Saved, Maria Johnson

Saved

Her tiny body convulsed without control, chafed arms reaching for the sky as a sea of dark faces surrounded her. Huge tears fell down her cheeks, searching for a seed to sprout belief. Though drifting in and out of awareness, she could feel the hands of many lifting her, carrying her over what seemed like a hundred pairs of eyes, from one dimly lit living room to the enclosed front porch.

They placed her on the bare wooden floor and quickly surrounded her, shielding her from danger to herself or others as she rolled from one edge to another. The voices began in hushed tones, then grew into shouts that could be felt in the soul. A tambourine joined the rhythm, the cadence pulling her small body into a consciousness she had never known before.

Church was held in the preacher’s living room. Mrs. Baker, the preacher’s wife, had seventeen children. Every Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Tuesday night, their cream-colored station wagon rolled slowly down Grover Street, leaning low on the driver’s side, horn blaring, gathering children for Baker Temple Church of God in Christ, the only Pentecostal church in town.

When the horn sounded, children sprinted out of their homes in the church’s uniform, white blouse and black skirt for the girls, white shirt and black pants for the boys. Pants were never allowed for girls, nor bare upper arms. Standards were strict, attire unquestioned.

The wagon was always packed. The back seat was the most fun, you could stare into the eyes of drivers behind you, make faces, and signal truckers to honk their horns.

Grover Street ended at the river, one of many dead-end streets lined with families who had little but made do. The hill was steep, dangerous in the winter but alive with play in the summer. Children filled the block with kickball, softball, and endless games of Simon Says.

Rhonda loved to run. She ran up and down the hill, for no reason other than it felt like life itself. Running freed her from teasing and names, from Calamine lotion and the boys who laughed. Running was breath, and years later, it would save her life.

Grover Street was known for its families. The Jacksons lived near the top, tied to the Gideons, both famous for their endless line of sons. Theodore Jackson led civil rights protests in the city before dying in a car accident, an ending some whispered was no accident at all. His funeral was so large it filled every pew, every hallway. Miss Iola sang Never Grow Old, her voice pulling people toward the casket, her voice the Mahalia Jackson of the community.

Funerals had their own order, with women dressed in white, fanning mourners who “got happy.” Mrs. Worford was always the first to go, moaning, wailing, flailing, held down as she praised.

And now, the same thing was happening to Rhonda.

“Say it, say it!” they shouted.

“Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus,” she screamed as she rolled across the floor. Her words gave way to exhaustion, her body limp.

This time it was real. Once before, she had faked it, wanting so badly to feel what others felt that she forced tears and tremors. But this time she was light enough to walk on water, bright enough to shine in the dark. She didn’t dance or speak in tongues, but she knew, she was saved.

And after church, always, there was homemade pineapple upside-down cake, strawberry shortcake, pecan pie, ice cream, blueberry pie, peanut brittle, caramel.

Mrs. Baker could cook anything, and she looked like it. Someone once said she weighed five hundred pounds. Children didn’t know what that looked like. They only knew, “She sure is fat.”

The End.