Taking Care of Moses Read Free

himself.

3
    T hat Sunday Randall sat between his mother and father in the middle of the third row on the right side of the Rock of Ages Baptist Church. He had been coming to this church for eleven years, his whole life, and had never sat anywhere else. One time Jaybird tried to get him to sit with the Gilleys in the sixth row on the left side, but Randall said no.
    Randall was glad the Gilleys had decided to join the Rock of Ages Baptist Church. Mrs. Gilley had needed a church that she and Jaybird and Althea could walk to, since she didn’t drive and Mr. Gilley wasn’t much of a churchgoer. But then she found out that none of the other black folks on Woodmont Street went there. In fact, no other black folks went there at all.
    â€œI don’t know, Iris,” Mrs. Gilley had said to Randall’s mother. “Maybe we should go on over to Southside Baptist where my sister goes.”

    â€œWell, that’s just plumb crazy, Lottie,” Mrs. Mackey had said. “That church is clear over in Duncan Springs. How are y’all gonna get there? Besides, the Rock of Ages Baptist Church prides itself on being ‘the little church with the big heart,’” Mrs. Mackey had told her, quoting the sign on the wall behind the organ. “Your family is welcome in our church.”
    So now every Sunday Mrs. Gilley and Jaybird and Althea sat in the sixth row on the left side of the tiny brick church on Cold Creek Road.
    While the offering plate was passed around, Randall glanced back at the Gilleys. Jaybird looked stiff and miserable in his brown suit and green tie, but Althea looked happy as anything. Her braids stuck up every which way and wiggled as she bobbed her head in time to the music. Her fingers played an invisible organ on the back of the pew in front of her.
    When Mr. Avery started snoring, Althea clamped her hands over her mouth and glanced gleefully around her to see if anyone else had noticed. If they had, they didn’t let on. Most everyone figured Mr. Avery needed some rest after cleaning the insurance agency and taking care of Queenie every day.
    â€œBROTHERS and SISTERS,” Preacher Ron shouted, making Randall jump. “I speak to you now of BROTHERLY LOVE.” Preacher Ron said the last two words slow and loud, then paused for a long time. The room
was quiet except for the soft rustle of paper as folks fanned themselves with their church bulletins.
    Randall doodled in a small spiral notebook in his lap. He didn’t really listen to Preacher Ron’s sermon, but every now and then one of those loud words would bust through and interrupt his doodling. SALVATION. DESPAIR. GLORY. INFANT.
    Infant? Randall looked up. Preacher Ron was sweating. He loosened his tie and leaned over the pulpit. “Somewhere in our little town of Foley, South Carolina, lives a troubled soul,” he said.
    Randall’s mother nodded. “That’s right,” she said softly.
    â€œSomewhere in our little town of Foley, South Carolina,” Preacher Ron went on, “lives a troubled soul in NEED of a flock.”
    Mrs. Mackey nodded bigger. “That’s right,” she said again.
    â€œAnd WE are that flock.” Preacher Ron banged on the pulpit.
    Someone in the back of the church hollered out, “Amen!”
    Randall’s stomach flipped and flopped while Preacher Ron told the congregation all about the baby in the cardboard box. How the box had been left on the steps of the church. How that was surely a sign that the flock of brothers and sisters of the church must embrace the
baby and seek out the troubled soul who had given the baby to them.
    Folks called out “Yes, brother,” and “Praise be,” but Randall sat still and quiet. He watched his mother’s hands, folded in her lap. Her fingers were short and plump, white and freckled. Then Randall looked down at his father’s feet, planted firmly on the dusty wooden floor. His black shoes were