LET THE SAINTS SAY AMEN

The community center is bustling. Every seat taken, looking like Easter Sunday at church. I take a glance around the room. In the middle sit Tasha and her younger sister, Monica. Tasha smiles. I quickly text her, since it’s hard to reach her seat.

Thank you for coming

Pastor Jenkins stands in front, next to Lucinda Scott, the community director. Seeing Pastor Jenkins takes me back to times Mama tried to describe what court would be like.

Ten-year-old me didn’t know what to expect until she explained that court was gonna be like church. I felt better because I knew church. Sunday was all-day dedication. Monday, you drop off dishes from Sunday service. Tuesday, Bible study. Wednesday, choir. Thursday, the good choir. Friday, Savior’s night. Saturday, cleanup.

And court was supposed to be like a sinner’s testimony: truth on a throne.

The way God’s message reaches the pastor and spreads like wildfire until it touches someone’s soul at the altar for prayer circles or getting saved. Then you’d have as long as your truth-telling was gonna be.

I kept waiting for the judge to catch the Holy Ghost. Get all swept up like the hurricane that took everything away from us. Then we could pretend we never stepped foot on that evacuation bus to Texas, and Daddy wouldn’t have met Mark and Cathy Davidson.

But court didn’t resemble church. No one riddled with guilt came bursting into the courtroom asking for forgiveness. And after, we didn’t have a church home anymore. Not the same, anyway. After the sentencing, we were pushed to the margins. Whispered about. It took a long time to grab that place again for Mama. I never fully did. Not again. Not the same. Instead, I ran to the community center for my workshops a few years later. Never as full, but at least filled with purpose.

Lucinda waves us to reserved seats in the front. I follow Steve and Mama, passing Quincy, who gently reaches for my arm, stopping me.

“You okay?”

“I think so.” I give him a half hug.

“Let me know if you need anything.” Quincy squeezes my hand.

“Jamal can’t keep hiding in that shack,” I whisper to Quincy. He’s the only one I trusted to share I’ve seen Jamal. “It’s not safe. We gotta find a way to clear him, get his side of the story out.”

“I came by. Last night. I was thinking I would stay there, you know, in Jamal’s room. Watch out for y’all.”

“Why didn’t you come in?” I think about last night, my kissing Dean.

“I felt weird about it. Didn’t want to just pop up, you know. I stuck around with Bev.” Quincy looks away. Dean didn’t say anything about seeing Quincy when he left. Maybe he was gone by then.