THE GIBSONS
By
Faith Jackson
I want to tell you about the Gibsons. They were a
Mutt and Jeff sort of couple, he every bit of four
foot eleven, she a stately six foot two. I know this
because they would pass my dad at the church door when
it was his duty, as a deacon, to greet and to pass out
worship programs. Mr. Gibson was a quiet fellow who
smoked cigars and hung out at Hamkirk’s, a little
produce, smokes, and beer store in our neighborhood.
Maybe he worked there, or had at one time, but he was
always at the front of the place, perched on an upside
down bushel basket or leaning against the brick
entryway. Mrs. Gibson was a talker, a cake baker, and
a grandmother, who thought it her duty to make sure
that no child in that church had gum in his mouth
while services were going on. She always wore white
gloves and often had a hand out in front of some kid’s
mouth, waiting for him to spit out whatever kept him
from giving full attention to the Holy Spirit.
Most of the congregation, since they lived in the
neighborhood, walked to church, and a person could set
his watch by when the Gibsons rounded the corner of
Echles and Vanuys Avenue at 9:00 a.m., heading to
Vanuys Baptist Church, a block away. At 9:02 they
would pass Mrs. Belcher’s house as she made that
careful, sideways, one-step-at-a-time climb down from
the porch to walk the rest of the way with them.
And then, one Sunday, everything shifted. Brother
Cannon, delivering one of his longest Hell-fire and
damnation sermons, in true soul-saving spirit, shouted
something hellish and pounded his fist hard on the
podium, so hard that Brother Gibson, sound asleep and
snoring, leaning against the back wall and balanced on
just two legs of a straight back cane chair, woke up
with a loud snort and toppled backwards with a crash.
Everyone turned around to see his fellow deacons, who
had been standing along the wall, scrambling to assist
him. Everyone saw how red faced he was-except Mrs.
Gibson.
She was seated right behind my mother, who was seated
beside me. She stared straight ahead as if nothing
had happened.
This ended Brother Cannon’s message and at the
invitation Mrs. Gibson sang louder than usual. “Just
As I Am” got another stanza because she began to sing
it herself, with the rest of the congregation chiming
in. When no souls came forward just as they were,
Brother Cannon asked Brother Gibson to close the
service with a prayer. After what seemed an eternity
of stammering, sputtering, and throat clearing,
Brother Gibson gave the most pleading prayer that I
had ever heard, with more than one reference to
forgiveness. As soon as he ended the piano began to
play, signaling us all to relax and leave. My mother
stuck her arm across my chest to stop me, and the rest
of her brood from moving. As I looked up to question
her, she smiled and shook her head slightly, telling
me it wasn’t time to question. I didn’t need to
because, looking back over my shoulder, no one was
moving except Mrs. Gibson, who was practically race
walking down the aisle to the back of the church.
Wanting to catch the whole show, I had to turn and
look over my other shoulder and, just as quickly,
everyone else witnessed Mr. Gibson jumping in front of
her to open the door. She reached over his short
baldhead and pushed open the door so hard that it
banged against the outer wall.
It was the last Sunday I ever saw the old couple walk
together, from that day forward Brother Gibson walked
at least fifteen feet behind her. And at the close of
every sermon he was the first deacon out the back door
where, dragging on a cigarette, he pretended not to
notice when his wife had passed him. But before she
could make it the thirty or so feet from the back door
to the front of the sanctuary he had sucked up all the
nicotine courage he could, before dropping the butt to
the ground, squelching the flame with more power than
was necessary. Then, hands in pockets and head bent
forward like a man racing into a storm, he’d take
giant leaping steps to take up his punishing position
for the unforgiving walk home. |
