Scott Cheshire - High as the Horses' Bridles

And everyone here, in different ways, wonders the very same thing. Will they make a good partner for Christ? But not in one way or in one voice, because this is not a collective power, the funneled strength of a crowd. No, it’s personal, a singular power, within each and every one where lives a now-blooming question: Does God know my name, and does He love me? Am I so lucky?

My name is Hilda, and I scrub the grout and bathroom tiles of accountants and lawyers and their wives. She mouths these words: You love me, I know You love me. But where are my boys? The pitch is pretty steep and getting steeper with each stair and the red velvet chairs feel like bird perches, this high up. Her vertigo is getting even worse. The stars above a long ladder’s reach away. Her hands going pale as she grips the soft red armrest, the kind you find in old movie theaters. Well, that’s what she heard some people say anyway, that this place used to be a movie theater. Tiene sentido, but here ? Why sit up here? Why not come early and sit down front? Nobody listens. And a little boy sitting by himself right in front of me. ¿Dónde está tu madre? If I’m not careful, and he turns, the boy will see up my skirt.

The ceiling presses closer on the rows behind her, close, and coming down like a sandwich press meeting the way-back wall, stars and all, of the Queens Howard Theater. In any other theater in this world, a ticket taker dressed in cardinal red would stand up here with a handful of Playbills. But not here. Hilda has climbed to where the stairs stop, as far as you can go, where the ceiling becomes the wall. Where one of the maintenance men, Harold, from Brooklyn, fifty-six and round-faced, came all the way on the N train and walked how many blocks, has already lugged a gallon of paint from the first floor early this morning because some kid, probably not ten or twelve, a boy no doubt, stood up on his tiptoes and scratched away a star above BZ5. Where his father was forced to stoop, because like it or not the sky rushes down like a plaster-cast waterfall of stars. Be careful, or you just might crack your head.

From up here, the highest seat in his house, you can see it all, a crazy mixed perspective, where the clouds crawl high over the heads of husbands, wives, and children now settled in their seats. The applause has stopped. What sermon first? What song? Will there be talk of a new date? Because there’s been rumor of a brand-new date.… These are End Days, the Last Days, and the signs of the times are real, everywhere, and it’s so obvious. The earthquakes on the news. Russia killing all the God-fearing good men and women. Armageddon must be right around the corner. There has been talk among the congregations of a possible announcement, a date of divine prophecy revealed. The hour and the day made known, in honor of this new house of His worship. Since ’75—five years ago, but feels like yesterday — when so many prayed for Armageddon, and the Holy Ghost spoke through the pages of Ezekiel, Daniel, and the ancient dreamer John of Revelation. All their numerical reckonings had been pointing toward a date just right around the corner: Come 1975, the End will be here! The date was wrong. How many subsequent defections from how many ministries? Some got lucky and found a family with these new Brothers in the Lord. Hilda wasn’t around for all that drama, but she heard about it. She was new, and only started coming when someone gave her a pamphlet, “Don’t Be Afraid of Death,” two years ago on a subway. But of course the End didn’t come in 1975, it wasn’t time. But have you seen the TV news lately? The world is falling apart, with volcanoes, and they keep on talking about the Cold War, and how is war ever cold anyway? And the snatching up of the kids. Crack sold on street corners. Ay dios mio, what happens after Armageddon, then? Will the Holy Spirit talk to us today?

Hilda spots little Josiah opening a door by the stairs to the stage. Or maybe he’s not so little after all. Almost the same age as Havi, but he’s so much more mature. Josiah Laudermilk is special and Hilda knows it, too: special like her Havi can’t ever be. He seems a little bit lost, and looking maybe for someone in the audience. Right there, in the front row, a man stands up and motions back to Josiah. It’s the boy’s father, Brother Gill Laudermilk. She doesn’t talk with him too much at church, because he makes her uncomfortable. Muy intenso. Now he’s waving at the boy, and excusing himself, making his way toward Josiah.

Kizowski is saying: “Let’s open our songbooks to page number…”

Josiah walks toward his father, the door closing behind him.

The boy’s father takes him by the shoulder and pushes him along and away toward the back of the hall, under the balcony, where Hilda can’t see him no more. There is a yearning energy filling this place, a spirit she can’t help but receive even as she’s still feeling dizzy. It calms her even as it rises. She reaches one hand toward the stage, as if she expects to be taken, and lifted. But where are her boys?

* * *

Just like in junior high school, it’s in the stairwells you find the kids. In the halls and every darkened corner. They ditch parents first chance they get, and the parents don’t mind because inside is not the world outside. No crime, here, not in his house. No borough factions, or fights. Queens, Brooklyn, or Bronx. Best of all, no unbelievers. We’re a clean people, have a good time with your brothers and sisters. But be in your seats before the service begins.

Havi and Issy stand by the water fountain and the restrooms at the top of the stairs. The doors to the balcony are closed, but Kizowski’s voice booms through the walls. You can’t get away from Kizowski. But with enough practice — and boy, do they have practice, church twice a week, sometimes more, for as long as they can remember — with enough practice you tune out the voices. Doesn’t mean you don’t get the message. These boys, thirteen and fourteen, they know it all by heart.

“Look at that,” Havi says.

Issy looks. The girl is maybe thirteen, and coming out of the ladies’ room, Dominican or maybe Puerto Rican, but it’s also, like, she’s a young woman. Not bodily — she weighs no more than what little girls weigh, it’s like she weighs so perfect — but would you look at the way she walks. No time anymore for play dolls or boy crush magazines, she wears a yellow dress with a white stripe around her knees like icing. Issy feels a little dizzy, and he knows a soda will make him feel better, but he also likes the buzzy feeling when his body wants sweets. Right now he wants nothing more in the world than to know her name.

“Girl is fresh,” Havi says.

Issy shoots him a look. Havi always gets the girls, but not this time. No way.

Havi says, “What I say?”

Issy watches the girl walk over to a man, probably her father, who talks with a fat Chinese brother sitting in a foldout chair. The Chinese brother is collecting donations in a tall wooden box with a handwritten sign taped to it: “Contributions for Furthering God’s Good Work.”

Havi whispers, “Bet his chair busts in like five minutes.”

Is she looking? Issy’s small heart hiccups. Nah, she’s not looking …

Brother Laudermilk, Josiah’s father, stands by the door. The door opens again, and hot moist air comes wafting out. The restrooms are enormous. “Like a house in there,” says Havi. Urinals line the wall, each one with a blue flush cake. The air in there can’t be helped, though. The Argentines, Dominicans, Filipinos, Dutch. The Japanese, Ukrainians, Indians, Egyptians. The northern blacks, the southern blacks. Then every kind of white there is. They all come to worship and they bring their neighborhood smells, an invisible map of the world.