CALVARY
People spread out around my sanctuary, brightly colored little beetles, clicking from one pew to the next. Greetings are whispered. Hugs are given and light, lipstick kisses are planted on cheeks with care. Movements are not as they were, there is less freedom and more caution among this group. And though there are many, Alice is not here. This is what the people speak of, her absence, not of how brightly the sun shines, or of how crisp the air is this late in March, but how one of them is no longer here to enjoy these things. How they just saw her. How they can’t believe what happened.
I always found it odd how the impermanence of life is something that surprises humans though it is something they know with certainty—that death will come for them all. There is still shock among them, sorrow, fear. Their mourning as fresh and distinct and varied from person to person, like snowflakes.
“It was a good homegoing service they gave Alice,” Sister Ellison says, a blush-colored hat framing her lightly wrinkled face and graying hair. “Everything just laid out so pretty.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Sister Cullen nods in agreement, an ankle-length lavender dress highlighting her ecru-tinged skin. “Standing room only. Even saw a couple of them news cameras in the back, too. At least they still covering the story. You know most times them news crews do one story on us only when something bad happens and leave. At least they might keep the story up a little while longer.”
“Just don’t make no sense. We ain’t even safe in our homes,” Sister Ellison laments.
“You know one of them reporters said something like residents are on edge after what happened to Alice. I almost laughed. We black in Chicago, we born on edge.”
“You know you ain’t never lied. You ain’t never lied,” Sister Cullen affirms.
They laugh.
“Speaking of liars, look who walked through the door,” Sister Ellison announces. She jabs Sister Cullen with her right elbow.
Lebanon King strolls down the aisle, eyes avoiding the two women’s gazes. A few people gather around him, offering their condolences and both Sisters look on with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
Sister Ellison sits down in the third row of the right-most pew as is her self-designated seat and has been for almost fifteen years. Everyone knows to never sit in this spot. She opens her Bible. Sister Cullen sits down beside her doing the same. It is a code, a tool they both use. Under the guise of appearing to read and debate God’s word, they’re able to discuss other church business and scandals. The pretense of holiness they believe keeps them safe and others unaware of their true and sometimes petty intentions.
“Now all these reports saying it’s probably a burglar, but Lebanon knows more than he’s letting on,” says Sister Cullen.
“Maybe he wants to find the man himself. Do justice his way.”
“Didn’t the Lord say, ‘Vengeance is mine’?”
“That’s all well and good until it’s someone you love,” counters Sister Ellison.
“Mmm-hmm, true, but did he love her though? We both saw Alice with them bruises from time to time, and you know no one is that clumsy,” Sister Cullen says with raised eyebrows.
“Yeah but it ain’t our business anyway and people got enough drama without inviting other people’s into their lives.”
Sister Ellison lays her Bible down. “Just feels empty, you know? I mean Alice was quiet, kept to herself, but she was good people. Good people. Lord knows we need more of them in the world than we got.”
Sister Cullen slightly turns her head, to see Layla escorting the Senator and Christy to her family’s pew.
“Layla, sweetie!” Sister Cullen calls. Layla dutifully marches over to the two women whom she’s known since birth, unsure what they have on their minds.
“Hey, baby. Is Ruby coming today? How’s she doing?”
Layla’s stomach churns. Her left arm breaks out in small bumps. Finding ways to answer questions, keep Ruby’s confidence, but maintain respect for elders in the church, is a difficult tightrope walk.
“No, ma’am, I don’t think she is, but she’s doing as well as can be expected.”
Both women nod and wait for more, some detail, some tidbit to help them fill out the facts or fantasies playing out in their heads.
Layla says nothing else. She simply smiles and calculates how much longer she’ll have to stand there for both women to realize all she’s willing to share is what’s left her mouth.
“You should probably go back and attend them visitors,” Sister Cullen advises.
“Yes, ma’am.” Layla turns from the two women and exhales.
A light breeze enters my halls. “Still smells like them gardenias from Alice’s homegoing. I ain’t never seen that many flowers,” says Sister Cullen.