Walter Mosley - Parishioner

In three years Ecks had not mastered this method of contemplation. Always in the background there were grunts and cries, words of anger, and the sense of a journey or path in anything he saw.

When he complained to his sponsor, the thief Sarah Jones, she said, “Frank says that the attempt to forget is all we can hope for.”

“But isn’t forgetting just like denying your sins?” Ecks asked Sarah.

“No,” she said. “It is the attempt to eradicate the foul long enough to realize a hope for change.”

The rectory was a smaller version of the church behind the high white stone walls that also surrounded the yard where the congregation supped after Expressions. The door was wooden, painted scarlet, with a brass knob and no bell or knocker.

This door was always unlocked but no one ever went there without an invitation, so Xavier pushed it open and walked straight in.

There was a huge, shatterproof window on the wall opposite the entrance; through this portal bright sunlight shone. There was no desk or sofa only a plain maple table and a single mattress, covered by a military blanket, on the floor under the window. Across from the simple bedding stood a dull metal rack that held a dozen pine folding chairs.

Frank had set out three chairs. He and the caramel-colored woman sat in two of the seats, while a third sat empty, waiting for Xavier.

“Brother Noland,” Father Frank hailed.

This greeting told Xavier Rule that his true identity was not to be shared with Frank’s guest.

“Sir.”

“This is Benol Richards.”

She smiled and nodded. The first thing Xavier noticed about her was that she was older than she seemed at a distance-around forty, more or less.

Xavier crossed the room and lowered onto the empty folding chair.

“Ms. Richards,” he said.

“You can call me Benol,” she said, “or even Bennie.”

“Odd name.”

“My mother made it up. She told me that it came to her in a dream, and since my father wasn’t around she decided to call me that.”

“What had your father wanted to call you?” Xavier asked.

Both Frank and Benol smiled.

“No one has ever asked me that,” she said.

“Benol has come to us for redemption,” Frank said.

Xavier turned to his pastor, an immediate question etched on his dark and brutal face. There was a gash under his right cheekbone that looked like a canyon across an onyx plain.

Father Frank was missing two front teeth, one upper and one lower. These gaps were presented with his grin.

“Benol,” Frank said.

“Yes?”

“Would you please step outside for a little while? If you sit at one of the stone tables someone will come out to feed you.”

“But I thought this man could help me.”

“I said that I would ask him, but we have to speak privately before he can decide.”

Despite her age Benol exuded a youthful beauty: brash, or maybe fearless in some way-like an adolescent. Xavier could see all this. She didn’t like the idea of being pushed out, but there was no gainsaying Frank’s words in his own house.

She nodded at the self-ordained cleric, glanced at Xavier, paused a moment before rising, then walked slowly toward and finally out of the unlocked door.

“Whoa,” Xavier said when she was gone.

“Beautiful woman,” Frank added.

“Yeah,” the Parishioner agreed. “Like an adder or rattlesnake.”

“She liked you.”

“Hawks like rabbits. Cats like soft sand.”

“Mr. Rule,” Frank said.

Xavier realized that he was still staring at the scarlet door and turned back to the minister.

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you think of her beyond the threat?”

“I thought that you told me that we don’t deal in redemption here.”

“She is asking for redemption,” Frank said easily. “I didn’t offer it.”

“You never mention the Lord’s name in your sermons,” Xavier said.

In between the three private meetings a year, the Harlem gangster was hungry for knowledge about the man and his words. He didn’t care about Benol Richards-not yet.

For a moment it seemed as if Frank would not answer, but then he raised his eyebrows and sighed.

“Words are divine but they are also traps,” he said. “Rabbit and snake, good and evil. These are mere cages for things we know precious little about. Either we feel heat or pain, or glimpse a fleeting shadow, detect a scent coming from some unknown corner. We use words to capture meaning, but the Infinite will not be trapped or captured, seen or smelled. It defies our senses and values. It cannot be imprisoned, incarcerated, or otherwise locked up inside our minds-it can’t be locked out either.”

“People have been using the word God since before they could write,” Xavier argued softly.

“And look at the world,” Frank said, showing his missing teeth again. “Dynamite is a great tool. It can move mountains, but you don’t put it in the hands of children. The truth will set you free; everyone knows that, but try as they might the right words rarely come out.”

“But-”

“Xavier,” Frank said, “are you going to require a sermon of me for this meeting?”

“No, sir.” Xavier lowered his head and smiled.

“You come here of your own free will.”

“I do.”

“You pay nothing, are asked for nothing, are never judged.”

“No, sir, I do not and am not.”

“And all I want from you now is the answer to a question.”

“I understand.”

“Benol Richards was referred to me by a friend in Miami,” Frank said. “Benol’s mother died when she was eight and then, for years, she was thrown from one foster home to another. She was an angry child and so never fit in.

“When she was twelve, an uncle found her and brought her to live with him and his wife in Southern California. They ran a nursery out of their home and took in small children and infants.”

At this point Frank stopped and stared at his parishioner.

Xavier, for his part, looked up.

“A few years later she kidnapped and sold three babies,” Frank continued. “Took them for her boyfriend and then ran with him up to San Francisco. He left her when the money was gone, and she spiraled back down to Florida.

“All of that is true. She says that she had a sudden awakening in my friend’s mission down in Miami. She confessed her crimes and came up to California to find the people she harmed. She’s gathered as much information as she could and called my friend to ask if she could help. Theodora in turn called me. I met with Benol on Wednesday and now I’m speaking to you.”

“I deliver newspapers now, Father Frank.”

“Print,” the clergyman replied with laserlike emphasis. “Not blank pages. Not false promises. You deliver people an attempt at truth. You are a part of that attempt.”

“I wake up at three in the morning, pick up the kids that work for me, and then go down in a truck to the distribution center to wrap and then deliver. I go to bed at seven after dinner I cook on a hot plate.”

The two men stared at each other for nearly a minute.

Finally Frank spoke. “Will you go out for me and tell Benol that we cannot help her?”

“You could ask somebody else to help.”

“I asked you.”

“But she came to you.”

“And I brought you in.”

“It hasn’t been that long since I’ve been out of the Life, Frank. I don’t know what’ll happen if I get into some nasty shit out there.”

“This building is not a refuge, Xavier,” Father Frank said softly. “It is a trajectory from one kind of life to another.”

“I know that. I know I got to prove to myself that I don’t have to be what I was. But I feel like I need a little more time.”