“Cain is a murderer, ain’t he? There ain’t no doubt about that. He is a low-down, nefarious criminal! He killed his own brother because he was jealous. He didn’t have faith enough to say, all right, now, God has not seen fit to praise him. That’s done made him mad, but he didn’t say that, maybe, he needed to pray and ask, ‘Lord, what do you want from me? Forget about my brother. What is it I can do? How can I get that favor you bestowed upon Abel? Am I doing something wrong? Help me, Lord. Give me just a little sign.’ But, y’all, Cain didn’t do none of that. No, he had to act a fool and take and kill his brother, and then he received his punishment.
“Some of y’all sitting up in here, you done had hard times. You struggling. You got bills to pay and no money. Some of y’all’s children, they done fell in love with the world and they have disappointed their people. Some of y’all are raising grandkids that those children done left you with. I ain’t calling no names. We don’t need to do all that. I’m just telling you I know what you going through. That’s what a pastor is for, but I’m not only your pastor. I’m your brother in Christ—”
The door to the church creaks open. Tony Crawford and his mama walk up the center aisle. When they pass me, I see his face swollen red and purple. One eye is closed, and Tony walks like he’s real tired. Everybody in the church starts whispering, but Elder Beasley tells us, Amen, let us pray.
*
I’m thirteen going on fourteen, and it’s a June morning. Mama and I have been up in the dark, preparing for the journey to Chicasetta. By the time she makes breakfast, the sun is flirting with the sky. My father arrives, home from working the night shift in the emergency room. But my sisters aren’t there in the kitchen, as Mama fixes plates for Daddy and me. Grits, eggs, and sausage biscuits. No coffee for me; I’m still too young.
She gives Daddy instructions. Don’t forget, there’s Tupperware in the deep freezer with directions on the lids. He has to defrost and then put everything in a pan before he puts it in the stove, otherwise the plastic will burn and smell bad, too.
He pats his thighs. When she settles on his lap, he kisses her cheek.
“Woman, you do know I’m grown.”
“I don’t want you to go hungry.”
“I need to lose weight anyway. I’m pretty sure I can miss a few meals.”
“But don’t be eating out every day. That’s not healthy. There’s plenty greens in that Tupperware.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll just miss you, woman.”
“How much? Tell me.”
They banter back and forth, but I want them to notice me. “Are you going to miss me, too?”
“What kind of question is that?” Daddy asks. “You are my precious baby girl! Of course I’ll miss you. Who’ll beat me in chess while you’re gone?”
“Anybody can beat you. You don’t know how to play.”
Mama laughs, and he tells her this is certainly her daughter, because I sure can cut a brother off at the knees. She hits his shoulder lightly, and he kisses her, only this time on the mouth. They start ignoring me again, talking in their low, “just us” tone.
This summer’s different: When we start our journey south, only Mama and me in the car. Lydia’s down south already. She’s going to be a junior at Routledge College, studying social work, and I’ve been so lonely in the City without her. Lydia’s the one who used to wake me up in the morning, kissing my face with loud smacks. Who congratulated me that my twin bed was dry, the year after the long-haired lady had stopped coming to my dreams. Lydia, who debated with me about which clothes I should choose. Who told me that I wore jeans too much and, when I protested that our cousin Malcolm wore jeans every day, the one who told me this was true but that Malcolm wasn’t as pretty as me. She’s my best friend, but she’s gone all the time now, except for summer.
Coco’s gone from the City, too. She’s headed to her third year at Yale. She was accepted early, and now she’s on the premed track. She called last week and told Mama she was taking the bus down to Chicasetta. Yes, it’s a three-day ride, but she wanted to see more of the country. And don’t worry about her ticket. She’d already saved up from her emergency fund.
It’s a strange ride in the station wagon. I don’t squeeze between Lydia and my mother. There’s no slapping at Coco’s hands as she reaches over the back seat and tugs my braids, and when we pull into the driveway at the farm, Dear Pearl’s not there on the porch. She’s gotten older. She doesn’t like to be out in the heat. Still, it’s a surprise not to see her waving her church fan, to see, instead, my sisters waiting for Mama and me up on the porch. That’s when Uncle Root rises from his chair, his gait spry; he doesn’t hop down the steps, as in past years. He takes his time, and when he kisses my cheek I notice I’m the same height as he is.