Page 120 of Goodbye Days

As we walk out, I catch a glimpse of Judge Edwards staring back at the bowl on the table, lying there empty and still.

My stomach simmers as we pull up to New Bethel AME Church, a large, modern brown building. It’s reminding me of Mars’s funeral, and that alone would do the trick even without my having tossed my cookies earlier.

“The church was an important part of Thurgood’s life,” Judge Edwards says, breaking the tomblike silence that has attended the entire drive. “He was part of the youth group. He sang in the choir.”

“Yes, sir.”

I glimpse myself in the side mirror. I have the complexion of a nice bowl of Greek yogurt. Except maybe a bit more pale green around the edges. Key lime–flavored.

We park and get out. I follow at Judge Edwards’s heels as we join the bustling crowd. People greet him warmly. He doesn’t look back to make sure I’m following or to introduce me. I receive some genial greetings too, but obviously as a generic guest, not as Judge Edwards’s. I get kind but curious stares.

Once inside the main chapel, Judge Edwards turns to me with a residual smile from having talked with someone he knows. He banishes the smile immediately when we make eye contact, ensuring none of it falls on me by accident. He points at me and stabs his finger at a center pew.

I nod and sit on the aisle end.

“Middle,” Judge Edwards commands.

I scoot to the middle. The pews fill in around me as ushers seat people. I realize that I’m pretty much in the dead center of everyone. An elderly woman dressed in purple, wearing a huge, majestic purple hat, sits at my right. A man in a sleek, shiny ivory suit sits at my left with his wife and children.

But Judge Edwards doesn’t come sit beside me. Instead, he sits in a red leather armchair behind the pulpit, crosses his legs, folds his hands in his lap, and sits with a look I’m not sure I recognize.

The service begins with prayer and song accompanied by a full band. I stand on shaky legs and try to sing. I’m no Jesmyn or even Mars, but I figure I’d better do my best, since Judge Edwards is watching me. All in all, though, I’ll take this over the predawn death run. I’m still concerned about why exactly Judge Edwards is sitting up there, but I guess he has to sit somewhere and obviously he’s not going to sit next to me. Maybe that’s where he always sits because he’s a VIP or whatever.

The black-robed pastor stands and sermonizes for several minutes, interspersed with amens and hallelujahs from the congregants. I sort of tune out. My mind needs a rest. But then he grabs my attention.

“Brothers and sisters, you hear from me every week. But today, we have a special honor. One of our most esteemed brothers, Judge Edwards, has asked to speak with you. So if y’all don’t mind, I’m cutting my sermon short and offering him the balance of the time.”

Scattered and eager yeses and mm-hmms from the congregation.

A swell of adrenaline forces me to sit straighter. This is potentially very bad. But maybe he’s going to forgive me publicly. It’ll be like a movie scene where he absolves me and walks down, with tears in his eyes and hugs me while everybody claps. And everything’s okay. That could happen, right?

Judge Edwards walks slowly, regally to the pulpit. He has the gait of someone accustomed to rooms full of people standing upon his entrance. He removes a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and sets it on the podium. Surveying the congregation briefly, his eyes finally settle on me. And there they stay.

I do not see forgiveness in them.

When he speaks, I barely recognize him. His cadence and speech is that of a preacher—a skilled one. “Brothers and sisters, we are called upon to deal with others as Christ Jesus did.”

Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms.

“With mercy.”

Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms.

“With forgiveness.”

Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms.

“With his. Own. Pure. Love.”

Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms.

“Like him we must suffer long. But what about…?”

The crowd waits fervently. Someone calls out, “Tell us, Judge!” Someone calls out “Preach, Judge.”

“Justice?”

Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms.