The varnished cherry wood finish was the same. Forkpa ran his right hand over the shelf as he drew the curtain with his left. The curtain was sewn from a cloth so dark purple it almost looked black. Dim light squeezed through the lattice partition making a fuzzy grid on his face. Forkpa sat on the mahogany high-backed chair that was a gift from the Knights of St. John to the parish, set flush against the partition. The breathing from the other side told him that he was not alone.

“Good morning Father,” Forkpa greeted.

“My son-oh,” the voice beyond the partition began in a pseudo-Liberian accent, “confess your sins and seek genuine forgiveness yah, because that’s the way the Lord will cleanse and make thee whole again.”

Forkpa took a deep breath to steady himself, filling his lungs with incense-laced air. The air in his chest forced out the words: “For-give m-me Father.” Forkpa cleared his throat, then shifted on the uncomfortable plank chair. “Forgive me Father for I have sinned. Eh, it has been four years since my last confession.” He swallowed the cough tickling his throat.

“Forkpa Gotoe?” The voice blushed with happy surprise. “Is that you? Forkpa?”

Time stopped ticking, choking off air in the process. Forkpa coughed, struggling to breathe. The confession booth was smaller now, the smell of incense heavy. A round, bloated pause wrapped itself snugly around Forkpa’s throat, daring him to speak.

“You okay? Everything alright?”

The coughing from Forkpa’s gut was loud and persistent. The voice leaned towards the lattice partition, “My man, you don’t sound too good. I’ll get you some water.” The voice, like the place, had not changed.

Forkpa stumbled out without opening the purple-black curtains. Outside of the church, he blinked several times while his eyes adjusted to the late-morning sunlight. It was Saturday, his second day back home after being away at school for four years while earning a business management degree at the University of Ghana at Legon. Forkpa knew he would have to make many adjustments. He’d been making them since 1973.

After he left Gbarnga for Accra, Ghana, Forkpa became adept at concocting reasons why he couldn’t make it back: summer school; summer job; volunteer work; travel problems. Sometimes even he forgot why he avoided returning home. Being at St. Francis this morning brought the ten year old truth crashing back.

Forkpa was twelve years old when he asked his mother: “If God created everybody equal, then how come women can’t be priests?” It was the first Sunday of August 1973, and the Gotoe family had begun their drive home from the St. Francis Church. Sianeh and Paul had believed for some time that their son was far too inquisitive. Sianeh turned to face her son in the back seat.

“You-boy,” she began, “we’ve been concerned about all these for-nothing questions you have. I don’t understand why a young man like you has such a wandering mind. It must be the devil’s work.” Sianeh glanced at Paul for endorsement. He turned quickly and nodded. She continued, “Since the devil is busy filling your head with foolishness, we asked the Father to counsel you, um, talk to you.” Sianeh paused to allow the words to find their home. “It’s for your own good.”

Paul joined in, “Yes, you need to deepen your faith, eh, strengthen it.” Mr. Gotoe had insisted on being called Paul instead of Flomo after he was baptized.

Forkpa’s smile spread fast, the way palm oil does when it is hot. “When does it start?” he asked.

“The last Saturday of each month,” his mother answered, “beginning this month.”

Paul added, “You can have your talk, then go to confession and be ready for church on Sunday.” His parents had this all plotted out.

“Hmm, good,” Forkpa said, beaming.

The priest’s residence was perched on a hill in the St. Francis courtyard overlooking the church and the Diocese of Gbarnga’s administrative building. From the church below, the residence appeared imposing. Parishioners didn’t go up there unless they had good reason. Forkpa had only seen the house from the church’s vantage point, so simply driving up the hill was exhilarating.

Father Edward Dunnigan was at the front door to greet Forkpa and his parents when they drove up on the last Saturday of August. It was 9:30 a.m., cool, and during the rainy season, so Father Edward looked paler than he did during the warm dry season. His skin assumed more of a red hue the hotter it became. His eyes popped out as if his white priestly collar was choking him. Father Edward always appeared to be staring, and his bulging eyes demanded you look away lest you risk offending him. Originally from Indiana in the U.S., Edward Dunnigan, ordained in 1963, was appointed St. Francis’s parish priest the next year and had been in Gbarnga since.

“Welcome, my people, welcome-oh,” the Father greeted in his phony Liberian accent. Even after 15 years in the country, his efforts at mimicking Liberian speech patterns fell woefully short. Forkpa found out later that no one told the priest he sounded ridiculous because, they said, “At least he’s trying.”

The mystery shrouding the house-on-the-hill unraveled to Forkpa as they walked towards the smiling man. Hedges lining the walkway were so squarely trimmed that they resembled simple green boxes on sticks. Forkpa wasn’t sure why the bases of the coconut trees scattered in the front yard were painted white. They looked bandaged and defaced. The tops of several granite rocks jutted from the earth. The boldest of them were wide enough for people to sit on.

“Come in my friends, come in yah,” Father Edward stayed in character.

“Thank you Father,” Sianeh spoke for the family, smiling in deference. “You’re looking good.”

“Yes, yes,” Paul endorsed. Forkpa’s parents stayed for about ten minutes, as if hanging around was a display of bad manners.

Up close, the tan and light-green paint combination both inside and out was unimpressive to Forkpa. Inside, the air smelled of burnt mosquito coil, and the walls were bare, save for a painting of a blond-haired Jesus with eyes too blue. There were also nondescript wooden crosses positioned on the walls such that one was visible from every angle. The house was quiet, clean, the furniture spare: four cushion-less rattan chairs plus an unadorned bamboo coffee table.

Father Edward set the ground rules after Paul and Sianeh left. “You can talk to me my son,” he assured. His big eyes were comforting to Forkpa, who managed to relax a little on the uneven rattan chair. “Whatever we discuss is between you and me my man – like a confession, you hear?”

Forkpa, relieved, nodded, “Yes Father.” Besides their voices, there was no other noise except the coconut tree limbs rustling in the slight morning breeze.

“Your ma tells me that the devil has been playing tricks on you.”

Forkpa lowered his head. His heart flailed against his chest. The priest put his arm around Forkpa’s shoulders and said: “Bah, don’t worry about that, we’ll fix it.” He smiled, then continued, “Well, all we have is an hour today, so let’s get started.”

Forkpa enjoyed the first three sessions with Father Edward because he got to ask all the questions he desired. The priest only dodged a few of them, but Forkpa knew when to stop. He didn’t even want to think about the kind of whopping he would get if the Father told his parents that he was being difficult.

Forkpa had been dropped off for his fourth meeting at the house-on-the-hill when Father Edward said, “Please take a quick shower before we begin our talk today.”

“B-but,” Forkpa wanted to say something; felt like he needed to say more, but all he said was, “Okay.”

He was beginning to rinse off when the words to the song “Blood of Jesus” seeped through the cement block wall. Hearing music in the house threw him off for a moment, but he gathered himself and continued to turn under the shower.

What can wash away my sins
Nothing but the blood of Jesus

The song grew louder, more distinct when the bathroom door swung open. A figure, distorted by the plastic shower curtain, entered with the swelling music.

What can make me whole again
Nothing but the blood of Jesus

Oh precious is that flow
that makes me white as snow
No other help I know

“Let me help you scrub your back.” The priest’s voice carried over the music. Forkpa could feel Father Edward staring at him.

“Er, but, it’s okay,” Forkpa wanted to turn the water off, but his hands refused to oblige. “No thank you Father; I already know how to shower. Besides, it’s barely 9:45 a.m. and I didn’t play basketball or anything before coming, so I wasn’t even dirty before taking this bath.” Forkpa would have said this and more to the approaching figure, but his throat disallowed it. He remained mute as the shower curtain slid to the right.

“Pass me the soap and turn around, please,” the offer was persistent. Father Edward’s sleeves were already rolled up.

Forkpa noticed the newly-revealed mole on the priest’s right forearm; it wasn’t the reddish-pink shade of its owner’s skin, but cayenne pepper brown, like Forkpa’s complexion.

“We can even begin talking in here,” the priest offered. “Everything remains between us. Remember?” His touch felt colder than the water.

Nothing but the blood of Jesus

On that Monday, following the last Saturday of August 1973, when Forkpa told his parents that he had no further questions about religion, they told him that he was trying to get out of the sessions.

“All you want to do is play table tennis and basketball whole day Saturday and Sunday,” his mother deduced. “Papee, I know you.”

Several months later, Paul used a coarse leather belt to decorate Forkpa’s arms, butt, and back with welts. It happened when Forkpa let slip that he wanted to end the meetings with the priest. “Paul Gotoe ain’t raising no heathen under his roof.” Paul yelled this over and over as the lashes transformed his son’s skin into raised crisscrossing lines.

Forkpa’s parents took him to the house-on-the-hill, on the last Saturday of every month, for two uninterrupted years.

After Father Edward’s voice made him dash out of the booth, Forkpa’s walk morphed into a jog as he skirted across St. Francis’s courtyard and headed into the street. He flagged a cab.

“Behind the Gbarnga Police Station,” he said to the driver who nodded.

Forkpa entered the five-bedroom, split-level house through the back door, hoping to avoid his parents. He ran into his mother nonetheless, as he entered the hallway from the oval dining room. He said hello then tried to continue on his way.

“Back already?” Sianeh asked. “That was quick.”

“Yeah,” Forkpa stopped, replied, then began walking towards his room. His mother’s voice delayed his plans again.

“Papee, you saw Father Edward right?” she asked while pulling her hair into a bun.

Old Lady Deah, Sianeh’s mother, had given Forkpa the nickname “Papee” when he was four, because as she explained, “dis boy here’s too clehva – he alreaday ole’ pa.”

“Nope.” Forkpa didn’t face his mother when he said this, hoping that nothing else would follow.

“What?” his mother blurted. “He’s always around the church there somewhere. Did you look for him?”

“No, um, um, because I didn’t have time,” Forkpa lied, while turning to face his mother. By his fourteenth birthday, he was already taller than her. Now, at twenty-two years old, he towered over her five-foot-four-inch frame.

Done fixing her hair, Sianeh had her arms akimbo on her slight hips, staring at her only child. A miracle had made him possible; complications prevented the attempted encores.

“You know that man went out of his way to help you. Father was always telling us how smart you were, that you were very intelligent.” Her smile was broad. Forkpa nodded, almost ashamed.

“Aye mehn, I can’t believe you didn’t go find him,” Sianeh was disappointed. “I hope your pa doesn’t ask you about Father Edward. The fuss last night was enough for me.” She then walked away.

Forkpa got to his room, plopped on the bed like a bag of rice, and decided to rest a little. He pulled himself off the bed after a while because he couldn’t shake the thoughts about how the night before had ended.

After the graduation party that his parents threw in his honor was over, Forkpa helped Cousin Phekpe and his mother straighten up. Cousin Phekpe, the same age as his parents, lived close by and always helped with events at the house. While Forkpa, his mom, and cousin were buzzing around cleaning, his father, Paul, who had fallen asleep on the couch, awoke with a loud yawn and began to limp off to bed.

“Y’all louder than the party was.” Paul paused on the way to his room, “Like being at the central market.”

Phekpe chuckled, “Cous, you sure ‘bout that? I don’t know how you could go to sleep like that with these children’s boom-boom music going on.” She shook her head and continued wiping down the brown, tempered-glass coffee table.

Paul faced his son. “Forkpa, did you enjoy your party tonight?” Forkpa nodded. Paul went on, “Since tomorrow is Saturday you can attend confession to get ready for First Sunday at church.”

“Oh,” was all Forkpa mustered.

As Paul was leaving the living room, he told Forkpa, “Father Edward has been asking about you. He was happy when I told him that you were coming home this weekend. You should look for him tomorrow at the church.” Then he disappeared into the master bedroom.

When the house was in order Sianeh said: “Phekpe, it’s late, so please stay in the guest room.”

“You don’t have to ask me two times,” Phekpe replied. “I love that big, soft bed. Good night my people!”

Sianeh put her arm around her son’s waist as they began to walk towards the bedrooms. Neither heard Paul coming out to get some water.

“Um, eh,” Forkpa muttered, “it’ll probably take me a couple days to recover from the packing, the trip . . . everything.” Forkpa, like his mother, was as slender as a coconut tree, so he knew his claims of fatigue sounded plausible.

“I know,” Sianeh agreed, “it must’ve been hard on my baby.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Forkpa nodded, looking at his mother. They had stopped walking. “So, um, is it okay if I rest for the next couple of days instead of getting up first thing in the morning to go to confession and church?”

“WHAT?!”

Sianeh was staring at her son in disbelief, but her lips hadn’t moved. Forkpa, startled by his father’s voice, jerked his head up to face him.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN MISS CHURCH?” His father lurched towards him. “Miss church? After the Lord, in ALL his glory kept you safe at school and delivered you home in one piece? Now–” Paul had to catch his breath. His balloon of a stomach stretched noticeably with each gulp of air. “Now you’re too tired to praise him?” His voice ricocheted off the cream walls. Paul’s finger pointed to the moon’s faraway light dropping in through the slats of window glass, bouncing on the backside of the curtains.

Paul was now nose-to-nose with his son. “This is the same stupidity we had Father Edward address with you.” He pushed Forkpa’s head back with his index finger. Forkpa’s eyes begged his mother to intervene.

She came in on cue. “Paul,” Sianeh appealed, gently moving his finger from Forkpa’s face, “please calm down. I’m sure he didn’t mean it. The boy is tired, he made a mistake.”

“Mistake?” Paul continued shouting, his body threatening to hyperventilate. “Did that sound like any mistake to you? Did it? Maybe he wants for the Lord to make a mistake with his salvation.”

Sianeh stared at the marble floor instead of answering. The light from the kitchen posed her in silhouette in the ten foot dining room archway. She was still.

Paul turned back to his son. “You’re going to church and confession too! YOU WILL NOT miss them for any reason – understand? Paul Gotoe didn’t raise no filthy heathen!” His finger wagged with finality.

“Sorry,” Forkpa muffled, glancing at his mother for reassurance. His father had already stormed off, and Phekpe, who had shuffled into the hallway, retreated. Sianeh’s eyes told her son that she understood, that everything would be okay. She turned and walked into the kitchen. The corner swallowed her whole.

“Papee,” Sianeh called from the hallway. Hearing his nickname pulled Forkpa away from his daydream. He stepped out of his room.

“Let’s go visit your Nana Deah. She’s been dying to see you. You know she sick?” Forkpa didn’t, but nodded anyway.

“Okay,” Forkpa said, “let me get ready.” He was tired from last night’s party, but his mother's mother was one of his favorite people, so he didn’t mind going.

Forkpa went to bathe before going out with his mother. Maybe he shouldn’t have stayed away for so long he thought, stepping into the shower. But, maybe, he couldn’t help it. Entering the confessional booth today had unnerved him.

Forkpa moved the towel around his body with vigor, making certain not to miss a spot, especially on his back. He lathered up and attacked himself five times before he felt satisfied. This is something he had been doing for ten years.

It was raining when Forkpa walked out on the front porch to join his mother. Sianeh was sitting in a wicker chair. The porch overlooked the unpaved road that led to the busy Gbarnga Central Market. Forkpa made eye contact, but Sianeh remained seated, so he pulled up a chair and sat beside her.

“Let’s wait for the rain to cool down,” Sianeh suggested.

“Where’s the o'pa?” Forkpa had noticed that the Peugeot was not in the three-car garage.

“Who knows where your pa is,” Sianeh smirked. “I don’t ask him where he’s going, and he doesn’t tell me.” She gazed at the rain-lashed sour sap tree in the front yard and shook her head as if thinking of long-evaporated better days.

“Papee, remember how you used to run outside when it started raining? I always used to find you outside, just looking at who knows what. Remember that?”

Forkpa did remember. When it began to rain, he would squat under the light green awning of the house and watch objects become hazy in the distance. Houses, roads, trees, rocks, people . . . everything was blurry behind the wall of water. There were even backbeats: water pounding wet holes in the ground was complemented by rain’s rhythm pelting rooftops. Zinc roofs provided the best melody. The wetness also shook loose an invigorating smell of earth gritty enough to taste. It was a perfect show.

Sianeh began quietly weeping as Paul turned the car into the yard. Forkpa moved his chair closer to his mother, taking her hands in his. Her tears had symmetry, two identical rivulets streaming from each of her eyes, but no backbeats, no rhythm. He asked her why she was crying.

“Papee, my son,” she sniffed. “I know you’re going away again to get your masters degree.” The Peugeot pulled into the garage, the engine shut off. “Er, um, I-I want you to go,” Sianeh stuttered, “but please come back soon.”

The screen door squeaked as Paul entered from the garage. The rain went from a howl to a hum. Sianeh wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “Please don’t let what happened between you and your pa last night keep you from me . . . I beg you.”

“I hope everybody is ready for First Sunday tomorrow,” Paul addressed the middle of the house. Forkpa and Sianeh heard him from the porch. “Paul Gotoe is going to the 9:00 a.m. mass.”

“I can't forget you mama,” Forkpa rubbed his mother’s hands. He thought about seeing Father Edward at church tomorrow, but the rain’s soothing song kept him from crying.


FIVE YEARS LATER

“Papee, Papee,” Sianeh pleaded over crackling static, “listen to me. I’m talking about your own pa.” Sianeh Gotoe had been calling Accra since 3:00 a.m. trying to track Forkpa down. She sat upright on the sofa in the sunken living room. It was May 1988, during the rainy season, but the sun was performing a cameo this late morning. It dropped in through the white sheer curtains, brightening the house as if its warmth was trying to massage her pain.

“What do you mean it’s not ‘bout your pa?” Sianeh’s lips quivered. “Then why did you cut your visit short the last time you were here? Wasn’t it because you two were arguing?” Sianeh’s hand caused the cell phone to tap against the side of her face. “Papee-oh, whatever made you leave . . . . ” She sighed as if her sanity demanded it. “It’s been over five years. Five years you hear me? Y-you’re our only child! You have to come!”

Sianeh fidgeted on the couch. “Aye my son,” she sniffed after the calm objection forced out tears, “don’t say that to me. Don’t. If nothing else, come for my sake. I beg you.”

Sianeh’s trembling voice undermined her effort to be forceful, “Forkpa Gotoe, your pa is dead. He’s dead!”

No answer. She sniffed again. When she had managed to track Forkpa down in Ghana to tell him about his grandmother’s death, he had told her, “I’ll be there for Nana’s final rites.” He never showed up.

“You didn't come when my ma died. Don’t disappoint me again. Please. The first time was bad enough, I swear. You have to be at your pa’s funeral–” The minutes on the calling card ran out and the line went mute.

St. Francis, which held about 300 people, was jam packed for Paul Gotoe’s home going service. Sianeh sat in the front right pew wearing the same black lappa suit with matching head-tie she had worn to her mother’s funeral in 1985. Sympathizers fanned themselves with funeral handouts as the fans labored to keep up. The sun paid its respects through the bright-colored stained glass panels circling the church.

Sianeh, sweating in silence, didn’t fan herself. She did nothing but think about her child who wasn’t there and look at her husband lying in his final bed. After a litany of testimonials extolling the virtues of Paul Gotoe—several of which Sianeh had never experienced in their 28 years of marriage—and a short sermon, the crowd began making its way to the gravesite.

When the service was over, Father Edward went to his office to pick up the burial ritual book. Sianeh along with a few close relatives were riding to the All Saints Cemetery with the priest, so they waited for him in the church’s parking lot.

Father Edward was locking his office door when he spun around to face a hardened gaze. The eyes burned into him like the searing December sun. The priest's skin, except for the cayenne-pepper-brown mole on his right forearm, began to flush red. He clutched the ritual book to his stomach and kept as still as the body for which he had just preached a homily. Father Edward’s already bulging eyes seemed wider, but they didn’t blink.

The fluorescent light in the hallway close to the priest’s office flickered. The olive green hallway was so quiet that the second hand of the oversized wall clock jerked without the accompanying tick.

“Um, eh, hey,” Father Edward tried to recover while his heart hammered through his chest. “H-hello, how’re you?” Time froze.

“Father Edward?” Sianeh’s voice echoed down the hall. “Father, you back there?” The hallway, lined with bulletins and flyers, made a 90 degree turn from the entry door to the offices, so Sianeh couldn’t see the priest. “Everybody’s gone.”

She continued to advance and was about to say something else when she rounded the bend. “Oh-my-god Forkpa!” she shrieked. “Papee!” Sianeh moved closer slowly, arms outstretched, like someone trying to catch a country chicken from behind.

“Papee, y-you’re here.” The expression carved on her mouth was a cross between a forced smile and crying. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here? I didn’t even know . . . ”

Forkpa blinked after a swollen pause then turned towards his mother. The fluorescent tube of light flickered once more. Father Edward shifted from one foot to the next, but kept his back against his office door. Sianeh hugged her son close, heaving her chest into his.

“Let’s go bury your pa,” she whispered while leading Forkpa into the corridor. “We’ll talk later.” Forkpa followed his mother haltingly. “It’s good to see you,” she said, “so good.”

Father Edward walked behind the mother and the son that towered over her, remaining several paces back as if the spirits of the ancestors had forbidden him to get any closer.

Two days later Forkpa would say “I don’t want to talk about it” when his mother asked what his standoff with the priest was about. A week following the funeral, Sianeh mustered the courage to go to Father Edward’s office to ask him about the episode in the hallway.

The priest’s office was as plain as his residence. A framed, blond Jesus stood guard on the white wall behind the gray metal desk and the medium-height swivel chair. The front wall had a wooden cross intertwined with dried-out palm thatch from the last Palm Sunday celebration. Two unadorned wooden chairs faced the desk.

After being ushered in, Sianeh went through obligatory greetings, then muttered, “Um, eh, w-wanted to ask ‘bout the incident between you and Forkpa.”

“Enh?” Father Edward was incredulous. “What incident?”

“After Paul’s service, I came back here to check on you a-and Papee, er, Forkpa was staring you down.” Sianeh squinted involuntarily. “I’ve never seen my son like that Father. Never.” She moved to the edge of the plank chair and looked the priest in his big eyes. “What happened between you two?”

Father Edward squirmed in his chair, cleared his throat; his eyes danced around his office. He cracked his knuckles before blurting out: “We’ve all fallen short of his glory.”

“Wha-? What’re you talking about?”

“Nothing, nothing. Uh, uh, we all have our tribulations.”

“Yeah, b-but-”

“Don’t worry, it was nothing.” Father Edward interrupted, coercing a smile he hoped would release the tension slapping against his temples. “I love Fff-, um, I love the entire Gotoe family as you know.”

“Yes, you’ve been good to us and generous with your time. I remember when you counseled Forkpa for two good years. We’re still grateful because I’m sure it made a difference in his life.”

Sianeh stood up, straightened her lappa then said, “Not sure what came over me Father. Sorry for bothering you.”

“It’s alright. No problem yah.”

“Well, lemme go. Wanted to pass by All Saints before it gets dark. Thanks for speaking with me.

“Don’t mention-oh.” The priest smiled easier now, “Aye-yah, you must be going to see Paul. Take care.”

The Saturday that Sianeh talked to the priest was the same day Forkpa decided to go to the gravesite to pay his proper respects. He had on black slacks and the navy blue, short-sleeved Vai shirt his Grandma Deah had given him as a graduation gift. When she handed it to him she had said, “From all your gran-peepo dem. I givin’ it since I de onlay one not wit de ancesta dem.” He had found the shirt in the packed suitcase he had left behind five years earlier.

Forkpa turned the Peugeot station wagon into the narrow entrance of the All Saints Cemetery, which was in the southwest corner of the city. He hadn’t been here since the seventh grade, when his friend Boima Boikai’s mother was buried.

The cemetery cradled its dead in tight plots that encroached on the path doubling as a road. The grass growing down the middle of the road tickled the undercarriage of cars as they navigated around cracked tombstones leaning for attention; past crumbling graves with holes wide enough for their occupants to slither in and out of; by faded paint and withered plants that refused to blow away.

Forkpa parked near the newer, better maintained sites. Using the description the neighbors had provided, he found the grave easily. After thirty seconds, when his legs could no longer support him, he collapsed to his knees, a wounded soldier, and closed his eyes. “Nana, I-I’m so sorry,” he whispered, battling the lump clogging his throat. A pepper bird fluttered above. “So sorry.”

The tombstone staring at Forkpa had a fresh coat of paint and no cracks. Even the wild grass growing in the crevices between plots receded to pay homage. When Forkpa opened his eyes, he noticed the sun dropping between the leaves of the guava and paw-paw trees bordering the west side of the cemetery. There were clouds gathering in an amber sky.

Sianeh plucked some purple hibiscus flowers from St. Francis’s courtyard on her way to the graveyard. The sun was kissing the golden line in the distance as she walked through the west entrance. She treaded on the in-step of her feet, as if trying not to disturb the cemetery’s permanent residents. Sianeh recognized her son’s back and shoulders before she was in hearing range. She moved towards him, blending seamlessly into the noise of the approaching evening.

“Nana,” Forkpa willed the words out. “I wanted to be at your funeral. I wanted to see you before you died. Really did. It was too-” Forkpa dropped his head as if the words he needed were scattered in the dirt.

“It was too soon after I heard that m-man’s voice Nana. The one that told me to ‘go bathe’ each time I was dropped me off at the house-on-the-hill for counseling, er, talking to. You know, over at the St. Francis compound.”

Sianeh, now about seven feet behind her son, was as still as the crammed-together headstones surrounding them. The sun had said goodbye, but lent its final light, while the wind began to rustle the tree leaves. The spirits observed in silence.

“Y-you’re the one person I can tell what that man did to me: rubbing, touching me . . . ” Forkpa closed his eyes, swallowed hard.

“The old folks, the o'pa in particular, would never have believed me. Nana, remember how he beat me when I asked to stop going to that place? Remember how you used alcohol to clean the sores on my back, arms and my butt? You were so gentle I didn’t even feel the sting from the alcohol.”

Forkpa sighed, “I wanted to be here for you Nana, but it was too soon after the o'pa forced me to go to confession, which is where I heard that man’s voice. Yeah, I knew I’d run into him if I came to your service.” Forkpa wiped the lone tear snaking from his left eye. He lifted one knee off the ground. “Couldn’t do it Nana. I just couldn’t . . . ”

Sianeh tried to call out to her son, but her vocal cords betrayed her.

“Anyway, now that you’re with the ancestors, like you used to say, only the old ma still calls me Papee – the name you gave me.” Forkpa opened his eyes. Dusk, fortified by gray water clouds, had settled over Gbarnga like tarpaulin over fragile goods.

“I saw him Nana.”

Sianeh’s lips moved, but still nothing. Her legs didn’t work either.

“At the o'pa’s funeral. I went to him after the service.”

Sianeh’s body rattled with each pound of her now violent heart.

“Nana, I might’ve killed him if I knew how-”

Sianeh dropped the purple hibiscus flowers and screamed, “Papee!" Forkpa leapt up and whirled around. Drizzle began to fall in the early May evening. For several moments mother and son stared at each other while listening to the thunder announce the rain.

“P-Papee, let’s go home.”

“How long you been there?”

Sianeh remained cast in her spot, but extended her right arm towards her son. She wasn’t sure if the drizzle had been enough to make her face as wet as it was. “You should’ve told me.”

“You wouldn't have believed me, especially because of the o'pa.” Forkpa pushed out a heavy breath. “I needed someone to understand. To stop it.”

Sianeh lowered her head for a moment, then looked up at her son. “I believe you.”

“Thank you Mama, thank you. Hearing that means so much to me. I can't tell you. I’ve been struggling . . . so long.”

Sianeh moved towards her son, pulled him into her embrace, then laid her head on his heart as if listening to the pulse of life. Forkpa lowered his head until his face touched the top of his mother’s hair.

“That day,” Forkpa cleared his throat, “after papa’s funeral, I had planned to slap the devil out of that man. But, when I saw him in the hallway I realized that he was nothing more than a weak, weak person. When I looked in his eyes I knew he couldn’t hurt me anymore.” Forkpa shook his head slowly, “No more.”

Sianeh remained quiet for a few seconds, then said: “Let’s go before it starts raining hard.”

The next day roosters were still yelling at the breaking dawn when Father Edward answered the unyielding knocking at his door.

“Forkpa! What’s wrong? What’re you doing here?” Shock stretched the priest’s eyes and locked them in place.

“Won’t be here long.”

“P-please come in.”

“No need. Listen, um, I told my mother what you used to do to me here in this house. She knows it’s true.”

“What? Forkpa please-” Father Edward glanced around furtively as if the morning dew was eavesdropping.

Forkpa’s tone was measured and uncompromising. “I missed my grandma’s funeral! I didn’t speak to my father during the last five years of his life!” He bit his bottom lip. “YOU WILL NOT come between me and my ma.”

“B-but-”

“But, but nothing,” Forkpa interrupted. “You have two choices: tell your congregation what you did to me, or, leave Gbarnga, go back to where you came from, and never come back.”

“Shouldn’t we talk about this?”

“Hell no,” Forkpa snarled, stepping forward into the priest’s personal space. He pointed his finger close to the man’s pale nose. “First I’ll give everyone I know details about who you are deep down inside. When I’m done with that I’ll file a grievance with your bishop and whatever diocese department deals with disciplining sick people like you.”

Forkpa turned away to leave. “I’ll start spreading the word tomorrow. I’m sure other people you molested will also speak out once they hear my story.” He rushed off leaving Father Edward in his doorway shifting from one foot to the next.

Early that Sunday afternoon, Sianeh was sitting on the porch watching passersby walking on the muddy road that ran in front of the house. Most of them were dressed in their Sunday best. It had rained the night before, but today the sun was out though it was the heart of the wet season. Forkpa had just come out with the glass of water his mother had asked for when Cousin Phekpe bounded onto the porch.

“Missed you all at church this morning,” Phekpe moved her gaze from Sianeh to Forkpa then back to Sianeh.

“Didn’t feel like it,” Sianeh deflected.

“Aye mehn, why?” Phekpe didn’t wait for an answer. “Anyway, Father made a surprising announcement today!” The expression on her face begged them to ask, but Sianeh and Forkpa remained silent. “Don’t you want to know the big news?”

Sianeh faced Phekpe because she knew her cousin expected it. Forkpa was focused on Phekpe as well. She frowned as if in a state of disbelief, “Father Edward said that he was returning to Indiana next week. Something or another about needing to work on himself. I didn’t quite get it, but can you believe that?”

Sianeh took the glass of water from Forkpa then held his fingers with her free hand. He caressed her knuckles the way an adult would a baby’s. The sun was high above the sour sap tree in the yard, painting sharp shadows on everything.

“Yes,” Sianeh’s voice was a little above a whisper, “I can believe it.”