by Cydney Rax
“No, it’s not, but we all gotta do it at some point.” Rachel smiles. I’m not sure if she’s trying to be funny or what, so I take the high road and keep my mouth shut.
“It would have been nice if Loretta could have come. But she wanted to be up under Blinky today.”
“I’ll bet she does,” Rachel says, smirking.
“Rachel, that’s not nice. Get your mind out of the gutter. She’s probably trying to repair their relationship, spend quality time with her man.”
“Being up under a man is quality time, all right,” Rachel says, laughing out loud.
Irritated, I say, “Rachel, please stop it. I’m not in the mood for this … not right before church.”
“Aww, leave your sister alone, Marlene. I can tell she’s just nervous about showing up at Solomon’s Temple. She doesn’t mean to be rude.”
I slam the table with my free hand. Everyone jumps, shaken. “That’s it. Why does everyone stand up for her all the time? Like I’m always in the wrong?”
“Calm down,” says Kiki.
“You be quiet, little girl; no one was talking to you,” I tell my cousin.
“Okay, hold up,” Perry interrupts. “Leave my daughter out of this. Even she can see that things are getting out of hand. Don’t tell me a four-year-old has more sense than you.”
“More sense than both of us,” I say, agreeing and feeling ashamed. “And that’s not cool. I-I’m sorry. I’ve been tripping, and Perry, you’re right. I’m making a big deal out of nothing. And I definitely don’t want to step up in church with a bad attitude. I’m not trying to be ‘that’ girl.”
“That’s much better, Marlene,”
“Much better, ’Lene,” says Kiki.
We finish eating breakfast and are forced to listen to Kiki recite numbers one through one hundred. I eat till my plate is spotless.
“Hey according to my Timex, it’s getting late,” Auntie Perry says, rising up and removing her plate and utensils from the table. “So do what y’all have to do and meet me in my car, pronto.”
Rachel rushes to get dressed. Moments later we all pile in Aunt Perry’s Mazda and speed off toward Solomon’s Temple. We make a little lighthearted small talk all the way to church. When we arrive, I anxiously rush inside the immense sanctuary that’s pulsating with spirited energy. Foot stomps. Hand claps. Shouts and yelps. It feels like heaven to be among almost a thousand well-dressed African Americans who love to sing and lift up their hands to the ceiling during a two-hour church service. An usher leads us to our seats, the middle of a very long pew. And once I sit, but before I can get truly relaxed, the congregation is asked to stand up. We’re instructed to hug the person standing next to us.
“Come here and give me a hug, niece.” I turn to my right and wrap my arms tightly around Aunt Perry, who squeezes me so tight I gasp. “Thanks for inviting me,” she murmurs, her mouth touching my hair. When we stop embracing, I detect sincerity in her eyes. I turn to my left side. Rachel avoids eye contact with me. She looks awkward, like she’s self-conscious that she doesn’t fit in.
“Hey, Little Bit, I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Um, yeah,” she says. I take the initiative and reach over to pull her neck into my chest. Just like I’d do when she was a little girl. She’s not a little girl anymore, yet I sense her vulnerability, a combination of strength and weakness that is apparent when a woman has important issues on her mind.
The worship leader says, “Grab the person’s hand next to you and let’s pray.” I entwine my fingers though Rachel’s and close my eyes. This moment helps me recall the countless times I was charged by my parents to take care of Rachel: look both ways before we’d cross the street, keep her close to me when we’d go grocery shopping with Loretta.
Rachel isn’t like Kiki anymore; she doesn’t count on me to be the leader who tells her what to do, what to say, how to dress, I think to myself. What is my role now that we’re older, now that we both are adult enough to follow our own decisions, and make our own mistakes? Do I still have to be the example, even though it’s a role I don’t want at times?
After reciting a soul-stirring prayer that makes me feel lighthearted and hopeful, we settle back in our seats and continue enjoying the program. The latest announcements are being loudly broadcast on two huge TV monitors, as if we’re at a concert in the Toyota Center. Then we let loose by clapping our hands and singing along with the one hundredmember women’s choir. I feel good. More relaxed. God knows I need a break from the drama I’ve endured the past few weeks.
A woman named Sister Palmer gives a minisermon in honor of Women’s Day. She wears a floor-length white robe and paces across the stage, pointing her finger and raising her voice, like she’s a prophetess straight from the Bible.
Finally, the man of the hour takes the stage. Observes the crowd. Big Bible always glued to his hand, Pastor Solomon is outfitted in a black clergy robe lined with gold brocade. He looks spiritual yet hip, like he’s comfortably connected to his flock.
Pastor says, “Some of y’all think you can slide into heaven based on good works you did twenty years ago. But your current deeds aren’t as exemplary as they were in the past. What if you get to the gates of heaven and God says, What have you done for me lately?’
“Would you say, ‘Hey Lord, I didn’t know you were into Janet Jackson’?”
“And the Lord would answer, ‘Is Janet Jackson into me?’”
Aunt Perry says, “Hey now,” and high fives me.
Pastor Solomon continues his forty-minute sermon, telling stories and jokes, reading scripture, and making me think about things that help me clear my cluttered mind. He says, “Marinate on this a minute: If it’s in God’s hands, it’s in good hands.” He asks us to repeat his thought of the week throughout the rest of his message.
“Don’t be afraid; do not be afraid, don’t be afraid, to pray, good people. Yeah, you heard right, y’all need to pray. Oh, oh, oh, I know ya’ll sophisticated, educated, you watch TV One, and drive Hummers up and down West Bellfort Street, but you can never get so high in life that you think you’ve got it so good that you don’t need to pray. You say, ‘They took prayer out of schools,’ yeah, but as long as you still have a mouth, you can pray. As long as you still have a mind, you can pray. As long as you still have breath … even bad breath,” he jokes, and waits for us to collectively reply, “You can pray.”
“There ya go.” He laughs and scans the congregation, looking over the heads of the people. “I do believe that some of y’all ladies are awake this morning. That’s a good thing,” he continues. “Don’t be so controlling over certain areas of your life: your money, your mansion, and your man. Whether you know it or not, everything you possess came from God’s hand. Not from Chevron, not Houston Independent School District, not Continental Airlines, and not even from your sugar daddy. So if you can give back to God what he’s freely given to you, you know you’re on the right track. If it’s in God’s hands …” He goes on for several more minutes saying that God will bless us with the things we desire, but we must be careful that those things don’t become an obsession, or it can lead to us worshipping things made by men. “American Idolatry,” he jokes. “Paula and Simon ain’t seen nothing yet.”
The service concludes with a call for salvation; an invitation is also extended to those who have special prayer requests. I sit attentively up in my seat; this is the most intriguing part of church. Observing people who, from the outside appearance, look as though they have life neatly wrapped around their finger. But when life begins to get overwhelming, they’re not too proud to cry for help. It’s amazing to see people walk to the front looking one way, and returning to their pew looking another.
Aunt Perry glances at me, her face looking pale and dull, which is a stark contrast to her normal fiery appearance. I whisper, “You all right? Wanna go up there? I’ll go with you if you want.”
“Naw, I’m cool.”
Kiki says, “I wanna go.”
“Aunt Perry,” I gasp. “Don’t call her that. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. She’s just a baby.”
“Why she wanna go? Kiki doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
“Yes, I do, Mommy.”
“Oh, yeah, why you going up there? You’re four years old, you don’t have any problems.”
“I’m going to pray for you, Mommy,” Kiki says, with wide-eyed innocence. “And for Cousin Rachel, and ’Lene, and Uncle Blinky.”
“Let’s go, baby,” Aunt Perry says and grabs Kiki’s skinny hand. I smile with pride and watch Perry scoot past the other folks seated on our pew until she reaches the aisle. But instead of heading for the altar, she yanks Kiki and steers her in the opposite direction, as if she’s leaving. I am stunned, embarrassed. Rachel and I lock eyes, exchange shrugs.
When church finally wraps up and we’re dismissed, we depart the sanctuary and impatiently press through the throng of folks who are socializing, buying DVDs of the sermon, and standing in line to obtain tickets to an upcoming women’s conference. We finally spot Aunt Perry in the front lobby looking standoffish and bored.
“Hey Aunt Perry,” I say and give her a solid hug. “I’m glad you came, I mean that. I hope you enjoyed yourself.”
“It was cool,” she says and looks at my sister. “Did you have a good time, Rachel? You think you want to come back next Sunday?”
“Um, I know I won’t be coming back next Sunday.”
“You didn’t have a good time?” I interject, shocked and a little hurt by her words.
“I did what I agreed to do. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Dang, Rachel, that sounds horrible,” I tell her. “I’m going to pray for you.”
“Pray for yourself, Marlene,” she says.
“Oh, you two, c’mon. Can’t my two nieces at least wait until they’re in the parking lot before they start cutting up?”
“We’re not cutting up,” Rachel speaks up.
“Rachel, if you think I can’t detect this chilly attitude coming from you, that’s been inside of you since we stepped foot in the place, you need to know you’re not talking to a fool,” Aunt Perry says. “If you really didn’t want to go, you should have said no.”
“No, it’s not that—”
“Never mind. Let it go. My good mood is quickly turning funky,” Perry says and tries to regroup. “Well, I can’t talk for you, but at least I got something good out of the message.”
“I’m not saying I didn’t get anything. It was fine,” Rachel says. “It’s just that I could have watched this type of thing on TV.”
I roll my eyes, grit my teeth. “What did you get out of the message, Aunt Perry?”
“I-I may not have had the guts to walk to the front for prayer,” she starts, “but it turned out okay. I had to beg the ushers to let me go ’cause they’re real strict about leaving during prayer, but they saw Kiki and allowed us to leave. And when we went to the ladies’ room—” she stops and sniffs. “We go in there and do our thing. This wrinkled-up old lady who doesn’t even know me, took one look at us and asked real nicely, ‘May I pray with you?’ I couldn’t say anything but ‘Yeah, lady.’ And she did. And … it felt nice. So I learned, God can find you even when you may think you’re slick, when you are trying your best to hide from Him … even behind a stall.”
“That’s crazy, but beautiful, Aunt Perry,” I say and smile.
“No, seriously,” Perry continues, “I really got into some parts of the service; others I’m not too sure about. But overall, it was off the chain.”
Rachel steps up to us. “What she said,” she murmurs and points at Perry.
We all laugh and know that’s about as much as Rachel’s going to allow. She may not be speaking what I sense is on the inside, but it’s cool. I may not know exactly how she feels, but someone more important than me knows and that’s what counts. I feel hopeful, relieved. We leave church, and my aunt drives us back to our apartment. We thank her for the ride and jump out of the car ready to go inside. But Aunt Perry rolls down her window, chatting. Kiki is in the backseat behind her mom. She rolls down her window, too, and stares intently at us.
“My two nieces looked so beautiful, like Serena and Venus, or Beyoncé and Solange. You made me so proud today. And you, Rachel, you shock me sometimes. I want to take a picture of you, show Blinky how much his daughters have grown and matured.”
“Uh, I’d love to, but I really have to be going.” I glance at my watch.
“Why? What are you in a hurry for?” Aunt Perry asks.
“What am I in a hurry for? Um, I have a lunch engagement. Or is it brunch? I just know I’m going out to eat with someone around two o’clock.”
“Oh, Jeff must be coming any minute, huh?” Aunt Perry replies.
I don’t say anything.
“It’ll only take a second, dang knucklehead girl.” With the car still running she grabs her camera phone and hops out the car.
“Go ahead, stand together. Smile for the camera.”
“Aunt Perry, this is silly. We’re too old for this,” Rachel complains.
“You’re never too old to document special family moments. So get to grinning because by the time I count to three, whatever comes out in the picture is what Blinky is gonna see.”
“I hate you,” Rachel pouts.
“And I love you,” Aunt Perry says. “One, two …”
I grab Rachel by the waist and grin.
“Three,” Kiki says from inside the car, “Yayyy,” she yells and claps her hands.
The flash goes off. Rachel disengages herself, turns around, and climbs up the flight of stairs to our unit.
“Anyway, thanks for everything. You’ll have to join us again one day,” I tell my aunt.
“All right, sweetie. Bye. And thanks. Thanks so much. I mean that.” Aunt Perry smiles back and returns to her car.
When I get in the apartment, Rachel is in the kitchen with the refrigerator door open. But the fridge is practically empty. We haven’t done any major grocery shopping for the week, and the last bit of food we had was eaten during breakfast.
“Oh, well,” she says. “I’ll just make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”
“Um, that sounds good.”
“No, it doesn’t.” She turns around and looks at me like I’m crazy.
I don’t say anything.
“At least you have a date. Or someone you can share a meal with. Must be nice.” Rachel abruptly shuts up, like she’s thinking. “Oh, snap, I gotta go check my Yahoo mail.” She kicks off her shoes and leaves them in the center of the floor as she races through the living room. After a while I hear these yelps and cackling noises. Curious, I venture down the hall, twist open the doorknob, and enter her room. I can see her sitting at her tiny desk settled in front of the computer, smiling big-time, and peering closely at the monitor.
“Oh, hell no,” I hear her say. “He is much too light, much too short, much too everything.”
“Girl, what are you in here doing?”
“Um, nothing,” she quickly says and laughs, then grows serious. “Well, to be honest, I’m doing something I never, ever thought I’d do before.”
“Which is?”
“Cyber love, baby.”
“Oh, for real? Dang, Rachel, that’s not even your style.”
“I know … But sometimes you gotta do things differently if you want a different outcome. Anyway, I got tons of hits. Hmm, wonder why,” she says and giggles to herself. “Girl, this stuff is a trip. Oh my God, look at this dude’s profile. Four feet five and two hundred fifty pounds? Plus no picture? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
She keeps clicking her mouse, making negative sounds, and shaking her head.
“Dang, no one stands out so far. I may have to change up some of my search criteria, ’cause these so-called matches suck. Oh, look at this. This guy looks promising.”
I roll my eyes and smile, leave the room so I can
freshen up for my outing with Jeff. My hair looks a mess and needs a little bit of touching up. I head to the bathroom and plug in my curling iron.
When I last talked to Jeff, he said he wants to see me today, that we can go grab a bite to eat this afternoon, and then he suggested taking a nice leisurely ride until we reach downtown. He’s been talking nonstop about going to Discovery Green, a place he described as the perfect outdoor spot for walking, people watching, and laughing at little kids who are having a ball playing in the water fountain. I told him it sounded great and suggested that he hit me up when he was ready. He said he’d be ready by two.
Holding the curling iron steadily in my hand, I carefully clip some strands of hair and begin winding the wand. After I’m satisfied with my hairstyle, I grease my dry scalp, and swipe some Lookin’ Good for Jesus lip balm across my lips. I wait ten minutes, go look out the window, and check my cell phone’s voice mail. No new messages. No new anything.
Bored and agitated, I return to Rachel’s room to see what she’s up to. She’s still leaning toward her monitor, sending e-mails. She’s laughing and seems thoroughly engaged. That irritates me.
“What’s so funny?”
“Huh?” she asks, sounding distracted. “Oh, this one here is a trip. He sent me a flirt, then immediately e-mailed me, gave me his Yahoo address, his IM info, phone number, the works. Jeez, dude is moving a little too fast for me.”
“So, what did you sign up—”
“Oops, hold on. Two guys are trying to IM me at the same time. They see I’m online. Oh, shit, I’m in trouble now.”
“Hey, Rachel—”
“Shhh, be quiet Marlene. I’m trying … okay, he’s in Jamaica, New York. Duh, can’t he read and understand English? I said in my profile that I’d rather date guys who live no more than five hundred miles away. Oh, he can read, he just can’t count, huh?” She starts cracking up. I want to crack her in her mouth. Since when is something on a computer more important than what I’ve got to say? Hmm, some nerve. I don’t care. I got better things to do … if only my “better” would hurry his butt up and come on. Maybe I’ll call him. No, nope, no. I don’t want it to seem like I’m desperate, checking up on him. I gotta act as if I haven’t noticed he’s not here. I gotta do something to keep busy, or else I’ll go lose my cool. Rachel interrupts my train of thought.