summer heat. That heat was a nuisance. As a child he would sit on the first pew and look back at the sea of black faces, all frantically fanning.
Before the coming of the PA system, the church choir’s prerequisite was not that one could actually sing, but that one could project their voice to the back of the church. For this reason, DeShawn had led many songs in the children’s choir. He couldn’t carry a tune to save his life, but he could project. These things become metaphors for life if you’re not careful. DeShawn learned it well; projection of voice was everything—be it literal or on paper—as was judicious use of its divine opposite, silence.
DeShawn sat some twenty feet from his uncle’s body and thought about how all open-casket funerals are a son of a bitch. DeShawn told his mother, should anything happen, he wanted to be cremated. “Where do you want your ashes thrown?” asked his mother. “IN THE EYES OF MY ENEMIES!”
There had been this hysterical disease in his family’s bloodline. Growing up, DeShawn watched his granddad and uncle behave like unchecked crazy people. The two men were often drunk, overly emotional, usually crying, exceptionally hysterical, and easily excitable. He remembered that his uncle and granddad had come to blows once when Uncle was eighteen because Granddad wouldn’t let him have the puppy he wanted. All hell broke loose, people took sides, and it ended in a fistfight, a bloody nose, and a gun being pulled. Some children were more susceptible to the hysteria than others. DeShawn grew up and caught the family bug like a motherfucker. Sitting in the church with his baby nephew on his lap, DeShawn wondered if he was going to be a stark raving lunatic too. Only time would tell. He cried and held the baby closer.
Uncle was goddamn handsome as all hell, and hypermasculine. Little DeShawn would wait for him on the porch to get home from high school. He drove a green ’67 Dodge pickup truck. As a little boy, DeShawn would peek at him in the bathroom trying to see him naked. That’s what a man is. Now Uncle really was dead. He was only forty. He’d had cancer since he was thirty-two, but refused to quit smoking. He couldn’t be bothered, really.
The congregation began to rustle in preparation for Sister Pearl. Sister Pearl had been the choir headmistress for forever and a day. She claimed many times that she lost her voice singing for the devil. Sometime in her twenties she decided she wanted to sing the dirty blues, like Aretha Franklin. She quit the church and started singing along the Chitlin Circuit in Chattanooga, Nashville, Louisville, and on up to Chicago. One day, she said, the Lord took her voice away, and that’s when she returned to church. Even as a boy, DeShawn modeled his singing voice after Sister Pearl’s. It wasn’t pretty—it was real. It sounded scratched, beaten, and pulsing with conviction, like she was trying to expel something. DeShawn didn’t care much for her “devil” explanation; like any unrepentant prodigal son, he held that running away with the devil was highly underrated. Sister Pearl’s voice lifted, and she sang “Since I Laid My Burden Down,” the same song she’d sung at his baptism when he was five.
As the processional to the graveyard began, DeShawn’s Auntie Margret got the spirit in her something fierce. She fell to the ground and started screaming, grabbed the casket and wouldn’t let it go. Auntie set off the spark and everyone in the goddamn church lost it; it was a symphony of screams and hollers. Somehow, they made it to the graveyard. DeShawn saw the grave marked JATIUS MCCLANSY and a chill ran though him. But Jatius was a memory for later. He looked away, down the hill to the creek. His baptism was the memory for right now.
DeShawn remembered being five and standing on the steps of the church in a matching white baptism gown and headwrap. All around him the adults were wearing white too. His grandmother kissed his head, and they made the procession down the hill to the creek. Some were holding lit white candles. Two of his girl cousins held his hands, the adults around him holding candles leading him on down to the creek and his uncle, who was chasing away any snakes or snapping turtles that might be lingering. The preacher at the time had lost his right leg to diabetes and had to be helped into the water. He recalled a floating feeling as he was brought midway into the creek to meet his uncles, who were deacons in the church, and the one-legged preacher. “This child has believed with his heart and confessed with his mouth,” said the preacher as he covered DeShawn’s face and pushed him under the creek water; it was cold as hell. DeShawn stood there, submerged, a feeling he could in no way explain.
Up on the bank, Sister Pearl let out a song.
Burden down, Lord.
Burden down.
People don’t treat me like they used too since I laid my burden down.
Every round goes higher and higher . . .
DeShawn’s little soul popped right back up out of the water, feeling cold and wet and not as new as he thought it would.
Before DeShawn left for Alabama and before his uncle’s death, others had gone. For instance, Arnold was dead. Dead, dead, dead as Latin. He sunk with the Titanic. He flew the coop. That monkey had gone to heaven. It seemed that all the wild men around him were dying faster than he could keep track. Arnold was not the first, but he was of note.
DeShawn received the message on the morning train, on the way to classes in Oakland, and he hopped on the next train back to nowhere. There was nowhere to mourn the dead boy. Arnold had not lived in any one place for long, and had pulled so much shit that no one really loved him that much anymore. Or maybe they were waiting to love him again after he climbed out of the hole he had dug himself. Like he would appear out of thin air, a magician’s assistant with a tiara and a sash that said “Healed” or something. The dead boy died before completing that magic trick. He would be that type of memory: one to forget. Three days of crying ensued and then a phone call. Arnold’s final roommate called DeShawn and asked very sweetly if he would clean the dead boy’s room. DeShawn said yes.
This would be his last favor to Arnold. He had loved Arnold. No one knew they were fucking, and from outward appearances it probably seemed like a casual camaraderie. Fucked-up boy loves even more fucked-up boy. It was rainy, and DeShawn showed up with supplies to clean the dead boy’s room.
There were old clothes, new needles, crack pipes, Lorca poetry, and books by Bukowski. The dead boy was gentle-featured and very, very handsome. He had tried to get clean this last time, couldn’t, and then stepped in front of a car.
DeShawn’s mind shifted to his faraway youth, a certain redneck boss with permed and teased hair, smoking and sharing her thoughts on suicide. She said, “If you are brave enough to jump off a building or shoot yourself in the head then you are BRAVE. ENOUGH. TO. LIVE.”
He took it as truth because an adult had said it. And he had believed it, up until the point that he knew someone who stepped in front of a car. Up until the point he stepped in front of that car, Arnold had not been a brave person. He was fatigued, and he had made a choice. DeShawn stood over an unopened jigsaw puzzle. He wondered what Arnold felt the moment that car struck him. Had he regretted it? DeShawn believed in energy, and he believed in the other side. He lit candles, paid respect to the eight corners, and prayed—that is, hoped—that the gentle, handsome departed boy was resting in power. He asked whatever god was listening to hear him on this. He set up Arnold’s altar—a white candle and a glass of water—on the highest point in his room.
There were, of course, people around town who liked to talk. They called the handsome dead boy a junkie, and after that they called him a thief. This was true. “He was also a loved child of God,” offered Arnold’s mother. Maybe this was also true.
Away from the talkers and gossipers was Arnold and DeShawn’s criminally minded
