“Child” —Julia stated the word as a command —“I am not going there with your little smart mouth, not tonight.” She had worked an eleven-hour day already, and just emerged from a Board of Advisors meeting full of people with no apparent interest in advising her about anything. Of the eight who had shown up —eight attendees who had not included her best friend, Cassie, who had promised she would come out —only one had responded to Julia’s presentation with something resembling excitement, and he was the one that Julia had least wanted to invite.
“Aunteeeeee.” Julia looked down to see that Amber had crossed the worn carpet and wrapped her arms around her aunt’s waist. “I love you.”
Julia hugged her little charge back. “Thank you, kiddo. I love you, and Jesus does too.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Nothing you don’t already do every day,” Julia replied, stroking her niece’s freshly permed hair. “You just keep applying yourself in school, doing your homework with me every night, and, most important, keeping God first. Okay? You do that, and even if I can’t save this school, we’ll make sure you get a good education somewhere.” She pressed the little girl to her again. “Because one thing’s for sure —I’m not sending you to some boarding school.”
Amber tugged at Julia’s hand. “Okay, well, I just spent the last hour doing like you said. I finished reading that Encyclopedia Brown, and wrote the first page of my book report for you. . . . So, can we go to Cold Stone Creamery on the way home?”
“Oh, girl.” Julia playfully shooed the child away. “You know we don’t eat out during the week unless it’s a special occasion. I have to save that eating-out money to help your brothers and sisters get school clothes next month.”
“Okay.” Amber indulged in a frown, and Julia again stifled the misgivings she faced almost daily. She had a total of three nieces and two nephews, all of them her brother Thompson’s children; Amber was the baby. When the line of disgruntled baby-mamas had grown too long, Julia’s father, Ricky, had booted his son into the street but vowed to raise his grandchildren —the four whose mothers were as worthless as Thompson —himself.
Her father’s dramatic decision, which drifted to her through Cassie, who heard about it through the local rumor mill, had changed Julia’s life. At the time, Ricky Turner was a fifty-year-old diabetic chain-smoker, one who had declined to raise Julia when she’d come along unexpectedly. He had let his own parents shoulder the load when Julia’s mother had a nervous breakdown shortly after the delivery. The thought that this same man could sign up to raise four children under age ten got Julia’s attention.
Although she still lived in Chicago at the time, and was finishing up her dissertation, a few visits to Ricky’s apartment had confirmed Julia’s suspicion that her father needed help. Ever practical, ever aware of the limits of her calling, Julia got right to the point when making her offer.
“I can take one,” she had told her father on a balmy spring night as they sat on his front stoop. Reaching for Amber, she lifted the squirmy toddler onto her lap, winking at Ricky as she said, “So let me take the one who requires the most work.”
Julia would never regret the decision, but that didn’t change the awkward nature of moments where she felt that helping out Amber’s siblings was somehow cheating her “daughter.” It was unavoidable though, because while she didn’t have the resources to raise all of her brother’s children, she had been blessed with just enough disposable income to help cover the others’ major living expenses. And somehow, God had blessed Ricky with the patience and health to provide everything else.
“Gather your things,” Julia reminded Amber as she walked to her desk and began shutting her computer down.
Just as Julia’s monitor went blank, Rosie eased the office door open. “Dr. Turner, excuse me, ma’am, but you have a visitor here.”
Julia stood, her hands on her hips as she frowned in bewilderment. “Rosie, it’s seven-thirty in the evening. How did anyone get in here at this hour?”
“He didn’t walk in just now,” Rosie replied, the twist of her neck making Julia wish for a minute that she hadn’t hired a “sister” as her secretary. The demands of being Christian Light’s superintendent of schools left her with little tolerance for attitude. “He was here for your board meeting, said he had to step out to take a call just before it ended. He has a few more questions for you. A Dr. Maxwell Simon?”
Julia already had her arms crossed, but the sound of the name moved her to press her upper limbs even closer into her chest. “Oh, that’s wonderful,” she said, her chipper tone a clear act.
Rosie crossed her arms now. “You want to speak to the man or not?”
Julia nodded toward Amber, who was absentmindedly playing with her bubble gum. “Do you have a few minutes to stick around and watch this little one?”
Rosie rolled her eyes before crooking a finger toward Amber. “Come on,” she sighed.
Julia was still holding her door open when Dr. Maxwell Simon crossed the threshold of her office. It had been nearly fifteen years since they had seen one another, but Julia had admitted to herself earlier this evening that the good doctor had held up well. His head of tight dark brown curls had morphed into a bald, gleaming caramel-colored dome, but Julia grudgingly admitted it enhanced his appeal. As he nodded respectfully and strode easily toward her desk, the jacket of his navy pinstripe suit resting over one shoulder, Maxwell Simon looked like he had walked off the pages of an Ebony eligible-bachelor spread.
Too bad he preferred his women white.
4
Dr. Turner,” Maxwell said, laying his jacket over the chair opposite Julia’s desk, “I won’t keep you long —”
“Please, Maxwell,” Julia replied, gently shutting the door behind her, “I’m still Julia. Just so you know, I have no intention of calling you ‘Doctor,’ one-on-one, not when I’ve seen your bare-naked butt cheeks and watched you wet your pants.”
Maxwell leaned against the chair but stayed standing. Grinning, he snapped his fingers. “Eighth-grade recess, right? Lyle, Jake, and I mooned you and your girls. I should have known that would come back to haunt me.”
“Impressive,” Julia replied, chuckling as she wound back around to her own desk chair. “I’m guessing you blocked out the pants-wetting episode, though.”
“I, er, um, believe you’re confusing me with someone else on that score,” he said, his lips breaking almost unwittingly into a smile. “But you have a point, Julia. We spent twelve years in the same school system. Why put on airs?”
Trapped alone in her office with Maxwell, Julia felt the irresistible pull of the past as she stared into his wide gray-brown eyes.
In Julia and Maxwell’s day, the handful of African-American kids at Christian Light were split into two opposing camps. Along with their sullen male counterparts, there were the disaffected girls, like Julia and her friends, who shared kinky hair and complexions that were closer to coffee than to coffee with cream. These girls —basically all the black girls except for Cassie —quickly caught on to the ways the school’s social order deemed them “invisible” and wore their status as a badge of honor.
Opposite them were the kids, mostly boys, who chose instead to use every available tool —humor, wit, athletic ability, and, when they had it, economic advantage —to win the favor of the preppy white kids who ran the in crowd.
In those days, Maxwell Simon was as in as they came. In a school where football was not offered because it was too “violent” (Julia later learned the real issue was that the equipment was too expensive), Maxwell was a star forward in soccer, a starting guard on the basketball team, and a straight-A student. On top of that, his innocent good looks, nonthreatening manner, and wealthy physician parents bought him favor with just about everyone who mattered. Voted homecoming king, Maxwell dated one creamy blonde after another, incurring the wrath of a few racist fathers along the way, but living to laugh about it. Julia still recalled the way her grandpar
ents back then had marveled at Maxwell’s popularity in such a traditionally prejudiced environment. Their surprise at his audacity was comparable to the amazement they expressed today at Barack Obama’s ambitious bid for the presidency.
“Yes, Maxwell, there’s no sense applying silly formalities,” Julia said even as she decided to abruptly shift her tone. No sense letting the lighthearted rapport fool anyone; she hadn’t invited Maxwell to be on the board because they were friends. This was business. “Now, what are these questions you have?”
“Well” —he loosened his tie and finally plopped down into his seat —“let’s catch up first. I have to know how you keep yourself in such great shape. I don’t think you’re a pound heavier than you were the day we graduated.”
“Maxwell,” Julia replied, rubbing at her neck self-consciously, “you’d be really bored with my answer, trust me. I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to get my niece home and start our usual weeknight routine.”
“No problem,” Maxwell replied, waving nonchalantly. “I’ll get to the point then. It’s complicated, but I couldn’t attend another Board of Advisors meeting without sharing a concern.”
Her posture still ramrod straight, Julia spread her arms and shrugged. “I’m all ears, sir.”
Crossing his legs, Maxwell sighed gently before saying, “You didn’t sell me tonight.” His posture straightening, he continued. “I walked away unsure of exactly what it is we’re trying to save, Julia.”
Julia felt her eyes narrow as she pressed her right thumb and forefinger together, a calming mechanism she’d employed for years. “I thought I was pretty clear. I need the board to help me figure out how to build a donor base and a financial foundation. It’s the only way to keep the school system alive once the church pulls our funding.”
“Okay, yes,” Maxwell replied. “I picked that much up from your invitation letter.”
“Well, I’m glad we are clear there,” Julia said, fighting hard not to roll her eyes, and annoyed that he was already getting under her skin. He’s just another man challenging your authority, she told herself. You handle men with more power and more racism inside them than Maxwell Simon all the time. Don’t let him get to you.
Problem was, Maxwell had always “gotten” to Julia, in one way or another. She and her “invisible” friends hadn’t been impressed with his ability to climb to the top of the in crowd —sickened was more like it. She, Toya, and Terry had developed nicknames for Maxwell and his fellow strivers, most of them picked up from their parents’ comedy albums: “Uncle Tom,” “Stepin Fetchit,” “Bootlicker.” The nicknames were rarely used in front of their targets, employed instead as private jokes and coping mechanisms.
“So,” Julia said, staring back into the doctor’s large, intense eyes, “tell me what you don’t understand about what we’re trying to save. But please make it quick.”
“Well, frankly,” Maxwell said, “I’m not so sure I want to save Christian Light as it is today, and I don’t think I’m alone. Julia, I’m not here to give you a hard time. I’m just giving you insight into what a lot of people on the outside are thinking.”
Julia leaned forward, her elbows nearly touching her desk and her hands clasped together. “Please go on.”
“First point,” Maxwell said, “is that while everyone you recruited for this board is a prominent citizen, we’re all working hard at our day jobs. Very few of us have time to do anything but help donate and raise money. That’s it.”
Julia raised a hand. “I understand that.”
“What it means is that you have to motivate us with a vision of what we’re fighting for.” Maxwell hopped to his feet and walked toward Julia’s window, which looked out over the front lawn of the high-school campus. “The motivational part of your speech tonight was excellent. You made it clear that we’re going to have to go beyond what we think we can do —to do more than fund-raise, to really dig in and help you and the dedicated faculty and staff keep the doors open. That said, you didn’t address the fact that the Christian Light school system you’ve run the past few years isn’t the same one we all graduated from.”
Julia nodded grudgingly at Maxwell’s truth. In the years since their class had graduated, the white middle class that was once Christian Light’s bread and butter hadn’t just fled Dayton’s city limits, they had founded their own Christian schools north, south, and east of town. As a result, Christian Light was now a majority-black school, with 60 percent of students hailing from homes with poverty-level incomes. Beginning in the early 1990s, test scores had fallen dramatically, year over year. As embarrassing as that had been, Julia knew the factor that had most confounded Pastor Pence and the Christian Light megachurch was the ongoing legal battles with parents who openly rebelled against the schools’ “morals clauses.” The increasing number of low-income single mothers were less interested in observing the schools’ insistence that they set a good example by refraining from cohabitation, gambling, and out-of-wedlock pregnancy. Few were surprised when Pence and the church lost patience with a school no longer living up to its initial vision.
“We’ve done the best we can since I have come on board,” Julia now said, still in her seat as Maxwell turned toward her from the office window. “In three years, we have cut the school’s debt levels in half, stabilized enrollment, and increased test scores by over twenty percent.”
“Too little too late at the end of the day, at least for Pastor Pence and the church,” Maxwell replied, his hands sinking into his pockets. “We can argue all day about why you weren’t given more time —racism possibly, the church’s increasing focus on helping end the genocide in Darfur, et cetera —but the bottom line is you didn’t get it done, Julia. So, if we’re going to raise the funding you need, you’ve got to first convince us that you’ll get better results, drive some real transformation in these halls.” Maxwell paused, his eyes searching Julia’s face from twenty feet away. “I’m talking too much, right?”
“No,” Julia replied, motioning toward him with her best portrayal of an encouraging gesture. “Save me from myself, Maxwell, please. Pour your wisdom out so I don’t mess everything up.” She slipped into a Paul Laurence Dunbar dialect as she said, “You know I’s just a po’ black woman scraping by’s best I can.”
“Okay,” Maxwell replied, sighing and striding toward the chair with his jacket draped over it. “I’ve apparently offended you. I’ll see myself out.”
“You know what, if you don’t want to be on the board, just say so.” Julia was embarrassed both at the sharp edge of her tone and the sudden warmth spreading across her face. She was very angry with Dr. Maxwell Simon right now, and the Holy Spirit was not pleased.
The heel of Maxwell’s right dress shoe nearly cut a hole in the carpet, he stopped so fast. “I never said I didn’t want to be on the board,” he replied, whipping back around to face her. “If that was the case, trust me, I would have just ignored the letter. I don’t have time to waste, Julia; every ten minutes I’ve been here has meant another patient of mine was not seen, meaning they’ll all be waiting when I get back to the clinic.”
Poor you. Julia let the smart remark stay in her head. Maxwell’s recent return to Dayton had turned more than a few heads, and even more stunning than his decision to close a flourishing Dallas internal medicine practice had been the fact he’d traded it in for a nonprofit clinic in the heart of West Dayton, just across the river from Sinclair Community College.
Julia steadied herself against her desk as Maxwell slipped his suit jacket back over his athletic torso. “I guess,” she said weakly, “every night is late when you run your own medical clinic.”
“Something like that.” Staring her down, Maxwell rested a hand on the nearest chair. “This feels like it’s getting personal. After all these years, I hoped your invitation meant you had outgrown your understandable urge to hate me.”
Julia decided it would be unprofessional to answer, especially given the unexpected wave of memories coursing t
hrough her as she matched Maxwell’s troubled stare.
I have a Ph.D. from the University of Chicago, she told herself. I escaped Dayton for nearly twelve good years. I’m raising a beautiful, bright little girl. I am fearfully and wonderfully made! So why was Maxwell Simon, simply by speaking his mind, dragging her down the sinkhole of unwelcome memories?
During their years at Christian Light, Julia had never told Toya, Terry, or even Cassie about her lingering, stubborn attraction to him. She still recalled the day in sixth grade, Mrs. Richardson’s homeroom, when a flutter in her heart at the sight of his smile told her he was cute. Worse yet, he had caught her staring one day and initiated the type of playful back-and-forth that led to a lot of the boys and girls “going together.” For one glorious week, Maxwell Simon had let Julia think he could be her first boyfriend, and he had been her first kiss, their secretive five-second clinch occurring behind a playground slide. She would never know what might have followed; before she knew it, hormones flew fast and furiously through the school’s halls and one pink-skinned girl after another began slipping Maxwell love notes.
As the years passed at Christian Light, Julia’s unrequited feelings for Maxwell were one more “secret” she didn’t need. As it was, she fought daily to hide her good grades from Toya, Terry, and the other disaffected brothers and sisters. Her granny and grampy would not accept anything less than their granddaughter’s best, and once Julia got accustomed to excelling in school, she enjoyed the learning too much to stop, despite the fact that her friends wore their mediocre grades as proof of their blackness.
Unlike her other friends living on the margins of Christian Light’s social order, Julia’s problem was that she had never really been that impressed with the world outside, the world of street corners, blasting hip-hop, and predatory men offering smooth talk and teen motherhood. Quite simply, Julia was her grandparents’ child; she wanted a boyfriend who was decent, Christian, and smart, and who just might make a good husband someday. Someone like Maxwell Simon.
God Only Knows Page 3