Falling Into Grace

by Michelle Stimpson

  Camille decided to bum rush with an apology. “Sheryl, let me first say that I am sooo sorry. I had an early-morning appointment at a recording studio. Then my car got towed, I ended up at the police station because—”

  “Uh, you can stop now. You don’t owe me any explanations. You’ve been released of your duties here at Aquapoint Systems due to job abandonment.” She added under her breath, “The way the economy is, you’d think people would want to hold on to a job. But not you, for some odd reason.”

  Camille had been prepared for the axe and some kind of smart-mouthed commentary from her boss, but job abandonment was not quite the label she wanted to have slapped on her personnel file. A brief gig in a human resources office had opened Camille’s eyes to the fact that while employers couldn’t legally bad-mouth former employees, they could share the official reason for termination. Job abandonment was as bad as having bad credit. “I did not abandon my job,” Camille argued. “Don’t I have to miss, like, three days in a row for it to be considered abandonment?”

  Sheryl huffed. “Oh, now you want to play by the rules?”

  “I’ve been playing by the rules.” She’d bent them, yes, but not broken them. And, in the spirit of a good employee, she’d used her earned time off to handle her personal business. Sheryl might not have liked her using all those days off for un-feline-related matters, but they were her days off to use them for whatever she wanted. No different than someone taking off two weeks’ vacation.

  “Fine,” her former boss spat. “I’ll make the change, but you’re still fired. You’ll get a severance offer in the mail. I’ll FedEx the contents of your desk.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And take care of the cat, for goodness sake,” she added with a hint of compassion.

  “I will.”

  Camille hung up the phone and waited for the pang of panic to swing through her body. Any moment now, she’d turn hysterical. Round up all the CDs in her trunk and stake out a corner in the Walmart parking lot so she could sell music until someone reported her to the store’s manager.

  But the sense of fright never came. The blanket of peace God had spread over her at the police station remained. She would be all right, one way or another.

  Directly across from her hung the picture commemorating her first official date with Ronald. The fruit bowl on a pedestal. She giggled at the memory. Hers still looked better than his, but now that she thought about it, Ronald’s had more character. Hers was nearly perfect, stroke for stroke. If she recalled correctly, his short pedestal made the picture a bit more curious, called for a closer analysis.

  She could only hope now that Ronald would value her imperfections as much as he’d appreciated the variance in their artwork.

  “Hi, Ronald,” she greeted him on the phone.

  “Hey. You all right?”

  “Yeah. They fixed the problem and released me.”

  She was glad to hear him breathe a sigh of relief. He must have been concerned about her. “Thanks for taking my car.”

  “No problem. I’ll have someone follow me to your place after work.”

  Not exactly what she’d had in mind. She didn’t want a third party privy to their impending conversation, assuming that Ronald would listen to what she had to say. “No, I don’t want to put you through any more trouble. If it’s ... okay with you, I’d like to come get my car later this evening. At your house.”

  She had to admit to herself that sounded pretty bold. And imposing. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Even if Ronald couldn’t forgive and forget, she wanted him to know how he had watered a seed within her heart. He deserved that commendation. If his lifestyle had half the impact on Brittney that it had on a mere choir member, his daughter would be just fine.

  No, a drop-off wouldn’t do. He needed to hear her out, for his sake more than hers. “Ronald, I’d really like to talk to you. I need to explain.”

  “No, you don’t. I should have listened to the Spirit when we first met. I let my feelings for you get in the way. That’s my fault, not yours.”

  The Spirit? Okay, now she was curious. Flattered that he had feelings for her, of course, but leery of what the Spirit had told him about her. Did He say that she was a Jezebel? A Delilah? A Bathsheba who would cause him to reap a heap of trouble over time? “Ummm ... what exactly did the Spirit say about me?”

  “I don’t feel like talking about this right now. Probably never will, really.”

  Camille’s eyes closed as the finality of his words beat against her heart. They wanted in, wanted to quench the glimpse of hope she’d begun to kindle over these past weeks with Ronald. No, they hadn’t made any official claims about their relationship. Every couple starts somewhere, though. He’d even called her “babe” just this morning. “Babe” had to count for something.

  “Ronald, I am sorry about everything. When I first joined—”

  “Camille, I have to go now. I’m pretty busy. Maybe another time. I’ll drop off your car and leave the keys under your mat. Bye.”

  So, this was cut-off-Camille day. No-second-chances-for-Camille national recognition, eh? She dragged herself to the couch and took the head seat at her pity party. Cat responded to the invitation, rubbing his head against her side, then curling up into a ball to enjoy the festivities.

  Why do bad things always happen to me? Why can’t I have a regular life like everybody else? Then she thought about her questions and realized the very thing she hadn’t wanted in life was a regular life. She wanted a spectacular, superstar life. The champagne, caviar, private jet lifestyle.

  In all the day’s craziness, her hopes and dreams had changed. Would a regular life be so bad? She sank into the cushions, let her head fall back, and imagined what her life would be like if she became complacent with a regular-people life. She would get up every day, go to work, come home, check on Cat, go to choir rehearsal, church on Sunday. If Ronald actually listened to her one day, they might start going out again. A movie here, dinner there, ice skating. Dare she imagine that, one day, they’d get married. Finish raising Brittney, maybe have some kids of their own. Go to soccer games, piano recitals. Cat would eventually die. Ronald would eventually die, right along with everyone else.

  Then what? Nothing. No huge funeral, no memorial erected in her honor, no television documentary or Unsung special on TV One. Just eighty-something years of sucking up oxygen, blowing out carbon dioxide. She’d be gone and forgotten just like every other person who’d ever walked the planet.

  This wouldn’t do. She was born to sing, and something deep inside Camille wouldn’t let her forget this fact. But she couldn’t go back to her old life—hustling and bustling to try to make it happen. If God put her here on this earth to sing, He was going to have to give her an outlet for this gift before it drove her crazy.

  Camille slumped to the floor and rolled onto her knees. “God, show me your purpose for my life. You know I love to sing, and I know You blessed me with a beautiful voice. Show me how You want me to use it, and I’ll do what You say. In Jesus’s name, Amen.”

  It was all up to Him at his point. Somewhere, she’d read a scripture about God finishing what He’d started in His people. Though she had no idea where to find this promise in the Word, she felt certain that she’d heard it before. If not from her Sunday school teacher, definitely from her mother. And now that she’d turned everything over to His capable hands, she had the faith to believe He would come through. No one else had. It had to be His way or nothing at all.

  She realized she’d have to do the same thing with Ronald. If the Spirit had impressed her motivations on him initially, surely the Spirit could let him know that she was telling the truth now. That, too, was in His hands.

  CHAPTER 33

  The severance package would get her through the rest of the month easily. She might even be able to survive on unemployment if she let go of her cell phone, but that wasn’t an option. Communication was nonnegotiable. Besides, Camille wasn’t quite i
n the mood for a handout. In addition to purposefully losing control of her singing career and the situation with Ronald, she’d asked God to take the rein in this “regular-people” job arena. Up until her jail day, she’d seen every nine-to-five job as temporary, a means to her extraordinary superstar end.

  Now that she was learning to stomach the idea that she was normal, that the world wasn’t here to shine the spotlight on her, she’d asked God to give her a job she actually liked so working wouldn’t feel like a waste of forty hours every week, one third of every weekday of her life.

  A week after getting laid off indefinitely, as Sheryl had restated in the release paperwork, Camille still hadn’t so much as landed a factory gig to tide her over until whatever God had in mind happened. He needed to put His holy foot on it.

  Meanwhile, Camille took a break from the choirs. Took a break from Sunday services, too. She knew it wasn’t totally the right thing to do, but it was just too awkward being in Ronald’s presence in the choir room, too painful seeing him on stage during praise and worship. Truth be told: She couldn’t concentrate when she saw Ronald. By no fault of his own, that intensely brown face of his reminded Camille of the self-serving person she used to be. How could she stand in his presence after misleading him?

  She also began to wonder if people in the choir knew about what had happened between the two of them. Who had brought him to the apartment to drop off her car? What explanation had Ronald given the person about why he was in possession of Camille’s car and keys? He must have told them something close to the truth. What if they’d had a meeting about her and kicked her out of the choir before she had a chance to quietly resign?

  Okay, she was getting carried away. It wasn’t in Ronald’s character to badmouth people. Wasn’t like most men period, come to think of it. And if they hadn’t kicked Faison’s Romeo-wannabe behind out of the choir yet, they still had more than enough room for Camille.

  This wasn’t about Faison, though. Bottom line, she was flat embarrassed. Yes, God had forgiven her. He’d even changed her. But how could she fix all she’d done wrong to the people she’d deceived?

  The second Sunday of church avoidance, Camille figured that maybe she should just join a different church and start over. Sit in the audience for about a year and just listen to the preacher until she got herself right before she started singing in the choir again.

  Leave it to Mercedes to send out a text message to the voluntarily shut-in. Hey, C! Where you been? Missing you! Mentors and Models tomorrow @ 9. Girls been asking about u. U coming?

  Great. Just great. Now she had to go to Grace Chapel again. She’d played church with a lot of folks, but she’d been true to the teens. And assuming none of them had been tainted by whatever rumors might be floating around about Camille, they would still accept her for who she was.

  Camille responded. I’ll be there.

  Brittney was the first to nearly strangle Camille’s neck in a super-tight hug. “Oh my gosh, Miss Camille, where have you been? I wanted to call you, but my dad’s being super mean lately.” Her bright, twinkling eyes hinted at no trace of animosity. She obviously knew nothing of Camille’s faults.

  Next, Shaki slung a million questions, asking why Camille hadn’t come to the pastor’s wives’ conference.

  “Uh, because I’m not a pastor’s wife.” Camille laughed.

  “So! You could be like the real housewives of Atlanta. Most of them ain’t housewives, but that don’t stop them from coming on the show,” Shaki joked.

  “For real,” Michaela cosigned.

  “They had, like, a little teen workshop for girls during the conference,” Sierra drawled. She stuck her finger in her mouth, pretending to gag. “It was so lame and fake. We were all saying they should have had you up talking, then we would have paid attention.”

  Like one of the kids, Mercedes flocked into the Miss Camille fan club to share her thoughts as well. “Camille, you gotta talk to them about how they work with us. We need more realness, you hear me? Somebody who’s made mistakes, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Well, I certainly qualify, if that’s what it takes.” Camille laughed at herself.

  The meeting began with a prayer and some announcements. Then someone fired up the LCD projector and displayed the day’s topic: godly dress. Since Camille was modest by nature, she had no qualms with the way the main speakers presented the information. The girls, however, balked as though Mary Poppins herself had flown in under her umbrella and begun singing a childish chant with a British accent.

  After a few Bible verses and a quick YouTube video about making first impressions, a slideshow of appropriate attire began. On the left, pictures of low-cut blouses, high skirts, and too tight, midriff-exposing knit shirts. These, of course, were the no-nos. On the right, tents and nun-ish clothing got the thumbs-up from the older sisters.

  Whispers of “I ain’t wearin’ that” and “That’s just wrong” spread throughout the audience.

  Next, a picture of Beyoncé on stage wearing something equivalent to a bikini. The girls piped up in obvious admiration.

  “Young ladies, this is not the way to dress for respect,” the leader announced to them all.

  Finally, Chrisandrea spoke up. “I’m not tryin’ to be funny, but Beyoncé gets much respect. They pay her, like, millions of dollars even when she’s not dressed like that. She was in Dreamgirls; she models for Covergirl. She doesn’t always dress crazy.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Brittney agreed.

  “And I feel like the reason some people don’t dress better is because they’re fat,” Shaki added. “I mean, if you’ve got it, flaunt it. If you don’t have it, hide it.”

  A burst of laughter from the girls sent the leaders into a frenzy, scrambling for even more scriptures to counter the girls’ comments.

  Another girl Camille didn’t recognize added fuel to the fire. “I feel like as long as God knows your heart, it don’t matter what you wear.”

  “That’s the problem,” one of the larger older women struck back, her face riddled with indignation. “When God has our hearts, He teaches us better than to walk around dressed as floozies!”

  The girls looked at each other in confusion. Clearly, they had never even heard the word “floozy,” let alone been all but accused of dressing like one.

  One of the teens yelled out, “But the Bible says come as you are.”

  “Come as you are, but don’t leave as you are. Be changed by the Word of God!” from the grown-up side.

  The room rumbled with more dissention. “They tryin’ to make us look old.”

  “I’ll bet they didn’t dress like that when they were in high school.”

  Mercedes nudged Camille. “Girl, you betta say something.”

  “What?” Camille whispered. “Both sides have valid points.”

  “You know what we’re trying to get across, but these girls are taking it the wrong way,” she said. Then she stood and called everyone’s attention. “Um, I think we should hear what Miss Camille has to say.”

  Alrighty, then!

  “What do you think, Miss Camille?” Mackenzie asked.

  All eyes landed on Camille now. She cleared her throat as she tried to think of what her own mother would say and temper the most holy advice with her own experience as an entertainer and a young woman who appreciated an occasional whistle on the streets just to let her know she still had it.

  “Ummm. Well, everyone here has some good arguments. I mean, fashion changes from one generation to the next. I mean, where I went to church, women didn’t even wear pants like they do here at Grace Chapel. If my grandmother were here, she’d say everyone in the room who’s wearing pants or makeup, or who isn’t wearing stockings or has the crowns of her shoulders exposed is being disrespectful to the church this very moment.”

  Camille turned to the adults, seated mostly on the right side of the room. “Raise your hand if you grew up thinking that women who wore pants were on their way to he
ll.”

  Reluctantly, a few of the women obediently elevated an arm. “Okay, so you understand where these girls are coming from. What your mother or your grandmother thought was inappropriate, you now believe is okay. Somebody who had your hand up, tell me why it’s okay for you now but it wasn’t okay for your grandmother?”

  Mercedes offered her own explanation. “I think it’s because times have changed. As long as the pants aren’t tight, they’re okay. I mean, a lot of stuff just depends on how you wear it.”

  She got a few nods from the grown-ups.

  Next, Camille turned to the left side. “And how many of you know that just because the world says something is okay doesn’t mean it’s okay?”

  All of the girls raised their hands.

  “So, give me an example of what’s not okay to wear, in church or anywhere, in your opinions.”

  Immediately, the girls raised their hands. Camille instructed Mercedes to station herself at the laptop and create a new slide that would list all the girls’ comments. Quickly, the left side churned out a list of their own self-determined no-nos: pants so low your panties show; breasts hanging out; belly button showing; panty-shorts; panty lines; sagging, transparent shirts without a camisole underneath; bra straps showing.

  “That bra-strap thing has nothing to do with church, that’s just tacky, period,” Shaki remarked.

  After they exhausted the list, Camille asked another question. “Now, somebody tell me why you all think these things are a problem.”

  “Because it shows you have no respect for yourself,” Brittney said. “And if you don’t respect yourself, no one else will, either.”

  Agreement from both corners.

  “I really don’t care what anybody thinks about me,” Sierra declared. “If I see something cute and I want to wear it, I’ll wear it. The way I act shows I have respect for myself.”

  “But isn’t how you dress a part of how you act? How you present yourself?”

  No response.

  “Okay. I’m gonna do this because we’re all ladies. Watch.” Camille hiked her skirt, tied a knot in her knit shirt, and pulled her neckline down so low that her breasts almost spilled out into the crowd. “Look at me. If I walked into a room full of people, what’s the first thing they’d notice about me?”