The Atchafalaya swamp spilled its borders the summer I turned 10, leaking into the surrounding fields and threatening the crops. It rose among the cypress trees, their necks stretched to the sky, roots deep in the ooze. The well-worn path into the swamp was nearly underwater when the pastor appeared like a ghost, hobbling toward town on badly bowed legs. He was pale under his eyes and nose, but the rest was sherry red, burnt by the pitiless sun. In his one good arm he carried a leather Bible, its cover split and cracked, wrapped in a muddy green bandana. As he drew near, he smiled. He had few teeth left, and those he had were nearly worn to nubs, making him seem ferocious and brittle.
As he shuffled past, I felt a shock. A few weeks before, I had stolen a boat – a real beauty hidden under a tarp. Knowing it wasn’t mine, still I took it out, slipping into the brackish water like a ‘gator. I had some good fishing in that boat. At the time, I wished I could keep it, but I didn’t have the courage to steal it outright.
That day I went home with a catch and thought no more about the preacher until Momma came home. She sat on the porch and pulled off her shoes as she did each evening.
“That was one terrible day.” Momma sighed. She stared up at the stately house on the hill and rolled off her stockings.
“Did you see the preacher go past?” I asked, pouring water into the basin by the door.
“Scarecrow, mostly starved.” She swirled her feet into the water, washing them clean, then limped into the house. “Mrs. Wilson wouldn’t have him upstairs. Mr. Wilson is more nervous than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”
“Preacher says he’s gonna be givin’ a sermon Sunday that’s gonna set this town on its ear, stop all the sinning. I’d like to see him do that.”
Momma laid out my catfish and scraped away the scales, our cats mewling at the door.
“We ought to bring daddy.” I looked up at her, hopeful.
”Him?” Momma sighed. “He ain’t a God fearin’ man. He fears bein’ thirsty.” I went back to tending the fire.
“But why do we give up on him?”
Momma sliced open the fish with one move then scooped the guts out into a bowl.
I ain’t given up on him, child. He’s a drunk and that’s all there is to it. Ain’t no preacher in the world gonna change that.”
I didn’t believe her; I couldn’t. For too many years, I had carried this idea, this picture in my head of me and daddy heading toward the swamp for a day of fishing, of spending time together, of him being the kind of daddy I wanted, that I dreamed other families had – maybe just white families. I didn’t know. All I knew was that daddy was going to change, and it was Amadee Broussard who was gonna do it. In that, I had the faith of a child.
*
Friday night momma found daddy at old Earl’s and dragged him home. She pushed him through the door and then turned to us both, barring the door with both hands. I had never seen her so wild; the veins in her neck strained and pulsed, her chest heaved.
“Horace Jones, you will not leave this house. Your son wants to see you and by God, you’ll see him. You’ll be respectable and show your face at church on Sunday if I have to prod you there myself.”
For two days he hunched by the stove, waiting for Sunday. I asked him, did he want to go fishing or walk in the swamp? But he shook his head and held onto the edge of his stool. So I told him about the stolen boat and the secret places I knew and all the great catches I’d had. I brought out my book on Louisiana catfish and read him a few pages, then parts of the Bible I thought he’d enjoy. After a while, he shooed me away, his face a pale green under the sweat.
Momma came home Saturday night and fell into a chair, her hair a curly black halo around her ears, sweat beaded along her upper lip and forehead. Her eyes were red and swollen, dark as night. She put her head down and began to cry, rocking back and forth on the edge of her chair. Daddy stood and put his hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. I came close and smoothed her hair, “Don’t worry, momma. Tomorrow the preacher is gonna make it alright.”
“It ain’t never gonna be alright.” She wiped her nose on her white cuff and jerked off her cap, dropping it under her chair. “That preacher don’t know nothing about babies being born with no arms and legs.” She stood and stared at daddy. “I don’t give a damn what you do.” We heard the screen door slam as she marched back to Mrs. Wilson’s house.
The heat gathered in the morning. Daddy stayed and we talked some about the swamp and the fields and how all the water would rot the cotton. Momma had recovered some after coming home in the middle of the night. We all walked to church, meeting friends and neighbors along the way. We was all dressed for the occasion in bright colors: women in wide flowered hats, patterned scarves and lace flowery fans, the men in suits or dress shirts, shoes all spit-shined, their hats with new bands.
When we arrived, Momma pulled out her white lace fan from her purse and stood among fifteen women or so, all wanting to know more about Mrs. Wilson’s baby. I waited next to her, secretly watching daddy to be sure he didn’t bolt before the service started, but he stayed quietly near the ancient oak in the center of the courtyard watching us and smiling.
Our usual leader, Pastor LeGrande, opened the wide black doors and we all made our way into the sanctuary, its cool brown beams stretching like open arms above us, dust motes settling, filtering through the light from windows high in the ceilings. Once all the seats were taken, the rest of the congregation took places on the stairs or in the yard.
After a moment of murmuring, Amadee Broussard took to the pulpit, a stick of birch in an otherwise dark forest. “Twenty-two years ago I was imprisoned for a crime I did not commit. I was arrested for arson and murder. The prosecutor made his case; the jury deliberated and came to their conclusion: Pastor Amadee Broussard was guilty of killing his brother in cold blood. But I was arrested and imprisoned for a crime I had no knowledge of, like Joseph in Potiphar’s house, and was sentenced to life in prison.
“But a few weeks ago I was set free, an innocent man. Another man confessed to the crime and the evidence was irrefutable. Why am I telling you all this? Because each day I was in prison I ministered to the poor in spirit; I was given a new life within those walls and I thanked God each day I was there.”
Mrs. Habindeau called out, "Amen, brother!” and a bead of sweat dropped from her bulbous nose. Excitement rippled through us; we collectively held our breath. He swallowed from a battered tin cup and watched the fans and the faces of the men and women below. Sweat trickled down his cheeks.
“It’s been said that sin has taken a hold here and my aim is to free you as I have been freed. But first, I beg your indulgence.” Amadee paused and smiled, as if to say he required none, but was asking out of sheer politeness.
“Permit me to tell you a story,” Amadee began. “A long time ago a terrible wave rose up out of the sea and crashed like a mighty fist, destroying a tiny fishing village and killing almost every one of its inhabitants. They were so dumbstruck that they wandered the beach waiting for a loved one to be spit out of the sea. This was an angry group of folks –"
Before Amadee could speak another word, the crowd parted to one side, a murmur of surprise rippling through them. The noise made its way toward the center of the church where we were sitting, and as one we turned to see what had caused the commotion. Buried in the shadows from the sun, I could see the shape of a woman, her arms crossed tightly, against her chest. Behind her, a man in a hat waited. She paused in the entrance a few moments then came forward down the aisle like a bride who had lost her groom. Whispering and muffled cries of alarm went up as we saw Mrs. Wilson come, holding her baby wrapped in a white blanket. Its funeral should have been today at the white folks' church, but Momma whispered to her neighbor that Mrs. Wilson had sworn not to bury it.
Mrs. Wilson approached the altar, staring at Pastor Amadee, her face a portrait of agony. “Reverend,” she began, “I’ve come to beg you.”
Mr. Wilson stood timidly behind his wife, searching the faces of the congregation. When he found momma, he strode over to her and said, “She won’t bury it, Agretha. Not today, not tomorrow either. I need you to talk some sense into her.”
“What can I say that ain’t already been said?” She snapped her fan closed and faced forward. Daddy took her hand.
Amadee came down from the pulpit to see what she was carrying; he was not privy to what all the rest of us knew and the women breathed in together, holding still. “This is my son, Reverend.” Mrs. Wilson opened the blanket and showed Amadee her child; his face never moved so much as an inch and his tears fell into the blanket. He stood with her while the congregation craned to see the baby, just as if it were newly baptized.
“Reverend, they say you have miraculous powers. The power to change our hearts. Do you have the power to change God’s? Ask him to release my son from death. Please.” She held the baby out with both hands, her arms shaking from the weight.
Amadee stared at the baby, shaking his head. With a silent prayer he blessed it, kissing it on both cheeks. He faced the congregation, “Lord I commend this baby to You. We know what You give, You also take. Bless this baby, Lord. Allow Mrs. Wilson to let its spirit be with You.”
“No, no.” Mrs. Wilson moaned, “I won’t. That’s not what I asked you, not what God wants. God wants my son to live.
Mrs. Wilson put the baby on the floor in front of the altar and began to pray in earnest, loud tearful prayers beseeching God and the Reverend to let her baby live. Her voice rose to a screech and Mr. Wilson held tightly to her shoulders, rubbing them over and over.
Amadee offered holy oil to God and knelt, anointing the baby, then called for the congregation to pray. I stood and reached my hand out toward the Wilsons, sending my spirit to them. Mrs. Wilson was rocking and crying at the foot of the altar.
“Are these the wages of our sins, Reverend?” Mr. Wilson stood stiffly now behind his wife, shaking his head. “Is this our reward?”
The question hit me like a bullet. I asked myself: what are my sins? What will their wages be? I knew I didn’t care one mite about Mrs. Wilson’s baby, or that I stole a boat from time to time, or that I secretly hated daddy for his drinking ways. I was prideful, too, for I thought I was better than him and never gonna be a man who drank and gambled myself into the poorhouse like daddy done to us. I figured that unless I knew my own sins I would end up like the Wilsons somehow, and I stole a look at daddy to see what he was thinking. I prayed he understood, too.
Without thinking I slipped my hand inside my daddy’s palm and left it there. I watched as Amadee prayed with the Wilsons and the congregation stood, one by one, to leave them alone. I felt the warm breeze through the open windows and I wondered what would happen to the baby and who Mrs. Wilson had to forgive to bury it.
Later, as I dreamed of the wide wandering swamp and the fish floating beneath the water, I knew I had carried my father long enough.
Aimee Henkel has studied fiction and poetry at New York University, Manhattanville College’s MFA program, and the Sleepy Hollow Writer’s project. She has been published in Poetry Motel, Beginnings, Sleet, and bioStories. In a previous life, she was a corporate communications professional and has been published anonymously in national newspapers and magazines.
