Nappily Faithful

by Trisha R. Thomas

  6

  Venus

  Trevelle Doval could be the one reason Airic was interested in being a doting father. I couldn’t resist doing a bit of Internet research on the woman. I typed in her name and information poured, jumped, and beat across the computer screen. I was suddenly immersed in her tumultuous childhood of poverty and prostitution followed conveniently by being rescued by a good Christian family who took her in and taught her about faith and God. She then went on to the seminary and led a celibate life until meeting the man of her dreams, Airic Fisher. Ha!

  I landed on a fantasy story of how they met at a college in Boston where the lecture turned ugly after students began to heckle and verbally attack Ms. Doval for speaking against fornication on campuses, deeming the entire coed population to eternal hell if they didn’t change their ways. One of the professors stepped in to rescue her by offering his agreement on the matter. That professor was one Airic Fisher. They lost me at the rescuing part. Airic had never stood up for anything in his life, least of all for the sanctity of virgins.

  The rest was history, as they say. Within six months, Trevelle and Airic had the biggest wedding ceremony the black elite had seen in decades. Horse-drawn carriage, hundreds of white doves, a dress beaded with Austrian crystals, over five hundred guests. Trevelle had spared no expense, “knowing there was no greater blessing than the union of a husband and wife.”

  Spare me.

  I ignored my own bitterness for a second and scrolled down to see pictures. Courtesy of Who’s Who Online, I saw photos of hundreds of guests, including government officials along with a few celebrities sprinkled about. Airic looked happier than I’d ever seen him. Handsome in sepia-toned images with a bright smile and sparkling eyes. So happy.

  Money could do that, at least temporarily.

  I clicked on the next Web page and found Trevelle Doval’s book tour schedule. She was speaking at Spelman College tonight. My heart raced. Surely there would be a huge crowd, too large to notice me. It was a public place, a free world. I could go if I wanted.

  After buffing and polishing myself I told Jake I was attending a seminar on positive change. After all, I desperately wanted insight on this woman who might one day become a part of my daughter’s life. I wanted to find peace and change my evil thoughts, so it wasn’t like I was lying.

  The evening started out pretty standard. Hundreds of students listened respectfully to Trevelle Doval’s carefully constructed lecture on Christianity in business. Ethics had lost all meaning in a world of gorging consumers and stock market fraud. I looked around for Airic, seeing how he’d known a thing or two about the concept, since he defrauded his stockholders of millions only a few short years ago. No sign of him. Didn’t matter. Trevelle was far more interesting.

  She strutted on the stage after being introduced and met with moderate applause. She wasted not a second once she was centered and in position. Her microphone was attached to the shiny gold lapel of her suit that matched her gold five-inch pointed heels.

  “How many times in our lives have we been told, this isn’t about you, it’s not personal?” Her voice flowed effortlessly through the auditorium. “When I was growing up, my mother use to tell me daily, ‘Everything’s not about you, this world will continue on long after you’re gone and no one will have known your name.’” She threw back her head, tossing her hair, gently laughing. “I’m here to tell you, it’s always personal, and it’s always about you. You,” she pointed, “are the one who God speaks through. Your words, your actions, your decisions are measured and weighed each and every day. Trust me, it’s always about you.”

  The woman had skills. I listened intently for a solid hour before I remembered I wasn’t supposed to be impressed. I was supposed to dislike Trevelle Doval, not sit there nodding to her sermon. When question time came the line stretched from the front to the exit. The first young woman wearing a black scarf draped over her head in traditional Muslim attire adjusted her thick square glasses before asking her question in a highbrow tone. “Ms. Doval, you speak about the woman’s place to stand submissive behind a man. How can you condemn the Muslims’ treatment of women when you as a Christian believe women are second-class citizens?”

  The audience sat in silence, waiting for her response. Trevelle seemed relaxed and unfettered by the fact the question had nothing to do with the topic she’d just spoken about for the last hour. Ethics. Decision-making in business. Was I the only one paying attention in class?

  Trevelle strolled to the left side of the stage. Her heels clicked lightly on the wooden stage. The wireless microphone attached to her lapel gave her free range to move as she chose. A sly smile rose on her perfect glossy lips, as if she’d been waiting for the opportunity to talk about something a little more interesting. “I am a woman. Does anyone have any doubt of that?” She pivoted with the agility of a runway model, getting a few claps and whistles from the audience. “As a woman, a Christian woman, I stand before you but I am always behind my father God in Christ. He leads. I follow. I believe in supporting a strong man in his endeavors. A strong woman will make a strong partner but she is not to be the dominant personality in the male and female relationship. Now women in the Muslim religion are not only relegated to second-class citizenship, but they must physically be assigned that position. A perfect example, the wearing of the scarves around the hair, and in some sects, I believe they must be shrouded from head to toe in black sheaths.”

  The young woman leaned into the microphone. “That is not true. We wear the scarf out of respect for our self to not be defined by superficial physical aspects, like hair, to attract a man. In fact, it is American women who purchase the shorn hair of Muslim women to adorn themselves due to their preoccupation with attracting the opposite sex.”

  A few groans of “no she didn’t,” were heard through the audience.

  “I can respect the modesty aspect of wearing the scarf over the hair. However, God made the woman different from the man and there is no sin in embracing those differences with a modest sense of fashion. Women were put on this earth to serve as helpmates, doesn’t matter what country or continent from which you hail.”

  Another set of disapproving groans.

  Trevelle continued. “At one point the Islamic religion was very progressive, fourteen hundred years ago during the days of Prophet Muhammad. He encouraged a more liberal view of the woman’s place in society, for example he believed that women should be able to own property, which was a revolutionary stance back then. However, I believe over the years, teachings that came after Prophet Muhammad had more fear of women and their position in life and began to remove many of the progressive ideas and maintain the oppressive garb. I do not condemn your religion so don’t you dare condemn mine.” Trevelle turned her attention away to show she’d spoke her peace on the subject and was moving on.

  Next. The person behind scooted forward, a matronly dressed student with a handbag too small for her big body. She stepped to the standing microphone. “Ms. Doval ….” From the lilt of her voice, one expected a good southern Christian defense. Instead the young woman’s voice deepened. “You are just covering up your backwards ideas about women. I have heard you say that a woman’s place is in the home and that she should give up her career to raise children. You have your own business. I don’t see you sitting at home.”

  “My dear, listen to yourself. Should we retrofit men with a uterus, shoot him up with estrogen, and make him have the baby, as well? What you women are not seeing is that God has divinely made the sexes different so that they can perform different tasks and one of those tasks is to serve her husband.”

  “Where is your husband? Where are your children? You were in Ebony magazine sitting on top of a brand-new Mercedes parked in front of a giant mansion. I didn’t see no man in that picture.”

  The crowd was now keeping score. Trevelle was losing, but only by a small margin.

  “I was not married when that photo was taken. God is the man in that pict
ure and he shall show no one his image until he has chosen to do so. I had taken a vow of celibacy until I met and married the man God chose to send me. Some of you could take a lesson in prayer and wait.” She could hear a couple of ladies sucking their teeth and moving their way to the aisle to get to the microphone. Trevelle remained calm and cool.

  Another young black woman made her way to the microphone but this one was dressed to the nines. Her orange Todd handbag matched her orange shoes. Trevelle looked hopeful; the woman had as much sense as she did style.

  “Welcome, Ms. Doval. My name is Denise Burrows. I’m a PhD candidate here at the college and I have a comment. Wouldn’t you agree, in today’s dangerous times of HIV, that it’s better to leave men alone and focus on your own goals? Being single is not a death sentence but chasing dick will get a sista killed.”

  The audience fell out laughing. Trevelle acted unfazed. “I definitely agree with you, in spite of your chosen use of words. You shouldn’t be chasing a man. He should be chasing you. But the young women out here are so busy giving themselves away, the men have what ya’ll majoring in business call a ‘surplus.’” She strutted to the other side and let her hand fall on her hip. “Supply and demand, ladies. If there’s too much of anything stored in the warehouse, it drives down the price. Suddenly it has no value.” Nearly half the audience stood up and began clapping. The other half were naysayers giving grunts of disapproval. Trevelle let both sides subside before continuing.

  “Women are giving it away, putting hardworking whores out of business. Our young women don’t know how to say no. Then we have all the magazines telling you to move on and let it go. You don’t need a man. You can do bad all by yourself. Step over any man who doesn’t pay the bills. You do right by him, he’s going to pay the bills.” The crowd got louder, some in agreement, some not. Trevelle’s words seemed to incite the women to their feet. A few even pushed each other trying to get to the microphone. “If you can just hear the truth of what I am saying you’d understand that you can be a strong female in heart, mind, and spirit, without sleeping next to your man with your fist balled up looking for a fight.” It seemed to be the last straw. A few of the women started to move their way to the stage with pointed fingers and angry voices.

  “What I’m trying to say is that if you find someone that you love and respect there is nothing wrong with honoring your role. Everyone has a place in a relationship as individuals. Both partners can lead in their specific roles as the man, as the woman, to build up each other spiritually as well as financially.”

  “You’re a hypocrite,” one student lashed out. “You’re setting women back fifty years with your submissive role talk.”

  Trevelle breathed a sigh of defeat. “Did anyone hear me say ‘submissive’? I said, helpmate.”

  Before things got any more out of control, the woman who’d originally introduced her stepped in. “Let’s give Ms. Doval a round of applause to let her know how grateful we are for her coming this evening.”

  I clapped along with most of the audience. Only a handful booed and refused to join in the applause. I watched her masked smile as she was escorted over to the table with an overabundant stack of her latest book ready to be signed. A large black man in a suit and dark sunglasses stood only an arm grip away, obviously her bodyguard. One look at him and the dissenters probably figured it was best to leave.

  A line formed quickly of chattering women, full of smiles and goodness. Where were these women during the speaking turmoil?

  I stood in line for close to an hour listening to Trevelle’s voice sing out blessings and praise to each and every young woman as she signed their book. I wondered what I was going to say when I got to the front.

  “I’m Venus, Mya’s mother.” I was standing before the great Trevelle Doval, feeling awkward for having stood in line just to say what I’d said.

  “I saw you in the audience.” She beamed. “Nice to see you.” The tone in her voice must’ve alerted Igor. He took a slight step closer.

  “I enjoyed your talk. Can’t wait to read the book,” I said, as if I had never wished for her and Airic to be run over by a bus some few hours earlier. “I also wanted to apologize for the way I acted when we first met. You didn’t deserve that.” I extended my hand, holding the book I’d purchased with the price of admission.

  She took ahold of my hand. “I know this is difficult. You’re probably trying to figure out why we’ve stepped into your life. Fear is the devil’s playground. I want you to know you have no reason to fear our intentions. We simply want the best for Mya.”

  Something in the way she said it made me snatch my hand back. “What is it that you think is for the best?”

  “A stable Christian home.” Her eyes danced with a private secret. “There is no healing without God. Do you have Jesus Christ in your heart?” She handed me the book. The title Armed with Faith was in the form of a knight’s shield. I stared at the cover waiting for the answer to come to me. Of course I had Jesus in my heart. I was a Christian by birthright. I didn’t have to do all the dirty work of going to church and donating boatloads of tithes and offerings. My mother already did it for me. That was my running joke for the religion-mongers who liked to throw stones at the less blessed souls such as myself. I knew my place in God’s heart just like I knew his place in mine. I didn’t need a full house of worship and Holy Rollers screaming from the pulpit to make me know where my bread was buttered. I believed wholly and fully and prayed every day.

  “Mya needs to have God in her life.” She spoke in a gentle, matronly whisper.

  “I know,” I said with a disconcerting effort. The heat of the woman behind me, impatient from waiting too long, and the sudden panic surrounding me made my words shake. “I’m sorry,” I said to the woman in back of me. “This’ll take just a minute more.” I leaned close to Trevelle so no one would hear what I was about to say. The bodyguard stepped forward putting a hand nearly over my face.

  “It’s all right, Stuart,” Trevelle said gracefully.

  Any closer and he would’ve had my teeth marks in his arm. He dropped his hand and I continued. “Whatever you may think …. you’ve got it all wrong. Whatever you may be planning …. it’s not going to be that easy, don’t even bet on it.” I turned and walked away seething. I dropped the book in the large trash can near the exit and peered around for the rest of the Trevelle haters. Luckily they’d already gone or I would’ve become the new ringleader.

  I stared out the kitchen window taking in the green grass and grove of endless trees, wondering how I was going to get through the day after another sleepless night. All night I’d tossed and turned thinking of all the different ways I should’ve responded to Trevelle Doval and her threat. Hey, I’m going to take your child and there’s nothing you can do about it. I’ve got God on my side and he don’t like ugly.

  Well, I’ve got God on my side, too.

  I stirred water into the instant oatmeal for Mya’s breakfast. All the while I continued staring out the window in a half-zombie state. Only Mya’s voice while she played with her doll and miniature dollhouse at the table kept me in the here and now. I stuck the bowl in the microwave and stood in front of it while the glass plate spun in a slow circle.

  The doorbell rang at the precise moment the microwave beeped. It took the insistent knocking to capture my attention; it was far more fun to see the muddy mess I’d made on the glass plate. I pulled the hot bowl out with a towel and sat it on the table. I’d just ruined Mya’s breakfast. Oatmeal wasn’t her favorite food by a long shot anyway. Eggs. Now that was a complete breakfast.

  I briefly looked through the peephole. Having only lived in the new house for a few months, there was always someone coming over for one service or another. We had gas, electricity, water, cable—what had we missed? I was thinking phone, when I unlocked the door and swung it open to the overheated man with red splotches all over his neck and face. The suffocating heat rushed into our air-conditioned house. His blue shirt and gr
ay slacks were not the uniform of any utility company. He pushed a package-size envelope toward me.

  “Mrs. Venus Johnston-Parson?”

  “Yes.”

  He handed me his electronic clipboard. “Sign on the line, please.”

  The clipboard had a stylus pen attached. The pen was moist courtesy of his sweaty hands. I signed as he’d ordered. We exchanged quickly, me handing back his slimey box, and him giving me the red, white, and blue envelope. The printout on the front was smudged. I could faintly make out “Law Offices of ….”

  I tore the envelope open and took the contents out, hurrying the envelope to the trash like it was contagious. I sat at the kitchen table across from Mya, except she wasn’t there.

  “Mya,” I called out nervously, “where are you? Come back and eat, right now.”

  “I’m here, Mommy. Find me,” she called out, angry that I wasn’t willing to play along.

  I tried not to say another word. “Damn you.”

  “Mommy,” Mya said quietly, this time from my side. Her small hand reached out, rubbing against my cheek. “I sorry.”

  I pushed the papers across the table and picked Mya up onto my lap. I squeezed her tight. “Oh, no, I wasn’t talking to you, sweetie. You didn’t do anything wrong.” I kissed her again and again. Mya grabbed the spoon and played in the oatmeal clumped in the bowl. Still no breakfast for the child. That’s the kind of mother who is unfit, a mother who doesn’t feed her child, or keep her safe.

  “I’ll make some more.” My movements were robotic. I scooted Mya into the next chair, rose up to dump the contents down the sink. The oatmeal wouldn’t budge. I slammed it against the metal sink, the oatmeal still there. I slammed it again. The ceramic bowl broke down the middle and across the sides. Some things were no good once they were split down the middle, a child for instance.

  “Mommy, you broke it.”