by J. J. Murray
I get Ebony’s attention by massaging one of her feet. “There will be time for that later,” she says.
“Um, where is Uncle Leon now?”
“That was twenty years ago, Peter. Who knows? Probably dead by now. Skip ahead to the next chapter. The rest of that one is back story.”
I have created a literary monster. “You ever find out why it was named Ballyhack?”
“No,” she says, flipping another page and smiling. “I think it’s supposed to be Bali Hai, and those country cousins of mine just messed it up.”
I continue to read and smile.
I’m staying home from St. John’s today, mainly to throw up from the morning sickness. I miss going, because the southern Mills family are some singing folks, let me tell you. There isn’t a church service without at least one of them singing, and none of them need microphones. When the wind is still on a Sunday, I can hear them singing all the way to Loretta’s house. I know I’ll hear all about the service when they get here for Sunday dinner, which is when everybody brings a piece of the meal to Loretta’s house and everybody eats too much. My future baby has been eating well: corn pudding, greens, chef salad with real country ham, yeast rolls, dirt cake, banana pudding, apple cake, lemon fish, ribs, and barbeque pork chops as thick as your fist. I may give birth to a Southern baby with all this Southern food in me. She’s going to cry “waaaa-uh” in two syllables.
A couple of weeks ago, they all struggled in after singing, and all they did was talk bad about each other: “The drummer started too slow an’ messed up my song. That’s why I stopped it and started over. Yeah, when I got the microphone, I’m in charge…. That girl ain’t never met a note she couldn’t sing sour, but why she got to sing so loud?…Ho was swayin’ to the left when the rest of us was swayin’ to the right—that’s why she got knocked on her ass, she wasn’t feelin’ the spirit…. You see Mrs. So-and-So jumpin’ up right before my solo on ‘King Jesus’? Wench sayin’ ‘That’s my song,’ even cleared her damn throat. Shit, I almost handed her the microphone. She about to see ‘King Jesus,’ ain’t she?…Vonnetta? Nah, child, she just fainted from the heat—and the dehydration. Well, the girl was out all night drinkin’, Loretta….”
In other words, the service at St. John’s never really ends until Sunday dinner is over.
But it isn’t like anyone has to tell Loretta anything anyway. She just seems to know. Loretta has a way of finding out everything because she says she has ESP.
I believe her. I have to. She says that “history done come full circle down here in Ballyhack,” and that I’m just repeating history.
“Amanda Pinkard,” she says to me one night. “She fell in love with the Master, Cyrus Pinkard, and they had them a little girl they named Mandy, and Cyrus gave ’em all their freedom, and they lived right here in Ballyhack. Mandy Pinkard was my great-grandmama. Full circle, child. History is just one big circle. One day, you’ll get to see Peter again. You’ll see.”
I hope she’s right.
I can’t help tearing up. “Loretta was right.”
“Yeah.”
“Did she, um, see anything in the future for after you saw me again?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know…did she see…a wedding?”
Ebony nods but doesn’t speak.
I pull her to me. “What’s wrong?”
“Loretta saw a wedding, but it was at a Catholic church. ‘I don’t know any Catholics, do you?’ she asked me. I didn’t at the time, but then…”
Whoa. “She saw my wedding?”
Ebony nods. “She said it was a cold wedding and that you were crying.”
“All true.” Loretta was a psychic.
She snuggles closer. “You want another wedding, right?”
“Oh, yes.” I have to make things right.
“Then you’ll have to convert back to Methodist but this time to African Methodist.”
Huh? “Um, I might not have the right qualifications.” I rub my skin and point to the freckles on my nose for good measure.
“You don’t have to be African to belong.”
“Oh.”
“And we’re going to Bethel tomorrow.”
“We are? But we have two novels to work on, and the revisions will take a whole lot—”
“Hush. We are going to Bethel, Peter, as a family for the very first time, and it won’t be like when you used to sneak off and visit when your daddy was passed out. I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time, Peter. We’re going to walk in there, arm in arm, and sit there in the presence of God as…a…family.” She holds my face tenderly. “A whole bunch of eyes will be on you, Peter Underhill.”
I’m not worried about other people’s eyes.
I’m worried about the eyes of God.
18
“Maybe it’s your body, Peter,” Ebony says with a giggle as she appraises me early Sunday morning in the only suit I own. It had been balled up in my carry-on, and no amount of steam has helped. “Your body is a little wrinkled underneath, so no matter what we do, your clothes will still look wrinkled.”
I flick some lint from my tie. “Thanks for trying.”
She wraps the cord around the iron, her shiny white slip swaying. I can’t help staring at the way it hugs all her curves. “What?”
“Um. Nothing.”
She puts the iron on her dresser. “Don’t be getting any wicked ideas an hour before church, Peter Underhill. I want you focused on God this morning.”
“I will be.”
She pulls up the hem of her slip, showing me a delicious leg. “I don’t want you focused on how these legs will be wrapped around you later.”
I have to turn away. “Stop teasing me.”
She spins me back to her, running her hands down the lapel in my suit jacket. “You look kind of older in this suit.”
“Thanks.”
“I didn’t mean it in a bad way. You look distinguished.”
I sit on the edge of her bed. “Ancient, you mean.”
“We’re the same age, Peter. You can’t be old yet, because I’m not old yet. Right?”
“Right.”
She spins me around and pats me on the butt. “Now get out so I can get dressed. Go check on Destiny. I’m sure she’s not ready.”
I walk down the hall to Destiny’s room and knock. “How’s it going?”
I hear a few steps and a thud. A second later she opens the door, simultaneously rubbing her shin and slipping on a shoe. “Almost ready.”
“Are you all right?”
“Bedpost got me again. I run into that thing just about every day.” She spins around, her burgundy and cream dress swirling around her. “How do I look, Daddy?”
“Like a dream.” I reach out to hold her. “You’ll always look like a dream.”
She steps back. “No offense, but I don’t want your wrinkles rubbing off on my dress. Is Mama ready?”
“Not yet.”
“Good.” She pulls me forcefully into her room and shuts the door behind me. I suppose it’s a typical teenager’s room—messy, poster-covered, uneaten food on paper plates on the floor, empty soda cans on her desk, no clear sign of any organization—but at least Destiny has a theme: black movie stars. Posters of Denzel Washington, Halle Berry, Angela Bassett, Nia Long, Samuel L. Jackson, Regina King, Lawrence Fishburne, Samantha Mumba, and—is that Dorothy Dandridge?—cover most of her four walls.
“Daddy,” she whispers, “are you going to—you know—today?”
Have sex? Have we been too loud? “What do you mean?”
“You know.”
No, I don’t. “You mean am I going to convert today?”
“No.” She pulls me to her only window. Long Island Sound shimmers in the distance. “Are you going to ask Mama to marry you today?”
The thought has crossed my mind, but not nearly so soon. “Today? I thought we were just going to church as a family today.”
“Daddy, for a romance aut
hor, you aren’t very romantic. Mama has been dreaming of this day for so long—”
“Wait. Are you telling me that your mama expects me to pop the question at church today?”
Destiny nods. “It will be the perfect moment, Daddy. Right during the altar call.” She hugs herself and smiles. “God, I’ve got goose bumps. Just think: you’ll lead her right up to that altar and kneel together and ask her right in front of God.”
Now I’ve got goose bumps. “That would be perfect, but I don’t have a ring.”
She bites her bottom lip. “If you had a ring, would you ask her?”
“I can’t think of a more romantic—and holy—way to ask her. Sure.”
She goes to her desk and opens the top drawer, removing a fuzzy black box.
“You…is that…” Are daughters supposed to buy engagement rings for their long-lost fathers to give to their mamas?
She opens the box, displaying a pretty ring with a tiny diamond. “What do you think?”
“I think…it’s wonderful. But how did you get the money for it?”
She snaps the box shut and places it in my hand. “Haven’t you noticed?”
“Noticed what?”
“Mama has been giving me all that money for groceries for years…” She smiles.
I laugh. “And you haven’t been bringing all the groceries home. I get it. And it’s in her size?”
She shows me her ring finger. “Mama and I have the same ring size.”
I put the box in one of the pockets of my suit jacket. “You’re something else.”
She kisses my cheek. “And you made me that way.” She looks toward the door. “You better leave. If Mama comes in, she’ll know something’s up.”
“Okay.” Then I have a thought. “Wait. You were supposed to put gas in her car last night. Did you?”
She shakes her head. “So, we can all walk home.”
“If we get there.”
“We’ll get there, Daddy. It’s all downhill.”
Ebony, dressed in what Destiny calls her “dreamsicle” dress of orange and white, lets me drive her Accord to Bethel, and I stare at the fuel gauge the entire time. The little warning buzzer doesn’t come on, so I figure we’ll have enough gas to get back.
“We’re early,” Ebony says. “Destiny, go save us some seats.”
Destiny gets out, and as soon as her door shuts, Ebony leans over and kisses me on the lips.
“I was hoping to walk in with both of you.”
“Oh, she’ll be back.” She takes my hand and sighs. “Forgive me if I’m a little goofy right now. I just feel so happy.”
“So do I.”
When Destiny returns, I start to get out, but Ebony pulls me back in. “Not so fast, Peter. We’re making a grand entrance. Right when the organ starts playing. I want everyone to see us.” She pats my arm. “Too bad about your suit.”
“Yeah.”
“They won’t talk too badly about you. During the service, anyway.”
Once the entrance to Bethel becomes clogged with people, Ebony says, “Now,” and we get out. I stroll up the steps with a real lady on each arm, and once we are in the sanctuary, we take a leisurely walk to the front pew, both Ebony and Destiny smiling and waving at their admirers.
I keep my eyes straight ahead at the huge cross on the wall. I’m here, God. It’s me, Peter Underhill. You haven’t seen me in quite a while.
As soon as we sit, the choir enters from all aisles singing “Get Right with God.” I can’t help but wonder if Ebony planned that particular song, too.
Song after song, prayer after prayer, squeeze after squeeze of my hands by my daughter and my hopefully future wife, and I can’t see anymore because of the tears, because of the ache in my heart, because of all the wasted years. I close my eyes, tears still spilling out, my body shaking, and Ebony’s hand holds me tighter, Destiny puts her arm around me, and we’re standing and clapping and shouting, and I can’t contain my sorrow any longer and I hit the floor right there in the front row of Bethel and pray like I’ve never prayed before:
God, Almighty God, I am here, a sinner in Your holy presence, and I know that I have offended You, and grieved You, and caused the Holy Spirit to weep, and I’m sorry, God, Almighty God, for running away from You for so long, for too long, and if You’ll find it in Your Almighty heart to forgive me, to cleanse me, to bring back the joy that I once had, I will put away my past and try to live the right way. Please, God, Almighty God, take away my sorrow and replace it with joy…
Ebony and Destiny help me back into the pew as Reverend Moore begins his sermon on love. I smile at Ebony, and her eyes fill with tears, too. Destiny hands us Kleenex and opens a Bible in my lap to I Corinthians 13 as Reverend Moore reads:
“‘Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.’”
I squeeze Ebony’s and Destiny’s hands under the Bible. I have gained so much, God. Thank You.
“‘Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.’”
What we must look like! Three people, two of God’s finest creations, and me, tears streaming down our faces, smiles so wide we’re blinding the choir.
“‘Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.’”
God, if I ever need a definition of “perfection,” I’ll remember this moment. Thank You for bringing me back to Ebony and to Destiny.
“‘When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.’”
God, thank You for helping me to finally grow up. And thank the Captain for me, whenever You see him next, for trying to be my father.
“‘And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.’”
Destiny shuts the Bible, and the three of us hold hands.
Reverend Moore closes his Bible, too. “I’m not going to give a sermon on these verses. I’m not going to give a sermon on love. I don’t have to. I know you can feel God’s love right now.”
“Amen,” Ebony whispers along with quite a few others.
“The Apostle Paul was a plain man, and you might even say that he was plain as a writer, too. He wasn’t fancy when he wrote this, using a whole bunch of big words to make himself appear smarter.” He holds up his Bible. “The writers of this book were no different than you or me. They had real jobs. They had families. They were born, they lived, and they died. As far as I know, none of them had any training in the art of writing. None of them. Yet this book has confounded scholars and other so-called smart folks for two thousand years.” He smiles, his eyes sparkling. “But it’s plain to me. Is it plain to you?”
“Amen!” and “Yes!” ripple through the sanctuary.
“All the hate that’s been in the air these last few weeks, all the hate that’s been burying us, and here is the way out right in front of us in simple, plain words, from a simple, plain man. Here is the light at the end of the tunnel of hate.”
“Amen!”
“If hate is the problem, love
is the solution.”
“Amen!”
“If hate is the question, love is the answer.”
“Amen!”
“If hate is the destroyer, love is the builder.”
Reverend Moore steps out from behind the pulpit, and my hands start to sweat streams.
Oh, God Almighty, he’s going straight to the altar call. Am I ready? Is Ebony? I know Destiny is.
“Jesus said, ‘Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’” He spreads out his arms, his hands open and lifted to heaven. “Lord God, bless those who come before You now with Your plain and simple love.”
That’s my cue. I turn to Destiny and kiss her soft cheek. She hugs me hard and nods. I stand and pull Ebony to her feet, and for the first time since we’ve been reunited, Ebony looks totally unsure of herself. I lead her to the altar, where I kneel and look up into her eyes. I don’t say anything, mainly because I’m afraid that if I do I’ll start bawling in front of all these good people. I reach into my suit jacket pocket and take out the box, snapping it open. The church is entirely still. Ebony kneels. I remove the ring from the box and slip it on her finger, and when we embrace, the hush in the sanctuary breaks and “Hallelujah!” rains down on us as Destiny joins us, hugging us both. We stand and turn, facing the cross.
I’m back, God. I’m back. I found Ebony, I found my father, and I found You. Thank You.
19
After the service and a thousand hugs from everyone coming at Ebony and me in every direction, we escape to the car as the sun breaks through a gray-blue gap in the clouds.
“We need to tell Mama right away,” Ebony says. “She’ll be mad so many other people knew before she did, but she’ll get over it.”
I doubt it.
But as I fly through the streets of Huntington and we get to West Shore Road, Ebony shouts, “Stop the car!”
I sit there idling in the middle of the street, the gas gauge resting firmly on “E.” “Your mama’s going to be mad.”