whiskey, his eyes shining as if he were about to cry. And I had smiled back at him, pretending to understand but
actually wishing I was still in Indonesia running barefoot along a paddy field, with my feet sinking into the cool, wet
mud, part of a chain of other brown boys chasing after a tattered kite.
I felt something like that now.
I had scheduled a luncheon that week at our office for the twenty or so ministers whose churches had agreed to join
the organization. Most of the ministers we’d invited showed up, as did most of our key leadership. Together we
discussed strategies for the coming year, the lessons learned from Harold’s death. We set dates for a training retreat,
agreed on a schedule of dues, talked about the continued need to recruit more churches. When we were finished, I
announced that I would be leaving in May and that Johnnie would be taking over as director.
No one was surprised. They all came up to me afterward and offered their congratulations. Reverend Philips assured
me I had made a wise choice. Angela and Mona said they always knew I’d amount to something someday. Shirley
asked me if I’d be willing to advise a nephew of hers who had fallen down a manhole and wanted to sue.
Only Mary seemed upset. After most of the ministers had left, she helped Will, Johnnie, and me clean up. When I
asked her if she needed a ride, she started shaking her head.
“What is it with you men?” she said, looking at Will and myself. Her voice trembled slightly as she pulled on her coat.
“Why is it you’re always in a hurry? Why is it that what you have isn’t ever good enough?”
I started to say something, then thought about Mary’s two daughters at home, the father that they would never know.
Instead, I walked her to the door and gave her a hug. When she was gone, I returned to the meeting room, where Will
was working on a plate of leftover chicken wings.
“Want some?” he asked in between bites.
I shook my head, taking a seat across the table from him. He watched me for a while, chewing silently, sucking hot
sauce off his fingers.
“Place kinda grows on you, don’t it?” he said finally.
I nodded. “Yeah, Will. It does.”
He took a sip from his soda and let out a small burp. “Three years ain’t that long to be gone,” he said.
“How do you know I’m gonna be back?”
“I don’t know how I know,” he said, pushing away his plate. “I just know, that’s all.” Without another word he went
to wash his hands, before mounting his bike and riding off down the street.
I woke up at six A.M. that Sunday. It was still dark outside. I shaved, brushed the lint from my only suit, and arrived
at the church by seven-thirty. Most of the pews were already filled. A white-gloved usher led me past elderly matrons
in wide plumaged hats, tall unsmiling men in suits and ties and mud-cloth kufis, children in their Sunday best. A parent
from Dr. Collier’s school waved at me; an official from the CHA with whom I’d had several run-ins nodded curtly. I
shunted through to the center of a row and stuffed myself between a plump older woman who failed to scoot over and a
young family of four, the father already sweating in his coarse woolen jacket, the mother telling the two young boys
beside her to stop kicking each other.