We decided that I’d tell my father myself. When the time was right.
After cleaning up the kitchen, we got our purses and carried on with the rest of the day, stopping first at the grocery store. You would have thought we were getting ready for Thanksgiving, the way that list looked. Greens, sweet potatoes, cornmeal. Down one aisle and up the next, tossing things into the cart.
It felt good to be at her side and to have someone else, for once, be in charge of things. For as much as I loathed Momma’s pestering and nosiness, I took comfort in her authority, the sureness of her role in my life. They say a girl isn’t a woman until she loses her mother. I believed it that day.
We ran all over the store for about an hour. When we got back in the car, Momma picked me for more information about Stelson. “What kind of church does he belong to?”
“I guess you could say,” I said, still trying to keep the tone light, “that he goes to a nondenominational church.” I knew how Momma felt about nondenominational churches. She said they were all a bunch of renegades and cults. “But he was raised in the Assemblies of God,” I quickly added what I hoped would be redeeming information.
She was silent for a moment. I briefly glanced at her to read her expression. She looked at me real crazy, then turned her head away from me. “Humph. I heard our church and theirs used to be tied up a long time ago.”
“That’s right, Momma. We were.”
“And I hear you’ve been taking him to True Way with you,” she said.
My mouth dropped. “Who told you that?”
“Word gets around. ‘Specially when it’s got church folk to spread it. I heard about your friend already. They say he’s respectful. Gives a good offerin’, too.” She held her purse tightly to her stomach.
“Somebody is talkin’ way too much,” I said.
“Aw, girl, please. They don’t mean no harm by it. Just lookin’ out for you.”
“I doubt they would have done that if Stelson were black.”
“Well, he ain’t. And you’re wrong—they would do it if he was black. Saints always look out for each other’s kids. You’d be surprised what I know.” She patted her purse and looked away from me.
It was almost ten o’clock by the time Daddy got back from Grandmomma Smith’s house. They’d been working on the funeral arrangements all day long. Momma and I were almost finished with the evening’s cooking. When he walked through the door, Momma grabbed his light jacket and kissed him on the cheek. “Let me hang up your coat.”
Daddy came and sat in the kitchen. He looked drained. Empty. Not himself. “Hi, Daddy.”
“Hey, Shondra. What you doin’ over here?” He took off his shoes and placed them together beside the refrigerator.
“Just helpin’ Momma out. How is everybody?”
“Fine.” He tried to give me a little grin but failed pathetically. He took off his shirt and placed it on the back of his chair before sitting to join me at the table. Any other time, Momma would have fussed at him for leaving his stuff all over the kitchen. But not this time.
“The family needs to meet at Grandmomma Smith’s house at ten so we can go over to the church.”
“Which church?” I asked.
“My mother’s church,” he barked at me.
Momma looked at me like, go along with it.
“My mother was a member of New Zion Baptist Church. She’d been a member there since we moved here in 1959.” He folded his hands and began with a sketchy outline of how Grandmomma Smith had been involved in the church, obviously intermittently. Still, he’d said that the church was sorry to hear of her passing and was more than happy to host services for one of its own.
“That’s great to know, Daddy.”
“Did you get in touch with Jonathan? I tried calling him, but I couldn’t get through.”
“Yes, Daddy. I called him. He’ll be here Wednesday afternoon.”
“Yeah, Jonathan loved Grandmomma Smith. And she sure loved him. My momma was so proud of him going off into the service. She was proud of all y’all, you know.”
He looked up and gave a real beam this time. “I mean, your cousins are okay and all, but she always said that you and Jonathan would grow up and make something of yourselves, no matter what the world brings. People like you and Jonathan make black folks proud.” Daddy smiled to himself.
Chapter 19
We, the jury in the above-entitled action, find the defendant, Orenja—Orenthal James Simpson, not guilty in.. .“
My heart almost stopped.
“Yeah! Yeah!” Daddy took off running with his hands in the air. He ran through the house like a mad man, screaming, “Yeah! Yeah! Not guilty! Not guilty!”
“Jonathan Smith Senior, if you don’t stop all this clownin’ and sit down somewhere,” Momma called to him after several minutes of his rampage. “The doctor told you to take it easy these next few days—don’t, you gonna end up having a heart attack!”
“Yeah!” He ignored her and ran another circle through the living room, kitchen, and dining room.
“Daddy!” I caught him by the arm. “I’m not taking off another day of work to come see about you again.”
He acquiesced and sat down, panting, at the kitchen table. “Aw, girl, hush. You didn’t want to go to work today anyway. Whoo! Good God almighty. I don’t believe you understand what just happened. This is one small step for black mankind.”
“Jon, you know good and well O.J. killed that girl and her man friend,” Momma said. “Two people are dead. Even if he didn’t kill them, he certainly had something to do with it.”
Daddy shook his head and motioned for me to get him some water. I pulled a glass from the top shelf of the cabinet, rinsed it out, and filled it with ice and water from the refrigerator door.
“Whoo!” He wiped perspiration from his forehead. “It doesn’t matter whether he did it or not. The courts never have cared whether or not a black man was truly guilty. We’ve been saying that since we got off the boat. Now they finally get to see what it feels like to have a jury overlook all the evidence and find somebody not guilty. I believe Malcolm X called it ‘Chickens coming home to roost.’ Whoo! I can die now. I’ve seen it all.”
“You will be dead, you keep up this whoopin’ and hollerin’,” Momma said. She took the empty glass from his hands and refilled it. “It really don’t matter what color the people are, Jon. If he did it, he should have been found guilty.”
“Well, the law says he didn’t do it, so as far as I’m concerned, O.J. Simpson is innocent.’ Daddy put his fret up on the chair in front of him and raised his pinky while he sipped the water. “Not guilty. Boy, I can’t wait to go to work tomorrow with a big smile on my face.”
Daddy skipped into the living room and picked up the remote control. He turned up the volume. He switched channels three or four times, laughing at the astonished looks on the faces of the white people as they heard the verdict time and time again. Not guilty.
“Ha!” he screamed. “Look at ‘em! Serves ‘em right, after they let them cops who beat Rodney King go. Whoo! You wait till I get to work tomorrow!”
“So, do you think O.J. did it?” I asked Daddy.
“It doesn’t matter what I think.” He shook his head. “The book says he’s innocent. But that’s beside the point.”
“Well, what is the point, as you see it, Daddy?”
He sat up straight, set his glass down on the cloth place mat, and looked me squarely in the face. “The point is, a black man killed a white woman in America and got away with it. Score one for all the innocent black men who died or are still serving time for crimes they didn’t commit.”
* * * * *
God blessed me with a very peaceful workday on Monday. I needed it after such a hectic weekend. Mr. Butler was out, the kids were taking another standardized test, and all was pretty quiet.
Stelson called me at ten to see if I wanted to eat lunch. I agreed, but right at eleven-thirty it started pouring down, so he called me
back to say that he’d just drop off lunch for me if I didn’t feel like getting out.
Later I led him into my office and asked Miss Jan to hold any calls for the next thirty minutes unless it was someone from my family. She nodded.
“So, how’s the family?” he asked, carefully passing me my food.
“We’re gonna be fine. Thanks for asking. The funeral is Thursday at eleven. I think if we can just get past that, we’ll be okay.” I was eager to change the subject.
He motioned for me to give him my hands. I did so, and he blessed the food.
He took a bite of his tortilla and continued talking about his upcoming trip. As he talked, I noticed how easily we broke rules with no consequence. Talking while eating was something I reserved for those I felt completely comfortable with. During our first lunch, we’d both been careful to position our silverware and our napkins in just the right places. But here, only four months later, we were letting it all hang out, so to speak.
“Cooper and I will be presenting a new design to a mid-sized cosmetic manufacturing company. They already have machines that do much of the work in manufacturing and packaging their cosmetics, but there is still an unacceptable margin of error in their system because they rely heavily on humans to put on labels, combine certain colorants and chemicals, and a whole lot of other things.
“We’ve designed a more efficient machine. It’ll help them with their production, eliminate the need for so much overhead, and ultimately lead to higher customer satisfaction and increased revenues.”
“And if you do get the contract?”
“It’s a multi million-dollar deal, I can tell you that much.” He smiled. “It would certainly look nice on our records, and the employees could all look forward to a pretty good quarterly bonus.”
“You go, Stelson,” I was impressed with his passion both for his business and for the people who worked hard to make it a success. “And all of this starts tomorrow? Shouldn’t you be somewhere rehearsing or something?”
“I needed to see you,” he said, inspiring a welcome spark in me. “I missed you yesterday.”
“I missed you, too.”
He just sat there, sipping his soda. That little dent came up, the one just above his jawbone. I took a moment to peruse him, sitting there in his heavily starched white polo shirt. Everything about Stelson was undeniably sexy. His chin, the curve of his lips, the way his fingers held on to that jalepeno.
I didn’t want to go off the deep end with this, but perhaps it was time we had this discussion about sex. I cared deeply about Stelson, and I felt certain that we were on the same page spiritually. But spending so much time with him was beginning to take a toll on my flesh. We needed to talk. Stelson was straight up sexy, and my libido saw way past his color.
“Stelson, let me ask you a question. Have you slept with any women since you sincerely dedicated your life to Christ?”
“I’ve made my fair share of mistakes by listening to my flesh.” He nodded his head in confession. “But I learned from them.”
I smiled and waited for him to take his turn.
“And you?”
“After my brush with HIV, I quit cold turkey. God has really worked on me in isolation since then. I really haven’t had a steady man in my life since then—until you. And, to lay all my cards on the table, Stelson, I have to let you know that I am very attracted to you. I also need to let you know that this is truly different for me. I have never been in a serious relationship with a man without having sex, so this is a first. But I’m very happy to have found someone who is in the same boat I’m in spiritually.”
He swallowed and cleared his throat. “The other night, when we were on the porch, I wanted you. And I still do, but my spirit knows that would only compromise both of us. When God gives me something beautiful, I try not to destroy it.”
“So you had a serious relationship with a Christian woman without having sex?” I asked him.
“Yeah, as a matter of fact I did. We dated for about four weeks. It went very well, but there were other issues.”
“Four weeks does not even count! I went that long without, even when I wasn’t celibate!”
“Four weeks does count!” he argued his case. “Four weeks is a long time.”
I laughed. Men.
“But you know what?”
“What?” I asked.
“By God’s grace, we can both be kept, LaShondra.”
“Agreed.”
“Well, I’ve gotta get going.” He took one last gulp of soda.
“Oh, okay.” We gathered up the empty wrappers and cartons and stuffed them into one big sack, then put them in the trash. I knew my room would smell like salsa and candles, but it was okay. It would remind me of our lunch.
“Hey, let’s pray before you go.”
We held hands and bowed our heads. I spoke first. “Father, we come to You now giving You glory, honor, and praises for who You are. We thank You for Your many blessings and for Your love and kindness and mercy. Now, Lord, we pray that You would watch over us and keep us from all hurt, harm, and dangers seen and unseen. Lord, give us the strength and wisdom to fulfill Your plan in our lives.
“Father, be with Stelson as he travels throughout the land, and let Your will be done in every aspect of his life, Lord. In the name of Jesus I pray, amen.”
Then Stelson prayed, “Father, I thank You for another day that wasn’t promised to me. I thank You for saving me in the midst of my sins and for giving me a new life in You. I also want to thank You for this wonderful woman You have introduced me to. I thank You for her openness, her kindness, and her loving spirit. Lord, be with LaShondra and her family on this week. Give them the strength they need to make it through this difficult time. All these blessings I ask in Your son Jesus’ name. Amen.”
We opened our eyes simultaneously and stood there for a second. Then Stelson bent down to kiss me. “Until Thursday,” he said.
“Call me when you get in,” I think I said—took me a while to regain my wits.
“I will. Bye.”
As I watched Stelson return to his car, I glanced over at the track field. There was Katelyn Donovan, working out with the off-season team.
Out of curiosity, I pulled up her grade report on the computer when I got inside. I wanted to know if she had been doing better with her math grades. A message popped up on my screen: Changes have been made at the administrative level. I pushed OK and viewed her grades. She had a passing grade for the fall semester— a 91, to be exact. Mathematically, that was impossible to achieve with a 59 for a six-weeks grade. I scrolled over to her second six-weeks average: Math 88. I sat for a minute with my thumbs beneath my chin, my index fingers resting on my nose and the rest laced.
Okay, this is just wrong. I knew it. Mr. Butler knew it. I thought about all the kids who’d come through my office, and how Mr. Butler and I had sat down with sobbing parents and explained to them why little Johnny couldn’t play football or was going to have to come to summer school or repeat an entire school year. And he had put on a little smirk when the parents left, saying that they should have been thinking about their child’s grades sooner. I had agreed with him because, even though he did have a smart aleck attitude about it, he had been right.
Now all of a sudden, politics came into play and the rules didn’t apply to everyone. But was this my battle? Did I need to stand up, say something, rock the boat over this one girl? I printed her grades, put them in my old “Katelyn” file, and decided to pray about it.
Maybe the file would come in handy. Maybe not. I got the feeling that this would be handled divinely, though the particulars of this incident might not be the straw to break the camel’s back. I felt confident that Katelyn knew her math facts and strategies well enough. She was just being lazy that six weeks. I did feel sorry for her, though. What if she grew up thinking that money was the most powerful thing in the world? What if she got the message that people are for sale? Would she also be for sale?
&n
bsp; As if he had some type of tap on my computer, I saw Mr. Butler approaching my office. Ever since I returned from administrative leave, he had been watching me like a hawk. I couldn’t prove it, but I knew he was so busy watching me, he wasn’t handling business.
Come to think of it, maybe he’d been doing that long before I was suspended. Who knows? I was up to my neck with Mr. Butler, and I couldn’t wait for him to retire. I put Katelyn’s file away and cleared space on my desk for whatever Mr. Butler might bring with him for the two of us to look over.
“Ms. Smith”—Mr. Butler came into my office quickly— “I know you’re fairly new at this. But I think you should understand something—something I hoped you would figure out during your suspension, but you obviously didn’t. The school system is just like any other business. We cater to our customers. Especially to those who support us the most. Lots of stores have programs for their most valuable shoppers—gold cards, special coupons, early shopping hours. It’s no different here.” He explained it as if it were actually okay.
“Mr. Butler, I don’t know where all this is coming from, but this school is not a store. We don’t have platinum V-I-P programs. What we have are students coming from every level of the economic spectrum, who deserve to be treated fairly.”
“This isn’t a fairy tale, Ms. Smith. Money makes the world go ‘round. The sooner you learn that, the better.” He walked out without looking back.
I watched him go up the stairs. His whitened hair swayed slightly with his steps. The girth of his arms challenged the seams of his jacket sleeves. He’d worked for the school district for as long as I’d been alive, I figured. He’d be retiring soon. Not soon enough, that was for sure. Maybe he was just tired of fighting the education battle. It can be disheartening at times.
Maybe, long ago, he’d decided to become a teacher so that he could make a difference, as all of us in the field once did. I imagined that on the first day of school, he had put his name on the chalkboard in big, bold letters. He’d introduced himself to the students, later met their parents, and taught with a zeal that had actually benefited students. He’d stood for something then.
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