Rhythms of Grace (41 page)

The last game fanned a flame in my hamstring that refused to be extinguished. I threw Quinn one last pass and headed for the car.

“Can’t hang, old man?”

On another day, those words would have been enough to make me play through any amount of pain. But, today a fire burned in my heart as well. “I’m going to change my shoes and get something to drink. I’ll be back in a minute to take you home.”

Quinn shook his head. “That’s all right. Just pick me up for church on Wednesday. Six thirty.”

That was smooth. Who were we fooling?
He
was the natural.

Giving the ball one last bounce, I shook Quinn’s hand. “I’ll think about it. Church, I mean. I’m not promising anything.”

Quinn smiled like he’d won an NBA championship—all by himself. “I’m not asking you for promises. Just be there.”

I shuffled to the car, my mind and body both in pain. I couldn’t help wondering where Grace was now and whether she was with Mal. Zeely had politely evaded all my fishing expeditions for information during class breaks. Either she didn’t know or she and Grace were just that tight. It must be nice. The closest thing I had to a friend was the fifty bounced emails to Ron’s account and the preacher boy on the court behind me. A boy who would soon be a man. Although I cared about all my students, I’d hate to see Quinn go.

I turned back to watch him shoot around, only to find an empty court.

57

Grace

The chores here keep me busy. I’m making a bowl
and a vase for Aunt Ina in ceramics class. I mixed
the colors to paint the angels brown. At first, teacher
said to paint them pink, but she let it go. She seemed
surprised that anybody would want to paint a face
brown on purpose. They must not get many black girls
through here. Maybe she’ll let the next girl paint her
angels brown if she wants too. There are brown angels
in heaven too. At least I hope so. My baby will need
one.

Diana Dixon

The horizon faded as I pulled into the lot of Mount Olive Baptist, a place where I’d once felt safe and close to God. Tonight I needed both. As the sun tipped low, I realized the foolishness of my trip. Surely the Reverend wouldn’t be here this late. I tugged at the church door, prepared for it to stick fast. It opened instead. I called out toward the cross shining at the front. “Reverend Wilkins?”

“I’m in the basement. Come on.”

Amazed at both the lack of security and his presence at such a late hour, I headed downstairs. What I saw there amazed me even more. The minister’s hands moved like lightning as he buffed communion plates and stacked them carefully, like supermarket eggs.

“Let’s see now,” he said, straightening his glasses. “Diana Dixon. I’ve missed you a few Sundays. How you?” He grabbed a box of matzo crackers from the shelf.

How am I going to talk my way out of this one?
“I’ve been visiting around. I’m trying Tender Mercies right now.” I should have thought this through more.

“David, over at the shopping center? Fine brother. Tell him I said hello. I don’t care where you go, as long as you going somewhere. The Lord only keeps one membership—the Lamb’s Book of Life. Have a seat.”

I looked down the hall at the choir room, stuffed tight with memories from the Buds of Promise Choir. Some of us had bloomed early and some never at all.

He laid another plate on the stack. “I was sorry to hear about your husband. He seemed to be a right fine African gentleman, if I recall.”

“Yes. He was.”

Reverend Wilkins reached into a basket on the table, piled high with apples, red, green, and yellow. “Have one?”

I shook my head. “No thanks. I’m not hungry.”

He chose one from the middle of the pile. “Well, excuse me then. Zeely brought my dinner but I left it to the house. Too late. I don’t like to go to bed on a full stomach.” He spread another piece of the service out on the table. From the look of the even columns, there was probably just enough for each deacon, enough for each row.

I ran my hand across the cloth under the utensils. “Don’t your deacons do all this?”

The preacher wiped his forehead. “Yes and no. They clean the dishes. I get them out to shine them and pray over them.”

“Really?”

His pearly teeth parted his lips in a smile. “Of course. I pray over the pews too. I know you all do the same thing in your classrooms.”

Not lately.
“Sometimes.”

“I thought so. Speaking of praying, I’m on my way up to the sanctuary. Care to join me? I don’t figure you came over here just to chat.”

“Is it okay if I stay down here?”

The Reverend slapped his palms together. “Yes sir. This here is a praying room. I’ve prayed through many a thing in here.”

Maybe that’s it. I’d been praying around my problems instead of through them. “Prayed through?”

He grabbed a broom and whisked a cobweb from the ceiling. “Yes. Through. Sometimes the Lord delivers folks out of things but most times he takes me through. I can’t get over it. I can’t go around it.”

That summed things up well. “So you just pray?”

Zeely’s father looked at me as if I’d taken God’s name in vain. “Just pray? You make it sound like something to do when you can’t think of anything else. That’s why you young folks struggle so. Make it easy on yourself. Pray first.”

With that sage advice and one last sweep of the collection plates, Reverend Wilkins left me alone. He even turned off the light and shut the door. I started to stop him, but I didn’t, feeling my way around the room instead. The satin of the choir robes slipped between my fingers. There was a stack of extra robes piled across the bottom of one side of the closet. I sank down into it, ignoring the smell of pine cleaner, and closed my eyes.

I stayed there like that so long that I almost fell asleep. It was peace, plain and simple. I’d hidden here before, on my last trip to Mount Olive before we moved away. In this little room, I’d told my whole story to no one in particular, begging God without saying much.

Tonight felt the same way.

Something rumbled overhead. There was shouting too. I left the closet and climbed the stairs, inched into the sanctuary . . . There weren’t any intruders, except maybe God, from the looks of things. Reverend Wilkins danced and hopped as though he were riding a pogo stick.

“Thank ya, Jesus. Hallelujah!” He circled the pulpit. “Yes sir! Yes sir! Thank ya! You’re a good God, yes you are!”

I nodded. My meeting with Christ hadn’t been as eventful as the Reverend’s, but I’d reached the same conclusion. God’s goodness surpassed my problems. My pain. Neither death, nor life or any created thing could overcome God’s love for me. Not even my love for Brian.

“A-ma-zing grace how sweet the sound.” The pastor circled the room, hands outstretched, not seeming to notice that I was even there. I knelt at the altar, like I’d seen my father do here so many times when I was growing up.

Reverend Wilkins touched my shoulder. “God is here, honey, if you’ll enter in. It’s your turn,” he said, wiping his forehead.

“What?”

“I know you heard that. I heard it before you came, but I didn’t know it was you. It’s usually for me.”

I looked around the church. Silence echoed. “I don’t hear a thing.”

The man of God rose to his perch and opened a Bible on the glass stand. He flipped the pages. “ ‘Do not be afraid; you will not suffer shame. Do not fear disgrace; you will not be humiliated. You will forget the shame of your youth and remember no more the reproach of your widowhood.’ ”

I gripped my knees and rocked back on my heels.

“ ‘Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken nor my covenant of peace be removed,’ says the Lord, who has compassion on you.”

My feet moved out from beneath me towards the silent noise. The music Reverend Wilkins had heard. In the depth of my heart, I heard a beating of drums. My arms reached for heaven. I leapt between the pews, smiling back at the old man still reading in the pulpit. He heard something after all. The sound of forgiveness.

The rhythms of grace.

58

Zeely

I brushed my teeth and sat on the edge of the tub, my stomach trembling. When it finally stopped, I laughed out loud. My stomach must have been as tired as I was. I got up, starving but too afraid to eat. I walked to the bedroom and checked my clothes for the week. Five hangers, each with a quart-sized Ziploc bag attached full of earrings, hose, and other accessories. The matching shoes hung onto each hanger. It was a good thing I’d done it yesterday before I started feeling like this.

My workout clothes hung in a similar lineup at the other end of the closet, but I avoided looking at them. The thought of flying through the air didn’t sound too appealing right now. I walked away from the closet, forcing back worries about the coming week, trying not to think about what I’d done, the decision I’d made so quickly after waiting so long.

Just deal with now. Today.

True enough. Today had evils of its own. I didn’t need to borrow any more. Was that the bell? That Grace. She just wouldn’t give up. I had to smile at that. It was good to know that somebody was looking out for you.

When my time comes, my trouble, I hope I’ll be as steadfast.

I thought about opening the door without asking who was behind it, but after the last visitor, I decided against it.

“Grace, is that you?”

I pulled back the curtain. A silver sedan kissed my car in the drive.

“It’s Ron.”

I grabbed my stomach again. It didn’t hurt anymore but I knew it would soon. My hand pulled back the knob, ushering in Ron and a furious wind. He stomped his shoes on the mat. I waited for him to speak.

“Feeling better?” He put two bottles of Gatorade and a box of crackers on the table. His hands slid from his gloves and onto my shoulders. “I was worried about you.”

I folded my hands around myself, rubbing my sides. “I’m okay right now. I think it will blow over. I’m praying so anyway.” I raised one hand. “In Jesus’ name.”

The sparkle of the diamond, forgotten on my finger, stripped the smile from Ron’s face. He dropped his arms and jammed his fingers back into their suede gloves. “Christmas come early?”

“You could say that.” I closed my eyes. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

Ron snorted and threw another jewelry box, one encased in salmon satin, onto the counter. “I had a little something myself, but I guess I’m too late. How much did he beat me by, huh? An hour?”

I swallowed hard, staring at the ring box, now stuck in my poinsettia.

Why didn’t I wait?

My stomach turned, reminding me why. It was too late to play Romeo and Juliet. Somebody always died at the end. I had a chance to be a mother and that was worth giving up everything, even my love for Ron. Or at least that’s what I was telling myself.

“Don’t be mad, I didn’t know. I didn’t know he was coming—”

One of Ron’s curls fell over one eye like a bloody finger. He snatched it back. “You knew I was coming! You knew how you kissed me at the hospital. You knew that I love you, that I’ve always loved you, even when you only wanted me because you couldn’t have him.”

I grabbed his arm. “It wasn’t like that. It was always you. Always. From the first time you came to church all wide-eyed and goofy . . .” I sobbed. “Clapping offbeat and singing at the top of your lungs. Even before that, with that little boy on the bicycle. From the minute I saw you . . .”

He grabbed my wrist, holding my finger in the air. “Then why this?”

I snatched my hand away. He wasn’t about to turn this around on me. I’d done the waiting, the hurting, not him. Never him. My stomach flip-flopped. I leaned on the ledge, to steady myself. “Why this, Ron? Well, let’s see . . . you’re engaged to another woman. Now you kiss my cheek and show up with a ring. It all makes perfect sense.”

He wiped his chin and turned for the door. “I hope he makes you happy, makes your father happy. I never wanted to mess up what God had for you. I just wanted to love you. That’s all.”

“What about Mindy?”

“It’s over.”

“That’s what Jerry said about Carmel. The next thing I know I get a wedding invitation. I’m too old to play games. My clock is ticking.” I covered my mouth, wishing I’d kept the last sentence inside my head.

Ron spun around. “That’s classic. Is that what this is all about? A baby? You’re marrying Jerry to get a baby?”

“Not exactly, but it does factor in.”

“So what am I, sterile?”

“No, but you’re not stable either. You’re still living off your savings after what . . . four weeks out of work?”

He sucked his teeth. “I’m back at legal aid and taking some private clients—”

Now he tells me.
“You let Mindy almost swindle you into a marriage you didn’t want, you’re driving Brian’s car, which I know you hate. And the thing you’re best at—preaching—you’re afraid to try.”

Ron sat on the couch, his arms locked across his chest. “Just clean my clock, why don’t you? It isn’t as bad as all that. You’re not as perfect as you make yourself out to be. Neither is Jerry. I wouldn’t hold him up as some model of fatherhood. He couldn’t even get Monique through high school without her getting knocked up.”