It crossed my mind to find a means to actually continue living in my house. I’ve been here for fifteen years, and I know it like I know my own body. But Luke’s essence is on everything I touch here. Every piece of furniture, every appliance and even the paintings on the wall are screaming with reminders of Luke. If I’m going to survive this ordeal, I need to purge myself of the man.
So far, I’ve got packed all of my good church suits and hats and a small collection of spring and summer clothing. The weather finally decided to break, and the warm temperatures are here to stay for a while. I guess that after the divorce is final, I’ll be able to come back and get the rest of this stuff. I’ve got a good mind to give most of it to charity or to somebody at New Faith that can use it. Today I’ve seen blouses and skirts that haven’t been worn in years.
I’m reaching on the top shelf of the closet to see if there are any empty hatboxes that I can use for my toiletries when my hand strikes something that feels like a handle. It’s just a little groove in the shelf, but it’s noticeable when I run my hand over it. I pull a chair up to the closet so that I can see the shelf, and sure enough, there is a little, barely noticeable handle. I give it a good pull, and surprisingly it opens quite easily to what seems to be a secret compartment. Resting at the bottom of the shallow hole is a wooden box that I’m sure I’ve never seen.
Somehow I manage to bring the box down from the shelf. It’s heavier than it looks, and it has a little lock on its side. I feel like I’ve found a buried treasure. The box is beautifully carved oak. It looks worn at the hinges, but other than that, it’s been wonderfully preserved. I wonder if it was here before Luke and I bought the house.
For a brief moment I consider not opening the box. But my curiosity dashes that thought almost as quickly as it appeared. I look around downstairs to find something to break the lock, and the best I can do is a hammer and a butter knife.
With one swift pound the rusty lock falls to pieces. I eagerly open the box, and I’m almost disappointed to see that it’s only letters and photographs. Someone’s keepsakes. I flip through the pictures one by one. Most of them are of a pretty little brown-skinned girl. Toward the end there are pictures of the same girl, obviously grown up to be a teenager, standing next to my husband.
I’m shaking my head in disbelief, but the evidence is all here. Luke has another child. A grown daughter. I finger through the letters, and they all start, “Dear Daddy.” There are also some canceled checks to an account that bears only Luke’s name. The checks are from a bank in Columbus, and they’re in varying amounts, with the largest one being twenty-three thousand dollars. The memo line on this check says, “First year college tuition.”
I hardly feel the tears burning my face as I read the letters, telling Luke of field trips and birthday parties. This girl, named Amanda, seems to know Luke well, and there is never any mention of me—only her mother, Angela.
Just as I feel as if I’m about to explode, I realize that Luke is standing in the doorway of my bedroom. Fear quickly descends upon my body, and I start to tremble. I said that I would be prepared for Luke, but all I can do is grip the hammer in my shaking hand.
“Why are you sitting there looking all afraid?” he says softly. “I’m not going to do anything to you. No matter what you believe, I do still love you, Yvonne.”
“Y-you don’t love me.”
“Now, that’s where you’re wrong.”
Luke walks up to me and looks down into my lap. He sighs when he sees the pictures and letters spread across the floor. In a swift motion he swoops down and collects the piles and snatches the box from my lap.
“I knew you would find out about Amanda one day.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“Yeah, right. That’s a real easy thing to do. Amanda’s mother was a very discreet woman. I knew she’d never tell. Besides, I didn’t want to hurt you.”
Luke is pacing the room holding the box. I have no idea what he is going to do. Why didn’t I change the locks? Lord, help me. I grip the hammer as tightly as I can and will myself to stop trembling. The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? I keep reciting the verse in my mind until my nerves calm. I feel my grip loosening on the hammer, and Luke no longer seems so menacing.
“Luke, why are you here?”
“I’m turning myself in today. My lawyer says that if I plead guilty the prosecutor will reduce the charge from felonious assault to domestic violence.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Yes. Yvonne, I’m going to ask you to do something. It might help me with the judge.”
“What’s that?”
“Please, Yvonne. Come to my sentencing and speak on my behalf. Just say that we’ve been married twenty years and that I’ve never hurt you like that before.”
I’m silent. Why does Luke think that I would want to do anything to help him? Any sane woman would want to see him up under the jail.
“I’ll come to the sentencing. I don’t know if I’ll be able to speak for you. I won’t lie for you.”
“Fine, Vonne,” he says softly. “I know that these words probably won’t mean much, but I am sorry for what I did to you. It hurts me to even look at you.”
“I don’t know what to say, Luke.”
“Can you consider not divorcing me?”
“I’ll pray about it. That’s all I can promise.”
When Luke sees that I have nothing further to say to him, he turns to leave. Why am I sitting here feeling sorry for him? Oh no! I will not feel guilty for wanting this man out of my life. The Lord said that he would never put more on me than I can bear, and right now . . . I can’t bear the sight of Luke.
Chapter 41
Taylor
Today, for the first time ever, I took Joshua to Chuck E. Cheese. It’s not like I’ve never given him pizza, but I’ve tried to steer clear of family spots. They always seem to lead to questions that I don’t like to answer, because Joshua is not stupid. But today I’ve braced myself for my son’s inquisitive mind. I’ve prayed for wisdom in how to answer him. I can’t avoid him forever, and it looks like he’s going to be fatherless for a while.
I watched Joshua’s reaction to a little girl and her father playing on one of the restaurant’s many oversize toys. He’s still young, so his concept of a father is not complete. It’s amazing how he can tell that something is not right with our household. It’s not necessarily true that you don’t miss something you’ve never had.
Joshua asked me, “Is that her daddy?”
“Yes.”
“Mommy . . . do I have a daddy?”
“Well, Joshua, everyone has a daddy.”
“Will he take me fishing like Little Bill’s dad?”
“Who is Little Bill?”
“Mommy, he comes on TV. Right after Elmo.”
“Oh! Well, I don’t know if your daddy will take you fishing, but how about if I take you?”
He laughed. “Mommies don’t go fishing.”
“Who said? I love to fish!”
Joshua laughed for a little while longer, and then his face got serious again. I could almost see the wheels turning in his brain.
“Well, doesn’t my daddy like me?”
“When your daddy gets to meet you, he’s going to love you!”
“When can I meet him? Can it be today?”
“Not today, Joshua.”
“But when?”
“I don’t know.”
I can tell that Joshua is not satisfied with my response, but he doesn’t say any more.
I had a setback in my new, joyful, single-and-saved walk with the Lord. I had a conversation with my mother, and she asked me when I was going to get myself a man. Of course, I told her that I was focusing on the Lord and I don’t need a man in my life right now. And she, being her true carnal self, had the nerve to ask me if I’m gay or something.
I got angry and went home,
but that one little comment got me to longing for a warm body in my bed. That’s how easy the devil can steal my focus. I need to hurry up and figure out what God has for me to do.
I am getting a lot better with these attacks, though. There was a time when I used to be completely blindsided by the devil. Now when he gets through, it’s just a minor fender bender. Pretty soon my defense is going to be so tough that I’m going to say, “You’re going to have to come better than this,” while I’m swerving right on out of his path. With God’s help. Can I get an amen?
Chapter 42
Pam
After a month in the hospital Troy is ready to go home. He needs crutches to walk. The nurse tries to offer him a wheelchair to the entrance of the hospital, and he looks like he wants to spit in her face. I’m glad she doesn’t insist, because Troy can get real ugly when he’s determined about something.
I’ve arranged for a nurse to visit our home twice daily, and a physical therapist will come three times a week. Troy tried to argue with me on this, claiming that he doesn’t need a nurse and he doesn’t need someone to show him how to exercise. I, however, do not care about Troy getting ugly.
It takes us about a half hour to get from the hospital room to the car parked outside—a trip that should have only taken four or five minutes. Troy refuses to let me open his car door, and he gets angry because I’m not letting him drive. He says that there’s nothing wrong with his legs that would keep him from driving. I don’t even remind him that his left leg is broken. I’m just going to ignore his irrational ravings and get us home in one piece.
Troy woke up early this morning and took great pains to make sure he looked his best on leaving the hospital. He had a friend come and line up his short Afro. He specifically requested that I have his homecoming outfit professionally pressed, and he insisted on wearing some old B-boy jeans outfit. Yeah, he looks just like himself—an old cootie.
My eyes narrow and my lips automatically protrude into a grimace when I pull up in my driveway behind Ms. Aria’s Honda. She’s not in the car, so the nanny must’ve let her in. No wonder Troy was trying to look so good. He’s got himself a party planned.
“What is she doing here, Troy?”
“Woman, didn’t I tell you that I have work to do? I don’t have a day to waste. Aria’s here to finish arranging a few songs, then we’re going into the studio to record.”
“You are not going to that studio today. You can barely stand up.”
“Pam, I’m not going to argue with you about this. We’ve got a show this Sunday. You just go and pick up my prescriptions and have them ready for me when I leave.”
“You don’t think you’re driving, do you?”
Troy sighs. “I’m a grown man, Pam. I’m not crazy. Aria is going to drive.”
“Why don’t I come along? Mrs. Franks can stay with the girls.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Pam. You might mess up my vibe with all your nagging.”
I’m so disgusted I could scratch Troy’s eyes out. The doctors all told him to take it easy. He’s not even supposed to be on his feet for at least a week. He’s opening his car door and attempting to swing his legs out on the side.
“Look at you. Can’t even get out the darn car. How do you think you’re about to go to the studio?”
“I’ll make it. I’ve got faith too, woman. Why don’t you get over here and help me?”
I don’t want to help him, but I go over to his side of the car. How can he not see how weak and helpless he is? I almost want to leave him sitting right there on the front seat until I get good and ready to help him into the house.
“Troy, don’t you care whether you live or die?”
“Mmm-hmm. But right now I’m thinking about making that paper, you know what I’m saying?”
If he uses one more slang expression, I’m going to scream. I wish he would start talking like an adult.
“No. Actually, I don’t know what you’re saying. Maybe if you spoke English . . .”
Troy bursts into raw, unhindered laughter. It sounds healthy and robust, especially coming from a man whose body is broken in several places. They say that laughter is a cure for the soul, and Troy’s sure sounds healing. Contagious too, because I can’t help but join him. We gradually make it to the door, with Troy laughing all the way.
Gretchen and Cicely open the door for their daddy, and they are grinning from ear to ear. They visited him in the hospital, but I think the place scared them. They’re both glad to see Troy out from beyond that sterile-looking gray building. They rush forward and almost topple Troy with hugs. Even though he’s wincing in pain, he hugs them back.
I push the door open all the way to allow Troy plenty of room, and I notice how dark it is in the foyer. I reach over to flick the light, and about twenty or so people jump out and scream, “Surprise! Welcome home, Troy!”
Troy smiles broadly, but he doesn’t look the least bit surprised. Me, on the other hand, well, I’m floored. Who in the world planned a party at my house without my knowledge?
I whisper to Troy, “Did you know anything about this?”
He kisses my cheek. “Of course, I did. And I’m not planning on going to the studio. I was just messing with you.”
I smile despite myself. Lord, what will I do with this man?
Chapter 43
Yvonne
I haven’t been able to eat or sleep since Luke came over here with that little weak apology. He comes to me for my forgiveness, is completely half-baked about it, but still I’m turned upside down. Shouldn’t he be the one walking around like a nervous wreck? It’s not fair. He’s repented, he’s apologized to me, and now he’s free, probably glowing with the peace of God that surpasses all understanding.
It’s even been hard for me to pray about this lately. I go into my little prayer room and just sit there, looking at the wall. I know it’s wrong for me to harbor unforgiveness. I’ve lectured folk on that very subject dozens of times. But here I am carrying the biggest grudge of all and trying to convince myself that it’s righteous indignation.
Luke gets on my nerves. It was so much easier to walk around mad when he was acting innocent. I don’t know how to deal with his apology. Always thought I was a bigger woman than all this.
So tonight I’m sitting on the floor in my prayer room reading my Bible. I’m deliberately avoiding any verses about forgiveness. I’m sticking more to scriptures like Romans 12:19: “Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”
Saints, myself included, know we can find a Bible verse—or should I say twist a Bible verse—to fit just about anything that we want. Now I can sit here feeling smug thinking to myself, “I don’t even have to do anything to Luke. God is going to get him.” Real Christlike, right?
No matter how much malice I feel toward Luke, I can’t use the Word of God to back me up. I go ahead and read the next verse in Romans, although I already know what it says. “Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: For in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head.” Does that sound like I’m supposed to be sitting back waiting for God to get Luke? Of course not, but it’s easier said than done . . . especially when someone has broken your heart and your spirit.
I close my eyes and open my mouth to start praying. My words sound hollow to me, like I’m reciting a bad poem. If I sound this way to myself, I wonder what God hears. Does he even hear me at all? Or is the prayer hitting the four walls and bouncing back at me; empty words with no power?
I just stop and sit for a while. I have a decision to make. I can either choose to forgive or I can choose to walk around with this poison in my system. It’s not brain surgery, but it’s so hard to admit the right choice! Even for me. Mrs. Saved, sanctified, tongue-talkin’, filled with the Holy Ghost.
I pound my fists on the floor. “Why, Lord! Why do I have to forgive him! It’s not fair, Lord! He
hurt me.”
Clear as day, I hear the Lord’s voice in my spirit. Not loud and booming, but still and quiet. It’s calming me.
“Forgive him, because I forgave you.”
Through choked sobs I protest, “But, Lord! He tried to kill me.”
Quietly, yet forcefully, “They did kill ME. Forgive men their trespasses and I will also forgive you.”
“So I’m just supposed to forget everything that he’s done?” I ask angrily.
“I have.”
I’m rocking back and forth, hugging my body. Tears are pouring down my cheeks. I thought I was done crying over this man. Why can’t the Lord just let me hate Luke? It would be so much easier. My hurts are so big . . . but I feel guilty, because I know that Jesus forgave much bigger hurts than mine.
“Lord . . . I want to forgive, but I don’t think that I can. My heart is hard. O God! Create in me a clean heart and renew a right spirit within me!”
The words of the Lord ring clear. “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you. Do good to them that hate you and pray for them that spitefully use you. Treat them in love, daughter. That’s all I ask.”
Sorrowfully, I hang my head. There is nothing left for me to do but forgive. My carnal nature wants to see Luke suffer.
“Help me, Lord.”
The voice of the Lord is silent. He has given me the tools for my deliverance, and now here comes the quiz. Will I be able to put away my pride and accept victory? The very thought of Luke brings a bitter taste to my mouth, and yet I am commanded to forgive.
“Lord . . . help me to forgive.”
“Yvonne, what’s bothering you?”
Taylor and I are at a little coffee shop located inside our favorite Christian bookstore. I’m sipping my cocoa and munching on cookies, but I’m not talking. We’ve been here all afternoon. I thought that I needed to get out of the house, but being here is not lifting my spirits.
“Taylor, Luke paid me a visit,” I state wearily.
What a Sista Should Do Page 18