silent. The light from my clock cast a green glow at a fifteen-degree angle on part of the bed, the back wall, and the ceiling.
“Listen, Preacher, we know Ike was no good. We not asking you to say stuff that ain’t true.”
“Good, because I couldn’t. And about Ike being no good, I’ve never met anybody that had no good in them.”
“Well, he was close,” she said.
“God loved him,” I said.
She was silent. And then she said, “You really believe that? You just saying it?”
“I really do. Sometimes it’s all that I do believe, but I never seem to be able to shake it. Probably because I need to believe it.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. I had said too much again. I often found myself telling strangers what I needed to say, though what I needed to say was often very personal and painful and often made them feel uncomfortable. I went to confession wherever I could— wherever it was safe and anonymous.
“Can you do it Saturday?” she asked, her voice sounding slightly desperate.
“Yes, I can. I will.”
“Thank you, Preacher.”
“You’re welcome. Good night,” I said after she gave me the time and place of the funeral on Saturday in Tallahassee.
I rolled over after hanging the phone on its cradle and stared up at the ceiling. It hadn’t changed. The wind outside caused the aluminum of the trailer to bend in and out, sounding like a whip cracking. I looked at the clock to watch the minute change. It seemed to take far longer than sixty seconds.
I sat up and looked at myself in the mirror on my dresser against the wall across from the foot of my bed. It was dark, but enough light came in the window from the streetlight and in the door from the bathroom down the hall so that I could see myself in shadow. It looked artistic, like a low-lit black-and-white photograph. I lay back down and looked at the clock again. Everything I had just done took less than a minute. I decided to get up and work on my funeral sermon for Saturday. My thinking was that the challenge might exhaust me so I could fall asleep.
Preparing the funeral sermon of a stranger killed under suspicious circumstances was challenging. I grew weary, but I still couldn’t sleep. At one point it got so bad, in fact, that I went into the den and watched nearly an hour of infomercials. I had to do something about this.
On my way back to bed, I stopped by the bathroom—mainly for something to do. Looking in the mirror, I discovered that I looked as tired as I felt, which wasn’t good. As I turned to head back to bed, I noticed a small pile of clothes near the shower. It was about two day’s worth. I smiled as I thought of how Susan hated that. Having that thought gave me a strong urge to leave them there, which I only overcame because if I left them in reaction to her, she would still be controlling my life. I bent down, scooped them up, slinging one sock between my legs as I did. When I reached for it, I saw something that froze me in sheer terror.
On the back of my left leg, there was a cut about two inches long.
I dropped the clothes and bent down even farther to take a closer look. It wasn’t very deep, but it was deep enough—deep enough for AIDS-infected blood splattered on it to get into my bloodstream.
My heart, racing up until this point, seemed to stop altogether. I grew faint and nearly fell over, but was able to catch myself on the towel rack. Suddenly, I had the urge to jump into the shower and scrub the cut.
I did. In the shower, I inspected my body for other cuts and scratches. There were none. At one point, I stared at the violent scars on my upper body. It would be tragically ironic to survive a gunshot wound to the chest, a knife wound to the abdomen, and then die of a narrow two-inch long cut to the leg.
For the rest of the night I asked myself one question over and over,
When did I get the cut?
Please, God, let it have been today.
At two thirty I was lying on my side in bed with my eyes closed
“Listen, Preacher, we know Ike was no good. We not asking you to say stuff that ain’t true.”
“Good, because I couldn’t. And about Ike being no good, I’ve never met anybody that had no good in them.”
“Well, he was close,” she said.
“God loved him,” I said.
She was silent. And then she said, “You really believe that? You just saying it?”
“I really do. Sometimes it’s all that I do believe, but I never seem to be able to shake it. Probably because I need to believe it.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. I had said too much again. I often found myself telling strangers what I needed to say, though what I needed to say was often very personal and painful and often made them feel uncomfortable. I went to confession wherever I could— wherever it was safe and anonymous.
“Can you do it Saturday?” she asked, her voice sounding slightly desperate.
“Yes, I can. I will.”
“Thank you, Preacher.”
“You’re welcome. Good night,” I said after she gave me the time and place of the funeral on Saturday in Tallahassee.
I rolled over after hanging the phone on its cradle and stared up at the ceiling. It hadn’t changed. The wind outside caused the aluminum of the trailer to bend in and out, sounding like a whip cracking. I looked at the clock to watch the minute change. It seemed to take far longer than sixty seconds.
I sat up and looked at myself in the mirror on my dresser against the wall across from the foot of my bed. It was dark, but enough light came in the window from the streetlight and in the door from the bathroom down the hall so that I could see myself in shadow. It looked artistic, like a low-lit black-and-white photograph. I lay back down and looked at the clock again. Everything I had just done took less than a minute. I decided to get up and work on my funeral sermon for Saturday. My thinking was that the challenge might exhaust me so I could fall asleep.
Preparing the funeral sermon of a stranger killed under suspicious circumstances was challenging. I grew weary, but I still couldn’t sleep. At one point it got so bad, in fact, that I went into the den and watched nearly an hour of infomercials. I had to do something about this.
On my way back to bed, I stopped by the bathroom—mainly for something to do. Looking in the mirror, I discovered that I looked as tired as I felt, which wasn’t good. As I turned to head back to bed, I noticed a small pile of clothes near the shower. It was about two day’s worth. I smiled as I thought of how Susan hated that. Having that thought gave me a strong urge to leave them there, which I only overcame because if I left them in reaction to her, she would still be controlling my life. I bent down, scooped them up, slinging one sock between my legs as I did. When I reached for it, I saw something that froze me in sheer terror.
On the back of my left leg, there was a cut about two inches long.
I dropped the clothes and bent down even farther to take a closer look. It wasn’t very deep, but it was deep enough—deep enough for AIDS-infected blood splattered on it to get into my bloodstream.
My heart, racing up until this point, seemed to stop altogether. I grew faint and nearly fell over, but was able to catch myself on the towel rack. Suddenly, I had the urge to jump into the shower and scrub the cut.
I did. In the shower, I inspected my body for other cuts and scratches. There were none. At one point, I stared at the violent scars on my upper body. It would be tragically ironic to survive a gunshot wound to the chest, a knife wound to the abdomen, and then die of a narrow two-inch long cut to the leg.
For the rest of the night I asked myself one question over and over,
When did I get the cut?
Please, God, let it have been today.
At two thirty I was lying on my side in bed with my eyes closed
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