Second House from the Corner (7 page)

As I maneuver my car back through the Lincoln Tunnel, my mind swerves. I thought downloading with Shayla would help me move on, but it has untied my system. Memories gush to the surface. It's as if someone has wrenched me open like a fire hydrant on a hot day.

It's hard to remember Martin without thinking about the Daddy Gracious Church. Gran was a fool of a fanatic back then. She worshipped Daddy Gracious like he was the Second Coming of Christ, going to church services five or six times a week. It was all one big charade to me.

The church was in the neck of South Philadelphia, less than a mile south of Rittenhouse Square. Before Sunday service, Daddy Gracious would start at Twentieth Street and cruise down Fitzwater in his long, white Cadillac convertible with the tomato-red interior. The top was always down, so that his shoulder-length press and curl blew with the wind. Martin, his driver, drove slowly enough for Daddy Gracious's drill team to keep up on both sides of the car and behind him. Everyone in the neighborhood knew his theme music, and the children came running when they heard the tambourines, drums, and horns. Flags, pom-poms, and batons moved through the air as dancers' feet stomped, twirled, and kept the rhythm. Sunday morning was more entertaining than late night television.

Daddy Gracious kept a cooler filled with ice-cold canned sodas in the backseat. As he passed the people in the street he would crack open a soda, sip it first, and then give it to the outstretched hands. Followers believed his lips were anointed, and the folks would line up for blocks, hoping to be blessed with a kissed can. By the time the entourage pulled in front of the storefront church at the corner of Sixteenth and Fitzwater, the music from the drill team would be thunderous. The trumpets blared, the drums would beat harder, and the choir stood singing on the curb with the doors of the church open.

“Here comes Daddy. Here he comes.” The singers' hips swayed. Teenage boys stood guard at the curb, and at Daddy Gracious's nod they would roll out this bright red carpet that only he could walk on.

But Daddy Gracious didn't walk. He tiptoed on high-heeled boots, much like the shoes Prince wore. Daddy glided across the red carpet, swinging his long lion's mane back and forth. His fingernails were long and curved like a predator's, and he wore a rich, white cape that swished and cracked the air when he moved.

“Give Him some praise. He's worthy. Now give Him some praise.”

When he entered the church, the whole congregation would jump to their feet. Daddy Gracious hoofed it down the aisle and then fell into his center pulpit chair. Two ushers would fan him until he caught his breath and was on his feet again. The show would continue until the audience was riled up and breathless.

Martin Dupree was always with Daddy Gracious, driving him around, standing as his bodyguard, and playing bass guitar in the church's band. He was thirteen years my senior and he was Billie Dee Williams in
Mahogany
fine, Brad Pitt in
Troy
fine, Denzel Washington in
Mo' Better Blues
fine. Every time I walked into church and saw him up in the pulpit rocking his instrument, my heart skipped a step. His gold-flecked white shirts stood out in the sea of bright white we were all required to wear. His hair swept away from his face in a fit of shiny black curls, hazel eyes, and thick lashes. Seemed like a sin to waste so much pretty on a man when so many women ran around the church looking like wet ducks.

Every Sunday, Gran made us sit in the same pew, fifth row from the front, left-hand side in the aisle, and as soon as I was seated I'd feel Martin staring at me from behind his dark shades. The small circular ones that seemed sewn on, because no matter how hard he plucked the strings of his bass guitar and rolled his instrument, the glasses never moved. When Martin and I would later bump around the back of Daddy Gracious's car, his frames stayed still then too.

Living with Gran had shamed me. Losing my parents had deadened me. But when those catlike eyes peered at me in a way that wasn't obvious to anyone but me, things inside of me came alive. My body was like the earth thawing after a long, harsh winter. Just a look from Martin made my throat curl toward him, and I inhaled until the thin material of my collared dress ballooned and my bra felt like it would burst. The first moment Martin called to me, I came in heat.

Gran was down on her knees praying hard and loud, no doubt for my salvation as well as her own sanity, when I snuck away from the carnival. By then Crystal had been excused from Sunday services on account of her job at Payless shoes in the Gallery mall. I was shocked when Gran allowed that, but Crystal was pregnant with little Derell, needed the money, and according to Gran couldn't be saved.

“That chile always had the devil in her. Don't you follow in her footsteps,” Gran would say, thumping her Bible at me. Crystal was crazy but it wasn't the devil. She was an ornery teenager with raging hormones and I would soon relate.

*   *   *

I was in the church corridor, dipping my head for a drink of water from the fountain. My hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and my white ensemble fit me well. When I came up wiping the dribbles with the back of my hand, Martin was there. Smelling like a dream. Smiling wide. Standing too close. Eyes lapping over my curves. Gran had finally let me wear shoes with a little heel to church, so I was tall enough to look up at Martin with my Cleopatra eyes.

“How are you today, Young Sister?”

“Fine.” I tried to back away but there was the concrete wall.

“You okay?”

I nodded. He kept his eyes on me until I gave him a shy grin and then looked down at my ankles.

“I wanted to give you something,” he whispered and then pressed a strip of paper into my hand. His thumb flicked against my palm, like a match to the striking surface. The friction turned my hormones inside out, and I leaked with love or lust or both. At fourteen, I didn't know the difference.

*   *   *

I kept the paper tucked in the bottom of my shoe until I reached my bedroom and could savor it alone. It simply read, in blue ink, “I'd like to get to know you better, Young Sister.” I blushed all week whenever I pulled the note from inside my pillowcase, where I kept it.

Next Sunday I sat in our pew trying to keep my nerves under control through all the hoopla that led up to the sermon. As soon as Daddy Gracious One said “Let us pray,” Martin nodded to me and walked toward the side door. I took that to mean he wanted me to follow. Gran's eyes were closed, so it was easy to get away. He waited for me at the fountain.

“You look pretty today,” he greeted me the first week. “Like your hair,” the next. By the third Sunday we had worked up to, “That dress is wearing you well, Young Sister.”

He always called me Young Sister. And I liked the way it sounded from his mouth. Like we were in the middle of a revolution and he recognized the part I played. On our fourth meeting we went from talking by the water fountain to leaving out the side door of the sanctuary.

“You want to see the inside?” Martin asked, with a wink at Daddy Gracious's car.

Everyone referred to his Cadillac as “that Fat Hog.” It was the finest thing in all of South Philadelphia, at least on the black side of town, which ranged from the trolley tracks down to Oregon Avenue. So asking me, a fourteen-year-old orphan girl, if she wanted to get inside the car when I was used to catching the bus, was like asking a kid if she wanted to board an airplane to Disney World with her twenty closest friends.

I followed him down the alley to where the car was parked. It was a cool day, so the top was up. Martin opened the door for me, and when I got inside, we were completely isolated. The leather was smooth against my back and easy to snuggle against. Martin turned the radio on and we sat next to each other. He hummed the song on the radio, something by Force MDs. I felt grown.

“You sure are pretty. Tender.” His smile gave me tremors and I didn't know what to do with my hands. I had dressed more thoughtfully since Martin began showing attention, wearing Crystal's low-cut blouse and a skirt with a split.

“You okay?” he touched my chin.

“Yeah.”

He dropped his hand on my thigh and I never wanted those shivers to stop.

*   *   *

Martin became all I could think about during the week, and the next Sunday I was the first one ready for church. Gran eyed me.

“What the devil's gotten into you?”

“Nothing, just didn't want to be the cause of us being late today. I know how important church is to you.” I didn't bat a lash.

Gran let the moment pass.

*   *   *

I imagined that Daddy Gracious loved to see the women holding themselves and falling all over the place in the name of the Lord. He kept them juicy with sweat, ripe and heavy, so that they could give it up at offering time. The ushers would pass the plates around while Daddy walked up and down the center aisle, punctuating each thought with a whip of his cape.

“Don't put nothing in the basket that jingles, now. Don't hurt Daddy's ears.”
Whip.
“Give the Lord something that folds. And you'll be blessed now.”
Whip, whip.
“Daddy's got sensitive ears, now. Make sure you give something soft.”
Whip, whip, whip.
He'd give a swivel of the hips and then return to the pulpit. Nothing ever rattled in those plates. Even the broke folk put in dollars.

After the collection, the congregation would pray over the money. But I never prayed. I had my eyes on Martin, eager for his signal to sneak away.

*   *   *

We were two months into hanging out in “that Fat Hog.” The clouds were drizzling, and I was glad that I had pulled my hair into a tight bun so it wouldn't frizz up. Martin opened the door and then was beside me with one hand on my thigh, working the radio station with the other. We didn't talk much, but the chemistry was connective. Martin stopped fiddling at a Keith Sweat song. Our time together was limited, and Martin seemed to advance on me more each week. I knew where we were heading, but I didn't stop him. Little beads of drizzle pitter-pattered against the window while his hand moved to the top of my pantyhose. When I didn't push his hand away, his head moved in close and I could smell Doublemint gum. I tilted my head and he kissed me. His fingers were cold on my belly, then caressing the rim of my panties, before his whole hand curved down my pelvis into my mess of hair. His fingers played my delicate spots like a melody on his guitar, soft and sweet, then long and hard. I was sweating under my clothes. With Martin I was gone. When he was around I didn't have space to think, to breathe, which made it impossible to do anything but what he wanted. I rocked my hips to melt into his rhythm. I moved my butt back in the seat and tilted forward so that his finger could go deeper, and then the sensation was building and needed to be released and I let it. I reached out for the dashboard to steady myself. This time the orgasm ricocheted through my entire body. My forehead was wet and I when I finished gasping I was washed in shame.

I worried that Martin would think differently of me, but when he moved his fingers from my panties he pulled me to his chest, kissed my forehead, and whispered.

“You're almost ready.”

The next week Martin used two fingers, removed my left breast from my bra, and pulled on it with his teeth until I thought I would lose my sanity. When he went back to the pulpit to play, I sat in the bathroom until I felt normal. I couldn't get enough of that feeling that Martin gave me. During the week, I'd wait for Crystal to leave for work so I could run to the room we shared and touch myself, pretending that my hands were Martin's. Once I had discovered the release, I couldn't make myself stop. All I wanted was to feel myself shake and come undone. It wasn't the same without Martin but it was enough to hold me over until the sermon started.

By now Martin had taken me to first and second base. I wasn't sure about third, but I was okay with skipping it and heading straight for the home run. That Sunday Gran had her eye on me. She hadn't slipped into her coma-like state. Instead, she kept passing me her Bible, telling me to look up passages. When I said I had to go to the bathroom, she clucked her tongue.

“Hold it. Show Daddy Gracious some respect.”

I saw Martin slip out, and it was all I could do not to disobey Gran. The next week I had my period, so I didn't go to church. I told Gran my cramps were so bad I couldn't get out of the bed. By the last Sunday of the month I was craving Martin like a marathon runner thirsty for fluids.

Gran was good into church that week and was down on her knees before Daddy started up. I was up and out the door before Martin and had to wait for him in the alley. As soon as I saw him, he kissed me full on the lips like I was a woman. Didn't even wait until we got in the car.

He turned the music on, let whatever station was on play, and then his hands was all over me. I could tell he was trying to control himself. I wanted the pleasure from him so bad my toes tingled. Martin slipped one finger, then two, eased them in and out, in and out, in and out, deeper, deeper, and just when I felt myself coming apart, he stopped.

“What?” I asked, big worried eyes, like I did something wrong.

He unzipped his pants and put my hand on his erection. I told him I had never seen or touched a man's part.

“I want to stick it in,” he whispered. “I'll take it slow.”

My mind went to spying on Crystal and Big Derell humping in the basement. The back of the preacher's car wasn't my idea of the ideal spot to lose my virginity, but I would do anything for Martin. Martin slid me underneath him, pushing my legs apart, and then lowered himself inside me, with the same slow technique he had been using with his fingers. When his skin broke into mine, it wasn't what I was expecting. It hurt so bad but felt so good. Mixed emotions poured through me. It was all I could do to keep my scream trapped between my teeth and tongue. The leather seats squeaked as the car rocked, his sweat pouring on top of me. He grunted and I felt fire, splitting fire, and I wanted to tell him to stop but he held me so tight I felt smothered with love. More love than I felt in the three years since my daddy took my mommy. And I clung to him for dear life, praying it would never end. But it did. Badly.