I Left My Back Door Open (3 page)

Maybe Sharon had finally found Mr. Right. But why would I wig out about that? Maybe he was white, or half her age. I wouldn't trip on his color, if he were a nice guy. After all, didn't Sharon say that any of the black men in Seattle went for white women? I'd heard that was generally the case in the western states. What was a sista to do?

I
would
be a tiny bit judgmental if Sharon were dating someone young enough to be her son. I'd just have to wait and find out when I picked her up at the airport next week.

I stared at the stainless-steel refrigerator door, covered with picture magnets, comic strips and my niece's and nephews' artwork. I was determined not to open the refrigerator. It was always a struggle, but nights were the worst. Langston rubbed up against my leg and purred. Cats are very sensitive. They can tune into your emotions, when they want to. I held Langston up in front of me and delivered my speech.

“If I could only stop eating at night, I could lose some of this behind. If I could only stop eating at night, my bra straps wouldn't dig into my shoulders to support my D cups and leave painful marks. If I could only stop eating at night, my thighs wouldn't play patty-cake with each other and stick together on hot days. If I could only stop eating at night, I wouldn't have to attach a rubber band through the buttonhole of last year's pants, so I can still fasten them.”

Maybe the day will come when I can even tuck my shirts and blouses inside my pants and skirts
, I thought. Naah, that was going too far. I would probably never have a flat stomach again.

“But just maybe I can remove the tire from around my waist.” I sighed as Langston wriggled free and jumped to the floor.

These were my dreams. And I knew that they were achievable if I drank my bottled water and went to bed. But, of course, I didn't, because I hadn't forgotten how good cold pizza tasted, especially when you washed it down with leftover birthday cake, potato chips and beer.

two

“Marriage is like flies on a screen!” the preacher shouted, pausing to wipe the sweat from his shiny, brown forehead. “Follow me now,” he instructed.

“Break it on down, Reverend,” an older man in the large congregation shouted back.

I sat with Sarita, her husband Phil and their nine-year-old son Jason in Glorious Kingdom Baptist Church.

“I said, marriage is like flies on a screen,” the minister repeated.

There was a chorus of “Amens” as people fanned themselves in the crowded church.

“I'm gon' say it again,” the preacher insisted, raising his eyebrows.

“Yassuh!”

“I said, I'm gonna say it one more time,” Reverend Stewart yelled, holding up his index finger. “And this time, I'm gonna say it with feeling.”

“Take your time, Reverend!”

“I'm gonna say it like I mean it!” The minister clapped and danced away from the podium in his black robe.

“Preach, Reverend, Preach!”

“Stick with me, now.” The pastor gazed at the congregation as if we were on the brink of some important discovery.

“Come on, Reverend. Bring it on home now!”

“Marriage is like flies on a screen! Some can't wait to get out!” The pastor balled his fists and imitated the posture of a runner, twisting his body to one side. “And some can't wait to get in!” he shouted, twisting to the other side. “Now, can I get a witness?”

Several large, gaily dressed sistas leapt out of their seats and waved their hands. Sarita had been right. Almost none of the women in the congregation looked like they'd ever missed a meal, including Sarita.

“When you build a house,” Reverend Stewart continued, raising his arms to call for the congregation's attention, “you don't build it outta sand.” He shook his balding head. “No, because the first high tide will wash it away. And when you build a house, you don't build it outta straw.” Reverend Stewart shook his head again. “No, because fire can easily destroy it. You build your house outta something strong, something durable, something that will stand the test of time.” He pounded his fist in the air, then added with a smile, “And, by the same token, you build a marriage on something solid, if you want it to last.” Reverend Stewart tucked his lips in and nodded his head solemnly. “You build your marriage on the Rock of Ages.”

The minister cupped his hands as if he were holding a large rock.

“Amen, Reverend, Amen!”

“You build a marriage on faith in God.”

“Preach, Reverend, preach!”

“Because, through God, all things are possible!” Reverend Stewart saluted with his fist.

“Yes, Lawd!”

“Hallelujah now!”

“Let the church say amen!”

“Amen!!!!!!!!”

The organist pounded away and a soloist stepped forward and belted out, “Jesus Is All the Man I Need.” I scouted the room for husband material, just the same. But after you eliminated the probable gays in the choir, the elderly, the married and the ones too homely for words, there wasn't much to choose from. I turned my attention back to the service.

When visitors were asked to stand, I made the mistake of introducing myself as an ex-member of the church. I didn't think twice about it, until another woman described herself as a
former
member, a minute later. I cringed with embarrassment. I was convinced that the parishioners were thinking that I must really be doing the devil's work, calling myself an
ex
-member, making it sound like they were a cult or something and I'd been deprogrammed.

What made it worse, Sarita told me that last Sunday, when they asked if anyone had somebody that they wanted the church to pray for, her son Jason had jumped up. And to her astonishment, he'd said in a loud, clear voice, “I'd like the church to pray for my play auntie, Daphne Joy Dupree.”

Sarita said that Phil whispered loudly, “What's wrong with Dee Dee?” She said that people who knew me shot
her
concerned looks. They probably figured that it must really be hush-hush, if the child was the only one who had the nerve to speak out.

Jason refused to give an explanation for his strange request. I felt it behooved me to be in attendance this Sunday so that at least people could see that I looked healthy and had a smile on my face. But on some level, it made me nervous, having a child asking the church to pray for me. I hoped that it was childhood innocence and not some psychic intuition of Jason's.

Other than worrying about looking happy and healthy, my mind was pretty much at peace. There was a feeling of reverence in the church that I'd grown to appreciate. Especially these days, it felt good to be surrounded by people who purposed right. The singing alone was reason enough to come to church more often. But I was especially moved by the testifying. Folks told their stories before the congregation and I felt a sense of community that I hadn't experienced in a long time. I was all the way home.

After church, back at Sarita's house, Jason asked me to retrieve a ball that had gotten lost in the tall weeds next door. Neither his father nor his mother would be bothered with such a task. But I agreed, because that was what play aunties were for. However, I did wonder why Jason didn't just go over and get the ball himself. I knew the house was abandoned and the weeds were waist-high, but I didn't think there were snakes in the grass.

Sarita and I sat on her plastic-covered sofa, sipping cold lemonade. Phil was draped across one of the chairs. Jason was upstairs, changing out of his church clothes. This living room was so different from mine: full of white, overstuffed furniture, fake marble tables and gaudy art pieces.

“So, Dee Dee, what you driving these days?” Phil asked, standing up. Even though he was past forty, people still mistook him for a basketball player. In actuality, Phil was a barber and Sarita was a dental hygienist. They'd married right after high school. They had two grown daughters who were working and going to college in Atlanta.

“You know, my Honda Accord,” I answered.

“She bought it last summer, remember?” Sarita added,

“Well, if I don't see it out there, I'll come back in and let you know,” Phil teased, his eyes twinkling.

“It's five years old, I bought it used.”

“It might still be out there, then.” Phil winked. “Although they say, business is pretty brisk in the chop shops.”

“Don't let Phil scare you,” Sarita said, straightening a pillow. The house was immaculate, as usual, but Sarita was always straightening things. “Your car will probably be all right,” she assured me. At least she was relaxed about
something
.

“Dee Dee!” Jason rushed into the living room, carrying a copy of his
Boy's Life
magazine. “Why did Cinderella get kicked off the Little League team?”

“Kids still like riddles. That's something that hasn't changed.” I smiled.

“Guess, Dee Dee, guess,” Jason begged.

“We already know the answer,” Sarita informed me.

“I don't know. I can't guess. So, tell me, why did Cinderella get kicked off the Little League team?”

“Because she kept running away from the ball!” Jason burst out laughing.

“That's cute,” I said, chuckling.

“You made me forget to pick up the paper,” Sarita fussed at Phil.

“How did
I
make you forget?” Phil protested.

“Because I was thinking about it when we were in the car, and you started talking about the grass needed watering.”

“So, I can't even open my mouth. I'm supposed to be a mind reader.” Phil sighed. “I tell you, it's rough being a man,” he said, patting Jason's head.

“I thought you were going to cut Jason's hair.” Sarita frowned. “You knew I wanted it cut for church. Dee Dee doesn't see him that often. He could at least look presentable.”

“Sarita, you trippin',” I said. “I like his little 'fro.”

“So, that's what this is really about,” Phil said, holding his hands up in the air. “It's not about the newspaper, it's about Jason's hair.” Phil pointed both index fingers. “Or is it really about PMS?”

“Don't go there,” Sarita warned.

“What's PMS?” Jason asked.

“Never mind.”

“It's when a man thinks the conversation is about ABC, but it's really about MNOP,” Phil said, rolling his eyes.

“You should learn to have the whole alphabet at your disposal then,” Sarita snapped.

“I have a riddle,” Phil said to no one in particular. “If a man says something in a forest and a woman doesn't hear it, is he still wrong?”

“That's pretty good.” I smiled.

Jason looked puzzled and Sarita cut her eyes.

“Bring back a
Sun-Times
,” Sarita yelled as Phil waved good-bye and ducked into the hallway.

“Bring back some ice cream!” Jason added.

I changed into some of Sarita's old clothes and joined her and Jason in the kitchen. Sarita was shaking chicken around in a brown paper bag.

“Dee Dee, if you're gonna go over in that yard, watch out for needles,” she cautioned.

“Needles?” I repeated. “
No comprendo
.”

“Syringes,” she explained behind a cloud of flour dust. Then I remembered that the house next door had been on the verge of becoming a crack house, until Sarita and Phil got the city to board it up.

I waded gingerly into the tall, sunburned weeds and poked around the discarded forty-ounce malt liquor and cheap wine bottles with a broomstick. I soon spotted the football in the midst of the debris.

“I see it! Come on over and I'll pass it to you, Jace,” I yelled at his skinny figure in the next yard.

“No,” Jason refused, clutching the other side of the chain-link fence. “I ain't coming over there. I might get kilt!”

I remembered that when I was visiting at Easter, Phil was washing fresh blood off the sidewalk. Unfortunately, sometimes blood came with the territory. Sarita told me that she'd recently become apprehensive about venturing into the business district, even in the daytime. Last month, she and Jason were walking home from the post office, when they heard shooting. They'd instinctively fallen to the ground, like soldiers in a war. I grieved for the childhood Jason would never have. And for all of those like him, who no longer said, “When I grow up …” but, “If I grow up …” I grabbed the ball and hurried out of the yard

This is what Sarita wanted me to come back to. I sighed. She wouldn't even let Jason play in his own backyard unless she had her eye on him. She was afraid he'd get lured away or run off to explore. Jason
should
know the freedom of riding a bike against the wind, I thought. He
should
be out in the alley, playing kick ball, or shooting marbles in the dirt. Jason
should
be able to play the games we used to play, like Captain May I and One-Two-Three, Red Light. He should be ducking behind trees and garbage cans and hiding underneath porches because he's playing Hide-and-Seek, not because bullets are flying around with no names on them.

I felt sorry for Jason, even though he had all the latest electronic games. His childhood was so different from mine. We simply asked, “Mama, can we go out?” And she usually said, “Yeah, just be home for dinner.” Or, “Be in when the streetlights come on.”

We played Rock School on late summer nights, when Mama said, “Stay on the steps.” I wondered if Jason had ever balled up his fists and asked someone to guess which one a rock was hidden in.

I knew that there was still some heart left in this community. I wasn't an ignorant outsider. I was from around here. I knew that the majority of people living in the aging brick two- and three-flat buildings, bungalows and occasional frame houses were decent, hard-working law-abiding people. When somebody died, maybe neighbors no longer filled the family's home with food and kindness like twenty or more years ago, but some people still looked out for each other. Phil shoveled elderly folks' walks and put down salt to melt the snow. And Sarita had coaxed shut-ins to open their windows during last summer's heat wave. Many of the elderly were more afraid of the rising crime rate than soaring temperatures. Too bad people had to live like caged birds. They deserved better, and I remembered better.