Six more hands hovered in the air. I passed a page to each of them. “This is my hair handout. It’s all I know, which isn’t much. The tips went blond on their own.” I stared at Grace.
“Yeah, right.” The cat in the hat sounded quite disappointed.
“Try lemon juice. And mark through your name on the way out,” Grace said in a velvety voice that made the boy smile.
It made me smile too. With the aisles clear now, we settled into our first beats together as teachers, speaking with eyes and hands, making the students laugh and often laughing ourselves. As the bell rang, ending our first ninety-minute block, I felt something in my gut that I hadn’t felt in a while . . . the ache for a woman.
This woman.
22
Zeely
Jeremiah looked bad. I hated to think it, wouldn’t dare say it, but it was true. I straightened my first-day-of-school suit and looked down at my new, freshly done nails. He was off his game as much as I was on mine.
He towered over me as he whispered good morning. His breath smelled like hot garbage and scrambled eggs, and his clothes looked like they’d been balled up in a pillowcase and run over by a car. The edge on his haircut was overgrown and the bags under his eyes looked big enough to swim in. It was all I could do not to climb a chair and tuck in the tag poking up from the neck of his shirt. I didn’t want to embarrass him, not like he was embarrassing me. And yet, he didn’t look concerned at all.
Men have the luxury of letting themselves go, of knowing that someone will always want them. Need them. Women are expected to look like airbrushed movie stars, all while giving birth and cooking dinner. Oh, and while working too, because if you’re a black woman, looking good isn’t enough. You need sixteen degrees, a house, and your own church, school, or other charitable organization. And that was just to get a date.
Jeremiah distributed math pre-tests as though he was dressed in a tuxedo. As he passed me, he gave me his superstar smile, the one that I’d once taken for something more than a good camera angle. Besides his faith, that smile was the only thing about Jeremiah that remained from the man I remembered. In fact, his walk with Christ seemed to have grown where his hygiene diminished. We had talks about God now that we never could have touched back then. Still, if I had a choice, I would have preferred his former appearance with his newfound spirituality.
The thing was, I didn’t have a choice. Not anymore. We’d all made our choices. Now we had to live with them. Though Jeremiah was stingy with the details, his marriage to Carmel had chewed him up and spit out the remains. He looked like I’d felt that night when I saw them together the first time.
Only it wasn’t their first time that night.
It was mine.
A boy in the front row raised his hand. “Big Dog? You got a calculator?”
My head jerked toward him, a disheveled pixie stick with matted icicles of hair pointing in every direction. The nerve of these kids. “That’s Mr. Terrigan to you.”
My partner smiled and gave me a thumbs-up. His touchdown code from college. The other girls always wondered how I knew to start the right cheer.
Except for Carmel. She was always right with me.
Right with him.
The memory ran down my back like ice water, forcing me straight up. Erect.
Jeremiah stood over the boy, smiling at me and then at him. “I have a calculator, son, but today I want to see what your mind— your calculator—can do. Technology is a tool, but you have to dig by hand first, you know what I’m saying?” He curved over the desk like a life-sized question mark.
The boy shrugged and wrote his name on the paper. A few seconds later, he walked to my desk and turned it in. Blank.
Now in my chair, I crossed my legs at the ankles, resting one snakeskin pump behind the other. Wrinkled or not, Jeremiah could still take down anybody with his charms. I had the wounds to prove it.
23
Jerry
Just watching Zeely made me hungry. Hungry for God. Hungry for the youth I tossed away, the promise I gave up to satisfy my lust. Just looking at Zeely, picture perfect in that orange sherbet suit, made me want to break and run. I wouldn’t though.
The last time I’d followed my impulses with regard to her—the pounding desire to do something, anything, to be free—I’d run into a brick wall with big hips and brown eyes. A wall that I’d never been able to climb over, not even after I’d been thrown down from its heights. My wife.
Now I was back, wounded and weary, trying to figure out how this all started in the first place. These kids wanted things easy. A calculator. Open-book tests. Life wasn’t like that. The things that seemed easy were so much harder than they appeared. Things like the way Zeely looked at me when I’d come to work this morning, the question in her eyes: What happened to you? It stung, like an openhanded slap.
What was worse was the question that she never spoke, never even expressed with her eyes: I waited . . . for this? Everyone in town had the same question on their faces when I gave them change at 7-Eleven or nodded off in church.
“Isn’t that the Terrigan boy? The big one who used to sing in the choir? I thought he played football somewhere. I saw him on TV once, long time ago . . .”
Zeely had waited for me and I’d betrayed her in every way. Even worse, I’d come back in worse shape than I’d left, broke and broken with nothing to offer her. I’d spent all of myself, leveraged my soul, and still I was in the red. There was only one thing I’d kept. Something ticking in the safe-deposit box at Winter’s Bank like a time bomb. The one secret I’d kept from my wife, the one vow I’d made to my mother.
This is for Zeely Ann and no one else. No one else.
Mama had left no room for failure, no space for the devil to get a foothold and climb into my life. And yet, I’d failed her anyway. All I had left now was a sparkling reminder of all the promises I’d broken. It wasn’t much, but I still had that. I still had something.
Throughout the day and all the days that would come after, I moved through the class with a plastered smile, trying to pretend that I was leaking through my worn-out shoes. Every now and then though, a kid like Sean McKnight would come in and catch my pass, blazing through problems like a terror on his way to the end zone. Every now and then, I’d get the look of approval, acceptance from Zeely, a sharp nod worthy of pom-poms. In those moments, I’d throw back my shoulders: shoulders that had carried Zeely after a victory; shoulders that had hovered over Carmel after a loss.
Zeely had kept her promises to God and he’d kept her, held her up for all this time. After all the pain I’d caused her, she was still here.
Still whole.
Still offended when someone addressed me by one of my many nicknames: Big Dog, Omega, OJ. She’d hated them all. Don’t answer to just anything, she’d always told me. Next thing you know you’ll be taking anything. Doing anything. She’d been so adamant about it that I sometimes thought she was talking to herself too. She wasn’t though. Didn’t need to. The only label anyone had ever given Zeely that she didn’t choose was her mother’s.
And mine.
Mrs. Zeely Ann Terr-i-gan.
My little sisters used to sing it to tease me. I’d hated it then. I mourned it now. My hand eased across the chalkboard, scribbling down the order of operations:
“Please Excuse My Dear Aunt Sally. Parentheses, Exponents, Multiplication and Division from left to right, Addition and Subtraction from left to right . . .”
The words kept coming, my hand kept writing. My mind stood still, stuck on the way Zeely’s spine had snapped straight when I’d given her a thumbs-up this morning. The last time I’d seen her stiffen like that was in a run-down church in Xenia decked out with Christmas lights in June.
My wedding.
24
Grace
Daddy won’t say it, but he knows. I hear Mom crying behind the door, but she’s not talking to me at all. God talks to me, though. I just don’t tell anyone.
Diana Dixon<
br />
It was too late to bury it, too late to run. Each entry in my old notebook brought me closer to the girl waiting quietly, patiently for me to reclaim her. The girl that had cost me so much already. Every day at Imani, I saw other girls like me; girls with secrets.
And then of course there was Brian. There was no point calling him Doctor anything now. Just as it had been so long ago when I danced and he drummed, we flew together in the classroom too, finishing each other’s sentences, quoting each other’s favorite poems. It was too late to be afraid of him, so I was starting to be annoyed instead. The few talks we’d had about religion let me know where he stood.
Off limits.
The Bible said God didn’t tempt anybody, but if this wasn’t a temptation, it must have been a trial. Each morning I marked off another school day on my calendar. The last day of school would be my last day in Testimony. That much, I knew for sure.
In the meantime, there was our class.
Brian came early most days now, wrote down a word on the board for the class to contemplate quietly while I took roll. The proficiency track divided its time evenly between our class and Zeely’s, with the electives required for graduation filling in the rest of their days. Today’s word made me wish I’d taken my prayer walk this morning. He was planning to go deep. As if to dispel my doubts, he walked back to the board and underlined the word:
Griot.
“Anybody know what that means?”
“A storyteller.” The boy who answered had started out in the back of the class, but moved a little closer to the front every day, usually on my end of the row.
Brian gave him an approving smile. “Right. In West African culture, where most African-Americans originate from, the gree-oh, not gree-ot, was the storyteller of the village.” He tapped the board. “Each time we meet, I will choose a griot to recount the previous class material. You can present it any way you choose—rap, poetry, story, whatever. All I require is an effort and the correct information. And brevity of course. If you don’t know what that means, check your vocabulary list.”
Two girls continued recounting a fight they’d seen the day before after school as though Brian wasn’t even speaking. Before I could correct them, he gave them a sideways glance.
“The assignment will be a tall order for some of you, especially when you won’t stop talking long enough to hear it.”
“How many points for the griot thing?” Jodi, a stern brunette who took furious and copious notes every time Brian spoke, held her pen ready to take down his answer.
Brian smiled. “The griot thing is one test grade. So make it good. Review your syllabus when you get home. It’s all in there. You don’t have to write this down.”
Everyone else dropped their pencils. Jodi eyed Brian suspiciously and scribbled on. It was my turn to smile then. The girl had her challenges—her past academic record and a two-month-old baby among them—but she’d go far. I did wonder what, if anything, had happened to keep her from trusting anyone’s words. I didn’t want to think the worst, but one thing my life had taught me was to listen and watch. My hunches often proved true.
Except about Brian.
When he’d twirled me around in that parking lot my first night back, I’d felt violated and humiliated all at once. I knew him well enough now to know how big a deal that was, that and everything that had come after it. That evening, he’d held my hand like we’d been long-lost lovers, but he kept his distance from me these days. Now and then our hands reached for an eraser at the same time or one of his locks wandered over his shoulder and tickled my cheek. If it bothered Brian at all, he never let on. I hoped my calm façade came off as well as his. I doubted it.
Brian nodded to me for my part of the lecture.
“Another part of the class is the Daily Challenge. Every day I’ll ask several questions related to art, music, history, or culture. If anyone can answer all of them for a week, which has never happened in my other classes, you’ll get five dollars—”
The door slammed behind me. A boy with a huge afro covering his eyes slipped into an empty desk, all hair and squeaky clean sneakers. Sean McKnight. He leaned over his seat and asked the girl next to him if she’d brought a comb. I’d taught middle school enough years to know that when I saw Sean after lunch he’d have a fresh set of cornrows. From the look on Brian’s face, though, the boy might not live long enough to get them in.
I sent a cautious look my partner’s way. The look, brief but powerful, smoothed his creased forehead.
“Take it easy,” I mouthed before going on, but it was too late. Brian was already headed for Sean’s seat.
“What’s the matter, Mr. McKnight, couldn’t outrun the police this morning?”
The Honeys, a cluster of pretty but unmotivated girls in the center of the room, burst into laughter.
Sean slid down into his desk. “Whatever, Doc. Whatever.”
My eyes locked with Brian’s, and in that moment I saw why he’d been sent to anger management. I also saw what it was in Sean that made Brian so crazy.
Himself.
And he was trying to protect me from the both of them.
“Christians,” Brian had said when I hadn’t been upset about Sean being in our class. “Always the first to judge, the last to arrive at the fire. I know you think you know these kids, know this school, but it isn’t as simple as you think. I wonder what you’ll think about Sean when he snaps in here and starts shooting somebody. I hope we’ll both live to tell our sides of the story.”
“All right, everyone. Settle down. Let’s do our first daily challenge. An easy one. I’ll even pay.” I crossed my arms.
Jodi’s desk scraped closer.
“What African nation claims the Blight of Benin, where thousands of slave ships received their prisoners?”
Silence buzzed in our ears. “This country also has the largest population in Africa.”
I wasn’t surprised by this response. I’d told Brian my thoughts about starting with an African question. Even honors kids rarely knew the answers. In most schools, the most Africa they saw was the edge of Egypt on a map of the Middle East. I guess I thought that since some of them had taken Brian’s class before, they might have known something. At least it had gotten the attention off of Sean. Best to end it quickly. “Okay, you guys are killing me with the quiet here. Dr. Mayfield? Would you like to answer and get this over with?”
Brian chuckled and the kids oohed and aahed as though I’d challenged him to a rumble. I realized too late my folly, especially when he took the rubber band off his wrist and put up his hair. It killed me when he did that.
And he knew it.
From the smile on Sean’s face, it was no secret to anyone else either.
“Nigeria,” Brian said softly. “That’s where your last name is from, right? Have you been there? Care to tell us about it?”
“No and no.” I tried to strain the edge out of my voice, but wasn’t successful. Probably used to such exchanges at home, the kids started to raise their hands. Brian rattled off answers to a few questions about Africa and then passed out timed writing prompts. I faded behind my desk. I wished I could get out of the room.
When the bell rang, no one wasted time heading for the door. They’d packed up their things long before.
“Great job, everyone. See you tomorrow,” Brian called out too late for anyone to hear.
Sean, the last student to leave, looked back at us and shook his head.
“They got it bad,” he whispered to the girl walking behind him, who was already combing out the ends of his hair.
If only you knew how bad, I thought as the lemon juice and tea tree oil Brian used on his locks registered with my nose. He rarely got close enough for me to smell it except when I was trying to pry him away from lingering too long at Sean’s desk. Now he was too close.
I looked into the hall where Sean had disappeared. I wished I was leaving too.
It was our planning period, but if I got away quickly I
could still meet Zeely down the hall for what remained of breakfast in the cafeteria. It should have been easy to make an excuse and get away. Joyce had left a note for me to see her after this class, while the kids were in art with Lottie. It should have been easy to go, but we hadn’t been this close since we didn’t have a choice. Somehow, I found my resolve, rediscovered my legs.
“Some class today, huh? I’m going to run downstairs and get some food. I was dragging a little this morning and didn’t eat. And Joyce, I have to meet with her. If you need me, just send a student for me—”
He took off his glasses and licked his lips. Not his whole mouth. Just the corners. He wasn’t going to make this easy.
“No problem. You go on ahead. I just wanted to collect my payment.”
For a moment, I was confused. “For the Daily Challenge?”
He nodded. Slowly.
“Okay, but my purse is locked in the desk and—hold on, I’ll get it.”
Brian shook his head. “I don’t want your money.”
I swallowed hard. “I don’t understand.”
He licked his lips again, all over this time. “I think you do.”
This wasn’t feeling fun anymore. This had happened before on other jobs, with other men. Once I’d almost had to press charges, but the guy was fired. Brian and I had something between us, but that’s just where it belonged—between us. He was taking this too far. As I took a step back, he looked stricken.
“What’s wrong? Are you mad? I’m sorry. I was just kidding. What I really wanted was to know why you got so mad when I asked about your name. About Nigeria. Ibo tribe, right? I recognize the name. And there’s that football player . . . I was just curious. Didn’t mean to hit a nerve. Can we talk about it later?”
“I’d rather not,” I said, not sticking around to hear more.
“Wait. Grace!”
I didn’t wait. I couldn’t. For some reason I couldn’t explain, I did pause just long enough to say one more thing. “Okoye was my married name and not the football player. A physics professor. He’s dead. I hope that’s enough information for you.”
Rhythms of Grace Page 13