Worship

“Mama, my shoes is killing me,” Marcus moaned.

His big toe, protected only by a threadbare sock, rubbed viciously against an exposed seam at the tip of his shoe, and there was a pinching sensation at his instep. His mother, a large and stoic woman, did not stop. She didn’t even slow down. Having already raised three boys and one girl, she had little patience for complaints.

“Mama, please,” he whined.

Quick as a flash, the back of her wide hand clapped against his ear. The blow was somewhat lessened by the soft white gloves she wore, but it still stung.

“I’m not gonna let you make us late,” she said.

Her tone was even; that was her way. The more upset or angry she was, the less her emotions showed. Gripping his hand tighter, she pulled him along, practically dragging him down the cracked sidewalk. Marcus became distracted from the pain in his feet and began jumping the seams in the concrete. His mother shook her head. At least he was moving.

Before turning the corner to the church, his mother stopped. She squatted down to his level, made some adjustments to his tie, and tucked in his shirt. She appraised him, then sighed, as though his appearance displeased her.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“What you sorry for?”

“I know you mad at me.”

“Marcus,” she said, clutching his shoulders, “I’m not mad at you. I just want to make a good impression. You don’t get another chance for that. Understand?”

“Yes, mama.”

She took his hand and led him to the church. They were greeted by a man in the whitest suit Marcus had ever seen. It was pure and crisp. Holding the door for them, the man in the suit smiled down at Marcus. His teeth were as white as his clothes.

“Welcome, young man,” he said. “You look a might handsome.”

“Thank you, sir,” Marcus said. “I wanna look good for God.”

“Amen, little brother,” the man in the white suit said as Marcus and his mother passed through the front door. Folks in Baltimore weren’t as friendly as folks back home. The man in the white suit was the first smiling face he had seen in a week.

The congregation was a confusion of murmurs. People chatting at a respectable level. Marcus and his mother found a seat at the front. Sweat beaded on his mother’s brow, which she wiped away with a tissue from her purse. Marcus looked at the people on the other side of him; an old couple. The old woman smiled at him. The old man seemed barely awake.

A piano hummed to life and a choir began singing. The hymn was somber, not lively like the opening hymn at their church in Montgomery. The old man next to Marcus closed his eyes and seemed to drift off completely. But he was forced awake by the sound of the choir transitioning to a more upbeat hymnal. A tambourine was incorporated, and a large black woman growled out devotional lyrics. This was more like church back home.

The chorus quieted as the preacher stepped into the pulpit. He was a short statured man with wiry gray hair and glasses. When he spoke, he had an accent that Marcus didn’t recognize. It sounded a bit like the Jamaican accent his daddy had, but thicker.

“Mama, why he talk like that?” Marcus said a little too loudly.

“Quiet,” she hissed.

“But why he talk like that?”

“He’s South African,” she rasped. “Be quiet.”

“Good morning,” the preacher said.

“Good morning,” the congregation replied.

“I would like to begin with a few announcements,” the preacher said. “For starters, Mrs. Keith and the volunteers have prepared a wonderful meal for after the service. I hope you …”

Whatever the preacher said after that, Marcus blocked it out. The old man next to him growled loudly. He was snoring. Marcus thought that was funny. He giggled to himself a little, which prompted his mother to squeeze his thigh. He focused back on the preacher.

“… an hour, two hours of your time is all we ask. This weekend we will be scrubbing the graffiti from…”

The old man snorted himself awake, and then shook his head back and forth, trying to clear away the sleepiness. He yawned wide, in the exaggerated way of old men. Marcus copied the yawn, giggling as he did. His mother grunted in the back of her throat. That was a warning. Next time, she was going to clap his ear. Annoyed, he threw his back against the pew and let his head lull to one side. He yawned, a real yawn this time. It was immediately followed by another, and another. Before he could catch himself, he fell asleep.

In his dream, he was back in Montgomery, sitting on their front porch with his daddy. Marcus was reading a board book while his father smoked a cigar. The smell of those cigars always made Marcus feel at ease. Even if mama was mad at him, when he smelled the cigars he couldn’t even force himself to worry. His daddy began to hum something that Marcus recognized. Amazing Grace. The thought came like a knife twist. It was the song his mama had sung at the funeral. The spot where his daddy had been sitting was suddenly empty.

Screaming himself awake, Marcus became aware that the entire congregation was looking at him. He slouched down into the pew, but hiding did no good.

“Mama,” he said. “Mama, I wanna go.”

“Marcus,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Please, mama.”

She held his chin between her thumb and index finger and said, “Quiet yourself, boy, or I’m gonna give you something to be upset about.”

“Mama, I don’t wanna stay!”

Concerned that he was making a scene, she gathered her purse, grabbed his hand and dragged him from the church. Once outside, she clapped his ear hard. He sank to the church steps and began to cry; heaving, breathless sobs. She softened at the sight of her son weeping and sat on the step next to him.

“I was thinking about daddy,” he said.

His mother lifted her hand to touch him, but left it hovering above his shoulder. She withdrew it quickly, clutching her purse with both hands.

“I don’t know why we here, Mama.”

“We here because we couldn’t live there no more. I couldn’t stay there knowing he died in that house. Couldn’t stay in that town. People talking.”

Marcus turned toward her. For the first time, he could see her sadness. The way she clutched her purse was the same way he clutched his stuffed dog at night.

“Come on,” she said, “let’s go on home.”

“What about worship?” he asked.

She stood and held out her hand for him. Together, they walked to the end of the block. At the corner, for no particular reason whatsoever, his mother squatted down and hugged him.

“We gonna come back next Sunday,” she said.

“I gotta wear these stupid shoes?” he asked.

“Boy, don’t you push it,” she said.