THEGLOBALYOUTHREVIEW.COM By ALI BERGEN P A G 48 E
PROSE Reverend Langston Penniman sat on the edge <strong>of</strong> his bed, stretching his black fingers. Everything had either twisted up on him or shrunk except his stomach. Once six-foot-five, he now plunged to six two, still tall, but not the imposing dignitary he once was standing behind the lectern in front <strong>of</strong> his congregation. His parishioners aged, too. So hard nowadays to attract the young, he thought standing from the bed he shared with his wife <strong>of</strong> fiftytwo years. His knees cracked. He’d gotten his cholesterol under control, but at seventyfive, his health headed south as his age pushed north. Born and raised in Montgomery, Reverend Penniman had a hard time staying relevant, what with tattoos, body piercing, By SHANE HOVING rap music, not to mention homosexuals getting married and reefer being legalized. For a man his age, changing was like pulling a mule uphill through molasses. The smell <strong>of</strong> bacon and eggs drifted down the hall. He heard the c<strong>of</strong>feemaker gurgle. How he loved his mornings with the Montgomery Daily News—not Internet news— something he could hold in his hands, smell the ink. He even enjoyed licking his fingers to separate the pages. Off in the direction <strong>of</strong> the Alabama River, he thought he heard a siren, not far from his church. “Breakfast ready,” Flo shouted from the kitchen. Flo was the sweetest gift the Lord ever bestowed upon a man. Oh, he was fortunate, he thought, passing her picture on the dresser bureau and the photo <strong>of</strong> their three boys and two girls. Proud <strong>of</strong> his church, he was even prouder <strong>of</strong> their five children. Three graduated from college, all <strong>of</strong> them respectable citizens. “It’s gonna get cold if you don’t ‘‘ There's a girl up on the bell tower <strong>of</strong> your church. Says she's gonna jump,’’ the black <strong>of</strong>ficer said. come and get it.” “I’m a comin. Just let me wash up.” The siren sounded closer. The Alabama spring day was warmer than usual. At nine in the morning, it was headed <strong>of</strong>f the charts, as the kids say nowadays. Reverend Penniman washed and dressed. At the bureau, he brushed back the sides <strong>of</strong> his white hair, his bald crown parted like the Red Sea. When his kids teased him about looking like Uncle Ben, he grew whiskers just as white. His boys joked he looked like Uncle Ben with a beard. He chuckled. He would have preferred Morgan Freeman. “I’ll feed it to the garbage disposal if you don’t come and get it.” “I’m a comin now, sweet thing.” He heard the siren turn the corner at Bankhead and Parks. Reverend Penniman looked at the cell phone lying on his dresser. He’d yet to master how to get his thick fingers to press one picture at a time, or type on that itty bitty keyboard. He couldn’t even hold it in the crook <strong>of</strong> his neck. He hurried down the hall. The floorboards <strong>of</strong> the fiftyyear-old house creaked just like him. Not quite shotgun, his house did have a similar layout what with add-ons for the three boys. The siren was upon them. “Lord have mercy,” Flo said as she put the food on the table. “That sure sounds angry.” “Sure does. Let me take a look,” the reverend said from the kitchen’s entrance. He went to the living room window and saw a police car pull into his driveway, the siren cut-<strong>of</strong>f. Two uniformed police <strong>of</strong>ficers, one black, the other white, got out <strong>of</strong> the cruiser and headed up his footpath. He opened the door. “Are you Reverend Penniman?” “I am. What’s the problem?” “There’s a girl up on the bell tower <strong>of</strong> your church. Says she’s gonna jump,” the black <strong>of</strong>ficer said. “Good Lord!” Flo cried, standing behind her husband. P A G E 49 THEGLOBALYOUTHREVIEW.COM