Jarena
Although I was just at church two days earlier for Watch Night Service, I was still excited about returning for Sunday service. But as I swung my Acura into the parking lot and waited for directions from the parking attendants, I looked to the left and spotted Percy. Without thinking, I made a u-turn and left the parking lot. I had already switched services to avoid the man, and now it seemed he had followed me to the 11 a.m. service. Maybe he hadn’t, but I didn’t have the energy to fight the devil again while I was trying to be right with God.
So I headed down Cascade. I had no plan. I just drove. As I passed by the palatial homes that lined the street on either side, I could see why Southwest Atlanta, although weathered, was still a legendary hub for upwardly mobile black people in spite of new, affluent-but-not-storied neighborhoods like those in the Camp Creek area or Alpharetta. The homes on Cascade, though most were at least twenty years old, were well-preserved, and the area managed to maintain most of its hovering, lush greenery, unlike a lot of the newer neighborhoods that had huge homes but no trees for miles.
I passed by a few smaller churches but they didn’t appeal to me. I was just about at the end of Cascade and about to get onto Fulton Industrial when I noticed a gravel road to my left. It reminded me of one of those proverbial deserted country roads on the outskirts of small towns like where I was born in South Georgia. I was intrigued.
I turned down the road and after about a half mile, I saw a small redbrick church with a white steeple. It sounded like the pastor was already speaking because I didn’t hear any singing from outside. I contemplated whether to go in. I knew everyone would be looking at me as I entered. I decided to brave it anyway.
After straightening my skirt and fluffing my Afro, I walked in. It looked like the church was literally one room, and the room was packed. A tall, medium-brown-skinned man who I presumed to be the pastor, although he looked like he was around my age, was declaring, “God called me to be a minister when I was fifteen years old in Chicago where I grew up. I grew up in Cabrini Green, but my grandmother still took me to church every Sunday. And one Sunday, while the preacher was speaking in the pulpit, I literally heard God say to me, ‘You will be speaking in a pulpit one day.’
“I tried to act like I didn’t hear it for years, but I did. I even went to college and graduate school before I finally acknowledged what God had said to me years before. On the day of my business-school graduation, I knew that I would never work in business. In fact, the next year I was in seminary. So why am I telling you this story? There is someone here today who needs to hear that God has a different plan for your life. You’ve been on the wrong path too long, and it’s time to acknowledge that you have been called by God.”
I sat on the last wooden pew near the aisle in case I wanted to sneak out. Although I was listening to and looking at the pastor, who I noticed had a nice set of teeth, I was filled with the memory of attending Redemption Baptist Church, another small red-brick church with a white steeple in my hometown of Vidalia, with my own grandmother. I’d had a special relationship with my grandmother, and from the time I was about six years old until she died when I was twelve, I would spend the whole summer with her.
Every Sunday morning, I would wake up to the smell of grits cooking and the sounds of gospel music, usually James Cleveland or the Clark Sisters, coming from her record player. My pastel Sunday dress would be hung up on the closet door and a matching hat and gloves would be on the dresser. I loved being with her every summer. Since I was living away from her (“up in the city” she would say), and I was her only grandchild, she spoiled me.
The sounds of hands clapping jolted me out of my reminiscing. I looked down and twisted the diamond and gold wedding ring that I inherited from G-ma. I wore it although there was a chunk missing from the ring since it had to be cut off of her hand after she died. I need to get this ring fixed. I quickly gathered my things and left. If this church was like Redemption Baptist, I would have to stand up and introduce myself before the service was over. I wasn’t ready for that yet, but I would be coming back—if only to remember my grandmother.
And maybe see the pastor again too. He was cute.
• • •
Since I had ditched Cascade Baptist and stumbled onto Hidden United Methodist, I hadn’t been back to either church. I didn’t want to run into Percy at Cascade Baptist, but I didn’t want to be the new person on display at Hidden United Methodist, either. So for about a month, I got my church on in front of the television, wearing my pajamas and a night scarf. But ever since I visited what seemed like a country church in the heart of metro Atlanta, I could not turn my grandmother’s voice off in my head. Her voice was like a genie released from a bottle, emerging at the most inopportune times. When I didn’t feel like going to church on Sunday mornings as little girl, she would say, “You did erethang you wanted to do six days of the week, the least you can do on the seventh day is give God thanks for six days to yourself!”
So on Valentine’s Day morning, I decided I could still thank God for loving me. Plus, I had to stop that voice from scolding me as I stayed in my bed on Sunday mornings. So I ventured back to that small church at the end of Cascade. I chose to wear my red Kasper suit and oversized pearl jewelry set. After drinking a smoothie, I hopped in my car, driving from Vinings down 285 to Cascade.
As I crunched through Hidden United Methodist Church’s gravel driveway, I hoped I wasn’t scuffing my Nine West heels. An usher gave me a welcome card and a program, and again, I chose to sit in the back.
I logged onto Facebook on my phone while waiting for the service to start. The cynical part of me smirked as I waded through mushy and gushy messages many of my married friends posted to one another. It seemed to me that if they were as in-love as they professed to be, they wouldn’t feel the need to post a message for everyone to see, especially since they lived in the same household. Why not just roll over in bed and tell him or her? But then again, maybe I was being a hater because I was alone yet again on another Valentine’s Day.
When Pastor Kirby Moore began to speak, I scanned his biography on the back of the program. He had four degrees! I love an educated black man. I wonder if he is single. But reading further, I saw that he was “married to the former Latrice Robinson, and they are the proud parents of a five-year-old daughter, Bailey.” Maybe all of the best ones are really taken, I thought as I inwardly chuckled. I put down the program to focus on what the pastor was saying.
“As you know, today is Valentine’s Day, the day that greeting card companies look forward to all year,” Pastor Moore said with a laugh.
The congregation, particularly the men, nodded in agreement and laughed with him.
“On this day, every year, we focus on romantic love. We buy a card or a box of chocolates. We make reservations for the finest restaurants and spend money all over town to show our loved ones just how much they mean to us. And romantic love is a wonderful thing. Ain’t that right, baby?” he said looking toward the church’s front pew.
A petite, pretty, dark-skinned woman, adorned in a church hat, waved her hand in the air as if to testify to their love. Wave it, girl! I would be testifying too, as cute as he was. He was bald but his head was perfectly suited for it, as it was round with no indentations. His eyes were bright with intelligence, and he had the easy movement of a man who was physically fit.
“Believe it or not, there is a love far greater than romantic love. It’s the love that we have from God. According to Revelation 21, we, the church, are actually the bride of God, and He wants to dwell among us, His people.”
A phone beeped. I didn’t realize it was mine until it beeped again. I scrambled to silence it while mouthing “Sorry” as people turned to look back at me. The pastor went on with his sermon. I tried not to look to see who was trying to get in touch with me, but I was too tempted to ignore it.
It was a Facebook friend request from Barry Simpson. I sucked in my breath. I hadn’t spoken with Barry since
he had called to tell me he was getting married, saying he wanted to tell me before I found out from someone in our network. We dated the last two years we were at the University of Alabama, and we’d broken up because he was ready to get married after college, and I wasn’t ready to be someone’s wife.
Since then I hadn’t had a long-term relationship. Or a short-term relationship, to be honest.
I tried to focus on the rest of the service, but my mind kept drifting back to Barry. I lost my virginity to him. Although I felt kind of guilty because I had been taught to save myself for marriage, I always felt it was a good choice, even if we didn’t end up marrying. And that wasn’t his fault, anyway. It was mine.
I met him just after I pledged my sorority. I was at a campus fraternity party, and somebody started shooting. Everyone tumbled out of the student center into the parking lot, trying to dodge bullets. I literally ran right into him.
“Excuse me,” I said as I backed away from a tall, light-skinned guy with curly blondish hair and blue eyes.
“Don’t worry, I will protect you,” he said as he held my arms.
I smiled while simultaneously trying to loosen myself from his grip. He was strong, in spite of his lanky frame.
“Just chill with me,” he said, looking down at me. “I think the police are here now.”
I looked around at all of the people who congregated in the student center parking lot after running out of the Alpha Phi Alpha Pajama Jam. It was strange to see everyone in their pajamas in the parking lot under the fluorescent lighting. I had on red satin pajama shorts and a matching chiffon and satin top. The shorts showed off my long legs, although I was nowhere near scandalous like some of the other girls who were dressed in negligees and garter belts of many colors. One crazy guy even on had a black fishnet type of thing with only bikini briefs underneath. I shook my head.
“You look beautiful tonight,” the guy said, finally releasing me.
“Thank you.” I continued to survey the parking lot. “I guess the party is over.”
“Yeah,” he said, still looking down at me. “But I can take you home.”
“Wow,” I said. “Usually guys don’t come out with what they want. At least they try to act like they want something other than skins. I know it’s some skeezers out here tonight, but I am not one of them.”
I started to walk away. The guy pulled my arm, and I turned to look at him, before snatching my arm back.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to come off like that. Let’s start over. My name is Barry Simpson. I’m an Alpha, but I just transferred in from a community college in Huntsville.”
He extended his hand toward me to shake it. I looked at him for a moment before speaking.
“My name is Jarena Johnson. I just pledged Delta Sigma Theta, actually. The fact that you’re a transfer student explains why I haven’t met you yet. I pretty much know all of the Alphas since I was an Alpha sweetheart freshman year.”
“Well, I want to know you better,” Barry said with a smile. “Can I get your number so I can call you later?”
I studied his face before writing down my number on his hand. When I got back to my dorm room, Barry had already left a message on my answering machine, asking me to call him so that he would know if I got home safely. For a second, I wondered if this dude was going to be a stalker and if I should call him back. But I took a chance and dialed his number. He answered after the first ring.
“Hi, is this Barry?”
“Jarena. So you made it in okay,” he said.
Just then some music started blaring, and I heard some voices in the background.
“What’s going on there?” I said.
“Can y’all hold it down?” Barry said. “My lady is on the phone… Sorry about that. It looks like my roommates want to continue the party over here.”
“Your lady?” I said, smiling into the phone.
“Yeah, one day.” I could hear him smiling too.
“Wow, you must think you’re all that!”
“Naw, I just recognize when a good thing bumps into me,” he said with a laugh. “You want to go to the movies tomorrow night?”
“Okaayyy,” I said. “What time?”
“I’ll pick you up at 6:30. Alright, sweetheart. I will let you get your beauty sleep, even though you don’t need it.”
At the time I thought he was laying it on thick to get in my drawers, so I was on guard for the first month or so, but over time I realized what my mother said was true: When a man really wants a woman in the best way, he shows it from the very beginning.
It had taken a few years to get over the end of the relationship. I was the one who didn’t want to get married; I loved him, but I wasn’t sure what was waiting for me after college. I wanted to be free enough to do whatever I wanted when I wanted. I wanted to meet more men. Maybe even better men. But now it felt like I had scored the jackpot in college, but I was too young and dumb to know it at the time.
A heavyset woman in the pew in front of me shouted, “Hallelujah,” the rhythmic, hypnotic jiggle of her flesh transporting me back to the present. I had seen Barry’s Facebook profile in the past but had never requested his friendship out of respect for his marriage. But since he had reached to me, I accepted. He had always respected my boundaries, and I reasoned that nothing would be different now.
Senalda
I forced myself away from my laptop, closing it before sitting down to eat dinner at my brand-new mahogany dining room table. I usually stayed at work until 7, but I had made a New Year’s resolution to try to leave by 6. I had also resolved that I wouldn’t try to work every spare moment and that I would take better care of myself.
My dinner, baked chicken and sautéed green beans, wasn’t a home-cooked meal, but at some point, I reasoned, I would build more time into my schedule to make my meals instead of always getting takeout.
“Baby steps,” I said out loud. And then my BlackBerry buzzed. “Senalda Warner.”
“Hey there,” a breathy male voice uttered.
“Who is this?’ I shot back.
“Am I that forgettable? This is Dexter. From Morehouse.”
“Oh, Dexter. Why didn’t you identify yourself in the beginning? I thought somebody was playing on the phone for a minute.”
I examined myself in the mirror on the wall across the room as I spoke. I couldn’t wait for my weekly hair appointment on Saturday morning. My naturally curly hair was starting to curl again, although I preferred a bone-straight look for my pixie cut. As if Dexter could see me, I ran my free hand across my hair.
“How are you, lady?” Dexter said. “I’m leaving work to go home and do more work, but I thought I would call and say hello.”
“I know how that is,” I replied. “I’m trying to be better about that in the New Year. I want to cook more too, because I get tired of eating restaurant food all of the time.”
“You, cook?” Dexter said with a laugh. “You don’t look like the type.”
“Really?” I retorted. “I can cook. I just don’t very often.”
“Well, don’t get upset with me, lady,” he said, still laughing. “Besides, I wanted to take you out to eat anyway. This weekend, actually.”
“Oh really?” I said. “That would be nice. Eating out on the weekends is allowed.” I laughed.
“Alright. How about 6 on Saturday? Text me your address, and I can pick you up.”
“Okay,” I said. “See you Saturday. And since you probably don’t know the best restaurants in Atlanta, why don’t we go Sambuca in Buckhead?”
“Sounds like a plan,” he said.
Right after we finished our conversation, I called Whitney to debrief. “You were right, girl,” I said, my hand still playing with my hair.
“Right about what, Bossy?”
“Dexter called me a few minutes ago. We’re going out on Saturday,” I said. “So what does it mean?”
“What does what mean?”
“I’m just wondering
what you think about Dexter calling me today instead of a full week after Valentine’s Day as you predicted. O married one, please tell me your thoughts.”
“Hmmm,” she pondered aloud. “I would say that he is definitely interested, since he called only three days after Valentine’s Day. But on the other hand, don’t call the wedding planner yet, since he could have called and asked you out for Valentine’s Day. This is one of those wait-and-see situations. So what are you going to wear? You need to wear something girly. Bright colors. And no pants!”
“Really? What are you saying, Whitney?” I said. “No sugar-coating, either.”
“I’m just saying that your wardrobe tends to be… How do I say this? If you’re serious about marrying a man this decade, you have to take it up a notch. Isn’t your mother Puerto Rican? Add some caliente to your wardrobe!”
“Okay, Mami, you’re crazy,” I said as she snickered.
I surveyed my closet. After going through my clothes, which were grouped by colors and style, I conceded that Whitney was right. About 90 percent of my wardrobe was from Ann Taylor. If I was serious about Destination Wedding, I would have to add some caliente to my wardrobe.
I had hired a business-image consultant a few years before, when I was positioning myself for a promotion and wanted to make sure that my credentials and appearance were beyond reproach. I wondered if there was an image consultant for sexiness. Maybe this image consultant could come to my house and teach a master class on dressing sexy to me, Jarena, and Mimi. It wasn’t that my friends’ clothing was drab, at least to me. I’ve just always believed that if you wanted to get something you’ve never had, you’ve got to do something you’ve never done.
“If we knew how to attract the right guy, we would have been married by now,” I said, taking a final look at my closet. But until I could find an image consultant, what was I going to do about Saturday night?
• • •
I picked up Starbucks coffee for my staff at the bank. I loved getting to work early, sometimes by 6, to get started on my daily to-do list before being distracted by everyone else in the colossal building.
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