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Authors: Vanessa Davis Griggs

BOOK: The Other Side of Goodness
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Chapter 15
For thus saith the Lord of hosts: Yet once, it is a little while, and I will shake the heavens, and the earth, and the sea, and the dry land.
—Haggai 2:6
 
 
 
“S
o, where do you know Miss Gabrielle from?” Paris said as soon as she and Andrew stepped back into their house. She'd pretty much given Andrew the silent treatment from the hospital to the door that led from their garage to their kitchen. It had been relatively easy to be silent since they'd gone to see their friend's child and stayed only fifteen minutes after leaving Gabrielle. Paris detested going to hospitals to visit anyone. And it was even worse visiting children, because the parents usually sat looking sad and the children were too sick to interact with at all.
“Who said I know her from anywhere?” Andrew headed straight to the refrigerator, opened it, and looked inside.
“There's nothing in there,” Paris said. “I don't even know why you bother looking. I need to buy groceries, but you know how much I detest grocery shopping.”
“Yeah,” Andrew said. “I know. I asked you if you wanted to stop anywhere on our way home tonight.”
“I heard you. But in case you didn't notice: I wasn't talking to you.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” Andrew went over to the drawer with the restaurant menus in it and opened it. He pulled out the stack. “So, what do you feel like eating tonight?”
“I don't
feel
like eating anything. What I
want
is an answer to my question.”
“I gave you an answer.” Andrew let the menus he wasn't interested in fall onto the counter. “How about Indian tonight?”
“How about you answer my question about Gabrielle?” Paris stomped over and snatched the menus he still held out of his hand. “I saw the way you two exchanged looks. It's just like it was when she was living with me that time.”
“Oh, the two of you lived together at one time?” Andrew laughed a little. “Who knew? You two definitely don't appear to be anything alike, not enough to live together.”
“And you would know that
how
?” Paris put her hand on her hip. “Because you certainly wouldn't be able to determine what she's like just from that brief how-de-do we just had.”
“How-de-do?” He tapped her on her nose. “You are so cute. Now, what do you have a taste for? Because you know it's going to be another forty-five minutes to an hour before whatever we order arrives. The sooner I call it in—”
“I don't care about any food right now!” She slammed the menus she held in her hand onto the counter. “I would like a straight answer from you. It's obvious you and Gabrielle know each other. I'm just interested in knowing from where?”
Andrew picked up one of the menus he'd let fall to the counter. “You like Chinese food, so I'll just order Chinese.”
“My goodness! Are you even listening to me? I'm telling you . . . this is just like it was when she stayed at my apartment that time. I don't know why she has to always want whatever I have. It's pitiful that her pathetic little life is so miserable that she has to find a way to drink from the same fountain I draw my water from.”
“Paris, why don't you stop being so dramatic? You're always making a garden out of a seed.” Andrew went over to the cordless phone and took it out of its base.
“And you are always so corny when you think you're being clever. You stole that from the sermon our pastor preached the other Sunday when he was talking about making a garden out of a seed in his series on sowing and reaping. But I'm telling you, Andrew: I saw the way the two of you looked at each other.” Paris snatched the phone out of his hand. “And what was that slipup of your name she made and thought nobody caught? Yes, I most certainly caught it,
Drew
!”
“You're tripping for real now.” He gently took the phone back from her. “If you don't want anything to eat, then I'll just order what I want.” He stopped a second. “On second thought, you know what? Since I'm going to get what I want, I think I'll go get myself a real hamburger . . . and some onion rings.” He set the phone back in its base.
“Don't you dare leave! We're in the middle of an argument and we're not finished yet.”
He walked over to her and softly kissed her on her nose. “Yes . . . we are. You've put me on the stand. You've cross-examined me. Now you need to rest your case, Counselor, and stop this nonsense before you end up saying something you're likely to regret later.”
Paris stomped her foot down hard. “I hate you! Do you hear me? You make me sick!”
“Okay,” Andrew said. “I'll pick you up something while I'm out.”
“I mean it, Andrew. If you leave now, then don't bother coming back tonight.”
“French fries for you,” he said as he walked toward the door that led to the garage. “And no mayo and no onions on your burger. You hate onions. I'll be back shortly.”
“Andrew! You come back here! Do you hear me! You'd better not leave!”
Andrew closed the door behind him. She heard his car when it cranked, the garage door as it went up and down when he left.
“Ugh!” Paris yelled. “I hate you!” She threw the menus at the kitchen door, found Gabrielle's business card in her purse, tore it up, and threw it in the trash. She then marched up the stairs to her bedroom, flung herself onto the bed, and yelled again, “I
really
hate you! Sometimes!”
Chapter 16
Ye have sown much, and bring in little; ye eat, but ye have not enough; ye drink, but ye are not filled with drink; ye clothe you, but there is none warm; and he that earneth wages earneth wages to put it into a bag with holes.
—Haggai 1:6
 
 
 
A
fter scooting out of the taxi and paying her tab, Paris walked quickly to the side door. She thought about using her key, but decided it was too much trouble to look for it and easier to just ring the doorbell. Pressing the lighted button, she waited a minute before pressing the button again. Not even thirty seconds later, she was pressing it repeatedly—one right after the other. “Come on!” she said as she pressed the doorbell button again and again.
The side door that opened into the garage before the door that opened to the kitchen flung open. Fifteen-year-old Courtney Imani Simmons (who everybody called Imani) now stood with one hand on her hip and an attitude to match. “I was coming! You didn't have to live on the doorbell.”
“Well, it was taking you too long,” Paris said to her little sister as she brushed past her and headed for the opened door that led right into the kitchen. “Where's Mom?”
Imani closed the outside door, walked through the kitchen door, and closed it behind her. “She's out . . . on a date.”
Paris stopped, turned around, and looked hard at Imani. “Out on a date? A date with whom?”
Imani walked on ahead of Paris and sat down on the barstool at the kitchen counter. “With Dad.”
Paris stood next to her sister. “Dad who?”
“Girl, stop acting. Dad took Mom out to dinner and who knows where else.”
“You're talking about
our
dad? So what kind of political function did he drag her to
this
time?”
Imani smiled. “Oh, it was nothing political. They went on a
date
date . . . just the two of them. Well, at least that's what Mom told me it was, right before she left.”
“Well, you and I both know that if Dad took Mom anywhere, it wasn't to anything that she cared about. He never takes her anywhere unless it somehow benefits him or his objective.” Paris went to the refrigerator and looked inside.
“Why do you always come over here raiding our refrigerator? Do you
ever
have any food at your own house? Besides milk, cereal, and eggs, that is.”
Paris took out a pan with a roast in it. “Why don't you mind your own business? I have just as much right to eat here as you do.”
“No . . . you don't. You have your own house. You're grown, remember? At least, that's what you say when anybody tries to tell you something you don't like or care to hear. So why don't you go grocery shopping and cook sometimes yourself instead of coming over here eating up all our stuff?”
Paris set the pan on the counter, then went back and retrieved the bowl of whole potatoes swimming in butter and fresh herbs. Her mother made the best potatoes. She took a dinner plate out of the cabinet. “Do you want any while I'm warming this up?”
“No.” Imani took out her cell phone and started texting.
“You do know that it's rude to do that while someone is talking to you, don't you?” Paris put a few of the thinly sliced roast pieces onto the plate before scooping up two spoonfuls of potatoes.
“Well, it's not like you came over here to see me.” Imani continued with her texting. “You came to see Mom and I just happened to be all you have right now.” Imani carefully set her cell phone down on the brown granite countertop.
Paris put her plate in the microwave and pressed the QUICK START button to heat her food. She turned back to Imani. “So . . . how's school?”
“School's okay.”
“Do you have a new boyfriend yet?” Paris stood by the microwave as she looked on at her sister.
Imani burst into a huge grin. “I know Malachi already told you.”
“I haven't talked to Malachi in almost three weeks. Our brother is apparently too busy and too important to talk to me much these days.” Malachi Everett Simmons was their twenty-six-year-old charmer of a brother. “You know with him being a business administration graduate with a master's degree who just happened to graduate at the top of his class, a highfalutin banker now, and lest we forget, God's gift to women—”
Imani laughed. “Oh, you're just jealous.”
The microwave beeped. Paris took out her plate that had smoke rising from it and sat next to her baby sister. “Jealous of who?”
“It's jealous of
whom.
Not jealous of who.”
Having forgotten her utensils, Paris got up and got a knife and a fork out of the cabinet drawer, then came and sat back down. “You're just like Dad; always correcting somebody.” Paris bowed her head and said a two-second prayer.
“You know you didn't actually pray,” Imani said. “I don't know why you're always pretending.”
“You don't know what I did.” Paris used her knife to cut the whole red potato into smaller pieces.
“I know that it takes longer than two seconds if you're really saying grace over your food.”
Paris waved the now fork-speared potato at her sister. “Whatever,
Courtney.
”
Imani's countenance instantly changed from the smile she'd just had to a glower. “Don't you start, Paris! I'm not playing with you!”
Paris giggled. “What?” She speared another bite of potato, twirled her fork in a dance-like movement, then placed the potato in her mouth.
“Don't start calling me Courtney.”
“Well, it
is
your name. Isn't it?
Courtney
Imani Simmons.”
Imani stood up. “You and Dad really get on my nerves with that.”
“What nerves?” Paris laughed. “You're not old enough to have nerves, at least not real nerves that count yet.”
Imani started out of the kitchen.
“Hey! Where are you going? Oh, come back, Imani,” Paris shouted after her. “I'm sorry!”
Imani stopped, but remained facing away from Paris.
“I'm sorry. Okay? I didn't know that was such a touchy subject with you.” Imani tilted her head slightly but still kept her back to Paris. “Come on back over here and sit by me.”
Imani turned around. “You promise you're not going to aggravate me anymore?”
“Well now, I can't promise you all of
that
. I mean, you
are
my little sister, and by that virtue alone, I'm sure I'll end up doing
something
that will aggravate you. But I promise not to play with your name like that if you feel that strongly about it. But why do you get so upset with being called Courtney? I mean: It
is
your name. And it's your real first name, not your middle name.”
Imani walked back over to the barstool and sat down. “I'm just tired of Dad making my name into a political football. Ever since I've been born, everybody has called me Imani. But during this reelection campaign especially, Dad has decided I have to go by the name Courtney instead of Imani. How would you like it if someone were to tell you that you're now going to be called Elizabeth instead of Paris after we've called you Paris all of
your
life? Like your name isn't good enough. So now you have to go by a different one because your father is ashamed of you.”
“Girl, Dad is
not
ashamed of you
or
your name.” But Paris did know that her mother had wanted to name her little sister Imani and her father had wanted to go with Courtney. So as a compromise, they named her Courtney Imani, but agreed they would call her Imani.
“If he's not ashamed, then why, when he sends out his political stuff, does he list my name as Courtney instead of Imani? My friends don't have a clue
who
he's talking about. They tease me and ask if I'm really his child or worse: Does he have an illegitimate child he's acknowledging over me. It's embarrassing, I'm telling you. And it hurts. A lot.”
Paris leaned over and hugged Imani. “I'm sorry. I understand better now why you're upset. But you see: Dad's under a lot of pressure this election time around. It's because of how much things have changed. He now has to appeal to the more
conservative
sector of the election population.”
“You mean white people.”
Paris pulled back a tad. “Well, you don't have to put it quite that blunt.”
“But it's true. I overheard him and his little lapdog William talking about how the name Imani is just a tad
too
ethnic. Talking about Imani makes white folks uncomfortable and think about Kwanzaa, and Kwanzaa makes them think African, and African makes them think that they don't even want to give this person any consideration. So
they
decided that using the name Courtney instead of Imani will make
us
more acceptable to folks who might otherwise not be interested in voting for a black man.” Imani leaned down and rested her chin on her fists propped up by her elbows. “Do you know how much hearing something like that hurts? I'm so tired of racism! I just wish folks would stop it! God hates it and everybody just needs to stop it!”
“I can imagine it hurts. But you shouldn't take what Dad and William do personal. That's just Dad being Dad.” Paris put her last piece of potato in her mouth. “He feels like he's sown much but brought in little to show for it, even after all these years of serving in government. But if it makes you feel any better, Dad is making all of us conform to some kind of image he feels is acceptable. Me, I have to be the good supportive wife who's using her spare time volunteering to work in soup kitchens.”
Paris got up, took down a glass, got crushed ice, and poured some soda from the two-liter bottle sitting on the counter. “Then there's Malachi who has to tone down his womanizing ways, or at least be sure he's not involved in some kind of dustup the news can use. Mom has to lose weight around this time, even though they go to more eating functions than ever. She has to be the perfect arm candy and keep smiling when she attends all of those stupid functions with all of those phony people that Dad drags her to. And you . . . you, dear little sister, sort of get off easy. You just have to stay out of trouble, which you should be doing regardless of what Dad is doing, and allow Dad to refer to you as Courtney instead of Imani for his campaign junk.”
Imani laughed. “You're crazy.”
“Yeah. That's probably true. But what do you expect? I've had to live this life a lot longer than you. And that, Imani, is why I keep telling you to get a good education and get away from this place as soon as you can. Oh, and try to get a scholarship so you can go to California or somewhere distant like that. Because I'll tell you right now, if Dad has to pay for your college, you're going to find yourself right here, just like me and Malachi had to end up doing. And you'll never escape.”
“Well, you
are
an adult now. You have a husband. You could move anywhere you want.”
Paris took a swallow of soda. “Yeah. And if you believe that, then I have an iPad3 I'd like to sell you for thirty-nine dollars.”
“There's no iPad3. There's not even an iPad2 yet, although there's talk of it coming in a year or two, most likely in 2011.” Imani went and got a glass, poured herself some soda, and sat back down.
“Oh, but it's coming. You see . . . that's why it's good to get in while the getting is good. You don't want to be like folks who earn money, then put their money in a bag with holes in it.”
“Well, if I take you up on the iPad3 offer, that's exactly what I'd be doing: putting my money in a bag with holes. And one thing we Simmons girls can't be accused of and that's being stupid.” Imani's cell phone began to sing.
Paris smiled. “And that's
just
why I'm here. Andrew apparently didn't get
that
memo. I'm
not
stupid.” But Imani didn't hear any of what Paris said, not that Paris had said it for her to hear. Imani had already jumped down from the barstool and was talking excitingly, about what sounded to Paris as a lot to do about nothing, to one of her little girlfriends.

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