Bea stopped laughing and turned serious for a moment. “I’m glad I decided not to get married to Batty Brick and just stay broke with no chance of becoming a millionaire. I don’t need another visit through the IRS system, ’cause I ain’t been to an IRS family get-together since ’83. Just about all my relatives had to make deals or go to the slammer.”
“I know what you mean,” Sasha whispered. “I’m gonna stay just as blessed with poverty as I can. I don’t need no financial microscope on me unless it’s part of a biology exam.”
Sasha got up and went to the door, with Bea following behind her. She turned and said, “I still don’t see how such an ordinary man like Trustee Freddie Noel turned our church and community upside down.”
“From what I’ve heard Cheyenne say, he ain’t no ordinary Noel.”
“You’re right Bea.” Sasha took her cane from beside the door where she’d laid it. “I betcha he does something stupid at that wedding. Are you going?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. I’m just waiting on an invite,” Bea admitted, then asked, “Did you get one?”
“Of course. I got mine weeks ago,” Sasha lied. “You telling me that you didn’t get one yet?”
“No, not yet, but I’m sure I will. The three of us been friends all these years, I can’t believe Sister Betty would wanna get married and not have me and you there.”
Oh, they could believe it. They just didn’t want to believe it. After all of Bea’s and Sasha’s years of living and praising their God on Fantasy Island, they refused to accept that not everyone wanted, in their limited thinking, BS on their special day.
’Twas the night before Christmas
And Pookie awoke,
He ran to his piggybank,
Discovered he was broke.
“It’s a shame, I’m so po’,”
He cried out loud.
Pookie was brave, but
Still broke and still proud.
Broke, but wanting to decorate,
Ran to his closet, open the door.
A box of junk fell out.
Knocked Pookie to the floor.
Out spilled an Easter bunny
Used over a dozen times,
A box of cherry bombs
From July 4th and left behind.
Kicked the boxes aside
And got down on his knees.
“I know I got a baby Jesus—”
But where it was, he couldn’t see.
He found a pumpkin from Halloween,
Two black Barbies and a Ken doll.
Wrapped them in some tissue
Carefully, so they wouldn’t fall.
Why he had two dolls
Was anybody’s guess.
He was determined to have Christmas,
Pookie wanted to be blessed.
He found a shoebox
And filled it with rye bread.
Had no sheep or cows for the manger.
Used that Easter bunny instead.
Pookie grabbed the two Barbies
And the Ken.
Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus
He’d pretend.
Lit the cherry bombs—Ka Boom!
Dressed the pumpkin.
“Merry Christmas!” Pookie hollered.
At least it was sumpthin’.
When suddenly to his surprise
Came a knock on the door.
Eight police cars,
Followed by more.
“We got a complaint about you,
You going to jail.
Ain’t no use in resisting,
You po’ and can’t raise bail!”
Pookie started to cry.
Curled up like a mouse.
“Y’all having Christmas
Down at that jailhouse?”
“We’ve got turkey, pies,
taters, greens and cake.
Why you ask?
Did you light the bombs by mistake?”
“Oh no!” Pookie screamed,
Wiping the tears from his eyes.
“I think I should do time.”
The police were surprised.
As they led Pookie away,
He turned around and smiled.
He winked at Mary, Joseph, and Jesus.
“Thank You. See y’all in a while.”
On to the jailhouse, give me that turkey, pie,
and cake.
Come on buttermilk biscuits, collards, and shakes.
Bring the lima beans, the ham, some stuffing,
and more.
Pookie couldn’t wait to get out the door.
Anyone else with good sense
Would have been annoyed.
But Pookie had been broke,
Hungry, busted, and unemployed.
Pookie finally had his Christmas,
Ate inside his jail cell.
He burped and belched a carol
It sounded like Noel.
They came the day after
To set Pookie free.
He punched out one cop,
kicked another in his knee.
“Oh no! He did not hit me!”
The poor cop whined.
“Oh yes, I did.
I guess I’ll have to do more time.”
“Lock that cell door!”
The cop started to bleed.
Pookie hollered real loud,
“What y’all serving New Year’s Eve?”
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Remember, Jesus is the reason for the season.
“Pookie’s Big Christmas” by Pat G’Orge-Walker © 2002
DON’T BLAME THE DEVIL
Appearances mean everything to Delilah Dupree Jewel. So after hearing of her daughter-in-law’s sudden death, Delilah decides that coming to the rescue of her long estranged son, Jessie, and her granddaughter, Tamara, would be a good look . . . though Lord knows she’ll have to dig hard to find her maternal instincts.
But Delilah quickly discovers Jessie wants nothing to do with her. And Tamara, who’s following in Delilah’s musical footsteps, isn’t interested in her career advice, especially since Delilah got ahead using the singing couch. And Delilah’s old flame Deacon Pillar, an ex-convict who’s traded in his gangster ways for a Bible, is stirring up a past that’s sure to shock. Now, all Delilah knows is that she’d better hold on to her faith, ’cause she needs God now more than ever.
SOMEBODY’S SINNING IN MY BED
Chyna and her sister Janelle are always moments away from a catfight. They love each other, but Janelle has never forgiven her sister for swiping her first love, Cordell. That was ages ago, and now Chyna is showing off as the First Lady of New Hope Assembly, a church that’s caught between the old ways of holiness and new ways of serving its community.
But with the church congregation running wild in the aftermath of her husband’s scandalous behavior, Chyna turns to her sister Janelle for guidance. But if Chyna thinks she’s getting sympathy from Janelle, she’d better think again, because Janelle’s got her own crisis. And when Cordell suddenly comes back into the sisters’ lives, what follows are squabbling, chaos, and surprises that show just how hard the road to salvation really is.
Turn the page for an excerpt from these exciting novels by Pat G’Orge-Walker.
From DON’T BLAME THE DEVIL
Chapter 1
The Beginning before there was a Delilah
Nine months ago she was the darling of the Apollo Theater. A gorgeous R & B chanteuse and often mistaken for a Dorothy Dandridge look-alike. Nine months ago, Claudine Dupree Jewel was someone on the verge of stardom because she’d made it into the downtown Manhattan nightclub scene. Downtown was where the white folks with money and connections migrated and played the queen-making game for some lucky Negress.
Nine months later, Claudine was an angry, fame-chasing, maternally lacking, pregnant, and unmarried nineteen-year-old.
It was 1947, and it came to a head during a snow blizzard in Westchester County, New York
. She’d never completed high school and was barely existing on the little money she’d made and saved before she began to show. Nobody would hire a big-bellied singer, no matter how good the singer was.
In no time the money dwindled. Claudine didn’t have money for the crowded, vermin-infested room she’d rented and barely enough to pay for a bus ride. But Claudine had what she called street smarts, so she made a plan. She couldn’t afford prenatal care, so she just simply planned to wait until a few days from the date when Mother Luke, an elderly church mother who rented one of the other cockroach motel rooms, suggested she’d give birth, and then go to a nearby emergency room.
But Mother Luke’s old custom of placing a hand on the belly and sizing up the dark line that ran from the navel to the pubic hairline wasn’t quite scientific enough. If the pains that racked Claudine’s back meant the baby was coming, then the old church mother was off by a couple of weeks.
So armed with just enough bus fare, and towels crammed into her underwear to catch the birth water, she stood on the bus, crushed between others who didn’t care if she was pregnant or not. Twenty minutes later, a young and alone Claudine Dupree Jewel barely made it across the street after she’d stepped off the bus. Within fifteen minutes after arriving and some ignorant doctor yelling, “Don’t push,” while the blizzard howled louder than her screams, she gave birth in a small hospital labor room in Mount Vernon, New York. Shortly after, since she’d registered as a charity case and the bed was needed for paying patients, there’d been not too subtle hints tossed her way indicating that her stay would be short.
“We’re sorry we can’t allow you to stay past a day or so until you get your strength,” the charity ward nurse began in her most uncharitable manner, “but the best we can do is give you a few diapers and a letter that will authorize a few bottles of formula from the hospital pharmacy. Once you leave, I suggest you try and eat healthy enough to give that baby some breast milk.”
So that was all the kindness Claudine received. A couple of diapers, a letter for formula, and advice to eat healthy on money she didn’t have so she could provide breast milk from her tiny yet swollen breasts. She got the news after she received a few hope-this-will-hold-ya stitches. Her five-pound-two-ounce pasty-colored baby girl, just hours ago, had almost ripped the petite Claudine apart.
To add further insult as she lay without the benefit of even an aspirin for the bone-crushing cramps that followed, someone came over to the bed and urged her to hurry and name her baby. Paperwork needed filing before they kicked Claudine to the curb in another twenty-four hours.
Claudine didn’t give it a second thought. “I’m naming her Delilah.” Her chest heaved as the tears poured. “This little girl’s gonna blind every man with her beauty and steal their very soul, just like that Delilah gal did in the Bible story.”
The unsympathetic woman with the pen and paper remained disconnected as she added, “And don’t forget to fill in the father’s name and date of birth.”
“He’s dead.” Claudine let out another groan, indicating that was all she would say about the matter.
The woman retrieved the pen and paper from Claudine’s hand and left without any further information. It wasn’t the first time a woman gave birth and didn’t give the father’s name.
The real truth was that Claudine didn’t care what the woman thought. Despite her pain and the wails coming from her hungry newborn baby in the bassinet a few feet away, Claudine turned to face the wall and cussed damnation upon every Y chromosome that walked the earth. Of course, there was one man in particular whom she’d have shot if he were there. She was really angry at a silvery-tongued devil named Sampson, and despite telling the lie that he was dead, she was very sure he was still alive.
Sampson, the object of her hatred, was a few years older; a tall, butterscotch-complexioned bass player who’d gotten more than a phone number from her—he’d gotten her pregnant. As smart as she thought she was, she’d fallen for the old “We don’t need no piece of paper to show how much we love one another” jive. The first few months were like magic. Then hocus-pocus—Sampson disappeared off the planet as soon as she mentioned she’d missed her period. She would never forgive herself for not learning more about him so she could’ve ruined his life like he’d done hers. The only way to get back at him was to never tell her daughter who her father was. Claudine never did; not even when Delilah grew up teased and called a bastard child and cried to know his name.
Like most of Claudine’s decisions that weren’t well thought-out, if thought-out at all, she also messed up when she named her baby with a less than noble motive. Claudine hadn’t read the entire biblical story, because in the end that particular Delilah didn’t make out too well, while in Sampson’s case, he brought the house down . . . and not in a good way.
Only time would tell if Claudine’s need for revenge would manifest in little Delilah’s life, and to what degree. Whether it did or not, Claudine never waited to find out. As soon as Delilah, talented and gorgeous, turned eighteen, Claudine did to her daughter the same thing she’d always hated Sampson for. Claudine disappeared and left Delilah to fend for herself.
Chapter 2
The Storm in 2009
Delilah Dupree Jewel was dog tired of decades of life using her as its human Ping-Pong ball and toilet. She’d looked for love on her terms ever since Claudine abandoned her with nothing but youthful ignorance as a cover. It didn’t matter that Delilah had beauty that either made one instantly love her or hate her. She’d lost count of how many times she’d heard You may look like Lena Horne, but you ain’t Lena Horne.
How many times had she fallen for some man’s game? All a pair of pants had to say was Lena Horne better watch out, ’cause you about to snatch her shine. You look like her twin.
Of course, Delilah wasn’t totally blameless. If she found a diamond, Delilah would find a way to turn it into cubic zirconium. Self-sabotage, thy name be Delilah Dupree Jewel.
By the time she turned forty-something, she gave the idea of surrendering a try. I don’t have another tear left, she told God for the umpteenth time. That time it was when the last of her sugar daddies turned out not to be so sweet. His wife, having thought more of the marriage than her husband, went after Delilah with a brick in one hand and a fistful of High John the Conqueror snuff in the other. She’d planned to hit Delilah upside the head and then blind her.
“Don’t you ever call my house again for my husband,” the man’s wife threatened.
Delilah was insulted that the woman thought so little of her. “As long as I’ve messed around with your husband, I’ve never called your house,” Delilah barked. “I’ve got more class than that.”
And that’s when Delilah lost several teeth. The man’s wife, apparently not happy with Delilah’s apology, put a well-placed punch in Delilah’s unrepentant mouth with the brick.
Getting her teeth fixed caused her to pawn a very expensive ring and laid her on the doorsteps of the poorhouse.
But eventually, as so many do as a last resort, Delilah wanted peace in her life; Jehovah-shalom. A lot of her decision also had to do with a failed singing and modeling career and a couple of other speed bumps along life’s highway. And, of course, she expected God to do things on her terms and she set about to find Him. She wanted the great Jehovah-nissi, the God that would protect her from the demons of her past and most of all protect Delilah from her own self-destructive behavior. After all, she’d endured for almost half her life. To Delilah’s way of thinking, God owed her big-time. Delilah decided she’d serve Jehovah-jireh. After all, she’d heard He was the great provider.
So with no family or close friends to hold on to and her Jehovah at her beck and call, Delilah headed back East from California. Once she returned to New York, she continued her search for the elusive peace, but bad luck kept dogging her as though it were an ugly birthmark on her forehead. Yet Delilah was still Delilah “the stubborn,” and as time went on she became less of a worshipper and mo
re of God’s adviser.
Delilah had barely taken a bite out of the big New York apple when she’d upped the she-gotta-lotta-nerve ante and placed God on a schedule. But it all started to unravel one Sunday in Brooklyn, New York. The temperature was in the nineties and the weather wasn’t the only thing that was hot.
Delilah Dupree Jewel put on her best and most modest yellow print dress, tucked her long, snow white hair under her big-curls blond Farrah Fawcett wig, and donned her oversized sunglasses. She’d done all that so she could sit in her car outside one of the various Brooklyn churches she favored. That was how she did her “churchy duty.”
In her car she could avoid inner church politics, such as “My tithes paid for this pew,” or “God knows our hearts and a little sinning is okay.” If she was inside and had to hear that familiar mess, she would’ve killed someone before the choir sang their first hymn.
By the time Delilah made it to her car that Sunday, the temperature had soared to almost one hundred degrees. As she drove along she sweated profusely. Her dress was wet and clung to her legs. Of course, the air-conditioning in her car was on the fritz.
“Okay, Lord, I know I promised you I would give you another shot when I came back to New York,” Delilah whispered angrily, “and I’ve kept up my end of the arrangement, but I need you to touch this air-conditioning or I’m gonna hafta go back home.”
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