Divine Intervention

by Lutishia Lovely

  “I want to see him.”

  “The doctor is allowing only a few minutes per visit, but he’s letting all of us go in. Your father is with him now.” Tai’s conversation was interrupted by the drone of a low-flying plane. “What’s that sound? Where are you?”

  “At the courthouse. A friend of Rafael’s, who is also a justice of the peace, is going to complete our ceremony.”

  “Oh, baby, that’s wonderful! Your father and I are so sorry about what happened yesterday. If it had been anyone other than Derrick—”

  “It’s okay, Mama.” The droning sound got louder. “Geez, where is that plane?” As if to answer her specific question, the noisy biplane came into view. “Look, Mom, I’ll call you later. Rafael and I will stop by real quick on our way to the airport.” Princess hung up the phone and looked up, shading her eyes against the bright sun. “Can you see what the banner says?” she asked Rafael.

  “I couldn’t care less,” Rafael said, reaching for Princess’s arm and pulling her toward the concrete steps. “If we’re going to stop by and see your uncle, we need to do this.”

  “Wait!” Princess said, having caught part of the message on the widely circling plane. “Is that my name?” She linked her arm with Rafael’s, sure that this was his doing.

  It was not. He looked up with as much curiosity as Princess. Ironically, they ended up reading the message at practically the exact same time:

  PRINCESS, IT’S YOU AND ME FOREVER, BABY. LOVE, KP

  For a moment, both Rafael and Princess were stunned into immobility. Rafael recovered first. “Come on.” Again, he reached for Princess and headed toward the steps.

  But Princess couldn’t move, only stare.

  “Baby, come on!”

  Baby, I’m so glad you’re here.

  “Rafael, wait.”

  Don’t do it, Princess.

  Rafael snapped. “Don’t you think I’ve waited long enough?”

  The tears came of their own accord. Princess didn’t try and wipe them away.

  “That asshole is doing this on purpose! It’s just a game to him, Princess, and your boy wants to win. He’s trying to mess with your head long enough to get you back and then watch. He’ll go back to doing the same things that made you leave him all those other times!”

  Are you questioning whether or not you’re in love with Rafael?

  “I don’t know what to say except this doesn’t feel right.” The biplane, which had been making large, lazy circles around all of downtown, now headed south, toward the suburbs. Princess read the banner one last time before it flew away. She felt her heart breaking as tears fell in earnest. “I’m sorry, Rafael.”

  Rafael sighed as if he’d been punched. “About what, Princess?”

  “I can’t do this.”

  Rafael crossed his arms and glared at her. “Do what?”

  “Marry you.” Princess dropped her head. “Not right now. Not like this. I’m so sorry.”

  A string of expletives flew out of Rafael’s mouth. “I’m sick of this shit, Princess!” he finished, exasperation evident in between every word.

  Princess turned and began walking away.

  “If you leave now, it’s over!” Rafael yelled. “I mean it, Princess. If we don’t do this now … I’m done.”

  Princess stopped and turned around. “The last thing I want to do is hurt you, Rafael. But this just doesn’t feel right.”

  “Yeah, whatever. I see how you treat the man you supposedly love.” Princess bowed her head. “I’m going to go in here and talk with Cleavon. Maybe it would be best if you call a taxi.”

  “I do love you. It’s just that—”

  “Save the swan song. I’ve heard enough.” Rafael stared at Princess a long moment, a myriad of thoughts furiously swirling inside his head. Then, with one final sweeping head-to-toe perusal of his almost-but-not-quite wife, he turned and walked toward the building’s entrance.

  Through a curtain of tears, Princess watched Rafael walk up the steps and out of her life. More of her mother’s words wafted across her mind. He absolutely adores you. I believe that he will do everything in his power to give you a great life.

  A wave of panic rolled over her. Father God, please help me! What have I done?

  17

  Time To Make A Change

  M ama Max was all smiles as she pulled her CTS into one of Mount Zion’s reserved parking spots. James Cleveland blasted “Give Me My Flowers” from her stereo. She turned off the engine, waving and greeting people as she opened the door. “How do, sister. Good morning! Praise the Lord!” She nodded and greeted and hugged her way down to the third seat, right side, first row—the spot she’d occupied for three decades at least. Her guest sat down beside her.

  Shortly thereafter, the usher led another member to the seat next to Mama Max. “Morning, Elsie,” Mama Max said, with a wink and a pat.

  “Morning, Mama Max. How you doing this morning?”

  “Tolerable well. Elsie, this here is Henry Logan, my neighbor Beatrice Logan’s son. He came back to help take care of her following the stroke.”

  Elsie leaned over and shook Henry’s hand. “Lord have mercy, and looking just like her. I’d plum forgot she had a child. How is your mama, Henry?”

  “Some days are better than others, but overall she’s doing well.”

  “Tell her that Elsie Wanthers said hello and that I’m praying for her.”

  “Will do, ma’am.”

  “How’s Pastor Montgomery?” Elsie asked Maxine.

  “Last call I got, he’s doing okay. They’re still performing tests, but God is able.”

  “A doctor in the sickroom and a lawyer in the courtroom.”

  “Hallelujah!”

  “What about your granddaughter? Poor child has got to be beside herself. On the day that was supposed to be the best of her life, she had the worst thing happen … her uncle pass out like that. We were all so worried! He could have died!”

  “Well, thank the good Lord he is yet among us.” Mama Max nodded as Elsie’s best friend, Margie Stokes, took her place beside Elsie. “How do.”

  “Duty bound, praise the Lord,” Margie replied. After Maxine had introduced her to Henry, Margie continued. “How’s your grandbaby?”

  “Worried about her uncle, but all things considered, she’s doing all right.”

  “She’s probably married and on her honeymoon by now,” Elsie said.

  Margie’s face scrunched into a frown. “How you figure?”

  “Everything was over but the shouting…. King could have finished that ceremony in the parking lot.”

  “I don’t think that happened,” Mama Max said, a chuckle accompanying her twinkling eyes. “But I know how determined that young man looked. I don’t think he has it in him to wait too long.”

  “Speaking of waiting,” Elsie said, her voice dropping as she shifted the conversation, “how are you doing, Maxine? With Obadiah mentoring that young man in Texas and all? Ain’t it been almost a year since you left him down there all by his lonesome? Lord knows I would never have left my man like that.”

  Mama Max bit her tongue so hard she almost drew blood. It was either that or say what she was thinking: that Elsie hadn’t had a man in so long that she wouldn’t have a clue on what to do with one.

  “Although I understand your having to come back here and look after the house and affairs and all. And I can sure understand you missing the grandkids. Still, you’ve got to be missing that man around the house, having been with him all these years.”

  Mama Max nodded, plastering on a smile as fake as a cat’s bark or a dog’s meow. So far, the “official” story had held: that a homesick Mama Max had voluntarily returned to Kansas and given her blessing on Obadiah remaining in Texas to help with the transition at Gospel Truth Church. Located in the small town of Palestine, Texas, Gospel Truth was the church for which Obadiah had come out of retirement and tried to bring this once heralded ministry back from a scandal involving their pastor,
Nathaniel Thicke. But Mama Max wasn’t stupid. Elsie might be flirting with what she called Old Timer’s (and the rest of the world called Alzheimer’s) but Maxine Brook was still very much clothed and in her right mind. She saw straight through Elsie’s “concern” and inwardly called it what it was—a great big case of nosy-itis—a disease that had plagued her good friend since last year. That’s when she’d invited both Elsie and Margie down to Texas for Thanksgiving dinner. The women were lonely and getting up in age so it had seemed like a good idea. At the time she hadn’t known that Palestine’s other colored preacher, eighty-plus-year-old Reverend Jenkins, would choose this particular Sunday of their visit to conduct a “do drop in” while proudly squiring his new bride on his feeble left arm. Said wife, Dorothea Noble Bates Jenkins, had been Mama Max’s nemesis for more than forty years. Knowing that Dorothea had little respect for wedding rings or marriage vows, Mama Max had always believed her moving to Palestine and tying the knot shortly after Obadiah had relocated to head up Gospel Truth in Palestine was a little too convenient. She’d thought correctly. Dorothea and Obadiah revived their decades old affair, one that few in the Christian community knew about—except Elsie Wanthers. Octogenarian Wanthers had been there in the beginning when a young Maxine Brook, juggling the roles of preacher’s wife and motherhood, had first learned of Dorothea Bates. That fateful Sunday, Old Timer’s had abated just enough for Elsie to remember where she’d seen the uninvited visitor’s face before. A ruckus ensued and Elsie had been digging for information ever since. Hmph, keep on trying there, Miss Alrighty. There was no way she would allow for these messy mamas getting all up in her business. Elsie was trying to fish without a pond or a pole. Mama Max had no plans to take the bait.

  She looked past Elsie and spoke to Miss Almighty. “Margie, girl, your face is the perfect shape to wear a hat like that. It looks really nice, and that gray color complements your skin.” In actuality the color made her skin look ashen, but Mama Max knew that giving Margie a compliment and not throwing one in Elsie’s direction would be enough to get Miss Alrighty out of her business and back into her own.

  “Thank you, Mama Max,” Margie said, with a smile. “I right like that hat you’re wearing, too.”

  “My niece sent mine from a fancy shop in Dee-troit,” Elsie offered, moving her head in a way that caused the foot-long feather to bob and weave like a fencer’s sword.

  “It looks nice,” Mama Max offered, thinking that it looked even better when Elsie’s mouth was shut.

  Small talk continued until devotion began. After the reading of scriptures, prayers, and church news from the bulletin, it was time for the worship service. This was Mama Max’s favorite part; she loved singing praises unto her God. Following worship service was the lifting of offering and giving of tithes, another part of the service she enjoyed. “If God can give me a hundred percent, then I sho’nuff can give Him ten.” She was filling out her offering envelope when a rumbling began in her stomach. Uh-oh. Mama Max closed her eyes and pressed her hand against her midsection. For her an upset stomach was not only uncomfortable, but was also usually an indicator of something out of order. What is it, Lord?

  Her answer came by way of Elsie nudging Margie in the side and exclaiming in a whisper loud enough to wake the dead, “Well, praise the Lord if it isn’t the good old Reverend Doctor!” She turned to Mama Max and continued, “Why didn’t you tell us that we’d be getting a treat today? Course, with what happened to Pastor Derrick and all, I’m sure King has his hands full. Having your husband in the pulpit is a sight for these feeble eyes, yes sirree. Hallelujah!”

  Margie joined in with similar comments. Both women babbled on, so caught up in the surprise of today’s “treat” that they didn’t notice Mama Max’s nonparticipation, or how after completing the information on her offering envelope, she kept her head bowed and opened her Bible. Turning to Psalms 30 served two purposes: it helped keep Mama Max’s mind on the Master instead of murder, and it kept her from taking her oversized, giant print, King James Bible and beating today’s “treat” upside the head!

  As soon as the ushers had collected the offering, a spattering of clapping began. Mama Max looked up. I should have known. There her husband stood, looking quite refined and dignified, and reaching for the microphone that the praise leader offered. She’d always loved a chocolate man in a dark brown suit and even at almost seventy-five years of age his broad shoulders and upright carriage did a suit quite proud. People often said that if Obadiah dyed his salt and pepper hair, he’d look ten to fifteen years younger. In this moment, Mama Max agreed. Yesterday, with the flurry of wedding activity going on, it was easy to ignore Obadiah. But not now, not as he stood there looking good and sounding nice—with his rich, pitch-perfect baritone floating across the masses.

  “‘Father, I stretch my hand to Thee,’” Obadiah began, acknowledging the applause with a nod of his head. Congregants immediately joined in with this age-old hymn’s call and response model. “ ‘No other help I know …’”

  Mama Max bowed her head and began to read the scriptures before her. “I will extol Thee, O Lord; for Thou hast lifted me up, and hast not made my foes to rejoice over me.” Emotions were now roiling along with her stomach: anger, sadness, confusion, guilt. She was angry to see the length and breadth of Obadiah’s nerve—that he could be down there in Texas cavorting in adultery yet walk with head high into the pulpit, looking like he’d been born to be there and acting just as righteous as you please. This is what also brought the sadness, that right now the elder Brooks were living a lie. Confusion came from the fact that while Mama Max knew she had very good reason to hate this man, a modicum of love still seeped through, and guilt for this same reason: how could you love someone who treated you badly? She focused her eyes on the words she read, hoping to drown out Obadiah’s singing with the word of the Lord.

  “ ‘If Thy withdraw Thyself from me … oh wither will I go?’ ”

  “O Lord my God, I cried unto Thee, and Thou hast healed me.” Memories flooded in: their first meetings in the Texas countryside; the birth of their four children: King, Queen, Daniel, and Ester; countless revivals and Sunday dinners … and Dorothea. Mama Max began to rock with the effort it took to hold her peace. “Sing unto the Lord, O ye saints of His, and give thanks at the remembrance of His holiness.”

  The pianist began a soulful solo, the congregation hummed along, and Obadiah encouraged the worshippers to give God praise. Mama Max worked to keep her thoughts on God and all things holy, but snippets of memory—particularly those from the past year—intruded upon her joy.

  It’s them Noble bitches, stirring up my blood again! I passed by the bedroom and heard the Reverend Doctor talking all lowlike. So I tiptoed into the guest room and picked up the receiver. Now, you know I’m not one to the nosy, but when the Spirit nudges me to do a thing, I try and be obedient. So I picked up that phone, yes, I did. And I heard her.

  Mama Max shook her head and continued to read the calming Psalm. For His anger endureth but a moment; in His favor is life. Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.

  Obadiah began his sermon. “Giving honor to God who is the head of my life, to the ministers on the pulpit, the fabulous choir, faithful church workers, all of you who make up this wonderful congregation, and most importantly, to my stalwart helpmeet, my companion for nigh unto fifty-five years”—Mama Max couldn’t help her shocked reaction—“Maxine Brook. Woman of God, can you please stand and greet the people?”

  If there were any mind readers in the midst, they would have gasped and sputtered at the thoughts running through the head of Maxine Brook. But calling upon her professional decorum, Mama Max once again put on a fake smile, stood as asked, nodded at the crowd, took her seat, and made a decision: it was time to put an end to her sham of a marriage.

  18

  You Dropped A Bomb On Me

  King, Tai, and Vivian stood in Derrick’s hospital room, quietly conversing at the foot of his bed. Th
e doctor had ordered them to spend only a few minutes with his recently awakened patient, and to not bother him if he fell asleep. Derrick seemed to be sleeping peacefully. His visitors appeared calm on the outside, but worry and fear ran through all of their veins.

  “He looks well,” King observed, though his brow was creased with abject concern.

  “His mental faculty seems sound, too. No loss of memory, speech impediments, or anything like that,” Tai added, clasping Vivian’s hand in her own. “He’s going to be all right, sister.”

  Vivian nodded, unable to speak. There’d been a hole in her heart and a lump in her throat ever since she watched her husband fall to the floor at Mount Zion Progressive Baptist Church. That she’d barely slept last night had nothing to do with the less than comfortable roll-away bed the hospital had provided and everything to do with the thought that Vivian had never before considered: life without Derrick.

  Her phone rang, and Vivian excused herself from the room. Shortly afterward, she opened the door to Derrick’s room and motioned King and Tai to join her in the hallway. “That was Cedars-Sinai,” she whispered. “They’ll be transporting Derrick within the hour, and he’ll be met at the hospital by Dr. Black.”

  Tai breathed a sigh of relief. “I know that’s what you wanted, Viv, and I’m glad they were able to make it happen so quickly. You’ll feel much better once the doctor you’ve chosen has had a chance to check Derrick out.”

  The doctor Vivian had chosen was Keith Black, the world-renowned African-American physician whose knowledge of and success rate with brain-related illnesses had set him apart in the medical field. Ironically, she’d just recently learned of him through a church member who’d given her a copy of his autobiography, Brain Surgeon. She’d skimmed the pages and was impressed by the doctor’s background, tenacity, and focus. However, before she could fully immerse herself between the book’s pages, her attention was diverted by the pressing needs of an upcoming Sanctity of Sisterhood conference. Her already busy schedule became even more so and all thoughts of medical miracles were forgotten. Later, Vivian would acknowledge that what seemed to be a casual exchange of information from church member to first lady was actually part of God’s divine intervention that would help save her husband’s life.