Prism

Prism Walk

It was getting dark between the houses as we rushed through the borough for the last time this week. The shadows hiding in the concrete pavement came to life beneath the dim streetlight’s glow and wrapped their willowy arms around my six-year-old legs. I wondered how it would be if  the shadows lifted me off to another place because Daddy was pulling me so hard my Mary Janes barely skimmed the sidewalk surface. “Hurry along, Desi,” Daddy instructed. “We don’t want to miss the opening prayer.”

 Daddy had joined the Jehovah’s Witnesses and since we didn’t have a car, so Daddy and I walked two miles to the Kingdom Hall three times a week for service. I didn’t understand why the opening prayer was so important. All of Brother Jones’ opening prayers sounded the same and  I often wondered if God wanted people to just talk to him like I did from my bed every night and morning, but who was I to question the Elders. Brother and Sister Jones would bring us home. I loved Brother Jones in a way I hadn’t loved before. I sat in between him and Sister Jones during service. They didn’t have any kids. My feelings for him bothered me a little because Daddy was my heart, but Brother Jones always made life feel peaceful; like everything was okay.  Besides, I was thinking more about the dog further up the street more than Brother Jones’ prayers. This dog was always waiting for us to pass by so he could remind us how annoyed he was. Had he been taught not to like Negroes too? I called him Slate. His body looked strong like the steel Daddy used to  carry at the mill before it shut down. Slate  was really beautiful with a brown coat that shimmered like a cooper penny as if a mother brushed his hair every night. But he was so angry with me and Daddy.

Mom found out about Daddy joining the Jehovah’s on Good Friday.  Daddy came home after his shift at the hospital and took down every picture, African artifact, all the Christmas decorations in the attic, the picture of Black Jesus  and threw everything in the dumpster down the street including my Easter basket and the hard -boiled eggs Mom and I had spent hours coloring that afternoon. It wasn’t Friday but Mom and Daddy argued anyway, but no one got hurt this time. I found out later that Jehovah’s don’t hurt their family members, physically anyway. I was thankful because Daddy and Mom would go out every Friday with their friends to have fun and then come home mad and fight. I asked myself often if the bruise under my eye from mom throwing a cold cream jar at Daddy while I sat on his lap would ever go away. I sat on Daddy’s lap lot. He would give me a soft rag and I wipe his shoes for service after he brushed them with the black polish in the round Kiwi can. The scent of leather and Mom’s fried potatoes and onions filled downstairs. Mom never said she was sorry. She was still mad at Daddy.

Slate smelled us coming. A humid drizzle had started and made everything damp and smelly like Grandma’ s basement. Daddy took me to see Grandma and the rest of his five brothers a lot more because they were all Jehovah’s too. Jehovah’s didn’t mingle with non-Jehovah’s unless they had to like at work. Daddy’s family  lived on the West side of town; the area that was always on the 6 o’clock news that made Daddy call to see if everyone was ok. Jehovah’s were non-violent. Daddy explained that real Christians defend with love, not with physical force. Daddy also told me that if someone tries to hurt you, we must follow the example God set and instead of fighting back, turn the other cheek. Jehovah’s believe that  love will stop the enemy and eventually love will come back to you. I told him I understood.

Mom and Daddy argued more than before. Mom was pregnant and refused to become a Jehovah. She didn’t even seem happy that the late-night calls for Daddy from nurses at the hospital had stopped. Besides, when Daddy went out on Saturdays with Brother Jones and Brother Victor to minister to the unsaved, Mom smiled more when he was gone. Me too. We would play and she let me watch her put on make-up. How pretty she looked in her red lipstick Those were the days I was allowed to visit Ms. Dugger and her grandson Emmett. When I walked through her door she pulled me to her chest. She smelled of baby powder, collard greens and Vicks. Mom said Emmett had to stay with his grandmother because his mother did something bad and had to go away. She reminded me how lucky I was. I didn’t feel sorry for Emmitt. We would bake chocolate chip cookies and play on the swing. I often saw the man who fixed the kitchen and bathroom stuff in the projects came over on Saturdays when Daddy was saving people to fix our stuff. I thanked him for coming. Mom would run me across the street so I wouldn’t be in the way. Daddy was always upset though when he came home from doing God’s work. One night Daddy told Mom that he wanted to become an elder at the Kingdom Hall and that meant his whole family had to obey. She said she wasn’t going to embarrass herself walking to the Kingdom Hall and that she didn’t want another baby.  Daddy told her to never say that again.

Slate was two houses away from Daddy, but I had let go of his hand and slowed down. My legs were tired as if the sidewalk shadows had wrapped around them too tight and it was hard to move. “Desi, stop falling behind. Get up here. We are there,” Daddy scolded. He didn’t even look over at Slate as he hurried by even when Slate jumped at the fence barking viciously. Daddy never paid Slate any attention. Daddy was approaching the house owned by the old white couple who were always on television for having the best decorated house in the City at Christmas. It looked like a real gigantic gingerbread house and I imagined how wonderful it would be inside. Daddy always laughed about their electric bill and Mom just looked sad. “Desi! “Don’t make me come back there,” Daddy yelled. “You won’t like it!” Jehovah’s believed in spanking their kids. It didn’t matter though because Slate was standing in front of me barking at my new pink raincoat I always wore to the Kingdom Hall. I was thinking that Daddy wasn’t in the right place. Slate had jumped the fence.

I saw Daddy turn around and then I didn’t see him anymore. He was still calling me, “Desi! Desi!” but I couldn’t catch up. The streetlights were dimmer now and the sidewalk’s shadows unwrapped my legs so I could run as Slate grabbed my pink raincoat with his teeth. I closed my eyes and saw myself being carried to another place filled with  Easter eggs, chocolate chip cookies, and Christmas.  Mom and I talked about those times before Jehovah when she braided my hair. She always called me a dreamer, but she smiled more in my other place. She’s been  gone for a while  now. I wonder will I ever see her again. Black Jesus was in my other place o and  Brother Jones prayed a different prayer every day. I love Brother Jones. Daddy called  to for me one last  time, “Desi. Desi!” but Slate’s bark was too loud like the songs  I heard at the Kingdom Hall. I smiled.