Rhythms of Grace

by Marilynn Griffith

  Once they got the whole story from Ron and confirmed there’d been no bullets in the gun, someone uncuffed me. I didn’t relax until I saw Mal in custody, heard them say the words.

  “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  Mal kept going until the end, looking like a pitiful boy now instead of a man who’d done so many horrible things. And still he wouldn’t shut up. “I had to make her understand. Don’t you see? God sent her back to me,” Mal said as they dragged him past me.

  I turned from his lies toward Zeely’s sobs, wondering how I could have ever thought of him as a friend. Ron flanked my side as I headed for Grace.

  “Can you hear me?” the medic asked once Ron pried Zeely away from Grace’s stretcher.

  A weak voice answered. “I—I can.”

  “Thank you, Jesus,” Zeely said, quiet now, almost whispering. She spoke soft enough for me to hear my own voice.

  I was saying it too.

  82

  Ron

  I stayed with Zeely. The police had questioned her, but I’d done a lot of the talking. She was out of it. All the neighbors gathered around, letting the officers know that she had done what any of them would have, defended herself against an intruder. There was some discussion, but she was let go pending further investigation. Let go, but then she didn’t really go anywhere but into my arms.

  “Are you okay?”

  She shook her head. Started crying. “I never should have bought that gun.”

  “I know.”

  When one of the officers bagged the gun for evidence, Zeely covered her eyes. “I really shot him, didn’t I?”

  I smoothed her hair. “You did. I couldn’t believe it. Where did you get that gun anyway? You’re scared to death of guns.”

  She wilted against me, squeezing as she hugged my waist. “Yes. I am afraid of them.” A sob shook her body. “I shot somebody. Did I kill him?”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “Ron . . .”

  “I know. I don’t mean it. He’ll be fine. Probably better than any of us. Come on. I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m going in the ambulance. They’re not going to hurt her anymore.”

  I sighed. We’d all been hurt tonight, and not just by bullets. I helped her to the ambulance. “Okay. I’ll meet you there.”

  “You sure?”

  “Unless—”

  “What?”

  “Do you want me to call Jerry instead?”

  She stiffened, then climbed up into the ambulance. “No. I want you. I’ll see you there.”

  The ambulance doors slammed in my face. I knew that Mal was in the other one. When they’d taken him past me, he’d avoided my eyes. I could hardly believe that this was a guy I’d driven over an hour to hear preach. And tonight, I could have killed the guy. Easy. Brian could have too. But thank God, we hadn’t. As horrible as all of this was, vengeance belongs to God. It had to. I joined Brian sitting on the curb, giving a statement. I’d had to drag the guy out of the snow not long ago, but he seemed to be okay.

  Another officer tapped my shoulder. “And your name?”

  This again. “Jenkins. Ron Jenkins.”

  “You were with, uh, Wilkins, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “What’s your relationship? Why were you here tonight?”

  I shrugged and looked at Brian. “Friends? We’re good friends. All of us.”

  Brian nodded, then looked back at the ground. He pounded his fist against mine as the officer took his statement. We’d been through a war tonight. A battle fit for the two musketeers. We’d called ourselves brothers back in the day, then spent so long struggling to be friends. Something in this ugly night with its screams and guns had made us remember how to be brothers again. It seemed to have made Zeely remember too. I sure hoped so.

  83

  Grace

  Jenny is going to teach me to make booties and a hat too. Pink ones, because I still think it’s a girl. I picked a name. Melony. Corny, but I like it. I rewrote my letter. I told her that I was just a kid and Mom says I have to give her to someone grown who wants to have a baby. I told her I didn’t know if that was right, but everyone says it’s best. I told her I’ll go to college and get a good job so she’ll be proud if she ever comes to find me. I hope she does.

  Diana Dixon

  I looked like a monster, but there was a beauty in the cuts and bruises obscuring my features, the lump that had been my eye. I couldn’t see much, but I knew when the nurse came at me with that little box in her hand what she wanted to do. I tried to scream, to yell, but all I could get was a weak, tired voice.

  “Please don’t.” Going through a post-rape exam once was enough for a lifetime.

  Standing nose-to-chest with a nurse holding a pair of tweezers, Zeely tapped the nurse’s shoulder. “She wasn’t raped.”

  “I know that’s what she says, but we need to do a rape kit just in case.” The nurse reached beneath the drape.

  I cried out, clutching Zeely’s hand. Zeely pushed the nurse’s hand away. “I think you’re the rapist tonight. She’s traumatized enough.”

  “Ma’am, you don’t understand—”

  Zeely squeezed between the stirrups and pulled out the rest of the bed. Put my feet gently down on the bed. “The man is already in jail.”

  “But there is some question of a previous case—”

  Zeely rubbed her nose in circles, snorting—the warning for complete meltdown. I rolled toward the window, bracing myself for the next wave of pain, sure to come after they carted Zeely away: a speculum, a needle, or some other instrument. I waited so long that I fell asleep. When I woke up, I smelled something wonderful, something scary. Cucumbers rolled in pine needles. Gingerly, I rolled over, lifting the pillow from over my face to look at him.

  Brian.

  I covered my face again. As much as I was glad he’d come, I didn’t want him to be here now, to see me like this. He took one step at a time, finally reaching me. He put his hands on the pillow and held it, waiting until I moved it out of the way. Someone shut the door behind us and the room went dark. Was it night? I’d lost all track of time.

  I wasn’t sure what time it was, but for once I was thankful for the darkness between us. He moved slowly, putting his arms around me, and bringing his lips to my swollen eye, my bruised cheek . . . He kept on, finishing with my bandaged hand. It was as though he’d memorized my wounds in the few seconds that I’d let him look at me. A fragmented thought came to me from somewhere far away.

  Jesus with skin on.

  He lifted me off the bed just a little, held me in his arms. I was crying now, both from the pain and from the pleasure. As he lowered me back to the bed and eased the pillow behind my head, something wet hit my face. He was crying too.

  He pulled the blanket up to my neck. I knew he was moving easy to keep from hurting me, but I could see that he’d been hurt too. His breathing was shallow and ragged. Desperate. It was more than I could take.

  I turned away from him.

  He gently turned my head and leaned over me, close enough to kiss. But he didn’t. Instead he kissed me with his words.

  “I’ve been waiting for you all my life. I can wait. However long it takes.”

  The tears kept coming as I listened to him drag himself across the room. I wanted to stay silent, to just take everything in. He wouldn’t have blamed me if I did. But I couldn’t.

  “I love you,” I said in a voice I didn’t recognize. A voice that brought him running right back to my side.

  He kissed my fingertips. “I know. I love you too. Now get better so I can show you.”

  Even though it hurt, I laughed.

  Maybe we were going to be okay.

  All of us.

  Acknowledgments

  Jennifer Leep, thanks for always believing in this story. It means so much.

  Jessica Ferguson, thank you for “getting it” when nobody else did. You made me brave
.

  Claudia Mair Burney, thanks for loving this book and for loving me.

  Isaiah, thanks for waiting to be born so I could finish this. You’re a big boy now, but you’ll always be my first book baby.

  Fill, you didn’t let me give up, even when I tried. There are no words for how much I love you.

  Michelle and Ashlie, thanks for all the days you helped with the kids so I could write this book and all the others. You are the best.

  Shonie Bacon, Maurice Gray, Aisha Ford, Tanya Marie Lewis, Suzette Harrison, LaShaunda Hoffman, Yolanda Callegari Brooks, Amy Wallace, Jennifer Keithley, Staci Wilder, Nan Toback, Beth Ziarnek, Susan Downs, Susan May Warren, Tracy Bateman, Colleen Coble, Members of the Black Writers Alliance, thank you for reading this in its various forms over the years.

  Wendy Lawton, thank you for being you.

  Dr. Joseph Smith of Central State University, Olokikijulo! This bantu finally made it back to you.

  Cat Hoort, thanks for all your support and marketing efforts (and for reading the book so fast!).

  Nathan Henrion, thanks for all the laughs and insight into the sales side of publishing.

  Cheryl Van Andel and the art department, thanks for another great cover.

  Special thanks to Barb Barnes for her many reads of this book. Thanks for your hard work.

  Jesus, my everything, who taught me so much during the writing of this book and all that came after. Thank You. You were right. About everything.

  Reader Note

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for reading Rhythms of Grace. I hope you enjoyed it. This book is very special to me because it is my true first novel, the first book I ever wrote. If you’ve read my other titles and enjoyed them, then you’d already enjoyed this story in a way, because it was during the writing of this book that I became the writer that I am. During the revisions of this book, I became the writer I hope to be.

  Please visit RevellBooks.com for book club questions and other information about this book and the others to follow it. Visit my website at http://www.MarilynnGriffith.com as well, or drop me an email at MarilynnGriffith@gmail.com.

  Until next time, keep dancing to God’s glorious rhythms of grace.

  Blessings,

  Marilynn

  Marilynn Griffith is a freelance writer who lives in Florida with her husband and seven children. When she’s not helping with homework or tackling Mount Fold-Me, her ongoing laundry pile, she writes novels and speaks to youth, women, and writers.

  Watch for the sequel

  COMING FALL 2009