Boaz Brown

by Stimpson, Michelle

  That was all I needed to hear. That’s what I want, Lord: a marriage that You arrange. It was then—with one request—that I stopped long enough to get back to square one. And it was there, at square one, that God met me and began to teach me to honor Him, to honor myself; and to get ready for my man of God.

  * * * * *

  I spent Christmas morning at my parents’ house, opening gifts and eating everything in sight. They loved their watches that Jonathan and I chipped in to buy, but Daddy said he wasn’t gonna wear his to the bank. “They’ll think I’ve got too much for a black man. They might report me to the social security administration or something—put me under audit.”

  “Daddy, please. Can we have one day without reference to racial prejudice?” I begged him.

  “Humph.” He let the sound jerk him backward and then settled back into his slump.

  “I’ll wear mine to church this coming Sunday.” Momma admired it in the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. The watch fit snugly just above her plump wrist. “Yeah, this is perfect. Won’t be slippin’ and slidin’ all down my arm.”

  “Nothin’ slips and slides up and down your arm anymore,” Daddy joked.

  “Mmm-hmm,” she moaned, and rolled her eyes at him.

  “It looks pretty on you, Momma.” I hugged her. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas, baby,” she sighed, with her eyebrows drawn in tightly.

  “What?” I asked her.

  “I just hate to see you all alone at Christmas. Don’t you have any men friends? I know you get tired of hanging around here every year with just me and your daddy.”

  “Momma, please—not today, okay?”

  “All right.” She pulled me in tightly for another hug. “I’ll leave it alone. You goin’ by the Millers’ house today to see Peaches and Eric?”

  “I might,” I said. “I don’t know. I do have a gift for Eric, but Peaches. . . she and Eric might not be there.”

  “Well, if you do, tell ‘em I said hello and have a merry Christmas.”

  Aunt Emma, my father’s oldest sister, came by to chat a while and show us her new Cadillac. As always, the volume increased with Daddy’s side of the family around. It didn’t matter if you were in the next room or two feet away, they always yelled at you. A second cousin stopped by to show off his new girlfriend for a few minutes. A couple of members from Gethsemane brought greetings and more food—pies and cakes from the saints’ ovens were always mouthwatering.

  “This 7Up cake looks delicious.” My mother complimented Mother Jamerson on her way out the door to deliver the rest of her baked goods. “It’ll be gone by Friday, with my sweet tooth.”

  “Shondra,” Momma asked as she helped Aunt Emma pack a bag of food to take to Grandmomma Smith, “how did things go with your man friend the other night at church?”

  “It was fine.” I took a bite of 7Up cake and prayed that she would leave it alone. But I knew better.

  “Hmm. You gonna be seeing him today?” She sat down across from me at the kitchen table.

  “No, ma’am. He went to Louisiana with his family.”

  “What’s his name?” Aunt Emma asked. “You know we got family in Louisiana.”

  “I’m pretty sure we don’t have any close relation to speak of,” I said.

  “Well,” Daddy said, “we’re kin to the Mohares. What part of Louisiana is he from?” As if I might possibly be able to tell him whether Stelson knew the Mohares personally.

  “I’m not quite sure. I didn’t ask him all that, Daddy.”

  “Well, you just make sure you know who his people are. A lot of folks from Louisiana look black, but they’re not near as black as you think they are.”

  “What difference does it make what color they are?” I asked him.

  He looked at me as though I’d just spoken a foreign language.

  In an instant, I lost my nerve and abandoned the assault. “I mean, everybody’s got a little bit of everything in ‘em by now.”

  “She’s right, Jon,” Aunt Emma jumped in, “our great- great-grandmother was a full-blooded Indian.”

  “That’s Indian, not white.” He beat an open hand on the table.

  Aunt Emma laughed and slapped my father on the back.

  “I betcha if you go back far enough into anybody’s roots, you’ll find a bunch of stuff, Jon. You probably got white in you, too.”

  “Well, if it’s in me, I can guarantee you it wasn’t by choice. It’s not like the slaves had a choice in the matter.” He mumbled, “Crazy white men get sick in the head when it comes to black women. I guess it doesn’t really matter to me what shade of black you are. So long as you’re not white, you got a chance of being all right in my book.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense, Daddy. People are people.”

  “Get on out of here with that nonsense. The problem with people is people. Now, how about that?” He stuck his neck out like a belligerent child.

  “You sure can show out in front of company,” Momma said.

  “This ain’t company, this is Emma. Besides, a man ought to durn well be able to say whatever he good and well pleases in his own home.”

  With that bit of indignant wisdom off his chest, Daddy waltzed to the living room to take a nap in his recliner.

  Momma and I stayed in the kitchen straightening up while Aunt Emma told us all about how she got a low-interest rate on her new Cadillac. Momma was never too crazy about Daddy’s family, and the feelings were mutual. So when Aunt Emma finished bragging, she left.

  “Well, I think I’m gonna go take a nap, too,” Momma said, removing her apron and hanging it on the oven’s handle.

  “Okay, Momma. I guess I’ll go on home. I’m kind of tired, too.”

  “Why don’t you go lay down in your old bedroom?”

  “No, that’s all right. I think I’m gonna go on by the Millers’.”

  “Shondra. . .“ She touched my shoulder and held it until I turned around to face her. “You all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I tried to drum up a smile, but I knew she wasn’t buying it.

  “Hmm.” She made a clicking sound with her cheek and back teeth. “I know you don’t want to tell me all your business. But whatever it is, I’ll be praying for you, baby.” She rubbed her hand across my forehead, and I knew that she’d already begun praying.

  I leaned down and hugged her. If she only knew.

  “Yes, Father, in the name of Jesus, watch over her, Lord. Give her peace in the midst of the storm, Lord. Give her the wisdom to make it through, Jesus.”

  I stood still and closed my eyes, letting her pray over my life.

  “In the name of Jesus, Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  I thought I noticed Quinn’s car in the Millers’ driveway. I really didn’t want to stop, but I did have Eric’s gift with me.

  “Hi, Shondra!” Mrs. Miller hugged me. “Merry Christmas!”

  “Merry Christmas to you, too, Momma Miller.”

  Peaches had a large family—two sisters and three brothers. All except Peaches were married, and they all had at least one child. The house was alive and festive—loud talking, laughter, the smell of good food, and bits of wrapping paper on the floor. I longed to go inside and be welcomed by their familiar voices and company, but I didn’t think Peaches would appreciate my presence. Besides, I didn’t want to impose on her first Christmas with Quinn.

  “Peaches is up in the back playing pool, I think.” Mrs. Miller stepped back and held the door open for me.

  “Oh, I just came by to drop off Eric’s gift,” I said, handing her the gift-wrapped package across the threshold.

  “You sure, baby? We got plenty food.”

  “No, thank you.” I shook my head reluctantly and tried my best not to look into her face. “I’m gonna go. . . I’ve been at my momma’s house all morning. I’m gonna go home and get some rest. Y’all have a merry Christmas.”

  “Shondra, is everything okay?”

  �
�Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I’ll see you, Momma Miller.”

  I should have gone inside. I thought about how stupid it was for me to stand outside on the porch at my best friend’s parents’ house on Christmas day. I didn’t even get to watch Eric’s face when he opened the gift, or hear Peaches fussing that I’d gotten him another “loud” gift. “He can play with this at your house,” she’d say. Then Eric and I would beg her to let him keep it at their house, and she’d give in.

  The wreath on my door had lost a few mistletoe leaves. I brought it inside to glue them back on. After repairing and re-hanging the wreath, I pulled out furniture polish and dusted around the house.

  I ran across the letter from central office again and decided that the best place to put it was back in my Bible. Still, alone and with nothing but time on my hands, the situation grated on me. What are they gonna say? What will this lead to?

  I kept cleaning. The dusting led to sweeping and then to mopping. I got so bored, I pulled out all my bras and pantyhose and soaked them.

  “Hello,” I answered the phone while I waited for the Woolite to work its magic.

  “Hi, it’s Stelson.”

  “Hi!” I was enthused to speak to someone—especially him.

  “I just called to wish you a merry Christmas.”

  “Oh, thank you. Same to you. How’s your family?”

  “Everyone’s fine. My sisters and their families came late last night, and we stayed up till midnight so the kids could open their gifts. It was a lot of fun. What about you?”

  “I went to my parents’ house and ate. Then I dropped off my godson’s gift. Now I’m just relaxing,” I tried to make it sound as if I were enjoying my boredom. “Stelson, when did you say that you’d be back again?”

  “I thought I was going to stay until Monday, but I might leave tomorrow. I mean, I’m enjoying my family, but I didn’t know everyone was going to be staying here with my mother. If I’d known, I would have rented a hotel room. But now that I’m here, my mother would be insulted.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Well, if you do come back. . . early… would you like to get together or something?”

  “Are you asking me for a date, Miss Smith?”

  I smiled, feeling a rush of warmth across my face. “Yes, I am, Mr. Brown.”

  “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Stelson and I spent quite a bit of time together that weekend. We went to church twice (once at his and once at mine), we shopped, we ate, we went to a movie, and we talked about everything under the sun. Things above the sun, too. I listened to him talk about the changes God made in his life and how a deeper commitment to Christ had benefited him in so many ways.

  “I can’t really remember a time when I didn’t know about God or know that Jesus loved me. Growing up in a Pentecostal church was definitely a blessing. But when I got out on my own, I rebelled a bit, I guess you could say,” he admitted over coffee Saturday night at a 1920s-style North Dallas bookstore. The place crackled softly with ragtime tunes.

  I made a whirlpool with coffee stirrers in my hot chocolate as I waited for him to go on. For once, I felt that the man I was seeing had worthwhile things to say. I eased forward into his presence. Our legs met and touched slightly under the table, just enough to say I’m glad to be here with you.

  He continued with his testimony: “I did the prodigal-son thing. Making bad choices about women and money and priorities. It’s almost unbelievable the amount of money I blew chasing what I knew had no eternal value.”

  “Like what?”

  “I got into gambling—running to Vegas, betting on horses in Louisiana, whatever I could bet on. Then it was women—the more the merrier. It wasn’t so much about sex as it was power and image, though. Then there was just the love of money itself. I made more as an engineer than anyone I knew, so I got caught up in the pursuit of things. You know, the whole yuppie cause. That went on for a good five or six years.”

  “Mmm.” I swallowed. “When did you finally decide to make the return?”

  “I just got tired of it all, you know? I looked at some of the older guys I worked with who were still obsessed with money and what it could do for them, and I started thinking, what’s the point in all this? I mean, you can only buy so many cars before the thrill is gone. Once you’ve had the experience of being able to afford pretty much everything you want, that gets old.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” I interrupted him.

  “No, really. It’s true. I mean, when you’re poor, you think all your problems would be solved if you just had more money. And when you get money, you go crazy for a while. But after that, it’s like—what’s next?

  “Kind of like when you turned eighteen. You thought it was gonna be this big shebang, and it was for a while. But then you woke up one day and thought, okay, I’m eighteen. So what? That’s how it happened for me. And it took me a while to realize the ‘so what’ was God. I’m just glad I had those spiritual roots, you know? I knew where to turn when I was searching for the meaning of life.”

  “You’re right. That’s priceless.” I nodded.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Did you have your rebellion, or did you stick with the straight and narrow?”

  I almost choked on my hot chocolate. “Stelson, don’t make me laugh. I was on the crooked and wide for a while there. Actually, it’s kind of embarrassing to talk about.”

  He set his mug on the table and gave me a comforting smile.

  “I grew up in church and loved Jesus from the moment I first heard of Him. I learned all the quoted Scriptures and songs just the same as I think every child who grows up in the church does. Then, after college, I met a guy whom I thought I really liked, and started living promiscuously—in and out of relationships, in and out of beds, you know?

  “I won’t say that I was addicted, but I certainly had no desire to stop satisfying my flesh. I knew it was wrong, and I felt bad about doing wrong. .. . I don’t know. I really can’t explain it. I guess I just figured fornication was the sin that I was gonna keep on doing until I got married—then it wouldn’t be a sin anymore.

  “And I might have kept right on doing it if I hadn’t received a call from a former lover who was HIV-positive. I felt like I had been thrown up against a brick wall when I found out I might have been exposed. Not knowing whether or not I was dying of a totally preventable yet incurable disease was the most horrific experience in my life, Stelson. I felt stupid and ashamed and guilty and afraid all at the same time. What’s worse, I could almost hear Satan laughing at me because the whole time I had been such a willing participant in my own demise.

  “But God. . .“ I felt myself trembling at the mention of His name. “But God. All I could do was to ask for forgiveness and pray for the best. While I was waiting for the results of the HIV test, I laid out before Him and committed my life to him completely. I didn’t care if I had one year or fifty years left, whether I would be sick or well, whatever. The tests came back negative, and I haven’t looked back.”

  “That is a wonderful testimony, LaShondra.” Stelson shook his head in astonishment. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

  We met for breakfast before he caught his flight to Florida Monday afternoon. Even at Thani’s, an eccentric bakery boasting worldwide flair, people were staring and shushing others from talking about us too loudly. “It’s like we’re always on display,” I said to Stelson.

  He nodded while taking a bite of his steak. “You’ll get immune to it after a while. I had the same experience when I went to Africa as a teenager on a missions trip.”

  “I just don’t like feeling like a freak show.” I looked around the room. Heads turned sharply away from me; people pretending that they hadn’t been looking at us.

  Stelson seized my attention. “Shondra, I haven’t connected with anybody as well as I’ve connected with you in a long. . .” He looked up toward the ceiling and then looked back at me again. “No, never.”

  “Connected?” I a
sked.

  “Yeah, connected,” he repeated. “I gotta tell you, when I went back to my office the day of the career fair, everyone was like, ‘Where did that smile come from?’ And I told them I’d just had lunch with an exceptional, beautiful woman.”

  “And you knew I was exceptional after one lunch?”

  “I knew when you walked into the foyer with your head held back and your shoulders squared that you were an extraordinary woman. There is nothing more attractive to me than a confident, secure woman. And when I found out that we shared the same source, I thought, ‘I have got to see this woman again.’

  “By the way, what’s that fragrance you’re wearing?”

  “What? I’m not wearing any perfume.”

  “It smells flowery and light, like maybe some kind of body spray.”

  Flowery and light? “Stelson, it’s called oil sheen.” I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. And Stelson looked so pathetically cute across from me, attempting to grin and bear his own ignorance.

  “It’s okay, Stelson. You’re gonna be all right. Come here,” I said, leaning over our table as though I’d thoroughly considered what I was about to do. He met me halfway, and we kissed.

  I just kissed a white man.

  Chapter 14

  Solomon McHenry was the one boy from the church whom Momma always said she hoped I would marry. He was quiet, serious, and never would help pass a note during a sermon. My mother knew the McHenrys well and swore up and down that she’d almost seen Solomon as a son-in-law in her dream.

  I, on the other hand, loathed Solomon. He was extra greasy in the places that he wasn’t ashy. Where Momma saw tall, I saw lanky. Dark: crusty. Handsome: nine times out often, the boy had something hanging off one of his nose hairs. Yes, he could quote the Scriptures, and he played a mean tambourine. But that was about all Solomon could do for me.

  Momma had it bad about volunteering folks for stuff. Didn’t matter what it was, if somebody at the church said they needed a child to do something, Momma would hastily offer me or Jonathan to fit the bill. So it should have come as no surprise to me when Momma informed me that she’d told Sister McHenry to bring Solomon over on Thursdays for help with his math.