No Weapon Formed (Boaz Brown)

by Stimpson, Michelle

“Why? Is that a relief to you?”

  I should have known I couldn’t corner my brother without enduring a psychoanalytical session. I sat down at the table. He eyed me, standing in front of the refrigerator.

  “Yeah, for Daddy’s sake. It is a relief. I think he’d be completely disappointed if both of his kids grew up and married people who weren’t black.”

  “You’ve already put us at the white quota?” he laughed.

  “Yeah,” I joined his joke, “I don’t think Daddy could take any more.”

  Jonathan sat next to me. “Dang. I gotta stay with the black, huh?”

  I popped his arm. “You act like you’ve got a problem with black women.”

  “Not all of y’all. Not the northern sisters.”

  I couldn’t believe these words were coming from my brother’s mouth. Jonathan Smith, Jr., raised by my father, the black Archie Bunker.

  “Go on.”

  “See. It’s like this.” Jonathan’s hands stiffened like boards as he lined them up on the table for this grand, animated explanation. “Black girls, from the south especially, got raised by people like…” he pointed toward the den. “They taught them that it was black people against the world. And then people like Momma, rest her soul, taught black women that men were liars. Not to be trusted, only after one thing, heartbreakers. So then they’ve got this women versus men schema, too. I ain’t got all my life to be trying to undo that mentality. I just want to be in love and get married to somebody who wasn’t programmed to be suspicious and defensive all the time. That’s tiring.”

  “And white girls aren’t defensive?”

  “Some of them are. Depends on how they were brought up. But for the most part, white girls are optimistic. They see the glass half full. And they don’t have this…bite in ‘em.”

  “I thought men liked bite. I mean, when you have a good, feisty, passionate, strong woman, you’ve got a good ride or die chick.”

  “I have no problems with a good, strong woman with bite. I just don’t want her to bite me, especially when I haven’t done anything to deserve it,” he clarified.

  My handsome brother. Strong. Black. Intelligent. Gainfully employed. Loved God. Family man before he was even married. If this kind of man was prone to prejudge black women, where did my daughter stand? “What about Zoe? She’s going to be a black woman raised in the south. Would you overlook her?”

  Jonathan pushed his lips over to one side. “Pssssh. Please. Zoe’s gonna be fine ‘cause, first of all, she has me for an uncle.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Second of all?”

  “Second of all, she’s got you and Stelson. Working together.” He locked the knuckles from both hands together. “Y’all are a team. You keep it practical, and Stelson keeps it optimistic. Faithful.

  “By the way, Daddy told me about the thing at the picnic. About how he didn’t want you to get involved with the press.”

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “Said you got lucky. That wasn’t luck, though. That was God.”

  “Truly,” I agreed.

  “So when do I get to meet this marathon-runnin’ girl?”

  “Soon enough.” He smiled.

  “What’s her name?”

  “See, you’re already going too far too fast.”

  I whipped my cell phone from my purse. “I’m gonna look on Facebook.”

  “Give me that!” he jerked the phone from my hand.

  “Dad-aaaaay!” I hollered.

  Jonathan yelled over me, “Never mind! Everything’s okay.”

  Some things never changed between us.

  I came home ready to debrief Stelson about the progress with Daddy and even discuss or debate Jonathan’s philosophy. My husband was absolutely brilliant and one of the things I enjoyed most about our relationship was the fact that he and I could engage in intellectual conversations through our varied viewpoints.

  But when I returned to our abode, I found the kids unattended—Zoe in her play pen, Seth in his room with the door shut, watching television and playing with his gazillion happy meal toys strewn all over the floor.

  “Seth, where’s Daddy?”

  “In the bed.”

  I found my husband just where my son told me he would be. He was a stiff lump with the comforter draped over his head. I lifted the hood. “Stelson?”

  “Don’t!” he snapped, yanking the covers back in position.

  “What’s…did y’all eat dinner?”

  “Yes. The kids ate.”

  “What about you?”

  “I can’t,” he said through gritted teeth. “My head is killing me.”

  “Honey, if it’s that bad we need to go to the doctor. Did you take some Tylenol?”

  “It’s all gone.”

  “What do you mean it’s all gone?” I railed. “I just bought it earlier this week.”

  “Like I said. It’s all gone.”

  One glance in the trash can confirmed his statement. The empty 24-count bottle stared back at me. I rubbed my forehead. A sudden knowing happened in me. I can’t explain how I knew. I simply knew this wasn’t right. “Stelson, get up. Let’s go to the emergency room. They need to do X-rays, an MRI, or something.”

  “It’s…I’ll go tomorrow.”

  “We really,” I tried to speak without giving the enemy ammunition, “need to go.”

  “Tomorrow. Could you go get me some more pain reliever, though? Something stronger? For migraines?”

  Speaking to him through the covers, I couldn’t gauge his condition well. “If it hurts this bad—”

  “Can’t you simply do what I ask? Sheez.”

  I stood there for a moment, staring at the damask print black and white fabric as though a foreigner had addressed me from the other side of the blanket. Had to be somebody else because my husband didn’t speak to me that way.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Just go. And get it. Please.”

  It was my pleasure to leave the house because the man lying in my bed was about to make me bite him for real.

  Chapter 17

  Stelson

  Mornings were the worst. Seemed as though his body had spent the night in a brawl and he had to recover when the alarm clock buzzed. He’d caught the flu before and experienced the achy exhaustion, fever, and congestion that accompanied the virus. He’d never forget how it felt.

  However, this was different. Not only was he in pain and tired, he’d begun to notice things no flu virus would produce.

  As he parked in his reserved slot, he closed his eyes again, hoping the white spots in his vision would disappear.

  He opened his eyes. White spots gone. For now.

  Stelson took the keys from the ignition and got out of the car. He dropped his keys into his pocket—or so he thought until her heard them hit the ground. He’d miscalculated the position of his hand. Again.

  “Hey, Brown,” Orson Maxwell, the owner of an insurance agency in the building greeted as he waltzed to the garage’s elevator.

  “Morning, Maxwell.”

  Stelson bent over to retrieve his keys. He quickly grabbed his laptop bag from the back seat of the truck and hoisted it on his left shoulder, which wasn’t his usual carrying spot. His right side had weakened so much that he was even afraid to hold Zoe on that side.

  He locked the vehicle doors from the panel switch, then jogged to catch up with Maxwell, who was apparently holding the elevator for him. Suddenly, his right leg forgot how to step. Stelson stumbled but his left foot remembered the routine and put him back on track.

  “Whoa! You alright there?” Maxwell asked.

  “Yeah. I’m good.”

  “Looked like you were about to take a dive,” Maxwell chuckled nervously.

  “Naaaa. I was just making sure gravity still worked,” Stelson joked, though his mind reeled from this bizarre loss of function. His muscles sometimes didn’t follow the direction his brain gave them. Not that his brain was his friend, either, since it rarely ceased t
o pound inside his skull.

  He boarded the elevator with Maxwell and they engaged in small-talk, which was something he hadn’t forgotten how to do, thankfully. He could carry on a whole conversation and not pay attention to one word, which was exactly how he made it to his floor.

  “See you later,” Maxwell said as Stelson exited.

  Stelson wondered if this was how it had been for his father. Did his father know that he was dying ahead of time?

  Stelson gave Helen a slight ‘good morning’, grabbed the coffee she’d prepared for him, walked into his office and shut the door behind him.

  He dropped his baggage behind his desk and fell to his knees in prayer at the desk. He didn’t want to leave his wife and children the same way his father had left his mother.

  “Please, God. If not for me, for LaShondra, Zoe and Seth.”

  Unbeknownst to his wife, Stelson had been reaching out to doctors on his own, ruling out the major culprit: cancer.

  Still, there was no explanation for these peculiar symptoms. Just a bunch of guesses and hardly any relief from the throbbing in his head. He had even missed the last finance meeting at church because it was all he could do to go to work and back.

  If LaShondra were still working, he would have taken off a week’s worth of days by now so he could stay home in peace and quiet. But with everybody home most of the day, he would be less likely to find silence there than at the office.

  “Brown,” Cooper called out, knocking on the door.

  Stelson quickly—too quickly—rose to his chair, which made his head spin. He massaged his forehead. “Yeah. Come in.”

  Cooper’s head appeared. “You all right?”

  “Yeah.” Stelson let his hand fall to the desk. “What’s up?”

  “Got Dick Churchill coming in at ten. You ready?”

  “Almost. Let me show you the numbers.”

  Cooper entered the office and the two men sat at the conference table reviewing the proposal for Churchill Fabricating. Stelson pushed past the agonizing headache, listening to Cooper’s last-minute tweaks and making adjustments to his computer’s files.

  They were a good team. Always had been. But today, Stelson wished he’d never met Cooper. He wished he didn’t even have a job because he’d rather be somewhere flopped on a bed with a towel covering his eyes indefinitely.

  With the help of God and Excedrin, Stelson made it through the Churchill meeting with a slight decrease in pain and only a few spots here and there blinding his sight.

  But he had to turn down lunch with the men because the meeting had drained his energy. “Maybe next time.”

  Cooper had flashed a disapproving glance, which prompted Stelson to offer a false explanation for why he couldn’t attend a lunch with one of their newest, most wealthy clients. “Got an event at my son’s school today.”

  Churchill smiled. “Family first. I’ve got three boys of my own.”

  Cooper winked, obviously satisfied that Stelson had cleared up the tension.

  Of course, telling a lie only caused more tension for Stelson. In fact, this was his second lie today. When Jim Moore had called earlier to see why Stelson hadn’t made the last finance team meeting, Stelson had tried to tell him the truth, but failed.

  “I’m not feeling so well, Jim.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Got some kind of virus. Maybe something more, I don’t know.”

  “Aaah, you’ll pull through,” Jim cheered him on.

  A wave of anger had washed over Stelson as Jim dismissed the admission. He remembered all the people who had basically told him and his mother to be optimistic, look on the bright side of things even as his father entered the final stages of cancer. Their comments and churchy clichés could basically be summarized in three words: Buck up, buckaroo!

  Still, Stelson played along, downplaying the breadth of his condition. “You’re right. It’s probably nothing. Send me the minutes.”

  Diverting Jim rather than reaching out for prayer wasn’t helping anything, Stelson knew. Not to mention the fact that he was lying to LaShondra through omission. But what good would it do to get her worried? She’d just quit her job at his request. He had vowed to take care of her and the kids. Would she be able to trust him if he let her down now?

  The only One Stelson didn’t lie to was God. He told Him the truth: He was in pain. Running short on patience and tolerance. And scared.

  Chapter 18

  “The…c…a…t, cat…is…r…e…d, red,” Seth sounded out the words in his take-home printed book. “The cat is red.”

  “You did it, Seth! You can read!”

  My baby’s face lit up like he’d won a million dollars. “I did?”

  “Yes! That’s how you read, Seth. You just put the sounds of the letters together!” I jumped from the kitchen chair, snatching him up with me, swinging him around and around.

  He pumped both fists in the air as we chanted, “Seth can read! Seth can read!”

  Zoe beat on her high chair. “Aaaaach! Aaaach!” she tried to join us.

  “Momma, can I call PawPaw and tell him?”

  “You certainly may.”

  I set my son on the ground and dialed my father’s number for him. With all due enthusiasm, Seth informed Daddy that he could read. I heard my father yelling through the phone, congratulating my son who, by that point, was nearly out of breath from excitement. “One day, I’m gonna read the big black book about the slaves, PawPaw, but I can’t now because I don’t know how to read big words yet.”

  I reached for the phone. “Gimme.”

  “We’ll talk to you later, Daddy. Seth just wanted you to know, all right?”

  I hung up before Daddy could deny that he was still subtly pushing his agenda into Seth’s mind. When a four year old sings “We Shall Overcome” and “Swing Low Sweet Chariot” in the bathtub, somebody is on the march.

  “Seth, don’t sing those songs around Daddy, okay?” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I had to pick my battles with Daddy.

  Seth couldn’t wait for Stelson to get home. He practiced reading the book three times as we waited on the couch. When he heard the latch turn, Seth grabbed his book, hopped down, and swished his footed pajamas across the living room floor to greet his father. “Daddy! Daddy! Guess what?”

  “Not now, Seth,” my husband pushed Seth aside.

  “But I can—”

  “I said not now.”

  Seth’s shoulders slumped. His face followed.

  Stelson fussed at me, “What’s he doing up anyway? He should be in bed by now.”

  “I gave him special permission to stay up late for you.”

  “Bad idea.”

  Stelson hung his jacket on the coat rack.

  I could have wrung his neck.

  Seth sniffed, calling my attention to his bruised feelings. I walked him on to bed. “It’s alright, Seth. Daddy’s not feeling well, remember?”

  “But he’s never feeling well,” Seth moaned. “Maybe if I read to him, he’ll get better.”

  Blinking back tears, I knelt beside Seth’s bed with him for bedtime prayers. “And God, please help my Daddy to feel better so he can listen to me read. I know he will like it. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

  I was glad somebody felt like praying for my husband because it sure wasn’t me. But before I could get back to our room and let him have it, he was already in bed. With his work clothes on.

  I switched on the light.

  “Turn it off,” he said, his head beneath a pillow. “I can still see the light.”

  “You’re gonna see the light for real if you can’t treat us any better than this.” Sit up here and hurt my baby like this. Who do you think you are anyway, buster?

  “Shondra. Please. I’m tired. My head hurts. I can’t.”

  “You can’t? How about I can’t? Seth can’t.”

  Enraged, he hopped out of bed, stepped toward me, and switched off the light himself. “If you don't s
top, I’m going to a hotel. I cannot argue with you tonight.”

  “How you gonna go to a hotel? It’s not in the budget.” I slid my neck to one side.

  “You can be really evil when you want to, you know?” he said.

  “Look who’s talking!”

  He put his hands on his ears. “Stop yelling.”

  I lowered my voice. “I’m not yelling.”

  “Could you just leave me alone? That’s all I’m asking.”

  “Must be nice to come home from work and not have to take care of anybody else.”

  He walked back to the bed, pushed his feet into his shoes. “Look, I’ve got travel points and I’m more than willing to use them if you can’t control yourself.”

  I’m gonna be honest: If I’d had my own job, my own money coming in, there’s no way I would have tried to stop my husband from leaving that night. I probably would have told him to let the doorknob hit him where the good Lawd split him. But when he grabbed his wallet off the night stand, I had visions of me, Seth, and Zoe sitting out on the curb homeless.

  “Whatever, Stelson. I’m not going to push you out of this house.”

  “Thank you.” He collapsed on the bed. Kicked his shoes off again. “Good night.”

  Lord, I got to get myself back together because I can’t live with this foolishness.

  Chapter 19

  My shoe selection was still limited to flats, preferably flip-flops, thanks to my almost-healed toe. I’d tried to attend a few classes at the gym but the moves were too much for my foot. My best bet was the elliptical rider. My feet stayed planted in one spot, and I could roll my weight toward the instep to relieve the pressure every five minutes or so.

  In only three sessions, I had worked myself up to forty-five minutes, burning almost 400 calories. The children’s play center was a godsend. I could take a shower and get dressed after the workout knowing that Zoe was in good hands.

  The water temperature in the gym shower was not conducive to an invigorating experience. I guess they didn’t want us getting carried away with our break from the kids, which would explain why there was no bath tub. Seriously, if they’d put a tub in there, I would have brought my Ajax and my Pine Sol, cleaned it out, and spent an hour soaking in peace.