And god grinned

First Adventist Church of Washougal

Everett was crammed -- like all the other POWs (Prisoners of Worship) -- into a crowded pew, cringing like a fresh-kicked dog as the sixty-member Walla Walla College Choir blared out what the church bulletin called "a rousing medley of Authentic Negro Spirituals." It must have been ninety degrees inside the church. Everett couldn't figure out how the choir was still standing. Must be their faith, he reasoned after a while, since it was primarily the brain that needed oxygen to function, and faith, as he saw it, was a kind of scripture-breathing brain-eating termite you turned loose in your head on the day you were baptized, causing your need for oxygen to steadily decrease. Loosening his tie when Mama wasn't looking, sighing three sighs to get one sigh's worth of air, Everett wished for the millionth time that he had Peter's constitution. But not (at least today) for its baseball ability. What he envied this day was its squeamishness -- because when Pete had stood for the opening hymn he'd fainted on the spot, so he was now outside in the shade, basking in the oxygen-rich zephyrs. Most of the POWs looked as alert and slap-happy as the choir, though. Four-part "Authentic Negro" harmony was an unheard-of commodity in these parts. The choir was singing,

Keep so busy praisin' my Jee-suss, keep so busy praisin' my Jee-suss,

Keep so busy praisin' my Jee-suss, ain' got time to die!

That's what you think, Everett thought.

But he saw tears of joy threading down Irwin's cheeks; saw Bet's flesh covered with goose bumps despite the heat; saw Mama's stone-stolid face lit up like neon by the glory, saw behatted POW heads and shiny-shoed feet bobbing and tapping all over the place. Even Elder Babcock had busted out one of his Antediluvian Patriarch Grins and started tapping a big wing-tip against his throne chair -- out of time to the beat, of course.

Mmmm, I praise Him in the mornin', mmmm, I praise Him in the evenin',

Mmmm, I praise Him in the mornin', ain't got time to die!

There was actually one "Authentic Negro" in the white-robed white-faced Walla Walla choir -- an even greater rarity in this town than four-part harmonies. He was a short, overweight kid with a face almost as black, shiny and pocked as Babcock's wing tips. His wire-rimmed glasses gave him a scholarly look, and one front tooth, made of something silver, made Everett wish he had one every time it flashed. But the kid's face had been serious to start with, and when the choir eased into "Old Black Joe" it grew downright morose. Everett felt miserable for him. How must he feel -- standing up there crooning crapped-out songs about whip-scarred plantation chattel to a big White-God-worshipping flock of crackers?

I's a-comin', I's a comin', dough my head is bendin' low,

I can hear dem faifful voices callin' Old Black Joe ...

bleah. The absurdity of it was too great, the oxygen too scarce, the sky outside too blue: Everett's mind began to drift, he started to compose his own little medley:

Stephen Foster wrote dis song, doo-dah, doo-dah,

An' he was white as de day is long, Oh, doo-hah day ...

He shut his eyes, smiled, realized no one could hear him over the choir, and started to croon it aloud.

He nevah ran no nights, he nevah ran no days,

He nevah put no money on no bobtail nag,

No doo-dah way ...

Then Everett did Stephen Foster one better; he turned himself black; he became the sad, silver-toothed Walla Walla Negro kid. But once he became him he saw no reason not to stretch himself out, to make himself taller, thinner, stronger, better-looking, till he was no longer some Token Black Tenor surrounded by cross-licking hicks. He was the glint-toothed leader of his own scarlet-robed eighty-member all-black choir now, with a (why not?) twenty-piece blues band backing them, and a (what the heck?) dumpy Token White fat boy back in the percussion section -- a dead ringer for Babcock in his youth -- playing a ... let's see, a triangle. Yeah. Everett shut his eyes, gave his audience a solemn nod, and informed them in the mellifluous, almost Elizabethan English he'd learned as a lad in Trinidad that they were about to perform a contemporary spiritual, with eight-part harmonies -- a song composed, of course, by the dashing young E.M. Chance himself.

He turned to his choir. The young Camas ladies, in unison, lifted their church bulletins to fan their lust-flushed faces. He raised his baton, and --

arrrrgh! The Walla Walla Warblers charged like rebels at Gettysburg into "When Dem Saints Go Marchin' In." Everett shuddered, scrinched his eyes and brain shut, focused on the rows of beautiful black faces in his mind, delicately raised an eyebrow, dropped it, and in a soul-stirring, hair-raising a cappella, the Big Black Plus One Cracker Choir thundered:

Dem heads are gonna roll when Jesus comes!

The POWs froze. The elders paled. The infants all smiled. The Lord God grinned.

Yes dem heads are gonna roll when Jesus comes!

Y'all gonna be sad you called us nigger

'Bout time He pulls dat heavenly trigger!

Yes, dem heads are gonna roll when Jesus comes!

E.M. gave the elders a little eye juju, sent a black fist skyward, yanked it back down, and his twenty-piece blues band crashed in behind the choir:

Well you fat cats are goin' to court when Jesus comes!

Yeah, you fat cats are goin' to court when Jesus comes!

Dere won't be no trick tax exemption,

You either gonna burn or get redemption!

Yeah! you fat cats are goin' to court when Jesus comes ...

Back in the stifling gray banality called "reality" the Walla Walla saints were marching out, and when Irwin and a few other kids started to cheer for them, Elder Babcock and all the other old war-horses who'd figured out that God hates gratitude quickly squelched it with massive scowls. But Everett didn't know it. His eyes were shut so tight his lips were drawn up like a mummy's; he was covered with goose bumps, shining with sweat. Bet nudged Freddy, Freddy nudged Irwin, and Irwin nudged Everett and whispered, "Jeez! Looks like you liked the music!" But Everett didn't hear that either: he just nipped an eyebrow -- raising his Blacks Plus Cracker Choir one step higher -- and beamed beatifically as they roared:

Well we ain' goana be in yo' shoes when Jesus comes!

(when Jesus comes!)

No we ain' goana be in yo' shoes when Jesus comes!

(when Jesus comes!)

(Take it Ella): No I ain' goana be in yo' shoes

All o' you twisters o' God's Good News

(Billie Holiday): An' I ain' goana be in your sandals,

You gossipin' biddies and lovers of scandals!

(Ms. Chuck Berry): Or your shitkickin' redneck boots

When Gabriel's horn goes a rooty-toot-toot!

(the Walla Walla kid): 'Cause I'll be singin' an' clappin' my hands

In my cheap loafers from Thom McAn's!

(Ever'body): No we ain' goana be in your shoes when Jesus comes!

(When Jesus cuh-huh-hummmmmms!)

"What's he doing?" Bet whispered.

"He's all sweaty!" said Freddy.

"An' he's getting so jumpy!" Bet added.

"Uh-oh," Irwin whispered sideways to Everett. "Mama's watchin'." But Everett was gone. "Last verse!" He told his choir. "Jump it, tromp it, whomp it!"

Yes dem heads are gonna roll when Jesus comes!

It be the Lord God's turn to bawl when Jesus comes!

You smart folks better clear de aisles

'Cause dere gonna be sinners heaped in piles!

An' you may think we's whistlin' Dixie

But the King o' the Kings, He ain't no pixie!

Dere won't be no trick tax exemption,

You either gonna burn or get redemption!

AN" DEM HEADS ARE GONNA RO-HO-HOLLLLLLLLLLLL

"Everett!"

WHEN JESUS --

"Everett!"

"Huh? Oh. Yes, Mama."

"You tighten that tie!"

"Oops. Sorry, Mama."

"Quit Fidgeting!"

"Okay, Mama."

"And get that look off your face!"

"Sorry, Mama."