This was the temptation the devil paraded before Jesus those forty days and nights in the desert. Come to think of it, that Saturday night it was Desert Passion that played, and I regarded it as a joke between me and the Almighty, and also as a clear sign alerting me to what the trickster Jesus was up to. And as much as it was a joke and a sign, it was also a dare to resist lasciviousness. I imagined Black Jesus up in Heaven laughing like hell at his twisted sense of humor.
I watched the movie until the end when the half-naked women disappear into the hot, unforgiving desert, and I went upstairs to bed. I lay there staring at the dark, thinking of the trial given to me from on high. I closed my eyes and tried to fall asleep, but images of the women from the movies and thoughts of Alana passed through my head. What a cruel test, I thought as I wrenched down my pajama pants and gripped my erection. Fuck it, I whispered. I’ll fail.
What stopped me was the sounds of voices through the wall that separated my parents’ room from mine. They were awake. Briefly I imagined they had heard the creaking of my old bed — as I sometimes heard the creaking of theirs — and were debating whether to bust down my door and confront me, but even I could recognize the ridiculousness in that.
Their voices became heated and loud. Mostly it sounded like muffled tuba playing, but I understood snatches.
I heard the word stress. I thought my father said my name and then my sister’s name. The name of her school. I stopped breathing to concentrate. I felt the warmth of my shaft in my hand, but I didn’t let go. If anything, I held it tighter.
My father cursed. I sat up to hear more clearly.
Look, Robert, I can take Bobby and move back to the Southside if I need to. I don’t care. I’ve only been not-poor for a little while.
Like you can handle a boy like Bobby all on your own. Every minute a phone call from the teachers. Like you’re doing a good job getting him to do his schoolwork now.
That’s not fair, and this is not about Bobby—
He shouted over her, repeating the same thing he had just said. My mother too repeated her words.
Will you shut up, Robert? This is not about Bobby. You’re just trying to change the subject. Bobby’s not the reason—
You’re right, he’s not. You are.
You’re a drunk.
I haven’t been drunk in years. I don’t plan to ever be drunk again. I drank half a beer because the shop is stressing me and you’re stressing me and Bobby’s stressing me. And then I told you about it. I didn’t try to hide. I confessed like Rector Byron told me to. Didn’t he say I’d backslide, but that when I did, I had to tell you and tell Jesus? Well, here I am and this is what I get?
Let’s pray, Robert.
After that, I heard grumbling and then silence. I rested my head back on my pillow. I wanted to rush out and ask all that was swirling my head: Is it true? Was it just half a beer? Did you tell my mother and Jesus everything? Am I really to blame? Are you praying to White Jesus or Black Jesus and do you really think he’s up there making it all better?
That Sunday morning — the day of my confirmation — my mother and I went off to church and my sister met us there. My father stayed home, saying he wanted to spend the morning finishing the table and getting the house ready for the party that would follow the evening’s service.
God’ll understand, he said as my mother hurried me out the door.
It was the usual service. The rector told corny jokes during a generic sermon. I refused to raise my croaky voice in song, even as my mother glared. Having stayed up most of the night before, I dozed during the prayers and all the various still moments. When I dipped off, my sister kicked my ankle and my mother popped my cheek.
During the announcements, the rector asked all the confirmation candidates to assemble in the narthex at 6 p.m., no later. I was awake and alert. I even looked over at Alana and imagined we shared a moment. I’ll never forget the word narthex or sitting there paying close attention to the announcements, thinking I was having a mundane, forgettable time. One that wouldn’t define me and one I’d never think back to as I went on to live my life. The word narthex was just a strange word I somehow dimly knew the meaning of. How could I ever imagine that my future would turn on the precision in defining such an odd and beautiful and gothic little word?
My mother slammed the door of the gray Oldsmobile. I sat in the back and stared out the window for the short drive home, and my sister sat up front.
First my mother started in, Couldn’t you act like you care one Sunday in your life? It’s your confirmation Sunday.
I know, I replied.
And got the nerve to talk back, my mother said.
Bobby, why don’t you shut up and listen for once? my sister said. I was shocked by her rebuke.
You slept for the whole service, didn’t pay one bit of attention, my mother said. You are the one who has to account for your soul, not me.
My mother and sister took turns going back and forth. We stopped at a red light and I thought the car would never move. The sound of my mother and sister chattering against me became an impenetrable wall. They no longer used words; it sounded to me like the muffled noises I heard between the walls when my parents prayed. I said not another word, because I could barely understand what was happening.
He’s not paying you any attention, Mom, my sister said. I don’t even see the point of talking to him. He’s going to learn the hard way.
I don’t want your brother to learn like that, so I’m going to make him damn well straighten up. Bobby, listen. You awake?
My mother pulled into the carport at the side of our house. We all exited the Oldsmobile and approached the door. I felt worn and beaten.
I bet you don’t even know where you’re supposed to meet tonight, my sister said.
Of course I do.
I waited for my mother to put the key into the lock, but the three of us just stood at the door.
Where? my sister asked.
I paused. I felt no need to explain anything to anyone. After all, in a few hours I would officially be declared a man.
Where, Bobby? my sister asked again. Where are you and your girlfriend and everyone supposed to meet, Bobby?
I looked at the keys jangling in my mother’s hand. She stood, refusing to put them into the lock. I grasped for the word, but it perched itself far outside of my mouth, not even anywhere near the tip of my tongue. Since my mother and my sister waited, I hoped to satisfy them with an approximate answer.
In the place where we meet, I said.
My mother reared her free hand back and slapped it against my cheek. I stumbled and looked over at my sister, her eyes and lipstick-red mouth open in shock.
A man wouldn’t cry, but I was still a boy and the smack shook loose teardrops big as blowflies.
Don’t even have any clue where you’re supposed to assemble, she said. It’s the narthex, Bobby. The narthex. Not the place where we meet. The narthex. Now, shut up with all that damn crying.
I couldn’t shut up, though. My sister watched me with a sort of prideful smirk I had never seen on her. She also told me to shut up as my mother pushed the key in the lock and shoved open the door.