Gift of Revelation (2 page)

It was a gray day, overcast with dark clouds, but it was not supposed to rain. And it didn't. Church officials had changed the location of Monsignor Ryan's funeral service from the small church in Staten Island to a much larger one on the East Side of Manhattan, accommodating a much greater number of mourners than the tiny venue out on the outskirts of the city.

Hundreds of people had lined up to see the black hearse carrying the body, some holding flowers and signs of tribute, others shouting their grief at the coffin as it was driven to the mammoth church. Some waved good-bye; others wept. At Monsignor Ryan's church in Staten Island the previous night, there had been a steady line of the faithful who had come to see the body, which had been decked out in the full regalia of a monsignor in good standing. Television segments had shown a group of volunteers, nuns, priests, and other church representatives standing guard, along with a small platoon of cops. Nobody had acted unruly, and the event had gone on without a hitch.

Although I had frequented a number of the city's Catholic cathedrals, I'd never been to St. Jean Baptiste Roman Catholic Church, located a few blocks from Lenox Hill Hospital. It was written about in the newspapers and featured on television. Ornate and imposing, the cathedral was constructed in the shape of a cross, with a huge dome and rows upon rows of pews for worshippers. I stared at the grand organ overhead and marveled at the collection of intricate stained-glass windows, each and every one depicting the Blessed Lord, the Virgin Mary, or scenes from the scriptures.

It was a high honor for the fallen monsignor Ryan to have his funeral mass conducted by the Vatican's assistant secretary of state, Cardinal Enrico Rossi. I sat in the section where the ministers of other faiths were located, between a representative of the Greek Orthodox Church and someone who was a holy man of the Rasta religion, his dreads flowing down onto a bright red outfit.

“Monsignor Ryan welcomed every human being into the spiritual fold, saw the soul of God in every downtrodden man and woman,” Cardinal Rossi said. “He saw the possibility of redemption and salvation in every human being. He felt that when divine love had accomplished its mission, this was a reflection of the divine order. Our Lord came into this world to redeem it. Our Lord welcomed death. Most of us who are born see death as a departure, an interruption, an end. Our Lord saw death as His crowning glory, as a passage to the final reunion, as the destination of redemption.”

As I looked around while Cardinal Rossi spoke, I noticed three rows of mourners dressed in colorful African robes; nuns in white saris with the distinctive blue outline of the Missionaries of Charity, of the Mother Teresa variety; a row of men in business suits; and a row of Buddhist monks in their customary orange robes.

“Monsignor Ryan understood the commandments of our Blessed Lord,” the Cardinal continued. “He reached out over the city to the villages, to the burgs, stretching forth his hands, saying, ‘For whosoever shall do the will of my Father, which is in heaven, the same is my brother, my sister, and mother.' Our brother understood there are greater bonds than just those of flesh and blood, namely, the sacred spiritual ties that band together the faithful of the Kingdom.”

Some of those in attendance felt uneasy about sitting with such a motley group of unbelievers, but they made a pretense of being comfortable. A nun pointed out the “unfortunates” who were present: three young thugs redeemed from prison; a blind woman; two orphans; a young hooker ravaged by AIDS, who was being assisted by friends; and a disfigured veteran soldier from the Iraqi conflict, who was missing both legs.

Holding his arms aloft, the cardinal adjusted his notes and moved through his eulogy. “Our Blessed Lord completed His work. Monsignor Ryan has completed his work, but all of us have not completed ours. We are not finished. Like our Blessed Lord, Monsignor Ryan gave an example for us to follow, to take up the cross with the purest of hearts and souls and move through this life. He has completed his quest in his physical body, has finished his journey. Like our Blessed Lord, the monsignor has completed sowing the seed, and now we the faithful are preparing for the harvest.”

Someone said a loud amen. That was unusual for a solemn Catholic service like this one. Silence was the rule for such services.

“The monsignor knew he had to walk beside the faithful until it was finished,” Cardinal Rossi intoned. “He had to stay at the altar until it was complete. Like all of us, he stayed with the cross until his life came to a close. I know he offered himself to our Blessed Lord, praying unceasingly, worshipping faithfully, knowing that when his life had run its course, he would be in the divine embrace. So death is not the end. So death is not the conclusion. If you seek the salvation and redemption of God, like the monsignor, death allows you to soar into the sweetness of life with our Blessed Father. The way Monsignor Ryan lived in this life determined the way he will spend eternity.”

As the local and national politicians who were present leaned forward to hear him talk from the soul, the cardinal moved from behind the podium. He kept his voice low, mellow, and full of bass tones.

“Monsignor Ryan realized he had to go back to his Father's house and the blessedness of heaven,” said the fat, squat man in the flowing red robes. “He realized the truth in, and the value of, the sacraments. He realized the integrity of the Last Word and the Last Gospel from the apostles, which says that the Father molds the history and rhythms of the life of a man and a woman. He realized we all must go back to the beginning of all beginnings.”

The cardinal coughed and wiped his face. “Monsignor Ryan understood the moment of consecration,” he noted. “He knew the significance of the blood and the body, as well as the importance of the Calvary and the Crucifixion. He knew the duty and responsibility of the faithful, living up to the sacred call of our Blessed Lord. ‘This is my body. This is my blood.' He knew that we, as the faithful, are called to suffer with Christ so that we can reign with Him.”

He let out a soft sob. “Monsignor Ryan was a great example to the faithful. He redeemed himself in union with our Blessed Lord. He applied His merits to his soul by being like Him in all things. Thank you, Monsignor Ryan. Bless you as you go through the gates of paradise. Rest in peace.”

Pulling me aside, one of the church staff whispered to me that the body of the monsignor had been shipped back from Sudan minus his hands and his tongue. One of the militias dumped the corpse, like a sack of rotten potatoes, near one of the refugee camps. Aid workers discovered the body and arranged to ship it back to America.No one in the congregation knew this fact, and I was warned not to tell anyone.

Some people left before the funeral service ended. I was one of them, as it dragged on and on. I had paid my respects and had grown tired of all the dignitaries, both religious and political, getting their chance at the mike. Some of these folks hadn't given Monsignor Ryan the time of day. A few of them had ignored his requests for help with the parish when it was in dire straits.

As I made my way toward the doors, I came to a stop before a large statue of the martyred Christ, His tormented head encircled by a crown of thorns, His outstretched hands marred by the nails driven into His palms on the cross. I was struck by how lifelike the figure was, down to the splatters of blood on His twisted legs.

Suddenly, I felt a tug on my sleeve. I turned, somewhat startled by the interruption. I had been so deep in thought, imagining what agony the Lord must have felt when the Roman soldiers pounded the metal spikes into the tender flesh of His palms.

“Well, the church gave Ryan a good send-off, don't you think?” said a balding white man with a slight humpback.

“He deserved it and more,” I replied.

“My name is Dr. Bentley Gomes, and I know who you are,” he said gruffly. “Ryan talked about you all the time. He thought a lot of you.”

“That's good of him,” I said. “He was a good man. Where did you know him from?”

As we talked, we walked through the church, then pushed our way through the crowd gathered at the doors. He shook a few hands on our way out. I was curious, as everybody seemed to know him.

“I knew him from his work in Africa, from Rwanda to Darfur to the Congo,” he said as we started down the steps. “There is an abundance of wicked deeds being done in Africa. Ryan was determined to bring people there consolation and salvation, but the wretched continent has its share of scoundrels, maniacs, and killers with a permanent grudge against the church and those who do good.”

“Maybe that's where he was when he dropped out of sight,” I said.

“Ryan was moving around all over the place,” Gomes said. “We had many talks about why the faith community in America should get involved in Africa, which he called ‘a mission of purity and integrity, despite all the challenges or obstacles.' He was truly a servant of good.”

“That sounds like him.” I chuckled.

“How well did you know him?”

We reached the street and looked for a cab in the rushing traffic. A homeless woman, smelling very foul, stuck out her soiled hand for money. Gomes ignored her. I took a wad of bills out of my pants pocket and peeled off a couple of dollars. I stretched out my hand, and she took the money. Without thanking me, the woman drifted off and walked up to another person, holding out her hand.

“I hate beggars and the like,” Gomes said, waving his hand. “This town used to be classy without all these people underfoot. Everybody's always got their hand out, asking for something for nothing.”

I frowned. “These are hard times. Everybody's out of work.”

Gomes put his hand on my shoulder and looked me dead in the eye. “This is America. If somebody wants to find a job, they can find a job. It's not like some underprivileged country, like many of the countries in Africa, where there are no opportunities. What I liked about Ryan is that he never felt sorry for these people or catered to their weaknesses or flaws.”

“The monsignor had a big heart,” I replied, ignoring the obvious slur. “He was very tolerant and nonjudgmental. He looked on everybody as all God's creatures. That's why he preached the Gospel to the poor and the oppressed. He practiced what he preached.”

The white man grinned. “I forgot you're a man of faith like him.”

“And what does that mean?” I asked.

“You know, Christian evangelism, the conversion of sinners, and the theology of the Burning Hearts. Like Ryan, I guess you're a spiritual warrior who was chosen to save the pagans and barbarians with the Holy Word from myth and magic. Isn't that correct?”

It was my turn to grin. “You sound like a lame Jimmy Kimmel. There's a saying known to the Salvation Army, ‘We are saved to serve.' I feel that is why I was baptized into the work of the Lord. To serve.”

“Don't get all serious on me,” Gomes said. “Ryan was like that too. All I had to do was mention the Gospel and he got defensive on me.”

He reached into his pocket and produced a card with all his contact information. I looked at it. A second later a cab pulled up, and he ran to it, shouting that there would be a gathering at his place on Beekman Place next Friday and I should be there. After he climbed in the backseat, I watched the cab veer into the flow of traffic and disappear.

Lying on the sofa in the living room of my apartment the following Thursday, with a bottle of chilled Coke in her hand, Addie was more talkative than usual. She was settling in just fine. While I didn't talk much as I unloaded groceries on the kitchen table and thought about the monsignor's funeral mass, she held court, saying she was afraid to be shut up in a closed space, afraid of the time just before the dawn broke, afraid of caterpillars and snails, afraid of losing her temper, afraid of failing, and afraid of death.

“I think everybody's afraid of death,” I replied, stacking the cans. “If I meet someone who says that he's not, I think he's lying, unless he's crazy. I think every person has fears and phobias, but some people let them cripple them.”

“I used to live in fear,” she said, shaking up the bottle and letting the soda fizz to the top. “I was very scared of my late husband. He could get violent at the drop of a hat. You never knew what would set him off.”

“You said he hit you, right?” I sometimes wondered if she would ever get over her failed marriage. But I couldn't talk. We were both struggling with the ghosts of our pasts.

She allowed the soda bubbles to overflow and spill down the bottle. “Often after a hard shift at the rig, he'd blow his top. He'd take me out so the men could see me, and then he'd snipe at me all the way through dinner. He could be very mean and cruel. He could be very sarcastic and defensive if I said something that got beneath his skin.”

“Did he ever say he was sorry, Addie?”

“Yes, he did.” She smiled shyly, putting her thumb into the bottle.

I moved around the kitchen, carrying a bunch of cans and stacking them in the cabinet. Her expression let me know that there hadn't always been pain and torment in that relationship. Probably the making-up process, when he held her in his arms, had been delightful.

Her breathing changed, and her eyes went wide. “It was always about his life and what he wanted to do. Never about mine. His was a love that kept you from doing something you wanted to try. It held you in place. I was afraid to take risks. I was scared to make a change in my actions and thinking. He was poison to me.”

I found a seat in the living room and sat staring at her. “If he had not been killed in the accident, do you think you would have left?”

“No. I was too much in love with him.”

“What did you feel when they said he was dead?” I knew what she was going to say before she said it.

“I was glad he was dead,” she said without the usual Southern accent in her voice. “I stopped worrying if he was finally going to love me. I knew I couldn't save him from himself. Heck, I was worried about saving myself.”

My Christian heritage prevented me from wrapping her in my arms and consoling her. I was a minister, and I was a man. It was so hard to act like a heathen, to do what the world expected of black men, knowing that if I believed in the scriptures and then did the opposite, I would be deliberately choosing the wrong path.

“He set me back big-time,” she said, wiping a tear or two away. “He thought I was a loser. I knew I was not. Also, I realized that those who start behind usually stay behind, and I was not going to have that.”

“Why didn't you just leave?”

“I don't know. I don't know.” Her hands covered her face.

“Do you think all men are like he was?” I asked her.

She dodged the issue and kept saying that pride and confidence were the bedrock of self-development and accomplishment. Her stare remained on the soda pop bottle. I wondered how long we were going to walk down torturous memory lane.

“I needed his lies,” she said in a fog, her look out of focus. “I needed them to keep going. I had an odd sense of loyalty to him. I never stepped out on him.”

“Did he cheat on you?” I saw her wince from the question.

Pausing before answering, she started pushing the bottle between her hands. Then she looked up and said, “Now and then . . . yeah, now and then.”

Her words formed images in my mind that I found distasteful, lusty, and sinful when she described the sexual heat between them when they had a series of fights. They'd come together at night, and they'd fight and fuss during the day. The battles became so bad that they took to sleeping in separate rooms, and so he started staying out late, getting drunk. He'd come home with lipstick on his underwear, smelling of some rank female.

Her long, tapered fingers went over her watery eyes. “He kept calling, calling, calling, calling me on that last day of his life. Said he wanted us to be on good terms, said he wanted us to make up, to put our marriage back together. He said he'd be good.”

“Addie, do you regret not taking him up on his offer?”

“No.” She took a sip from the bottle.

“Why not?”

“Love can be very sweet, but it's too difficult and painful,” she mused. “This I do know. I don't want to mess up my personal life. I can't keep starting over. Emotions can get in the way. I don't want to overthink my life.”

I cleared my throat. “All I want to know is, where do I stand?”

Arriving here in Harlem meant she'd earned her moment of grace. No longer would she have to be trampled underfoot by horny farmhands and oil-rig workers, and new doors were opening. She didn't want to miss those opportunities.

“I think we both need some time,” she replied.

“Addie, I don't think you can speak for both of us,” I said, my voice strong and quiet. I knew I needed her. I'd needed her for a long time, because I was tired of suffering with dignity. No man was above the laws of nature. We all needed to have love and affection in our lives, although there were many of us who prided ourselves on our self-control and self-discipline. To be truthful, life was passing us by.

“Bet you'll drop me like a hot potato for one of those slick, sophisticated city gals,” she said, pulling her head back. “I'll always appreciate that you let me escape with you from down there. Still, you'll want one of those city gals, fashionably skinny, all bones. What do they call it? Anorexic?”

“That's what they call it,” I said, grinning.

She sighed dramatically. “Besides, I don't know what love looks like or feels like anymore. Why don't we take it slow?”

“Okay. You're calling the shots.”

Addie stood up, shaking off the last round of our dialogue, and began talking about her new girlfriend from the hair salon. Her description of Jewel, the buxom hairdresser, was really wild. She could really read people, especially women and city dwellers.

“My friend is pretty aggressive and loud.” She chuckled. “She likes to yell and scream in order to get things done. She thinks she's really sexy . . . a bombshell. I don't like how she tears people down to make herself look good. Everybody knows how insulting she can be.”

“How can you be pals with somebody like that?”

“It's all right,” she replied. “When I want to make a point, I interrupt her and talk over her. She doesn't like it one bit. She tells me I'm snooty and competitive, but all she wants is to control me.”

“Now, what does she do again?” My question permitted me to catch my breath. She didn't seem like the kind of woman Addie would befriend.

After she told me about their tour of Sugar Hill and the site of the Audubon Ballroom, where Malcolm X was gunned down, she further explained the mystique of the enigmatic hairdresser.

“Jewel's what they call ‘a beauty professional.' She knows heaps about cosmetics, make-up, and stuff like blush,” she said. “She is an expert on rouge, wrinkle creams, and stuff to conceal dark circles under the eyes.”

“My aunt used to be a hairdresser. Did women in her living room,” I remarked. “I remember the smell of burnt hair and the shrieks when she scorched their ears with the hot comb. Boy, those ladies could gossip.”

I really didn't know Addie. I liked her. Still, I wondered if she was calculating and ruthless, like some of the women I'd met in the city, or if maybe she was just putting on an act. Good, straightforward country gal. This mask suited her just fine.

“How is your Harlem tour going, Addie?”

She didn't respond at first. “I found out Harlem is controlled by outside forces. Very little of it is black-owned anymore. And the neighborhood is changing from the place I read about to something else. Jewel had a lot to say about that. It's more white than I thought it was.”

“A lot of the black neighborhoods are changing like that . . . becoming gentrified, with more whites coming in.”

At least Addie and I talked about everything and nothing. I liked that. Sometimes Terry had been silent for days, weeks. It had been unnerving. Showing that she didn't miss a trick, Addie asked me about all the packs of chewing gum around the apartment. She was like a detective from one of those film noirs, a bronze Dick Tracy.

“Do you have a thing with your mouth?” she quizzed me. “I think they call it an oral fixation. I bet you used to smoke.”

I cleared my throat. “You guessed it. I did smoke, for a long time. I loved to smoke after meals or after church, just to unwind. Smoking got me through some tough times. I couldn't relax without it, without a cigarette.”

“My husband smoked reefers. Said it put his mind at ease,” she said.

“None of that for me. I've got enough problems without that.”

“Clint, when did you quit smoking cigarettes? I never see you smoke, unless you're doing it on the sly.”

“I quit for good after my wife killed herself. I figured it wasn't doing me any good. I still crave it sometimes.”

She laughed wickedly. “I never smoked. One doctor I saw on the television said there is a link between thumb sucking and smoking cigarettes. I bet he's right.”

“I wouldn't know about that,” I said quietly.

She breathed deeply, keeping some distance between us. It was almost as if she thought I could contaminate her just by touching her.

I looked puzzled. “Thanks for being in my life. You've given me a ray of hope for normalcy. I'll be a human being again. I won't forget it.”

She walked into the kitchen and got another bottle of Coke from the icebox. Soda pop was her weakness. “I won't let you forget it.”

“By the way, we're going to dinner tomorrow night,” I said. “I think you'll like it. These are folks you'll really enjoy. Are you free tomorrow night?”

She closed her eyes, relishing the fact that she was here, in New York City. These were the things—the incredible events, the memorable situations—that made this place so attractive and interesting. A nod of her pretty head told me all that I wanted to know. It would be an evening that would change our lives forever.