Seasoned with Grace (11 page)

“Who ran over your puppy?” Horace asked, nudging Grace's elbow.

Cracking half a smile, Grace eked out a sparse hello. She wasn't up for any chitchat this afternoon. It was Friday, and she was spending it in a church, which made her even more determined to hold on to the anger and sadness that had seized her.

“Where have you been?” Horace snatched a chair from the table to the left of Grace and sat down beside her. “This place hasn't been the same without you, Grace.”

“I'm sure it hasn't,” she said listlessly, without looking at him.

“You know something? I am so tired of you looking like a sad sack of potatoes, when God made you a lily. If you don't get anything else out of this experience, you're going to get some deliverance. Let's go,” he said, snatching her hand so hard, she nearly flew out of her seat.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded to know.

“To the sanctuary. The pastor is up there, and I want him to lay hands on you.”

“Oh, no,” she said in protest, digging her heels into the floor, to no avail. That only made it easier for Horace to drag her across the linoleum tiles. “I have to help Sister Bryce clean this mess up.”

“I'm sure she'll figure something out.” Horace came to a halt at the doorway. “Sister Bryce,” he shouted across the dining room, “I'm taking Ms. King to the sanctuary to get Pastor to pray for her. Is that all right with you?”

Sister Bryce clapped her hands together in delight. “Praise God. Prayer changes everything, Ms. Grace. You gon' be all right now,” Sister Bryce said, waving her cleaning rag in the air at them.

Grace cursed Horace and the rest of the gang of Holy Rollers, who were determined to get her, as they marched in single file up the steps that led to the sanctuary. They mounted the last step and entered the vast sanctuary.

The scent of the old wooden pews resting on top of the burgundy carpet and the sight of the hymnals strewn about reminded her of her first and only church home—Mount Moriah. Tears lined her eyes as she looked upon the scraggly pieces of wood that made up the altar.

“Hey, Pastor.” Horace waved at a man who was hunched over between two pews, scraping gum off the back of the one in front of him. “When you're done over there, can you please pray for this sister over here?”

“Sure. Give me one minute to get the rest of this gum up,” the pastor said, without looking up.

The smooth copper tone of the pastor's voice resonated in Grace's ears. There was something familial and intriguing about it. Deciding that his rich and welcoming voice was evidence that he was probably a good orator, Grace stepped forward to receive her healing.

The pastor stood up straight and dusted off his pants before turning to greet Horace. “Fill me, O Lord, with your words to say to bring about change and deliverance in the life being presented before me,” he said, then pivoted around to face Horace and Grace.

“This here is Gr—”

“Grace King,” Pastor David said, completing Horace's introduction.

“I didn't know you were a fan, Pastor David,” Horace remarked.

Grace raised her eyes toward Pastor David and then backed up into Horace's chest. Pinned against him, she whispered to him through clenched teeth, “Is this really your pastor?”

“Yeah. Why?” Horace whispered back.

“I don't need him to lay hands on me. He already has.”

Choking on his spit, Horace backed up and doubled over.

“Grace King,” Pastor David repeated as he made his way across the sanctuary to get closer to her. By the time he reached her, tears were rolling down her cheeks in what seemed like two small brooks. “Where have you been?” he asked, reaching for her hand.

“Trying to stay far away from you,” she said, snatching her hand back. “Isn't that what you wanted? Me far away from here so you could concentrate on your ministry?” She made air quotes around the word
ministry,
then awaited a response.

“Never once did I say anything like that.”

“You didn't have to. Your henchmen did the dirty work and the heavy lifting.”

“Henchmen?”

“I'm confused,” Horace interjected, scratching the center of his head.

“Me too,” Pastor David said, grimacing.

Grace wiped the tears from her eyes and began to chant,
I am a warrior,
in her head, trying to amp herself up to handle Pastor David's denial. First, he'd denied their baby, forcing her to get an abortion, and now here he was, denying that this had taken place. Denying the fact that on more than one occasion his parents and her parents had surrounded her like vultures flying over carrion and had stoned her with proverbs about adulteress women who destroy good young men. She hadn't wanted to be that. The last thing she had wanted to do was hurt David, she thought when she gazed into his eyes, which he was still squinting in confusion.

“Get me out of here,” she said to Horace.

“No, Grace, you are not going anywhere,” Pastor David said, raising his voice. “You will not walk out of my life again without explaining yourself.”

Grace laughed, and then an evil sort of chortle escaped from her throat. She could feel her blood pressure rising. “I am not one of your puppets. You cannot tell me what to do.”

Pastor David reached for her hand again, and she backed up into Horace's arms. Grace was afraid that if Pastor David touched her even slightly it would all come back—the love, the desire, the longing for her child, who had been snatched out of her womb. Her drama with Javier Roberts and the kiss she'd shared with Ethan had been enough to keep her thoughts about the child she'd gotten rid of at bay. Now just looking at David made her wonder if it was a boy and if he would have had the same smooth birch wood complexion as his father. Batting back those thoughts, she looked up at Horace and tried to plead with her eyes for him to get her out of there.

Horace rubbed her shoulders and whispered in her ear, “I told you that you were going to get some deliverance. Your past is preventing you from reaching your future.”

Grace looked up at him again. Not only was he fine, but he sure was deeper than she had him pegged for. Pastor David stared at her intently, as if that would bring the words out of her. Then he placed his palms together in front of his chest in an act of supplication. That was how he'd asked her out on their first date after church. Grace had rejected him the first time he asked her out during the break between the morning and afternoon services. He was thinner then and less muscular, she thought, taking note of the way the sleeves of his hunter green polo shirt hugged his biceps. She'd said no mostly out of obligation to her parents. They were raising her to be an elect lady, and elect ladies didn't date casually. They married. When she was fifteen, marriage wasn't something she was interested in, so she'd humbly declined.

Then David had cornered her after choir rehearsal in the kitchen of Mount Moriah. She was leaning on the soft gray granite countertop, waiting for some water to boil. Her throat was sore from belting out “I'm Going Up Yonder,” and her mother had insisted she drink some tea so she'd be ready for the evening service. When he crept into the kitchen, Grace had pretended not to notice him.

He must have been thinking of that moment too, because a wide grin spread across his face, just as it had that day when her eyes softened and she agreed in a gentle whisper to go on a date with him.

“Grace,” he said hesitantly.

Grace raised her head high enough for their eyes to meet.

“Please,” he said, his hands still folded in front of his chest.

Rubbing her head, Grace realized that if she said yes to Pastor David this time, it wouldn't be as pleasurable for either one of them as their first date had been. Her chest tightened, and she heaved out a hard, “Yes, but can we sit down?”

Pastor David nodded and slid into a pew to the left of him. Horace supported Grace as she wobbled to the pew, and then he held her elbow as she lowered herself onto it. “I'm going to leave you two alone,” Horace said tepidly, turning away from Grace.

Extending her long arm, Grace reached for Horace and caught his pinkie. “Don't leave me alone,” she mouthed to him. There was no guarantee that after hearing her confession, Horace would remain a Grace King supporter, but that didn't matter to Grace. For now, at least, she had a supporter.

Horace stepped back, the floorboards creaking ever so slightly under him, and sat next to Grace. Both men looked around the sanctuary, avoiding eye contact with each other and with Grace. Horace looked straight ahead to the pulpit, and Pastor David fixed his eyes on a black spot on the carpet.

“You were being groomed for the ministry is what they told me,” Grace said, breaking the awkward silence.

“Who said?” Pastor David asked eagerly.

Holding her hand up, Grace said as calmly as possible, “Please don't interrupt me. I've been carrying this pain for fifteen years.” She turned to Horace, whose gaze was still fixed in front of him. He placed his hand on her knee and squeezed it gently, encouraging her to continue.

Grace went on. “I was sick for about a week straight, vomiting, fainting, and whatnot. My father declared that Jesus was going to heal me about three days in, and by the end of the week my mother was in my room, sniffing me like a bloodhound. She said I smelled like copulation, and dragged me to the doctor while my daddy was at work.” Grace's heart rate sped up, just as it had when she'd sat with her mother in the waiting room of the doctor's office. She could feel the tears forming ranks around her eyeballs. The front line was ready to begin marching down her face.

“Grace,” Pastor David cooed.

“I'm fine.” She swallowed her hardness and bitterness. “I was two months pregnant. My mother didn't speak to me on the way home, except to tell me not to say a thing to you. She assured me that she and my father would talk to you and your family and the whole thing would be resolved,” Grace said, spreading her hands out like she was clearing the air.

After a short pause, Grace crossed her legs and leaned back on the pew. “For most of the week my mother was silent, and my father kept calling me a jezebel and saying I'd put a curse on my own child by having a fornication baby.” The tears began to fall. Grace swiped them from her high cheekbones. A montage of all the sights, conversations, and accusations flashed before her. The woman at the clinic who explained that abortions were safe, private, and the best option, because if you gave your child up for adoption, there was no way of knowing where the child would end up. Then there was the multitude of Bible verses that damned her, which were served as appetizers during dinner, with another round for dessert.

Horace must have sensed that she was coming apart at the seams with each word. He took her right hand and tucked it into his and began massaging it.

Grace shook her head and cleared her throat as she turned to face Pastor David. “At the end of the week your parents and my parents sat me down in the conference room and explained to me that I could not have this baby. It would ruin your career in the ministry before it even started. I . . . I . . . couldn't believe it.”

Pastor David snapped his head up from the floor and directed his piercing gaze at Grace. “Then why did you?” he asked, his voice full of indictment. Once again Grace was the guilty one.

“They said you didn't want the baby.” Her top lip quivered. “They said you wanted only to focus on the ministry.” She sobbed loudly.

“Grace, why didn't you come to me?” he demanded, standing up. “I would have never agreed to that.” His eyebrows were bunched together, and one eye rolled up, as if he was searching the card catalog of Bible verses in his head to support his stance. “Proverbs six clearly tells us that God hates the shedding of innocent blood,” Pastor David spat at Grace. “I would have never authorized you murdering my baby,” he shouted at her.

“Pastor, why don't you just take it easy?” Horace stood and reached out to pat Pastor David on the shoulder.

Pastor David batted Horace's hand away from him. “Don't tell me to take it easy. You don't have anything to do with this.” His countenance had turned from a delightful warm brown to a darkened hue. He'd been betrayed, and it infuriated him to the bone.

“But I know who does,” Ethan declared as he ran down the aisle of the sanctuary toward them.

Grace stood up at the sound of Ethan's voice. She felt like she'd just got caught stomping around the house in her father's work boots. She was in trouble.

Wagging his index finger at Grace, Ethan began his tongue-lashing. “Grace King, once again you've found a way to disrupt the atmosphere. I didn't think you could do that much damage in a church.”

Grace was stunned by Ethan's accusation and froze for a moment. This time she was the injured party, and he still felt the need to come down on her. When she regained control of her faculties, she drew her hands to her mouth, trying to keep the obscenities inside of her tucked away. She knew some of Ethan's anger stemmed from the rupture that the kiss they'd exchanged had caused in his relationship with Candace, but this was not the place to hash that out.

Horace wrapped his arm around Grace and pulled her close to him, shielding her from this attack. “Gentlemen, the time has expired on this discussion,” he said with a straight face.

Ethan's smooth lips curved into a scowl, and Pastor David's eyebrows folded together. They were bemused, and Grace was amused. For once it seemed that God was on her side. Smiling, Grace recalled what Junell had said.
Horace means timekeeper.