“You have to stop, Grandma,” I murmured. “They’re going to kick me out of here.”
“They could try,” Grandma said, just loud enough so that the women in front of us could hear. “I will own this church before the day is out. Bishop Matthews is a charlatan anyway. He was a drug kingpin from way back.”
“What?” Okay, so that came out louder than I expected. Three old women in nurses’ uniforms shushed me simultaneously. To my right, I saw an usher inching closer to us, but he froze in place when Grandma glared at him. “Are you serious?” I whispered.
Admittedly, I hadn’t visited my grandmother’s hometown much. I kept in touch with some of her family on social media, but I tended to stay close to Detroit on the rare occasions I’d visited home.
“As a heart attack,” Grandma responded. “I’ve known Floyd for years and, let me just say, he’s more likely to end up sipping margaritas in hell than praising God in heaven.”
The woman in front of us gasped, craning her neck to glance at us. Grandma smiled sweetly. “Turn around, Mabel. I’m not talking to you.”
Granny Joyce shook her head. “I can’t take you anywhere, Liv.”
I cut her a sideways glance. Like Grandma, she was stonefaced, her eyes fixed on the minister who was still praying for my grandfather’s soul.
I don’t even know why I’m here.I didn’t know him or the people sitting in the front row accepting hugs and kisses from people offering condolences for their loss. I didn’t recognize anyone. Except for my parents, who were seated a few rows ahead of us.
It was the first time I’d seen them since I’d been in town. Luckily, they hadn’t seen me yet. And I was hoping to keep it that way. My plan was to exit stage left as soon as the eulogy was complete.
Ram in the Bush Tabernacle was filled with people, though. The old church had seen better days. The ceiling looked like it could use some patchwork, the white paint had faded to a dull yellow, and the muted stained-glass windows were dirty.
Did I mention, it was hot as hell?
“What happened to air conditioning?” I mumbled to myself.
Grandma snickered. “Knowing Floyd, he probably purchased his new Benz with the repair money.”
The minister hollered, “In the name of Jesus!”
The organist started to accompany him, playing to accentuate the message.
One of the men in the pulpit responded with, “Gon’ head, Passa. Preach.”
I glanced around at the various people. Some were crying loudly, others were scrolling on their phones. One woman was fanning herself frantically while the man next to her was snoozing.
Growing up, I used to love going to church.Not this church.When I met Bri, her parents invited me to their church on the West Side of Detroit. My first visit was quite the experience, definitely different from the Catholic church Allisifer dragged me to on Christmas and Easter Sunday.
This church, though?The atmosphere was all wrong. It made me uncomfortable. “Can we go now?” I asked hopefully.
“Not yet, Pooh.”
A loud wail caught my attention. Several people were circling grandfather’s fake widow, as she crouched in front of the picture, holding an urn in her hands. Except, there were no tears, no streaks in her heavily caked foundation. Her quick weave was frozen in place like the permanent scowl on her face.
The old paper fan I’d been using snapped right before she broke out in an off-key rendition of Teddy Pendergrass’s “When Somebody Loves You Back” in the middle of the twenty-minute prayer. Usually that would’ve been my cue to leave, but one sideways glance from Grandma kept me rooted to my place at her side.
“Isn’t that something?” Granny Joyce grumbled, shifting in her seat. “That must’ve been their song.”
“I think ‘As We Lay’ would’ve been more appropriate for the occasion,” Grandma muttered. “Or ‘Part-Time Lover.’ Half the women in the first two rows were his hoes.”
Yep, I laughed again.
This time garnering the attention of Fake Wife, as I called her. She paused the theatrics to glare at me. But then her gaze shifted to Grandma, who tilted her head forward and grinned.
I half expected the woman to wail on us, accuse us of disrespecting my grandfather’s memory. Instead, though, she just stared. The look in her eyes wasn’t anger, not even hatred. It was fear.
I glanced at Grandma. “What’s going on here?”
Granny Joyce patted my knee. “Everything is going to be alright, Albany.”
