Street of Angels

Foreword

Some people don’t think I should have written this book. Maybe I should put that differently. Some people don’t think I should have been the one to write it. Who do I think I am, anyway, especially with nothing but a jailhouse education? It’s not like I’ve lived here in Calneh, Alabama, one of the Deep South’s sorrier cities, for all my life, either. What do I know about these people, the way they think, the way they talk? Aren’t I really just a newcomer, when it comes down to it?

All good questions, I guess. My only answer is that I live here now and that I’m the one who talked to all these people and either knew or know them well and was willing to dig up a fact or two that no one else seemed interested in doing. Most importantly, I guess I’m the one who had the time and inclination to do all those things and then actually sat down to write it all out. Whether or not (not, to be perfectly honest) everybody in this neighborhood likes me, or thinks I am or used to be a pretty big jerk, this is still the only book anybody ever wrote about Flowers Avenue or is ever likely to.

Which brings up the question of why anyone would want to write about a poor neighborhood (the ’hood, to some) in the wrong part of Calneh, and especially about things that happened way back when, when things were much worse than they are now. Why not write, as I’ve been asked, about one of Calneh’s Civil War heroes, or about the resurrection of its old Southern mansions, or even something about why the Japanese chose to build an auto parts factory here?

For everyone who asks those kinds of questions, I have a question of my own. If you lived in a neighborhood where angels sometimes walked the streets, wouldn’t you want to write about it, too? Now there’s a question for you.

****

Part One

Chapter 1

While Flowers Avenue Baptist Church’s Rev. John Hankins (Reverend Johnny, to his parishioners) wasn’t much of a preacher, unless you think reading from a typewritten script is the same as preaching, he did have a certain flair for church growth. If he had learned anything from his seminary days, it was that if you involved the kids, sooner or later you’d also have their parents. That explained his first act as pastor, that summer of 1955, erecting two basketball hoops and painting court boundary lines in the church parking lot.

The boys from the north side of the street soon regularly flocked to Flowers Baptist for Sunday afternoon basketball. Afterwards, they sat around eating snacks provided by the church, and Rev. Johnny, daring to appear without notes, even, would give them the gospel.

What happened next wasn’t quite as Johnny had planned. After a month or so of seeing the sweaty young men playing their games in the church parking lot, some of the girls in the neighborhood began to show interest. Did the guys want to play ball with them? Nowadays, nobody would probably think twice about such a proposition. They’d simply wave the girls in, and they’d be playing head-to-head against the guys and probably winning--at least some of the time. Trouble was, back then in the 1950s, in the South, the whole idea was more than a bit scandalous. But Rev. Johnny knew something good when he saw it. The guys were hearing the gospel and becoming involved, so now maybe he could involve the young girls and after that everyone’s parents, and soon he would have himself a thriving congregation.

Basketball, though, especially against the boys, was not the right vehicle. It would have been too unladylike. It was his wife (willowy but deceptively athletic, always a mean spiker at church camp volleyball games) who came up with the idea of switching from basketball to volleyball.

Volleyball? To his mind, it just did not have the same appeal. There wasn’t the masculine quality, the drive through the key, weaving in and out of defenders to go on the attack. Besides, he hoped to point someday to one of the boys playing college basketball and be able to say he’d a hand in shaping the young man’s life. Who could tell? Maybe a few of the boys would go on to play professional ball. That was, of course, in addition to the boys he hoped would go to Oklahoma Baptist, where he had gone to college to prepare for the ministry.

After considerable nudging from his wife, whose sharp elbows could be awfully persuasive, he broached the subject of volleyball the next Sunday afternoon with the boys.

Volleyball? This was long before the era of surf, sand, and sun, where golden tans predominate and the possibility of all that media exposure, meaning it did not have the same cachet as it would today. In fact, it did not go over all that well with the guys, and he had not so much as even mentioned the girls. Just at the moment they were about to take a vote, one surely doomed to failure, Reverend Mrs. Johnny pulled up in their two-tone, green-on-beige, Chevy Bel Air, the same ’53 coupe in which he had screwed up enough courage to propose marriage one night shortly after graduation from Oklahoma Baptist.

"Ummh, men, he said, prudently waxing fervent. I know it would be a bit of a self-sacrifice, but there is something else we need to consider here. As good Christians, and that’s what we’re learning about here, you sometimes are faced with decisions that may not seem the most pleasant. Sometimes you have to sacrifice for the common good, I mean. That’s something we learned in our little talk last week, wasn’t it?"

Actually, his talk the week before had been about how to be saved, which was what he always talked about, whether Sunday mornings, Sunday nights, Wednesday nights, or Sunday afternoons with the boys. But he was pretty sure he had thrown in something appropriately related from the lesson on Moses and The Burning Bush, where Moses had to remove his sandals, for it was holy ground. Anyway, he figured they understood his point.

By now, the boys were looking downright popeyed. Few of them had been to church much before, except maybe to Vacation Bible School during summers a few times when they were younger, but here he was, stringing together words like self and sacrifice. What did he mean by it? Was he to start charging them for the snacks the church provided? If so, only one or two of them could pay. The rest could barely support their popcorn habit or their worse addiction to Junior Mints when they went to the Paramount Theater. Even then some only made it to the latest movie because Billy Ray was an usher and would sneak them in through the back door for free--a grand old tradition practiced far outside the bounds of the South. Or were self and sacrifice prelude to something far worse? Did he mean to jump them about their bumming the occasional cigarette from friends, or for smoking butts discarded by their parents?

"What I mean boys--men, he corrected himself, is that with volleyball, we could include a lot more people. We are trying to reach people for the Lord, aren’t we?"

Brenda’s flats clack-clacked on the pavement as she drew closer, and her hip-length blonde braids flew. The boys were silent. He seemed to have lost them. Were they wondering if the old folks from the church wanted to join in, walking canes and all? Or did they worry maybe it was Brenda, and they were thinking about contending with those sharp elbows of hers when she was driving the key?

Who do you mean, Rev? Ronnie Tatum asked, self-consciously raising his hand. "D’ya mean the--the Negroes? Are we supposed to be reachin’ out to them?"

"No, no, I didn’t mean the Negroes, he answered hastily. I doubt they would want to play ball with us anyhow. What I meant was there are quite a few girls--gals of your own age--in the neighborhood, who would like to join us on Sundays. Do you think you’re up for it guys, playing volleyball instead, or is that asking too much?"

There. He’d finally said it. Brenda stood beaming at his side, one of her braids having worked itself free in all its blonde, madcap effulgence. She was his angel. She stood two inches taller than he, even in her flats, but she was his angel.

Girls, huh, one of the boys muttered. I dunno, another said. Does that mean we’d have to play sissy rules? I mean, they’re always afraid of hurting somebody’s feelings an’ all, you know.

Brenda hooked one arm inside of Johnny’s, and turned on her highest wattage smile. "Fellas, it’ll be fun, and y’all know it! Besides, it won’t hurt you none to meet a few of the girls in the neighborhood."

They stared at her, suddenly still and oddly silent. Didn’t she know three-quarters of them were their sisters or cousins, for gosh sakes? What was she trying to say?

Look, men, Rev. Johnny said, lowering his voice in a conciliatory tone, we can give it a couple weeks. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll go back to basketball.

He tried not to wince, as Brenda pinched his arm.

I dunno. Why can’t we just go back to basketball right now?

Just two weeks, fellas, he pleaded, bracing himself for a second, harder pinch. I promise.

"Oh hell--heck, I mean, Rev. Sorry, ma’am, Ronnie Tatum said. The girls’ll be fun. We won’t have any problems with ’em."

"I could just hug you, Ronnie Tatum!" Brenda gushed.

Oh, no need, Mrs. Rev, Ronnie said, warily eyeing her sharp elbows and bouncing the basketball on the blacktop. No need.

After a few weeks the guys figured they liked playing volleyball with the girls. Naturally the girls were annoyed with the boys for insisting they replay a point whenever someone missed her serve or failed to return for volley. The church did grow as a result, but it was not always in the way Brenda or Johnny wanted. Two of the girls were pregnant within the year, and Ronnie Tatum married one of them (not his cousin). Come to think of it, though, it was never clear whether Ronnie was the responsible party in the first place, and he and the girl eventually became serious about church and even went on to Oklahoma Baptist, where Rev. Johnny had received his Bible training and played a little basketball.

****

Chapter 2

Next door to Flowers Avenue Baptist Church where Reverend Johnny, the white minister, read out his sermons from the pulpit each Sunday and Wednesday, daring to peek up from his script only when turning a page, there was the McIlhenny place. Set way back from the street on an outsized, overgrown lot, the house was one of those where the porch went all the way around, so as the family could set out its rocking chairs on summer days to take in the sights (those sights being mostly slow-moving traffic composed of a few raggedy old pickups chased by barking dogs, or kids playing softball with a half-busted bat that’s gonna kill somebody if they don’t wrap another roll of black electrical tape around it).

Sharing space with a few trees, a shacky standalone garage, and weeds barely penned in by a battle-scarred picket fence, no one would claim that the McIlhenny place raised the neighborhood’s property values. The house’s only saving grace was that its white paint was not peeling--so far. Ol’ Leonard McIlhenny (no relation to the Louisiana McIlhennys of Tabasco renown) had painted the house just a few weeks before his passing. (Well, he called it painting; most folks would have said he rubbed it into the wood, the preferred method to someone of his penny-pinching ways.) As anyone could have told Leonard, if he’d been inclined to listen, he should have raised the house and put in cinderblocks or poured concrete for a new foundation, instead of worrying about paint. As things now stood, the rot would one day reach right up from the ground and claim the house just like it had a number of other places in the neighborhood, if the bugs didn’t do the job first.

Of course, being dead, Leonard left all such worries to his widow, Stella Jo, and to her son Michael, the poor cripple everyone knew only as Angel.

#

Stella McIlhenny was busy cleaning house, with dust rising around her and the Hoover like rain clouds coming up off the Gulf. Saturdays were for cleaning, since Sundays were the Lord’s Day, which everyone knew was for rest, (and she would have rested plenty on Sundays, if not for opening the church early to air it out and to stoke the ancient boilers, and then playing piano for the choir and sitting through the services) followed by the usual chicken dinners with her son and the occasional guest.

Her cleaning was not what it had once been, and now that she saw she had been slacking greatly in her duties, it was time to whip herself into shape. She couldn’t understand why no one had said anything. Wasn’t one of the ladies of the church always dropping by for some reason or another? Couldn’t they have said something, laid out a few broad hints, maybe? It was as if scales had fallen from her eyes, and for the first time she was seeing the garbage she’d let pile up since Leonard’s passing. There must be three years of newspapers scattered throughout the house! In the kitchen, she had to fight her way past grocery sacks filled with the refuse of countless dinners, lunches, breakfasts. She was lucky she didn’t have rats! Lucky, lucky, lucky!

Her three ancient cats, asleep on the kitchen table, one of the only free spaces in all the house, scattered as she shoved the wand of the Hoover at them. Poor Angel! she exclaimed to herself. How had he managed in all this mess? It must be due to the recuperative powers of a 10-year-old. She was lucky he had not contracted some horrible disease, dragging himself everywhere on his hands... Maybe this garbage was why he spent so much time in the yard, and why she had to fight to have him come into the house at night?

God is good, God is merciful! His lovingkindness is everlasting! Isn’t that true, she mumbled, as a phrase from the Psalms popped into her mind.

She turned off the Hoover, which was wheezing because its bag needed replacing, and reached for one of the sacks of garbage cluttering the kitchen floor. It was time to start a fire in the burn barrel out behind the garage. But as she leaned over, she thought she heard screams.

Merciful God in heaven! She exclaimed. What is all that commotion?

"You little devils! You had better git on home now!"

The garbage could wait. Alarmed, she hurtled toward the front door. As she peered cautiously through the screen, she discovered a Negro woman who seemed to be standing guard at her gate. Half a dozen little boys, whites and blacks, rocks in hand, were backing down, ready to bolt if just one of them would make the first move.

What did he ever do to you? The woman hollered. He’s a cripple-boy, not some monster like you littl’uns.

He’s blind and he’s stupid! One of the white boys shot back.

He don’t talk, neither, one of the black boys piped up.

You little cowards throw rocks at somebody who cain’t fight back, is thet it?

In shock, Stella Jo realized they were talking about her Angel. Angel was in the yard, curled up into a ball, his hands protecting his face. The little boys had pinned him down with their missiles. One of them made as if to fling another at him, but the woman shook one hammy fist and bellowed yet more loudly.

You throw that, and I will sit on you boy! You ever seen molasses on a col’ mornin’? Thet’s what you’ll be. And you white boys, you’ll be paste, I promise you!

My daddy-- one protested.

Your white trash daddy and yo momma will be paste just like you. I’ll sit on them, and they’ll have to send you away to the orphans’ home, boy!

Tears sprang into their eyes as they hesitated, contemplating her threats. Stella pushed open the screen door, rusty hinges shrieking like in some old horror movie, scattering them to the four winds.

Dabbing at her own teary eyes with her flour sack apron, she stumbled down the steps of her house and rushed to the gate. At the sound of her approach, Ioletta Brown turned in her direction. A muddy looking stream trickled down her cheeks.

They was tormentin’ the boy, Miss Stella, she said brokenly.

Stella pulled open the dilapidated, white-picket gate. I saw, Miss Ioletta. You were so brave, what with their rocks and all. Would you like to come in for iced tea and sugar cookies?

Wh-Why-- Ioletta stuttered in surprise. I-I think I would like that very much, thank you.

They started toward the house, both of them veering toward Angel, huddled in the weeds, hands still over his eyes.

He don’t look no worse for the wear, Miss Stella--I don’t think them boys coulda hit the broad side of a barn.

I think he’s fine, maybe a trifle in shock, Stella said, bending over and swinging her little boy into her arms as if he weighed no more than a feather. You could tell the original intent was for the boy to have been husky, but his useless legs dangled like the legs of a scarecrow with the stuffings all leaked out. His milky blue eyes blinked open, shifting from his momma and then to Miss Ioletta.

You all right, young man? Ioletta asked. Least he’s not whimperin’ or nothin’.

He’ll be all right, God watches after him and his kind, Stella said, gently tousling his brown, unkempt hair.

Maybe some hot tea for the boy? Ioletta suggested, as Stella one-handedly swept trash aside from the living room couch before setting Angel down. She tucked a crocheted afghan around his ears.

Hot tea is supposed to be good for shock, she agreed. And the iced tea will be nice for the two of us.

Once she had ministered to Angel, and the two women were settled at the kitchen table, tall glasses of tea in hand and sugar cookies at close range, Stella surveyed her once cozy domain with wide-eyed wonder.

I am mortified! It’s like I just woke up for the first time in years. The place is piled high in trash! How could any of my friends let this happen to me?

Ioletta stared at the garbage with equally wide eyes. Though one might not guess from her shapeless brown and white muumuu and her own extreme roundness, she always kept her house as neat as a pin. Secretly, she wondered where the white woman’s lace doily work (which festooned her own place) could be. She reached out and patted Stella on the back of one hand.

It’s the shock, losing your husband and all, dear. I can tell ya from doin’ the same myself and havin’ to take care of my boy. Could be your friends don’t keep house any better, neither.

Cookie crumbs sprayed suddenly from Stella, her hand covering her mouth too late. The backs of her arms jiggled, as she continued to heave with laughter.

I think you are right, Ioletta, she said, carefully wiping crumbs into her napkin. They probably never noticed. But what am I to do?

To do? We’ll just pitch in!

You would be willing to help me?

Help? What’s a little thing like that among sisters?

Stella’s jaw dropped. But after a moment’s consideration, she supposed she and Ioletta really were sisters, not in the flesh but certainly in the spirit. Then there was her rearing a boy all by herself, too. It was just that she had never before really thought about it.

That Reverend Champion of yours, is he a good preacher? She abruptly asked.

"Brother Cedric? He’s a firecracker!"

"Well, you know that’s what I’ve always heard, and I suppose you could call our Reverend Hankins the same, if you leave out that part about the fire, Stella said, laughing. But he does say we’re all the same at the foot of the cross."

That’s right! Ioletta exclaimed, looking auspiciously over the rim of her glass. I heard that, and now ifn the firecrackers and the crackers could see their way to come together, maybe God would do somethin’ with the whole lot of us.

Why, Ioletta Brown! Stella said. "All these years of seeing you pass by on the street, I never would have dreamed!"

There was the hint of a smile from Ioletta. Well, I don’t guess us cackling like hens will clean this place none, she remarked, modestly changing the subject. Don’t want to be all vines and no taters, you know.

"Oh, the work can wait a little longer, I think. Why don’t we sit a while, drinking tea, as sisters?" Stella said, patting Ioletta on the hand and then offering the plate of cookies, which were dwindling fast. Neither one of these women had said no to a bite of food in quite a few years.

And I’m not asking for nothin’ in return, Miss Stella. I’m just saying that soze you know--I ain’t lookin’ for no maid’s wages.

Why, I think this is one of the finest Saturdays ever, she said gratefully.

It was, too, even with Angel lying on a couch in the living room, an orange and brown afghan tucked up around his ears. At the sound of laughter spilling from the kitchen, he smiled happily, though blood trickled from several of his knuckles and stone bruises were spreading across the back of both hands. It had been a long time since he’d heard sounds of real joy in the house.

****

Chapter 3

A couple of years later, after Rev. Johnny left for greener pastures (driving a brand new ’59 blue-and-white Chevy Impala Coupe, 3-speed stick-shift on the column with overdrive, Brenda at his side), the church lost its fire. Pretty much everyone lost hope of anything good ever happening again, until a handful of the faithful got the Pentecostal experience, which you knew was genuine because they pronounced it Pennycostal. In fact, a few of that persuasion began to hope they might drop Baptist right out of the title and one day call it Flowers Avenue Pentecostal Church. But they decided that might be a trifle divisive. Anyhow, the old fire returned and some genuine miracles took place, prompting four or five of the ladies to take on Angel McIlhenny as a prayer burden one morning. There was some real shouting for a few minutes, and prophesying, too. They just knew Angel’s gnarled legs would straighten and he would walk like a normal boy. After a while, they went on to praying for his voice. He would speak with the tongues of angels, no more the mute little Angel. Thousands, one of them declared loudly, would come to the river of salvation through the loosing of his tongue!

His mother, hanging back, looked on with wonder and hope but shook her head at the ladies who urged her to join them in the laying on of hands. Her heart was ready to break. What if it didn’t work? Would it make Angel bitter?

After they finished, with no sign of his legs straightening out for them, though one of the older ladies kept plucking at them expectantly, someone remembered they should have prayed for his eyes. Jesus had healed the blind as well as the lame and mute, hadn’t He? But the moment was broken, the fervor was gone out of them, the Spirit no longer moved.

#

Don’t they know I can talk, Momma? Angel blurted over the usual Sunday dinner of Southern-fried chicken. For the first time in weeks they were eating alone on the Lord’s Day, abandoned for Game 3 of the ’62 World Series between the Giants and the Yankees, because Stella’s television was always on the fritz.

I guess they plumb forgot, Angel, she said, shocked to hear his voice. It had been so long since she’d heard it herself that it was like a miracle to hear it again.

You’re not bitter, honey? She asked, chewing on a drumstick.

No, Momma.

Later, she wished the ladies of the church could have been there to hear him speak that once, because his rare outbursts were about to become a lot rarer. A lot of humming he would do, yes, but not speaking. It began that day, and seldom ceased, various little half-musical tones emanating through pursed lips. A few days after, though, was when he really started with the humming. Crawling (his only exercise) out in what Stella Jo called the fallow front field and neighbors considered the weed-bestrewn yard, he chanced upon a handsome wooden mallet. A few feet further along, he found an equally pristine chisel, its shiny planes not showing a lick of rust. No one could figure how either one had come to lie in the yard like undiscovered treasure, but a new world was about to open for Angel.

He began with weathered old blocks of wood, discards from his father’s DIY house repairs. A rusty vise nailed to the front porch railing was refurbished by a kindly elderly neighbor and moved to the lower steps, where Angel could easily reach his projects. In a few short months, he had transformed the dozens of pieces of wood into a staggering array of angels, many of which surprisingly bore the likenesses of his neighbors, especially those of Flowers Avenue Baptist and what folk Ioletta brought over Sundays for dinner. All the while he hummed his half-tunes, the nok-nok of mallet and chisel playing counterpoint. Miserable, twisted body he might have, but from then on everyone knew that if ever there’d been a prime example of treasures hidden in earthen vessels, Angel was it.

His mother, when she first saw the miracles in wood issuing from her son’s hands, could be heard to exclaim, "Glory to God, you angels and all his saints!" Long after she had passed from this earthly scene, it was a refrain Angel often heard while at his work.

When the wood was exhausted, he went right on with the stones in the yard, which were anchored in the dirt like they were the bones of the earth and hard enough to break the blades of the toughest commercial-grade mower, too. Chancing upon them and seeing the angelic faces staring up through the weeds was likely to either startle a person or to inspire an epiphany. Later on, in a year or so, when the veins of rock ran out, granite, marble, and sandstone blocks mysteriously began showing up, until a quarry seemed to have sprouted around the ramshackle house. As the years rolled steadily past, with stone angels evidently falling from the heavens, folks in the neighborhood figured Angel had discovered his mission in life, or his calling, as some liked to say. Certainly, he had found his talent and he wasn’t one to bury it and let it go to waste.

****

Part Two

Chapter 4

Rev. John Willimon, Flowers Avenue Baptist’s new Rev. Johnny, arriving close to ten years after the old Rev. Johnny’s departure, waited a few months before paying a call upon Alliance Baptist’s Rev. Cedric C. Champion. Having heard the black minister began his days at the church in prayer, that was where he went, not knowing in the first place where Rev. Champion lived in the black section of town, which it was now called, since this was the period in between Colored or Negro and African American. It goes without saying, it is unlikely he would have visited him in the black section of town even if he had known where the man lived.

The doors of the church were solid oak, with handsomely carved panels, the kind that easily bloodied one’s knuckles. Having already knocked once, he glanced at his watch and prudently decided to wait a minute before knocking again. The seconds seemed to drag by like an hour. Were the few people driving down Flowers Avenue gawking? He could almost feel their eyes burning holes into his back.

This time he pounded on the door with the fleshy part of his fist. Drawing his coat tightly about his shoulders, he raised his collar against a sudden, biting wind. It wasn’t quite six o’clock in the morning, an ungodly hour to be standing on a doorstep, even if it might be thought of as God’s doorstep, it being a church and all.

Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me. How appropriate, that verse coming to mind, he thought. Was this what it was like for Jesus to stand outside the hearts of some men, calling to be let in, shivering in the wind and breaking His knuckles against the oak doors of a heart hardened against Him? All the more appropriate, he thought, as he raised his fist to the door and pounded again, since the verse had been directed by Jesus to a church.

One of the doors swung open. A man perhaps 6’2", his shoulders broad enough to fill the empty door frame, looked down at him.

Reverend Champion? He asked, wondering if this was perhaps someone else. From all the stories he had heard about the man, he expected someone much younger, not someone with silvery hair and a paunch.

Do you need help, son, or are you just looking for spare change? Rev. Champion asked, eyeing him closely, especially taking note of his bad haircut and scuffed shoes.

I’m Reverend John Willimon, he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He suddenly felt like an idiot, standing before the man, him thinking he was there for a handout. He recognized the problem immediately. Champion was dressed in suit and tie, while he had dressed in blue jeans and a check shirt, throwing on an old jacket just before coming from the house, when he saw it was cold outside.

I’m sorry, son, what was that?

Rev. Johnny noisily cleared his throat and then stuck out his right hand. Perhaps I’ve come at a poor time, he said. I’m Reverend John Willimon, the new pastor of Flowers Avenue Baptist.

He watched the eyebrows go up, saw the hesitation in the black minister’s eyes.

Reverend Willimon. Really? He said, smiling at last and warmly accepting his handshake.

"Reverend Johnny-- he corrected him. At least that’s what most people around here call me. I should have telephoned you. It’s your prayer time, isn’t it?"

Please, come in, Rev. Champion said, stepping back to motion him inside. Once he had closed the door, he gestured for him to follow.

It might surprise you how many interruptions I have at this hour of the morning. People see the light in my office window even with it way at the back side of the buildin’.

Your church is about the size of ours, the white minister commented, as they walked through the sanctuary.

The building, you mean?

Yes, the building, he answered. He looked for an attendance and offering board at the front of the church, like they used at Flowers Baptist, but saw none. He didn’t need it, though, since anyone with eyes knew attendance was considerably higher here than at his own church. One didn’t have to ask; you could see the crowds around the church doors on any given Sunday morning or evening and for Wednesday night services.

We run about 600, most Sunday mornings, Rev. Champion said. If you’re wondering.

At least the man’s face didn’t communicate pride. His voice was basso profundo, yet his demeanor matter-of-fact. Willimon wondered what he could accomplish, reading out his sermons every Sunday, if he had a voice like Rev. Champion’s. Almost, he thought he should maybe go home and start practicing on lowering his voice. It wasn’t that his own voice was weak or oddly high; it was just that anything coming from such an instrument sounded impressive.

At sight of Rev. Champion’s bulging bookshelves, his eyes nearly popped from his head. His face shone with open admiration as he took a seat in one of the chairs opposite the massive office desk.

Amazing, he managed to say.

I like to think I know what I’m talking about, when I’m preaching, Rev. Champion remarked.

It was difficult to tell if the minister from Flowers Baptist had heard him. His eyes still scanned the stacks of shelves with their burdens of leather and hardbound books.

It is a surprise to see you here, Rev. Champion spoke bluntly. Is there a problem?

I-I’m sorry--a problem? He asked, looking blankly at his counterpart.

With one of my parishioners, perhaps?

Oh, no, nothing like that, he answered, wondering vaguely what Rev. Champion would have said or done, if there were such a problem. I’ve been in the area a while, now, and thought I should introduce myself.

Rev. Champion stared curiously.

Us both working in the same field, the field of the Lord, I mean, he tried to explain, nearly stuttering. "I thought we might, you and I, cooperate, you know."

Something flickered at the corners of Rev. Champion’s mouth. Was it amusement?

Of course, I’m sure I could learn a lot from you--you being so much older than me and all, Rev. Johnny finished lamely, feeling more and more the idiot.

There it was again! Only now, there was a definite twinkle in the man’s eyes. Rev. Johnny rose hastily to his feet.

"No, no, sit down. Please," Champion said, his voice a pleasant rumble.

Rev. Johnny collapsed into his chair. Gratefully, it was a sturdy, high-backed leather chair and did not collapse with him. Cheeks coloring, he gripped the chair arms tightly, the urge to run still upon him. Not for the first time, he wondered why he had ever been called into the ministry and how it was that he had ended up in Calneh, especially on Flowers Avenue. At 30 years-of-age he had come late to the ministry and often wondered if he should have come at all.

As someone so much older in the ministry, Rev. Champion said, I believe I have some explaining to do. Right about now, I suppose you feel like you’re sitting here hat in hand, as they say.

Pretty much.

Well then, that makes you an answer to prayer.

I’m sorry? He said, his cheeks coloring once again.

Rev. Champion roared with laughter, a laughter that was clean and without rancor, a cousin to the exultant shouting he did from the church platform Sunday mornings and whenever else he preached, that is, when he was under the unction. It was so completely unrestrained, the younger man quickly found himself smiling and laughing along with him.

I-I’m sorry! Rev. Champion said, wiping tears from his eyes. But how many times do you think I visited your Flowers Baptist to introduce myself to the new pastors?

What do you mean?

"I mean, how many of them do you think welcomed me into their private offices and took me up on my offer of cooperation?"

Light seemed to dawn in Rev. Johnny’s eyes. "Are you saying none?"

"Ten different pastors in less than twenty years over there, and my answer is zero, big fat goose egg, son--and before that, huh! We won’t even talk about them. None of them acknowledged we worked in the field of the Lord together--it was the same Lord, to them, I suppose, just different fields, me on my side of the street with my Negroes, and them on their side of the street with their white folks."

And never the twain shall meet, Rev. Johnny muttered.

If not for them, son, I would have been to see you right after you settled in. I’d say I gave up one too soon.

Rev. Johnny looked away, his gaze focused on the office windows and the gradually brightening daylight. He wondered to himself if he’d unconsciously chosen visiting this early in the morning because he didn’t wish for anyone to see him at Alliance’s doors?

"I want things to be different," he said, struggling against a sudden burst of emotion. As awkward and foolish as he had felt introducing himself, he could only imagine what it had been like for Rev. Champion to approach Flowers Baptist’s former pastors--not just once, but ten times.

It’s a good feelin’ to be an answer to prayer, isn’t it? Rev. Champion asked.

If you really think that’s what I am, he answered stiffly. No, it is, aside from the embarrassment--sorry it’s so late in coming.

Feeling uncomfortably close to babbling, he pushed himself to his feet. He didn’t honestly know how they and their respective churches might cooperate, but if the opportunity arose, he was willing. If nothing else, he’d made his point.

Well, now that we’ve met each other, I suppose I should let you return to your duties and I should attend to my own.

Reverend Johnny, Champion said, rising to extend his hand over the desk.

Reverend Champion, he answered, receiving his handshake. "You may as well call me