The Bishop of South Park

By Xlibris US

Byron Zorn graduated first in his class at the prestigious Little Country Parish University. A brilliant mind, tireless researcher, and gifted speaker, Zorn aspired to serve God behind the pulpit of a large, hopefully high profile church someday. That was plan A.
Then The Lord revealed plan Bassistant bishop of Holy Ground Miracle Gospel Tabernacle, a small black church in the all black South Park District. Though the position was non-salaried, and the flock had a way of making the job full time, Byron Zorn, a white man, accepted.
The Bishop of South Park is the story of a young white preachers journey into an unfamiliar culture of black gospel distinctives and expectations. Byron Zorn understood perfectly the way the whites did church. He had yet to come to terms with the black way of doing it.
Bishop, you preach like a white man.
I am a white man!
Yeah, and aint nobody holding it against you, neither. But Bishop, you could do better.
The Bishop of South Park is a humorous and heart rending love story of sacrifice and courage within the volatile waters of interracial relationships.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499052084

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

F OUR HUNDRED FAMILY, friends, and well-wishers packed the University Performing Arts Center to attend the thirty-eighth annual Little Country Parish University graduation exercises. The university provost, standing behind the ornate lectern, was nearly finished doing what he did every graduation—read off the names of the graduates. Another man on stage, the dean of undergraduate studies, stood a few yards to the right of the lectern before a folding table covered with a deep forest-green tablecloth. After the provost read a name, the dean presented each of the 214 undergraduates with his or her bachelor dip loma.

The president of LCP University, Dr. Rolland (Rollo) Havensworth Astor, stood to the right of the green covered table attired in his ceremonial academic gown—Rollo was six feet nine inches, 340 pounds, and had to have the gown tailored to meet his ample frame. The students, after receiving their diploma, stepped up to their president for a personal greeting—Rollo knew every student in his school; this was no idle chitchat. If the student was foreign born—this particular graduating class represented twenty-six different nationalities—Rollo would speak to them all in their native tongue. There were handshakes, usually hugs, and sometimes a peck on the cheek. The photographer would then take their picture together. It wasn’t uncommon for the photographer to request two, three, or even four photo ops because the president was bawling so demonstrably. Rollo really loved his students.

The provost, having reached the final name on this list, and the undergrad dean having awarded the final diploma in his graduating class, pulled the freestanding microphone closer to the green covered table, and said, Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the graduating class of Little Country Parish University. When the man began clapping, the audience jumped to their feet, only their ovation was more akin to a rock concert.

A few minutes later, the dean of graduate studies, a woman, traded places beside the green table and addressed the audience. Ladies and Gentlemen, undertaking a graduate degree, especially at LCP University, is an arduous, sometimes bitter, often lonely, and seldom an immediately gratifying pursuit. Our school tends to invoke moodiness and irritability. The dean smiled at the audience. My complete sympathies are extended to anyone living with one of our students.

Laughter.

The dean continued. That these fifty-four men and women are even standing here to receive their master’s degree, is testament not only to their achieving the high academic demands of Little Country Parish University but also of their singleness of purpose, mental toughness, and courage incumbent upon every servant of Jesus Christ to take his discipline into his own dark world.

The dean shifted her eyes off the audience and focused them on the fifty-four graduate students behind her on the stage. Words cannot express the utmost pride I hide in my heart for each one of you. The woman then gestured for the provost to begin reading the names.

Twenty minutes later, the names all read, the graduates having received their diplomas, their photographs taken with President Astor, and the audience roaring their congratulations like banshees, the dean of graduate studies traded places with the dean of postgraduate studies behind the green table.

The man cleared his throat. "A doctorate from Little Country Parish University is the lowest honor we confer on students. The servile nature of servanthood requires that it be low. Jesus Christ said, ‘Whosoever of you will be the chiefest, shall be servant of all,’ and a servant’s heart is the first requisite we scrutinize before admitting a student into the postgraduate program."

The dean paused for effect. We also, of course, evaluate a prospective student’s aptitude to achieve success in the highest levels of academic study and research—but that is a distant second for our purposes. The dean gestured to the fifteen postgraduate students. These men and women standing before you all scored in the top 10 percent of the national entrance exams for postgraduate schools. Eleven of these people are graduating magna cum laude. The other four, summa cum laude. The dean smiled at the audience. I obviously have a very talented admissions board!

Laughter.

However, it all comes down to servanthood. As our president, Dr. Rollo Astor, has said many times, ‘Without a servant’s heart, all the genius of man is as a candle hid under a bushel.’

Byron Zorn sat on the front row of the Performing Arts Center. Proud. Excited. Not a man given easily to tears, Zorn cried tonight. His wife was among the fifteen graduating doctoral students.

Zorn’s twin eight-year-old daughters, Elodie and Racine, sat to his left on the front row. The girls weren’t nearly as worked up as their father. As long as they could remember, Mama always had something to do with school, either as a teacher or a student, and they’d been to plenty of graduation exercises. Mama’s a doctor… ho-hum, hope she fries a mess of okra when we get home.

Zorn’s mother-in-law—the twins’ grandmother—sat on the other side of the girls. She was hysterical with joy and treated the solemn ceremony like a black Gospel revival, amening the dean’s nearly every sentence. Her daughter was the family’s first high school graduate. Her eldest son was dead halfway through his sophomore year, killed in a gang fight. Her other two sons were in prison. Her daughter was also the first college graduate. Then she graduated again with a master’s degree and then graduated again tonight with a PhD. The woman didn’t think they’d let you graduate that many times, but she didn’t complain.

The dean of postgraduate studies, still beside the green table, nodded to the provost, still behind the lectern, to begin reading the names. The list was alphabetical, and it’d be a while before they got around to Zorn’s wife.

If anyone bet money, they probably wagered on Byron Zorn, that he would be the one earning the doctorate tonight, not his wife. The only child of two well-educated parents—a clinical psychologist and a cardiologist—Zorn was doing college-level work in junior high. He transferred to Little Country Parish University from Yale Divinity School and aspired to the pastorate of a church similar to Little Country Parish, the university’s founding institution—something in the neighborhood of twenty-three thousand members.

Then Byron Zorn met his future wife, and everything changed. The two of them worked together on a particular street gang intervention mission in the South Park Projects one night—Zorn’s first mission, her zillionth. She knew the ministry well. Zorn hadn’t a clue.

When rival street gangs pack weapons and are motivated by demonic hate, things tend to get dicey. Although during the course of the mission Zorn suffered a broken arm, dislocated shoulder, fractured wrist, his face looked like a cheese grater worked him over, and the gash in his head required twenty-one stitches, the mission was a success. Afterward, Dr. Rollo Astor, the university president and the intervention team point man Alpha, tapped the young man on the shoulder. Mr. Zorn, there is little doubt that you will one day have your twenty-three thousand. But after what you have seen here tonight, you will consider it a step down.

The president was right. Zorn was hooked, and he abandoned the notion of pastoring a large church… or of pastoring any-size church for that matter. After graduating first in his class with a bachelor’s degree, Zorn found work at the Home Depot in the plumbing department and rented a room with a black family in the South Park Projects.

Zorn knew Bishop Montgomery Jackson from the Street Intervention Team. The twenty-five-year-old bishop, who, in addition to driving forklift at the Simplot plant, also pastored a church two blocks from Zorn’s rented room, offered the honors graduate a job, a free job, as his assistant bishop—bypassing elder, deacon, and apostle altogether. Cool!

Byron Zorn was the only white in the South Park Projects.

Zorn’s future wife also lived in the projects, one of many South Park blacks.

The young woman was indeed the first in her family to graduate high school. She received her diploma from South Park High. Although coming out with a C plus average, the seventeen-year-old was unable to read or write above a second-grade level. Dr. Rollo Astor, seeing the need to narrow the gap between her servant’s heart and her academics, enrolled the teenager in the university prefreshman program.

A year and a half later, with hard work and Byron Zorn’s nightly tutoring, she scored well enough on the SAT, barely, to take the university entrance exam. The girl passed the entrance exam, barely, and the university admitted her as a freshman on probationary status.

They lifted the probationary status after one quarter, thanks to more hard work and evening tutoring with Byron Zorn. School was becoming manageable for the young woman—not that the courses got easier, they got harder, but she felt in the driver’s seat. She still had to work hard. The teenager still needed Byron Zorn at her side, but for the first time she felt the power to tear away the frightening and enigmatic mask of university course work and stare it boldly in the face, in charge.

Something else happened to the young woman. She fell in love with Byron Zorn, and he with her. But there was a problem, a big problem. Although romance was not officially taboo for undergrads—these were, after all, progressive times—we’d gone to the moon and given women the vote. However, affairs of the heart at Little Country Parish University were strongly discouraged, strongly discouraged. Dr. Rollo Astor believed that any student of his with enough time for love simply had too much time and had ways of reestablishing their singularity of purpose required for being at his school. Since students didn’t like being reestablished, not by Rollo, romantic entanglements were rare, and always brief.

Byron Zorn understood these conditions. His future wife understood them also, and for the next four years they remained brother and sister, albeit a very close brother and sister. Byron Zorn continued to tutor his future wife.

Zorn’s future mother-in-law likewise understood these conditions, and when the two were hunkered over the books at the kitchen table, the woman wasn’t far away, not far at all. When the couple took a break for a bite to eat, it was always a threesome. When the couple enjoyed a concert or play at the University Performing Arts Center, Zorn knew to buy three tickets. Zorn’s future mother-in-law became an avid fan of the University Royal Friars football team. The woman had never been to a football game in her life but was now known to scream louder than the head coach, Tom Zwigly, a.k.a. the Wolfman. Coach Zwigly used to play for the Oakland Raiders and was pretty wild even by Raider Nation standards.

Four years later the young woman graduated with a bachelor’s degree. After securing her teaching credentials, she began work as a high school English instructor at Little Country Parish Christian Academy.

Then the couple announced their engagement.

Byron Zorn’s parents were uncomfortable with interracial marriages; however, they were very comfortable with their only son’s chosen bride and gave their blessing. They even paid for the wedding. After the honeymoon, Zorn moved his stuff into his wife’s bedroom, and the mother-in-law figured she could start keeping a little distance. They still took her out to eat, however, and to the show and football games.

A year later the Zorns were pregnant, twin girls, Elodie and Racine. The twins were the recipient of an unusual but not unheard of biological quirk. Elodie, the elder by two minutes, was bestowed with the same hereditary features as her African American mother, while Racine had Byron Zorn written all over her. That little kid was white all right! The scene of the twins together always sparked the question, which one was adopted?

Grandbabies were the fountain of youth for Zorn’s mother-in-law, not dissimilar to the tonic Baby Obed was to Naomi. Ruth 4:15: He shall be unto thee a restorer of thy life, and a nourisher of thine old age. Grandma was on call 24/7, you bet she was. While Zorn’s wife was tall and skinny, not quite lanky, still she just didn’t have a whole lot of meat covering her ribs. Zorn’s mother-in-law, on the other hand, came fully padded with enough built-in cushion, that when you hiked a couple of crying, colicky babies up under her arms, a La-Z-Boy recliner couldn’t compete with grandma’s natural ergonomics, and the twins were asleep before the Baby Tylenol drops ever kicked in.

Zorn’s wife continued teaching high school when an administrator broached the subject of a master’s degree. Ever think of becoming a principal?

Yes, a little.

You gotta get yourself a master’s in education first.

I’ll talk to my husband about it.

After the young woman earned her graduate degree, Dr. Rollo Astor, the university president, approached her. Mrs. Zorn, the director of prefreshman studies is retiring in a few years. I would like to fill the position with an alumnus. Are you interested?

Thank you, Dr. Astor. That would be very fulfilling to me.

You’ll need to get your PhD first.

Let me talk to my husband.

The provost behind the lectern reading the names was in the Ws. It was almost Zorn’s wife’s turn to receive her diploma. Fritz Otto Wilhelm, the provost said, and the sound reverberated throughout the acoustically perfect performing arts center. Fritzy Wilhelm was born in Berlin, Germany. After he gathered up his diploma from the dean of postgraduate studies at the green table, he walked the five steps to shake hands with the president, and the two chatted it up in the German tongue a few moments. They had their pictures taken, and Fritzy returned to his place with the others. The provost read the next name, Jonathan R. Young.

Byron Zorn’s wife was next. Zorn and his mother-in-law threw each other a glance. They both were a mess with tears. The woman held her granddaughter, Racine, by the hand. Zorn held his daughter Elodie’s hand. Get ready, girls. Mama’s next. Aren’t you proud of Mama!

Papa, Elodie said, can we get some ice cream on the way home?

The man never heard his daughter. He was fixated on the scene before him atop the grand stage. His wife was about to receive her PhD. She had a professorship awaiting her at Little Country Parish University, the same institution he graduated twelve years ago. He thought back to when they first met—my, how things changed in twelve years. Back then the skinny teenage girl had no concept that the infinitive form of the verb to be ever needed conjugating: I be eating supper. He be eating supper. What galled him the most was she actually thought that ain’t was a real word. That seemed a hundred lifetimes ago. Now the only one to use ain’t was him—he heard it all the time in his South Park ministry, and occasionally it just slipped out. Byron Zorn, however, has been guilty of saying ain’t just to bug his wife.

The family arrived at the graduation exercises long before the doors opened in hopes of commandeering four front-row seats. He wanted his wife to see them, even with the bright stage lights shining in her eyes. He especially wanted to make eye contact just before the provost called her name. They promised to share this moment together. The young woman told her husband they really held this honor together—though Zorn’s wife was the one who read the books, wrote the papers, took the examinations, and passed muster with the dissertation review board, her husband was with her every step of the long tedious path. Though Byron Zorn never went beyond his undergraduate degree, his love and aptitude for research was of incalculable assistance to his wife in preparing her doctoral thesis. Zorn’s wife maintains that none of her success would have been possible without him. Zorn vigorously denies it. She constantly affirms that it is so. They don’t talk about it much, just starts a fight.

Their eyes locked on the other. Zorn is crying. His wife is trying desperately not to but doing a lousy job at it. That they love each other, there is little doubt. They respect each other. At the bedrock of their relationship is trust and honor. They continued gazing into the other’s eyes and waited on the provost to read her name.

They continued to wait some more.

Zorn shifted his eyes to the right. Jonathan R. Young was still conversing with President Astor. Come on, Johnny, he doesn’t need your life history.

Good, the photographer is aiming his camera.

Wait, the photographer wanted to do it again. Oh, for crying out loud, that first shot was okay.

Good, Jonathan R. Young was returning to his place with the others. Zorn returned his eyes to his wife. Hers never left him. They anticipated the next sound they will hear together—the reading of his wife’s name.

Silence.

They continued to anticipate.

More silence.

What gives?

They both shot a glance at the provost behind the lectern. He’s not there! Where’d he go? There he is. He pulled up a folding chair and sat down.

What in the world?

They looked over at President Astor. He was walking to the green table, while the dean of postgraduate studies likewise pulled up a seat.

What’s going on?

The president leaned into the microphone. Ladies and Gentlemen, forgive our straying from protocol, but I wanted to award our final graduate her diploma myself. The president waited for the brochure rustling and seat shuffling to silence. In the final analysis, Christ called us to one place, that place of servanthood. By definition, a true servant is consumed with his master, and obedience is the natural outflow. Little Country Parish University was founded upon that premise. We don’t produce servants. Servants come to us for an education. We don’t develop leaders for a brave new world. We educate servants for a sad, sick, and lost world. A true servant, a selfless servant, strives to be the best, for selfishness and mediocrity never accomplished a thing for Jesus Christ.

The president paused. Ladies and Gentlemen, these aren’t mere platitudes but are foundational truths gleaned from our understanding of the Holy Scriptures. A student doesn’t get through these doors unless he believes them. A student doesn’t stand up here on graduation night unless he demonstrates them.

The president paused again. By indulging me to single out one student above the others, I don’t mean to infer that she accomplished more than the others—she didn’t. Or that her classroom work excelled measurably above her peers—it didn’t. Or that her thesis research was head and shoulders above the rest—it wasn’t.

Byron Zorn, the proud researcher, got a little miffed at that last remark. He got over it.

The president continued. "I don’t wish to leave the impression that this woman worked harder than the others. They all worked hard, all out. You have to around here. But I’m not saying anything new—you had to put up with these people. You lived with them."

Laughter.

"My desire tonight is to showcase the Lord’s providence, and to do that I must bring to your attention the human agency involved. Our final graduate began as a prefreshman, which is a program designed for students who are otherwise completely qualified to attend school here in every area except academically. She started pretty deep in the hole. We have no affirmative action plan, quota system, and do not practice reverse discrimination. Everyone is equal at Little Country Parish University. This remarkable woman clawed herself from the educational abyss she found herself in, and she stands here before you about to receive her PhD."

Pause.

She is also the first prefreshman ever to receive a doctorate here. So it can be done.

Pause.

"Starting with our next academic year, Little Country Parish University is expanding the prefreshman program to include two hundred students. I asked this young woman to head up that program. She consented. The Lord providentially brought us the right person, and I pity any of her students that tell her the work is too hard, or that they’re too stupid, or that they’re too busy, or any of a thousand excuses why it can’t be done. She alone, above anyone at our school, can look them in the eye and say, I did it, you can too."

Pause.

I’m blessed to have her on my faculty. Her students are blessed to have her as their teacher. The president glanced behind at Zorn’s wife and back to the audience. Ladies and Gentlemen, at this time . . .

Byron Zorn and his wife locked eyes again. He was openly crying. She gave up trying not to. This moment of sharing was as intense as any physical intimacy the couple partook during their eight-year marriage. I love you, he said, silently mouthing the words as the audience quietly awaited the president to pronounce her name.

I love you, she said, only a little louder, and the first few rows stifled a giggle.

The president continued. It is my honor to present to you the new Little Country Parish University director of prefreshman studies . . .

Byron Zorn, still holding his daughter Elodie’s hand, stretched his other arm to his wife. She stretched her arm to him.

President Astor continued. Dr. Clarissa Cleveland-Zorn."

The audience began cheering as the woman left her place with the others to receive her diploma and to be greeted by President Astor.

Zorn turned to his daughters. Look, girls, there’s Mama! Aren’t you proud of Mama!

Papa, Elodie said, we gonna get some ice cream on the way home?

CHAPTER TWO

G IVE ME SOME food, Bishop, ain’t got nothing to eat. The black woman pressed in closer to assistant bishop Byron Zorn, who was trying to arrange a sack of Goodwill books on his office shelf. Ain’t ya gonna give me no food, Bishop? I be hu ngry.

Zorn ignored the woman.

Don’t got nothing to eat, Bishop.

Zorn had stumbled across a Nelson Greek Interlinear for twenty-five cents at the Goodwill—a rare find! He thumbed through the pages.

Ain’t got no food, Bishop.

Zorn reached across to his bottom desk drawer and flipped the woman a bag of potato chips.

O’ course, Bishop, if ya ain’t got no food, you can give me money.

Zorn slipped the Nelson Greek Interlinear in with his other reference books.

O’ course, Bishop, don’t need much money, just a little to get by.

I gave you twenty dollars yesterday, Thelma. What’d you do with it?

The black woman’s face screwed into a sight, her head and mouth throbbed with great animation. Had to pay the mo-tel, man! He took ever’ cent or he’d a-throwed me out. That mo-tel expensive, Bishop, not like the mo-tel in Bogalusa.

You don’t live in a motel, Thelma.

I do when I go to Bogalusa… Can’t ya help a poor old woman, Bishop?

Thelma was only forty-three. She wanted everyone to think she was ninety-three.

Zorn began cleaning a book cover with a couple of Handi Wipes—someone at Goodwill got it sticky with chocolate.

Ain’t ya gonna help a old woman, Bishop. Ain’t got no money.

You receive your state check every month, Thelma.

My children done up and took it, Bishop! Them children o’ mine just no-goods, take food right ought of my mouth, making me pitiful.

You don’t have children, Thelma.

Ain’t ya gonna help a old woman, Bishop?

Zorn set the damp book and Handi Wipes aside, and removed his wallet from his hip pocket. He counted out five one-dollar bills. "That’s all you’re getting from me, Thelma, five bucks."

The woman took the bills and shoved them down the front of her blouse. Couldn’t ya make it five dollar more, Bishop? The woman lowered her head over Zorn’s open wallet. "I see a ten dollar in there, Bishop. Let’s make it ten dollar more, and I can buy me something to eat."

I gave you five bucks, Thelma. Eat off that.

I gotta pay the mo-tel, man, or he be a-throwing me out.

You don’t live in a motel.

The woman began fingering through Zorn’s wallet. I just be needing ten dollar more, Bishop.

Get out of my wallet, Thelma! Zorn jerked his hand away.

Just ten dollar more, Bishop.

Zorn took the ten-dollar bill from his wallet. Look, I’ll give you ten, that’s all. I want the other five back.

I won’t have no money left after the bus take me to the store.

And I want those potato chips back too. That’s my lunch.

Just be giving me ten dollar more, Bishop. Ten dollar be good.

I want the five dollars back first, Thelma.

Won’t have nothing left to eat, Bishop. I’m hungry… Ain’t got no food.

Zorn’s voice rose. Never mind then! Forget it! Forget the whole thing! I’m not negotiating. Zorn hastily shoved the ten note back in his wallet. He knew it wouldn’t stay there long. He’d been to this rodeo before."

The woman gave him back the potato chips. Ten dollar, Bishop. I be buying me a little food. The woman held her empty hand out. Ten dollar, Bishop, help out this poor old woman.

Zorn held his empty hand out. I want my five bucks.

The gas man say he be shutting off the gas excepting I be giving him five dollar. Won’t have no heat.

Give me back the five, and you can have the ten.

The gas man be shutting off the heat, Bishop.

Zorn was about to return to his Goodwill books when he heard the sanctuary door open. Someone entered. The footsteps accompanied a loud and low-pitched mournful wail. Clearly, it was a man in travail. The distressed soul lumbered freely, and without knocking, into Zorn’s office.

Mercury, what’s wrong? Zorn said.

The young black man maintained the same high volume he did outside. "Oh, Bishop… Ohhh, Bishop! Be praying for me. I sinned something bad this time. The young man covered his face and continued to wail. Ohhh . . ."

Thelma stepped over to the young man. You ain’t supposed to be sinning, Mercury. Ain’t Beebe fixing to make you a elder?

When Byron Zorn joined the church staff as Bishop Montgomery Jackson’s assistant, the congregation lovingly started to refer to the senior pastor as Beebe: Big Bishop.

The distraught young man lowered his hands. "Beebe was fixing make me elder. Beebe ain’t fixing make me nothing, now, maybe dog catcher, not after what I done. He looked up at Zorn. Pray for me, Bishop. His tone laden with regret. His voice belching a woeful sorrow. Pray God don’t send me to hell. Pray Mama don’t hit me with her stick."

Thelma got into the young man’s face. What sin you done, Mercury?

Never mind, Thelma, Zorn said. It’s none of your business. Mercury and I better talk. You have to go now.

Thelma didn’t go anywhere.

The young man gripped Zorn’s hand. It weren’t my fault, Bishop. It was them eyes. Them eyes what made me do it.

Mercury, Zorn said, "if you sinned, it was your fault."

Thelma punctuated Zorn with a hearty amen! "You be listening to Bishop, Mercury. Bishop tell you right. You be sinning, it be your fault. Can’t be blaming no one, just you… What sin you done, Mercury?"

Never mind, Thelma. I told you to beat it!

Right as rain, Bishop, you say that to me. Uh-huh, you say it, I hear it. The woman just stood there.

The young man continued to hold Zorn’s hand. It was them eyes, Bishop, made me crazy out of my head. The power just come over me, and before I know what I done, I done it. The young man covered his face again. "Oh god, I be going to hell for sure… ohhhh!"

What sin ya done, Mercury?

Leave us alone, Thelma. Now get out of here. Zorn pointed to the door.

Thelma took a couple of laps down the hall and came back in and stayed in the corner.

The young man uncovered his face. I’m here to tell you, Bishop, them eyes got the power, just made the devil eat me for lunch. He was suddenly overwhelmed with another wave of despair. Ohhh God, please, I beg ya, don’t be sending me to hell… or to Mama.

Zorn put his arm around the young man’s shoulder. Take a few breaths, Mercury, and tell me what happened. Start at the beginning.

The young man inhaled deeply. He emptied his lungs with a long, slow whoosh. I be at the truck stop, Bishop, picking up loose jack unloading a little jewelry.

You’re not selling that junk again?

Found me a new line, Bishop—fake Zales. Price tag say two, three hundred dollar. The truck driver know it fake, he say five dollar. I give it to him for six, seven dollar. He be happy. I be happy. I even guarantee the gold won’t rub off for two, three month. The young man shrugged. Don’t think the real Zale do that guarantee, Bishop.

Zorn turned a deferential hand. Please continue your story, Mercury.

That’s when I saw them eyes, Bishop, them eyes what got the power.

Whose eyes, Mercury?

The hooker.

The quiet mouse in the corner couldn’t help herself and edged between the two men. You be doing it to a hooker, Mercury? Beebe won’t be making you no elder, not today he ain’t.

Thelma! I told you to leave!

The woman ignored Zorn. What hooker, Mercury? I know her?

Don’t think so, Thelma. I don’t be knowing her. Never seen her.

The black woman nodded. I know all the hookers. She black?

The young man shook his head. She white, Thelma. Say she be a sister.

The black woman screwed on a face. A white sister in the church? What kind of sister that?

The young man shrugged. I don’t know what kind of sister she be, Thelma. Just when I look at her eyes, she be a mighty fine sister to me. The young man turned to Zorn. "Them eyes, Bishop, they got the power. I look at her and them eyes say me, ‘Mercury, take me, do what you want and I be liking it’ . . . so I done it."

Zorn folded his arms across his chest and spoke in a grave, matter-of-fact tone. You had sexual intercourse with a prostitute at the truck stop.

That right, Bishop. In the Port-a-Potty.

What you be paying that white sister, Mercury?

I give her $300 Zale necklace.

The black woman blew a low whistle. That white sister be costing you plenty.

Zorn put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. She cost you a lot more than a necklace, Mercury. You lost your self-respect, and it told Bishop Jackson that if you can’t honor your vow of purity, you probably can’t honor your vow as an elder.

You think Beebe be thinking that?

Wouldn’t you?

The young man wailed pitifully.

Zorn quoted a scripture verse. ‘Doth a fountain send forth at the same place sweet water and bitter?’ You learned that in leadership class.

That be in James 3:11, huh, Bishop?

Zorn nodded. You also made it infinitely easier to do it again, Mercury. So you better close that door before it gets any worse on you.

I be closing the door, Bishop.

"If you don’t close it, there’s a distinct possibility you will go to hell."

I be closing the door, Bishop.

The black woman squared herself to face the young man. I know your mama, Mercury. I seen your mama’s stick. She gonna kill you.

The black young man nearly turned white. Ohhh God, save me from Mama.

Zorn was about to kneel and pray with the young man when he heard the sanctuary door open again. Whoever the visitor was, he didn’t bother to close the door after him, neither did he choose to walk; rather he ran pall-mall through the sanctuary, down the hall, and flung himself into the office. If he saw the others, he paid no attention and simply threw his trembling arms around Zorn. His face so blotchy with hot tears, the husky black man left a wet spot on Zorn’s shirt.

Ohhh, Bishop, I be going to hell for sure. You gotta get me saved again. I can already feel the fire burn my toes… Save me, Bishop… You gotta save me.

Zorn returned the embrace and stepped back. Something wrong, Deacon Cleone?

Oh, Bishop, I ain’t no deacon no more. Beebe, he be taking my card away for sure. I know he will.

The black woman stepped around. You be sinning, Deacon Cleone?

Never mind, Thelma, Zorn said.

The black woman rephrased the question. What sin you do, Deacon Cleone?

The husky man looked at Zorn. I be sinning, all right, but it ain’t hardly my fault. Weren’t a fair fight.

Mercury put his hand on the husky man’s shoulder. "Deacon Cleone, if you be sinning, it be your fault. He looked up at Zorn. Ain’t that right, Bishop?"

Never mind, Mercury. Zorn looked back to the young man. Tell me what happened, Deacon Cleone. Start at the beginning.

Bishop, I be at the truck stop polishing rims… The husky man suddenly burst into sobs. One minute she be talking pretty at me, next minute we be humping it.

Where you be doing it, Deacon Cleone? the black woman said.

She say, ‘Let’s me and you go to the Port-a-Potty and talk.’ She say it real pretty. I say, ‘Okay, but we just be talking, because I be a deacon for Beebe at his church.’ She say, ‘Okay, we just be talking.’ She say it real pretty to me. The husky man burst into tears again. He looked at Zorn. Bishop, she don’t do much talking in the Port-a-Potty.

That not good you be sinning like that, Deacon Cleone.

Just stay out of it, Mercury.

Bishop, what Beebe be doing to me? He take my card away?

You’ll have to talk it over with Bishop Jackson. That’s his call.

She be a white hooker? the black woman said.

Ain’t no hooker, Thelma. She be a sister, a white sister… say she be a sister anyway.

Mercury was enraged. You didn’t have to pay her nothing?

Nothing.

Cost me a $300 Zale necklace.

You been with the same white sister, Mercury?

Cost me three hundred dollar. That what I give white sister.

Mercury! Zorn protested. "You gave her a two-dollar piece of junk. Get real! And quit calling her a sister. She wasn’t anybody’s sister."

You think the woman lie, Bishop?

Of course she lied, Mercury. Zorn was about to quote Matthew 7:16, You shall know them by their fruits, when he looked up and saw two bedraggled and distressed specimens standing in the doorway. They were as lifeless as limp carrots. Apostle Moses, Apostle Lucius, I didn’t hear you come in.

The front door be open, Bishop, the middle-age overweight black man said.

Did you close it, Apostle Moses?

No.

Why not?

Me and Apostle Lucius, we gotta be going now, just left it open for the way out.

Zorn was puzzled. You just got here. What’s the rush?

The man’s spirit flowed like cold sorghum uphill. We be going to hell, Bishop, just came to say good-bye.

The black woman stepped to the door. You apostles been sinning, ain’t ya?

Never mind, Thelma.

The two men in the doorway moaned in unison.

We be at the truck stop, Bishop, Apostle Moses said. We was preaching at people in the boo-fay (buffet) and giving away them Jesus funny books. The man’s emotions were frayed. He took a deep breath to steady himself. Apostle Lucius here, he say he tired, he want a break, maybe go play pinball. I say, ‘Okay, Apostle Lucius, go in blessing and peace. Maybe I eat something at the boo-fay.’

The two men in the doorway at this point in the narrative stepped fully into the office, and the overweight man placed his hand on Zorn’s shoulder. "Bishop, I be telling you, maybe Apostle Lucius go with blessing and peace, but he don’t come back with blessing and peace."

Apostle Lucius released a pitiful wail.

Zorn nodded thoughtfully. Something happen on the way to the arcade room?

The overweight man continued his account. He don’t tell me what wrong, Bishop. I be thinking he missed high score on the pinball. I figure he sad because he couldn’t put his initials on the board.

Zorn nodded.

I say, ‘Apostle Lucius, you finish my boo-fay chicken, make you feel better.’ I go do the pinball. I be thinking, Glory to Jesus! Hallelujah! This be a potent day of ministry to the glory of God Almighty! We gave twenty, maybe twenty-five Jesus funny books at the boo-fay! I be full of blessing and peace! Apostle Moses’s momentary respite of well-being suddenly returned to his former morose languor. Before I do the pinball, Bishop, I step outside to the Port-a-Potty, but when I open the door, there be a woman inside. She don’t be doing her business, Bishop, nothing like that. She just be standing there smiling at me.

Mercury took a step closer. She be a white woman, Apostle Moses?

That right, Mercury. She say she be a sister. You seen her too?

White sister cost me three hundred dollar.

Zorn punched the black man in the arm. She did not, Mercury, and stop calling her a sister! Zorn returned his attention to Apostle Moses. So what happened?

Bishop, she be the most beautiful white woman I ever seen, just smiling away at me, and she say me, ‘Come on inside the Port-a-Potty.’

You didn’t go inside with her? Zorn was incredulous.

Well, Bishop, I be thinking, I be full of blessing and peace, maybe I give white sister a Jesus funny book for edification.

In the Port-a-Potty?

When I look at her eyes, Bishop, seem like a good idea. Them eyes what pulled me in. Them eyes got the power, Bishop, like there weren’t nothing I could do about it, like it weren’t my fault.

Deacon Cleone placed a hand on the overweight man’s shoulder. "Apostle Moses, if you be sinning, it be your fault."

That right! Mercury said. Ain’t that right, Bishop?

Just keep out of it, you guys. Zorn returned his attention to the overweight man. What happened next?

When I go inside, and white sister close the door and lock it, she don’t want nothing with my Jesus funny book. She want something else… made me want it too… and I took it.

Zorn scanned his finger between the two apostles. You both consummated the sex act with that woman. Zorn then gestured to Mercury and Deacon Cleone. She was apparently the same woman you two committed fornication with.

The four black men in Zorn’s office hung their heads.

You got a mess, ain’t ya, Bishop?

Never mind, Thelma. Zorn pulled his chair from the desk and collapsed in it. He doodled on a yellow legal pad while he spoke. Gentlemen, you did the right thing in coming to me. I believe your contrition is real, and your desire to repent and go forward with your ministries is authentic.

That mean I won’t go to hell, Bishop?

"It means I won’t send you to hell, Mercury. I’m a softy. You still have to get it straight with God."

Your mama still gonna beat you with her stick, the black woman said.

Ohhh God, save me from Mama.

Never mind, Thelma. You’re not helping. Zorn pushed his legal pad aside. Gentlemen, sin in the church is always destructive, it threatens to tear apart the body. But in this situation, it is doubly dangerous. You are members of the leadership, and where the leaders go the congregation follows. Bishop Jackson’s commission from God was to care for the flock. Your commission was to be Bishop Jackson’s co-shepherds. You let Beebe down. You let the flock down. Remember what you learned in leadership class, ‘A minister is not his own, he forfeited his private life.’

Beebe gonna take my card, Bishop.

Bishop Jackson won’t try to humiliate any of you, you’re doing that to yourselves well enough. He won’t try to make an example of you either. Sin has been in the church before, it will be here again. Everybody already knows what sin is. He will, however, discuss with each of you privately your calling into church leadership, and your willingness to submit to its many forms of personal discipline.

Apostle Moses raised his hand timidly. What’s that mean, Bishop?

Zorn raised his voice. It means, how badly do you want it, and how hard will you work to keep it?

That’s what I was scared it meant.

Zorn rose to his feet. For the time being, gentlemen, I suggest you spend time in prayer and scripture to allow the Lord to search your hearts. There was something in your lives that caused you to fall in the devil’s trap. Allow the Lord to reveal exactly what happened that precipitated your disgraceful fall.

Apostle Lucius raised his hand. For me, Bishop, I gotta be thinking it was when white sister took her clothes off.

The other three men nodded their agreement.

I’m sure it was, but what made you think you could play with fire and not get burned?

Uh… I’m an apostle full of blessing and peace.

Well, it didn’t work. Your premise didn’t stand. You need to find out why. Bishop Jackson will want to know, and believe me, you better have some answers. That goes for all of you. Understand?

There was a collective Yes, Bishop.

I have confidence in you men to search out the truth—first, so you don’t do it again, and second, you can teach your flock not to make the same mistake you did.

Apostle Moses raised his hand again. Can I still be sitting up top the platform come Sunday?

Zorn sighed, fell back into his chair, and shoved his fingers through his hair. "Apostle Moses, you’ve got bigger things to worry about than that!"

I do?

"Like proving to Bishop Jackson this will never happen again, and your argument better be a little stronger than ‘I’ll try, Beebe.’ Remember what you learned in leadership class: Luke 12:48, ‘For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall much be required.’ When you were spiritually attacked at the truck stop, you were required to play a strong hand, but you came up empty. Bishop Jackson will need to know why, and if you can’t tell him, the only seat you occupy Sunday morning may be out on the curb."

Silence.

Again, I commend you men for your boldness to bring this to me. We’ll work through it. I’m sure Bishop Jackson will contact you as soon as he can, but it might be a couple of days. One of the forklift drivers quit at his work, and Beebe’s been pulling double duty till they hire a new guy. He sounded tired when we talked yesterday.

The overweight man raised his hand. I be praying for Beebe, Bishop. The man’s tone was very solemn.

Is the Lord impressing you to pray for Bishop Jackson? Zorn said.

Not especially, Bishop, just seemed a nice idea.

Is the Lord impressing you to pray about the situation at the truck stop?

Uh, yeah.

"I believe it would be in everyone’s best interest, Apostle Moses, that you stick with praying your assignment, and not get derailed by praying a nice idea."

Uh, yeah… s’pose so.

Zorn rose to his feet. Do you brothers have anything more to say?

The four black men shook their heads.

Neither do I. We all have some serious praying ahead of us, let’s get started.

The four black men decided they would pray at home and filed out.

Zorn just stood there, numb over the calamity befalling his church.

The black woman approached him. Bishop, about that ten dollar you be owing me. She stretched her empty hand out.

Resigned. Exhausted. Zorn took the ten-dollar bill from his wallet and gave it to her. I’m going to the sanctuary to pray, Thelma. Turn out the light when you leave please.

The woman shoved the money down the front of her blouse. Don’t be fretting the light, Bishop. I shut the room down for you. Count on me, Bishop. That light expensive. Can’t be wasting the Lord’s money on light ain’t no living soul a-looking at… uh-uhh… uh-uhh. I be turning the light out for you, Bishop.

As Zorn passed through the door, he shot a glance over his shoulder and smiled. Thank you, Thelma.

Before Byron Zorn had settled into his posture of prayer at the sanctuary altar, the overhead light fixture in his office was indeed turned off, but not by Thelma. That simple operation was through the agency of an invisible hand poised over the wall switch. Oddly, the sudden encroachment of semidarkness did not startle the black woman. Rather, she gracefully moved to the center of the room—actually she floated—and began to glow with a brilliant white light. A moment later the glowing woman translated into the personage of a tall creature, perhaps seven feet tall, broad shoulders, long golden hair whose silky locks seemed to shine with its own incandescence. The creature’s countenance was neither male nor female, but very majestic, very beautiful. There were two appendages juxtaposition behind each shoulder, wings, and when fully extended measured approximately fifteen feet tip to tip. The creature was arrayed in pure white raiment.

The second creature, the one beside the light switch, now fully visible was perhaps taller by eight inches than the first, not so broad in the shoulders but formidable nonetheless. Its facial qualities were likewise absent of overt masculine and feminine features, but was uniquely different than the first—tangibly and recognizably different than the first, also very beautiful. Its garments were of the whitest of white. It joined the first creature in the center of Zorn’s office.

More creatures began to arrive, all of them winged heavenly messengers, and commissioned by God as ministering spirits unto the redeemed. Some just appeared, others flew in through the wall, and others descended through the ceiling.

The first ministering spirit, the black woman, Thelma, was clearly the angel in charge and waited for all the assigned hosts to arrive for the concourse. No head count was taken; neither was there a roll call. The first angel just knew when it was time and took a measure of the hosts. The creature spoke just five words, The Strange Woman of Proverbs.

Then another angel spoke, Proverbs 5:3, ‘The lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb.’

Then a different angel quoted Proverbs 6:25, ‘Lust not after her beauty, neither let her take thee with her eyelids.’

An eight-foot-tall angel spoke up, Proverbs 7:21, ‘With her much fair speech she caused him to yield. With the flattering of her lips she forced him.’

Another angel spoke, Proverbs 23:28, ‘The strange woman is a narrow pit. She also layeth in wait as for a prey, and increaseth the transgressions among men.’

A different angel spoke, Proverbs 7:14 and 18, ‘(The strange woman said) I have peace offerings with me. This day have I prayed my vows. Come let us take our fill of love until the morning, Let us solace ourselves with loves.’

CHAPTER THREE

I ’M SORRY, DR. Zorn. I don’t know what happ ened.

The slender black woman, early thirties, rose from her gray metal, standard issue university desk, still holding her student’s test paper between her fingers. You got more wrong than you got right, Juanita. That’s what happened.

I know.

That’s hard to do. Everything was taken straight from the textbook.

I kind of thought it would be, Dr. Zorn.

Did you read the assignments, Juanita?

Yeah.

You answered the review questions at the end of every chapter?

Yeah.

Did you check your answers in the back of the book?

Yeah.

And . . . ?

I got ’em all right, every time.

Did you actively participate in your study group, Juanita?

Yeah.

The black woman set the test paper on the desk. You’re a bright girl, Juanita. For the life of me, I don’t understand how you could miss forty-four multiple choice questions on a fifty-question test.

I know.

The black woman stepped from her desk and sat facing her student on the adjacent visitor’s chair. Is everything all right at home?

Yeah, ’bout the same.

Is your father still in jail, Juanita?

Yeah.

You must be worried.

The student shook her head. Dad’s always in jail.

The black woman nodded. Were you feeling ill yesterday, Juanita?

No.

Frustrated, the black woman shook her head slowly. "You could have just guessed at the answers and gotten more right than forty-four."

That’s what I thought too, Dr. Zorn. Just then the teenager stood, took several steps to the wall, tipped her head back, and squinted and craned at the large wall-mounted clock. I gotta get going to my job at the cafeteria, Dr. Zorn. I can talk tomorrow if you want.

The black woman cocked her head. Couldn’t you see the clock from here, Juanita?

The teenager nodded. Yeah, I could see the clock okay, Dr. Zorn, just not the hands or the numbers.

The black woman stepped over to her student. Yesterday’s test questions were on the overhead projector. Could you see the words?

"Some of the words were kinda sorta fuzzy, Dr. Zorn… like all of them."

So you just guessed?

Yeah, guess so.

Why didn’t you tell the TA you couldn’t see the questions?

"I didn’t think anybody could see them, Dr. Zorn."

You thought your vision was normal?

Yeah.

Have you ever been tested for nearsightedness, Juanita?

What’s that?

That you probably need glasses.

Uh-uh.

The black woman motioned the teenager back to her desk. She began typing on her laptop and continued speaking. I’m excusing you from your morning classes tomorrow, Juanita. Take this letter to Metro Vision at the mall for an eye exam. Then they’ll fit you for glasses.

I can’t afford glasses, Dr. Zorn.

I’ll take care of it. When you return, you can redo the test.

The slender black woman owned her own car—a twelve-year-old Geo; but since most of her students were limited to the city public transit, she generally hopped the bus herself. She changed shoes for the long hike across the LCP University campus from her office to the bus stop. After climbing aboard, the black woman chose a seat in the rear of the bus so she could reflect and pray during the five-mile trip to the city.

One of her students, Dennis Miller, suddenly dropped out of his prefreshmen studies. I’m sorry, Dr. Zorn, my dad made me. He said I had to get a job.

But, Dennis, the university gave you a job with the grounds keeping department so you could go to school.

"Dad said I had to get a real job. He’s trying to get me in the union, same one he’s in."

The black woman did not want Dennis Miller to drop out. She didn’t fear losing tuition money. There was no tuition money, not with prefreshmen students, only a few hundred dollars per quarter for expenses. She wasn’t concerned with slipping enrolment within her department. The LCP University prefreshmen studies had a waiting list. Dennis Miller’s seat could be filled tomorrow. The black woman was concerned because the nineteen-year-old high school graduate couldn’t read. He was dumber at math than a sixth-grader, and the boy was pretty sure that George Washington Carver was one of the presidents.

She was concerned because Dennis Miller was exactly like she was a hundred years ago, and that was a wholly egregious and untenable position. The fairies didn’t come out at night dropping sparklets of education on empty, but worthy, minds. It took desire, hard work, and persistence to augment a servant’s abilities before his master.

Paul the Apostle, a Christian, said he was debtor to both the Greeks and the Barbarians. Familiarity with the culture about oneself, and a curious mind competent to communicate truth on a myriad of levels, a servant of Christ is able to go into every man’s world with the vision of a missionary, a world missionary, a missionary like Paul.

Christianity is a servant’s realm, and when a zealous young saint like Dennis Miller can’t discipline himself to finish a book unless it has more pictures than words, or master the rudiments of coherent writing, learn to juggle numbers larger than one hundred, or bother to study the ebb and flow of human history for this vast world his master created, and his adversary corrupted, most dreadfully this young man will have capped his threshold for kingdom usefulness on the short side.

‘Study to shew thyself approved unto God’ is a command to study truth, and all truth is God’s truth. It’s an opportunity for the obedient servant to gain access, to take one more foothold and to ‘Go ye into all the world and preach the Gospel’ . . . to go into every man’s world and give to others what belongs to Christ, to give yourself.

The black woman really did not want Dennis Miller to drop out of school.

The best that could be said about the bus was that it beat walking. The five-mile jaunt took nearly forty-five minutes to reach town, picking up and discharging passengers every several blocks. She pulled the buzzer for the 2200 block of El Camino Real and stepped off. She crossed the street and walked around the corner to Dennis Miller’s house.

The Millers’ garage door was open; inside she saw a pair of snowmobiles and a pair of ATVs. There was also a Jet Ski and a Harley Davidson motorcycle. In the driveway was a twenty-two-foot Bayliner speedboat parked beside a vintage restored ’68 Camaro convertible. In the street by the curb, there was a blue, model-year Ford Mustang and a one-year-old Jeep situated behind it.

From the outside, the home itself looked pleasant—a twenty-five-year-old tract home, probably four bedrooms. Though the roof shingles curled a little and should have been replaced, and the house needed painting, the structure looked solid.

The black woman walked up the steps and pressed the doorbell, but when she didn’t hear it ring, she knocked three times on the house. When she shuffled a half step left to square herself with the screen door, the woman inadvertently brushed her knuckles across her navy-blue skirt—the knuckles she rapped the house with, leaving a streak of chalky, oxidized paint—yep, guess the place does need new paint. She scrambled for a hanky to clean her skirt and wipe her knuckles.

A moment later the door opened. The woman saw her student through the screen. She smiled and greeted him cheerfully. Hello, Dennis!

The student stammered for words. Uh, hi, Dr. Zorn… uh, uh… what do you want here?

The woman tugged on the screen, indicating that the first thing she wanted was inside, but the door was latched. I want to talk to you and your father about returning to school. May I come in?

The student backed away from the door. Uh… Dad’s pretty busy. I think you should let him call you.

I’ve been waiting three days for your father to call me, Dennis. It appears he misplaced my number.

The kid nervously shoved his hands in his back pocket. Dad’s pretty busy, Dr. Zorn. I’ll give him your number again.

The woman’s fingers were still on the handle, and she gave the screen another perfunctory tug. This is too important for you, Dennis, to put me off. She raised her voice slightly. Please, Dennis, I only want a few minutes with you and your father. The woman pulled on the locked screen again but kept her eyes riveted on the student. Please, Dennis, this is important.

The kid unlatched the screen.

The woman opened the door herself. She stepped into the foyer. Thank you, Dennis. Now please take me to your father.

Dad’s not gonna like this. He doesn’t want to get bothered. He’s busy.

I won’t take much of his time.

He led the woman through the living room, to the kitchen, and even before he opened the door leading to the basement, she could hear a cacophonous racket of terrifying music, men screaming, animal roars, and heavy artillery emitting from the Miller’s subterranean room. He opened the door, and the noise increased appreciably.

They descended the steps into a fully furnished basement with a pool table, pinball machine, foosball, and a six-seat home theater. That’s Dad over there. The kid pointed to a fat man in a stained T-shirt, plaid boxers, slouched in a theater recliner and nursing a sixteen-ounce Budweiser. The man stared slack jawed at the fifty-inch flat screen television as fighter jets and tanks fired upon a berserk, armor-plated brontosaurus.

The word slob came to the woman’s mind. A lot of other words came to her mind also. The volume was cranked so high she could feel her skin tingle.

The woman approached the man from the side and waited for him to acknowledge her presence. All he did was sip his beer; otherwise, he never took his eyes off the screen. Mr. Miller, she said, raising her voice above the maddening clamor. The man burped but was completely unaware of anyone around him.

Mr. Miller! The woman shouted this time. The man rustled a little, but only because the monster swatted an F-16 from the sky in a blaze of pyric splendor.

The woman maneuvered between the man and the screen. The change didn’t happen at once. It took a while, but the man finally emerged from his Hollywood fantasy oblivion. Once he was out, he was out, and it dawned on him that someone was looking right at him. It was a woman, a black woman, and he seemed unconcerned that he was clad only in T-shirt and boxers. The woman was concerned even less—she had some things to say.

The fat man hit the pause button on the remote, and since he was clearly too much of a gentleman to address a woman without a formal introduction, he craned his neck for his son. Hey, Dennis, who the hell is this Hershey bar?

The kid scrambled beside the black woman. Dr. Zorn, Dad. She’s from the school I been going to. I told you about her.

It was clear the fat man had no interest in whoever the visitor was. What the hell you give her to me for? I told you I’m busy. Don’t wanna see no one. The fat man sipped his beer and hit the Play button on the remote.

The black woman repositioned herself to block even more of his view—if he wanted a war of attrition, she could give it to him, just ask her husband. He tried to look around her. She’d move to his line of vision. They went back and forth, tit for tat, until he hit the Pause button again. What do ya want?

I want Dennis to return to school, Mr. Miller.

The fat man sipped his beer and then waved the woman off. Dennis got his high school diploma, that’s all I ask o’ him. He’ll make it along okay.

The black woman threw her hands on her hips. Mr. Miller, your son can’t read.

The fat man turned red in the face. The hell my boy can’t read. Dennis can read good as me.

The black woman found little comfort. "Mr. Miller, Dennis can read as