“Yes, Jesus.”
“Brother Henry,” Reverend Baldwin says softly. “Our brother Henry proved an old saying that we all hear from the time we’re children, but one we never quite believe.” The old man holds up his long right arm, and in his hand is a fountain pen. In full voice he cries: “The pen is mightier than the sword!”
A swell of emotion fills the church, and cries of praise ricochet through the echo chamber created by the seasoned wood that holds us. When the calls finally subside, Reverend Baldwin still holds the pen high, like a wand that might spew lightning at any moment. “‘The word of God is sharper than a two-edged sword,’” he quotes, “‘penetrating even between soul and spirit, joints and marrow, and able to discern reflections and thoughts of the heart.’”
“Amen!” shouts a woman close to us, and Annie’s mouth falls open in wonder.
Reverend Baldwin pauses, and the brief silence is filled by the sound of shifting bodies and gurgling babies. Then he speaks in the voice of a grandparent recalling his grown child as a toddler.
“Henry must have asked me ten thousand questions during his life. He was like a child that way—always another question. Who? Where? What time was it, Rev? How many were there, Rev? But most of all, he asked the question the youngest children ask—the hardest question of all to answer. Why? ‘Why did they do that, Reverend Baldwin?’ Or ‘Why didn’t they do such-and-such?’ You wouldn’t know that from reading Henry’s stories, because newspaper stories aren’t generally about the why of things. But I believe Henry was saving up all the why answers to put in a book someday—a real book, like Mayor Penn Cage writes—but not fiction. A true book. Henry’s book of ‘Why?’ And now . . . now that book will never be written.”
Reverend Baldwin turns and walks solemnly to Henry’s casket, then lays his hand on the polished metal. “A lot of history died with this man. Satan will bury a world of truth with Henry Sexton. And the same is true of that poor young lady who published the Natchez newspaper. On Wednesday night Brother Henry gave his life to save Caitlin Masters, and when she died on Friday, she did it following in his footsteps.”
Annie grips my hand hard enough to stop my circulation.
“One more bullet flew,” Reverend Baldwin says, “and more truth fell into darkness. But hear me, friends and neighbors. Bullets can’t kill truth. They can kill flesh, but truth does not die—no more than the soul does. The truth is all around us still, waiting for someone to find the courage of the fallen champion we mourn today. And though it might seem like the dark times of forty years ago have returned, I tell you now: the truth that Brother Henry and Miss Masters died for must not be buried with them.”
“No, Jesus!”
“Because the truth shall set us free.”
“AMEN! Yes, Lord!”
After the thunder of amens subsides, Reverend Baldwin’s voice drops to a confiding murmur. “I said that Brother Henry reminded me of a child with his questions. But Henry Sexton was not a child. And if you’ve asked yourself what this white man is doing in this church of ours, I say this to you”—Reverend Baldwin looks out and seems to find every pair of eyes in the room—“Henry Sexton was not a white man.”
This time no one cries out. Everyone in the church leans forward with bated breath, even the children, waiting to see what Reverend Baldwin will say.
“Henry wasn’t a white man,” he repeats. “No. Henry Sexton was a man. Just a man. Do you hear me, brothers and sisters?”
The exhalation doesn’t come for several seconds, and when it does it’s like a gasp of comprehension.
“A man,” echoes a woman near the back, as though speaking the word for the first time.
Reverend Baldwin looks down at the coffin and speaks softly. “A man is a hard thing to be, friends. And my final word on Henry is taken not from scripture, but from one of the musicians Henry loved so much: Mr. Muddy Waters.”
“Lord, Lord,” moans an old man near us.
“What did Muddy say?” asks a female voice.
“‘Ain’t that a man?’” quotes Reverend Baldwin, pronouncing man as main as he points at the coffin. Now his voices rises, and he stabs his finger at the coffin. “I said, Ain’t that a man?”
“Yes, Lord! Praise Jesus!” comes a counterpoint of impassioned voices.
Out of this chorus rises a soft flurry of piano notes, and then the younger Reverend Baldwin walks to the lectern.
“Brothers and sisters, we’re going to be blessed today by a unique musical performance. A song by two performers who’ve traveled two thousand miles to be with us today. The first grew up in Ferriday, but she hasn’t been back for more than twenty years. Brothers and sisters, friends . . . Miss Swan Norris.”
A thrill of shock and anticipation races through the crowd, as though the pastor has announced the presence of a recording star. Swan Norris, I echo silently, the name hurling me back to Thursday night when Caitlin and I made love at Edelweiss after my face-off with Sheriff Byrd. As we lay in the shadows of the master suite upstairs, Caitlin told me a story she’d read in one of Henry’s journals, a tale of childhood innocence and passion that had moved her profoundly. How happy it would have made Henry to know that the love of his young life would return to Ferriday to sing at his funeral.