“Again,” he said.
Again. Again. No matter how many times I dialed, I was sure Jake wasn’t going to answer. As hopeful as I was, I knew something had gone terribly wrong. My lip quivered and my hand shook as I pushed redial one more time …. the last time.
“Yeah. Who this?” The voice didn’t belong to Jake.
“Where’s my husband? Where’s Jake ….” The phone was snatched out of my hand.
“This is Sergeant Floyd with the Atlanta Police Department. Everybody doing all right in there?” He spoke with nonchalant confidence while waving a huge hand to signal to another officer. Heavy military boots lined up around us. He made another hand sign and they all dispersed as quickly as they came.
“I can get some medics in the building to help anybody who needs medical attention. Right now, nobody’s lost their life, am I right?” He paused for the answer. “Don’t do anything more you’ll regret. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Just walk right out the front door. We’ll have a car waiting for you.”
I could hear the gunman yelling through the phone. The sergeant clicked the phone off and turned his attention toward the building.
“What’s happening?” The knot in my throat was dry and filled with regret. Only minutes ago I’d told Wendy of my doubts and fear of the relationship with Jake being doomed to failure. Yet all I could do was pray to have him back in my arms. Please let him be okay. Please.
A huge cloud of black smoke pooled through the broken windows.
“Got ’em,” the sergeant said to himself before starting a slow trot toward the brick building.
The female officer had a tight grip on my arm as I watched the sergeant disappear. “As soon as they know something, I’ll tell you,” she said answering my question with her eyes.
30
Trevelle
“You’re on in five, four, three, two ….”
The music, a bass filled rendition of “Lift Your Burden” played while Trevelle touched hands before moving to the podium. Usually a few hundred were invited to sit in the very front and the editing spliced in the ten thousand strong from the old tape. Her audience was real this time. The crowd beamed with delight as the light closed in around her.
“Beautiful divas, stand up and give yourselves a round of applause. Stand up,” Trevelle ordered with a wave of her hands. “Beautiful divas bound for glory and splendidness through Christ. Don’t fight it, don’t hide it. Turn to your neighbor and tell them, you are splendid and bound for glory.”
The crowd of well-dressed women turned to one another, giving each the praise they deserved and craved.
“I spent many years of my life feeling unworthy. Didn’t need a mirror. Everything was right up here,” she said, pointing to her temple. “Seeds of self-hate and doubt planted by the devil himself. The devil may have planted those seeds, but guess what,” she lowered her voice, “I was the one watered and fed ’em every day. No matter what seeds were planted you have a choice in weeding out the bad, tending to your garden, keeping the soil fertile and ripe, so new seeds can be planted.” She stepped from behind the podium and did a hand-on-hip stroll to the edge of the stage. “Oh, you didn’t hear me. I said, new seeds. The kind that grow bountiful and healthy, the kind that rise up and face the sunshine and the rain with equal revelry. The kind of seeds that grow with vigilance and can protect themselves from danger. Ladies, I’m talking about your soul. Your spirit. Your very essence. God’s seeds need to be planted in your garden.
“Oh …. don’t get me wrong. Once you have these precious seeds in your possession, you’ve got to protect and nurture. Say it with me, ‘handle with care.’ Like the side of the package carrying the exquisite Tiffany crystal vase. What’s it say? ‘handle with care.’ Somebody tell me what you get when you don’t handle with care. You turn your back and leave the garden to tend to itself you get rats, snakes, gophers, weeds, and worms. Did I leave anything out?”
Trevelle scanned the audience, looking for the one person she could bring up on the stage to give a testimonial and share their fear and pain. She needed one person she could heal with a touch of her hand.
That’s when she saw her sitting in the very front row. The young woman, a spitting image of Trevelle twenty years ago. She tried to take her eyes off her and get on with the business at hand. She needed someone wrought with pain, overcome by the daily grunt of work and no play. This young woman showed no signs of wear or tear. Spit-shined and polished, she wouldn’t be sympathetic enough for her audience.
Yet she couldn’t help herself. “Darling, what’s your name?” Trevelle asked sympathetically.
“Keisha Hawkins.”
“Bless you, Keisha. Come up here and let me talk to you for a minute.”
The young woman wasted no time getting to her feet. They fell into an embrace and Trevelle for a moment forgot she was hosting an audience of thousands, tape rolling, her makeup probably smudged. Something about her, something she couldn’t put her finger on. “Dear God,” Trevelle whispered. “Bless this child, give her strength to walk in your light and to know your good grace. Now tell me, sweetheart, what’s weighing on your heart tonight?”
Keisha looked down, preoccupied with the fact she was standing in front of thousands of onlookers in the audience. Trevelle gripped her hands. “Don’t be afraid. We’re all here under the same name of God. He is our only judge and he will never forsake you.”
A tear fell down Keisha’s cheek. “Sometimes I feel all alone in this world. It seems to be an uncontrollable weight on my heart. Don’t get me wrong. My mother loves me very much, but I can’t shake this sense of abandonment. I don’t know who my biological parents are. I’ve never met them or anyone in their family.”
Trevelle’s own heart suddenly felt heavy with burden. She wondered briefly if the girl was a plant by her producer. The perfect sad story was sometimes hard to find. Looking into the eyes of the young woman Trevelle found herself tearing up. There was something eerily familiar, even beyond the outside appearance.
“You’re not alone. Do you understand that …. when he’s in our heart and mind, you’re never alone.”
Keisha nodded, flushed with emotion. Her lip quivered while she held on dearly for some shred of control.
Trevelle felt a swell of nurturing, something she had no idea how to identify. Of course she’d cared and wanted to help, that was her pleasure. But this was different. The young woman would’ve been about the age of her own daughter had she not lost her. She pulled Keisha in against her chest and held on. “You are loved.” The surge of the young woman’s heart against her own made her lose all sense of herself. She wasn’t standing on a stage with an audience at her beck and call. She wasn’t planning her next sentence or move.
The two of them were standing alone in the universe. “You are loved,” Trevelle whispered. Trevelle sobbed in hoarse whispers that were captured on the microphone clip on her chest. “Forgive me, Lord. Forgive me for my transgressions. Forgive me,” she cried into the arms of Keisha, the stunned young woman who had no idea what was happening. She could only do her best to hold up Trevelle Doval who’d somehow made her the chosen one.
The audience responded, moving to their feet, clapping and yelling, “Thank you Jesus.”
Trevelle slowly released Keisha, trying to get her faculties back, fighting hard to resume a grip on her actions. She stood on the stage with her arms stretched out as if to mimic Jesus’ suffering on the cross, while an uncontrollable flow of tears drained down her face.
The producer uncharacteristically raised the lights and spoke into the tiny speaker in her ear. “Ms. Doval, are you all right? Signal.”
Her answer was supposed to come in the form of two fingers raised high over her head, the signal they agreed on to let him know all was under control. But this time it wasn’t an act. There was no moment to cue for commercial. Trevelle spun, arms outstretched and her white dolman sleeves sailing in the air like a boundless angel. Floating to her past.
She didn’t look like a homeless girl who had no one to take her in, no grandmother, no aunt or family friends, which could only mean one thing. She was too much to handle, too much trouble for those that knew her well.
“This is my wife, Lydia.” She was pretty with jet black hair and olive-toned skin. Kellogg had good taste. They made a cute couple.
The two shook hands at first, then awkwardly hugged. “Thanks for letting me stay. I promise to stay out of your way.”
“No, I’d rather you be present and accounted for. With two boys under the age of six, help is what I need.” Lydia smiled but her heart was already aching.
Trevelle was immediately enrolled in a small Christian school where she flourished and inhaled information like cool water in a dry desert. After school she did her homework like a model citizen then took the boys off their mother’s hands so she could have some time to herself. The boys took to Trevelle like sand at a beach. They fell into the lull of her voice and behaved like little gentlemen. If she said take a nap, they laid down as still as possible, whether they were sleepy or not. If she said pick up your toys, they picked up what they could find and scoured the house looking for more. Didn’t matter though. She could feel Lydia watching her even if she wasn’t in the room. She knew it was only a matter of time before the honeymoon was over.
Meanwhile, Kellogg reminded his small congregation that there were homeless children who needed a family. She sat in church, hoping and praying no one volunteered. For months the praying did wonders. No one wanted to step forward, until one Sunday when Trevelle must’ve forgot to send out her usual plea, an older couple with sloped backs and gray hair stood up with their hands clasped into one another’s bosom, as if it was the biggest undertaking of their life.
“We’d be happy to take on a child,” the man spoke for both of them.
“No, please,” she’d begged, after waiting up for Kellogg all night to come home from his twelve-hour shift. She even made the nutritional snack packs for him to hand out to the less fortunate girls still on the street. Sometimes she threw in a few M&M’s ’cause she remembered it tasted better and made all the other bland dry stuff go down easier.
“We’ve already talked about this, Velle.” He kept his voice low and steady while they sat in the twilight of the living room. The house was narrow with one floor below and one on top, where his wife and two boys lay sleeping.
“Everything’s going so good. Haven’t I did everything I promised? I go to school. I cook. I help with the boys.”
“Shh, keep your voice down.”
“What did I do wrong?” She begged for an answer, following him, then cutting him off when he tried to go the other way. “Why don’t you want me here?”
His silence seemed indefinite. The wear and exhaustion of always being awake even when he was supposed to be sleeping showed as dark half moons underneath his sad eyes.
“Tell me,” she tried to whisper but it came out high pitched with fear. She stepped closer and leaned into his face. “I know why.”
“Stop it. Just stop it,” he said, agitated. “This isn’t right.”
She moved closer only a breath away. “I can’t help it, either. I know what you’re thinking and it’s okay.” She pushed up against him. She kissed his lips lightly and felt the tremor. Passion? Fear? Desire and need? She knew it was all those things. “I won’t tell. I swear. Just once.”
With those words, he gently ran a hand across the softness of her cheek, then the other before taking her face into his grasp. Kissing him felt like heaven, her feet no longer touched the ground, floating forever on a warm cloud. His thick soft hands ran down her backside then up, taking with them her cotton nightgown. His hands caressed the tautness of her round bottom before sliding fully around her waist.
All the while he never moved his mouth away from hers. They were in a concise heated rhythm, the girth of his full body pressed solid to her firm teenaged breasts and solid hips, leaving very little room to do what she had to do. Work fast. She didn’t want to lose him.
She unzipped Kellogg’s pants. She worked with skill, taking the huge fullness of him in her grip, massaging the smooth ridges of skin. Here was the throbbing heart of a man in the palm of her hands, she decided, pressing him inside of her. He held her tight, filling every crevice and corner of her mind and body. All of her consumed and taken over by the love she felt for Kellogg.
She wrapped her legs around him and let herself be carried to the couch. He could have carried her to the end of the world and dropped her off. That’s the way she felt, falling with no landing. An infinite flight where there was no sound around her, no memories of the past or fear of the future. They continued the long slow kiss in the way of great lovers. Every stroke with him deep inside of her made her love him even more. For taking care of her, for knowing she could be a better person. For believing. Having him all to herself was what she dreamed about. The excitement of finally having his thickness pulsing inside of her made her want to bust.
The swell of him inside of her soon deflated after he climaxed, panting exertion in her ear but still careful with his exhales, monitoring his inhales, not wanting to wake his wife. Velle waited for the empty feeling she was so used to, but it never came. Instead warmth swooned over her entire body, blanketing her from head to toe then coming to a dizzying crescendo. He was no longer inside of her and still just the scent of him, the closeness, the safety and love pulsed rhythmically like the beat of her heart. She didn’t understand it. What was happening? Her breath left her body in spasms followed by sporadic jerks she couldn’t control. He put a gentle hand over her mouth to stifle the deep uncontrollable moan.
“It’s okay, baby.” He held her tight while the waves of ecstasy settled and passed.
The first time she’d ever experienced an orgasm was in Kellogg’s arms but it wasn’t the last. They made love the next night and the next. All talk of her leaving faded quietly. But the guilt was loud and considerably visible for anyone who dared look.
“I know what’s going on,” Lydia said to Kellogg while they thought they were alone in the kitchen. His wife watched and waited for Kellogg’s reaction. It was a test, he was being tested for his reaction. If not for the fact that Velle was supposed to have already left for school, she would have stepped in and rescued Kellogg. It’s a trap, don’t answer her. She doesn’t know anything.
Instead she watched his head fall into his hands, admitting his sins. He wanted to be saved. He wanted to be free and didn’t know how to get away. This was his chance. “I’ll call the Clendons and see if they can still take her.”
Lydia did what any wife with two small boys and a good life would do, she slapped him hard across the face then let him cry against her stomach and hoped and prayed it never happened again. Those thick arms wrapped around her waist would forever be missed. By midafternoon Trevelle’s clothes were packed. What little she owned fit into one nylon bag used for laundry. She kissed the boys good-bye and hugged Lydia. What broke her heart was that Lydia hugged her back. “You’re going to be all right. God has a plan,” she whispered. “His plan is bigger than us.”
31
Best Intentions
For the first time in days Delma was alert and feeling good. Thank goodness for having her phone number changed. She’d slept like a baby and was ready to take on the day.
She sat at her desk and read over the custody adviser’s report for the Fisher-Parson custody case. Delma felt sorry for the mother, having lost her baby. No wonder she was fighting so hard.
She skipped to the biological father’s summary and couldn’t help but feel contempt for the man. Any other t
ime she would’ve commended an absentee father for stepping back into the fold. Isn’t that what she preached daily, that men should stop running from their responsibilities and take care of the children they’d fathered? Any other time, if he hadn’t been married to Trevelle Doval, she would’ve given him a gold star. But he was and that wasn’t Delma’s fault. The man should be more choosey in picking a mate. She pulled out her pen and jotted down a few thoughts.
Abandonment. Three years. No contact. She circled the biological mother’s name and added a smiley face. “One for the good team,” she said.
Things were actually looking up. That is until Hudson entered carrying a bigger stack than the one already on her desk and plopped it to the floor.
“More?”
“You knew we were one stack short.” He leaned over and straightened a few files that strayed from the uniform line. “Any more calls?”
“Nope, not since I had the number changed. Missed one,” Delma said, pointing. At the corner of her desk a white envelope stuck out.
Hudson picked it up, instinctively grabbing the letter opener. He flipped it over to see nothing but white space. “No address.” They gave each other the same knowing look. He ripped it open and pulled out the single sheet of paper. He read it, then slowly handed it to Delma.
“Oh, come on.” Delma’s fist hit, rattling the cup of pens. “I’m sick of this mess. Whoever wants a piece of me is gonna have a lot to chew, ’cause I’m not going down easy.” She shook the paper with the typed message and read, Give her back. It’s time.
Hudson let out a breath of defeat. “We’ve got to put an end to this. Now I’m pissed.”
“I’m telling you it can’t be anyone else but Trevelle Doval. This whole pretense of fighting for custody of her husband’s child has been a setup.”
Hudson put his fingers to his lips. “You know what, let’s go get some coffee.”
Nappily Faithful Page 17