Southland by Nina Revoyr Page B

short of the corner. Jimmy had never been to this church; hadn’t been to church much at all since he was a baby, although his mother came sometimes to get word about jobs. She was working this Sunday—the family she worked for was having a party—but his aunt had insisted that he go with her and her boys. It would be good for him to be there, and his presence was needed.“’Specially today,” she’d said. “’Specially today.”
    People were milling around in the street and on the front steps, touching their hats, picking pieces of lint off their children’s shoulders. Jimmy knew from Curtis that several Black Muslims had been shot by the police that week, gunned down just outside of their mosque. He didn’t really know what a Black Muslim was, except that Curtis’s girlfriend’s brother was thinking of becoming one. Now pieces of conversation rustled past him, loose scraps blown by the wind. “You watch. Ain’t none of ’em gonna be punished, neither.” “Police be worse than overseers back in Arkansas.” “Those Negroes cause they own problems, followin around after that brother X.” “Need to stop hollerin Allah and come on back to Jesus.” “Hush, sister. To the cops, niggers niggers, don’t matter what name you tack on to the front of your prayers.”
    Jimmy didn’t know what any of this meant. But he wondered if it was related to all the black people he kept seeing on TV, from Nashville, Montgomery, Birmingham, Jackson. When he was over at the Martindales’, Alma would shake her head at the images on the screen, and she’d been shaking her head at the Eagle and the Sentinel all week. Now, as they walked through the crowd of people, Jimmy watched her swivel and step, the angle of her head, her long, elegant neck, the fine hard line of her jaw. She looked strong and queen-like, and he was proud to be part of her group. The men tipped their hats and she acknowledged them with nods; the women, eyeing her suspiciously, laid firm fingers on their husbands’ arms. Curtis moved through the crowd more slowly, a man at fourteen, touching the rim of his hat at the women, shaking hands with all the men. Jimmy watched his ease, admiringly, and smiled politely as large women leaned over him and cooed. The three boys followed Alma at a distance, Curtis with a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder, steering him. They entered the church and sat in a pew about halfway to the front, Alma, Cory, Curtis, James. Curtis showed Jimmy where the hymnal was and pointed out some of his friends from school. Reverend Greene came in then, with his bible, and the noise tapered down to a hush. He was a tall, skinny man, all angles, the only rounded parts of him the top of his skull and the eyes that protruded out of his sunken face.
    “My brothers and sisters,” he began, “a terrible tragedy occurred this week on South Broadway.” And after that, Jimmy was lost, words swirling around him that he didn’t understand, Moses and David, Redemption and the Promised Land. He heard people responding, “You tell it, brother,” and “Amen!” and because Curtis was one of those who called “Amen,” Jimmy did so, too. When it was time to sing, Curtis held the book down for him, which didn’t help because Jimmy couldn’t read. But he tried to imitate his cousin as he nodded and rocked. The singing scared and delighted him, the way the voices all flowed together and formed something greater than the sum of themselves, a presence as huge and beautiful to Jimmy as the thought of God. He felt the owners of these voices, the grown-ups in the church, could fight off anything, take over the world.
    Jimmy tried to follow the pastor’s words for the first twenty minutes. Then his attention slowly failed him and he watched the congregation. He saw a sea of ladies’ hats, yellow and green and white, decorated with flowers, and sprays of baby’s breath and lace. He saw open faces turned up to the pastor, feeding on what sustenance he offered,