Read Online Have A Little Faith In Me by Brad Vance - Free Book Online
Authors: Brad Vance
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made a friend already! Just be home in time for supper. And give me the boy’s parents’ phone number.”
He and Korey walked slowly in the sweltering early September heat, and Norman followed Korey’s lead as he switched back and forth from one side of the street to the other, depending on which side had the biggest shade trees over the sidewalk.
“We’re not supposed to feel the heat, but let me tell you, I sure do.”
“Who’s we?” Norman asked.
Korey turned and looked at him. “What are you, a Moon Man? Black people, dummy.”
“Oh.”
Racism wasn’t something Norman thought about. There were plenty of people around him who were racist. Miss June was always talking about the “damn niggers,” but she’d be immediately told by the other old ladies to keep her voice down –it wasn’t thinking it, but saying it, that was wrong. “They can’t help it if they were born that way” was about the kindest thing the other old birds had to say on the subject.
His art tutor, Mrs. Jackson, was black. She was a friend of Faith’s, Norman could see, though their friendship was a little formal. They wouldn’t have coffee in the living room the way she did with her other friends, but they’d sit in the kitchen. As if being found together in the living room would constitute a breach of the social order.
Mrs. Jackson would never attend Family Victory Church, not because she’d be stopped at the door or told to sit in the balcony, but because self-segregation was more powerful than any law. Like the secret codes used to denounce the gays, cloaked in positivity, everyone (white) said that “it wasn’t segregation, just that everyone would just be happier and better off, keeping with their own people.”
“So what kind of music you like,” Korey said as they came up to his house. It was small, and old, but reasonably well-kept. The outside could have used a coat of paint, but there were no weeds in the lawn or anything ramshackle. “You like grunge, or emo, or metal, or country, or what.”
“What’s emo?”
“You serious? Don’t you watch MTV?”
“No, we only watch Fox News and the Christian channels.”
“No radio?”
“Only the Christian Ministry channels. And Rush Limbaugh.”
Korey shook his head, unlocking the front door. “Bible boy, huh? Damn. That’s… But you play the guitar, you said.”
“Yeah,” Norman said, looking around the dim foyer. “Just…”
“Just Christian music, right. Shit. You need your mind opened, man.”
“My daddy says that rock is the devil’s music.”
Korey snorted. “Well, my daddy is a session musician. You know what that is?”
Norman nodded as they walked through the living room. Korey stopped at another door.
“So,” Korey said, his hand on the knob. He threw the door open with a flourish.
There were no windows but the room was bright. A large skylight bathed the room in soft light. For a moment, it looked to Norman like the walls had the craziest wallpaper he’d ever seen. Then he realized. They were record albums. Thousands and thousands of vinyl discs, a library of them so vast it would take a lifetime to listen to them all.
On one wall, there was an alcove, backlit with little spots like an altar, on which a turntable waited for the next disc.
Korey smiled at the awe on Norman’s face.
“If rock and roll is the devil’s music, then welcome to Hell.”
Norman couldn’t recall if he’d ever lied. He didn’t think so. But then, as the Reverend always said in church, sinning is about temptation. And you can’t be tempted to sin if you don’t watch TV, or go to the movies, or listen to the radio, because they were all about sex, sex, sex.
The Reverend rarely talked about other kinds of temptation. He never admonished any of his significantly obese parishioners to resist the urge to overeat, never admonished his business-owning parishioners not
He and Korey walked slowly in the sweltering early September heat, and Norman followed Korey’s lead as he switched back and forth from one side of the street to the other, depending on which side had the biggest shade trees over the sidewalk.
“We’re not supposed to feel the heat, but let me tell you, I sure do.”
“Who’s we?” Norman asked.
Korey turned and looked at him. “What are you, a Moon Man? Black people, dummy.”
“Oh.”
Racism wasn’t something Norman thought about. There were plenty of people around him who were racist. Miss June was always talking about the “damn niggers,” but she’d be immediately told by the other old ladies to keep her voice down –it wasn’t thinking it, but saying it, that was wrong. “They can’t help it if they were born that way” was about the kindest thing the other old birds had to say on the subject.
His art tutor, Mrs. Jackson, was black. She was a friend of Faith’s, Norman could see, though their friendship was a little formal. They wouldn’t have coffee in the living room the way she did with her other friends, but they’d sit in the kitchen. As if being found together in the living room would constitute a breach of the social order.
Mrs. Jackson would never attend Family Victory Church, not because she’d be stopped at the door or told to sit in the balcony, but because self-segregation was more powerful than any law. Like the secret codes used to denounce the gays, cloaked in positivity, everyone (white) said that “it wasn’t segregation, just that everyone would just be happier and better off, keeping with their own people.”
“So what kind of music you like,” Korey said as they came up to his house. It was small, and old, but reasonably well-kept. The outside could have used a coat of paint, but there were no weeds in the lawn or anything ramshackle. “You like grunge, or emo, or metal, or country, or what.”
“What’s emo?”
“You serious? Don’t you watch MTV?”
“No, we only watch Fox News and the Christian channels.”
“No radio?”
“Only the Christian Ministry channels. And Rush Limbaugh.”
Korey shook his head, unlocking the front door. “Bible boy, huh? Damn. That’s… But you play the guitar, you said.”
“Yeah,” Norman said, looking around the dim foyer. “Just…”
“Just Christian music, right. Shit. You need your mind opened, man.”
“My daddy says that rock is the devil’s music.”
Korey snorted. “Well, my daddy is a session musician. You know what that is?”
Norman nodded as they walked through the living room. Korey stopped at another door.
“So,” Korey said, his hand on the knob. He threw the door open with a flourish.
There were no windows but the room was bright. A large skylight bathed the room in soft light. For a moment, it looked to Norman like the walls had the craziest wallpaper he’d ever seen. Then he realized. They were record albums. Thousands and thousands of vinyl discs, a library of them so vast it would take a lifetime to listen to them all.
On one wall, there was an alcove, backlit with little spots like an altar, on which a turntable waited for the next disc.
Korey smiled at the awe on Norman’s face.
“If rock and roll is the devil’s music, then welcome to Hell.”
Norman couldn’t recall if he’d ever lied. He didn’t think so. But then, as the Reverend always said in church, sinning is about temptation. And you can’t be tempted to sin if you don’t watch TV, or go to the movies, or listen to the radio, because they were all about sex, sex, sex.
The Reverend rarely talked about other kinds of temptation. He never admonished any of his significantly obese parishioners to resist the urge to overeat, never admonished his business-owning parishioners not
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