The Choir Director

by Carl Weber

6

  “Please, listen to me very carefully. I need you to get out of the house. It’s not safe. Get out now.” Although the words I was saying were very serious, I tried my best to say them calmly. After all, I needed to make sure that I kept the woman on the other end of the phone calm.

  Every time the phone rang to the church’s rape hotline, my stomach always did flips. I never knew what to expect. Every call was different, but every woman on the line was the same. I knew that no matter what the circumstance or the situation, ultimately, that woman was me. That woman was who I was and where I had once been in my life: a victim.

  Not only had I been a victim, but I walked around with a degree of guilt as well. A part of me always felt that what happened to me, my own rape, had somehow been my fault. After all, how many times had my brother warned me about my lifestyle?

  No, I wasn’t some country girl who went off to college and lost her mind, engaging in drinking, drugs, and sex with any-and everybody. As a matter of fact, I had had a steady boyfriend. Unfortunately, he was the one who did all the drinking and drugging.

  Don’t get me wrong. He wasn’t all out there like that. He drank at the frat parties and smoked a little weed every now and then, but only when he had a major test coming up or something. He said it relaxed him, and he did his best work when he had a buzz. Now, I’m not advocating the use of marijuana on college campuses—or anywhere else, for that matter—but I kid you not, that fool got an A every time. Any other time, he was an average C+ student at best. So there had to be something to it.

  My college boyfriend was a sweetheart. I loved him so much. I would have done anything for him. And I did. I lost my virginity to him. And as far as I know, the drinking and the drugging he did with other people, but the sexing, now, that he only did with me.

  It didn’t matter to my brother, though, that I thought the world of my boyfriend. My brother couldn’t stand him. He would always warn me that he wasn’t my type, that he wasn’t the kind of man I needed. He hated that my boyfriend indulged in college nightlife the way he did. My brother—who never even finished college and worked at Pep Boys—felt that my boyfriend wasn’t good enough for his little sister.

  “Tia, that ain’t even you, going to parties and hanging out and stuff,” my brother would complain. “Girl, you didn’t even go to homecoming or prom, but now I hear you at parties, backing that thang up. That fool is trying to turn you out. With that clown, you gon’ end up someplace you don’t want to be.”

  My brother’s words always went in one ear and out the other. I just thought he was being the typical big brother, overprotec-tive and sickened by the thought of his little sister screwing and having a good time.

  It wouldn’t be long before I wished I had listened to my brother. Maybe then I wouldn’t have suffered the heartbreak that I did once the so-called love of my life turned on me. Once I became a victim of rape.

  No, I wasn’t raped by my boyfriend—not my body anyway. Some other jerk managed to do that. It happened at one of the college parties I went to in order to meet up with my boyfriend. He got so wasted that he threw up all over himself and passed out. When I went upstairs to find something to clean him up with, I was pulled into a room and raped—not by one but by five different men.

  After the rape, everything changed between my boyfriend and me. It was like I had the plague, and he didn’t want to be seen with me. He didn’t want to be near me. I felt as if I had been raped all over again, only this time instead of my body being raped, he raped my heart. The person I always thought would be there for me wasn’t.

  Dealing with the rape was rough for me for years. There were times when I wanted to take a pill or two to see if it would relax me. But instead of turning to drugs, I turned to God. And I thanked God every day for Bishop Wilson—and my brother, of course, who was now more protective than ever. I could tell that my brother was still walking around with some degree of guilt. I tried convincing him to come to church, take it to the altar and give it to God like I did. To date, that hadn’t happened, but I was still working on him. I knew one day he was going to walk through the doors of First Jamaica Ministries and surprise me.

  Until then, I had to focus on making sure the women who called into the rape hotline were taken care of. I had to make sure they become the woman who I am now—a survivor—and not the woman I used to be—a victim.

  My mission included the woman who was on the other end of the phone.

  “Is your husband in the home now?” I asked her.

  “No, he stepped out. Probably to get flowers or some lame thank-you card. That’s what he always does.” The woman began to cry. “I can’t take this anymore. One day he’s going to kill me. I can’t let that happen. I have children to raise. So, it’s going to be either him or me.”

  “Where are the children now?” I asked her.

  “At my mother’s.”

  “Good.” I pulled out the piece of paper from my desk that outlined an action plan for an escape from an abuser. I proceeded to tell the woman exactly what she needed to do. She kept interrupting me with question after question of what-ifs. I wasn’t surprised that by the time I ended the call, she’d decided to give her husband another chance.

  “I really believe you should get out now while you can,” I reiterated to her, to no avail.

  “I don’t have anywhere to go. I mean, I have a sister, but then I’d have to tell her my business. Nobody knows what I’ve been dealing with. Besides that, I don’t have any money. And my children love their father. They’ll hate me for taking them away from him. I can’t do it. I just can’t do it. Not this way. Not now. Thank you so much for your help, though. Thank you.” And the phone went dead in my ear.

  I hung up the phone feeling like a failure, but not even Jesus Himself could get everybody saved. I reminded myself, “You can’t save ’em all, Tia. You can’t save ’em all.”

  Aaron

  7

  I stepped out of Penn Station and onto the corner of Thirty-fourth Street and Eighth Avenue carrying two huge suitcases, a knapsack, and my portable keyboard. I’d given the rest of my stuff away before I left Virginia that morning. Everything I needed to take New York by storm was packed in the bags I had with me.

  I looked up at the skyscrapers surrounding me and smiled. God, I loved this city, with its big lights and fast-moving people. You know what they say: If you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere. I gave myself one year, and I was going to rule this city.

  “Hey, taxi!” I yelled thirty minutes later, flailing my arms up and down like one of the sisters doing the holy dance. It was to no avail. The son of a gun drove right past me like I wasn’t even there.

  Thirty minutes. I’d been standing out there for half an hour trying to flag down a cab. Frustration and anger consumed me. How the hell was I going to take over the city if I couldn’t even catch a taxi? Anyhow, I guess it was true what they said about trying to hail a cab in New York City when you’re a black man: It’s impossible. Whether it was driven by a white man or a black man, a Latino or an Arab, each cab I saw whizzed right by me as if I were waving a 9 mm handgun instead of just my arm, which was beyond tired at this point.

  Luckily, about five minutes later, a cab pulled up to the curb right in front of me and let out two passengers. I grabbed the car door so fast when it opened that the people getting out probably thought I was a doorman. I left the door open so the cab wouldn’t pull away and then turned to grab my belongings. When I turned back to the cab, this dark-skinned sister around my age with a scarf around her head slid into the backseat.

  “Hey, wait a minute! That’s my taxi.” I was holding a suitcase in each arm, and my keyboard was flung over my shoulder.

  “I don’t think so,” the woman replied curtly. She reached to close the car door, but I stepped in front of it, holding it open with my hip.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked, giving me a withering look.

  “Yes, there’s a problem. You’re in
my taxi,” I snapped. I wasn’t usually this rude to women, even when they were wrong, but she was the one who started giving me attitude first.

  “If this was your cab, you’d be sitting in it, not me. Now, can you close the door?”

  If I hadn’t been standing out there for thirty minutes, I might have relented, but I was tired, hungry, and wanted to get where I was going.

  I heaved a deep sigh. “Look, it’s late. Why don’t we compromise? We can share the cab.”

  “I don’t think so,” she snapped. “I’m headed to Queens.”

  “See there, today must be my lucky day. I just happen to be going to Queens too.”

  “Well, that doesn’t mean you’re traveling there in this cab. Besides, I don’t share cabs with strange men, especially not one dressed like a thug.” Her eyes traveled up and down, appraising my outfit, which clearly didn’t impress her.

  I felt like I’d been taken out at the knees.

  “A thug! You think I look like a thug?” I dropped both bags, spreading my arms out to show off my outfit. “Lady, this is a three-hundred-dollar Sean John sweat suit. These sneakers cost almost two hundred dollars. Don’t be talking about my clothes, especially if you don’t know a damn thing about fashion.”

  She laughed. “What would make a grown-ass man spend that kind of money on a sweat suit and sneakers? I bet you don’t even own a suit. You know, for someone so cute, you should really grow up.”

  “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? You don’t know me!” I guess my tone kind of scared her, because I saw her flinch. But that didn’t mean she was going to back down. As soon as I moved my hip slightly, she managed to pull the door closed. With that, the cab sped off.

  “Dammit!” I made a fist and shook it in the air. I wanted to call the strange woman the word that rhymes with itch, but I said I would never call a black woman out of her name. Instead, I stomped my feet to release some of my pent-up frustration.

  Man, if that’s how the sisters up here acted, I was going to have to import a few from down South. I’d heard rumors about how cold-blooded New Yorkers were, and I’d just witnessed my first example.

  At the rate I was going, I was never going to get a cab out of Manhattan. Who could I call? I thought of the bishop. His number was already in my mobile phone, so I punched it in.

  He answered on the second ring. “Bishop T. K. Wilson speaking.”

  “Hey, Bishop, this is Aaron Mackie.”

  “Mackie, how you doing? My wife and I were just talking about you. You make it into town all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m here in town, but I can’t get a cab for the life of me. Can you tell me what subway I should take to reach that apartment you got for me in Queens?”

  “You don’t need to take the subway, Mackie. My wife and I just left Columbia Presbyterian Hospital uptown. Give me fifteen minutes and we’ll be there to pick you up.”

  Monique

  8

  I turned to my husband, taking hold of his hand as we pulled out of the hospital parking lot. We were headed home after visiting James. I snuggled up next to him, resting my head on his shoulder. He’d been gone the past few days on his mission to entice Aaron Mackie to come work for us. Now that he was back, I was hoping for a little attention of my own when we got home. I wasn’t sure about him, but this sister was about due.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  He’d been pretty quiet ever since I left him and James alone to go to the ladies’ room. Whatever they were talking about sure had him preoccupied, because he hadn’t said much since. As a matter of fact, now that I thought about it, he really hadn’t been himself since he picked me up earlier that afternoon to drive us over to the hospital. His little talk with James just seemed to make his mood that much worse.

  When he didn’t respond to my question, I probed further. “You been mighty quiet since you came back. Is everything all right? I thought you’d be happy now that you’ve hired a new choir director.”

  “I am happy about it, sweetheart. I’ve just got a lot on my mind. I’ll be fine.” He never even looked at me as he drove down 125th Street toward the RFK Bridge. I decided to back off, hoping he’d work through whatever was on his mind before we made it back to Queens.

  After a few more minutes of silence, he announced, “I just don’t understand black folks. They always have to do things the hard way.”

  “What are you talking about, T. K.? I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Who said anything was going on?”

  I sat up, turning my head to look directly at his stone-faced profile. “Don’t patronize me, T. K. I’m not some stupid woman who doesn’t notice the things around her. I’ve got ears and eyes, and I can see and hear things with them. You didn’t have James looking at all that paperwork for his health; I know that. Oh, and don’t think I didn’t notice you left a copy of the church bylaws with him.”

  He glanced over at me. “You saw that, huh?”

  “I sure did, and I wanna know what’s going on.”

  “Monique Wilson, always the perceptive one, aren’t you?” He sighed. “All right, I’ll tell you what’s going on.”

  I waited expectantly, but all he did was let out an angry sigh. I finally said, “Come on, T. K., just tell me.”

  “Smitty is what’s going on. I think the man has lost his mind. He’s totally unstable.”

  “Jonathan Smith, Maria Smith’s husband?” He had to be talking about someone else. Jonathan and Maria Smith were our friends. They’d been the first two to support our marriage from the start.

  T. K. cut his eyes at me and said, “Yep. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  It sure was, and if it had come from anyone other than my husband, I wouldn’t have believed it. “So, what’s his malfunction?”

  “He’s trying to get the board of trustees to vote down Aaron Mackie’s hiring as choir director.”

  I whipped my head around. “Huh? Why would he do that? Didn’t you explain to him why this is so important to the church?”

  “I explained everything to him before I left for Virginia, and he didn’t have any objections. I was under the impression he was one hundred percent behind me—that is, until I got back today and he and a few of the deacons and trustees came into my office acting like a lynch mob. Thank goodness Maxwell was there.”

  “I don’t understand this. Jonathan and Maria are supposed to be our friends.”

  “That’s right. They’re supposed to be, but he wasn’t no friend of mine today, Monique. Smitty was out for blood. And if he can’t get Mackie’s blood, he’s made it clear he’ll settle for mine.”

  “What do you mean?” I was still having trouble understanding how the attitude he was describing could belong to the Jonathan Smith I knew.

  “What I’m saying is that my good friend Jonathan Smith doesn’t want Aaron Mackie as the choir director of our church, and he’s willing to do whatever it takes to secure his objective. And that includes having me removed as pastor of our church if he doesn’t get his way. He’s already got half the board of trustees and the deacons lined up against me.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Why would he want to do that? He knows you’re a good pastor. What is wrong with him? What did you do?”

  I didn’t mean to sound accusatory, but this didn’t make sense.

  “I’m not really sure, honey, but this whole thing feels personal. Smitty wouldn’t turn on me like this without cause. I guess somehow without knowing it I offended him, but for the life of me, I don’t know what I did.” He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly I was sure the circulation was cut off to his fingertips.

  “Well, maybe it’s time I spoke with Maria. I’m sure she can talk some sense into him.”

  He shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t do that. Maria has enough problems of her own.” He turned to me and attempted a reassuring smile. “Listen, don’t worry about this. I’ve got it.”

  As usual, my strong husband was read
y to take the world on his shoulders. He was always worried about taking care of others before himself. That’s what made him a great pastor, but he was still a man—my man—and I was going to support him no matter what he said.

  “Don’t worry? How can I not worry about you? You’re my husband, and Jonathan and his cronies are lining up the heavy hitters against you. It’s bad enough we’ve always got people who don’t even really know us trying to take us down, but now we’ve got our friends doing the same thing.” I wanted to slam my fist into the dashboard I was so angry. I didn’t care if they went after me. People had been going after me my entire life, and I could take it. But when they went after T. K., it pissed me off.

  “Honey, is he even worth all this?”

  “Is who worth it?” he asked.

  “This man, Aaron Mackie. Is he even worth all of this drama and aggravation? I mean, they’re going after your job over this, T. K. You could lose the church.” Just the thought ticked me off more. “Maybe we should back off. You don’t owe him anything—”

  “Yes, I do.” He cut me off, tilting his head so that he could see me and the road. “I gave that man my word and asked him to leave his life behind.”

  “I’m not trying to second-guess you, baby, but, again, are you sure he’s worth the trouble?”

  “Monique, this past Sunday, I sat in that hot church, with horrible acoustics, and watched something very special. Not only did he put on a show, but he also shocked the hell out of me when he started to sing. The man has a gift when it comes to music, and he can save our church. So, yes, I’m sure he’s worth it. He’s worth the trouble, and he’s worth the money. What Smitty doesn’t understand is that Aaron Mackie is quite possibly the only one who can save First Jamaica Ministries.”

  I hadn’t heard that much passion in his voice since he said “I do” at our wedding.

  I kissed him on the cheek. “Well, husband, if you feel that strongly about him, then so do I.”

  His cell phone started ringing and he laughed. “Speak of the devil.” He hit the Bluetooth button on the car.