Second House from the Corner by Sadeqa Johnson Page B

me.
    The church was in the neck of South Philadelphia, less than a mile south of Rittenhouse Square. Before Sunday service, Daddy Gracious would start at Twentieth Street and cruise down Fitzwater in his long, white Cadillac convertible with the tomato-red interior. The top was always down, so that his shoulder-length press and curl blew with the wind. Martin, his driver, drove slowly enough for Daddy Gracious’s drill team to keep up on both sides of the car and behind him. Everyone in the neighborhood knew his theme music, and the children came running when they heard the tambourines, drums, and horns. Flags, pom-poms, and batons moved through the air as dancers’ feet stomped, twirled, and kept the rhythm. Sunday morning was more entertaining than late night television.
    Daddy Gracious kept a cooler filled with ice-cold canned sodas in the backseat. As he passed the people in the street he would crack open a soda, sip it first, and then give it to the outstretched hands. Followers believed his lips were anointed, and the folks would line up for blocks, hoping to be blessed with a kissed can. By the time the entourage pulled in front of the storefront church at the corner of Sixteenth and Fitzwater, the music from the drill team would be thunderous. The trumpets blared, the drums would beat harder, and the choir stood singing on the curb with the doors of the church open.
    â€œHere comes Daddy. Here he comes.” The singers’ hips swayed. Teenage boys stood guard at the curb, and at Daddy Gracious’s nod they would roll out this bright red carpet that only he could walk on.
    But Daddy Gracious didn’t walk. He tiptoed on high-heeled boots, much like the shoes Prince wore. Daddy glided across the red carpet, swinging his long lion’s mane back and forth. His fingernails were long and curved like a predator’s, and he wore a rich, white cape that swished and cracked the air when he moved.
    â€œGive Him some praise. He’s worthy. Now give Him some praise.”
    When he entered the church, the whole congregation would jump to their feet. Daddy Gracious hoofed it down the aisle and then fell into his center pulpit chair. Two ushers would fan him until he caught his breath and was on his feet again. The show would continue until the audience was riled up and breathless.
    Martin Dupree was always with Daddy Gracious, driving him around, standing as his bodyguard, and playing bass guitar in the church’s band. He was thirteen years my senior and he was Billie Dee Williams in Mahogany fine, Brad Pitt in Troy fine, Denzel Washington in Mo’ Better Blues fine. Every time I walked into church and saw him up in the pulpit rocking his instrument, my heart skipped a step. His gold-flecked white shirts stood out in the sea of bright white we were all required to wear. His hair swept away from his face in a fit of shiny black curls, hazel eyes, and thick lashes. Seemed like a sin to waste so much pretty on a man when so many women ran around the church looking like wet ducks.
    Every Sunday, Gran made us sit in the same pew, fifth row from the front, left-hand side in the aisle, and as soon as I was seated I’d feel Martin staring at me from behind his dark shades. The small circular ones that seemed sewn on, because no matter how hard he plucked the strings of his bass guitar and rolled his instrument, the glasses never moved. When Martin and I would later bump around the back of Daddy Gracious’s car, his frames stayed still then too.
    Living with Gran had shamed me. Losing my parents had deadened me. But when those catlike eyes peered at me in a way that wasn’t obvious to anyone but me, things inside of me came alive. My body was like the earth thawing after a long, harsh winter. Just a look from Martin made my throat curl toward him, and I inhaled until the thin material of my collared dress ballooned and my bra felt like it would burst. The first moment Martin called to me, I