.”
But Tutu just crossed her arms on her breast and glared. Sam glared back. “You think you got something on me—but you don’t.” She cut her eyes to Leon for a second. “I didn’t steal that child, I saved him. Isn’t that the truth, Leon honey?”
“Aww, Granny, why do we have to talk about all that?”
“Sam knows half the story already—time he heard the rest.” With her arms still crossed and her eyes fixed on Sam, Tutu told it. When Leon turned fourteen, she decided to go down to Virginia on a surprise visit. It nearly killed her to see the boy. Leon looked more like ten than fourteen. Nothing but skin and bones, and his eyes kept sliding off to the side like he was scared of something. His mother, Nanny, looked scared, too. Eyes wide and glazed. Mouth twitchy. Tutu thought she must be on dope. Dope or booze or both. Nanny was shacked up with this little slick-haired weasel—skinny but wound tight. He must be the one making Leon and Nanny so jumpy. Tutu hadn’t been there five minutes when those two started badgering her for money—to buy more dope, though of course they didn’t admit that. “Boy, tell your granny to give us a loan so we can get you a pair of shoes,” the weasel kept begging, and every time he opened his mouth, Leon flinched. “I knew right off that something bad was going on. The way he was eyeing my grandbaby—it was just the way that nasty little Richard boy used to look at you, Sammy. Like he was carving you up with his eyes.” Now Sam flinched. He didn’t want to remember—and when he looked over, he could tell Leon didn’t want to remember either. “So I took Leon away and brought him up here. I thought Nanny and that man would come looking—you know, shake me down for drug money—that’s all they cared about. But there was nothing. Not a peep out of them.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Sam jumped in. “Leon could have come to live with us. . . .”
“And been the only colored boy in school?” She humphed. “Anyway, your mama and daddy would never have taken in an orphan Negro child. Don’t get involved: how many times have I heard them say that? They wouldn’t even lift a finger when your own uncle got picked up for drunk driving.”
Sam knew. “So you just left him here to raise himself?” Leon wouldn’t lift his eyes from the floor.
“My brother took him when he could. And after a while he learned to manage by himself, didn’t you, Leon?”
“Whatever.”
“Don’t you sass me, boy.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Sam filled his chest with air and let it out.
“Anyway, I don’t have to explain myself to you.” Tutu’s eyes bored holes right through to the back of his skull. “I’m not asking where you’re hiding out, you and that curly-head little tramp.” Sam reared up but she bulled past him. “And you’re not telling anyone anything about Leon. What I did is no concern of yours.”
“He’s not an orphan,” Sam said. He turned, imploring, but Leon wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“What?”
“Leon’s not an orphan if his mother is still alive.”
“He’d be dead if I hadn’t saved him.” She was hollering. “That’s the God’s honest truth and I don’t want to hear another word about it—not from you or anybody else.”
leon and sam rode the elevator down in silence. Why had he said anything about Leon’s mother? He’d been trying to help, but he just ended up making everything worse. As usual.
They hadn’t even reached the corner when a little pack of teenage boys closed around them. “Hey, Leon, who’s your new friend, Bozo the Clown?” “Hymie the Clown looks more like it.” “Welcome to Harlem, Hymie.” “Boo!” Sam felt the sweat trickle down his pits, but Leon didn’t break stride. “Watch your mouths,” he spat out in a voice Sam hadn’t heard him use before. “Watch your ass,” one of the kids shot back—but the pack dispersed at the corner of 145th. The streets were in shadow and the air was chilling. Winter night closing in. Leon, walking fast, had put a couple of feet between himself and Sam. They could have been two strangers on parallel paths. But whenever someone veered too close or stared too hard, Sam saw the muscles in Leon’s neck tighten. Out on the street, away from his grandmother, he was a different person. Wired. Wiry. Poke him and he’d pounce.
“Hey, sorry about your—” Sam began as they paused at the top of the subway steps.
“Forget it,” Leon cut him off. “One day I’m going back. See if I can help her.”
“If there’s anything we—I can do . . .”
But Leon shook his head. “You gonna be okay down there?” gesturing at the dark mouth of the subway. “She’d kill me if anything happened to you.”
Sam held out his hand and their palms slotted together. “Thanks,” he answered, trying to penetrate the mask that had tightened over Leon’s face. “I’ll be fine.”
But he wasn’t. At the bottom of the subway steps, a blade flashed out of the shadows and a voice sliced his ear, “Your pockets, muthafucka.” In the time it took for the word “mugged” to scroll across Sam’s brain, two pairs of hands had completely worked him over. Pockets picked, watch (a bar mitzvah present!) yanked off his wrist, gold chain with the Star of David snapped from his neck. Sam felt nothing, but when his fingers came away from his mouth, there was blood on them. The blade had nicked his lip. They could have killed me, Sam thought, but when he tried to turn thought to speech—to scream—his mouth only bubbled as if he were underwater. Dead in the water. No, alive on land but broke, with no ID, no subway token, not even a dime to make a phone call. When he finally made his mouth shout, “Stop, thief—those guys mugged me!” no one even turned his way. He thought about finding a cop—but what if they asked his address? What if they insisted on calling his parents?
So Sam stood at the bottom of the subway steps panhandling for change until the man in the token booth chased him off—“You can’t do that here, fool!”—and then he slunk deeper into the shadows and tried again. If someone just gave him three dimes, he’d have enough for a token. “Spare change. Please. Spare change. Anyone?” A couple of kids danced around him laughing. “You should be giving us change.” “Why did you come up here anyway?” “This here is one lost, crazy muthafucka.” Most people didn’t even look at him. Sam’s brain kept grinding out the refrain from “Like a Rolling Stone”: How does it feel? How does it feel? How does it feel? He was paralyzed. It was pitch-black on the streets now. If he went back up there, he’d be mugged again in a heartbeat—only this time, now that they took from him everything they could steal, they’d probably just kill him.
They?
Finally, an old lady in a shabby brown coat stopped and fumbled in her bag and pulled out a rumpled dollar bill. “God bless you, ma’am,” Sam heard himself say.
God?
“You run along home, child.”
Home?
How does it feel, how does it feel?
To be without a home
Like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone?
The song looped through his head the whole way back downtown.