Boaz Brown (17 page)

I placed the red linen napkin across my lap and mentally ran down the rules of etiquette: no elbows on the table, knife at the top of the plate, short fork for the salad. When our food arrived, the waitress was especially careful to avoid eye contact with either of us.
What is her problem?
Come to think of it, I was beginning to wonder, what was
everybody’s
problem? Maybe that weird feeling I had wasn’t attraction but the judgmental vibes from people staring at me. Either way, I didn’t like it and I was ready to leave.

“Do you mind if I say a blessing over the food?” Stelson asked.

I was caught completely off guard. “No. Go ahead.”
He offered to pray?

“Father, we thank You for this food that has been prepared for us. Bless the hands that prepared it, and let it be a blessing unto our bodies. In Your Son Christ Jesus’ name, amen.”

“Mmm.” That escaped from my throat before I could catch it.

“What was that?” he asked.

I bit my lip and then answered honestly. What
have I got to lose?
“I was just thinking, when you prayed, you pray like you know who you’re talking to.”

“I do,” he said without hesitation.

I smiled, pleased to be in the company of someone who wasn’t shy about proclaiming his faith. My shoulders relaxed, and that tense feeling in my stomach subsided, though

I could still feel the butterflies. It was interesting for once, to eat lunch with another professional who actually blessed his food. If nothing else, he put up a good front. I had no intentions, however, of delving beneath
it.

We talked a little more about my job as an administrator and his company’s expansion before I looked at my watch and discovered that I was going to be late getting back to the school.

“Oh,” I excused myself, “I’m sorry, Stelson, I’ve really got to go.”

“It was really nice talking to you,” he said. An ambiguous moment passed, with the clink of dishes and silverware the only noise to be heard. Then he blurted out, “I’d love to see you again.”

“Oh.. .“ I looked around the room for something to say. “You’ve got my number?”

“I’ve got your
office
number,” he hinted.

“Okay,” I chirped, clutching my purse and standing.
I’m not about to give no white man my personal information so he can come serial-kill me.

He stood, too. “I’ll walk you to your car.” We faced each other at the end of our booth. I noticed just then that he was a good five or six inches taller than me.

“Oh, stay,” I told him. “You’re not finished eating.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you to your car?”

“I’m fine,” I said, shaking my head. “Go ahead and finish.”

“Okay,” he relented. He took my hands gently, leaned my way, and then planted an innocent kiss on my cheek. You know, one of those friendly kisses that white people do on TV, the ones that always serve as the precursor for the man to run off with the wife’s best friend, that kind of mess. “Thanks again for joining me.”

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, LaShondra.”

‘When I got in the car, I called Miss Jan to let her know that I was on my way back in.

“How did
it
go?” she asked.

I chose my words carefully. “Just fine.”

“Okay.. .“ She must have been hoping for more information. “I. . . I guess I’ll see you when you get back.”

Driving back to school, I thought about the lunch with Stelson. Little things he did flashed through my mind: holding the door open for me, refusing to let Dunley sit between us, praying before we ate, and the respectful way that he treated me. He was very nice. Well, actually,
nice
wasn’t the word for it. Anybody can be nice. Stelson was kind. Kindness is something that comes from the inside.

Miss Jan gave me my messages and tried to pick me about the lunch with Stelson. “So, did you have a good time?”

“I had a salad, Miss Jan.” I gave her a fake smile and blinked my eyes a few times.

“Okay, okay.” Then she asked, “Is he married?”

“I don’t know, Miss Jan. We didn’t discuss that.”

“Everybody wants to know.” She followed me into my office.

“It was a lunch, Miss Jan. That’s all there was to it. Mr. Brown is very nice; he enjoyed himself with the kids today. . . What else do you want me to say?”

“Was it business or pleasure?”

“Strictly business.”

“He didn’t look like business when he asked to speak to you personally,” she said, implying.

“Well, I don’t know what it was on his part, but it was business on my part. Keep his number so that we can call on him again for next year’s career fair.

“Did you get a chance to contact Mr. and Mrs. Shuling about Melissa Shuling’s absences?” I changed the subject abruptly.

Truth was, I liked Miss Jan. But there were times when she got on my nerves, always wanting to talk about irrelevant stuff like recipes and gardening secrets. She was always telling me how much she wished her hair was like “ours” because we can do so many things with “our” hair.

But when I practically pushed her out of my office that day, I felt a twinge of remorse. In my heart of hearts, I knew that Miss Jan never meant any harm by the things she said. And she only told me about recipes and gardening secrets because that was a part of her life that she was trying to share with me. I opened my office door once again and hung my head out.

“Yes?” she stopped working and asked softly. “Thanks for setting everything up this morning. The career fair went very smoothly,” I said.

“Oh, you’re welcome.” She beamed.

“And my lunch with Mr. Brown was just fine. He asked to see me again.”

“I knew it!”

“But don’t get your hopes up. He’s not my type.”

Chapter 8

Someone came up with a plan to celebrate Juneteenth in the community, and the Purity class of Gethsemane Church of God in Christ was called into action. Year after year we marched down Main Street in the hot sun wearing our African colors, with maybe an American flag or two somewhere in the background, celebrating the announcement of slavery’s end in Texas. Even Daddy came out to support the annual Juneteenth celebration. The keynote speaker changed every year, and this particular year it was our pastor’s turn to de
liver a call to the community:
we need more unity and progress.

“Juneteenth,” he said, “is a great time of reflection for us as black people and as Christians. It’s a time for us to sing both ‘Look Where He Brought Me From’ and ‘We Shall Overcome.’ For as much as we have overcome, there is just as much to conquer. But rest assured that by the power of God, we have the victory!”

The crowd spent what little energy we had left and applauded my pastor. At times like these, there was an unmistakable quality about blackness and religion: that somehow, because of the African-Americans’ plight, Jesus belonged to us just a little more than to anybody else.
We
had been right, and
they
had been wrong, and righteousness ultimately prevailed—as it always did for those who were on the Lord’s side.

I heard those messages, from church and home, and formed a sort of black vs. white, good vs. evil battle in my head. As circumstances and situations ran through my life, they were sure to sift through the black-white filter. My world didn’t revolve around it, of course, but it was present, ready to give its interpretation of any issue.

* * * * *

“Thank You, Lord!” I called out. “Thank You for another year!”

It was my birthday, and I felt especially blessed. I made my way to my prayer closet, still making a joyful noise. Once inside, I shut the door and got down on my knees. I praised Him freely, with my arms raised high and tears marking fresh trails down my cheeks. My life flashed before my eyes: the time I almost hit a bus head-on, the fibroid I’d had removed from my uterus, the nights that I should have been at church but I was at the club—all that time I was running from the Lord and He’d still been watching over me. He’d still sent an angel to keep me even when I didn’t want to be kept. And He’d completely forgiven me despite all the things I’d willingly done against Him.

“Yes, Lord!” I’d called out. “Yes, Lord! Yet will I serve You, Lord!”

I finally got to a sitting position to read the Word and speak the Scriptures of deliverance that God had given me. I found the next page in a women’s devotional that I read weekly. The day’s verses were Proverbs 31:26:
She opens her mouth in skillful and Godly wisdom, and on her tongue is the law of kindness.
And Psalms 141:3:
Set a guard over my mouth, O Lord; keep watch over the door of my lips.

It had been a while since I’d read either of those verses, and for some reason they touched me in a different way. I repeated the verses several times, letting them sink into my soul. My heart was full of expectation. The feeling of victory was so tangible I could hardly contain myself. God had been so good to me!

By the time I came out of my prayer closet, I felt as if I’d been to the mountaintop and seen glory with my own eyes. It was at times like those that I didn’t care what was going on outside my closet. Satan himself could have been waiting to take my life once I walked out of that room, and I wouldn’t have flinched. That would just be all the sooner I could see Jesus face to face. Sometimes I longed for my heavenly home, to be physically present with God and leave the cares of this world behind. Can I get a witness?

I greeted Miss Jan with a big smile: “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Miss Smith. How are you today?” She matched my enthusiasm.

“Great!”

I waded through data and documents and students’ files and teacher absentee forms that morning. Nothing too stressful, just stuff that I’d saved for a rainy day. Since it was my birthday, I kept my calendar clear. The staff usually did something for me at some point during the day as part of the tradition.

Just after eleven, a small crowd gathered outside my interior window. I peeked through the blinds and saw Mrs. Harmon’s gospel chorus assembling along with Mr. Matthews and Mrs. Turner (sixth- and eighth-grade principals) and a few other teachers who were on conference.

“Get away from there!” Miss Jan scolded me. “This is supposed to be a surprise!”

I ran back to my inner office and waited with anticipation.

After the students were assembled, Miss Jan walked into my office and said with flair, “Ms. Smith, could you please come with me?”
The students were perfectly silent as they waited for the magic moment.

“Surprise!” they screamed. “Happy Birthday, Miss Smith!”

I put my hands up to my mouth and held my breath. “Thank you, guys!” Even though it wasn’t a surprise,
it
still felt good.

They sang Stevie Wonder’s version of “Happy Birthday,” and I swayed with them, acting as young as they were. It probably wasn’t what a vice principal was supposed to do, but I raised my hands in the air and swayed to the music. Mrs. Harmon almost knocked me over with a deliberate whack of her hips. She did
it
twice before I gave in to her cheerful persuasion and joined her in the bump. All the kids got a big kick out of it. Being in their midst reminded me how much I missed their youthful energy and the direct influence of being a classroom teacher. I hugged several kids and thanked them again for the serenade.

“Girl, you so crazy,” Mrs. Harmon said in a whisper. “You know we have absolutely no business out here doin’ the bump with all these white people around.”