Harry & Selma’s Burning Cross. 8.6k A civil rights story from the fifties. (standard:adventure, 8439 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 18 2020	Views/Reads: 1442/993	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Former racist Selma dies and goes to heaven, where God gives her a mission to aid a preacher during the 50s Civil Rights Movement. A court order does the same with Harry.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

her date with St. Peter. 

*** 

Selma found herself lying on a soft couch.  Something seemed strange. 
Maybe the atmosphere or the ambiance?  Opening her eyes, all she could 
see was white.  That and the smiling face of a young girl dressed in a 
snowy robe, black corn-rowed hair and face looking out of place in all 
that white. 

"Hello there ..." the teen said while consulting a clipboard on her lap,
"Selma. Now take it easy, you have a lot of adjusting to do and no 
hurry at all.  Your days of rushing are over." 

Selma looked around, then sat up.  She was in a vast white space.  The
couch where she sat, as well as the floor, seemed to be either cotton 
or ... or clouds?  The only thing in front of her that was not white 
was the Negroid face and hair of the girl in front of her. 

"Wha -- What's going on here?" Selma jumped to her feet, frightened of
both the change and of a Negro girl in front of her.  A southern white, 
Selma had little to do with other races.  You know, the subhuman ones? 

She took a defensive stance, just in case.  The last thing she
remembered was falling down those damned stairs.  Feeling herself with 
both hands, she noticed she wasn't injured.  Well, that's one good 
thing, Selma figured. 

"Sheeee! Not so loud, Selma.  You'd better sit back down. It might go
easier on you." 

"Why? What the hell's going on here?" 

The girl sighed, still smiling. 

"You're in heaven, honey," the girl told her, softly. "You died on earth
and came here, to an eternity of everlasting peace." 

"The hell, you say." 

"Nope ... heaven, honey." the girl shook her head. "Sit down if you
want.  We have plenty of time but I have to take you to registration 
where you'll be assigned a job and living quarters.  Everything will be 
explained." 

"Can't you explain it now?  I'm really confused." 

"Not really, Selma.” She shook her head, cornrow curls swishing.  “I'm
only a greeter, not an adjuster.  Let me know when you're ready." 

"Uh ... I didn't know they let you people in here.  That's what threw
me." 

"You people?" the girl looked perplexed for a moment. "Oh, you mean that
racial stuff.  We don't bother with it here.  Everyone's equal here in 
heaven." 

"Well, I hope I get a better job than your's.  I should." 

"You'll have to see. It depends mostly on your status here, which
depends on your past conduct more than anything else.  You made it 
here, which is the hardest part." 

"At least, with you people here I should get out of manual labor."  For
the first time, Selma gave the girl a condescending smile.  "No offense 
meant." 

*** 

Although the concept of time wasn't as strict as on Earth, it was an
invention of God and was also found to be a way of keeping order, so 
there was time in heaven.  Heaven has to be orderly and if all the 
heavenly residents and angels were doing everything at once?  Why, that 
would be chaos and you can't have a chaotic heaven. 

In any case, Selma looked around, trying to get used to the concept of
being both dead and in heaven.  In the distance, she could see -- if 
she squinted a little -- buildings made of white.  There were flashes 
of wings as angels flitted back and forth.  Even the air tasted white 
to her and that was strange.  It fit her image, anyway.  Since she 
couldn't imagine dirt or clutter there, it was her kind of place. 

"Okay," she finally told her greeter, "I guess I'm ready to meet my
maker." 

"Oh, you won't meet God, Himself, Selma.  He has important work to do
and only drops in once in a while -- physically, that is.  Of course, 
He hears and sees all, from whichever heaven He happens to be in at the 
moment.  In a real sense, heaven is a business as well as an eternal 
vacation and we all have to do our part." 

She held Selma's hand with a light squeeze.  At first, Selma tried to
jerk away, never having touched one of those people before, but finally 
accepted the hand. 

"Now, this will seem strange but you'll get used to it.  We rarely walk
up here.  You'll get schooling on such things," the girl told her. 

Suddenly, they were standing in a vast room, white of course, filled
with hurrying residents and angels. You could tell the angels by their 
wings.  Most were rushing from one door to another, one desk to another 
or walking along with stacks of papers in their hands.  Selma could 
easily recognize an office atmosphere, even one so vast in scope. 

The floor itself moved, taking the two to the rear of a line where the
girl hugged a resisting Selma and kissed her on the cheek. 

"Welcome to heaven, Selma.  Just wait in this line and you'll soon
understand everything." 

Then, she was gone, just like that, leaving Selma standing in a line
along with hundreds of others, waiting for attention by some bureaucrat 
at the other end.  Of course, that didn't bother Selma in the least, 
having dealt with queues all her life.  The first thing she did do, of 
course, was to wipe her cheek with a forearm.  Who knew what diseases 
were in that saliva? 

Eventually, Selma made it to the front of the line, many new souls
coming in behind her while she waited.  As she came closer, she studied 
what she could see of the clerks behind the counter, knowing she could 
train them better if she ever had the chance. Why, there were even 
stacks of paperwork piled on top of other stacks.  Unconscionable! Her 
office would never be that way. 

At least the line went quickly.  She found herself in front of a large
good-looking guy. He had a name tag saying "Peter" clipped to his 
pocket.   She wondered if it were the famous "Saint Peter"? 

"Selma....  Let's see now ... Selma A-d-a-m-s," he muttered, pounding
keys on a sort of typewriter and then staring at a square plate above 
it. 

She couldn't see what interested him so much, which annoyed her to no
end, her being so used to being on the other side of the desk at work. 

"Here we are ... Selma Adams."  He was obviously studying his box thing
for a moment, then consulted a list near his hand and entered something 
into her record.  "You'll have apartment 62 in sector 1112, Selma.  
Someone will be here to take you there.  One of your roommates.  Now 
let's see where we can place you to work.  Where you'll be of most 
value to the Lord." 

Impatiently, she had to wait while he puttered away at his keyboard,
then going to the rear to consult with an angel at another desk.  
Finally, Peter came back to his seat. 

"I see you're very conscientious, with scrupulous attention to details,"
Peter told her. "My assistant verified that we have special need for 
someone of your skills and inclinations.  If you want the job, that is? 
 It'll mean going back to Earth for a while and an instant promotion to 
Angel sixteenth-class?  A rare opportunity for newbies." 

Selma liked the idea of going back to talk to Harry.  She missed him
already. 

"Sure," she told Peter. "I'd like that." 

"All right, consider it done, Selma.  First though, you have to go
through a training regimen, both how to conduct yourself in heaven 
itself and in how to be an angel." 

*** 

"We's the best. Yes, people, we's the best.  Better than those rich
white guys you see runnin' round in those fancy cars. Better an' those 
rich industrialists -- and they's fancy houses.  Hallelujah, we's the 
best." 

Preacher Leroy Edwards exhorted his audience.  It was a typical Sunday
morning service in his moderate-size "Church in the Wildwoods."  Each 
sermon would start the same way, with a gentle voice, getting the 
congregation to stop talking and listen closely.  Then, he'd work them 
up into a frenzy.  Finally he'd get them to rolling on the floor in 
wonder at the Lord's works. 

Leroy was the son of the son of a preacher. His family had been doing
just that as a living for the last five generations.  All in the same 
small town in Mississippi. 

"Someday.  Some ...  day.  Sommmmeday, we will rule," Leroy intoned
quietly. "Not only here but in heaven itself." 

He stopped for a moment, looking over his audience, seeing looks of
rapture forming in the first few rows of black faces, them waiting for 
him to continue telling them what they wanted to hear, yearned for him 
to say it out loud. 

"Every day.  Yes, every single day, there are less white people going to
heaven.  Every day, they take to material possessions.  Every single 
day, they drift from the Lord's everlastingly comfortable arms," he 
told them in a sorrowful tone. 

Then, raising his voice as he spoke, hands rising over sweaty sculptured
brow -- Leroy was a fine figure of a man, six-foot-four and very 
handsome, dressed impeccably in an expensive, light-blue suit -- he 
continued. 

"....  Yet, every single day, more of our people enter those pearly
gates."  Leroy paused briefly, letting that fact sink in.  "Every 
single day, more of us enter the House of the Lord than those there 
Jews. We beats them heathen Catholics in their mad rush to eternity." 
Another pause.  "We shall, WE SHALL OVERCOME, Hallelujah. Cause we's 
the best." 

Leroy lowered his hands to the podium. 

"Now, Sister Sarah will play us a fine song with her organ.  Sister
Sarah?" 

He stepped back as organ music filled the room.  After that would come
the collection plate and his closing speech. 

Leroy was bored.  Certainly, the job brought a lot of prestige to him
and paid well.  But he wanted something more out of life.  He 
remembered his father, now long gone -- passed away years before.  He 
also remembered what he had been taught, that you couldn't go wrong by 
underestimating the public.  That with a strong enough personality and 
a glib tongue you could convince them of anything. 

Samson Edwards, his great-great-grandfather had been, at heart, a
confidence man.  A fine preacher, he had not only bought his family out 
of slavery but had the foresight to invest -- as a silent partner, of 
course -- in a large cotton plantation.  It was one that bought the 
cheapest most troublesome slaves they could find and worked them to 
death. 

At the start of the Civil War, Great-Grandpa Elijah had sold his
interest in that plantation, not having any faith in the South winning, 
and invested in Northern war production businesses. Other generations 
had carried on the tradition.  Now young Leroy, although wealthy, was 
faced with boredom. 

He was tired of preaching to those stupid farmers.  He wanted to be
famous, to do something exceptional with his life.  Even then, Leroy 
had two other preachers working for him and only preached an occasional 
sermon himself to keep in practice.  He lived a life of leisure, far 
from the church, only keeping the position as a family tradition.  Of 
course, the congregation didn't know of his fancy apartment or two new 
Buicks.  He gave his chauffeur Sundays off and drove himself to church 
in the maid's pickup truck. 

Maybe, he thought, just maybe, he could take advantage of this new civil
rights movement.  With his money, class, and vocal cords, he figured he 
could go down in history.  If he had the right gimmick, of course. 

* 

The very next day, Leroy started writing. It took him months but he
finished a thirty-page missive advocating equality of races. Then, he 
took the sloppily-typed pages to a Negro publisher he knew, the owner 
of a weekly newspaper. 

"Leroy, Leroy my boy," the journalist told him, "all this would do is
put you in jail.  It's against the law in Mississippi to write articles 
instigating violence.  You'd be subject to a five-hundred-dollar fine 
and six months in jail." 

"Just for speaking my mind? I'd go to jail? What happened to freedom of
speech?" 

"That's just for the white man, Leroy. We haven't got it.  Not yet,
anyway." 

"Damn it!" Leroy threw the manila envelope into a nearby wastebasket. 

"Hey, don't do that."  The other man pulled it back out. "You can
publish it up north.  I have a friend up there, a printer.  Just don't 
use your name or say you're from Ol' Miss." 

So, that's what they did. Leroy paid for thousands of copies.
Distributed clandestinely throughout the southern states, they become 
an instant hit, even inciting disturbances.  A proud man, Leroy left 
his name on them, though not his address or title. 

At the time, many others were doing their part, both north and south of
the Mason-Dixon Line.  But nothing was really taking hold.  Most were 
independent and doing their own thing, easily put down by local 
authorities.  It wouldn't be until later that various theologians, 
including Dr. Martin Luther King, began seriously organizing what would 
end up as the Civil Rights Movement. 

Leroy's missive was briefly mentioned in the landmark case of Bowman
versus the Board of Education, in Kansas, where discrimination in 
schools was outlawed by the Supreme Court in Washington.  Of course, 
many states fought the decision by either refusing to desegregate their 
schools or by passing state or local laws to water it down.  It was a 
wonderful win -- on paper.  Although not famous, his name was before 
the public as a minor leader in the movement. 

He was soon fielding calls from backers and applying for government
grants.  The money, in thousands, was rolling in. Not being good with 
figures, even about cash, he hired a niece to assist him. 

*** 

Selma rather enjoyed her classes, which explained all about heaven,
hell, and God's plans for the Universe. 

"There are many heavens," Brother John told them, "such as this one,
Human Heaven.  Each one leads to a higher level.  All of us started as 
souls in either the insect heaven or fish heaven.  If we were a good 
insect, we advanced to one of the more-advanced vertebrate heavens. 

"Each has a purpose.  In insect or fish heaven, you were taught simple
functions like breathing and movement without conscious thought.  You 
learned to eat and eliminate waste, use eyes and how to hear.  Some of 
you spent many lives there until you could do it perfectly. 

"In animal heaven, you learned simple thinking, such as the 'flight or
fight' reflex.  It was where you were required to make simple 
decisions, such as whether to sleep in one place or another. Joy and 
fear were introduced, as well as other emotions.  Copulation became 
more, in fact very, complex.  That meant memory was required.  It was 
also where you learned the concepts of right and wrong. 

"This plant would make you sick, though it tasted wonderful.  That plant
was bland but nourishing.  You learned to tell the difference. 

"Once you learned all those lessons -- sometimes after many lives -- you
advanced to the next level, rat heaven.  That was where you learned 
logic, cognitive thinking, and how to compete in a complex world.  Rats 
are on an intellectual level with humans, except that there are many, 
many more of them.  It's sort of a holding area for testing before you 
advance to human heaven.  All of you, us, here have gone through many 
lives to get into this class." 

"Are there more levels above this one?" one of the students asked. 

"Several," Brother John answered. "Most of us will never leave here,
except for those of you having missions on earth.  Depending on your 
actions here and on special missions, a few will advance upward to 
lower-level godhood.  I'm not privy to how or when or even who decides 
that matter.  My understanding is that there are three human heavens 
among many human planets.  That it is possible to attain full godhood 
somewhere in the vastness of the ever-expanding universe." 

"And what about hell?" someone had to ask. 

"There is no hell," John answered, shaking his head. "If you don't
succeed on a certain level, you simply retake it until you do.  God is 
a just God.  Why should He punish you for a failing that He, Himself, 
is responsible for?" 

Somewhere in all that training, Selma learned to think in a cosmic
sense, realizing that matters such as the color of a skin or a 
particular religion were simply ridiculous concepts.  In the grand 
scheme, they were not worthy of notice, less than meaningless.  About 
on the par with number of legs, teeth, or heads on an individual. 

* 

"I can't do that."  Selma shook her head. 

She was in the office of her new supervisor.  Now acclimated to heaven
and wearing newly-issued wings, Selma was to receive her first work 
assignment.  Although heavenly residents were not supposed to be class 
conscious, she did like her promotion to sixteenth-degree angel status. 
 Most new residents had to wait centuries to rate wings.  Many never 
made it. 

"Ultimately, it's your choice," the supervisor told her.  "But you'd
lose your wings and go back to resident status.  We wouldn't hold it 
against you since heaven is free choice, but wings are only for those 
who require them." 

The supervisor looked closely at Selma. 

"Maybe you need more conditioning?" she asked Selma. "You're not letting
your Earth-side prejudices have precedence over those of the Lord, are 
you?" 

Uh.... No.  Of course not. Heaven forbid." 

"Heaven does forbid it.  Although you have free will, it can't be
subversive ... even here." 

"All right.  I accept.  Thank you for the assignment,"  Selma said,
smiling and trying to look nonchalant. 

*** 

"Sheeeee!" Harry Adams whispered.  "We don't wanna wake them there
Niggers ... not till they can look out at the fire.  We gotta dig this 
here hole 'bout four feet, 'least." 

He and Sam Jackson were digging a hole in the Johnson's front lawn while
several others unloaded the cross from Peter's flatbed truck.  A second 
Chevy pickup truck held several five-gallon cans of gasoline to soak it 
with. 

It was four o'clock in the morning, a chill in the air, as the two men
sweated, taking turns with a manual post-hole digger only a fraction of 
the width needed for the six-by-eight-inch base of the cross.  that 
meant four holes, in a square pattern, had to be made in hard ground.  
They were working on the fourth, both the men tugging on the 
cross-handle of the instrument. 

It took all of them to carry the cross over.  They couldn't drag it
because that might tear rags loose.  Then they waited, staring 
anxiously at the house, hoping no lights would go on signifying a lack 
of surprise.  Hearts beating wildly from exhaustion and anticipation, 
they also kept one eye on the street, dreading the interruption of 
police before it could be lit. 

Harry was busy dousing the cross with gasoline, fumes spreading across
the landscape. 

"There.  At does it.  Let's git this damned thing up," he said, throwing
the last can aside. 

"Damn it, Harry," Sam complained, "I'm covered with gas from these
rags." 

"Me too," Peter said, groaning as the cross settled into the ground with
a small slant. "How we gonna light it without catching ourselves on 
fire?" 

"Jeez!  Anyone still dry?"  Harry asked, stepping back from the erect
and stinking cross. 

He could see four shaking heads.  That was something they hadn't counted
on.  Nobody in his right mind would strike a match while coated with 
gasoline.  But, then, they weren't exactly in their right minds. 

"Guess we's gotta stand here while we dry out, I guess,"  Harry said,
shaking his head. 

"Then the frickin' cross won't burn, neither," Peter said. 

"It'll still have some gas on it,"  Harry said. 

"Not 'nough, though.  Not as  bright." 

"We just gotta put more on's all," Sam suggested. 

"Ain't got no more," from Peter. 

"An we couldn't get it to the top, anyway.  Too frickin' high," another
man pointed out. 

"Damn.  I'll get it," Harry said. Going over to the Chevy, he began
stripping his clothes off. "I ain't got none on my hair.  You guys all 
back up, way back." 

As the others backed away, over by the trucks, Harry advanced toward the
cross.  It wasn't until he got there that another point occurred to 
him.  "One a you guys throw me a match or lighter." 

"Come over and get it," Sam said,  "I ain't a getting that close." 

Finally, Harry was ready.  He approached the structure, lighter in hand.
 Looking up at the now eight-foot structure, he had yet another 
realization. 

"Hey.  One'a you guys," he called back loudly, "throw me a stick or
something.  I ain't a'gonna get close to the damned thing to light it 
with this.  I gotta light somethin' an throw it." 

That was when Elmer Johnson appeared on his front porch, shotgun in
hand.  All that yelling had woke him up. 

"The hell you will.  Get the fuck off my property."  The black man
pumped a shell into the chamber and let loose.  The shotgun blasted, 
buckshot hitting the cross at midpoint, showering splinters and bits of 
now-flaming rags into the other participants.  Ropes broken, both arms 
of the cross fell off, scattering liquid fire as they hit the ground. 

Five white men, two of them stripping flaming clothing and one bare-ass
naked, hit the street, scattering in all directions except toward 
Elmer.  Although Mr. Johnson didn't appreciate the mess on his lawn, he 
did enjoy peppering the two trucks with the rest of his shotgun 
magazine. 

When the police arrived, they found Harry's wallet in the back of a
truck, along with his clothing.  By morning, all five white men were in 
jail. 

*** 

After a time without time as we know it, Selma finished her advanced
angel training. It was time to begin her mission of helping a certain 
preacher.  He was destined to be one of the beginning civil rights 
leaders, though for selfish reasons. 

The man was looking for fame and the wealth that could come from the
project.  The news media had also picked up on the issue's ability to 
sell advertising. 

Leroy Edwards found himself in his natural element.  He'd already
acquired a backer, a rich black industrialist.  He was living in 
luxury, traveling from city to city up north and residing in only the 
best hotels.  Several cub reporters from leading newspapers and 
television stations were assigned to him full-time. 

His method was to move into a city, study its racial makeup and then
stir the mixture into a volatile soup.  Of course, he was in the center 
of the controversy though in a safe position, continually getting his 
name and face into news reports. 

While in Harry and Selma's home town for a brief meeting, Leroy happened
to take a good look at his staff.  They were, he noticed, all black.  
Every single man-jack of them, both black and male.  Turning his 
attention back to a crowded high school auditorium, he saw only a 
sprinkling of white faces.  What he needed, he realized, WERE white 
faces, especially women, on his staff and in his audience. 

His problem was that few southern whites would officially back him in
public.  They would sneak in for a sermon but only a few old ladies 
would risk the wrath of their neighbors to actually work for him and 
his cause. 

He tried to find white helpers.  Although there were plenty of northern
volunteers, some were preachers, themselves -- which to his mind made 
them rivals for prestige.  The rest were teenagers and college age. 
Young Northerners were considered idealists and, at the very least, 
invaders within southern communities.  They weren't trusted by 
southerners. 

What he needed were people from the south that talked with a southern
accent and were familiar with local customs.  People who carried an 
innate veracity with the populace.  Now, where,  he wondered, could he 
find them?  How could he coax them to join him while their own friends, 
employers and relatives ostracizing them? 

That was when Selma arrived, fresh from angel college, her wings still
creased from storage. 

The first place she'd gone to, on arriving back to earth, had been her
old home.  She was anxious to see Harry.  Time not being an issue, 
she'd arrived a few days after her own death to find Harry in jail, 
waiting to see Judge Jablonski. 

Next, she visited Leroy Edwards, since her assignment was to aid him.
During the night, she planted an idea in his mind.  It was a way to get 
white helpers onto his staff. 

The next morning,Leroy went downstairs to the hotel restaurant for
breakfast with a few of his people.  He had a morning appointment with 
the mayor.  It was to be a quick interview with local reporters, ending 
with a handshake.  He did many such fifteen-minute spots. 

With quite a few of his stops, the target city would send an official to
welcome Leroy.  A brief speech from both of them, the shaking of hands 
for photos and maybe a key to the city was in order.  Then they'd both 
go their own ways.  The mayor would wash his hands and complain to his 
own staff about having to shake hands with a Negro and Leroy would go 
back to his confrontational style.  Those meetings were designed to 
politically placate both sides. 

Selma had also visited various other dreamers during the night. She'd
been a busy angel, planting the same idea in several more minds, among 
them those of Judge Jablonski and the mayor.  Angels were never to be 
seen in public and very few times in private.  Selma had been taught to 
work in mysterious and subtle ways and dream work was allowed. 

At breakfast, one of Leroy's companions mentioned that maybe they could
get a few whites to help them if it were mandated by the courts. 

"That would work, reverend.  Judges here have a Public Service
alternative to incarceration.  We could apply to have a few such 
individuals assigned to us,"  one man, a volunteer lawyer from New York 
City, mentioned. 

"We could give them the shitty jobs, sir.  They could be gofers, 'go fer
coffee' and that sort of thing," another said. "We'd keep them around 
you in every photograph and interview, so people would see them." 

"Maybe I'll try that," Leroy said. "I can mention it to the mayor when I
see him." 

During that brief meeting, he did so -- off camera, of course -- and the
mayor concurred.  In fact, he'd inexplicably had the same idea himself. 
 Such a commitment could maybe be used later, to his political 
advantage.  All it would cost him was a suggestion to the city 
prosecutor, who'd also had the same thought the night before. The 
prosecutor happened to mention it to Harry's judge. 

*** 

"Mr. Adams," Judge Jablonski intoned, "Conduct such as yours cannot be
condoned in this modern age.  Prejudice in all and any of its forms is 
inexcusable in this city, this state and this country. 

"Your conduct is out of the Dark Ages of humanity.  The United States
is, has, come out of such hidden cowardly darkness and into the light 
of the twentieth-century. 

"I find you guilty in all respects and on all charges." 

The judge looked down at his paperwork, among the pages was a
brightly-colored note of the mayor's suggestion.  He thought it would 
be both amusing and appropriate to assign such a bigot along those 
lines. 

"Since you seem to have such an affinity for organization, I'll give you
a choice, Mr. Adams," the judge told Harry. 

Repressing a smile, he told Harry, who was standing nervously, awaiting
his fate, "I'll give you a choice.  You can have a year on the chain 
gang, heavy labor under the supervision of Sheriff Jones or ... or you 
can choose 500 hours of community service under the strict control of a 
person of my choosing?  Which would you prefer?  You can have a moment 
to consult with your attorney if you wish. 

"Be aware, though, that if you choose community service, at the first
bad report you'll be bounced to that chain gang for the entire term." 

"I don't need no damned lawyer, your honor.  I'll take the service
crap," Harry replied with relief.  "Does it pay, since I done lost my 
job over this?" 

"That will be up to your sponsor.  I'm certain he or she won't let you
starve." 

*** 

Selma had been standing, invisibly, in the background as her husband
faced a clerk at the court house when Harry was getting his assignment. 
 She longed to talk to him, to set him straight on a lot of things 
she'd learned since her death, but didn't dare.  It was against the 
rules to reveal herself unless in emergencies. 

"A preacher, uh?  Can't be that bad," Harry told the clerk.  "Probably
paint a church or mow lawns or something." 

"You just make sure you report to suite 1401 at the Majestic Hotel by
noon.  I think it's a penthouse suite but I'm not certain," the clerk 
told him. "And call me tomorrow. Tell me how it went." 

Since Harry was on his way to see Reverend Leroy Edwards, invisible
Selma went with him to the hotel. 

He almost bolted when he entered the lobby, seeing only one white man
inside, while there were dozens of Negroes.  "What the hell.  This 
ain't right," he mumbled to himself.  Self-consciously and nervously he 
eased over to an elevator.  At first, it was empty.  As he saw a black 
woman and two teenagers rushing toward the door, he frantically pressed 
the "14" button, the door closing in their surprised faces.  Harry saw 
three mouths opening, either to say something or in astonishment. 

The elevator opened onto a small landing.  It only had two doors, one
marked with a gold "1," and the other a "2."  Harry thought back to an 
outside view of the hotel.  Holy shit, he thought, half that floor must 
be one suite.  Impressed at the apparent cost, he knocked lightly on 
the door.  It was opened by a very-pretty black woman.  She was 
grinning from ear to ear, as though at a joke. 

"Can I help you, sir." 

You bet, Harry thought, bend over and drop 'um.  Instead, he said, "I
... I'm here to see a preacher.  I forget his name." 

Wife Selma, reading his erotic thoughts, began solidifying one fist,
ready to smack her husband alongside the head.  Here, she'd only been 
gone for a few days -- according to Earth time -- and already he was 
... the bastard.  Luckily, the rock-hard portion of her hand was behind 
his back, unseen. 

"What about?" the woman asked, stepping aside and motioning him in. 

"The judge told me to come here, for 500 fuc ... hours." 

"My name's Esther.  You'll probably be working with me.  Leroy's on the
phone right now. He's been waiting for you," she said, grinning, 
showing perfect white teeth in a black face.  "I hope you like working 
for us." 

"For you?  I -- I -- I dunno.  I never worked for a woman afore or a Nig
... black one.  I dunno." 

"Come on ... Harry.  It is Harry Adams, isn't it?"  She glanced over to
where her boss was turned away, looking out a window, a telephone 
receiver to his ear.  She moved closer, much closer -- a couple of 
inches from his face -- her sweet breath hitting Harry's cheek.  "It 
can't be as bad as a year in jail.  Can it, now?  Me busting your butt 
must be better than you busting rocks." 

Personal space invaded, he jerked backward, even as wife Selma reached
under him from behind  and squeezed his balls with that hardened hand.  
"Yelp, yip yip!" 

Esther and Selma laughed their asses off, Selma's going unheard as Harry
clutched himself and backed toward the door.  Selma, her hand still 
hard as concrete, pushed him back inside. 

"Now, has we got us a bigot or has we got us a BIG-ot, here?" Esther
giggled.  "We is a'gone have us'ns a lot'ta fun.  Almos' as much as 
fried chicken dipped in watermelon juice. 

"You better change that attitude, boy.  Leroy can bounce your pink ass
back to jail, where big black Bubba'll be waitin' fer a new wife." 

"You can't talk to me like that.  No black bitch--" 

"Honey.  I'm Leroy's niece and assistant.  I can talk to you any
frickin' way I want.  You either take it or meet Bubba."  She gave him 
her sweetest smile, just as he saw the preacher hang up and turn his 
way. 

Selma couldn't help smiling.  Between them, she figured they could keep
Harry in line. 

*** 

Leroy gave many speeches, most being for pay or donations, but tried to
avoid actual confrontation.  He took every opportunity to get his name 
or photo in the newspapers. Although wanting recognition, he didn't 
crave danger.  When visiting localities in the north, he stayed in 
fancy hotels.  In the south, only in black enclaves, closely surrounded 
by his staff, his security, and black citizens. 

That staff now included Harry as a token white security guard.  With his
attitude, Esther didn't trust him with a weapon.  He was constantly in 
Leroy's presence, though, wearing a a loud-colored suit or sports coat 
in order to stand out more, as though his white face weren't enough.  
It was part of Leroy's new attitude of showing he was himself 
bi-racially motivated. 

Of course, in such close proximity the two couldn't avoid conversation,
which could sometimes become bitter, to say the least.  That alone kept 
Esther, Leroy's niece and assistant, hopping. 

"What you hope ta accomplish, preacher?" Harry asked, alone with Leroy
while he dressed for an event. "Your people ain't as good as us.  Why 
not haul your black ass back to that pissass town you done came from?" 

"Some day bigots like you will go the way of the dinosaur, Harry."  He
adjusted his tie, bright-red to conflict with a gray suit, his 
trademark. "Make yourself useful and bring me my shoes from the 
bedroom, will you?" 

"Ain't ya more comfy wit'out them, preacher?" 

"I'll have to talk with Esther.  How would you like to be assigned to
shoe-shining duty for my entire entourage?" 

"Jail looks more better all the fucking time, Leroy.  Shove that up your
bla--" 

"Come on, Harry. Time to leave.  Now you put a nice smile on your face,
you hear?" 

*** 

"Why you keep that damned bigoted bastard around you, Leroy?"  Esther
asked, anger in her voice.  "I can keep him out of sight until needed, 
you know?" 

"Because, baby, he reminds me of my mission.  Constantly.  Who was it
that said, 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer'?" 

"Machiavelli, I think.  Either him or Donald the Duck." 

"If I learn to handle this Harry, I don't have to fear others like him."


"If!  That's the keyword, Leroy, if.  That bastard might stick a knife
in you." 

"Like most bullies and bigots, he's too cowardly.  Besides, I enjoy
screwing around with the guy." 

"Up to you.  At least we only have to put up with him for another few
days.  His sentence of community service will be fulfilled." 

"Really?  I haven't kept track.  Gotta do something about that." 

"Leroy!  Please.  You wouldn't." 

He gave her a nice smile as he left the room. 

*** 

Selma the angel kept busy by flitting around the country, spying on both
sides.  Occasionally, she'd sort of nudge a congressman or southern 
official into the right decision.  Although she didn't appear to them, 
she could place ideas into their minds or alter suspicions. 

When two Negroes were denied service at a diner, Selma looked around. 
Finding dozens of idle blacks milling around in a nearby street, she 
mentally suggested they make a few signs up and boycott that diner.  
Although such actions exacerbated the unrest, they did move it in the 
right direction. 

Occasionally, she'd see another angel or sense divine intervention
nearby.   It was nice to know she wasn't alone. When God wanted 
something done, it was done. 

Although not having much time to check on her ex-hubby, she trusted in
Esther to handle that matter. 

*** 

As for Esther, she had been counting the days left on Harry's mandated
community service.  She made a point of marking each one off on a 
calendar she hung on hotel room walls where Harry could see it.  
Finally came the last day, which she expanded to "X" off individual 
hours.  He was due to finish at ten in the morning. 

However, ten am came and went.  She could still see Harry sitting on a
chair on the veranda.  He was studying photos in a Swedish nudist 
magazine. 

"Mr. Adams ... Harry," she called to him.  "Your time's up.  You can
leave any time now.  Bye, bye.  Have a good life." 

He shook his head and grinned.  "Uh, uh, sugar babe.  I'm an official
security guard now.  Leroy hired me last night.  Guess he wants a 
'ghost' around for the photos.  Same job, more pay, babe." 

"Mother Fu--.  Get your pink ass out'a my sight.  Now!" 

Harry laid down his magazine and stood. 

"And take that trashy magazine with you." 

When she, herself, turned and slammed her way out of the room, Harry sat
back down and picked up his literature. 

*** 

Harry had guessed right. From that point, he found himself constantly in
the preacher's presence.  What he didn't know was that Selma had put 
the idea into Leroy's mind, also nudging Harry to accept.  She was 
still intent on changing his nature. 

He was in every photo shoot, usually standing a few feet from the black
minister, a smile on his pale face. 

"Pack your stuff,"  Leroy told him.  "We's got us a gig in Virginia next
Sunday." 

"You sure that's safe, Jigaboo?  Pretty close to those nasty Southerners
you're scared of.  The law there might not like you." 

"I've got you to protect me, whitey.  You're my 'boy'." 

"You know where you can shove that boy shit, you bigoted bastard." 

"Tell ya what, Harry.  There's a five-spot in it for ever' time I call
you ... boy." 

"How's bout I kicks your Nigger ass for every time, instead?" 

"Think you can do it ... boy." 

"Up yours, Nigger." 

Although annoying and threatening to casual listeners, the two had
gotten used to the repartee.  Nowhere near friends, they did get along 
well and Harry followed orders. 

*** 

Selma, also hearing of Leroy's plan to actually attend a large
demonstration in a southern state, something he'd avoided like the 
plague for years, was kept busy at their destination. She cast doubt in 
the minds of officials, edging them away from violence.  The local 
sheriff was contacted by the FBI and urged to actually protect Leroy -- 
on threat of losing his job due to inappropriate election ploys. 

Leroy's entourage was met at the state line by a phalanx of police cars,
escorting him into the city and to a black-owned hotel.  Feeling he was 
safe there and their responsibility covered, they went on to other 
tasks. 

After settling in, Leroy and Esther busy with local representatives and
ministers, Harry, feeling like a fifth-wheel, left to find a drinking 
hole. 

Half a block away from the hotel, he found himself hemmed in by three
large individuals, one on each side and one behind. In total silence, 
they stuck to him like glue, causing Harry to feel more and more 
nervous.  Seeing a bar, he turned and went in, the others following. 

When he tried to step up to sit on a barstool, a large white hand on his
shoulder pulled him back, to steer Harry to a booth, instead.   The 
four of them, all still silent, filled the entire horseshoe-shaped 
seat, a table in the center pressed against Harry's tummy. 

"Four beers," one told a waitress. "Large, please." 

"What you fellas want? I don't have much mon--" 

"You that guy was on television, the one with the cross?" 

"I suppose so." 

"Good work. Least you had the balls to try," a second man said. 

"But what you doin' with that fucking Nigger?" from the first. 

"Leave him alone, Jim.  I read about it.  That fucking judge ordered him
to," the third said. 

"Still ... he should'a took jail 'stead," from the first. 

"What'a fuck you ever did for the cause?" the third shot back at his
companion. 

Harry felt he had to say something, "If  it'd happened to you, see what
you'd do?  I was in jail once and fuck if I want another stint." 

"What, I asked, are you doin' with the black bastard, uh?  What you do,
stand around like, looking pretty?" 

"Ugly fuck.  He ain't  so pretty." from the second, giggling while
ruffling Harry's hair with a paw the size of a catcher's mitt.  "Maybe 
we can fix that, you think?" 

"Na.  I don't think we need to, Jerry.  He's on our side, ain't ya?" 

Harry relaxed a bit, or tried to.  "Yeah.  Sure I am.  What the hell you
talking about?" 

"What kind'a security the Nigger got, up there?" from the first. 

"Uh,"  Harry tried to think quickly, not a skill he'd ever acquired.
"Uh, six armed guards, big black fuckers, two with Juie Jitsuie.  You'd 
never get to him," he lied.  He was the only official security. Leroy 
thought all the normal people around him would make him safe. 

"Christ, black motherfucker," from man number three. 

The first man, seemingly the leader, turned Harry's head to look him in
the eye. "Listen to me, cross-burner.  Get that bastard out the back 
door tomorrow morning, without those guards, and you'll be $500 richer. 
 Don't, and we'll get him some other time, you along with the fucker.  
Understand me?" 

"Yeah, yessir." 

The three stood, leaving Harry alone in the booth with four untouched
beers.  Harry made quick work of the drinks before staggering back to 
his room. 

*** 

"Oh!  My good God, Harry," Esther cried, reaching over to hug him. 
"That must have been a horrible experience.  I'm calling the police. 
Right now." 

Harry sat, shivering and listening as she talked to someone at the
police department.  It had been hard for him to rat on his own race, 
especially to someone who'd tried her best to make life miserable for 
him.  And it had even been without Selma's prompting. 

Although he did despise Leroy's cowardice, his getting rich on
government grants and donations while never putting his own ass in 
danger, he still couldn't stand by and let him be killed.  Not even for 
$500.  Not that he really expected to collect.  A cross was one thing, 
murder another. 

She hung up the phone, brows scrunched as though thinking.  "We can't
tell Leroy." 

"Why the hell not?" 

"He'd call the whole thing off and run back to Ohio like a scared
bunny." 

"Then what? Go out the front door instead?" 

"No.  The chief told me there was talk of a sniper out there. Too many
places he could shoot from.  Large buildings all around, as well as 
there'll be a crowd of Leroy's fans a hired black killer could hide in. 


"The sheriff has a plan he's used for visiting dignitaries.  He'll have
three police cars at the rear of the hotel, with armed policemen at the 
ready.  We're to jump into all of them.  Since they probably wouldn't 
dare shoot at police cars, and won't know which one Leroy's in, anyway, 
we'll be safe." 

"The cops will know." 

"Only the drivers at the last minute, and they'll be in the front seats,
driving." 

*** 

While the rest of Leroy's people used the front door to greet their
fans, Leroy, Esther, and Harry hurried out the back. 

As promised, three cars waited back there, with three officers standing
by.  One was armed with a high-powered rifle, complete with scope, 
hanging idly down by his side. 

Shocked, Harry realized they were the same three men as the day before,
only in uniform and smiling widely. 

"Well, Adams.  I see you came through," cop one said.  "Now back away
and hold your ears." 

Esther looked around, initially surprised face now brimming with anger. 
"You white piece of shit.  You're in with them." 

Meanwhile, Leroy fell to his knees, arms raised to plead for mercy. 
Tears ran down his face. "Please," he cried out, the rest lost in 
mumbling amid the laughter of the police. 

"He-he.  Listen to the crying Nigger," from one of the cops.  Turning to
Harry, he asked, "You want the bitch?  Go ahead, let the fucker watch 
you shoot her."  He walked over to hand Harry the rifle. "It'll look 
like a sniper did it.  I already told the sheriff one would be around 
here somewhere.  Why not back here?" 

Hands sweating, Harry looked across at Esther as he accepted the weapon.
 Unbidden tears came to his own eyes. Suddenly, he lifted the rifle 
toward one of the policemen, firing the weapon. 

As the man fell, Harry swung toward a second, only then jerking at his
holster. 

That was when Selma, his guardian angel, arrived. 

Harry didn't have a chance to fire again, something hitting his shoulder
like a sledgehammer, twisting him and the rifle to the side as it threw 
him to the ground. 

Unseen bolts of energy came from the skies, causing intense feelings of
confusion in the minds of the other two assassins.  Jolted, they fell 
to the asphalt parking lot, senseless. 

Already confused by the sudden actions, a disembodied female voice
sounded in Esther's mind,  "Go to him, girl.  You can have the 
son-a-bitch."  It came along with a strong sense of emotion, one that 
could be interpreted as love.  She rushed over to the nervous hero. 

More police, accompanied by part of the crowd attracted by the shots,
arrived around the sides of the hotel.   They included a newspaper 
cameraman who started snapping photos.  A few were of Esther clasping 
an almost senseless Harry to her chest.  Others caught Leroy, still on 
his knees with tears flowing down both cheeks. 

When the photos hit nationwide newspapers, Leroy's career was finished. 
Fear of personal danger changed him, sending him back to that little 
ministry. 

The sudden influence of heavenly love created between Harry and Esther
assured he would be under control.  The two are still together, living 
and constantly arguing in California. Heaven's information office 
wouldn't tell me about Selma's future. 

The End.


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