Too Much of a Good Thing

by J. J. Murray

  I took the family out for ice cream with that money. Banana splits at Bruster’s. Very yummy. Shawnjo/Joshawna and Rodney/Shanté liked them, too. Lots of wonderful kicks.

  Because of all these future bills, we will most likely drive the van and the Sentra forever. I wonder what the record is for mileage in a van. I know we can break it.

  With everyone’s help, once the weather turns from gloomy spring to sunny spring, we turn the playhouse into a gardening shed for Shawna, complete with trowels, spades, potting soil, hoses, and shelving. “I’ll just add to what’s already here,” she says, looking at all the crocuses that Cheryl had planted now bursting into the sunlight. “I’ll just mingle my flowers with Cheryl’s and see what grows.” She loves working in her garden, so much that one day she comes in with tears in her eyes, saying, “I missed this ... creation.” She also says that eventually I won’t have to cut the grass because there will be flowers covering every square inch of both the front yard and backyard.

  I can live with that.

  Shawna, my favorite gardener, is a ripe mango, healthy and plump. Shawn Joseph (we know that for sure now) is right on schedule for delivery in the last week of June, two weeks before Crystal is to have Shanté Tonia. I go with both women to their checkups, and while other women might cringe at their weight gain, Shawna rejoices, saying, “Shawn is not going to be skinny now!” We still take walks around Wasena, just at a slower pace, and we still get frisky.

  After all, we are newlyweds.

  With six kids and one on the way.

  And a grandchild on the way.

  And two kids graduating high school.

  Where has this year gone?

  This year is moving too fast! Life is moving too fast! Rose was just a baby a minute ago, and a second ago, I was taking her prom pictures. Now, I’m taking cap and gown pictures of Junior and Rose at the Roanoke Civic Center Coliseum. I must have blinked or something.

  Once again, we take up a full row in the stands, all of us eager to hear Junior’s salutatory speech, which will be the third salutatorian speech of the day. The first two are all right, a little heavy on the platitudes, but Junior’s is by far the best, and not because he’s my stepson.

  It’s the best because Junior actually has something to say.

  “Akilini mali,” Junior says, repeating the Swahili phrase several times.

  He repeats it until the audience joins in.

  “Now I will tell you what you have been saying. Akilini mali in Swahili means ‘use of brains begets wealth.’” He pauses, and I see Shawna’s lips pause as well. They had worked so long on the speech that she has it memorized. “Use of brains begets wealth. I have been blessed with brains.”

  Shawna mouths “by God,” a phrase the “censors” at PH removed so no one would be offended.

  I’m offended that they removed the phrase.

  “I have been blessed with brains by my father and my mama ...”

  Junior pauses, and Shawna tenses. “This pause wasn’t in the script,” she whispers.

  “I have also been blessed with brains by God.”

  Yes! What can they do? Nothing. They can’t keep a salutatorian from graduating because he has morals. I hear enough amens to drown out any possible reprisals, and I pray the Roanoke Times prints large excerpts from this speech.

  “I was not supposed to say ‘by God,’ just now.” Junior looks at a woman behind him on the stage furiously flipping through several sheets of paper. His “censor” is about to have a conniption. “But I would not be here if it weren’t for God’s love, God’s grace, and God’s holy power.”

  More amens.

  “That’s my son,” Shawna says, fiercely gripping my hand.

  Junior looks back at his censor. “I will return to the speech now. Page two.”

  A ripple of laughter circles the Coliseum as the censor “finds” page two, and the senior class is actually paying attention. They had been playing with a huge beach ball during the other speeches, and now they’re listening to my son.

  “Can you have wealth without brains in this country?” Junior asks. Another pause. “I can think of a few people who have.” He looks back at the censor. “I would list them all for you, but that might get me in trouble.”

  Nice laughter.

  “But wealth is more than money, and that’s what I want to talk to you about today.” Junior nods. “I have been raised by the smartest woman I know.”

  “He’s going off script again,” Shawna whispers, “as he should. I’m so proud!”

  The “censor” has just about had it. We can actually hear her sighing!

  “I used to think I was poor,” Junior continues. “I used to envy other kids for what they had, things I only had dreams of having. But now I realize that I am the wealthiest person I know because of my mama.”

  Shawna cries, but they aren’t tears of sorrow.

  Junior looks over the heads of the seniors to the teacher section behind them. “I know I should be thanking my teachers for all they have taught me, and I do thank them, but I can’t give them all the credit. I need to give credit where credit is due. I stand here today because of my ancestors who fought, and bled, and died, and marched so I could be here.”

  Junior pauses, many heads nodding.

  “I stand here today because of my father, who fought for this country ... and died in my arms almost nine years ago.”

  Now our entire row is crying. Shawna hands out tissues.

  “I stand here today because of my mama, who has raised me to be a man. I stand here today because of my sisters, who have schooled me daily on my behavior.”

  More nice laughter.

  “I stand here today because of Shawn Joseph, my little brother who is not yet born, who I will school one day on his behavior. I stand here because of my stepsister and stepbrothers, my sister and brothers from another mother, who have accepted me as ... their older brother.”

  Lord, this is as good as life gets.

  “I stand here because of my stepfather, who, I hope, will help raise me to be a better man.”

  I take two tissues from Shawna. Lord, I sit corrected. This is as good as life gets.

  “I stand here today because my God is good, and my God is great.”

  Applause! People standing! Cheering!

  “That,” Crystal shouts, “was the all-time greatest shout-out I have ever heard.”

  Junior waits for folks to sit. “Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, ‘Speak what you think today in words as hard as cannonballs, and tomorrow speak what tomorrow thinks in hard words again.’ That’s the way my mama raised me. I heard her hard words, and I listened when she said, ‘I live as I can afford, not as you wish.’”

  So much wisdom surrounds me!

  “Emerson also said, ‘Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist. He who would gather immortal palms must not be hindered by the name of goodness, but must explore if it be goodness. Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind. Absolve you to yourself, and you shall have the suffrage of the world.’”

  Shawna and I compare goose bumps. She has more, and we’re all out of tissues.

  “Pole pole ndiyo mwendo,” Junior says. “ ‘Slowly, slowly is indeed the long journey.’ Our journeys have just begun. Haraka, haraka, haina baraka. ‘Hurry, hurry has no blessing. ’ On our journeys, we must take time to count our blessings.” Junior locates our row and counts with his finger seven times. “Those are my blessings, back there in row B, section seven.” He steps back from the lectern and starts clapping for us.

  I feel the eyes of the world on us.

  “Thank you for listening,” Junior says, and he sits.

  I can’t get to my feet fast enough, and I am not alone. So humble, so inspiring, so much his mama’s son—Junior. It is a blessing just to say he lives in my house, at least until August. Lord, I don’t know how I can make him a better man than he already is, but help me try.

  After I make sure that Rose and Junior�
�s diploma covers contain diplomas, we splurge on a huge meal at ... Golden Corral. It’s all-you-can-eat, it’s reasonable, and the kids love the rolls and the dessert selection. While we eat, perfect strangers come up to Junior to shake his hand, telling him, “I was there, young man,” and “God bless you and your family.”

  And now, the third Saturday in June, life is just plain good out here on the back deck where I’m sipping lemonade while the kids are at Wasena Park and Shawna is resting in her bed trying not to go into labor even a second too early. Even Crystal and Tony are walking around Wasena. I would be lying next to Shawna, but she says I distract her from keeping the baby inside her “to finish cooking.”

  I am so glad Shawna and the kids have been healthy. I don’t know what we would have done if anyone had gotten sick. I have ended every prayer at dinner with “and keep us safe and healthy” since I was a child, and God listened especially well this year. He does hear us when we cry.

  And this lemonade is good. God makes good lemons, too. He—

  “Joe, honey, it’s time.”

  I jump from my chair and see Shawna holding her stomach. “Yeah?”

  She smiles. “Ooh, yeah. We got to go. I was just dozing and then ... Joe, he’s about to kick his way out.”

  I whip out my cell phone, a Father’s Day present, using the walkie-talkie function. “Come in, Rose.”

  “Rose here.”

  “Code Shawnjo, code Shawnjo, I repeat, code Shawnjo.” I snap the phone shut. “They’re on the way back from the park. You are to lie on the middle seat of the van. Junior will drive the boys in the Sentra. The girls will go with us.” I check my watch. “We should be at Community Hospital in less than fifteen minutes if the kids run fast and we hit all the lights, twenty-two minutes if Toni can’t keep up on the run up the hill and we hit all the lights. Rose is calling ahead to Dr. Peavey. Your overnight bag is already behind the backseat of the van. When did you eat last?”

  Shawna’s mouth drops to the deck.

  “Shawna?”

  78

  Shawna

  And to think he used to be so unorganized around the house!

  “Who packed my overnight bag?” I ask.

  “You did, three weeks ago.”

  Oh, yeah. I did. What did I put in there? I can’t remember. “Well, come help me to the van.”

  And just as Joe had rattled off to me, we get to the hospital in only seventeen minutes, hitting just one light.

  Ten minutes later, I’m in a birthing room with Joe, holding his hand, grinning, sweating, feeling so fine, so fine—

  “He’s crowning,” a nurse says.

  “He is?” I ask.

  “Yes,” the nurse says. “You got here just in time. As far as I can tell, you’ve been in labor for a couple hours.” She pages Dr. Peavey.

  “But I’m not feeling the pain,” I say to Joe. “I should be feeling—”

  Oh.

  Ow.

  There it is.

  Oh ... God help me! ... This ... hurts!

  “Is your hand okay?” I ask Joe.

  “Just keep squeezing it,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”

  Dr. Peavey arrives, checks me out down there, and looks at me. “Um, here we go.”

  “Should I push?” I ask, and I am really feeling this chunk now. Jesus, help me! My other babies were so skinny!

  Dr. Peavey looks up at me. “You mean you aren’t?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, here he comes,” Dr. Peavey says.

  “Should I push?” I ask, the most excruciating pain tearing through me and then ...

  Ah.

  I hear the cry of a baby.

  Shawnjo has arrived.

  Dr. Peavey can’t believe it. The nurses can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. Joe ... Joe doesn’t care because now I’m holding our son, and I don’t really care because Shawnjo has Joe’s squint already and a firm grip on my ring finger and—

  “Can our kids come in here?” I ask.

  Dr. Peavey goes and gets them, and as all six file in, I watch the nurses’ eyes growing wider and wider.

  “We need a bigger room,” Joe says.

  Shawn Joseph Murphy is so precious! And a chunk, too, weighing in at eight pounds, seven ounces. None of my kids weighed more than seven pounds, and here he is ... in the flesh among us. Thank You, Jesus, for a healthy baby.

  But mainly, thank You for a quick delivery. How did You arrange that? I was set for a thirty-hour fight, an epidural, ice chips, a fainting husband, and maybe a little unholy cussing. Thank You for sparing me that. You really know what’s best for us, don’t You?

  Oh, that new baby smell!

  Sorry, Lord. But this child smells so good.

  I turn to Joe. “I want another one.”

  As I expect, the kids cry “No!” and “Where will we put her?”

  Yeah. I want a little girl just like this one.

  Joe certainly seems willing. And since we’re going to Aylen Lake again this summer, I’ll bet we can make us a little Joshawna, too. Something about the air up there must make me fertile or something.

  “Oh, little boy,” I whisper as he looks up at his mama, daddy, and six brothers and sisters, “I would give anything to know what you’re thinking right now.”

  79

  Shawn Joseph “Shawnjo” Murphy

  Who are all these people? Do I belong to them all?

  I hope I do.

  Are the colors right?

  White, black, red ... or is that pink?

  I can see them all just fine.

  Look at all those teeth!

  I hope I get some soon.

  What’s that smell?

  Oh, that’s me.

  What’s this feeling?

  It feels good!

  What’s this feeling?

  “He has your face ... Shawna’s eyes ... Daddy’s squint ... Grandpa’s Murphy’s chin ... Grandma Evans’s ears.”

  Wow.

  I have so many parts of so many people.

  Did I come fully assembled?

  What’s that smell?

  Oh.

  Me again.

  Oh, there’s that feeling again, too, and that word.

  “Blah blah blah blah love. Blah-ditty-blah-blah love you.”

  Love.

  Yeah.

  That’s what I’m feeling.

  Meet executive assistant Shari Nance: She’s smart, sexy, talented—and excitingly fed up ...

  Shari is past done with letting her uber-incompetent boss, Corinne, steal her ideas and get the big bucks and promotions. So, why not pose as Corinne, work a major ad account, and prove who’s the real talent? And if that means competing with a rival agency’s top executive, well, Shari can’t wait to take him on. But when the man turns out to be her boss’ ruggedly-sexy boyfriend, his agenda has the kind of sizzling moves Shari can’t trust or resist ...

  Tom Sexton couldn’t be happier about Shari’s deception. He’s been aware of her abilities for as long as he’s been getting sick of Corinne’s ego. And helping her will give him a chance to start the agency of his dreams. But keeping their double game under control is only making Tom want more of Shari in every way. And as the stakes get thrillingly higher, he’ll do whatever it takes to show her they’re the perfect partners, in the boardroom and the bedroom ...

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of

  J.J. Murray’s new novel

  I’LL BE YOUR EVERYTHING

  coming next month!

  Chapter 1

  An elderly white woman with a fancy camera around her neck waits alone at Tillary and Jay in downtown Brooklyn. I wish I had a digital zoom camera like that. At first, I think she’s a lost bird feeder from one of the nearby parks because she wears a brown wool jacket, matching frumpy hat, and brown corduroys. But she’s out here at 7:30 a.m. in this gross, misty, dirty, frigid weather that screams, “Brooklyn is too cold for people to function in November.”

  Touri
sts are getting as hardy as the trees in Whitman Park.

  She steps in front of me and asks, “Will this bus take me to Times Square?”

  I want to tell her that any bus will take you anywhere eventually, but she seems so needy. I squint through my misted glasses at the oversized blue sign. B51. I rode that bus once and hated it. A bus is no way to see the world unless you have a window seat and the person next to you isn’t big-boned. I didn’t have a window seat that day, decided to save my money and the hassle of feeling like a sardine, and haven’t ridden a bus since.

  “It might take you to Times Square eventually,” I say to the tourist, wiping mist from my lenses and returning my glasses to my face. “But don’t take my word for it. I don’t ride the bus enough to know.”

  “You ride the subway instead?” she asks.

  Also once. Not a good time. Though I’m five feet tall, slim, and can squeeze into just about any tight space, that trip on the subway gave me major claustrophobia. The fumes, men in suits oozing thick, cloying cologne, little bruises on my booty from slamming into the poles as more people crowded my little body, the intermittent darkness—not my idea of a good time. I kind of miss the booty bumps caused by some random briefcases held by some of the men supposedly reading the Times. I never knew briefcases could get so fresh.

  “No, ma’am,” I tell the tourist. “I walk.”

  She cocks her head to the side. Maybe she’s hard of hearing. Either that or she has to move her head occasionally to focus a wandering eye. “You walk?”

  “It’s only a few miles.”

  To MultiCorp, America’s number-one multicultural ad agency fifteen years running, and that’s why I’m walking. I can afford to walk. I’ve been an administrative assistant at MultiCorp for five years. I know. Five years is a long time to be kissing anyone’s booty. I’ve had a couple of bumps in pay, and I even earned a bonus last year, an IKEA gift card that I redeemed for a storage combination with three bright pink buckets that hold whatever comes out of my pockets: keys, receipts, Post-its, and change. But mostly, I survive the daily grind. Walking keeps me in my $1,500-a-month apartment that has a “window office” (a cherry desk and my laptop), a narrow kitchen with a skinny oak table and two skinnier oak chairs, and a view of the Statue of Liberty if I put my face flush to the window and squint just right after the sun goes down.