grieved him, “almost all of y’all.” He flipped through his huge pulpit Bible. “How many of y’all—Brothers and Sisters—got call-waiting?” He turned pages quickly, then stopped, as though he didn’t need to search the scripture after all. “Let me tell ya,” the Pastor said, nearly kissing the microphone, “there is Someone! Who won’t accept your call-waiting! There is Someone! Who won’t wait, when you put Him on hold!” Sister Nancy Popwell and Sister Drusella Davies now had their eyes closed in concentration, their hands waving slowly in the air in front of them as though they were trying to make their way through a dark room.
The last phone call Sister Clareese had made was on Wednesday, to Mr. Toomey. She knew both he and Cleophus were likely to reject the Lord, but she had a policy of sorts, which was to call patients who’d been in her care for at least a week. She considered it her Christian duty to call—even on her day off—to let them know that Jesus cared, and that she cared. The other RNs resorted to callous catchphrases that they bandied about the nurses’ station: “Just because I care for them doesn’t mean I have to care about them,” or, “I’m a nurse, not a nursery.” Not Clareese. Perhaps she’d been curt with Cleophus Sanders, but she had been so in defense of God. Perhaps Mr. Toomey had been curt with her, but he was going into O.R. soon, and grouchiness was to be expected.
Nurse Patty had been switchboard operator that night and Clareese had had to endure her sighs before the girl finally connected her to Mr. Toomey.
“Praise the Lord, Mr. Toomey!”
“Who’s this?”
“This is your nurse, Sister Clareese, and I’m calling to say that Jesus will be with you through your surgery.”
“Who?”
“Jesus,” she said.
She thought she heard the phone disconnect, then, a voice. Of course. Cleophus Sanders.
“Why ain’t you called me?” Cleophus said.
Sister Clareese tried to explain her policy, the thing about the week.
“So you care more about some white dude than you care about good ol’ Cleophus?”
“It’s not that, Mr. Sanders. God cares for white and black alike. Acts 10:34 says, ‘God is no respecter of persons.’ Black or white. Red, purple, or green—he doesn’t care, as long as you accept his salvation and live right.” When he was silent on the other end she said, “It’s that I’ve only known you for two days. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She tried to hang up, but he said, “Let me play something for you. Something interesting, since all you probably listen to is monks chanting and such.”
Before she could respond, there was a noise on the other end that sounded like juke music. Then he came back on the phone and said, “Like that, don’t you?”
“I had the phone away from my ear.”
“I thought you said ‘lying is the abominable.’ Do you like or do you don’t?” When she said nothing he said, “Truth, now.”
She answered yes.
She didn’t want to answer yes. But she also didn’t want to lie. And what was one to do in that circumstance? If God looked into your heart right then, what would He think? Or would He have to approve because He made your heart that way? Or were you obliged to train it against its wishes? She didn’t know what to think, but on the other end Cleophus said, “What you just heard there was the blues. What you just heard there was me.”
“. . . LET ME tell ya!” Pastor Everett shouted, his voice hitting its highest octave, “Jeeeee-zus—did not tell his Daddy—‘I’m sorry, Pops, but my girlfriend is on the other line’; Jeeeee-zus—never told the Omnipotent One, ‘Can you wait a sec, I think I got a call from the electric company!’ Jeeeeeeee-zus—never told Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John, ‘I’m sorry, but I got to put you on hold; I’m sorry, Brother Luke, but I got some mac and cheese in the oven; I’m sorry, but I got to eat this fried chicken’”—and at this, Pastor Everett paused, grinning in anticipation of his own punch line—“‘cause it’s finger-licking good!”
Drops of sweat plunked onto his microphone.
Sister Clareese watched as the congregation cheered, the women flagging their Bibles in the air as though the Bibles were as light and yielding as handkerchiefs; their bosoms jouncing as though they were harboring sacks of potatoes in their blouses. They shook tambourines, scores of them all going at once, the sound of something sizzling and frying.
That was it? That was The Message? Of course, she’d only heard part of it, but still. Of course she believed that one’s daily life shouldn’t outstrip one’s spiritual one, but there seemed no place for true belief at Greater Christ Emmanuel Pentecostal Church of the Fire Baptized. Everyone wanted flash and props, no one wanted the Word itself, naked in its fiery glory.
Most of the Brothers and Sisters were up on their feet. “Tell it!” yelled some, while others called out, “Go ’head on!” The organist pounded out the chords to what could have been the theme song of a TV game show.
She looked to see what Sister Drusella’s and Sister Maxwell’s unsaved guests were doing. Drusella’s unsaved guest was her son, which made him easy to bring into the fold: he was living in her shed and had no car. He was busy turning over one of the cardboard fans donated by Hamblin and Sons Funeral Parlor, reading the words intently, then flipping it over again to stare at the picture of a gleaming casket and grieving family. Sister Donna Maxwell’s guest was an ex-con she’d written to and tried to save while he was in prison. The ex-con seemed to watch the scene with approval, though one could never really know what was going on in the criminal mind. For all Sister Clareese knew, he could be counting all the pockets he planned to pick.
And they called themselves missionaries. Family members and ex-cons were easy to convince of God’s will. As soon as Drusella’s son took note of the pretty young Sisters his age, he’d be back. And everyone knew you could convert an ex-con with a few well-timed pecan pies.
Wednesday was her only day off besides Sunday, and though a phone call or two was her policy on days off, she very seldom visited the hospital. And yet, last Wednesday, she’d had to. The more she’d considered Cleophus’s situation—his loss of limb, his devil’s music, his unsettling laughter—the more she grew convinced that he was her Missionary Challenge. That he was especially in need of Saving.
Minutes after she’d talked with him on the phone, she took the number 42 bus and transferred to the crosstown H, then walked the rest of the way to the hospital.
Edwina had taken over for Patty as nurses’ station attendant, and she’d said, “We have an ETOH in—where’s your uniform?”
“It’s not my shift,” she called behind her as she rushed past Edwina and into Room 204.
She opened the door to find Cleophus sitting on the bed, still plucking chords on his unplugged electric guitar that she’d heard him playing over the phone half an hour earlier. Mr. Toomey’s bed was empty; one of the nurses must have already taken him to O.R., so Cleophus had the room to himself. The right leg of Cleophus’s hospital pants hung down limp and empty, and it was the first time she’d seen his guitar, curvy and shiny as a sportscar. He did not acknowledge her when she entered. He was still picking away at his guitar, singing a song about
