“I’ll give you a moment to decide. Which of our fine wines may I get for you?”
“A bottle of ’94 Chardonnay,” Wallace ordered.
Iesha’s eyes were still on the menu. She was nowhere near ready to make a decision.
“I’m going to order the Costoletta alla Pompeii,” he beamed. Iesha must’ve looked confused because he offered a translation. “It’s a charbroiled veal chop that’s smothered in an herb garlic butter. It’s so good it’ll make you wanna run home and slap your momma.”
“Well, I’mma stay away from that, because my momma don’t play. I’m looking for the chicken dishes.”
He picked up his menu and directed her to the chicken section. “Look on the inside, on the right page, second column. See all the pollo listings? Those are the chicken entrées. I bet the pollocacciatore is good. That pollo balsamico doesn’t sound bad, either.”
She read the descriptions of each. “I think I’ll try the pollo cacciatore. It’s chicken sautéed with bell peppers, onions, tomatoes, garlic, and mushrooms. That does sound good.”
Iesha kept trying to relax. She didn’t know if she was nervous because this was her first date with Wallace, or if it was because she thought Wallace might want to be compensated for the $200 he was going to kick out for dinner. The maître d’ poured their wine.
“Relax,” Wallace insisted. “You look so tense. I don’t have any expectations of you.” Only the corners of her mouth turned upward. “You don’t have to worry about using the right utensil. You can even slurp out of your glass if you want to.” He laughed at himself, making her laugh too. “You don’t have to impress me, I’m already impressed, with’cho fine self.”
Wallace continued talking while they waited for their food. Iesha listened and waited patiently, knowing he would invite her to talk about herself. During the one week that they’d been communicating, she hadn’t talked much about herself. Mainly because he hadn’t asked. He was always doing the talking, and it was always about himself. Tonight she learned the rest of his life story. How he’d grown up poor but was determined to have more as a man than he had as a boy. He went to North Carolina A&T State University and studied accounting and finance. That’s where he learned to make and manage his money, and that’s where he decided he wanted to help other people do the same. He was still talking when the server delivered the food. She was so bored that she found herself wishing she’d gone to dinner with Terrence. Every now and then she looked up from her dish to nod and say, “uh huh.” He was so self-absorbed he didn’t notice that she wasn’t listening. Even though her meal was excellent and the chicken melted in her mouth, she couldn’t eat. She wanted to go home.
“How’s your meal?” he asked, carving his chop like he was sawing a piece of wood.
“It’s good. I just don’t feel so hot.”
“Anything I can do?” he asked seductively.
She wanted to scream and tell him that his boasting was making her sick to her stomach. “No.” She forced a smile. “I think I’m coming down with that twenty-four-hour bug my kids had last week.”
“You have children? How many do you have?”
Finally, a question about her. But it hit her like a ton of bricks—he was only interested in one thing. They’d been talking all of this time and he didn’t know she had children.
She pushed her plate away. “I have a nine-year-old daughter and a seven-year-old son, Sha-Lai and Raquan.” She paused. She finally had the opportunity to talk about herself and she didn’t know what to say.
Wallace looked thoughtful. Iesha thought he would guide her by asking more questions. “I don’t have any children. I would like to have some though,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
Her stomach churned. “I’m sorry, Wallace. I’m coming down with something. Would you mind if we ended our night early?”
He looked annoyed. “No, I don’t mind. I understand.”
He obliged too easily. Iesha thought he must have a trick up his sleeve. She followed his lead and arose from her chair after he did. He thanked the waiter and left.
“Wallace, did you pay?”
“Did I ask you to?” he snapped. “Of course I did.”
Iesha looked at him like he was crazy. “Just take me home, now.”
He softened. “I’m sorry. It’s just that this evening is not going like I planned. I wanted to wine and dine, and get to know you.”
“Oh yeah? How well did you get to know me over dinner?”
“Hardly. Our evening was not going to stop after dinner. I had other things planned.”
She picked up her pace. “Obviously.”
He unlocked and opened the door for her. As he walked around to let himself in, she smiled to herself. It was only 8:30. If she was lucky, Terrence would still be hungry.
“Iesha, I really am sorry. Will you let me make it up to you?”
“Wallace, you don’t have to make anything up to me. I blame myself just as much as you’re blaming you.” She smiled, even wider when he started the car.
He drove to her house mostly in silence. When he pulled into her driveway, he was barely parked before she opened the door. “Wait! Can I at least say good night?”
She grabbed her stomach. “I’m sorry, the ride made me a little queasy. I’m trying to get to the bathroom as quick as I can.”
He touched her forehead and then her neck to see if she was feverish. “Let me follow you in to make sure you’re okay. I’d like to at least tuck you in.”
She realized that she was going to have to turn this up a notch; he was not catching the drift, and time was of the essence. I’mma have to get ghetto on him. “Look, I’m not some poor little girl that’s looking to be rescued. Or some ho looking to be paid for. ’Cause if that’s what you think, you can back this thang up and get on up outta here.”
She stormed to her front door. For effect, she wiped her eye.
Not even a minute after she slammed the door closed, he was ringing the doorbell. She pinched herself and thought of every bad thing she could to muster up tears. When a steady stream flowed down her cheek, she cracked the door open.
He looked worried when he saw that she was crying. “Oh, Iesha. I’m sorry. What can I do? I mean, what happened? I don’t want to leave like this.”
She couldn’t believe that he was falling for her drama queen routine. She knew it worked on roughnecks, but was annoyed to see it work on educated brothers, too. “I just want to be alone. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She slammed the door. She didn’t move until she heard him drive away.
Terrence’s number was the last entry on her caller ID, so she dialed him back. She pounded her fist on the bed when his voice mail picked up. “Hey, Terrence, it’s Iesha. I was hoping you’d be at home and still hungry. If you get this message within the hour, call me. Maybe we can catch a movie. If not, give me a call tomorrow. Talk to you later, bye.”
Chapter 19
IT WAS EITHER NOW OR NEVER. Emmitt decided that today was the day to tell his mother about his apartment. He and Shawanda paid his deposit and first month’s rent yesterday and James was going to help him move in tomorrow. Since his mother was usually in a good mood on Sundays, he thought that today would be a good day to break the news.
“Ma?” He tapped on the bathroom door. “You don’t have to cook this morning. I’m taking you out.”
“You are?” she hollered from behind the door.
“Yes, you need to get out and get some fresh air. When can you be ready?”
“Uh… give me fifteen minutes.”
The first part of his plan was compete; now on to the hard part. It was difficult to decide if he should tell her about the apartment before breakfast and take her to see it afterward, or wait until after breakfast and just take her to see the apartment. He decided on the latter. The last thing he needed was for her to show out at Shoney’s.
He let her do most of the talking on the w
ay to the restaurant. He didn’t want to prematurely break the news. He did take her on the long scenic route, driving past the apartment complex, hoping she would say something about them. But she didn’t.
“Has Charity gotten them papers yet?”
“No, ma’am. She should get them tomorrow.”
“I should’ve known she ain’t got them yet, ’cause we ain’t heard from her. You talk to the baby?”
“No, I’mma call him tonight.”
“You must have something important to talk to me about, since you taking me out.”
He swallowed hard. “No. I just want to get you out of the house.”
“Boy, please. I carried you for nine months and two weeks, went through fourteen hours of labor, and raised you for thirty-two years. I know you better than that. What is it?”
He pulled into someone’s driveway, made a U-turn, and went the other way. “I want to show you something.” He pulled a paper from his glove compartment and looked at it. He drove up to a gated apartment complex and entered the five digits recorded on the paper. The gates retracted.
Neither of them spoke. He drove past the clubhouse, the mailboxes, a playground, and two complexes before he parked the car. He hopped out and opened her car door for her. “This is what I want to show you.”
He led the way to a lower-level apartment and with his key unlocked the door. He turned back to invite her in and to see her response. He was surprised that she was not yet distraught. “Momma, I didn’t know how to tell you this, but the attorney told me that if I wanted to get Xavier I needed to get my own place. I don’t want to move, but I have to for the baby.” He didn’t care that he called Xavier a baby, he was treading lightly with her.
“I know.” She reached into her purse and pulled out an opened envelope. “This came on Thursday.” She handed it to him.
It was a letter from his attorney outlining all of his recommendations and the proceedings they discussed. Emmitt contained his anger—she was making it easier for him to leave her. He wondered if this was the first piece of mail she withheld from him. “Momma, why didn’t you say something to me or at least give me my mail?”
“I was going to, but it was the day after I got out of the hospital. You’d gone to Wal-Mart.”
Emmitt remembered what the doctor said about her faking a heart attack and about their codependent relationship. He decided to test her. “Momma, what else have you been keeping from me? What did the doctor say about your heart attack?”
She looked away. “He said it was mild and that if I eat right, limit my salt and pork intake, and take my medicine I should be fine.”
“What kind of medicine did he give you?”
She stopped to think. “Wait a minute, I’m your momma. Why are you questioning me?”
“Momma, Dr. Metcalf told me about the tests he ran. I know you didn’t have a heart attack—”
“You don’t have no respect for me. I don’t know why you’re still calling me Momma. I told you to call me Elaine, with your disrespectful self. I never talked to my momma the way you do me. You treat them heifers in the street better than you do me. If I didn’t have a heart attack, you sure is trying to give me one.”
Emmitt surprised himself by not backing down. “He also told me I need to go to some Codependents Anonymous meetings. Something to help me learn how to be your son, and not your husband.”
He knew his words cut like a knife. But he was determined to be free from her today. The sting from her slap across his face was duller than the guilt he felt.
Emmitt braced himself; he saw her clenched fists by her side. Then, it looked like she changed her tactic. Instead of hitting him, she clutched her chest and started gasping for air. He watched her let herself fall to the ground. “Em—Emmitt, call 9-1-1.”
“Oh no you don’t. Get up, Momma. I’m not falling for this mess no more. Get up!” She’s getting good at this game. He stood there watching as she rolled her eyes up into her head. He wanted to be funny and hand her some lip balm; her lips were so dry they looked purplish. “Okay, you win, Momma.” He yanked his cell phone from his belt clip and dialed the first two digits of the emergency number. “I’m dialing 9-1-1 for real, you can get up now.”
He wasn’t surprised when she didn’t move. He knew she wanted him to call the paramedics. He let her lay motionless at his feet.
“May I get the paramedics to Highland Bridge Apartments? I’m in 5000-A. I think my mom is sick… I don’t know, she says she’s having trouble breathing… No, she’s not talking now…” He was annoyed with all of the operator’s questions. All of this nonsense for nothing. The operator asked him to check her for a pulse. Even though he was a security guard and trained in CPR, he thought his techniques were off because he didn’t feel anything. “I don’t know, can y’all just hurry up?” He shook his mother. She didn’t respond. He was starting to get scared. “Momma? Momma? Get up! Come on, Momma, get up! I believe you.” The operator told him that the paramedics had already been dispatched and that she needed him to start CPR on his mother. He put the phone down and placed his mouth over her purple lips and expelled the contents of his lungs into hers. “One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand, four-one thousand, five,” he counted out the compressions as he gave them and tried to breathe life into her. He compressed her chest again. “Oh, God!” he sobbed. “Oh, God, she’s not breathing,” he announced to the operator.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” the operator said. “I hear the sirens in the background. Go outside where they can see you.”
If it wasn’t the first Sunday and she had known that Pastor King wouldn’t be looking for her, Charity wouldn’t have come to church. She was exhausted. She and Iesha came to an understanding that they both felt okay about what happened with Mr. Wright. Charity verbally forgave her sister, and was glad that her court hearing had gone well, but feelings of anger kept cropping up. Add that to the minister’s meeting that turned into a cat fight, and Emmitt’s mother’s death, she felt like she had a good reason to stay home.
She couldn’t believe that men of God from the church would act the way they did. Reverend Hubbard was so mad he cursed female ministers and threatened to resign. Charity was humiliated. Despite her protest, Pastor King decided that she would call the congregation to worship until the first Sunday of March and that they would all rotate every month.
This morning the tension was so thick in the pastor’s study, Charity believed she could cut it with a knife. She excused herself to go to the bathroom and stayed there until she was sure it was time for them to walk into the sanctuary together. The congregation seemed more eager to worship. When she performed the call to worship, she didn’t have to admonish the congregation, she simply exalted God, adored His Son, and acknowledged His Spirit. Like sponges soaking up water, the worshippers received every word she spoke.
Church services proceeded as the clerk read the announcements, the hostess recognized the visitors, and the choir sung its selections. But Charity was uncomfortable. She felt like she was being watched. She studied the congregation to see if she could find who was watching her. She did see a man she didn’t recognize smiling at her. She tried to ignore the feeling but couldn’t. She decided that she would change seats when the tithe and offering appeal went forth. The congregation would then be too distracted to notice her. When the ushers led the congregation pew by pew to the altar to give their gifts, Charity moved to the empty chair beside Pastor King.
The feeling went away. She braced herself for the sermon. She was expecting a blessing today.
After his introductory remarks, Pastor King told the congregation to turn their Bibles to Isaiah 54. That was confirmation for her—that particular chapter was one of her favorites. “When you get there say ‘Amen,’ if you ain’t there, say ‘hold up,’ and if you don’t have a Bible, say ‘it don’t even matter.’ ” The sound of laughter and turning pages was melodic. He waited momentarily and instructed the congregation to re
ad verses 16 and 17 along with him. “The subject I want to teach from today is, ‘The weapon forged against me is an instrument formed for me.’ Turn to your neighbor and look them dead in the eye and say, ‘neighbor.’” The crowd parakeeted in unison. “I stopped by to tell you… that the weapon forged against you . . . is an instrument formed for you. Now give your neighbor a high five.”
Charity listened intently as she jotted notes on the back page of her bulletin. “There’s a difference between the words ‘forged’ and ‘formed,’ ” Pastor King asserted. “When the word ‘forge’ is used as a noun it refers to an open furnace where metal is heated to be shaped. For example, a blacksmith uses a forge to create weapons. The verb form of ‘forge’ means to imitate fraudulently, like signing someone else’s name to cash a check that doesn’t belong to you. Stay with me now, I’m going somewhere with this. The word ‘form’ means to mold, create, compose, to make or produce. Saints, I stopped by to tell you that the weapon the enemy has forged against you, the one he stayed up all night long putting in and taking out of his forge—is a counterfeit, an imitation. It’s a knockoff, it ain’t even real.” The congregation encouraged him to go on. “Quit getting upset when he throws something at you, quit getting distracted, quit giving up. Next time he come at you, do like you do at the flea market, say ‘I ain’t buying this, it don’t even look real.’ What he doesn’t realize is that when he throws a weapon at you, he’s giving you ammunition to use against him. I can’t get no help in here this morning. I said, when he throws a weapon at you, he’s giving you an instrument to use against him. Every time he messes with your children, every time he messes with your finances, with your car, with your spouse, with your stuff, and you speak the word out of your mouth, it becomes as sharp as any two-edged sword.”
She was pleased that she had received a word of encouragement. She didn’t want to talk to anyone; she wanted to go home and anoint and reclaim her house. She realized that she’d been living in fear and expecting something bad to happen knowing that Mr. Wright had briefly taken her keys. She knew her mind was playing tricks because she would swear that things were misplaced in the house. Xavier could’ve moved those things for all I know. She directed her thoughts toward the devil. You want a fight, you just picked one and I ain’t backing down this time.
Good to Me Page 17