James Henderson: Family Thang

“Mr. Williams, usually a musical number starts about now, does it not?”

The choir director’s mouth opened and closed, both eyes twitching, then he backed away, staring at Reverend Walker. He stumbled on a floor speaker on his way to his stand in front of the choir.

He motioned the choir, a group of thirty or more, all but three draped in gold robes. They stood uniformly and started singing God Is Keeping Me .

The family entered behind the caskets, walking in tandem, in step to the music. First Ida Harris and Robert Earl, then Ruth Ann and Lester, and bringing up the rear were Shirley and Shane. An usher directed them to the front pew and they stood solemnly until the music ended.

A long moment of silence occasionally interrupted by coughing, throat clearing and an infant crying.

Reverend Walker stepped to the pulpit, adjusted the mike to his height, cleared his throat and said, “Amen.”

He looked over the congregation, a small group, mostly funeral regulars, those who relished every opportunity to ogle a cadaver. Three people sat in the balcony despite the ample seating on the ground floor.

“Amen,” the congregation responded and sat down.

“Amen,” Reverend Walker said. He made the signal for the head usher to open the casket, scratching the left side of his neck.

Sister Bea Hammonds, a rather plump woman, crossed directly to the smaller casket.

Reverend Walker cleared his throat and waved his hand. Sister Hammonds looked confused. He shook his head.

She got the message and moved to the larger casket and raised the lid.

“Amen,” and realized he hadn’t prepared any notes. He’d been so concerned about the dog he’d forgotten to do so.

I’ll wing it.

“We’re gathered today to pay homage to Brother…” What’s the man’s name? “Amen… praise God…”

“Rick Perry,” Reverend Jones whispered.

Reverend Walker turned and gave him a withering look: You know damn well that isn’t his name!

“Larry Harris.”

“Amen. Larry Harris. Yes, amen. Larry Harris, our beloved brother, has transcended this world to my Father’s house. Brother Harris waited till the last minute to hop on the bus en route to glory, yet he made it in the nick of time. A minute more and Brother Harris would’ve been left behind. Amen. One minute—sixty seconds between paradise and eternal damnation.

“Often the bus driver sees you running late and he keeps going. He doesn’t have to stop. No, he doesn’t. If he keeps on going, you can’t blame him . No, you can’t blame him at all. He’s only the driver of the bus, not the vehicle which determines where you’ll spend eternity.

“A number of you will not be as fortunate as Brother Harris. You’ll wait till the last minute to go to the bus stop and get caught up… in something unanticipated, something unexpected… something unforeseen… Amen!… A traffic jam, an accident, bad directions, your watch was too slow or too fast. Doesn’t matter what caused your delay, you still missed the bus and got left behind. Don’t blame the driver! ‘He could’ve waited for me!’ No, don’t blame him. He’s doing his job, facilitating transport.”

He paused, took a sip from the glass of ice water an usher had set before him and stared into the faces of the congregation. Most looked as if they were at a bus stop, bored and ready to move on.

Reverend Walker accelerated: “Don’t wait until the last minute, amen, to catch the bus. Now is the time to catch the bus to glory. Don’t you want to get on the bus? Do you want your ticket now? Do you?”

Stretching out his right arm: “Don’t take the risk… Get on the bus… while the opportunity is now. Don’t wait until you’re sick, laid off your job, downsized, broke, on your back in the hospital… The doors are open. Step up on the bus. Why don’t you try Jesus? Try Jesus! Please, try Jesus!”

He shook his left leg, the signal for the choir director to instruct the choir.

“Why don’t you try Jesus? He has your ticket. He’s waiting on you.”

No rustling sound of the choir standing. Reverend Walker cut an eye toward Paul Williams, sitting on the duet bench with the organist, head resting on the keyboard, eyes closed.

By God, he’s asleep! Already!

“Wake up!” Reverend Walker shouted into the microphone. “Wake up to Jesus!”

The choir director sat up, eyes bloodshot red, and stared at Reverend Walker shaking his leg as if something had crawled up his pants. Remaining seated, he motioned the choir and they stood up and started singing Amazing Grace.

Reverend Walker sighed in relief. All good, he thought. If this pace continued, he would arrive home in time for the second set of the tennis match between Venus and Serena. He took his seat and closed his eyes. Thank Jesus.

An anguished, baleful scream rose above the choir voices. “Noooo!”

Reverend Walker hummed the song and patted his black patent leather Stacy Adams shoes to the beat. He didn’t need to look to know that one of the family members was now being assisted by the ushers. He’d witnessed the scene a thousand times. Now the tortured outbursts irritated him more than anything else.

“Noooo!”

On the way home he would pick up a gallon of ice cream and a liter of root beer… watch the match and make a root beer float. Maybe some chocolate chip cookies.

“Not Kenny G! Nooooo!”

Reverend Walker’s eyes snapped open. He hadn’t heard what he thought he heard, had he? Hesitantly, he stood up and peered over the pulpit.

One of the family members, a young man, was struggling against two ushers, trying to get at the smaller casket.

To Reverend Walker’s horror, the young man broke free and ran to the casket and opened it. Gasps from the front row.

There, in a small burgundy-colored three-piece suit, complete with bow tie, a handkerchief in the front pocket and a miniature godfather hat, lay Kenny G.

“Oh my God!” someone yelled.

The young man leaned over the casket and started stroking the dog’s head; then he lifted it out of the casket, the hat hitting the floor, rolling down the aisle.

Now the entire congregation could see the Pekingese, and could see the suit was a partial, no backing whatsoever.

Reverend Walker felt a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach and regretted the Deluxe Breakfast he’d picked up at McDonalds.

More than half of the congregation started for the exits, and several of the choir members were leaning over the rail trying to get a look at what was causing the commotion.

I’m ruined, Reverend Walker thought. Ruined! He would have to get a job. A job requiring sweat. At his age, seventy-two, he couldn’t afford to sweat. Not able to stomach the sight any longer, Reverend Walker resumed his seat, put his head between his knees and prayed he wouldn’t be sick.

Ruth Ann watched, stupefied, as her seventeen-year-old son, Shane, broke free and ran to Kenny G’s casket. She closed her eyes, knowing what would happen next. She prayed she was dreaming. Please, God, let me wake up in my own bed . She heard the casket open. Please, God! She opened her eyes and she was still in church, still sitting in the front pew, a few feet from where her son was caressing a dead dog.

Shirley, sitting to her right, nudged her. “Ruth Ann, shouldn’t you be doing something about this?”

“What you suggest I do?”

“Tell Shane put Kenny G back into the casket.”

“Momma and Daddy raised him—he won’t listen to a word I tell him.”

Robert Earl, sitting on Shirley’s right, leaned forward and whispered to Ruth Ann, “Get your boy. He’s embarrassing the family.”