Boaz Brown

by Stimpson, Michelle

  “She’s in there with your aunt Debra Jean and everybody.” He pointed toward the kitchen.

  “Daddy, it’s going to be all right.”

  “I know.” He forced a smile. “She’s with Jesus now.” And he turned, leading me on into the family room.

  Did my daddy just say that?

  It was a little after midnight when my parents dropped me off at my house. They were oddly silent all the way, careful not to pinch each other’s emotions.

  “Hey,” Daddy said to me as I left the car, “I already called Jonathan. He’ll probably be in by Wednesday.”

  By the time I got home, it was nearly midnight, but I needed a hot shower and a good prayer to get to sleep. It had been a long, stressful Friday.

  On nights like this, I simply broke down at my Father’s feet and meditated on Him. His love, His patience. The lessons He taught me in life. I laughed again at Stelson’s revelation, and how I’d almost missed the lesson completely. The epitome of my perceived natural-born enemy had come to love me, to support me in my time of need. In the process, I’d gained a new perspective on life and humanity. And love.

  Chapter 17

  I remember my parents’ earlier years as husband and wife. They were both in their thirties when they got married, and had me two years later. I witnessed much of the turmoil of their newlywed years. They claim their first real fight was over what to name me. They were in agreement that a boy would be named Jonathan Jr.

  But if I was a girl Momma wanted to name me LaShondra and Daddy wanted to name me Shannon. “I told your momma, it was bad enough you were gonna be black,” my daddy replayed the argument for me. “You didn’t need a black name, too. If you had a white name, you could at least get a foot in the door for the interview before the white man sees your face.

  “See, I know how the game is played. The further you get without being detected, the better off you’ll be. I told her, the only reason I got this job now is ‘cause my name is Jonathan Smith. But your momma had to be like everybody else and give you one of those soulful names!” (Back then the popular name for African- American baby girls was LaAnything.)

  “Your momma threatened to put my tires on flat if I named you before she woke up. I told her if she put my tires on flat I would put her eye on flat!”

  Momma hollered in from the kitchen, “Yeah, and I told him that if he ever laid a hand on me, it would be the last hand he laid anywhere!”

  “Yeah, leave it to your momma and her Ebonics to name my firstborn,” Daddy shook his head.

  “Excuse me. I have an excellent command of the English language, which I employ at will,” she bragged with perfect diction. “But I choose the mode of expression that I feel most comfortable with during informal conversation, you hear? Now, take that to the bank.”

  Momma did have a totally different tone and set of vocabulary for talking to white people out in public or on the phone.

  “Oh, give me a break,” Daddy said. “That’s just like illegals coming over here and trying to make Spanish more than what it is. When you go somewhere, you ought to learn the language and use it correctly—and don’t go naming your kids all kinds of mixed-up names if you expect them to make it in the main society. Simple as that.”

  And they both told the story so affectionately.

  * * * * *

  I was exhausted on Saturday morning, but I knew I had a ton of work to do. My family would be expecting several relatives and old acquaintances to drop by, and I looked forward to fellowship and food with everyone. Maybe a game of spades and a slice of sweet potato pie.

  Momma called me a little before ten. “You goin’ over to your grandmomma Smith’s house today, ain’t you?”

  “Later on,” I said.

  “What you gonna do today?” She was snooping.

  “Relax.”

  “Humph. Well, I do expect to see you at your grandmomma’s house some time today, spending time with your family during our time of bereavement.” Translation: get your jigglin’ butt over to Grandmomma Smith’s house so they won’t be saying that Jonathan’s kids think they’re too good for the family.

  “I will be there, Momma.”

  Stelson was next on my list. I’d thought long and hard about what to say to him, and I was expecting a good day or two of the silent treatment—which is exactly what I would have given him if the shoe had been on the other foot. But he welcomed my call with his usual upbeat attitude.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Not so great,” I said. “I owe you a huge apology, Stelson. I know I’ve been—”

  “I accepted your apology last night,” he cut me off. “What I want to know now is if you’re ready to jump through your last hoops. At this point, it’s up to you to let the people in your life know that you’re seeing a white man. I just pray you do it in love, and soon.”

  “Okay, Stelson. I know this is my issue. And I am going to tell them as soon as I get the chance.”

  “And how do you define ‘soon’?” he asked.

  I didn’t mind the pressure, but I didn’t want an ultimatum. “I can handle my family, Stelson. Just let us get through the funeral, okay?”

  “Fair enough. Are you up for karaoke tonight?”

  “Karaoke?” I know he didn’t just say karaoke.

  I agreed to the outing, partly because Stelson had been open to attending the Greek Show. Well, plus the fact that I really wanted to see him.

  Momma didn’t say much to me at Grandmomma Smith’s house. But she watched me. I wanted to pull her aside and talk about Stelson, but there was too much going on; people coming in and out of the house, food to keep warm, and children underfoot. It was nice reuniting with my more animated relatives. They had plenty to laugh about from the days in Ellerson. I learned that I had a cousin who used to play with Ray Charles. Somebody else had fallen asleep drunk in the bathtub and almost drowned. The Smiths could keep any party going with their storytelling skills.

  For a while Daddy was his old self again—loud, boisterous, obviously the favorite of his brothers and sisters. Their family dynamics often puzzled me. There was something about Daddy that they all liked. He’d had a good job, he was the first to get a house, and I think he raised the bar for economic achievement with the Smiths. Not that we were rich, just that we never wanted for much.

  But then, there was something about him that they didn’t like. I couldn’t put my finger on it—whether it was jealousy or resentment, I couldn’t tell. Whatever it was certainly got filtered on down to Jonathan, Momma, and me. I got the feeling they were proud of me, too, but they would never say it to my face.

  Bringing Stelson into the picture wasn’t going to help anything. Still, I missed him. I looked forward to the day when I could share my family with him and vice versa. Maybe, someday, they would accept him. But even if they didn’t, I still wanted him right next to me at times like these.

  I left Grandmomma Smith’s at six in order to be ready for Stelson’s karaoke by seven. I tried not to pass judgment on this little hole-in-the-wall Stelson took me to, but it was hard. The room was abuzz with neon beer signs and flashing stage lights. There was the faint odor of cigarette smoke, and a fencelike wooden railing that ran throughout the building, giving it a Western feel. There were only three black faces in the crowd, and those were obviously in the company of white friends or lovers.

  I ordered a steak and Stelson had barbecue ribs. The food was scrumptious, and I had no qualms about licking my fingers in that restaurant. I saw enough buttcracks and cleavage to last me a lifetime at Tiny Tim’s. I figured all was fair in there.

  Between songs, Stelson and I applauded the singers, decent and horrible. Two little girls sang one of Britney Spears’s songs and got a standing ovation. They sounded a mess, but the crowd encouraged them nonetheless. I was starting to like old Tiny Tim’s place.

  Out of the blue, Stelson dared me to sing.

  “What?”

  “I’d love to hear your singing voic
e.” He motioned toward the stage.

  “You are asking for a slow and painful death if you want to hear me sing,” I laughed.

  It all happened so quickly. Stelson grabbed my hand, pulled me toward the stage, and got the crowd chanting my name, “LaShondra! LaShondra! LaShondra!” I’d learned from my brief experience in the crowd that once you were out of your seat, they didn’t relent until you sang at least a few bars. Even I had heckled a noticeably shy woman into singing Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” only moments before.

  When Stelson finally got me to the stage, I whispered in his ear, “I can’t believe you did this.”

  “Hey, I’ll sing with you if you want me to,” he laughed.

  “No.” I shooed him away. “You asked for it.” He stepped back, and I threw my jacket to him. The crowd cheered as though I had really taken something off. They just didn’t know—I was about to cause them permanent auditory damage.

  “First I was afraid. . .“ From that point on, everybody sang along with me, including Stelson, as I closed my eyes and belted out the words to Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” as if I had been down that road a million times.

  I cracked on all the high notes and was off tune, I’m sure, for most of the song. But that didn’t matter, the crowd’s cheers made me forget, if only for a while, that I was a grown black woman with problems and issues. For those few minutes, I was the crazy me that I used to be when I was a kid, out on the playground chanting with my little friends—back when all I had to worry about was doing my homework and making my bed.

  I did a Diana Ross diva move and pulled Stelson up on stage with me. He and I shared the microphone for the last few chorus lines. I felt as goofy as all outdoors, but it was unadulterated fun. Lost in the music and the moment, I screamed/sang the words to the triumphant song of overcoming love’s pain. “I will survive. Hey, hey!”

  We screamed with the crowd when the song was over, and rushed back to our seats doubled over in laughter.

  “Oh, Stelson,” I said, holding my sides, “I haven’t done anything that crazy in a long time.”

  “You were great, sweetheart.” He kissed me on my cheek—and a little too close to my ear. I do believe my earlobes picked up a signal and transmitted a message to my entire body: we are back in business—be on alert.

  “You weren’t too bad.” I raised an eyebrow and then gave him a smile.

  We left Tiny Tim’s much later than I had predicted, but the night had been worth the few hours of sleep it cost me. “Thanks for everything,” I said as Stelson pulled into my driveway.

  “You’re sincerely welcome.” He parked and came around to open my door.

  We walked up to my porch, and I motioned for him to join me on the swing. I smiled, remembering Peaches’ reaction to my choice of model 2104 when I’d had the house built.

  “Why you want that big, country porch?” she’d asked. “People don’t have porches anymore.”

  That night I was glad I hadn’t listened to her. Stelson sat next to me and gently pushed us off. The swing creaked slightly as we swayed in the crisp spring evening air. I pulled my legs up onto the seat and rested my head on his solid chest. His skin lay flat on his muscles. I wondered if he had an inch to pinch anywhere. We rocked there for a while, enjoying what was left of Saturday.

  “My grandmother used to have a swing like this, only it was in the backyard. There was a big old cover on top of it. She’d make us stay outside all day, playing in the hot sun until we were just about to drop. If we told her we were thirsty, she’d say, ‘Go get some water from the hose,’ and we had to drink that hot, nasty water.” I laughed. “We got about two shades darker every time we went to Grandmomma Smith’s house in the summer. We had to play over there. All that watching television and playing video games was out when we went to her house. In the summertime you played until you were funky, and the only way you got in the house was when she felt sure that you would fall fast asleep after a hot bath and dinner.”

  “Sounds like your grandmother was pretty tough,” Stelson snickered. “She reminds me of my uncle Rellis. That man would whip any child with or without a moment’s notice. He didn’t care whose child you were, and he didn’t care anything about child protective services. He told me one time that if I called them, he’d whip me right in front of them and then he’d turn around and whip them, too, just for comin’ on his property.”

  “Your uncle Rellis must have been black.”

  Stelson laughed.

  “I can’t imagine you gettin’ a whipping,” I thought out loud. “When I was little, I used to think that only black kids got whippings.”

  “You didn’t get out much when you were little, huh?” he laughed.

  “It’s not that. I used to watch The Brady Bunch and all those shows with white families, and I never saw those kids get a whippin’. Contrast that with What’s Happening!! and Good Times. The black kids got whippin’s, but the white kids never did.”

  “Well, that certainly wasn’t the case in my house. I used to think we were the only white kids that got whippin’s.”

  “What was the worst whippin’ you ever got?” I asked.

  “Let me think.” It took him quite a while to come up with one. “Hmm. I guess it would have to be the time that I stole ten dollars out of my momma’s purse.” The Louisiana drawl came out with his memories, taking him back in time. “It was so stupid. I must have been about ten years old. There was no one else in the house except my mom and me. I heard the ice cream truck coming and I asked her if I could have some money. She said no without offering any kind of explanation.

  “I got so mad, I decided I was going to get the money on my own. So I sneaked into her room and took ten dollars out of her purse—ran around the corner because by that time the truck was already coming up the next block over. I bought myself a Bomb Pop and a Chick-O-Stick. And I walked right back into that house with the Bomb Pop and that Chick-O-Stick like she wasn’t going to notice.”

  “You came back in the house with the evidence?”

  He nodded. “LaShondra, I can’t even tell the story now without thinking about that whippin’. I promise you, the beating she put on me kept me out of the Louisiana state penitentiary. I thought I was gonna die that day. I really did.”

  “I just can’t see that. You’re too good, you know?”

  “So are you,” he said.

  “How do you figure I’m too good?” I asked, raising my head to look at him for a moment, then slowly lowering it as he spoke again. I wanted to feel his chest vibrate with every word.

  “Your faith, your confidence. The way you give yourself to kids no one else wants to spend time working with. And the way you handled me with a long-handled spoon. It’s like you bring out the best in me. I really, really like that.”

  Stelson pushed us off again. I glanced at my watch. “Ooh, I’ve got to get to bed. We’re just all out here swingin’ on the porch like we don’t have church in the morning.”

  “Yep.” Stelson stole a peek at his watch, too. “Doesn’t look like I’m going to make the eight o’clock service.”

  He stood by me as I searched for my keys. “Thanks again for everything tonight.”

  “It was my pleasure. By the way, I’ve got another business trip scheduled for Tuesday. I haven’t looked at the itinerary yet, but I’m pretty sure I won’t be back until Thursday afternoon at the earliest.”

  “How can you not be sure of when you’re going to be back?” I asked him—it sounded like an old line. I hadn’t asked him that the last time he left for business, but for some reason I wanted to know.

  “Well, my secretary arranges all these things for me. And to answer the real question that I think you’re asking, it has never mattered to me how much I traveled or how soon I could get back home— not until now.”

  I felt a little ashamed. “I’m sorry, Stelson. I wasn’t trying to insinuate anything. It’s just that I’ve played the game before and I am not the one.”


  “Neither am I. And that’s precisely why I’m here with you right now.”

  Moonlight wedged between us and illuminated Stelson’s face. I felt his touch on my arm, and the hairs on my arm stood at attention. Then he leaned in and hugged me for only an instant. My heart felt like it was gonna thump right out of my chest. In that moment the sleeping giant within me woke, and girlfriend was hungry. I wanted to jump up and wrap my arms around his neck, hook my legs on his hips. Good Lawd, it’s been a long time. But Stelson pulled away.

  “Good night, LaShondra.”

  “Good night, Stelson.”

  Call me special, but I watched him through the peephole as he walked back to his car. Was he walking, or was he gliding? He was smooth, but it was a different kind of smooth. The kind of smooth that’s inherent.

  Stelson wasn’t trying to be masculine or divine. It just oozed out of him. It was an inside-out thing. He was a man who had been perfected in God’s love, and he couldn’t have stopped it from flowing out of him if he wanted to.

  Chapter 18

  Daddy came in from work and hung his jacket on the coat rack. I ran from the living room to greet him, but stopped when I noticed his hand all bandaged up. “What happened, Daddy?”

  “What’s the matter, Jon?” Mother rushed in behind me, wiping her hands on her apron. “Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed, gently examining the white gauze wrapped around the wound.

  Daddy grimaced and pulled his hand back, walking past us and taking a chair in the kitchen. “Got bit by a dog. Little mutt snuck up on me and took a chunk out of my hand.”

  “Daddy, why don’t you just quit working there?” I asked innocently.

  “A grown man’s supposed to work. How do you think we got all this food? How do you think we pay for your clothes and this house?” he fussed.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “That’s why you go to work?”

  “Let me see it again, Jon,” Momma said, stepping between Daddy and me. She held his hand in hers and turned it over.