Jamaica, Queens — A young man recently found hanging in his bedroom has been identified as Edwin Stuckey, age twenty-two. Family members say the list of suspects is numerous and have sealed off the scene of the crime — the home — until further notice. The police have no comment.
The Crusading Home of Deliverance was located in a sprawling Victorian residence. It wouldn’t have been recognizable as a church were it not for the small cardboard sign and handmade cross posted in a none-too-clean bay window. I checked Detective Spurlock’s directions several times before rapping on the front door.
I’d tried to contact Janette after seeing the brief article about her brother in the competition, but she wasn’t taking my calls. So what was I doing? Seems I needed to know what happened to Edwin Stuckey after all.
“Are you here for evening service?” A smiling elderly woman dressed in white opened the door. I could see behind her into a drab parlor containing metal folding chairs, a podium, and what looked like a small organ.
“No, ma’am,” I said. “I’m here to see Reverend Pine.”
Did I have an appointment? she inquired, continuing to smile.
I admitted I didn’t but assured her it was important, that I was here about Edwin Stuckey.
“Edwin. Yes.” She bowed her head. “We are still mourning his loss, but happy for his deliverance.”
“Yes, well... Reverend Pine?”
I followed the woman into the room and took a seat in the back row. The room was large and half-filled, all its occupants black, conversing in hushed voices.
“Son?” A slim, natty man dressed in a three-piece suit charged toward me with his hand extended. “I’m the Reverend Pine, and I welcome you to our sanctuary.” He shook my hand with an intense vigor before adjusting his chunky glasses and straightening his tie. “We can speak briefly in my office. I’ve got service in an hour and I must prepare.” He cleared his throat. “You understand.”
I studied the hallway he led me down. On either side of the wall were photographs of the reverend with parishioners and community dignitaries. His office, lined with two bookcases of theological texts, contained more of the same.
Reverend Pine took a seat behind his desk. “You’re here for Edwin?”
“Yes, sir.” I shifted in my seat. “I’m a reporter for the—”
“Weekly Item. I know.” He smiled wryly.
I peered up at him sharply.
“I keep myself informed, son.” He laughed and adjusted himself in his seat. “See, my congregation is this here community, and we are all interested in Edwin’s well-being. We even trust that you are interested in his well-being.”
I was suddenly growing wary of this man and his glib talk of dead Edwin’s well-being.
“Look, I don’t know what kind of shop you’re running here—”
“There’s no need to be disrespectful.” Reverend Pine pinned me with his gaze. “What do you want to know? Edwin Stuckey saw a flyer for our church revival last summer, showed up at our doors, and we welcomed him.”
“So why does his family think he was murdered? Why did his sister give the names of members of your congregation to the police?”
Pine shrugged nonchalantly. “Why? You best ask Edwin’s sister, Janette, yourself. Before he came to us, Edwin had no friends. He had no interests. He had no hope. He was very depressed. We tried to comfort him.”
“He killed himself.”
“No, he didn’t.” Pine took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. “There’s a problem in our society, son, that I’m sure you’re familiar with. Loss of hope.”
I stared at the man, attentive despite myself.
“Let me be clear here.” He held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “I do not advocate suicide. I did not encourage Edwin Stuckey to kill himself. I pray for his soul every day. But Edwin and his family are the reason I do what I do: People do lose hope and not all of them regain it. And not all of them can accept when hopelessness claims one of their own.”
“Look, Reverend Pine, that’s a nice sermon and all, but I’m just here for the facts,” I said.
He opened his arms. “Sadly, those are they.”
To my everlasting surprise, I sat through all three hours of Reverend Pine’s service. It was motivating, it was uplifting, it was hopeful. The tears, the tambourines, the shouting. Most importantly, though, it did not compel me to commit suicide. It made me want to get on with my life.
When the door of Deliverance closed behind me and I stepped onto the cracked sidewalk beyond its front stairway, I decided to phone Janette one final time. I watched a group of middle school girls skip double-dutch further down the street. The clothesline they were using for a jump rope slapped the pavement fiercely and their chants rippled down the block: “All, all, all in together, any kind of weather...”
The father answered, said Janette was out. “Mr. Stuckey, this is Douglass, the reporter,” I began.
“Yes?” His voice rose to an expectant pitch. “Any progress?”
“See the teacher looking out the window. Dong, dong, the fire-bell...” The girls picked up their volume, feet racing the rope.
On the line I let out a sigh, and I heard Mr. Stuckey deflating in the silence. “Unfortunately, sir, I am no longer able to pursue this story.” Across the street, a dude carrying a basketball under one arm shouted after a car rolling past on a wave of bass line.
“That boy who did that to himself was not my son, he was someone else. Somebody did something, or said something that—” Stuckey cleared his throat. “Someone should be held responsible.”
I hesitated, then snapped my phone shut.
“How many ringers can you take? One, two, three, four...” The girls ticked off their chant behind me.
About the contributors
Jillian Abbott's short stories have won awards in the United States and Australia. She is a reporter at the Queens Chronicle and her writing has appeared in the Washington Post, the New York Daily News, the Writer Magazine, and many other publications. She’s currently at work on a new mystery series as well as her second Morgan Blake thriller. She lives in Queens.
Megan Abbott is the Edgar Award — nominated author of Queenpin, The Song Is You, and Die a Little, as well as the nonfiction study, The Street Was Mine: White Masculinity in Hardboiled Fiction and Film Noir. She lives in Forest Hills, Queens.
Shailly Agnihotri was born in India, grew up in Baton Rouge, and now lives in New York City. She is a filmmaker and recently completed a documentary entitled Three Soldiers. Her other projects include a feature film, Sangrita (in pre-production), and a novel, East River. She likes to consult Vedic astrologers, buy silver jewelry, and eat spicy chat in Jackson Heights.
Mary Byrne was born in Ireland and now divides her time between teaching, translating, and writing. She collaborated with Lawrence Durrell on his final book of essays, and her short fiction has been published in Ireland, England, France, Canada, and the United States. Byrne won the 1986 Hennessy Literary Award and currently lives in France.