When Pastor Jeffries asked the members and guests to greet one another, I turned to Chastity. And the look in her eyes let me know it wouldn’t be long. Because I had a feeling she knew she was going to be my wife, too.
16 Chastity
Sunday-afternoon dinners at our home were always filled with the merriment of Christmas. A festive gathering of family and friends, every seven days, celebrating the passage of another week over a soul food spread that rivaled any restaurant’s menu.
But this Sunday was different. Of course, I’d had friends come home with me for these weekly celebrations, and growing up, Melanie had been here just about every week. Never, though, had there been a male to walk through the front doors of this brownstone who made me smile the way I smiled at Xavier right now.
As he stepped away from the buffet table, Xavier said, “Pastor and Mrs. Jeffries, you really have a beautiful home.”
“Thank you,” my mother said. “We’ll give a tour of the other floors after dinner.” She led us to the formal dining table, which was always set for twelve.
“I’d love that,” Xavier said as he moved to the chair where my mother directed him. “These brownstones have always amazed me.”
“We were blessed to find this one and then renovate it. We were a little concerned about Pastor”—she paused—“well, he wasn’t a pastor then. But while he was playing basketball, we were concerned about living someplace where people could just walk up to our front door.” She said that as if living that way still amazed her.
“Now, Sisley, tell the man the truth, that was your concern, not mine.” Turning to Xavier, my dad said, “I didn’t want to live anywhere else, except here in Sugar Hill. I loved the history of this neighborhood, and just rolling through these streets, recognizing the African Americans who were here before me, makes me proud. This area has always been the best of Harlem.”
“Well, we were fine,” my mother acquiesced. To Xavier, she said, “Between Pastor, the security guards, and even the few times Pastor took me to the shooting range”—she chuckled—“we were safe, and it turned out to be a wonderful place to raise Chastity.”
Because it felt like my mother was about to take my man down my childhood memory lane, I asked, “So, Mom, how did this happen?” She squinted, not understanding. “Just the four of us,” I added. “Has there ever been a time when I sat at this table and not every seat was taken?” My parents laughed as I recalled a lifetime of dinners, sitting across from those whose hearts were closest to my parents and who broke bread with us through the best of times and the worst of days. But today, my parents had closed the doors to their home, it seemed. This was a private dinner, which I appreciated.
“This was all your father.” Then my mother turned to him. “Pastor, do you want to tell Chastity what you told the people?”
He chuckled. “I told them I was conducting a job interview.”
“A job interview?” I repeated and then laughed because I was nervous, not humored. This wasn’t supposed to be anything like that; I just wanted to have a nice dinner, a great chat, and then Xavier and I would leave, happy we’d had this time together.
When my father added, “I had to say something to keep the people away,” I relaxed—especially after he chuckled.
My man wasn’t fazed by the interview comment, though. Because he just piped right in, “I enjoyed your sermon this morning, Pastor Jeffries.”
“Thank you,” my dad said. “We just started this seven deadly sins series last week.”
“Well, I enjoyed your sermon on greed. What did you preach on last week?”
“The basics. I had to begin with everyone understanding the seven sins aren’t listed in the Bible.”
Xavier raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know that.”
My father nodded. “Of course, they originated from Christian tradition,” he began, “but they went through many variations and changes…”
As my dad continued, I loosened up. I should’ve known my father wouldn’t stray far from spiritual topics.
And just when I had that thought, my father asked, “So you’re from Mississippi?”
My shoulders hunched all the way up to my ears. This was a job interview.
“Yes, sir,” my man said, though through his tone, I felt his tension.
“What part?”
Xavier paused, using the time to wipe the edges of his lips with his napkin, and I wondered how much of his story he was willing to tell. “From right outside a town called Sumner.” Then he added quickly, “It’s so small—just about five hundred people—I’m sure you never heard of it,” as if he wanted to run past this and move on.
My father raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that where the trial for the murderers of Emmett Till was held?”
It was Xavier’s turn to show surprise. “Yeah. The courthouse has been turned into a museum.”
“Wow, Papa. How did you know that?” A natural question I hoped would steer the conversation away from anything that would cause Xavier pain.
“I’ve read a lot.”
My mother laughed. “I always tell Pastor he needs to get a spot on Jeopardy! Who knows? He just might make something of himself.” She waved her hand and giggled, tickled by her own words.
But all the laughter didn’t stop my father. “So are your people still in Sumner?”
“No, sir,” Xavier said. “I come from a small family, and there’s no one left there.”
“That’s something else that Xavier and I have in common,” I jumped in again. “We’re both only children.”
My effort did nothing; my father returned Xavier to the witness stand. “So where are your parents now?”
I moaned inside. My father had entered the red zone. There hadn’t been a time when Xavier shared his past that I hadn’t heard his struggle. “I never knew my father,” he said, and I was glad he left that story there. “And my mother…” He paused and swallowed. “She died.”
I held my gasp inside. I didn’t want my parents to know Xavier had never shared this with me. His mother was dead?
“She passed away some time ago.”
Inside those words, I heard the stored-up pain of the years—however many—that had passed. I didn’t want Xavier to have to go through this anymore. I was ready to object and end this line of questioning.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” my father said.
I was sure my father would stop now. But then it was Xavier who kept it going. “It’s been many years, about twenty. So I’ve had time to process it and leave that grief and everything else behind. I came to New York and built quite a life, and now”—he paused and glanced at me—“I’m looking forward to my future.”
“You left that grief,” my father said. When he added, “I see,” his eyes narrowed.
With that, I knew Xavier was in for a long dinner.
My father said, “Twenty years ago, you were very young. Were you able to talk to someone about losing your mother then?”
Xavier shrugged. “No, but I handled it. I had to.”
My father leaned back, and when he pressed his fingers together forming a steeple, I knew Kareem Jeffries, my father, had left the table. He was in full pastoring mode now. “You know, grief is a deep emotion that leaves its remnants for years, sometimes decades. There are few who’ve gone through something as tragic as what you’ve experienced, especially being so young, who have walked away unscathed by that kind of trauma.”
It was a statement, but there was a question—actually, a challenge—inside his words. I heard it, and so did Xavier.
“Of course, for a while, I was really upset,” Xavier told him. “But I persevered and got to the other side.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “I’m fine,” as if those were the words my father was waiting to hear.
My father’s eyes never left Xavier, as if he was studying him. His expression was familiar to me, and I wondered, what did my father see?
Whatever he saw, it wasn’t on the outside. Xavier didn�
��t crack under the pressure of my father’s questions, didn’t flounder under the intensity of his stare. He just sat there, a man on the witness stand, waiting for this cross-examination to end.
My father persisted, “There are levels to this, son. There are stages of grief. Things you have to face so that later in life, you won’t have issues and…”
Xavier’s cell phone vibrated; even though it was inside his jacket, we all shifted, our eyes moving toward the sound. He pulled out the phone and glanced at the screen. “Excuse me.” Pushing back his chair, he said, “I wouldn’t ordinarily do this, but…”
Before he finished his explanation, my mother drawled, “Go ahead, Xavier. If you need privacy, Pastor’s office is one level up.”
Xavier shook his head and accepted the call at the same time. “I’ll just step in here.” He moved toward the kitchen.
I followed him with my eyes. “What’s up?” we all heard Xavier say.
When I turned my attention back to the dining room, my father’s eyes were on me, his brows raised.
I mimicked him and tilted my head in a What? expression. Was he annoyed Xavier had taken the call? With the case he was working on, it could have been important.
Except the way Xavier had answered his phone belied that thought.
“Yeah, with Chastity and her parents.” Xavier’s voice floated from the kitchen.
His side of the conversation didn’t give me many clues: “Uh-huh,” then, “Are you serious?” then, “Okay, I’ll be right there.”
I wanted to keep my eyes away from my father’s, but I felt his pull. And when I looked at him, I was taken aback by the deep creases lining his forehead.
Xavier rushed back into the dining room. “I really hate to do this…”
I pushed my chair back.
“My best friend, Bryce, is at Harlem Hospital.”
“Oh my goodness,” my mother and I said at the same time.
“Is he all right?” I asked.
Xavier held up his hand. “He’s good. Twisted his ankle so bad this morning that he thought it was broken. It was severe, but no broken bones. They’ve wrapped him up and shot him up with something for the pain, and he can’t be released until someone is there to take him home.”
“Well, of course you need to go,” my mother said as she stood, too.
It took my father a couple more moments to do the same.
“I am so sorry,” Xavier said to both of my parents. Then, to my mother, he added, “Mrs. Jeffries, this dinner was magnificent.”
“Thank you, darling. I’m just sorry you won’t get to enjoy all of it.”
“Me too. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a home-cooked meal like this.”
“Well, two things: first, you’ll just have to come back next Sunday, and second, all of this comes from a good friend, Melba, who caters all of our Sunday meals.” She leaned forward. “But no one has to know.”
He chuckled and said, “I look forward to coming back,” although he made no commitment about next Sunday. When Xavier turned to my father, he didn’t receive the same reception; still, he held out his hand. “Pastor Jeffries, thank you for having me.”
“You’re welcome. And I’ll say a prayer for your friend.” That was the extent of it. No looking forward to seeing you again. Not even a prayer for Xavier.
I said to Xavier, “I’ll walk you out.”
He gave my parents a final nod, then followed me into the living room and through the stained-glass double doors of the parlor before we entered the main hallway.
As I reached for the door, Xavier pressed his hand against it, then swung me around and pressed his body against mine. “I’m sorry.”
“Xavier,” I whispered and glanced over his shoulder. “My parents.” And those two words made me remember what he’d just revealed. I wanted to hold him and give him my regrets about his mother. But how could I do that here and now?
He said, “I wish I didn’t have to go because I want to be with you again all night long.”
“Your friend needs you.”
“Well”—he kissed my forehead—“I’m looking forward to”—he kissed my nose—“the day when you say you need me.” When our lips met, we lingered in the softness, neither of us wanting to break away.
I was the one who pulled away, though I pressed my forehead against his. “I love you, Xavier.”
He leaned back, his question so clear in his eyes.
“I love you,” I repeated, just so he would know I’d meant it.
Shaking his head, he said, “You don’t have to say that.” Those were his words, but his eyes told me he hoped I was speaking the truth.
Pressing into him even more, I kissed him again, speaking in my language. Our kiss filled with more passion, the kind that demanded more privacy than the vestibule of the brownstone I’d once called home. We were breathless when we pulled away. And again, his eyes searched mine as if he was still questioning me.
I palmed his cheek. “All I want is for you to stay, but right now you have to leave.”
“Chastity, you don’t know…”
“I know.”
He shook his head as if I didn’t know anything, as if there were hundreds of sentences in his mind, a million words in his thoughts. But he summed it up with, “I love you so much. More than I could ever imagine.”
I wanted to kiss him again, but I nudged him instead, because another kiss… and I would’ve walked right out this door with him. And his friend Bryce… well, he would have just been at that hospital waiting.
“Go,” I whispered. As he backed out, I said, “Call me when you get home.”
“What would be even better is if you’re waiting there for me when I get home.”
I set my hand on my hip. “I don’t have a key.”
“Oh, we’re gonna fix that, baby.” He grinned, blew me a kiss, then trotted down the stairs.
Once he was out of my sight, I closed then leaned against the door, my mind filled with all that had gone down today. From Xavier meeting my father, to standing side by side in church, this dinner with my parents, and even his finally sharing about his mother—it was all special. But nothing meant as much as these last three minutes.
I did love Xavier—at least, this felt like love. It was crazy; I was thirty-four and had never really known this kind of love. I’d known sex, I’d known lust, but I’d never known anything that had touched my heart.
Xavier had changed that, and I floated back through the living room to the dining room with thoughts of love on my mind.
17 Chastity
Inside the dining room, my parents sat, saying nothing.
I glided back to my seat. “So, what did you think of Xavier?”
“Sweetheart,” my mother jumped in, though her eyes stayed on my father, “it doesn’t matter what we think. It’s what you think of the young man.”
My father held up his hand. “No, Sisley, she’s right to ask. My thoughts do matter.” To me, he asked, “So was that call real?”
I’d been smelling roses, hearing harps, walking on clouds. And just like that, my feet landed with a thud back on the ground. “What do you mean?”
“Did someone just call him so he could get out of here?”
“Why would he do that?” I asked, hoping my father heard my attitude and would back up.
If he heard it, he didn’t care. My father hunched his shoulders and gave me the reason he’d asked that ridiculous question. “Maybe the kitchen was getting too hot and Xavier couldn’t stand it.”
I pushed back from the table. “You think your questions were too much for him?” I asked, not caring that he heard how offended I was by his question.
This time his response was only a shrug.
I crossed my arms. “Why don’t you like him?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”
“Well, you’re saying something, and it doesn’t sound good.”
“All right.” He bowed his head, and right t
hen I knew this wasn’t going to go well. Because whenever my dad made that move, one of two things were happening: either he was talking to God, or God was talking to him.
I sat, waiting for the verdict, my heart pounding. His voice was low when he finally said, “There’s something in that young man’s spirit, something that has to be resolved.”
That made me frown. “What are you talking about? What’s in his spirit?”
“I don’t know.”
His words had gone off in my head like an explosive, and now he was just going to leave that bomb sitting there? I wanted to tell him to bow his head, to go back and ask God for clarification.
“It’s something he’s aware of,” my father continued, “but something he has to do for himself, something that could bring him down… and everyone in his world could go down with him.”
This was the first time I’d introduced a man to my father, and this was how he was reacting? Even though I understood his gift, I didn’t appreciate his discernment right now.
“What am I supposed to do with this? You haven’t given me any specifics; you haven’t even given me anything in general. So what do you want me to do, Papa?”
I wasn’t looking for an answer. My question was more of a challenge, to get my father to back up and stand down.
My father said, “You should do with it what you’ve been taught to do. You know how to pray; you know how to hear God’s voice. Ask Him for guidance and discernment.”
“How do you know I haven’t done that already?” The moment I asked, I was sorry. Because just like he was proving right now, my father knew things.
But instead of calling me out, he said, “You know how this works. You can never go to the Lord enough. Seek His guidance in all that you do. And you need to seek the Lord about this young man.”
“Chastity.” My mother’s tone was her attempt to toss ice onto the heat in the room. “Your father isn’t saying anything bad about Xavier. He’s giving you the advice he would give to anyone about anything.”
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