Rhythms of Grace

by Marilynn Griffith

  He called me out.

  Still, I had to play dumb. “What?”

  He snorted. “Come on. You two were wrapped up at that assembly like swizzle sticks. I saw you through the window.”

  I pulled my coat tighter, remembering Brian’s big hands in mine . . . touches in a moment of sorrow, nothing more. “This has nothing to do with Brian, though I do find it interesting that you’d bring him up now. You haven’t wanted to discuss him all day.” A breeze churned up the path behind us, waking leaves from their snowy grave.

  Mal’s eyes bore down on me, as if searching for the meek, mellow woman he’d shared a first date with at this spot two years before. “I hope you haven’t allowed yourself to fall into some delusion about Brian. He’s dangerous.”

  Snow powdered my hair. I could almost feel the curls sprouting from the moisture. “And you’re safe?”

  He threw down the picnic basket. Kicked it a few feet. “I heard about those charges against him. I think you need to take them seriously. Unless you want to be his next victim, I suggest you stay away from him—even at work.”

  “The thing with Lottie Wells? I know about that. I was there.” I stared at one of the goblets from our lunch, now shattered on the ground. I wouldn’t let the same thing happen to me, not with Mal or with Brian. Even if it meant resigning from my job.

  Mal motioned toward the shelter when the snow came down harder, stinging our faces. I didn’t move. He wiped the white from his nose. “It’s not just that. Brian was doing this stuff years ago, when we were growing up.”

  “He’d be in jail . . .” My voice sounded firm, even through the brewing storm, but I didn’t resist when Mal pulled me under the pavilion, dragging what remained of the picnic basket with him.

  He restated his case. “He was never charged, but trust me, he was guilty.”

  I staggered. “How can you be sure?”

  He pressed the ring box into my hand.

  “I was there.”

  I visited the new church again on Sunday, both thankful and sorry to be an anonymous face in the crowd. Monday came too quickly, bringing with it the somber mood of Joyce’s announcement. Of all the students, Sean looked undaunted. Brian looked crushed.

  “Can anyone give me an example of a writer from the Harlem Renaissance?” I asked.

  Sean’s hand shot up. “Langston Hughes.”

  My hands moved across the chalkboard, writing his answer. “Good. And what were some of the themes of his works? What was his struggle?”

  Brian watched from the side of the room, half listening. He’d asked this morning what had happened over the weekend. Besides my hair being nappy again, nothing had changed really. Nothing and everything too.

  The bell rang.

  I turned from the board. “We’ll discuss Jean Toomer’s Cotton Song tomorrow. Be prepared.” The students moaned agreement and filed out of the room. I smiled at them. And then frowned at Brian.

  Immediately I regretted it. Sure Mal had always been honest with me before, but I didn’t have any proof that Brian had done anything wrong. Sure, he was even more distant since the assembly, but that didn’t prove anything either.

  My heart judged Brian innocent on all counts while my head told me to get away as fast as I could. It was time I admitted it, to myself and to God, that without meaning to, I’d fallen for Brian. Somehow I was going to have to get back up.

  When the class emptied, I pushed past Brian into the office, trying my best not to look at him. “Excuse me.”

  He tapped my shoulder. Gently.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  I shrank back. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  From the look on his face and the flip in my stomach, that was the wrong question. He let the moment pass. “I have a memo for you, but first I wanted to clear up something.”

  A memo? This had to be some kind of sick joke. “Put it on my desk. It’s not really a good time to talk.”

  Brian walked into the office and stuck the memo inside my Bible. In Ephesians somewhere. I’d scour that passage when I got home, though it probably meant nothing.

  As he turned back to me, he had a puzzled look on his face. “You know, things between us were fine until X—Mal Gooden showed up. What did he tell you about me? Did he tell you how he—”

  The office door swung open. Quinn bounded in, then stopped short, probably discerning the tension in the room. “I can come back . . .”

  I started clearing my desk. “You stay, Quinn. I was just leaving.”

  Brian rolled his eyes and motioned Quinn to the chair beside his desk. He looked over at me and shook his head. Just a little, but enough for me to notice.

  Quinn sighed. “Now doesn’t seem like a good time. You want me to go?”

  “It’s okay. Come on in,” he said, inviting Quinn to sit with his hands and begging me not to go with his eyes.

  I left anyway.

  He got rid of me.

  Of all the things I expected that memo tucked in my Bible to say, learning that I’d be switching positions with Zeely was a total shock. I’d wanted to talk to Joyce about it, but I knew she was resting most of the time now. I’d have to be a big girl and deal with it. As I’d left school and set out for the store, I began to wonder if maybe it wasn’t a good idea after all. This way I could get over Brian and not have to wonder what he was going to do next or whether he was a good guy playing bad or the other way around. I could just teach and go home. Easy. If only shopping were as simple.

  I strolled six aisles in Strong and Jones Market and still couldn’t find the Jiffy mix. It was almost November, time for a practice Thanksgiving meal. The cashier looked surprised at being asked about a boxed mix, but asked if I didn’t want some cornmeal anyway. It was so much better than a mix, she promised.

  To her, maybe. That was a little too back-to-basics for me. Vegetables were the only thing I cooked from scratch. I couldn’t believe I’d bypassed the Kroger with a four-foot-high Jiffy display to come to this dinky little store that Zeely raved about so much. I probably should have gone to a health food store anyway, but after reading Brian’s memo requesting that Zeely and I switch classes through the end of the semester, I was not in a stir fry kind of mood. And then there was the ring in my purse that I still had to send back. If it was even safe to mail diamonds, that is. Saturated fat was definitely in order.

  I scanned the different kinds of cornmeal—white, yellow, fluffy, sifted—trying not to think about it. An older woman reached past me for a box of white meal and put down three boxes of Jiffy mix in its place. I snatched them with glee and inventoried my cart—cabbage, onions, a turkey leg, and a homegrown seasoning formulated by the store, selected on Zeely’s recommendation. The cornbread mix completed the scene. I put the first two boxes in the cart and held up the third for inspection. A puff of yellow escaped a crack along the seam. Open.

  Before I could put the open box back, another cart rammed mine from the side. The box of cornbread mix burst open. Yellow dust settled on my lips. I sucked in a breath, swallowing mush. I peered through the fallout, making out the person’s face who’d run into me. Lottie Wells.

  I refused to stoop to her silly level. “Lottie, watch where you’re going, honey. You’re going to hurt someone.”

  The buggy villain stepped closer, whispering like she’d heard nothing I’d said. “I know you. You fooled me with that nappy hair and a different name, but I recognize you now. I never forget a face.”

  I gripped the cart’s handle. Was she drunk? She looked it. Just what I didn’t need. “We work together. At Imani, remember?”

  She blew whiskey breath in my face and wagged her finger. “I’m not talking ’bout that.” Her words slurred. “Diana Dix-on. Room two forty-three.”

  I swallowed the Jiffy, sweet and gritty. Shock slid down my throat too.

  “Say the right things at my hearing or I’ll tell everybody ’bout you and that baby you gave away. Even your boyfriend, Dr. Mayfield.” The conte
nts of Lottie’s cart clanked as she backed up and sped toward the register: six forty-ounces of beer, a can of butter beans, and a lifetime of secrets.

  My secrets.

  51

  They brought me here in the middle of the night so the neighbors wouldn’t see me. I wore Mom’s old maternity dress. It’s denim with leaves. Pretty leaves. Sometimes, when I wear it, I feel like dancing, but I never do.

  Diana Dixon

  I came in the house barefoot and hugging that raggedy, wonderful notebook. Until today, I’d sometimes wondered if it had really happened, that baby growing inside me, those hands coming to take it away. Lottie was the last person I thought would give me validation. She knew it all, even my room number.

  My jacket was somewhere in the car. I made it into the kitchen before I totally broke down. I left the food on the counter and stumbled upstairs. In Peter’s bed and under five blankets, Lottie’s words screamed in my head.

  I know you.

  St. Andrew’s Maternity Home for Unwed Mothers. To know my room number, Lottie would have to have spent some time there too. That explained a lot. Everyone dealt with their crazy in a different way.

  I am with you always, even to the end of the age.

  I burrowed in the covers, running from the voice of God. Why did he always seem to show up after everything was over? Today I was tired of praying, of pushing, swaying like a tower of game pieces, tottering but somehow standing. Today the weight of Lottie’s words had tipped the balance, scattering me in a cloud of Jiffy mix. A cloud that brought whispers in my mind and pictures to burn my eyes. A cloud that could turn into a tornado if I wasn’t careful.

  And they overcame him because of the blood of the Lamb and because of the word of their testimony . . .

  My testimony. Only the truth—and the entire truth—could really set me free. Had God used Lottie to force my obedience? No. I served a God of love, not manipulation. I peeked up from the covers, second-guessing my own thoughts. Maybe the prompt to tell the ladies at the beauty shop who I really was, what really happened to me, was meant to prevent what had happened today, not cause it.

  Now I’d have to tell. Despite the way Brian was acting or what Mal said, changing my testimony at the hearing wasn’t an option. I dialed Zeely’s number. The answering machine picked up.

  I turned off the phone and stuck it under my pillow. What was I going to say anyway? “Remember when I moved away and never came back? I left because I was pregnant and I was pregnant because one day at the bus stop, a boy threw me on the ground . . .”

  I squeezed my eyes together, trying to cut off the memories. The pain. The lies. St. Andrew’s. The tutors. An art class. That little girl, even younger than me, who wouldn’t stop screaming when her baby came out dead. Anne. Charlotte Anne.

  Lottie.

  I tried to stop my racing pulse. Brian, whose mother had given him away, would probably be plenty disappointed to know that I’d done the same thing. And Zeely? Goodness. She’d thought I was crazy for climbing a mountain. Black folks definitely didn’t give up their children. Aunt Ina had aborted her babies and told me proudly, “At least I didn’t give them away.”

  Maybe it didn’t matter anymore who knew . . . It would feel good to fill in the blanks at the gynecologist’s correctly. To accept a corsage at church on Mother’s Day. To be honest when people asked, “Do you have any children?” I scratched my scalp. I had to find a place to lay my burdens down, somewhere for my heart to rest. Maybe this truth telling would be that place. A place to lay my head.

  The stink of bad pork and wilted cabbage marched up the stairs to meet me the next morning. I stared down the street at Zeely’s empty driveway. Maybe I’d catch her at lunch. I cleaned up what I could and sped to school, praying all the way that I wouldn’t be late. It didn’t hit me until I parked that I probably wouldn’t see Brian today. No wonder Zeely had left early. By now, she’d gotten a memo too, the one reassigning her with Brian.

  I hope they don’t kill each other.

  The closer I got to the school, the slower I walked, in no hurry to face the change. The thought of teaching with someone new felt like starting all over. Would the students who loved me in Literature hate me in Algebra? Math had been my minor, but that seemed a lifetime ago. I hoped I’d be able to keep up. Armed with my own unanswered questions, I walked into the new classroom and to the front desk, still smelling of Zeely’s perfume. Jerry sat quietly while the students chattered on, moving around the room out of their seats. I clenched my teeth. As maddening as Brian could be, I missed his order already.

  “Morning, Ms. Okoye. Come on in.” Jerry stood and faced the class to introduce me. For the first part of the class, they worked in teams to complete worksheets. While they worked, Jerry showed me the way he and Zeely organized the lessons. He did a short interactive lecture at the end of their hands-on class work. It seemed backwards to me, but I told him I’d do all I could to make it work. He smiled, saying it was all he could ask. Before I knew it, it was time for the lecture and board work.

  “Anybody remember where we left off yesterday?”

  Sean’s hand shot up. “Um, exponents in New York or something like that.”

  Jerry flipped Sean a piece of bubble gum from his pocket. “That’s right. A negative exponent is just a road trip. It’s like this: Your mom lives in New York and your dad lives in Miami. New York is the numerator. Everybody say num-er-a-tor.”

  The class chanted back in a weak tone.

  Jerry dropped the chalk and crossed his arms. “Sean, give me a beat.”

  Happy to oblige, the boy alternated his knuckles and his palms on the desk.

  “Everybody say nu-mer-a-tor.” Jerry cupped his hands to his ear.

  I felt the beat pass through me like another pair of drumming hands, Brian’s hands. My feet started to move. My mouth too. “Nu-mer-a-tor!”

  “That’s what I’m talking about.” Jerry turned to the board. He drew a line and wrote NY on top and MIA under it. “New York is live, but in the winter it gets cold and Moms can get a little crazy, so,” he turned back to them, “you have to call Pops and go to Miami, the—”

  “De-nom-in-a-tor!” Before Jerry could even say it, the students waved their hands like they did on the weekends. I surprised myself, raising the roof too.

  Unable to resist, Jerry answered in rhythm himself. “Somebody, everybody, scream . . .”

  “Ahhhhh—”

  Jerry choked with laughter, sliding one hand across his neck, signaling the cutoff. “We’d better quit that screaming. Dr. Mayfield will put us out of here. Sit down.”

  Again to my surprise, the students sat. On their desks. On the floor. But they sat. Brian would have gone crazy.

  “All right. Here’s the problem. One over X to the negative one.”

  No heads bobbed. No arms waved. Silence.

  “Hold on now. It’s just a road trip, remember? Exponents are all about attitude. That isn’t a negative number. He just isn’t feeling Miami.” He drew an arrow on the board. “So we move him to New York, on top, and he’s feeling positive. He’s chilling.”

  Sean shifted in his chair. “Oh snap. I think I got that. Do it again.”

  “Nope,” my new partner said, extending the chalk to Sean. “The next one is on you. Need some music?”

  The boy shuffled through the desks, his pants trailing the floor. “Yeah. Y’all help me out.”

  The hat guy from the first day in my old class provided a beat while a girl with an afro puff added the words. “Nothing but a road trip, with the ex-po-nents. Too hot? Take it up. Take it up. Too cold? Shake it down. To the ground!”

  Three more girls jumped from their chairs and followed their friend’s commands. Even the most disciplined students, stiff in their desks in the front row, swayed to the side. Sean worked his body as he boxed his answer. The class looked to Jerry with expectancy, wondering if the calculations were correct.

  “It’s perfect.” Their teacher nodded and flipped
Sean more gum, two pieces this time. “That’s all I’ve got left. And that’s the bell. I’ll see you all tomorrow. The homework is page one twenty-seven, odd.”

  “All of the odd problems?” someone asked.

  Jerry looked over his glasses. “You heard me. And check them in the back, don’t try and copy the answers. I’ll know.”

  Nonplussed by the assignment, Sean folded his paper into a triangle and slipped it into his pocket. He pulled the headphones from his neck onto his ears. Dullness covered his face. I checked the clock. He’d have Brian next. Maybe Zeely could lighten things up. He flashed me a smile so quick I almost missed it. “Peace out, Miss O.”

  Peace. I could use some of that. “Same to you, Sean.”

  I looked at my new teaching partner in amazement as the class flowed into the hall. “Jerry. I’m stunned.”

  “At what? The kids? This is a smart group. I just wish they had a better teacher. Math wasn’t my major, but I am certified in it. It was Joyce’s biggest need when I came. Zeely’s better with the geometry.” He wiped his head with a washcloth from his desk drawer. He looked like a preacher after a good sermon.

  “I can’t tell math wasn’t your major. Some of these kids never said one word in Brian’s class. I know I’ve never seen Sean having so much fun.”

  Jerry rubbed the back of his head. “Brian is getting them ready for college. I’m trying to get them ready for life outside of here. We’re both needed.” His forehead gleamed.

  “I guess you’re right. Everyone has their purpose.”

  Brian seemed intent on breaking my heart. Lottie aimed to destroy my life. Everyone else just got to watch.

  No wonder Zeely liked him. I rubbed my aching arms and tried to swallow the hoarseness in my throat. A day in Jerry’s class felt like a low-impact version of my friend’s workout. Between the jumping, shouting, and a run around the hall singing the quadratic formula, I wondered if I’d be able to keep up with my new teaching partner.

  Jerry sat down with a pile of papers. “You can go home. I can handle these.”