Borough of Churches #3

A 'Brooklyn Zoo' Story

Sunday Service

Sunday Worship Service

Women wearing their "Sunday best", crowned with flamboyant hats engage in chit-chat while waiting for the Downtown B65. A mother drags reluctant children down the block to a storefront church. Stopped by a red light, a black Cadillac blares Gospel music as its driver belts out the lyrics, flawlessly hitting every note and key. Faithful members pack into a tiny brownstone church cozied between a Chinese restaurant and hair salon on Utica off of St. Marks. A disgruntled father determined to catch the remainder of the game shoves his sons through massive doors into a breath-taking sanctuary of pastels and gold molding. Ushers direct them and other members down large isles to available seats. Posted in a corner, the praise and worship team pray. Congregants talk amongst themselves while others read the Bible and pray with their neighbor. A heavy-set pianist makes his way to an old, rusted stool behind a 1969 Mahogany Model B Grand Piano. Gracefully, he tickles the keys. "In Jesus' name!" the praise and worship team declare, ending their prayer. Stepped onto the altar, team members adjust mic stands and take swigs of room temperature water. In response, the congregation rises to their feet. Playful children silenced with a "single look" hurry to their fathers' side. Teenagers remain seated but are "pulled up" by mothers demanding that they stand in the presence of Almighty God. The pianist's melody swells. Whispered prayers embolden to boisterous cries. With lifted hands, congregants worship. Tears flow. A slight-sized man, stylized by a 70's afro steps forward, grabbing the mic. He starts to hum. A hush falls throughout the building, as a palatable peace fills the sanctuary. People speaking in unknown languages lay prostrate in isles, while others kneel at the altar. Women laid out in the isles and at the altar wearing skirts and dresses are covered with green and white garments by ushers.

Sunday Dinner

Off-white curtains etched with colorful embroidery roll and wave under a gentle breeze. Salsa music plays loudly on an Amazon Echo. Rosie enters the kitchen, tying a pink and red checkered apron around her waist. Her house shoes scrap against ceramic titles. Tip-toeing up behind her, Edgar grasps Rosie's hips. Familiar with his touch, she falls into his embrace. Twirling around, Rosie wraps her arms under Edgar's pulling him close; bantering eyes dilate. Cheeks blush. Pressures elevate. The couple laugh and giggle. Natural sleuths, Edgar and Rosie's children sneak to the edge of the kitchen from the living room to eavesdrop. Careful not to blow their cover, the children quietly laugh and josh in view of their parents' love. Even the oldest, Peter, participates.

Twilight paints the Hernandez's home with brilliant warm hues of the rainbow. The youngest, Emily, colors in front of bay windows, underneath the vivid mobile of a fading sunset. "Look papi!" with a toothless smile, displaying her work of art: a great man wearing a purple cape looking out at the City; his hands balled into fists.

"What did you draw, baby?" Edgar inches closer for a better look. His face wrinkled with bewilderment and concern.

"Let me see that. 'Those patterns on that cape look like the same designs on the man's prayer shawl who was speaking with Pastor Gomez after service wore a shawl with the same patterns!'"

"Honey, who is that? And what's your character wearing?"

"It's the big, big man that I keep dreaming about—he can fly too, papi! He's wearing the thing that you wear when you and mami pray...

"What do you mean papi, 'How did I know to draw this man?'"

Emily pries open her eyes. "Yes, he was there! I saw him with mi ojos, daddy!" Emily picks up another drawing, this one of a Pegasus. Pretending to fly off to a magical land on the winged creature, she flaps. Edgar's alarmed gaze follows Emily as she circles the living room. Rounding the dinner table, Peter lays out plates and napkins followed by his little brother Timothy carrying the silverware. He aligns the forks and knives atop the napkins. Finished, Peter double backs, placing glassware beside the china. Emerged from the kitchen, Rosie's assisted by Peter carrying the pernil. Back and forth they go, bringing out arroz con gandules, platanos maduros and a garden salad. Settled at the table, the Hernandez's take each other's hand for a prayer of thanksgiving. Edgar gently squeezes Rosie's hand, giving her a wink." She smiles, turning red like an annatto seed reciprocating Edgar 's affection with air kisses. Antsy, Timothy raises his head from folded hands, "Mami, papi can we say grace... I'm really, really hungry."

Bathed and put to bed, Timothy and Emily sleep soundly. Peter reads comics in his closet, flashlight in hand. In the kitchen, Edgar and Rosie enjoy cups of coffee and Edgar's mother's flan. He pulls out a carton of Rum Raisin ice cream. Rosie stiffens. "¿Qué es?" Pulling his stool nearer, Edgar grips Rosie's hand. "Earlier at church, I saw a man talking to Pastor Gomez—he was wearing a purple tallit. Look!" Edgar slides the drawing across the counter. "Emily said she's been dreaming about this man! I know, I know, it sounds crazy!"

"Mi amor, the Word of God is real; I mean people of the Bible saw and experienced crazy things—why not us!" A hesitant laugh escaped Edgar, thin and unconvincing. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for hers. A reverent whisper stiffens Rosie. "That same man was sitting in the back of the sanctuary at the church I ministered at last week."

From the Dust We Come

Greenwood Cemetery

"To the dust we return" an overweight man proclaims beneath the moon. Its face, three-fourths illuminated. Snapping closed a huge, leather-bound Bible, he concludes his eulogy before an open grave. "As we lay Sasha to rest, we remember her life and who Sasha was: A wife, mother, friend - a matriarch! Although, no longer on earth, we, her loved ones: family, friends, and those whom she inspired, honor and remember her! Sasha loved hard, she loved unconditionally; wisdom and strength dwelt in her bones. As I look out at all the people of this intimate gathering of folk celebrating the life of Sasha, I see all the lives she touched! In closing, Sasha may be gone from this temporal plain, but she will be present in our hearts, memories and minds." Patting sweat from the pack of franks at the back of his head, the officiate gestures to the road. "At this time, I would like to direct the friends and guests of the bereft back to their vehicles. Those who received an invitation to the repass, please head to the residence listed on the back of your invitation." Mourners return to their cars and SUVs as the grounds keepers make their way to the gravesite. They lower the dearly departed into the earth. Bitter tears stream down the face of a young man perched on a twisted tree trunk. An entourage mill about him. Silently, they weep from underneath sunglasses and burgundy bandanas. Others bury their faces in the breasts of their suit jackets. Drops of blood satiate parched earth from clinched fists. A hand places a silk, burgundy handkerchief into the young man's palm; their luxury watch shimmering in the moonlight. Dirt is denied its fill while the mouchoir engorges itself, sopping up the young man's blood as it's dragged across the hands. Melanin returns to whitened knuckles. Wrapping his arm around the bereaved, a debonair, middle-aged, bald man delicately guides the young man away from the open grave to a black SUV. He motions to a man standing at attention, mouthing. "Put someone to look after Sasha. Ensure nothing happens to her body!"

"Bet!" With bounce in his step, the man approaches the entourage. Stone faces discard sorrow as the man's eyes make their way through the group's ranks. "Listen, ya know what's up and where we at! Someone's gotta stay with Sasha's body until—I would! But, I already know what it is; I'm needed back at the house, and I obviously can't be two places at once!" Steel in their backs, the entourage fix their focus on the enforcer, his gaze ever scrutinizing! Meeting the man's stare with their own, a dark-skinned man steps forward, towering over the enforcer. Muscle upon muscle fills his suit. Brandishing his pearly-whites, the volunteer's maleficent smile betrays the radiance of his grin. Three more men join him.