64 THENEWYORKER, NOVEMBER 4, 2019
Communion. He used a loaf of rich
bakery bread. He gave Fly the basket
to pass around. Fly carried it and watched
the basket feed everyone. Like the loaves
and fishes. Pastor passed around the
wine. Real wine, not like the grape juice
at Grace. Pastor had one large bottle,
and he let everyone take a sip. Children,
too. Fly let the wine touch his lips, felt
it warm and tasted it bitter, even burn-
ing. “Like radish,” Brent said.
“No body hungry,” the pastor
hummed. “No body thirsty. No famine.
No war.”
It wasn’t a new church. No one
stopped going to Grace Baptist. Pastor
John didn’t ask that of them. God’s Car-
avan was a complementary church, a
little extra on the side.
On the fifth Sunday, Gram brought
one of her quilts. After everyone sang
“Every Coon Looks Alike,” she presented
it to Pastor John. It was something Fly’s
own mother had never done with her
quilt—the one she never seemed to finish.
John the Baptist unfurled Gram’s quilt
with an expert flourish. “The doors of
God’s Caravan are open,” he said. The
flag of quilt shivered in front of him.
“Somebody today loves his wife like she
is mortal instead of loving her like she
is divine. No, no, no,” he said, singing.
“Somebody here today has wondered
why on earth she was put on this earth.
She doesn’t know she herself made this
earth.” Now he shook the quilt as if the
people, his parishioners, were bulls.
“Some child here wonders
if he was meant to be banker
or thief or the first real black
President of the United
States. Oh, you have all got
to come to Jesus!” And then
he held the quilt in one
swaying hand and stretched
the other to the sky.
With his open arm, it was
clear that “come to Jesus”
and “come to me” could be
the same thing. Which meant that he
was, in a way, Jesus just then. Fly, of
course, walked to him. As he passed,
his grandmother patted the air with her
palms out and her fingers down. Push-
ing him along by magic.
But what, really, was Fly thinking?
That he would be saved? That the spirit
would come over him and he would
know how to dance? Really dance, like
the un-wifed women at Grace Baptist?
That all his dreams of being cool and
socially adept would come true? When
Fly climbed into the back of God’s Car-
avan, he expected the pastor to anoint
him in front of the others. Press his
oiled fingers into Fly’s forehead. De-
clare Fly blessed and bless-ed. But what
Fly thought might happen and what
really happened were two different
things. As Fly stepped up into the van
and stooped to face the crowd, the
Dodge door closed like a jaw. Bam. Just
like that, he and the pastor were alone
together in darkness.
“What the hell are you doing, kid?”
Pastor whispered in a worried-sound-
ing tone. His voice revealed a new set
of sounds, an accent like Fly’s father’s
when the voices came on.
Fly couldn’t see the pastor at all, it
was so dark, but still he whispered back.
“You told me to come.”
“I did, did I.” Fly couldn’t tell if this
was a question or a statement, so he
waited. Pastor said, “Now. What will
you do?”
“I will ... ”
“Exactly!” Pastor commanded. “Will
is all we have. What’s your name?”
Fly was sure Pastor knew—he’d
given him the name, after all—but this
was a test. “Fly,” Fly said.
“Fly, Fly. Will is all we have.”
Fly was crouched in the van so his
head wouldn’t hit the ceiling. His brains
felt swimmy, as if he could see his and
Pastor’s voices. He figured
maybe this was what Dad
felt sometimes. He didn’t
know what to say, so he
kept waiting.
“Take my hand,” John
the Baptist said. Fly put his
hands out in the dark until
he felt them gripped. The
pastor’s hands were cool and
moist, as if he’d been cra-
dling ice cubes.
“Let’s figure out who you really are.”
Fly breathed. He was ready. Ready
to find out that he could really dance
and sing “Beat It” as well as Brent. But
instead Pastor began to pray. He prayed
for Fly’s safety. He prayed for Fly to
make positive friendships. For Fly to
grow up and marry a good woman. For
Fly to be a standup father someday. For
Fly to know his destiny and pursue itsperfection until his dying day. Fly’s head
rocked, and he wanted to throw up.
“You know,” the pastor said. “You
know, dear Lord, you should not even
be alive now.” But Fly couldn’t tell if Pas-
tor was talking to him and calling him
Lord or if he was still praying to God
and saying that God should be dead.
The door eased open again and Fly
squinted. Pop was there, like he was get-
ting ready to charge in. Gram was stand-
ing with her hands flat on either side
of her face, like she was in shock. The
rest of the crowd stood still, as if they
were on the verge of a major action.
“They told you,” Pastor announced
to the crowd, “that you wanted to be
white. And after a while you began to
believe it.” He turned to Fly now. Pas-
tor was not singing. He was not hum-
ming. “Do you renounce the thing in
you that makes you renounce yourself ?”
Fly alone answered, “I do.”
“Will you strive to use your gifts no
matter how they manifest?”
Fly didn’t stumble or stutter. “I will.”
“Ride or die.”
“Amen.”B
ack at Gram and Pop’s house, Fly
called his mother in Ellenwood.
“Was I not supposed to be alive? Was
I almost not born?”
There was silence on the other end
of the line.
“Mom?”
“Sorry, I’m sure I misheard you.”
He had to repeat the question two
more times. And then she finally an-
swered with: “What have those grand-
parents been telling you?” As if they
weren’t her own parents.
“A pastor told me.”
She sighed. “There was a pregnancy
before you. It’s what made me and your
father marry so fast. But then all of a
sudden I wasn’t pregnant. I don’t know
why I’m telling you this. This isn’t the
kind of thing I would tell. But here you
go. When I was pregnant the second
time, your crazy father said it had been
you the first time, that you didn’t want
to be in the world. Like you’d commit-
ted suicide in my belly. Can you imag-
ine a father saying that? I mean, have
mercy. But who knows, maybe he was
right in a way. He’s like that. Crazy, but
right. Because when you were born you
weren’t breathing. I’m sure you’ve heard