Made of Honor

by Marilyn Griffith

  The pastor’s collarless suit bulged around his neck in defiance of his attempt to keep up with style. “When things get rough, saints, when you’re swirling around, drunk with the wine of confusion, you got to cry out to the Lord for direction.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mother Holly half shouted, nearly scaring me to death.

  Confusion? What did the old woman know about it? I looked over at Shemika—or was it Jemicka?—who was filing her nails and brushing the dust on to the floor. Well, perhaps Mother Holly had problems, too.

  Didn’t we all? Rochelle lifted her hands in the choir stand behind the pulpit, looking first toward heaven and then toward me, with that we’ve-really-got-to-talk look I’ve always dreaded.

  “We cry out, Lord. Tell us where we have we made wrong turns. Did we go into battle without guidance as David did in this passage? Or is something stumbling us? Stopping us up? Meet us where we’re at, Jesus. Show us the way out of our mess.”

  I closed my eyes. Had I done that? Gone up without God’s guidance? Sure I’d prayed about my business, given it a scriptural name, gone to a Christian accountant, talked to the pastor…but had I really put myself in God’s hands? Asked Him what He wanted?

  Adrian grabbed my hand and gripped it with the kind of force serious praying required. I squeezed back, just as hard.

  Lord, if I’ve taken a wrong turn, lead me back to where I went wrong so I can fix it or better yet, You fix it for me. I’m fresh out of solutions.

  The pastor was praying, too. Everybody was. In whispers and in shouts. The building was filled with prayers and praise. Then someone gasped from the choir stand. A hush fell over the congregation and I got that knot in my stomach I always felt when people stare at me. Someone shuffled into the aisle behind me. Two someones, from the sound of it. I dared not open my eyes, but knew I had to.

  Jordan. He’d made it to church after all…and he’d brought a friend, a woman who looked like she’d been painted by number and greased into her dress, bright orange with matching heels.

  This is so trifling.

  Before I could say anything, Jericho fought his way out of his aisle, past the couple and out the back door. His charcoal suit whizzed past me like smoke.

  After smoke came fire, that much I knew. I grabbed my purse and pushed through the aisle, while Rochelle sat frozen in the alto section.

  Mother Holly, having already twisted herself into a pretzel to see the action, grabbed my wrist as I shoved past her. “No wonder you came out with naked legs. Y’all got trouble.”

  It’d taken considerable effort to tackle Jericho in the parking lot—well, more like grab his waist and let him drag me a few feet—but somehow I’d managed it, even with my circulation constricted by the waistband of my too small undergarments. Once I got him to stop running, things got complicated. I had no explanation for why his father decided to turn up at church with a scantily clad stranger or why his mother chose to ignore it. Well, I had some clues on that one, but still…

  The scary thing was that it was probably my words that had encouraged Jordan to show up. How was I to know he had yet another surprise up his sleeve? Now here we all sat, minus Jordan, at our regular Sunday buffet restaurant, as though nothing—and yet everything—had happened.

  Rochelle sat next to me in her usual seat, with one of the men from the singles party. I wondered how he’d come to be present, but any explanation she could provide would be more information than I could handle.

  “They got some steak up there. Tender, too. Go get you some.” Her guest misted a fine spray into the air as he spoke. If I’d considered a steak, the thought was gone.

  “Maybe next time.”

  “Suit yourself.” He took a little hop with his chair, leaving him to belly up to the table.

  Had Rochelle hijacked this character after service in case Jordan showed up here, too? I shuddered at the thought.

  Rochelle turned toward me, as if she’d read my mind. “Your brother isn’t coming here. I talked to him.” She paused. “It’s you and I who need to talk, Dane.” She gave me a harried look from behind her mascara-blurred eyes—a never-before-seen event, by the way.

  The ring of mascara around her eyes held me captive. Why hadn’t I bought that photo cell phone when I had the money? Tracey would never believe it. What was she saying again? Oh, yeah. That she and I needed to talk. Talk, shmalk. It seemed to me Jordan was the one who needed to do the talking. Although there was that business about the money…

  “Leave Aunt Dane alone, Mom.” Jericho reached over and grabbed my hand. I squeezed his mammoth fingers lightly enough for him to sense but not hard enough for Rochelle to notice. She was getting on my nerves, but her relationship with her son had been threatened enough lately. All I knew was that we hadn’t given enough consideration to the effect this reunion might have on Jericho.

  Or on me.

  Adrian sat next to me eating quietly. He smiled every couple of bites, even gave me a keep-your-chin-up nod.

  Stabbing my salad, I tried to do just that. My chin, sliding into my chest, had other plans. The last hour was a blur. It seemed that one minute I was comforting Jericho in the church parking lot and my next coherent thought came sandwiched between Adrian and Rochelle at Golden Corral. An aptly named restaurant, from the way Rochelle’s guest attacked his plate. Maybe we should drop him off at a barn on the way home.

  And I thought I was greedy.

  “Ooh, the meat cutter is here. I’m getting some roast beef. Y’all want some?” Rochelle’s guest asked half-heartedly, before leaping from his seat. He was gone before any of us had a chance to reply. Unreal.

  “Seriously. We have to talk.” With her friend absent, Rochelle spoke in her normal tone. Loud.

  My head hurt. Which thing were we supposed to be talking about? My ridiculous brother and that skin-tight woman, her son’s mental health, or the pants her date was wearing?

  Before I could decide, Adrian wiped his mouth and stood, pausing to give me a weary smile. “Come on, Jericho, let’s you and I get some dessert.”

  The boy looked wildly from me to his mother. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Sure you are.” Adrian somehow swung around the table and “helped” my nephew out of his chair. He nodded to Rochelle. “You ladies have your little chat while we’re gone. Dana and I are supposed to be discussing business today and in spite of everything, I mean to do it.”

  His tone was less than convincing and I knew he was just trying to lighten the mood. Still, I appreciated the gesture. Jericho skulked off beside him, looking like an overgrown boy in man’s clothes. I sighed, remembering the sound of Jericho’s teeth grinding as I hugged him on the church steps. “It was supposed to be about me. Not my daddy,” he’d said.

  Tell me about it.

  Rochelle had ignored the whole thing, never leaving the choir stand. After service, I watched her and Jordan exchange a few clipped words, but for the past hour, she’d acted as if my brother’s stunt hadn’t happened. Until now. Now, she wanted to talk. Well, I didn’t, and I kept silent to prove it.

  Rochelle pushed celery and chicken around her low-carb plate—she never ate from the buffet, even though single entrées cost more. Until watching her pseudo love interest chase every server that came out of the kitchen, I hadn’t understood Rochelle’s buffet ban. Now I did. Sometimes, too much was just too much.

  Like now.

  For once, I didn’t have an appetite, not even for the wings Mama used to shove in her purse like a crazy woman. Right now, even the tastiest wing couldn’t compel me to chew. There’s a first for everything.

  “Dana.” Rochelle’s voice was quiet as her friend guided his food-laden plate to the table. She spoke just above a whisper. “Would you come to the bathroom with me?” She paused when I didn’t respond. “Please?”

  I nodded, but moved cautiously, scrolling my chair along the carpet as I pulled it back. Maybe I should have eaten something.

  “Come on,” Rochelle whispered into
my shoulder, tugging my hand.

  My eyes rested on the sundae bar. Adrian stood patiently in line, flashing that aggravating smile. Jericho stood behind him, holding a small bowl like it was glued to his hand. Rochelle was right. I had to deal with her now—there were too many other folks waiting in line to mess with me.

  The bathroom was a typical buffet restaurant sort, reeking of Pine-Sol, a trick I now employed in Tracey’s absence to fool myself and any visitors. It was nice to smell something, I guess. I’d certainly never sniffed today coming. Tracey pregnant? Jordan back. And whatever this was with Rochelle.

  Best to get it over with. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  Rochelle checked her lipstick in the mirror. It was actually smudged. A piece of skin hung off her bottom lip. Amazing. “You start.”

  Me start? I didn’t call me in here. “I don’t know where to start, Rochelle. It’s all a mess to me.”

  “You’ve got that much right. Let’s begin with you getting up and chasing my son out of the church for one thing. That wasn’t your place. I know you’re his aunt, but this is a family matter—”

  “Oh, I see. And just who is Jericho’s family? Jordan, who has just met the boy? Or you, who’ve spent your whole life with him, but still don’t know him?”

  “Don’t know my son? I know him better than he knows himself.” She clutched at the lime-and-purple scarf around her neck. I wanted to choke her with it.

  Lord, help me.

  “You’ve held that child for ransom, hoping that Jordan would come back and want him. Want you. Now it’s all blown up in your face and you’re mad because I wanted to comfort Jericho? I didn’t see you doing anything—”

  “I was ministering—” She rolled her eyes.

  A snort rattled in my throat. “Ministering, huh? Well so was I. Sometimes the most powerful ministry is to your own. Now are you done? ’Cause I’ve got some discussion items, too.”

  Rochelle frowned. “Wh-what?”

  Obviously, this hadn’t gone down the way she planned. Usually, I sat quietly while she put me in check, allowing her to bleed. Well, today I had a gusher of my own. “Let’s see…Jordan sending you money? You lying to me about it?”

  She hung her head. “I never told you where I got it. I wanted to, but your mother asked me not to…and when she died, I didn’t know what to say. I am so sorry—”

  “You should be. You and Mama both made Jordan into a monster. Now I find out he paid for my home? For your shop?”

  “And yours, too.”

  My muscles tensed. I tucked a braid behind my ear. My pantyhose slid over my calves and settled into two black silky pools just above my shoes.

  She shook her head, going back into mother mode. “So that’s why you were walking like that?” She kneeled down and tugged at one of my pumps, pausing to express concern over the bad fit. “Step out.”

  I lifted one foot from my shoe while she pulled off my hose, and then the other, careful to be sure my feet never hit the less-than-clean floor. Goose bumps pimpled my legs, but I was glad to be free. That Shemika was right. I’d have to soak for sure.

  Rochelle stared at the tag before tossing them into the trash. “Size B?” She paused, then nodded toward the door, and the man on the other side of it. “You can be so ridiculous.”

  My thoughts snapped to the human disposal back at our table. “I can be ridiculous? What about the Purple People Eater out there? Those pants should be banned from public wear.”

  She stifled a chuckle. “Don’t, okay? I know he’s a little different, but he’s nice. Really. And right now I just need someone to be nice to me.”

  There it was, the bottom of the bucket, what this talk was really about. “I’m sorry Jordan pulled that stunt today. I know how you must feel.”

  “You can’t know.” Rochelle stared at the floor, drawing my eyes to black-and-white tiles.

  My heart skipped a beat. Anger shrilled in Rochelle’s voice, but jealousy echoed just underneath it, mixed with something else. Love? No wonder she’d stayed in the choir stand. My brother had humiliated her all over again. I swallowed. “I hate to ask this, but do you still have feelings for Jordan? Now, I mean?”

  Her head snapped my way, but she didn’t answer.

  I didn’t need her to. She loved him. While Mama had stirred a daily brew of resentment for us girls to drink, Rochelle had managed to hold on to her love? “How could you?”

  It wasn’t what I meant to say. I meant to speak of grace and forgiveness. To tell her I loved her, that I understood…But my inner madness reared its head. It was okay for me to love my brother, but Rochelle loving him seemed another slap in the face. Another betrayal.

  “This is not about you, Dane. It’s about us.”

  Us? Where was “us” when the diapers had to be changed and the bottles warmed? Where was us when I stayed up all night with Jericho and went to school all day? “It’s about me, too.” What “us” was she talking about anyway? The guy had shown up this morning with another woman and she didn’t look like a friend.

  “Just stay out of it, okay? The last of the money went to helping you with your shop. I invested some, used some for design school and to start the shoe shop.”

  “I’ll bet. I can’t even afford an ankle strap in that place. I love how that Italian leather smells though….”

  “Oh, Dana. You know I’ll make you a pair whenever. I just hate making them and then you never wear them. It’s a waste.”

  “I don’t wear them because you make them for you, not me.” Sort of like my life. Save her favorite lime strappies, Rochelle’s idea of a cute shoe was chunky-heeled mules. No toes showing. I paid good money for my pedicures and I meant to make my toesies earn out every dime.

  We stood quietly, contemplating following this safer tangent of conversation or diving back into the unexplored depths of our relationship—both with each other and with my brother. Neither option looked promising.

  “Be right back.” I stumbled into one of the stalls behind us, trying to digest it all. Mama’s place in the whole plot would require my singular attention later.

  “Come out, will you? I know you’re just standing in there.”

  “So,” I whispered over the door, wishing for once that she and Tracey didn’t know me so well. My lifelong fear of public bathrooms wasn’t exactly a secret, but only those two knew to what extremes my phobia ran.

  “I truly am sorry. I have nothing to say for myself,” she said. Another stall clanged shut beside me, just the barrier between us, the walls around our hearts seemed to come down. “Forgive me?”

  “Of course I do.” I pulled back the stall door, wondering whether it was best to come out of this little truth booth. Can’t hide forever. I stepped forward. “So that’s it? Nothing else you aren’t telling me?”

  Rochelle turned and walked to the sink. I followed, choosing the basin beside her. “There’s more.” Her words were close, almost brushing my face.

  God, You’re really pulling out the stops, huh?

  Tracey’s presence would have been wonderful right now. The baby thing brushed against my mind, but I pushed it back into the box where I’d locked it. This was no time to trade secrets.

  I turned to my sink and rolled her words over in my head. It hit me, like the roar of the ocean in a seashell. The truth had always been there, I just hadn’t been listening. My fingers clutched Rochelle’s shoulder. “It was you, wasn’t it? You sent the money to Mexico. You…kept him alive. Why wouldn’t you tell me?” I paused as this wave of new truth crested in me. “Why didn’t you tell Mama?”

  Two old ladies behind us leaned in closer, no longer concerned with their turn in the stall. A six-year-old joined us at the sink, pushing me aside to take advantage of the still-running water.

  Rochelle stepped away from the counter. From me.

  “I didn’t tell you because I was ashamed.” She touched the doorknob. With a paper towel of course. “I didn’t tell your mother because she w
ould have brought him home. While he was in that coma, I could dream…even hope.”

  I took two steps in her direction, then stopped. How could she? The question raced through my veins, my mind, demanding an answer, yet my heart remained silent knowing exactly how Rochelle had deceived my family…and herself.

  She’d done it the same way I had two years ago when I hung up with Sandy. Though my mouth had said all the Christian things, my heart had spoken another language, asked another question—if she does die, what might that mean for me? Was Rochelle so wrong for asking the opposite, what would happen to her if Jordan lived?

  She who has sinned not, throw the first stone.

  My hands wilted to my sides. “What were you ashamed of? The money? Lying to me?”

  Rochelle shook her head. “I was ashamed of still loving him. I shouldn’t have then.” She pulled back the knob. “I shouldn’t now.”

  Chapter Eight

  It was only a matter of time. My mother had it and her mother before her, but after years of keeping watch for the facial hair that had marred my forebears, I figured I was safe until menopause.

  I awoke that morning to two hairs curling out of my chin like something from an off-Broadway production of Cats. On another woman’s chin—a woman who wasn’t working too much and spending her leisure time with senior citizens—it might have been cute. Humorous even.

  On this woman, it was not. In fact, when the screaming and plucking subsided, I called Tracey long distance.

  “It’s just a hair, Dana,” she said in a groggy voice. Pregnancy didn’t sound good on her. Rochelle had sounded like the tooth fairy all nine—in her case, ten—months. But that was Rochelle.

  “Hairs-s-s-s-s. Plural. As in more than one. You don’t understand. This is it—”

  “What?”

  “The hormone surge. I’m not ready for it. No wonder the UPS man looked so cute yesterday. What if I cave to the biology and do something stupid?”