Between Brothers

by C. Kelly Robinson

  What? Looking around to make sure no one was within peeking distance, Brandon inhaled deeply and forged ahead.

  I know you know, from the snooping you did through Bobby all these years, that Monica has gone out with very few Highland men, but you don’t know why. There’s one reason, and he’s her no-good ex-boyfriend from home, Victor. Victor’s a record executive back in Manhattan, a little successful, and very full of himself. He and Monica were hot and heavy our first couple years here at Highland, which is why she was back in Manhattan almost every weekend, in case you noticed. Anyway, they broke up when he started hitting her for no apparent reason, about the same time his record company went bankrupt. Say what you want about her being hooked up with the ass in the first place, but I believe she cut out as soon as he started raising that hand. Anyway, she hangs tough most of the time, regardless of the stunts he tries to pull to get her back. She has not forgotten the pain he caused her, Brandon. That’s why she steers clear of most of the jokers on this campus, the dogs who want to add another notch to their belts.

  That’s where you come in. She’s always liked you, babe, but you lacked that element of danger, the imbalance that turns more than a few of us girls on. Well, I guess getting knocked around opened her eyes. Maybe someday it’ll open mine. Anyway, Brandon, I just want you to know she’s dating you because she really likes you. You’re not just something to do.

  I see the way she talks about you. You’re a breath of fresh air, honest and open, and free of all the game playing. I think that’s why she’s so much quicker to hang up on Victor these days, when he comes calling. You’re doing something right, baby boy. But my point is, don’t fuck it up (please pardon my French, God is not through with me yet—smile). This is my girl’s heart, and if you do anything to drive her back into that fool’s arms, you’ll never make it to Duke Med, understand?

  Brandon assumed he should grin at that line.

  I really, really hope I’m not freaking you out with this, Brandon. But I can’t see my girl hurt. I think I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t do that, but we sisters have to look out for one another these days. Please, prove us wrong; show that there are some good brothers out there, that you’re not all dogs. Peace, Tara.

  “All righty then.” Brandon clamped his hands together tightly and shook his head. His head began swimming with mixed emotions. Monica liked him, apparently quite a bit. Great! On the other hand, he now had proof that she was just like the rest of the sisters he’d pursued: hooked on dogs. What was it that made some women run to the men who treated them worst? He knew there were women who appreciated stable, sane, monogamous brothers, but dang it, why weren’t they the ones he wound up liking? Maybe he was no different from women who chased dogs. It wasn’t like he couldn’t get a perfectly nice, Christian, moderately attractive girlfriend whenever he wanted. Maybe he had no place judging Monica and her kind. Or maybe, just maybe, he was through trying to figure it all out. Apparently Monica was tired of dogs for now; he’d be a fool not to get in while the getting was good.

  “Brother Brandon, what up?” Milton “the Bishop” Hobbs materialized at Brandon’s side before he could finish digesting Tara’s letter. Slightly annoyed at having his privacy cut short, Brandon glanced up at his old friend. Before he stopped taking part in the Disciples’ activities, Brandon had worked side by side with Hobbs as a student leader in the movement. He and Hobbs weren’t in contact much these days, but Brandon was hoping their friendship would push Hobbs to direct some financial support Ellis’s way. Hobbs and Allen Gilliam, the movement director, had held on to his proposal for almost a month now.

  Brandon stuffed the letter into the pocket of his olive Dockers. “What’s up, Bishop? I’m hoping I’m not late for this meeting with you and Gilliam. Guess I’m doing okay timewise, huh?”

  Matching strides, Brandon and Hobbs ascended the hill separating the quadrangle from the main yard and hopped the steps to Morrison Hall. One of the newer structures on campus, the building still had a few extra classrooms, a rare thing on campus that the Disciples were quick to take advantage of.

  As they stepped through the oak doors leading into the central hallway, Brandon paused and let Hobbs lead the way to the basement level, where some extra rooms, still smelling of fresh concrete and sawdust, were located.

  “Hey, brothers!” Gilliam, a short, bulky man with the build of a champion wrestler, was facing away from them, studying the blank blackboard on the far side of the classroom. “How my fellas doing today? That yard is startin’ to jump again already, ain’t it? The sun comes out, and the sisters—boy—they just ready to take it all off, ain’t they?”

  Enjoying Gilliam’s poke at the campus heathens, Hobbs cackled mischievously. “I mean, the first thought I have is, have you ladies heard of self-respect? How these women think they ever gonna snag a good man, if they show off all the goods before a brother even asks ’em out?”

  His eyes searching Brandon for a response, Gilliam took a seat at the wooden desk at the front of the room. “Brandon, have a seat, brother. Why don’t you two pull your chairs up to the desk and we’ll rap. Brandon, I gotta ask, how do you deal with the temptation to look at those sisters out there as sexual objects?”

  Annoyed at the direction of the discussion, Brandon slid into the knee-high desk. “Ah, Allen, there’s no magic secret. I just do what I’ve done all my life—look once, not twice. It’s that second look that can get you.”

  Gilliam frowned. “I only ask about temptation, Brandon, because I respect the discipline that brothers like you and Milton here have shown. A brotha like me was in the world for so long, I fell victim to that sort of thing more times than I can count. You fellas should be proud of yourselves. You’re living out the one Christian principle most brothers can’t handle.”

  Brandon leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. He decided not to share the thoughts cascading through his mind. He loathed being placed in the same category as Hobbs, who legalistically avoided dating and claimed to see women only as platonic friends. Complete freedom from good ol’ redblooded lust was just not natural, not even to Brandon. To his mind, the Christian man saving himself for marriage was still a simmering, bubbling cauldron of pressing sexual energy; after all, salvation didn’t equal castration. Besides, Brandon knew he’d done better than most, but he was far from perfect.

  After Gilliam opened their discussion with a short prayer, Brandon plunged into the business at hand. “So, what type of support can Ellis expect from the Disciples of Christ?”

  Leaning forward with an intensity in his twinkling eyes, Gilliam looked at Brandon like a disappointed parent. “Brandon, brotha, I’m sorry to say, I don’t think we can make any direct financial contribution to the center. Milton and I wanted the chance to fully explain to you in person. We’re not tryin’ to waste your time. You got time to hear us out?”

  Brandon propped up his chin with his right hand and grunted softly. “Go ahead.”

  Making fleeting eye contact with Gilliam, Hobbs took over the conversation. “Brandon, we’re concerned about the integrity of Ellis Center and its management. The revelations about Larry Whitaker’s involvement in Ellis’s finances were pretty disturbing.” Seeing Brandon’s mouth fly open, Hobbs held up his hand. “It’s not just that, even. We’d already had concerns about the involvement of the Nation of Islam and other non-Christian religious groups. The Word says we should only be aligned with like-minded individuals, founded in Christ. That’s the real issue.”

  Brandon flew forward in his seat, an edgy calm in his tone. “The real issue? I’m sorry, I thought the real issue was the lives of the children in this neighborhood, who are being given an alternative to the call of the pimps, dealers, and prostitutes around here! I thought the real issue was how the Disciples could help bring the Word to some children who need to hear it. You don’t think you could win a battle with the Nation in a religion contest?”

  Gilliam shook his head, meetin
g Brandon’s eyes again. “Brandon, our national charter forbids us from being involved with any secular organizations without approval from the national office in California. I want you to know that we did send an application in regarding Ellis, but it was rejected.”

  “Why? What possible valid reason could they have? They can evangelize to a group of mostly middle-class college students, but not to low-income children and teenagers?”

  Gilliam folded his hands dutifully, shifting into his formal role as a staff member of the Disciples. “The decision of the national office is final, Brandon. Our other concern is for your own well-being.”

  “What?” He’d feared this was coming. Gotta be kidding me . . .

  “Brandon, don’t take this personally,” Hobbs said, “but I always warned you and Bobby about hanging with non-Christian folk. When you two decided we Disciples were too restricting, I wished you the best in finding new friends. But you’ve gotta be connecting the dots with your housemates and this Ellis Center, man. That speakout was an out-and-out embarrassment, the way Larry handled himself, even throwing curse words around? What is the boy, crazy? Then let’s not even touch your boy O. J.”

  Glancing at Gilliam for support, Brandon squinted in confusion. “What are you talkin’ about, Milton?”

  Hobbs leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Word is his house of cards is coming down around him, too. I’m hearing from reliable sources that he knocked up one girl at his church and is seeing Pastor Grier’s daughter on the side. At your house. Do you endorse that type of activity in your home, brother?”

  Standing up so quickly that his desk toppled to the floor, Brandon leaned over Hobbs. He measured his words with care. “Bishop, I am not my brother’s keeper. What each of my housemates does in that house, as long it does not infringe on my lifestyle, is none of my business. Since when were you so bold as to spread your little gossip in front of Allen here, anyway?”

  “Brandon, I’m sorry, brotha, but I think he’s right in this case.” Gilliam’s bald dome glistened with a thin glaze of sweat. “I’m no expert on campus happenin’s, but these brothas sound like bad news. I think you need to back out of your involvement with them and with Ellis Center.”

  Brandon frowned. “I’m graduating and leaving D.C. in a couple weeks, that’s a given, Allen. But I’m doing what I can to help solidify the center before I leave. I’m not backing out now.”

  Gilliam met his eyes with an almost judgmental stare. “Maybe you need to focus on solidifying your spiritual status first.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Come on, let’s cut the bull. Just come out with it.” Brandon felt his forehead bead with sweat.

  Hobbs was indignant now. “Come on, Brandon, it’s that girl you’re running around with! Whether you want it as your legacy or not, brother, you are the talk of campus! No one can believe you and Monica Simone have anything in common!”

  Brandon glared into Hobbs’s eyes. “Milton, that’s none of your—”

  “You got people placin’ bets on whether or not you’re getting busy, Brandon! Did you ever think about what type of witness you’d be providing by dating her?”

  Placing his hands on his hips, Brandon inhaled deeply. “I should have known it would come to this, judging my dating life, now that I have a little bit of one. Let me tell you both something. When you have an abstinence record that can compete with mine, you can lecture me about who to date.”

  Gathering his satchel and slinging it over a shoulder, Brandon strode toward the door, pausing to turn and face his old friends. “You brothers disappoint me. You don’t surprise me, but you definitely disappoint me. Don’t expect an invitation to the rededication ceremony. God bless.”

  Stung by his own sarcasm, Brandon propelled himself through the doorway and up the steps. Another plank of the Ellis Center’s support had fallen. He had been counting on the deep pockets of Gilliam’s contacts to pad the private contributions, not to mention the spiritual good that could have been done by an army of Disciple volunteers. He realized now that there was no point analyzing it further. The same old politics that always arose when black folk tried to work within a white framework had snuffed out Gilliam’s will to aid Ellis. That was life. He’d have to break the news about the Disciples at the board meeting tomorrow, but that would not be the biggest issue; the challenge would be to make sure Rolly Orange didn’t get his hands on their private contributions.

  As Brandon descended the front steps of Morrison Hall, the weight of Hobbs’s accusation about O. J.’s affair with Carla Grier hit home. Where in the world had he picked that up? Granted, Brandon figured he’d be the last to know if the rumors were true, but he hoped O. J. was aware they were floating around. Even though he was no fan of the preacher, he’d already seen one housemate laid low in the past week, and that was plenty. He decided to head to the Student Center and leave a voice mail for his unsuspecting housemate. He hoped O. J. checked his messages regularly.

  Pastor Grier’s eyes were milky balls of hatred. “You little Judas, you can’t run from me!”

  O. J. had shown up at Light of Tabernacle for Fridayevening service and sauntered into an ambush. He had barely crossed the threshold of Pastor Grier’s study before the large man had bolted from his leather chair. He darted at O. J., throwing aside the two chairs opposite the desk that separated them and tossing off taunts that made O. J.’s skin crawl. The man before him had completely lost his spiritual veneer, and there was little question why. Somehow, the inevitable had occurred; Carla was no longer O. J.’s dirty little secret.

  “What kind of fool do you take me for, boy? Paradin’ my little girl around town, bringin’ her up in a house teeming with young men? Are you out your mind?”

  Ducking to his left to avoid the glass paperweight Grier tossed at his head, O. J. pivoted and slammed the door to Grier’s office, the deafening smack nearly cracking his eardrums. Regardless of the price he was about to pay for his sins, he didn’t want Grier’s image before the church harmed; the man was in the throes of paternal rage.

  The next thing he knew, O. J. felt the veins in his neck tighten as Grier’s scabby hands gripped his throat. “Turn around and face me, Reverend. You got a few seconds to explain yo’self, before I see to it Light has one less associate minister.”

  His neck locked in Grier’s vise grip, O. J. turned and faced the taller man. Grier’s face was swimming in a pool of perspiration, some of the droplets resting in the small crevices that marked his complexion. O. J. felt he should apologize twice, first for Carla, and second for putting Grier into such a state. Judging by the labored movement of his chest and bulging belly, the man seemed worked up, to the point of endangering his health.

  “P-Pastor, there’s nothing I can say to undo what I’ve done. You know my ways with women, sir. I’ve never lied about how I am.”

  Grier released one hand from O. J.’s neck and silenced him with a wag of his large index finger. “Oh no, son. I knew of your ways with the hot little numbers, the bad girls, the Keesa Bishops. Every church has them. We pastors learn to accept them as they are, pray for their growth, and maybe provide them some physical comfort when things are tight. That is not, however, how we treat women of substance, like my Carla.”

  Feeling the grip on his neck tighten again, O. J. respectfully grasped at Grier’s hands. “Sir, please?”

  “Oh, you think I’m tryin’ to send you home to the Lord ahead of schedule, Peters? Never. A piece of work like you needs even more grace than I needed in my day. I think my point is clear.” Releasing his grip, Grier stumbled back, a crazed look flickering in his eyes. Slowly, he began to walk back toward his desk. By the time he returned to his deep leather chair, O. J. was almost breathing normally again.

  For several moments the wood-paneled study was quiet as Grier sat with his head in his hands and O. J. remained planted against the door. Grier was emitting a sound not unlike short sobs. His shoulders were heaving, and he appeared to be wiping tears from his eyes.
As he tugged at the rips in his dress shirt, O. J. took in the sight of his grieving pastor with more humility than he could ever recall feeling. He had reduced plenty of women to tears over the years, so many that plaintive wails and wounded looks bounced off him like Nerf balls now. Seeing Grier overcome with emotion, however, threw him off completely. His deception had hurt one of the few people, aside from his parents, that he had ever admired or respected. He had never wanted Grier to find out this way. His hope had been that he could wait until he and Carla had taken a step to make the relationship concrete, whether that meant getting engaged or simply agreeing to an exclusive relationship. Someone had stolen that chance from him.

  At a loss for words for one of the first times in his life, O. J. just stood there, groping for a way to express his regret. Grier began to lift his head from the desk, returning his gaze to meet O. J.’s. The tears were still in his eyes, but as the pastor reached to grab a fistful of tissues from a desk drawer, his lips spread open, allowing a high-pitched cackle to escape. What O. J. had mistaken for tears of sorrow had actually been waterfalls of amusement.

  “Whoo-hoo, boy, I really had you goin’, didn’t I? What’d you think I was gonna do, Peters, do you harm up in God’s house? I may be angry, but I ain’t crazy.”

  “Pastor, I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, yes you do, son. I had no choice but to punish you somehow. I figure the moment a man most regrets his sin is that instant in which he’s found out. So, even though I have no cause to do anything else, the least I could do was put a scare into you. And what a job I did! Come have a seat here, Peters.” Grier motioned toward the leather chairs facing his desk.

  Tentatively, O. J. dragged himself to the desk and sank into a chair without removing his eyes from Grier. With their vast differences in height, he couldn’t afford to be taken by surprise again.

  Grier smiled. “You wanna know how many different women thought they were engaged to me, back in the day, before I settled down with First Lady Grier?”