Rhythms of Grace

by Marilynn Griffith

  “You can’t outrun God. I see it all the time. Folks cut the rug out of here and come back dragging one arm, three kids, and a parole officer—”

  “I heard that!” someone said. Laughter rumbled through the church. A tall man across the aisle jerked awake and added a chuckle before nodding off again.

  The sermon went on, floating around my head. Until everyone stood for the offering. We flowed into two columns in the center aisle, with each side of the room making the appropriate turn to get back to our seats. When it was my turn to put in my offering, I paused before the aging deacons and smiled, dropping more money than I could afford into the bronze plate. I remembered too late that Mount Olive had as many as four offerings in one service and could be counted on to call someone to the front who was in need of a little extra help. As I walked back to my seat, Zeely gave me a proud smile and approving glance. I stared at the floor. I wouldn’t be able to give her a repeat performance if I wanted to eat until my first paycheck.

  Back in the pew, I reached for my Bible and opened up to Psalms, marked with a flyer addressed to “Occupant” at my new address. The word “God” sprawled across the page in a neon blur. I paused to read it as everyone made it back to their seats.

  Need a fresh start with God? Stop by anytime. Tender Mercies Church.

  I crossed my legs, careful not to run my last pair of hose. Calculating how much to give on the next trip around the room, I wondered how many offerings Tender Mercies had. I stared out the window at the stone bench and withered trees, watching as a bus pulled up and released a group of laughing teens at the corner.

  My hand tightened around the bills tucked in my palm. I stood slowly and headed for the back door, holding up an index finger like my mother had when she got sick of things—most times of my daddy. I didn’t falter, even when Zeely narrowed her eyes. It didn’t matter if the other church took up ten offerings. Being here was like worshiping next to a grave.

  20

  Brian

  Midnight heroes made a sorry sight the next morning. And if I wasn’t sure of that, pain blazed from my ankle to my thigh every few minutes, ensuring that I didn’t forget. I tossed back a glass of apple-carrot juice, hoping the nutrients would sooth something. My mind would be a good place to start, especially after the fax that had just come buzzing out of my machine with both mine and Grace’s names on each page. The more I thought about that, about her, the less I thought it was a good idea for us to teach together.

  I reached for the phone, both hoping and doubting that Joyce would be home from church.

  “Praise the Lord,” Joyce answered in a tone that let me know she didn’t appreciate the Sunday call. Well, I hadn’t enjoyed the Saturday brawl either. We’d both have to deal with it.

  “Morning, Doc. Can you talk?”

  A sigh came through the phone. “Dr. Mayfield, you know I rest on the Sabbath. This better be important.”

  Dr. Mayfield? She was plenty mad. My leg hurt so bad that I didn’t mind pushing back a little. “Sorry to bother you, Joyce, really, but it’s this joint teaching thing. After last night, I don’t know if Ms. Okoye needs to be in the proficiency test class at all.” There was more to it of course, but there was no need to get into it.

  “If you can’t work with her, you can’t work. Don’t call me back either, sweetheart. See you Tuesday. Have a nice Labor Day.”

  Despite the warmth in her words, a click on the line denied me any chance of further appeal.

  I lowered the phone, accepting Joyce’s words. In my office, I collected the class roster. Its pages had escaped the paper tray. Many of the names I knew from years before, retakers mostly. A few kids were kids I’d met at orientation. There were also names I didn’t recognize, probably kids who’d heard things about me and signed up out of curiosity. My tresses and my temper had earned me a strange fame at Imani, although the man usually disappointed the myth.

  This whole thing called for some music, the easy, thinking kind. I aimed the remote at the sound system, and Wynton Marsalis’s trumpet obliged. For the first time this morning, I felt myself relax. I might have even gone back to sleep if the fax machine hadn’t started buzzing with a fresh transmission. Why Joyce didn’t get a computer at home and send email like normal people totally evaded me. I’d even bought her one and set it up, but she just used it for the neighbor children to play reading games on.

  Since she’d just told me it was the “Sabbath,” it surprised me to be getting all this from her. I shrugged and rolled my chair away from the desk. It snagged on a piece of paper that I’d missed, tucked under the rug. There were only a few names on this sheet, all handwritten in Joyce’s flowing script. The last name almost made my eyes cross.

  DeSean McKnight.

  I wadded the paper into a ball. Surely it couldn’t be the Sean McKnight. I’d seen the police cart him off with my own eyes. He was taken last, sure, but still . . . I’d given Sean everything I knew, everything I had, long before now. There was nothing left for me to teach him.

  All things are possible with God.

  The thought came to me in Joyce’s voice, which bothered me all the more. I couldn’t deny my mentor’s ability to move mountains, even in the criminal justice system, but this was insane. She loved too much sometimes. Risked too much. I did too, even though the two of us showed our love differently. I’d had my share of trouble growing up, but I’d been tricked into my mess. Sean had walked into it. Right now, the only kind of love I’d have to show him was a size 12 up the behind. It wasn’t a pretty thought, but that anger class had said to be honest with yourself, even if you couldn’t be honest with others—and a lot of other things that seemed ridiculous at the time. Not so much now.

  I limped into the kitchen to find my Palm Pilot and another glass of juice, recalling the ridiculous tenets from anger management as I went.

  Focus on the positive.

  Release what you can’t change.

  Allow others to be who they are, where they are.

  As corny as it sounded, the words made good sense. I picked up my stylus and tapped my palm file for the number to the body shop where Mr. McKnight worked. Maybe Ron could follow me there Tuesday morning. The paint job shouldn’t take more than a few days.

  Too bad they can’t knock the dents out of me too.

  21

  “I was surprised to hear from you.” Ron looked over his coffee at me, quite pleased to finally have me in the cab of his raggedy truck. He’d rolled the window up on my hair three times before I finally punched him like he wanted. What I refused to do, however, was get into a detailed explanation about why I hadn’t called until now. Or why I had called, for that matter.

  From the look on Ron’s face, he couldn’t have cared less why. He was thrilled by it. Finally, I needed him, even if it was just for this.

  I apologized anyway. “Thanks for following me to the body shop. Sorry for the last-minute call.”

  “Things happen. That’s what friends are for.” Ron wanted to say that’s what brothers were for, but I appreciated him for not saying it. Friends was a good place to start. The truck hit a bump, making the jarring music seem even louder.

  I tried not to wince at the sound. “Can you turn that down?”

  “Sure. I need a little jump start some mornings. Sorry.”

  That made me smile, thinking of the times when Ron had begged me to play the drums for him while he got dressed in the morning. Mama—Miss Eva—had thrown shoes at us, but she’d tapped her foot when she came to get them. In some ways, Ron hadn’t changed a bit. “I know how you are, especially when it starts turning cold. Go ahead with your music. I’ll survive. It’s your car.”

  Ron smiled and turned down the volume. “It’s okay. We’re almost to my firm and I know you’re going to turn it to jazz or something when I get out.”

  He had me there, although I had found myself nodding to the beat a little as I strained to make out the words.

  “Rugged soldier, this rugged brothe
r told ya, ‘I love Jehovah’ . . .”

  I felt like throwing up. Christian rap. What would they think of next?

  Reciting the lyrics word for word, Ron looked like he was going to bop right out of his seat. As he pulled up in front of the law firm where he worked, he turned to me with that nostalgic look in his eye.

  I groaned.

  He held up a hand. “No, seriously. Do you remember when we went to our first Christian rap concert? T-Bone, I think. Maybe Disciples of Christ. Karyn was with us. It was before your righteous black period. You were back at church then.”

  “I don’t think so.” I cut off the music and the conversation. A ride to work was one thing. A ride down memory lane was another. “What time should I pick you up?”

  “Five. And watch the bumps. The tailgate pops open sometimes.” He slammed the door. “Oh, and watch the tires too. They need an alignment. I’m taking it in tomorrow.”

  I slid into the driver’s seat, trying to remember all the truck’s ills. “Are you serious?”

  “Quite.”

  My disbelief got a big smile from Ron, but I wasn’t amused.

  “When I get my car back, I’m coming to get you, okay?” I made it sound like a question, but he was coming with me, either way.

  “Oh, my. A date. Where are we going?” Ron batted his eyes.

  “Car shopping. This makes no sense.”

  More laughter. “Whatever. See you tonight.” Ron slapped the truck and a more serious look eased over his face, into his eyes. He looked back at his job, where that crazy girlfriend of his was probably waiting. He gave me a quick nod before running inside. “You’re right, man. Some things make no sense at all.”

  Ron definitely needed a new car. My body had been tight before the ride, but now I felt tied in knots. As I walked to my classroom, I lifted my arms over my head and stretched out wide. Better. My limp was almost gone too.

  My first task was to turn on a fan in the wide, windowless room that had once been the crafts center of the Charles C. Now it was my classroom. I’d made macramé and lopsided pots in here during the summer, but minds were sculpted here now. In the morning like this, before the kids came with their own smells, I could still catch a whiff of the terra-cotta dust lingering in the cracks of the floor. Joyce had kept the kiln too, even though we never used it. Maybe Lottie would do something with it.

  My thoughts turned to my new teaching partner. “Ms. Okoye,” I said to myself. That’s who she was and that’s how I had to start thinking of her. Her name came out in a husky tone that I’d once reserved for teasing my wife. That scared me almost as much as the answer from the desk behind me.

  “Yes?”

  I almost dropped a book of poetry on the floor. Keats, I think. Grace must have slipped in while I was sniffing for pottery dust. The fan was loud, but my radar should have caught her scent at least. With a smile, I sifted through the notes of her scents, essential oils from plants instead of a chemist’s vial. The strongest notes came to me easily: jasmine and lemongrass. Sweet and tart. It was fitting. “Good morning.”

  She looked up from the book on the desk in front of her, but not for long. “I hope you had a good holiday. Rested up from the other night and all,” she said, her eyes already back on the book in front of her.

  “I’m as ready as I’ll get, I suppose. Not rested exactly . . .”

  If this morning was an indication, I’d be up tonight too. I’d thought Grace beautiful before, but today she looked . . . smart. For some reason, that turned me on more than ever. Her twists were pinned into an updo and her glasses rested not quite on the tip of her nose. Her blouse was crisp and her makeup simple. She wore suede sport shoes, which meant she planned to be in motion. She’d attracted me the other night, but now she had me interested.

  Too taken with her book to look up, she gave me a grunt of agreement.

  I wanted more than that. Some eye contact or something. “Have you been here long? I had to take my car in this morning.”

  That caught her attention. She paused, fingers still on a gold-edged page. “About that. Please send me the bill. I insist.”

  As she spoke, I read the caption: Isaiah.

  The Bible.

  So much for flirting.

  “No, it’s fine. One of our parents works at the body shop and he used his discount.” Or at least I hoped that’s what he’d done.

  “Okay, well, let me know if there’s anything else. Please.” One of her twists escaped its hairpin. She tucked it behind her ear.

  “Thanks.” I was distracted now, caught up in reading her highlighted verse over her shoulder.

  Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert.

  “It’s fine. We’ll work it out.”

  Sean’s father had been elated to see me. When I asked for a quote, he just kept talking. I wanted to tell him that he had Joyce to thank for getting his son out of trouble. I’d put in a good word, but if it were up to me, Sean would never be back in this school, let alone my class.

  Grace had already left me again, absorbing the words on the page in front of her. I knew then that there’d be nothing between us. Every woman I’d ever loved had been a Christian, but I’d been a different man then. If you weren’t a convert or husband material, you were a waste of manhood. Since I didn’t plan on being dragged back to the fold or the altar anytime soon, I just watched her read with her sensible shoes and heady scent. She acted as if I wasn’t even there. I decided this might be a good thing. There were enough people in my life trying to preach to me. I didn’t need another, no matter how pretty she was.

  Besides that, from the way things looked, Grace already had a man—Jesus Christ. I’d learned the hard way that nobody can compete with that. Still, she was the most interesting woman to cross my path in a very long time. Her brave simplicity intrigued me much more than Lottie’s flashy beauty. She might not be dancing anymore—I’d ask her about that later, once we got to know each other better—but she was definitely that same girl I’d thought about so many times over the years. Even Karyn had reminded me of her, though I didn’t realize it until now. She’d had braces before, but she must have had them removed early because as she turned the pages, her tongue peeked through the gap between her teeth.

  I had a thing for gaps.

  And because of that, I had to warn her.

  I pressed my hand onto the desk beside her. “I hate to interrupt, but I need to tell you something.”

  She closed the book. “Go ahead.”

  “I don’t know how, but I think Sean might show up today.”

  Grace clutched her Bible with both hands. “Thanks for telling me. I hope he does come.”

  Perhaps she didn’t understand. I sighed. “Remember the boy who started all that mess the other night? The one who had us crawling on the floor? That’s who I’m talking about.”

  The bell rang. “That’s who he was on Saturday. Today, Sean’s just my student.”

  I let my locks down. All of it. I’m not sure why, as it ended up all over the place, but while the class entered the room, I reached up and let them down. Having Grace in the room made me nervous, I guess, and that made me angry. Why should I be nervous about teaching a proficiency class that I created? I could do this in my sleep.

  As always on the first day, too many kids had signed up for the class. The seats went quickly. The aisles filled next. Grace had a powerful presence in the classroom, and already everyone was looking at her, whispering, trying to figure things out. Usually I would have scolded them, but I was trying to figure things out too. I welcomed them instead.

  “For the returning students, welcome back. For the new students, welcome to Imani. For those of you without a seat, please move to the back for now until we see if everyone is in the right place. I’m Dr. Mayfield. And this is Ms. Okoye.”

  A boy
in the front row gave Grace a quick nod, winking in her direction.

  She didn’t even blink. Instead, she motioned for me to continue and walked over to her young admirer and whispered something in his ear. His eyes went big. He sat up in his chair.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Okoye. Please don’t call my mother.”

  Someone laughed in the back, but when I mentioned that they could be added to the home-calling list as well, things got quiet again.

  Maybe this joint-teaching thing was a good idea after all.

  Next, I asked how many people were retaking the proficiency test from last year and sent out the students who weren’t.

  Six students hoisted their backpacks and gave up their seats. “Passed that in middle school,” a squat girl with glasses said as she headed for the door.

  “Good for you,” someone spat as the door closed behind her.

  “That’s a start,” Grace said. “Cross your name off the roster as you leave and go to room two-ten.” She turned to me. “Right?”

  “Right.” Somebody had been reading the manual over the holiday. Nice.

  I passed out the class roster and a syllabus for the first nine weeks. “If your name is on the list, initial it, so we’ll know you’re here. If not, add yourself. Any questions?”

  A girl with a nest of blue braids raised her hand. “I’ve got a question. What’s the doctor’s phone number? His dreads are ’bout to make me faint . . .”

  It was my turn not to bat an eye. “Only honor students get my phone number.”

  “Forget his number. I want to know about the hair,” a boy with a tall cap, worthy of a Dr. Seuss book, called out.

  The hair. Always the hair. I’d joked at Ohio State that if the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, the entrance to Black America was through the kitchens—the curliest hair on the back of its neck. Dreadlocks were in again, so I always got questions. I pulled another stack of papers out of my briefcase. “How many are here because of my locks? Raise your hands.”

  Eight hands crept up. I wasn’t convinced. “C’mon. We’re wasting time.”