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The Preacher In The Garden of Evil
The preacher is on Thursdays, after bible study. I’ve been going since the year I turned sixteen. He tells me to go around to the back door of the church, but don’t knock, and when the last car has pulled away and there is only the big black one left, he pulls the door open and points me to his office. By now I know just where it is, but still, he points.
When my mama was still at home, before she did the thing, we used to go inside for Thursdays, but never for Sundays. Mama said on Sundays he was all wrapped up in robes, silk and satin, with purple and gold trim, speaking like thunder was coming out of his mouth, acting like he was the almighty himself. But on Thursdays he was satisfied with being a man. He didn’t speak Thunder, only English.
I had moved in with Grandmama on Bamboo Street when I was about thirteen, after Mama did the thing, and the preacher would drive down the street in the big black car, with the windows rolled up, with the air blowing. Usually he just blew the horn or waved as he drove by, but from time to time, he would stop in front of some church member’s house and roll the windows down, and talk bible with some old man or some young woman.
One summer day, it was hot as hell and Grandmama didn’t have no air, so I was standing out on the porch with my friend Tangy, before they moved, and the preacher stopped…
