Chapter 5

St. Philips African Episcopal Church

Five Points District

Lower Manhattan, New York

Once upon a time, Zelpher longed for the day his parents pleaded for his help. That wistful refrain followed him as he turned his back on Five Points, determined to forge his path and confound anyone who had something to say about it.

Now the reality was a bitter herb.

Zelpher listened as church bells rang out a sweet melody into the tranquility of the early morning hush.

Two lone, hairy hogs loitered in the street, snorting through the piles of debris. The animals unearthed the carcass of a dead dog, its lower half crushed. Squealing, they crowded around the animal.

Zelpher recoiled, his stomach heaving, when rickety wheels on the cracked pavement pulled his gaze to the welcomed, albeit unusual, sight of a lone night soil cartman on a Sunday morning. The man stopped next to a small hill of manure.

A fellow scavenger.

The man grabbed a shovel. Whistling, he dug into the hill, and ladled the manure onto the bed, next to something hidden under a tarp. Probably another mound of manure. He’d sell the excrement as fertilizer but refused to remove the rest of the garbage.

The perpetual stench of standing water, clogged privies, and rotted food perfumed the area. Zelpher inhaled the familiar scents as a thousand memories surged forward. The aroma welcomed him back like a warm embrace or a kind word.

Zelpher’s chest caved in. With shaking fingers, he retrieved the well-worn letter from his vest pocket and read the contents again.

Two days had passed since Elsia delivered her dire message. He’d gone through the gamut of emotions as he prepared to return. His desertion of the acting troupe hadn’t pleased David Needle, but the acting manager couldn’t do anything about it. The room he let was transient. He settled his account and left.

Putting the paper back into his vest pocket, he glanced up and down Centre Street before he crossed over and stood before the stately brick edifice of St. Philip’s.

Zelpher felt his chest tighten as his gaze traveled over the familiar façade of the building. Built in clean lines, the church towered above him.

His eyes grazed the stained-glass windows, recalling the fateful day when rioters ransacked the holy place.

Ugly men threw the Eucharistic candles at the windows, smashing them into a thousand pieces. Cruel hands hauled the walnut pews out and set them ablaze. Jeering and snarling faces roped in glee destroyed the organ, broke the altar table, and tore up the carpets.

His father had lamented, saying, “More than the material demise, those vagrants desecrated our church with their hatred.”

Zelpher shook his head as he remembered the riot that happened fifteen years ago. He’d been a boy until that night. Afterward, he’d become a man.

Zelpher rubbed the back of his neck. What was he now? He didn’t know. He hadn’t entered a house of worship in almost three years. How could he go back in there?

How could he not? His father was sick, possibly on his deathbed.

Zelpher let his hand fall to his side as he took in a deep breath. He walked up to the door as the muted sound of an organ played reverently. He closed his eyes and leaned against the door, pressing his ear against it.

The organ music stopped. He pressed closer to the door, straining to hear.

Faint shuffling. Movement. Then, the clear voices of the congregation spoke. He mouthed the words of the liturgy he hadn’t spoken in years but knew by heart:

“All desires known,” he whispered aloud, his heart pounding as he considered that line of the collect, or prayer, of purity. Had he fooled himself for the past three years?

Zelpher gripped the handle of the door. Sweat moistened his palm. Briefly, he thought about turning back and returning to his life.

What life? Playing nominal roles in dramatic pieces that would never gain the infamy he’d once longed for?

Firming his lips, he tightened his hand and then opened the door.

A cool draft blew against his face as he entered the vestibule. Swiftly, he closed the door and peered through the glass doors. The congregants rose to their feet. Zelpher rolled his shoulders. “I can do this.”

Gripping the handles of both doors, he pulled them apart and walked into the sanctuary.

A sea of dark and light-skinned faces turned as one toward the door. The prick of all their eyes, like needles, dug into his skin. Their surprise, then censure, became palpable.

A gruff voice sounded out in the brief silence. “What the devil—!”

He flinched, recognizing that voice in an instant. Someone shushed the man. Reverend Thompson gave a loud, deliberate cough, with enough force to bring attention back to the matter at hand.

Worship.

The parishioners turned back around. Commotion drew his eyes to the right of the sanctuary.

Someone moved down the pew line toward the back, uncaring if others would see the action as intrusive. The last person leaned back to allow whoever it was to pass.

Zelpher came face to face with the dark glance of his sister. His back tensed, teeth grinding.

Without looking left or right, she marched toward him. The other women dressed in subdued tones of black, grays, browns, or dark blues. His sister’s gold-colored flouncy skirt with its ornate, black-trimmed bodice drew attention.

Zelpher sighed. Some things never changed.

When she reached him, she took his arm and tried to lead him away.

Zelpher resisted, not wanting to succumb to her wishes. But he didn’t want to cause a scene. With a drawn-out sigh, he allowed her to lead him out of the church and onto the pavement. When the door shut, his sister whirled around. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard about Father.”

“Did you?” Her eyebrow lifted into her hairline. “Don’t tell me his imminent death is enough to bring you back home?”

His heart fell to his feet. Was he already too late?

A cold sweat appeared on his brow. “Is it imminent?”

His sister’s stiff stance relaxed, the coldness in her dark gaze melting away. “No. That was wrong of me.”

Tension eased out of his body, almost weak with relief. The next instant, his nostrils flared, and he narrowed his eyes. How dare his sister frighten him like that!

His lips twisted. “A rare day, you admitting to your folly.”

“Rare, indeed.” The tightness around her eyes came back. “You return home to do something for someone other than yourself.”

Her utter scorn raised goosebumps along his back, scraping against the material of his cotton shirt.

Poking his tongue into his cheek, he clipped out, “Is he home?”

She sniffed. “What do you think?”

“Why are you here? Do something for Father for once.”

“The man who hates me? Why would I?”

“Because that’s what a daughter does!”

Her gaze hardened like shards of black ice. “Why you—!”

“Zelpher!”

He turned at the sound of Elsia’s voice. She, too, had left the service, which would have displeased her father.

In contrast to his sister’s showy garb, Elsia stood by them, modest in a navy-blue skirt and plain matching bodice. White satin ribbons adorned her bonnet.

“Elsia, you shouldn’t be out here.”

She waved away his sister’s concern. “Sebro, you of all people know I wouldn’t let you kill each other.”

Zelpher straightened his shoulders. “I’d hardly do that, Elsia.”

Sebro’s eyes narrowed as she said, “Of that, I am sure. It would require skill only a man would possess.”

His nostrils flared.

“Really, Sebro,” Elsia admonished in her gentle voice, trying to quench the sparks between himself and his sister. Three years’ absence and that hadn’t changed either. “No need to cause strife. Your brother has only this morning returned.”

Sebro lifted her chin. “He should not have. Our mother didn’t miss him while he was gone.”

Sebro’s verbal arrow struck the center of his chest, piercing his heart with its sharp tip.

Elsia shook her head and laid a gloved hand on his sister’s arm as if she were restraining her. “Sebro, that was unkind.”

Blood pounded at Zelpher’s temples, and he took in a sharp breath, readying his own weapon. After all, they matched well in the artillery of insult.

“It may be true that Mother and Father haven’t missed me — but I’m sure they haven’t given you their love, either.”

A sharp gasp erupted from Elsia. “Zelpher!”

He couldn’t look away from the hardening planes of his sister’s face as his arrow struck deep and true. Yet, the only sign of the wound he’d inflicted on her was the flattening of her lips.

The silence lingered for a long moment before Sebro pivoted away and went back into the church.

He’d won that bout, but the war raged on.

Elsia’s brown eyes gazed at him with reproach. “Must you always be at odds with your sister and my friend?”

He didn’t answer her. There was no need to.

Instead, he asked a question of his own. “What do you know of my father’s health?”

“Enough to know we can discuss this after service. Come along, Zelpher.”

He opened the door for her and followed her back inside. She went back to her father’s side while he slid into one of the back pews. Taking off his hat, he gathered his wits as he fell back into the routine of the service.

“Brothers and sisters now let us repeat together,” Reverend Thompson intoned.

Zelpher’s mouth opened and fell into the antiphony.

“Lord have mercy!”

But would He after abandoning his family?