A.J. wouldn’t have a chance to change his wet trousers before the 11 o’clock service. He had on a good pair, and now they may have been stained, or at least it would take them a while to dry. I don’t know how he really felt, but I could see that he was angry when he chased after me.
Didn’t we know that we weren’t suppose run through the halls or make a lot of noise? We knew how to behave in church, we were told, scolded, taught; boys were boys, but we were Christian boys, and were expected to behave as such and were held to higher standard than most boys. If we then misbehaved we knew that we’d have to face the whole congregation, accept our punishment, and knew we’d get it again when we got home. Even for something minor, even for a prank that really didn’t hurt anyone, and especially for running through the halls and when we nearly ran over several people on their way to the 11 o’clock service. Yelling, yelling. A frenzy of accusations that weren’t very complimentary. People disturbed by all the loud noise. We both knew that we’d hear about it, but we didn’t care at that point. We were old enough to know better, but we had a savage need nevertheless to run and chase each other. Why? Because we were boys.
Still it shouldn’t have been a big deal, at most embarrassing for A.J., but everything deteriorated from there.
My parents were pleased when I sat down beside them instead of sitting in my usual place in the balcony. They hadn’t heard what I did yet. They didn’t have an opportunity to question me. They couldn’t ask what was up? Or if they did say aren’t you ashamed of yourself? It just felt strange.
Another indication of a problem came when Rev. Brown asked my parents and me to stay after fellowship. A.J. was there too, of course. “A.J. what’s this I hear about you chasing Jake through the halls after Sunday school?” I also had some explaining to do, but I acted as if I wasn’t interest. My father, as head of the household, normally would’ve taken charge; instead my mother did. There was no way to gage her annoyance, as if she wanted to defend me but couldn’t. She had her family to think about, however, difficult. Had she seen the incident herself she would’ve been more certain about what her response should’ve been.
After some hesitation, she believed enough of the story to ground me for a week, a punishment that I felt was extremely unfair. She however didn’t consider it too harsh. A point of contention that was never resolved, and I saw that the rivalry between A.J. and me was far from over. He wouldn’t give up, and I wouldn’t either. He’d get even. I couldn’t let my guard down.
Nothing happened for the next few Sundays, giving me a false sense of relief, something I soon learn meant nothing. This time, thank goodness, I was clearly the victim.
Thank God for small miracles.
No one would be able to blame me for what happened, or could accuse me of anything since A.J. jumped me in the bathroom.
What were the words I used to provoke him? None, I swear. I don’t remember saying anything…to provoke him into hitting me…bloody my nose. I remember him hitting me at least three times. There were words exchanged, or he was the one who yelled at me, though there wasn’t anyone else in there to hear him (that is there was only God and me, as we often spoke of God in that way).
The perpetrator, who was A.J. Brown, the preacher’s kid, was then horrified by what I did next. Unless he thought I’d fight back, and he’d go down swinging. The bastard. The son of a bitch. I beat him to the punch. (I collapsed and started screaming, I mean. Other times I would have taken it.)
Eventually, of course, the whole congregation would come to know a version of what happened, or at least what could’ve happened. At the time, however, all anyone knew was that I was screaming really loud. Beyond that, people, who saw me decked out on the floor, didn’t exactly know. They saw the blood, a lot of blood, and heard my screams. Ask ten different people, and you got ten different stories, and when they asked A.J. he told them he didn’t know. (This was A.J. lying to get out of it.) When I stopped screaming, I said, “I want to know who’s going to help me?” A.J. was the first to move to get me a paper towel for my nose; by now the blood had gotten all over my shirt. I expected then to hear A.J. say he did it. I said nothing. I expected someone to figure it out. No one did, or no one wanted to, or…I don’t know. It didn’t make sense to me. Okay, now.
Something happened, right?
This was just so surprising to me, that no one put it together. With me decked out on the floor, with a bloody nose, and me screaming my head off.
A.J. was in there…standing over me…surely they could’ve made something of it, or got him to say something.
He knew what he did: he must’ve expected me to say something; or at least when I was home, I would tell my parents when they questioned me about the blood on my shirt. He thought he would get in trouble after that, but I decided not to snitch. “Oh, no! I had a nosebleed and stomach cramps. You know nosebleeds run in the family.” Mother felt my forehead. “I got sick so fast, and I got well even faster. I can go to school tomorrow. It just scared me, that’s all.”
A.J. never said. I didn’t care to bring it up either. It kind of established a bond between us.
But mama was a little suspicious. I’m not sure my dad wanted to get involved. And Rev. Brown? I don’t what he thought. And God? It was between A.J., God, and me.
Randy Ford
