I really tried to smile back.
“Also say hi to my friend, Grace. For my first recital I was her understudy, so you know she’s no joke. Hey, girl.” Zeely waved.
I waved back, my mind collapsing under the weight of everyone’s stares. Then Brian’s hands met with the goatskin. My body started to move, almost against my will.
If I survived this, Zeely was getting a beat down.
I made it through the class, but not by much. I limped into my apartment on rubbery legs. What the squats and lunges didn’t do, Brian’s sideways glances had taken care of. Zeely followed me inside without being asked. She dropped on the futon, guzzling water from the mesh bag slung at her side before turning to me.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me Brian would be there.”
Zeely looked regretful, but not guilty. “If I’d told you, would you have come?”
“Well . . .”
“You wouldn’t have.” Zeely walked to the kitchen, tripping over a bag of trash. She shot me a questioning look before gathering the plastic handles in her fingers. And she wrinkled her nose at the smell.
The mess I’d made this afternoon was substantial, more than some clothes thrown around on the way out the door: a sticky bowl and a half-melted quart of Häagen-Dazs, a worn copy of Nikki Giovanni’s Ego Trippin’, a notebook with tattered pages. There was the usual too: three outfits and two pairs of shoes.
Zeely picked up the ice cream and tossed it down the disposal. Then she lifted the trash bag outside the door. “What gives?”
I didn’t even want to get into it. “It was an ice cream kind of afternoon. That’s all I’m going to say.”
She reached for my hand. “Yeah. I heard. I’d already invited Brian and it was too late to back out on the invitation. And honestly, I didn’t think you’d show.”
Me either.
I didn’t want to talk anymore. I didn’t know what to pray. I kicked off my shoes and spread out on the couch.
“Oh no you don’t. Get your sweaty self off that good furniture. It’ll be all slick and nasty. Come on. Get up to the shower. You’ll feel better after.”
Too tired to argue, I mounted the steps.
As usual, Zeely was right. When I returned from releasing my sweat and tears into the steaming shower, Zeely had picked up and vacuumed. Candles burned in the oriental lanterns along the wall. I stopped at the last step and drank in the smell. Blueberry cobbler, my favorite scent.
My friend wiped the counter in the kitchen. “I know you’re all into that aromatherapy stuff, but that won’t cut it today. I had to put some of the goodies in the attic to use.” Zeely pointed to the sky blue pillars extending an inch above their glass containers. “If those don’t work, I’ll run home for the sugar cookie. It’s the psych ward after that.”
It won’t be the first trip.
Zeely put a hand to her mouth, but went right on cleaning. Some things were just better left unsaid.
And some things had to be dealt with.
I laid my head on the Formica counter. “Maybe we should drive on over to the head shop, especially after that workout class. You almost killed me.”
“You’ll live and I’m not taking you anywhere. They’d admit me first. All you need is a good dinner—well, scratch that since you dogged that ice cream—and a nap.” Zeely put on her coat.
“Maybe.” I fingered my sleeve. “I know I need something.”
Zeely froze, one hand on the front door. “There. You said it. You need something. It’s a start. Enough for me to stay. I’ll just shower here. This is my bathroom, anyway, right?” She walked back to the couch and stroked my hair.
That made me laugh. That bathroom wasn’t big enough for me to turn around in, let alone shower. I showed her the body wash and scented lotions I kept in there for the other skinny visitor who had yet to show up—my mother. No, I hadn’t talked to her much lately outside of a few rounds of phone tag. I told Zee before she could ask. Mom was still mad about me moving here. Going backwards, she said. In truth, I knew she didn’t want me uncovering the skeletons she’d buried so carefully. Or at least she thought so. She’d call when she was over it and not a minute sooner.
Zeely said her daddy did the same thing, but she and the Reverend were so close that it was hard for me to imagine him being mad at her. About anything. Her relationship with him was the opposite of what Daddy and I had in the end. She said her father never could make it until lunch without calling to apologize. I smiled. That was the Reverend Wilkins I knew.
She disappeared behind the door and poked her head out a few seconds later. “Pearberry. Now this is me! I know you say the chemicals will kill me, but at least I’ll die smelling good.”
I had to laugh then.
“I love you, girl. I’m glad you’re my friend,” I whispered beneath the roar of the water so that she couldn’t hear. Would she still love me the same when she knew everything? Not just what had been stolen from me, but what I’d given away? Until now, I’d been too afraid to find out. Maybe I still was. I got up to cook to clear my mind.
“I’m going up yon-der to be with my Lord . . .” Zeely’s singing boomed through the bathroom door. Her voice massaged my mind as my knife sliced through the gold-green peppers on my cutting board.
Zeely emerged wrapped in a towel, strutting as though it were a mink coat. She slid onto one of my barstools looking like her song had sounded. Her shoulders shined like wet satin.
I looked at her with wonder. “I think we’ve got it turned around, you and me. I say I want to be single and you say you want a husband. You don’t need anybody. You’re defined, completed. I’m the one who needs to be rescued.”
Zeely adjusted her bracelets. “Me, completed? No. That’s what loneliness—aloneness—does. You have to get real with yourself. Get used to yourself. There’s nobody else. There may never be.”
I stopped dicing. “Of course there will be somebody. Look at you . . .”
She put a finger to her lips. “Don’t. It hurt to hear it at twenty-one. I despise hearing it at thirty-five. I spent my entire life preparing. Becoming the best woman I could be. Struggling to keep myself. To maintain.”
Water cascaded over Zeely’s collarbone, like tears. “But good men, Christian men, don’t want women like me. They want to save somebody. I don’t have any kids for them to watch, no drug habit for them to free me from, not even bad credit. That’s too boring for them.”
It was funny how she said it, but it was all too true. Everybody loved an underdog, even when it turned and bit them. I scratched my forehead. “Don’t feel bad. I don’t have anything to offer either.”
“Please. You have it all and won’t even work it.”
I dropped the vegetables into the wok, now bubbling like a volcano. With my other hand, I measured two cups of basmati into the steamer. I had no clue where Zeely was going now, but I’d traveled enough for one day. I was going to sit this one out.
“See? That’s it exactly. That innocence. That naïveté that says, ‘Somebody has looked out for me, protected me. I’m a wife.’ It’s how you reach for your cell when the tire goes flat, and I reach for my jack.”
Grease popped up and almost got me as the peppers danced in the oil. Zeely had obviously given all this some serious consideration. “And I’m supposed to work that? I don’t even know I’m doing it.”
“You can’t control where the chips fall, but you can arrange them. Pray on that and let the chips fall where they may. That’s all I’m going to say.”
I was still confused, but I nodded anyway and reached for the tamari, making sure it was the organic one. It was. For Zeely, I bought the regular soy sauce. She distrusted anything that resembled health food except for fruits and vegetables.
We were quiet for a while, but I knew it wouldn’t last. Zeely gave in and tried to break down what she was saying, using herself as an example. Dark like her daddy and small like her mother, she didn’t need bulky clothes or big hair—though so
metimes she liked it. God had made her a black cat. A panther. So she didn’t try to be anything else.
When I looked at Zeely, sitting there with no makeup and my worst towel and her toes curled around the chair rungs, I had to agree. She looked exotic. Interesting. And I believed that because she did. I steeled myself, knowing that a commentary about me was coming next. I wasn’t disappointed.
“You, on the other hand, aren’t sure who you are. You’ve got an earth woman thing going with the flowers and herbs, but you’re not sure about your body. Your clothes. You married Mandingo when you were still copying hairstyles from magazines and shopping at Lerner.”
“Cut the Mandingo bit, okay? He’s the only husband I’ll probably ever have.” I lifted the lid on the steamer and checked the rice. Hard as a rock. I walked to the fridge and dug out a pan of leftover brown rice. I had to get sister girl out of here. I loved her, but I couldn’t take much more of this.
“Sorry.”
I dumped the cold rice into the wok and stirred. It pained me to hear it, but I knew Zeely was telling the truth. I had an identity crisis, one that started with that pink leotard and Miss Fairweather back in the day. I’d reclaimed parts of myself along my journey, but it was stitched together in crazy ways. Even if it wasn’t the best time, I had to move forward from an identity crisis . . . to Christ.
The food smelled good but something was missing. I grabbed a clove of garlic from the wire basket on my counter and peeled it quickly before sticking it in the press by the stove. I tossed it in. Yeah. There it was. And Zeely already had two plates down from the cabinet, the square ones that drove her nuts.
She looked at the food with suspicion. “You know they sell this stir-fry stuff already made. You just throw it in the microwave.”
I gave her the slant-eyed are-you-crazy look. Her cheeks puffed out. Mine did too.
“Cancer!” we yelled in unison, doubling over in laughter as we always did at the mention of my microwave, a wedding gift used only as a clock. Peter had had been determined not to die of cancer, which had affected several people in his family. His number one no-no? Microwaved foods. I’d never even turned the thing on. Why I’d brought it with me instead of just buying a clock I didn’t know either. What I did know was that old habits—and new heartaches—died hard.
“Girl, you haven’t changed. Always scared of something. Mostly yourself. You almost had me fooled with that mountain climbing mess.” Zeely poured two glasses of water from my filter pitcher in the refrigerator. “What was your blessing?”
“My blessing?” I spooned the stir fry onto the dishes. This time, she had me for real. I had no idea what she meant.
“You know, the stuff that Joyce told all of us. You weren’t in Imani, but I know you have one. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”
My lips clamped around the fork. The phrases, words I thought I’d forgotten, lined up in my mind, pressed against my lips. My voice lowered to a whisper. “ ‘You are a dancer. A mover. A shaker. In Him, you move. In Him, you have your being.’ ”
“Do you believe that?”
I hadn’t believed it. Not for a long time. But here, now, a part of me was breathing what I thought had died a long time ago. “I want to say yes, but I’m not sure it’s true . . .”
“Then start with that.” Zeely wiped her lips, staring down at her empty plate. “Okay, you know that I’m a carnivore from way back, but you did your thing with those vegetables. You’re going to have me cutting up some.” She rewrapped her towel, tucking in the corner. “Thanks. I’d better get dressed and get home.” She got up from her chair.
I grabbed her arm. “Wait. What did Joyce tell you?”
Zeely snatched her arm back and walked toward the bathroom. Her voice rang out behind her. “You don’t think I came up with that black cat junk on my own, do you?”
There is a laughter so deep that it can cleanse things, purge the residue of sad, fearful days. A laughter that makes you collapse onto kitchen counters and dance in your underclothes. That’s what came over me then.
When it was over, I sat on the floor heaving and spent, and I laughed some more.
36
Ron
The pastor’s office smelled of oranges and cinnamon, cloves and cardamom. I stared at Pastor David behind the desk, dressed in a black shirt and matching pants. If I hadn’t heard the man’s sermons myself, I might have mistaken the minister for a hit man.
“Melinda. Ronald. I’m glad you could make it.”
Leather squeaked as Mindy shifted in her chair. She touched the desk. “Sorry about the last appointment. I was—tied up.”
I sniffed and crossed my legs. She was tied up a lot these days. Not that I could really be mad about it. We both had our issues.
Pastor David reached for a leather notebook beside him. “No problem.” He flipped through several pages. “Let’s see. Last time we discussed physical intimacy. There seemed to be some conflict there.”
Mindy frowned. “I don’t remember any conflict.”
The pastor smiled, but his gaze, leveled at me, remained serious. “No communication means conflict. You’re hiding something from me . . . or from each other. Two people in love should have something to say about sex. Especially two Christians.” Pastor David turned his chair slightly. “Ronald, you look troubled. Is there something you’d like to say?”
Forget the whole thing.
“Not really.” I checked my watch. Brian would be picking me up at six to look at cars. He’d probably take me to Rolls Royce. Oh well. Any place would be better than here.
Brian didn’t disappoint. He showed up on time and we testdrove several frivolous vehicles. In the end, he took me to the Ford dealership, but they were about to close. Now, for the first time in I don’t know how long, we were at his place. Just hanging. Or as much hanging as you can do in a house that looks primed for a layout in Architectural Digest. I was trying to stop staring at my reflection in his stainless steel refrigerator when I accepted, not for the first time, that Brian and I saw things from different angles. What man would buy appliances that he had to polish? I couldn’t imagine. I lifted a jug of milk from inside and set it on the counter. “You actually shine this thing, B?”
“I do. It’s pretty quick.” The cappuccino machine buzzed. Brian pulled a mug of steaming chocolate from the burner. He pointed to another pitcher inside the enormous fridge. “There’s cream in there too. Farm fresh.”
I frowned, pouring a white stream into the puddle of brown. I shook my head. “Homogenized suits me just fine.”
Brian laughed. “Always has. I’m surprised you still have a colon after all that cheese . . . I’ve been eating pretty funky myself lately.”
We both took a sip, looking up at the other for a reaction. I tried not to look the way it tasted. I don’t care who ground it or grew it, nasty was nasty to me.
He laughed. “I see you haven’t changed.”
“You neither. You’re still nuts.”
Brian whipped around, all locks and laughter. “I’m crazy? How many cars did we look at tonight? Twenty? I can’t believe you didn’t like one of them.”
“The Nissan King Cab looked good, but I told you to go Ford first. I’ve gotta do me.”
Brian rolled his eyes. “Take you to Ford so you can buy the same truck again? No way. You’ve had what, three of them since that first one? Three identical cars in ten years, and I’m crazy . . .”
I pressed my lips together. “Actually, that was the same one for most of that time. Paint job.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
I grinned, all teeth.
Brian made a sound worthy of a wounded superhero. Obviously my choices pained him deeply, but I couldn’t help but laugh. In response, he reached over and grabbed two keys from a red, black, and gold hook mounted on a cutout of Africa.
“Here.”
“What’s this?”
“Keys to the Saab. That’s the only car I’ve owned that you liked t
o drive.”
I handed them back. “Can’t take it.”
Brian took a sip from his mug and reached in his pocket. “Okay. Take the Jag.”
I folded my arms. “Me? In a purple car? Come on.”
“Good point. The Saab then.” He pushed the first set of keys as far into my pocket as they would go. He left the room.
I followed him down the hall. Brian turned sharply and shut the door. I knocked. “What are you doing?”
“Going to bed. Today was murder.”
I heard.
In a town like Testimony, there was no such thing as a private matter. Everything but bodily functions was well discussed around town. And then it’d show up in the newspaper for good measure if you weren’t careful. Or worse yet, someone’s pulpit. Sad but true. Keeping my own secrets hadn’t been easy.
“Come on, man. Are you really going to stay in there? How am I going to get home?”
Music clicked on. Handel’s Messiah. “Drive your car. I’ll change the title tomorrow.”
37
Jerry
I’d not only missed a night of work. I’d missed a night of sleeping too. Monique would be starting at Imani the next day and had a whole new life, starting with motherhood, to adjust to, almost overnight. I’d offered to keep the baby with me through the night, both out of habit and need, I knew now. Monique, ever the smart one, had declined. “We need to get to know each other, Daddy. It’s time.”
And maybe she was right. With Monique home from her boarding school, some of the financial pressure would let up, but there’d be other pressures now, the crush of people knowing that Carmel and I had not only failed as husband and wife but as parents too. As the springs of my sofa bed stabbed my back and the thin mattress chilled my skin, I tried not to think about it.
I was up spreading the comforter underneath me when a pair of headlights flashed though the curtains. I shielded my eyes, running to open the door before Carmel could knock and wake up the house.
Carmel sagged against the doorframe. “Sorry I’m late. Full moon. Lots of deliveries. I don’t want to fight. I’m here for the girls.”
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