Stand by Me

by Neta Jackson

  She cuddled close to Peter’s bare torso as he slipped an arm around her and pulled her into an embrace. “Though, uhhh, a few of my muscles may be protesting by morning.”

  Her husband chuckled. “You were still the most gorgeous chick on the dance floor, sweetheart.”

  She lifted her head from the pillow and looked at him. “I did not hear you call me a ‘chick.’ And if I did, I ought to slap you upside the head.”

  “Okay, okay.” He was still laughing. “The most gorgeous woman there tonight. I saw the other men looking. Jealous as all get-out that you were with me instead of them.”

  “Oh, stop. I just turned fifty-five. Nobody’s looking at me like that anymore.”

  “Humph. I know what I know and know what I saw—and none of those oversexed, underdressed, painted-up chicks in that restaurant could hold a candle to the beautiful woman I had on my arm tonight.” He pulled her closer and nibbled on her ear.

  “Mm-hm,” she murmured. “I can tell a line when I hear one. If you think it’ll get you somewhere”—she reached up and traced his face with a finger, first an eyebrow, then his nose, then along his trim mustache and warm lips—“you know me too well.”

  “Mm, baby—”

  A sudden, deafening, electronic screech pierced the floor from the apartment below. Both Peter and Avis bolted upright in bed.

  “W-what is that?” Avis quavered.

  The screeching died as quickly as it started, but was followed by the electronic twang of a guitar, still audible through the floor. And then they heard a distant male voice crooning something about, “You are everything that I live for . . .”

  “I don’t believe this!” Avis vaulted out of bed, flipped on the bedside lamp, and looked around for a weapon. A broom handle, that’s what she needed. But with no broom in sight, she grabbed one of the high heels she’d worn that night, fell to her knees, and pounded the heel against the bare floor not covered by the small bedside rug. Bam, bam, bam!

  The singing stopped.

  Beside her the bed was shaking. Still on her knees, she lifted her head and peeked over the side of the bed. Peter had the pillow over his head to muffle the sound, but his whole body was shaking with laughter.

  Avis was still steaming the next morning as she poured Peter’s coffee. “I knew it! College kids. They think this is still a dorm where everyone stays up until three in the morning. You need to speak to them, Pe—”

  A knock on their front door diverted her attention.

  “Ouch! Watch the coffee, Avis!” Peter jumped up from his chair as her aim missed his cup and hot coffee splashed in his lap. “Rats. Now I’ll have to change my slacks.”

  The knocking continued.

  “You get it,” Peter said. “I can’t go to the door with wet pants.”

  Avis meekly handed him a hand towel. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Just get the door.” Peter disappeared down the hall and into the bedroom.

  Avis set the coffeepot back on its warmer, took several deep breaths to steady her nerves, and marched to the front door. She opened it. The seminary kid—Nick—stood on the landing, looking chagrined.

  “Uh . . .” His face reddened. “I’m sorry about last night. I hadn’t tested my speakers yet and they . . . well, sorry about the terrible screech. Was it okay after that?”

  Avis took another deep breath. Okay? Okay? Not at eleven thirty! She cleared her throat. “We could still hear it, and we were already in bed. I’d . . . appreciate it if you wouldn’t do your electronic music after ten. And maybe do it somewhere else besides the bedroom right under ours.”

  The young man nodded. “Okay. I didn’t realize it was so late. Guess we were still all hyped up about moving in and getting settled, I—Oh, hello, Mr. Douglass. I was just apologizing to your wife about last night.”

  Peter appeared next to Avis’s shoulder. “We appreciate that. It was disconcerting, to say the least.” Avis noticed that he was using his deep, I’m-serious-here voice. “I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

  “Oh no, sir.” The young man rubbed a hand over his short hair, combed forward in a popular style Avis often saw in The Gap fashion ads featuring cool, casual white guys. “Well, guess we’ll see you at church.” Nick turned and hustled down the stairs.

  Avis closed the door. “That went well. Considering you sent me to speak to him. Should have been a man-to-man thing.”

  Peter followed her back into the kitchen. “Hm. Don’t know about that. You were the one who pounded on the floor with your shoe.” He chuckled as he resumed his seat at the kitchen table. “Any more coffee in that pot?”

  She retrieved the coffeepot. Behind her she heard him say, “Maybe we should offer them a ride to church, you know, to show we’re not still mad—hey!”

  Avis loomed over him threateningly with the coffeepot. “We will do no such thing. It would set a terrible precedent. They want to live in the city? Let them figure out how to use public transportation. Or walk. It’s almost summer. They’ll be fine. If it rains buckets, that’s one thing. Otherwise . . .” She waggled the coffeepot over his lap once more, then carefully filled his cup. “Besides, there are four of them and two of us. Wouldn’t fit. We’d have to take two cars.”

  He lifted both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I was just saying.”

  The thunder and lightning cracked so close together, the lights flickered. Avis peeked out the bedroom window where she was packing her “church bag” with her Bible and tambourine. When did this storm sneak up? Weatherman had said “a chance of thunderstorms” later in the afternoon. But rain soon lashed the windows. She’d better wear her rain boots and change into heels at church. And she’d need her raincoat now, even though the temperature was supposed to hike into the high seventies that day.

  Peter, already shrouded in his London Fog, stood by the front door. He cocked an eyebrow at her as if waiting for something.

  “What?” she said.

  “It’s raining buckets.”

  She blew out a breath in resignation. “Oh, all right.”

  The four students were grateful for the ride. When Peter said they’d take two cars, Kat protested. “Oh, don’t waste extra gas. We’re trying to live green as much as we can. We can squish the four of us in the backseat, right, guys?” Which they did, somehow squishing the youngest one—Olivia—across their knees.

  Kat peppered the ride to church with questions. “So how long have you two been at SouledOut? . . . Have you lived long in this neighborhood? . . . I met one daughter. Do you have other kids? . . . Grandkids? . . . What kind of work do you do?”

  Avis let Peter answer most of the questions but shot him a warning look when the questions got personal about family. He took the hint and kept his answers simple. Just, “Two other daughters, both grown, a couple other grandkids,” avoiding the complicated answer about a second marriage, her daughters, not his.

  But when he said, “I own a software business here in Rogers Park, and Avis is the principal of one of the neighborhood elementary schools,” Kat fairly screeched.

  “Ohmigosh! I just got my master’s degree in education! And I’m working on my certificate to teach ESL. I’d love to talk to you about your school, Mrs. D.”

  Avis winced at the careless exclamation—practically taking God’s name in vain. And when did she give the girl permission to call her “Mrs. D”? But she was spared having to respond as Peter pulled into the shopping center parking lot and stopped in front of SouledOut’s double glass doors. The students piled out, darting quickly inside to escape the heavy rain.

  Avis followed a few moments later while Peter parked the Lexus. Florida Hickman pounced on her the moment she got inside. “Sister Avis! Pastor Clark wants to see you. Tol’ me to tell you the minute you got here.”

  “Thanks, Flo.” Usually that meant the pastors needed someone to fill in at the last minute—read a scripture, make announcements, pray. She held on to Florida’s shoulder for sup
port while she pulled off her rain boots and wiggled her feet into her heels. “How’s Carl doing?”

  Florida grunted. “Huh. Still has me worried. He had this terrible headache yesterday, got so bad he threw up. Soonest I can get him back in to see the doc is Tuesday, tomorrow being a holiday an’ all. Say, speaking of Memorial Day, you two doin’ anything? If not, why don’tcha come on over to the house and we’ll grill somethin’. If this rain stops, that is. Be good for Carl to have some company.”

  Avis smiled. “I’m sure Peter would like that. I’ll let you know for sure—but guess I better go see what Pastor Clark wants.”

  She started to leave but Florida grabbed her arm and lowered her voice, cutting her eyes toward the Crista students, who stood in a cluster talking to Josh Baxter and his wife, Edesa. “Uh, saw you pull up. How come you an’ Peter totin’ around them white college kids?”

  Avis allowed a wry smile. “They moved into our building yesterday. It poured buckets this morning. Peter’s a softie. Add it up.”

  Florida snickered. “You watch out, girl. They gonna be all up in your bizness ’fore you know it.”

  Tell me about it. But Avis just waved a hand at Florida and headed through the double doors at the far end toward the pastors’ study. She knocked at the half-open door. “You wanted to see me, Pastor Clark?”

  “Oh, good morning, Sister Avis.” The older man, all knees and elbows, pushed himself out of his chair to give her a “church hug.” The exertion seemed to make him cough, and it was a few moments before he caught his breath. “Sorry about that. Sit, please.”

  Avis took a seat, crossing her ankles and making sure her dress covered her knees. Pastor Clark looked a little ashen. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes.” The pastor took several sips of water and smiled. “It’s just this up-and-down weather. In fact, that’s why I asked to see you. Pastor Cobbs came down with the flu last night, and he was supposed to preach today. So here I am trying to put together a last-minute sermon. And on top of that, Justin called a half hour ago. He’s lost his voice and he was supposed to lead worship today. I know it’s last minute, but could you . . . ?” He looked at her hopefully.

  Lead worship? Oh, she couldn’t. When it was her turn to lead worship, she always spent extra time with the Lord, preparing her own heart, reading the Word, listening for promptings from the Holy Spirit. But . . . Pastor Clark looked at his wit’s end. Poor man. She couldn’t leave him bearing the burden of the service alone. She heard herself say, “Well . . . I’ll do my best. I don’t feel at all ready. Guess we’ll wing it together.” And she made herself smile.

  Pastor Clark chuckled. “Sometimes that’s just the time the Holy Spirit takes over, when we don’t feel prepared and ready. Oh . . . here’s my sermon topic and the list of songs the praise team is planning to do this morning.” He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk and smiled encouragingly. “But don’t feel limited to that. Why don’t we pray? We both need it!”

  A few minutes later, bolstered by the prayers she and Pastor Clark had prayed for each other, Avis headed for the ladies’ restroom, hoping to find an empty stall to give her a private moment to think. How much time did she have before worship started? She glanced at her watch. Less than ten minutes. Oh Lord, I need Your help here.

  Two little girls darted out as she went into the restroom. Now the room was empty. Gratefully, she locked herself into the handicapped stall. The larger stall would give her a little space to think, to pray, to look for some scriptures.

  What had she been reading in her quiet time this morning? She couldn’t remember. She’d still been upset about the rude disruption the night before. But sitting on the closed toilet seat cover, she opened her Bible to where she’d left her ribbon marker. Oh yes, Psalm 56. She glanced at the sheet of paper Pastor Clark had given her. His sermon topic was “Fear or Faith?” and several of the songs were on the theme of trusting in God. That would fit, even make a nice call to worship—

  She heard the door to the restroom push open and women’s voices filled the room. “. . . I hear they just moved into the neighborhood.”

  “Really? I’m not surprised. Such great young people. They seem so eager to get involved.”

  Avis didn’t move. She recognized the second voice as Mary Brown, whose family had just moved from a rented apartment into a nice condo a half block from the lake. The other voice, she wasn’t sure.

  “But I heard they’re all living in the same apartment,” said the first woman. “In the Douglasses’ building. Not a very good testimony to the neighbors. I mean, three young women living with a single man? Maybe the Douglasses approve of such an arrangement, but . . . well, that sure wasn’t how I was brought up.”

  Avis’s jaw dropped. Why did the woman think she and Peter had anything to do with the “arrangement,” one way or the other?

  “Oh, I don’t think you need to worry. I’m sure it’s not a problem. Did you see all four of them talking to Josh Baxter a few minutes ago? I heard him talking about the teen group. Maybe he was recruiting them to help with the youth ministry. They’d be a real asset, I’m sure.”

  “Well, maybe you’re right. The one girl, the one with all that thick wavy hair. She’s a real pistol, isn’t she. Looks kind of Italian, don’t you think?”

  “No, no, you’re wrong. Her last name is Davies, a very English name, you know.” Footsteps moved into the stall next to the one Avis was in, a door closed, locked. “I’m just glad to see more white young people coming to the church—if you know what I mean. Educated young people, too, from a Christian university.”

  “Yes, yes, I know what you mean.” A second stall door closed and locked.

  Avis’s eyes nearly popped. Holding her breath, she strained to listen.

  Mary Brown’s voice in the next stall continued, “I know we’re supposed to be a diverse church and all that. But seems like the blacks and Latinos far outnumber white folks lately.”

  A snicker. “You’re supposed to say ‘people of color.’ ”

  A laugh. “Oh, right.”

  The conversation paused as toilets flushed, doors opened, and water was turned on in the washbasins. Avis’s heart was beating so loudly, she was sure the women at the sinks could hear it. Did they really assume no one else was in the stalls? The handicapped stall was large enough they couldn’t see her feet unless they got down on their hands and knees. But still.

  Faucets turned off, and Mary Brown’s familiar voice spoke again. “And what will happen when Pastor Clark retires? That can’t be too far off. He’s not that well, you know.”

  “Mm, hadn’t thought about that. Pastor Cobbs would be the sole pastor.”

  The voices lowered but still carried. “Well, we can’t let that happen. Nothing against Pastor Cobbs, you understand. I like him well enough. But we need more white people in leadership so things don’t, you know, get too far off.”

  “Too black, you mean.”

  “Exactly—Oh, we better go. Service is about to start.” The outer door was pulled open, the voices faded, and the door slowly wheezed shut.

  Avis felt as if her blood had stopped moving. Her mind reeled.

  There was no way she could get up front and lead worship this morning! Not after hearing two of her white “sisters” worry about the church becoming “too black.”

  Chapter 20

  Wiggling her fingers and grinning good-bye at the cute two-year-old in Josh Baxter’s arms, Kat scurried after her friends into the second-to-back row, which had become their usual “pew.” Livie and Bree preferred sitting in back where they didn’t feel in the spotlight, but the very last row was reserved for parents with babies and toddlers. Kat would’ve preferred sitting closer to the front, but at least from the back rows she was able to see who all was there without turning around and staring.

  But today her mind was on their brief conversation with Josh Baxter and his wife, Edesa. So she was his wife. An interracial marriage. So cool. She’d been surprised
at Edesa’s Spanish accent though. Kat had assumed she was African-American—glowing warm skin, a head full of tiny black braids caught back with a brightly woven headband, and that megawatt smile. But obviously not. Wonder where she’s from?

  Wait. Didn’t Ms. Vargas say she knew someone here at SouledOut named Edesa? It must be her!

  The praise team was still tuning up. Kat leaned across Nick and whispered, “So what do you guys think? About Josh and his wife inviting us to come to the cookout with the teen group at the beach tomorrow. It’s Memorial Day. No classes.”

  Livie groaned. “Yeah, but I still got a ton of homework before Tuesday.”

  “We all do, Livie. But it’d be a good chance to get to know some of the kids. And it’d be fun!”

  “I’m not ready to sign on to help with the youth group,” Brygitta whispered. “We’ve only been coming here a month.”

  “Hey, can we talk about it later?” Nick cut in. “It’s time for the service to start.”

  Kat settled back in her chair. The clock on the wall already said 9:35, but the praise team seemed to be waiting for something. The man at the keyboard—at least midthirties, light brown hair combed over a bald spot, wearing glasses and an open-necked dress shirt—stepped over to Pastor Clark sitting in the front row and whispered something. Both of them glanced toward the double doors on the far side of the room. Were they waiting for the worship leader? No one was up at the main mike. Or maybe they were waiting for Pastor Cobb. Kat hadn’t seen him yet this morning, or his wife. They usually sat on the front row with Pastor Clark, regardless of who was preaching.

  Then she saw Mr. Douglass leave his seat and slip out through the double doors on the far side that led to the kitchen, office, and classrooms. A few moments later he came back and conferred with Pastor Clark and the keyboard guy. That’s when Kat realized Mrs. Douglass wasn’t in her usual seat. Had something happened? She’d been in the car with them on the way to church, but . . . Kat swiveled her head. She didn’t see Mrs. D anywhere.