that she’s as concerned about the other residents as she is about herself. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if she refused any help if it didn’t include everybody.”
“That sounds just like Lillian,” Hazel Marie said as she opened the car door. “She’s so good-hearted. But my goodness, Miss Julia, I don’t think even you could take care of all of them.”
“No, and I don’t intend to,” I said, pulling up my seat so Little Lloyd could get out of the back. “Jump on out, Little Lloyd.” Then, looking at Hazel Marie across the roof of the car, I went on, “If all those people’re put out on the street, it’ll be a matter for the whole town to take on.”
Little Lloyd ran up beside his mother and took her hand as we walked toward the soon-to-be-evicted crowd. I hoped to goodness that more people had turned out for the meeting than the dozen or so I saw standing around. Lillian caught sight of us, her face lighting up at seeing Little Lloyd.
“Why, baby,” she called as she came toward us, “what you doin’ here? Lillian so glad to see you. Miss Hazel Marie, I didn’t ’spect to see you. Where you leave Mr. Pickens?”
“I just plain left him, Lillian,” Hazel Marie said. Then, seeing Lillian’s frown, she went on. “But don’t worry about him. We’re worried about you.”
“Lillian,” I said, holding down my hair as the breeze blew it first one way, then the other. “I thought your whole church would turn out for this. I hope most of them’re inside.”
“No’m, look like it jus’ us and the reverend. And you all, an’ Mr. Sam, if he come,” she said, a look of worry sweeping across her face.
“Did you get everybody here?” I was anxious for all the evictees to show a united front.
“Yessum, they all here. Come on over an’ meet ’em.”
We followed her into the small yard in front of the church, as I thought that I’d just as soon go on in and get out of the wind.
Lillian introduced us to several of her neighbors as they began walking up the concrete steps and into the church. They were friendly, but not overly so, which seemed appropriate to me considering their immediate concerns. In their place, I would’ve found it hard to welcome anybody, much less somebody who’d never darkened their door before. I was struck by the fact that not a one of them appeared to be under fifty. Many were white-haired and bent with age, one leaning on a cane and another trying to manage the steps with a walker. Some, though, seemed as strong and healthy as Lillian. They all looked worried.
Walking into the small sanctuary, I followed the others down the center aisle, hearing the soft shuffle of their feet and the tap of a cane on the uncarpeted floor. I glanced around at the furnishings, trying not to appear too curious. It was not what you’d call elegant or luxurious; more like bare and serviceable. The walls were painted white with dark shellacked wood trim that matched the pews. Three black wrought-iron sconces lined each side of the sanctuary. There was a piano in the front with—Lord help us—a set of drums beside it.
As I slipped into a pew beside Lillian, I looked up at a figure of Christ painted on the wall behind the metal chairs in the choir. It was not my practice to be critical of other people’s ways of worshipping, but I have to say that this picture had been rendered by a somewhat wobbly hand. Most surprising to me was the deep coloring of the skin tones. We Presbyterians don’t hold with painted images, yet I’d seen many pictures and paintings of the Christ in Sunday School pamphlets and in Little Lloyd’s Bible story book. All those pictures showed him as fair, some going as far as making him blond and blue-eyed, which everybody knows is far from accurate. But the more I looked at the figure on the AME Zion church wall, the more taken with it I was. It certainly didn’t depict a fair-skinned individual, but neither was it real dark, either. Sort of
“That sounds just like Lillian,” Hazel Marie said as she opened the car door. “She’s so good-hearted. But my goodness, Miss Julia, I don’t think even you could take care of all of them.”
“No, and I don’t intend to,” I said, pulling up my seat so Little Lloyd could get out of the back. “Jump on out, Little Lloyd.” Then, looking at Hazel Marie across the roof of the car, I went on, “If all those people’re put out on the street, it’ll be a matter for the whole town to take on.”
Little Lloyd ran up beside his mother and took her hand as we walked toward the soon-to-be-evicted crowd. I hoped to goodness that more people had turned out for the meeting than the dozen or so I saw standing around. Lillian caught sight of us, her face lighting up at seeing Little Lloyd.
“Why, baby,” she called as she came toward us, “what you doin’ here? Lillian so glad to see you. Miss Hazel Marie, I didn’t ’spect to see you. Where you leave Mr. Pickens?”
“I just plain left him, Lillian,” Hazel Marie said. Then, seeing Lillian’s frown, she went on. “But don’t worry about him. We’re worried about you.”
“Lillian,” I said, holding down my hair as the breeze blew it first one way, then the other. “I thought your whole church would turn out for this. I hope most of them’re inside.”
“No’m, look like it jus’ us and the reverend. And you all, an’ Mr. Sam, if he come,” she said, a look of worry sweeping across her face.
“Did you get everybody here?” I was anxious for all the evictees to show a united front.
“Yessum, they all here. Come on over an’ meet ’em.”
We followed her into the small yard in front of the church, as I thought that I’d just as soon go on in and get out of the wind.
Lillian introduced us to several of her neighbors as they began walking up the concrete steps and into the church. They were friendly, but not overly so, which seemed appropriate to me considering their immediate concerns. In their place, I would’ve found it hard to welcome anybody, much less somebody who’d never darkened their door before. I was struck by the fact that not a one of them appeared to be under fifty. Many were white-haired and bent with age, one leaning on a cane and another trying to manage the steps with a walker. Some, though, seemed as strong and healthy as Lillian. They all looked worried.
Walking into the small sanctuary, I followed the others down the center aisle, hearing the soft shuffle of their feet and the tap of a cane on the uncarpeted floor. I glanced around at the furnishings, trying not to appear too curious. It was not what you’d call elegant or luxurious; more like bare and serviceable. The walls were painted white with dark shellacked wood trim that matched the pews. Three black wrought-iron sconces lined each side of the sanctuary. There was a piano in the front with—Lord help us—a set of drums beside it.
As I slipped into a pew beside Lillian, I looked up at a figure of Christ painted on the wall behind the metal chairs in the choir. It was not my practice to be critical of other people’s ways of worshipping, but I have to say that this picture had been rendered by a somewhat wobbly hand. Most surprising to me was the deep coloring of the skin tones. We Presbyterians don’t hold with painted images, yet I’d seen many pictures and paintings of the Christ in Sunday School pamphlets and in Little Lloyd’s Bible story book. All those pictures showed him as fair, some going as far as making him blond and blue-eyed, which everybody knows is far from accurate. But the more I looked at the figure on the AME Zion church wall, the more taken with it I was. It certainly didn’t depict a fair-skinned individual, but neither was it real dark, either. Sort of
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