The World Doesn't Require You Read online

  David Sherman hit the streets after three years and seven months with a clear plastic bag filled with a few clothes and a handcrafted guitar he made in prison. His mother had joined her husband, God, in the sky. He had eleven brothers and one sister, but they didn’t seem real. To David they were all just storybook characters, except for Jeez, whose face he never wanted to see again. He knew the hate he held for Jeez was irrational; it burned in his chest like a heart attack. He imagined one day he’d wake and find that it had eaten through his back like the most corrosive acid, and then the hole within him would be made visible for all to see. How does one let go of all that hate? Why would someone let go of the hate if it is all he has?

  After two nights of sleeping on the ground, clutching the guitar like a lover, David found his way to Christ III’s church. It was a Sunday morning. He settled himself on the front steps, strumming and singing a sad hymn while brown people in suits and fancy hats streamed by.

  Just before the service was to begin, Christ III came out and put his hand on David’s shoulder. Brother, he said, this is Dad’s house, so you better come in. Our oldest brother—or should I say, our coldest brother—would leave you out in the world, but our Father told me He wants you to play for the people. Come in, won’t you?

  Christ III’s kindness could never make David love the Father whose madness had created such a broken world, but that day he found a job and some human kindness, and that, for a time, was quite enough.

  Christ III told his brother, Go out into the world and bring me a band.

  David hired a bass player named Carter and a sax player named Case. Later, he hired a drummer named Webs, but fired him for playing too slow. He fired the next one for sloppiness. The next one came to practice late and laughed too much. He didn’t stand a chance, really. David could fire a drummer in a minute.

  He settled on a musician named Nat who played sort of like Randall. At least he held the drumsticks the same way. At a certain angle, he even looked like Randall. Cracked jokes like him. Walked like him. David would get lost during practice time observing Nat lovingly, mournfully. Then he’d snap at Nat for playing too slow or too fast or like a damned blues player. Nat always ignored David’s rants, but one afternoon he dropped his drumsticks and stormed out. He returned the next day as if nothing had happened. David shrugged.

  Bigger things seized his mind, like how to refashion jazz into gospel and gospel into jazz, searching for the sound of Cross River. David wandered the town, sitting in juke joints, talking to people in barbershops, and parking himself for hours at river’s edge where his Father once sat listening for the rhythm. David would go home humming a melody, but when he tried to turn it into a composition, it sounded flat and bland. So on Sunday mornings, the band would play jazzed-up versions of Negro spirituals and gospel standards. It was passable, good enough, great at times, even, but it was just background noise.

  His heart swelled with love for God, and often when he prayed, he prayed for a new sound, though he remembered what Delante had told him once: God answers all prayers and sometimes His answer is no.

  One morning, as David tuned his guitar, Christ III mentioned that there was a pretty woman with no husband who worked with the Sunday-school children. After all, Christ III said, who ever heard of a church elder with no woman at his side?

  I’m not an elder, David said.

  And you’ll never be one if you don’t have a woman, Christ III replied, flashing a wicked smile.

  Gwendolyn stood tall and wore long dresses that often swept the ground and made her appear taller. She walked with a glide. Christ III introduced them after the service one day and chaperoned their early dates himself. Man and woman, Christ III preached, should never be alone together until God or His representative blesses their union.

  She was sultry and sexy in her movements and even her voice. The bones of her cheeks sat high and firm and her skin looked soft, her neck long. David daydreamed of holding her hand, but that would lead to sin. Even the daydreaming was a sin. David didn’t mind sin, but he knew he had to pretend to hate sin if he ever wanted to engage in some. They spent long hours talking after Sunday service or walking through a nearby park, always tailed by a church member or in the company of another couple. Soon it seemed she had always been there and always would be there.

  David proposed in April and married Gwendolyn in May, wondering the whole time if he had done it just so they could be alone. Just to run his fingers along her cheekbones. Just to leave soft, shallow pools of saliva along her torso.

  He told her of his quest to re-create the beat of all Cross Riverian things one morning after they had been married some months. They lay there half dressed, with slats of early sunlight peeking in on them. She seemed distracted.

  This town has its own sound, he said. Things are different soon as you leave. You can’t feel it no more. I’m trying to get the guys to capture that, but dude we got on the drums—I might need to fire that guy. He just ain’t it. I knew a dude with half the education, but twice the soul—

  Baby, she replied, Nat is all right, stop being antsy. I like the way he plays.

  David carried on, but Gwendolyn looked toward the wall where a brown spider ran about.

  None of that is important, David, his wife said, running her hand across her stomach. You think this little baby in here care about Nat? Naw, he gonna need food and shelter and someone to teach him to listen for God’s love.

  Little baby?

  And like that, they were no longer alone. David wanted to name the child Rhythm and after some weeks he got Gwendolyn to agree, but the church rejected that, so they named the boy Randy.

  Randy was small and pink for a long time after he was born. Almost like a white baby. Right down to the light hairs atop his head. David marveled at the fragility of the child and feared that one day Randy would come apart in his arms or flake into a fine dust, and his life with Gwendolyn would likewise crumble all around him. When he thought of this, he’d grip the baby more tightly.

  Early one morning, David snatched Randy from the crib and cradled him against his shoulder. The baby was distressed, his face scrunched and his mouth wide open, bawling a song that seemed to have no meaning outside of announcing his existence. This phase had stopped being a novelty. David’s mind wandered. Melodies. Lyrics. Some scatting he’d add to a composition. David didn’t often scat. Do bok do do bop ba dop . . .

  All this was imaginary. There was no composition in the works, not really. There’d never be time to work on these ideas. He’d never been farther from that universal sound, even in prison.

  David wandered through the kitchen, where Gwendolyn prepared breakfast. He bounced his son, scatted for the boy. Gwendolyn could see new lines resting on his face. It made her sigh; great knots of frustration built in her neck until she exploded: It’s all music with you, huh? she said. Worry enough about music to pay the bills, but save most of your worry for us.

  You’re asking me to be mediocre, David replied.

  Pick up that book, she said, pointing to the dusty Bible on the counter next to the pancake batter. Tell me where it says being mediocre is a sin. Bet I’ll find where it says not taking care of your family is a sin quicker.

  Gwen’s right, he heard a voice inside his head say, why should we care about any other rhythm but the little rhythm right here cradled against our chest?

  David nodded and walked the dark house, lightly rocking the baby in his arms, hoping to soothe his distress, trying to put the quest that once set his mind ablaze to the side as if it were a childish thing.

  There was a rumor David heard more than once, and he heard it again one Monday near the end of the year while the band practiced in the church’s undercroft.

  Man, Case said to no one in particular as he cleaned his saxophone, I hope Christ III is not gonna replace us. I keep hearing that shi—stuff.

  Who you hear that from? David asked.

  Everyone is saying it, Carter said. Christ be frowning whe
n we be playing. He think I don’t see him, but I do.

  Nat nodded and tapped rapidly at the drums. Who could blame him? he said. When was the last time we did anything special up on that stage?

  Why don’t you do something special, then? David snapped. Ain’t no slacking in the house of the Lord.

  I’m just saying. He paused. I seen plenty of church bands. Played with a few. This is the only one that was trying to do something different. We settled into a groove, jack. I ain’t pointing no fingers. I’m just as guilty, but—

  Yes, you are, David said.

  The next morning, he woke early and went to see Christ III in his office. It was an orderly place with everything arranged in neat stacks. Christ III’s desk had a green marble surface, and all his chairs sat covered with a grainy red leather. The walls were lined with gold-plated paintings of God in His various phases: young with black hair, an unsure gaze, and a few followers; slightly older with a messy beard, fiery eyes, and an army of adherents; much older with a wrinkled, tired face and a staff He held like a sword, leading a dwindling flock; in decline with all-white hair and a pocket full of stones, wading into the Cross River. David took a seat in a leather chair, and Christ III interlocked his fingers and rested them beneath his chin. When David asked about the rumors, Christ III leaned back and looked at the squiggly plaster lines in the ceiling.

  Brother, he said, there is no room for slacking in the house of God. Remember your drummer Webs? Even you knew when it was time for him to go, and you fired his ass. You got to remember, I gave you a raise when your son was born. You promised me a new sound, but your music sounds like gospel—good gospel, damn good gospel, but gospel nonetheless. I’m not sure we need damn good gospel. Mediocre gospel would be cheaper, and people in the congregation probably wouldn’t notice much. Of course, I’m just thinking out loud. This wouldn’t be an issue if that new sound had come through. I was really excited, but it hasn’t worked out as I had hoped. I don’t know.

  The brothers watched each other. I’ve given everything to this church, David replied. You not being fair to me. It can take years of study to develop a sound.

  You gotta see it from my perspective, little bro. I’m a music lover, but I’m also a businessman here. He paused. I’m going to give you another chance. Let’s give it a month. See what happens. I’m really proud of you. You’ve come a long way, little brother.

  As he left the office, David’s stomach churned like he had eaten bad meat. Even sitting on the church’s gold-plated toilets didn’t give him the relief he sought. He walked out onto the street. It was a gray and chilly day. Rain threatening. He rambled in the direction of the river so he could listen to the beat of it. His jacket caught on the sharp point of a fence and tore a little bit. David removed the cloth from the fence with great annoyance.

  He wondered if he had sold his soul for stability. What would Randall think? Perhaps he had learned nothing from the drummer’s death, making it another random and meaningless event. No more significant than snagging his jacket on the jagged point of that fence.

  David passed the bus depot. Gray buses belched black smoke. With his head down and the noise from the grinding engines swirling all around him, David didn’t hear the boy calling his name over and over until they were both nearly on the next block. The boy was slim and brown, with a black duffel bag hanging from his right shoulder. He was probably fifteen. He smiled, exposing big crooked front teeth.

  Elder Sherman, he said, it’s good seeing you again. The boy shook David’s hand like no one had ever taught him how, his hand soft and pliable as a leaf in David’s palm.

  Chillum, the boy said. Chillum from the Southside. A bunch of us, we be coming on Sundays to see what you gonna do with the music. I don’t mess with that God stuff too much, but I appreciate how you do the arrangements.

  Thanks, little brother.

  I was sorry to hear that y’all not going to be playing the church come next month. Where can I hear y’all play?

  Who told you we wasn’t gon’ be playing the church no more, boy?

  I got a partner from Georgia. Told me he and his boys was hired by Christ III to be the in-house band and they was coming up next month. Asked me to sit with them to fix some local sound to it.

  All the blood left David’s face and he could feel his brain swimming in it. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t speak.

  Man, Chillum said, you not looking too good, Elder Sherman. Shoot, this the first you’re hearing this, huh?

  Um, David stammered. My brother and me . . . and I . . . we, uh, prayed on it and made a mutual decision. God, our Father, really made the decision, really.

  Chillum nodded. Sure, he said. God don’t speak to me, but when He’s your Father—

  No, don’t say that. God ain’t speaking to you, me, or Christ III. I ain’t no better than you.

  Chillum nodded again. Say, Elder Sherman, you want to go to River Street and get some beers, listen to some music? It’s on me.

  David shook Chillum’s hand again. I got to go and pray on my future, he said, waving to Chillum and walking swiftly in the direction of the water.

  David sat by the river, watching it sway, and after about an hour, he grew bored. He threw his arms back and held them behind his head. He realized it was a pose his Father often struck. He sat for some time meditating on this. Truly, he thought, I’ve become like my Dad: inscrutable even to myself, single-mindedly pushing toward some goal only I could possibly care about. Was He really a madman? Sometimes—particularly when He was holding a belt, disciplining him—David’s Father seemed so sane. They played soccer in the park like a regular Father and son. Beyond sane. David closed his eyes and breathed deeply in and out. After another hour passed, he heard the moon talk, but it was a whisper. David ignored it. Sometimes when he was drifting off to sleep, he heard things that weren’t there. The brain firing off randomly into the universe. This was like that. The waters parted and God rose, but He was invisible. Still, David knew He was there.

  God revealed that the voice of the moon was His own. He spoke in a language David didn’t understand, yet in a way he did.

  How do I know you’re God? David asked.

  Scoob, skip skip scap scap bop. Bddaaa-dat-da, God said, revealing his pocket full of stones.

  But why? David asked.

  Scap scap, skibbid scap scap. Bdddaaaa!

  But will they understand?

  Bdaaaa! Biggedy bop bop bap bop . . .

  And God faded away, but the water played a music, a rhythm, like David had never heard. A sound like great stones colliding. He looked around trying to feel God but felt nothing. He walked all along the water trying to find Him, but He simply wasn’t there.

  David’s mind churned and churned. It seemed parts of his brain he hadn’t used in years burned alive with electricity, flowing with blood. Through it all, David knew he was sane. He asked himself, though, what would it feel like to be insane? He couldn’t answer. All that he knew was that he was sane. Very sane.

  David proved difficult to be around that week. He grew short-tempered and ill-mannered. He smoked ceaselessly, blowing plumes in all directions. Often when he spoke, he made no sense, and he’d snap at the listener for misunderstanding.

  He came home from practice one Wednesday and headed straight for the kitchen, where he arranged the pots and pans along the counter from largest to smallest. He slapped them with wooden spoons, breaking the utensils and filling the house with a metallic racket.

  Gwendolyn—in the back bedroom with her baby—wanted to tap her feet. She didn’t, however. Instead, she frowned. Gwendolyn placed Randy on his back in his playpen. He turned on his side and sucked at his thumb, quickly falling off to sleep despite the noise.

  Somewhere near the living room, a door slammed.

  Just what on earth is wrong with you? Gwendolyn screamed, walking from the room where her son slept.

  Nothing, David replied.

  He stood in the kitchen at the doorway to t
he basement, watching her blankly. He tapped a broken wooden spoon against a pan, a lid, a pan, and the lid again. He opened the door wide and prepared to slam it. Gwendolyn caught it in her hand.

  David, don’t you know you’ve been acting like a lunatic? That everybody’s worried about you? Stop slamming doors. Sit down, let’s talk. Okay?

  Naw, baby. No time to sit. This is music. It don’t sound like it. I’m testing things out, so it don’t sound like nothing. But I think I got it. The drums is the sun. The center.

  David, I know things at the church are stressful, but you’re not making any sense. Have you spoken to Christ III?

  Baby, Christ III don’t know any more than me or you.

  See what I mean? You’re talking crooked. We should pray on this.

  No use praying, baby. Too late for prayer. Christ III don’t want my music. He already hired a new band. He ’bout to replace me, Nat, and e’rybody. David paused. Cheap-ass motherfucker.

  Watch your mouth.

  David moved toward his wife, reached for her hand, and gave it a light squeeze.

  Baby, our time at the Church of the Ever-Loving Christ is short.

  Why would we leave the Church of the Ever-Loving Christ? It’s where we met. It’s our spiritual home. It’s who we are.

  But if I’m not playing there no more—

  You not playing there has nothing to do with where we worship. If you think it does, that’s vanity, and you know that’s a sin. If you want to leave the church, I can’t follow you. You’re asking me to love you more than I love God, and you know that’s about the biggest sin there is. Don’t you remember Christ III preaching about that? The disciples dropped everything, left their kids fatherless to follow Christ. Left their wives poor and lonely. Who knows, I may be called to leave Randy alone in that crib. It would be hard, but I gotta be prepared for that. But if you walk out them church doors, David Sherman, I can’t follow you.