Page 122 of Goodbye Days

Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-the-Lords.

“The puny justice of men.”

Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-the-Lords.

“But be patient, brothers and sisters. For all who wrong us will one day come to account before the judgment bar of God almighty.” He’s almost shouting.

Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-the-Lords.

“And he will have his justice.”

Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-the-Lords.

“And you will have your justice. Praise God almighty.”

Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-God-almightys.

“Praise God almighty who saw his own son hung on a cross but stayed his hand!” He is unambiguously shouting by this point. His eyes are a fiery red sword, pushed slowly into my belly to temper.

My mind races for a way to stave off the panic attack. It goes to Billy Scruggs. It goes to Hiro in his soaring car. It goes to Jiminy. It goes to Dr. Mendez’s understanding stillness. But Judge Edwards’s righteous wrath cleaves through it all. The world is a tossing ship deck. Sweat beads on my face and rolls down like tears. My chest heaves like the air is oily and I can’t grab ahold of a breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the woman next to me glance at me in concern. I ignore her and hope she doesn’t say anything.

Judge Edwards closes to riotous amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-the-Lords, and thank-yous, and sits. I put my head down and chew on my thumbnail. The man next to me turns to me and says, “Judge Edwards sure can preach, can’t he?”

I nod. He’s a huge hit. And guess what—all of that was directed at me, so I suppose I’m sort of the cocelebrity of the day. Every story needs a villain, and that’s me.

The music strikes up again, and everyone stands to clap and sing. I can’t do it. I slump into the exhaustion and deprivation of my panic attack for the rest of the service. Judge Edwards’s eyes never leave me. He can yell at me for not participating if he wants. I can’t.

It’s quite a thing to sit in the middle of hundreds of nice people cheering for you to go to hell, even if they don’t know they are.

The drive back from church is as silent as the ride there. I feel like I should say something, but Cool sermon doesn’t quite fit the bill.

“I miss him every single day, Your Honor,” I say quietly. “I loved him.”

Judge Edwards laughs, cutting and caustic, and brakes in the middle of the street. The car behind us honks. He turns and regards me with the look one might give a moist dog turd served on a fine china platter. Incredulous wonder mixed with contempt and disgust. “I don’t give a good got-damn how you felt about my son. Today is not about your feelings.”

We drive the rest of the way back without another utterance passing between us.

Judge Edwards goes to the kitchen. He returns a moment later with a box of white garbage bags and a box of black.

“I presume you know where Thurgood’s bedroom is.”

I nod.

“Black is for charity. Anything somebody can use. The clothes, but not the shoes. He drew on them like a toddler.”

Mars told us the only reason his dad let him wear Chucks was that’s what Mars’s grandpa had worn as sneakers. Mars claimed it was a tribute, and Judge Edwards bought it somehow.

I stand there numbly, holding the boxes.

“White is for garbage. The artwork is garbage,” Judge Edwards says.

Hearing him say that pierces like steel slivers forced under my fingernails.

“Any question, err on the side of garbage. I’ll be in my study when you finish.”

“Is there anything you want to keep, sir?”

“White is for garbage. Black is for charity. Do you see a third color in your hands?” His tone is as though he’s speaking with a dense, recalcitrant toddler.