Falling Into Grace (9 page)
Read Falling Into Grace Online
Authors: Michelle Stimpson
One painful step after another, Camille plodded back to her bedroom. The creaky mattress begged for a replacement. Her faux down comforter also needed a successor since Camille had experimented with washing it in the gentle cycle rather than spending extra cash to have it dry-cleaned. Actually, the stale scent of her sheets advised Camille she needed to get to the washateria soon.
Hope I have enough coins and washing powder.
Hope I have enough coins and washing powder.
She settled her head into the pillow and took one last look ahead. There, on the night stand, was the book from Alexis, which Camille still hadn't cracked open. Camille was a singer, not a reader. Like most people, Alexis had given the type of gift
she
wanted to receiveânot what the recipient desired.
she
wanted to receiveânot what the recipient desired.
“Well,” Camille told herself, “it's the thought that counts.”
CHAPTER 11
W
illie Nevils used to have A-plus credit. So did Mattie. Never a missed bill, never a lapse in phone service. God had been good to Alexis's parents. Though they were far from rich, Alexis couldn't remember a time when her parents had said they couldn't give her something she wanted or needed because they couldn't afford it. They might have said, “You're not old enough yet,” or, “Let's see what your report card looks like,” but no hint that money was a deciding factor. In fact, Alexis had been shocked the first time she heard someone at school talk about their lights being turned off.
illie Nevils used to have A-plus credit. So did Mattie. Never a missed bill, never a lapse in phone service. God had been good to Alexis's parents. Though they were far from rich, Alexis couldn't remember a time when her parents had said they couldn't give her something she wanted or needed because they couldn't afford it. They might have said, “You're not old enough yet,” or, “Let's see what your report card looks like,” but no hint that money was a deciding factor. In fact, Alexis had been shocked the first time she heard someone at school talk about their lights being turned off.
“What do you mean
off
?” she had asked, wide-eyed.
off
?” she had asked, wide-eyed.
Michelle Stars, one of the smartest girls in first grade, enlightened Alexis. “Like when you turn on the light switch, the light doesn't come on.”
“Oh.” Alexis had sighed with relief. “You just have to change the lightbulb.”
“No, silly.” Michelle laughed and pushed her dirty blond bangs behind her ears. “There's no electricity in my house. Nothing works. Not even the TV.”
Horror ripped through Alexis's tiny frame. “Why not?”
“Because my mom didn't pay the bill.”
“Why didn't she pay the bill?”
“'Cause we don't have enough money.”
Aside from the fact that she'd never heard of such a predicament, Alexis pondered in awe before asking her next question. “Doesn't your mom have a job?”
“Yes, she works, but when she got her check, she didn't have enough money still.”
“What about your dad?”
“I don't have a dad.”
Alexis decided she'd better stop asking this girl questions because, in a minute, Michelle might confess to being from outer space.
Everyone
had a daddy, unless they were some kind of alien.
Everyone
had a daddy, unless they were some kind of alien.
The Nevils family bubble had been a soft, happy space. At the end of Alexis's private school elementary education, she entered public school and her teen years simultaneously. Only then did she begin to see how cruel people could be. They lied, cheated, and stole. Boys fought, girls got pregnant. Most teachers sat behind their desks reading newspapers while the students did nothing more than copy definitions from a dictionary or answer the questions at the end of a chapter.
Her only saving grace was choir. School choir, church choir, community choir, didn't matter. Alexis seized every opportunity to sing, and her parents supported her efforts. She'd even earned a partial scholarship to Stephen F. Austin State University in Texas.
Of course, the Nevilses hadn't been too happy about sending their baby girl hundreds of miles away, but Alexis was itching to try her wings. Too bad they didn't work quite as well as she'd wanted them to. Academically, college was no trouble. The social aspect, however, disheartened Alexis. Her roommate, Dionna, robbed her blind and broke every dorm rule possible. Frightened by one of Dionna's boyfriend's advances, Alexis had asked for a new roommate, which, of course, led to what everyone called “snitching.”
Dionna's imitation “sorority” sisters had it in for Alexis after that. The Kitty Phi Sleepers, an unauthorized, newly formed social club, wore red and black and couldn't really decide if they were supposed to be little sisters to the Alphas or the Kappas. Just depended on which frat had the most liquor on any given night.
Anyway, their club/gang put Alexis on the hit list. One of them even keyed her car. Campus security acted like their hands were tied without solid proof. Halfway into the second semester, Alexis was ready to drop out, move back home with her parents in St. Louis, and transfer her fifteen hours to a community college. She'd live with Momma and Daddy as long as possible if it meant safety from bullies and irrational people.
Again, the only reason she'd remained at the college for as long as she did was the choir. She couldn't let them down. In their own little geeky way, they had bonded. Not that any of them had her back with Dionna's crew, but at least she had some kind of haven from all the madness.
When her choir director, Mr. Allen, told her about an audition for a female singing group in Houston, Alexis had jumped at the opportunity. She didn't call her parents to seek counsel. Honestly, Alexis didn't think it would amount to much. The world was filled with so many professionally trained singers who had spent their lives connected to microphone stands, Alexis presumed the small-time audition would just be a life experience she could learn from, something to tell the grandkids about.
Mr. Allen must have thought the same thing, too, because he hadn't planned on being at the studio all day. “Alexis, I'm going to have to come back for you. Call me when you're ready. Good luck!”
Turned out, Mr. Allen was nowhere to be found at nine thirty. Alexis ended up hitching a ride back to her dorm with strangersâCamille and her brother, Courtney.
A week later, Camille was more like a cousin, Tonya a sister. And Kyra ... well, she was the crazy aunt Alexis never had. Kyra got into a huge fracas with one of Dionna's friends at a social event on the college campus Alexis had invited them to. The bad news: Kyra lost four braids and an earring in the scuffle. The good news: Dionna's people now thought Alexis had some kind of backup, especially after Kyra threatened to “come back and bust a cap in everybody up in here wearin' a red and black shirt!” This threat, of course, was followed by a load of expletives only an experienced cusser could skillfully handle. That kind of profanity was not to be tried at home.
Afterward, a security officer had questioned Alexis about the young lady who'd made a terroristic threat.
“I don't know her all that well. She's a girl I sang with a few times,” Alexis had bent the truth.
Kyra's hair-trigger attitude might have violated campus and perhaps federal policy, but Alexis wasn't about to mess up the best protection plan she had going. Besides, where was security when
she
needed them?
she
needed them?
The decision to take a semester off from school to establish Sweet Treats didn't go over well with her parents, to say the least. They fussed and stomped, threatened and warned. Alexis was not hearing them.
She realized now that if her parents hadn't been distracted and monetarily stretched in their efforts to underwrite Thomas's issues with T. J., they would have driven to Texas and dragged eighteen-year-old Alexis back, boo-hooing all the way.
The situation with their grandson, however, took precedence. He had managed to get himself all tangled up in a life-or-death court case. Thomas didn't want to leave his son's fate to a free attorney. Wouldn't be able to live with himself if T. J. got the death penalty. The cheapest independent lawyer they could find cost them two hundred twenty-five dollars an hour. And T. J.'s case needed a whole lotta hours.
That was the beginning of change in her parents' financial condition. Daddy stopped buying Domino's Pizza two and three times a week. Momma canceled her long-standing Thursday-evening hair appointment at Miss Olive's salon. Daddy even worked during the summers to help out.
T. J. got a lesser sentence. From what Alexis could tell, he probably wasn't guilty of the chargeâat least not the way the prosecution presented it. T. J. had something to do with a man's death, that was for certain, but he didn't pull the trigger and he wasn't actually there when it happened. He probably knew about it ahead of time, though, which always made Alexis uneasy in her nephew's presence.
Right was right, wrong was wrong. If T. J. kept up his crazy lifestyle, it was only a matter of time before he did something stupid again, and the next time, there would be no money left for an expensive lawyer.
In the midst of her family's struggle, Alexis had come through for everyone with her sudden windfall of success. Thank God, she was able to dig her parents out of debt. She refused to give anything directly to T. J., but Momma and Daddy shouldn't have to suffer. They'd raised Thomas right. Thomas had probably raised his child right, too. Everyone had their own mind, though.
Dealing with her parents' finances now was a pretty straightforward matter. They were on a fixed income. Two thousand five hundred twenty-seven dollars a month, combined. The house was paid for and they no longer drove, so there was no car payment or vehicle insurance. The only thing they really owed at this point was the loan to remodel the house. They had the power, gas, water, satellite, and food bills, but those didn't amount to much; maybe four hundred twenty-five dollars. Her father still watched the thermostat like a hawk and put water in half-empty ketchup bottles to make it last longer. Every bit did help, Alexis had to admit.
If Momma and Daddy had been in good health, they'd have been fine. Alas, medications and supplies, doctor visits, Medicare deductibles, and trips to the emergency room because Daddy would not cooperate ate up most of their disposable income. They were lucky to have a hundred dollars left over at the end of the month. And even with that, Momma insisted on giving to somebody she'd heard about who “needed help.”
“Momma,
you
need help,” Alexis had laughed halfheartedly at her mother's directive to send a donation to a woman on the news who'd lost her home in a fire.
you
need help,” Alexis had laughed halfheartedly at her mother's directive to send a donation to a woman on the news who'd lost her home in a fire.
To which Momma replied, “There's always somebody worse off than you, Lexi.”
Now that Alexis had gotten into the hang of balancing her parents' budget, she realized that the only reason her parents were in such good financial shape now was because her mother was a giver. She believed in sowing and reaping, and she believed that whatever she gave to the poor would be repaid by God Himself.
Alexis had to admit, He had done a good job of keeping her parents intact, despite the T. J. fiasco. It was no coincidence that she'd been blessed with more than enough when her parents were in need.
She calculated the bottom line in the old-fashioned blue and white checkbook ledger Daddy insisted she use.
“One hundred twenty dollars left,” she announced across the kitchen bar.
Her parents barely nodded from their lounge chairs.
“Send some of that over to Sister Paul. She just had hip surgery, and I know that ain't cheap,” Momma said.
Obediently, Alexis wrote out a check, then deducted twenty-five dollars from the balance.
A thought skidded through her head suddenly. When she'd finished her own budget calculations for the month, she'd had $357 left over, even after savings. And she knew someone who seemed to be struggling financially.
Camille.
Camille.
She could send her a check for a hundred dollars. After all, Camille's Sweet Treats stream of income must have dried up a long time ago. Without some kind of formal training or a degree, she must be really struggling, especially in this economy. And single, too? Yeah, Camille could probably use some help.
But would she be too prideful to take the money?
Probably so. Camille wasn't Kyra.
Never mind. Bad idea.
Probably so. Camille wasn't Kyra.
Never mind. Bad idea.
Besides, sending Camille money wasn't really something she would be doing for Camille's sake. It would probably feel like more of a guilt offering because, fact was, while Camille's stream had dried up, Alexis was still getting paid. So were Kyra and Tonya. And they didn't feel one bit of remorse, because Camille was the one who'd suggested and made sure they got rid of Courtney.
Still, Alexis couldn't keep this from Camille much longer. No matter what the law allowed, this thing wasn't right.
CHAPTER 12
S
ome people don't try to be sexy. They just are. Ronald Shepherd was one such person and, for the life of her, Camille couldn't figure out why the other single women in the young-adult choir hadn't snatched his behind up already. Had all their church-going holiness blinded them to his obvious hotness? Not to mention a deep, smooth voice that could put a vicious pit bull to sleep.
ome people don't try to be sexy. They just are. Ronald Shepherd was one such person and, for the life of her, Camille couldn't figure out why the other single women in the young-adult choir hadn't snatched his behind up already. Had all their church-going holiness blinded them to his obvious hotness? Not to mention a deep, smooth voice that could put a vicious pit bull to sleep.
Whatever. Camille hadn't caught the I'm-too-saved-to-look bug. Unfortunately, Ronald seemed to have the church thing down a little too well. When she arrived at rehearsal fashionably late, he'd looked up from his piano seat and closed his Bible. Annoyance peppered his face, as though she'd interrupted something important.
“You must be ... is it Cameron?”
“Camille,” she politely corrected him.
“Yes, Camille. Nice to meet you.” He placed his Bible on the piano stool, stood, and walked toward her, extending his hand for a very professional handshake. Then he escorted her to the front of the room, near the piano where he'd been sitting. “Everyone, this is Camille. Camille, this is everyone.”
A soft “Hi, Camille,” rose as all eyes settled on her. She tested the female vibe first. Cordial. Yielding. Didn't take women long to figure out who was the alpha female. A few men did double takes, but only what might be appropriate for church. Had she met them somewhere else, things would be different. Church guys were always desperate to get married so they could stop all that fornicating, in Camille's experience.
Ronald continued with his introduction speech. “She joined church last week, and she's thinking about joining the choir. So let's make sure we show her some Grace Chapel hospitality. Sopranos, give her some room.”
A smiling woman on the front row wearing a broom skirt and sporting foot-long dreadlocks patted the empty seat next to her. Camille obliged, somewhat thankful to get a seat so near Ronald. He'd be able to hear her voice loud and clear.
“Let's go ahead and close out our study session in a word of prayer,” he said.
Study? Prayer?
If they were going to have Sunday school and a prayer meeting before every choir rehearsal, she'd come even later.
If they were going to have Sunday school and a prayer meeting before every choir rehearsal, she'd come even later.
“Father,” Ronald began, “thank You for Your word. Thank You for leaving Your peace, for letting us know that we never have to worry about tomorrow, for You hold all of our tomorrows in Your hands. In Jesus's name we pray. Amen.”
“Amen.”
Ronald opened the official practice portion of the meeting by sharing his latest original compilation, entitled “Use Me, Lord.” The young-adult choir, adults age twenty-one to forty, would be singing this coming Sunday. Ronald's song would be their second number, to be performed during the offering.
Not a song Camille wanted to shine on. People would be busy writing out checks and fanning through wallets while the buckets passed through the audience. When she sang, she wanted their undivided attention.
“Sopranos, here's your key.” Ronald delved into his teaching. Camille's section caught on quickly. Altos were fine, too. The tenors weren't so easy. Somebody sounded way off, and Ronald was taking the courteous route to correcting the error: having the whole group repeat the line over and over. If a no-nonsense director had been running the show, he'd have had each tenor sing one at a time so he could tackle the guilty party head-on.
This was going to be a long night.
Camille's mind wandered around the choir room. This practice area was bigger than the whole sanctuary at her childhood church. Matter of fact, this choir, which nearly filled up seven rows with seven cushioned seats in each row, would have made for a good Wednesday-night crowd back in the day. She had to admit to herself that she preferred this rehearsal space over the wide-open gulf of the church's main gathering room. This was better for blending harmonies, working out the fine musical details.
One wall of the choir room was composed of a row of windows facing the busiest street in the neighborhood. Camille craned her neck to watch cars pass. She got caught up in the saga of an old man operating a Hoveround who obviously hadn't gotten the memo that he was supposed to use the sidewalk. Had the nerve to take up a lane of traffic, like he was rolling in a state-registered vehicle complete with bumpers and a license plate.
Just a few weeks ago, Camille nearly ran slamp over an elderly man in a motorized wheelchair while pulling out of the McDonald's drive-through. She shook her head.
We gotta do something about these people.
We gotta do something about these people.
“Sopranos, are you ready?” Ronald shouted as he revved up the piano for their line.
Ready for what?
She must have missed something.
She must have missed something.
Everyone in her section seemed to know the words. “Let Your way be known in all the earth,” they crooned in unison.
Flabbergasted, all she could do was move her lips softly in hopes of catching the last sound of each word.
“Great. Altos, you're next.” Ronald moved on without giving Camille her moment in the sun.
Dang!
She'd choked on her chance to make a good first vocal impression. Now every time she sang well, he'd think it was a fluke.
What is wrong with me?
She'd choked on her chance to make a good first vocal impression. Now every time she sang well, he'd think it was a fluke.
What is wrong with me?
From then on, Camille paid close attention. She hit every note precisely. Loudly. The woman sitting next to her took notice with an elbow and an “All right now.”
All Ronald said was, “Good, sopranos.”
Sopranos? I'm carrying this whole section!
An hour later, Camille's cords began to strain. She had to tone it down a notch or she'd be no good Sunday. Some girl on the back row took over the volume lead. Camille decided to let her have it today.
Surprised by this turn of events, Camille began to wonder if she could make it through a full-length concert. If just sitting in a chair and singing intermittently taxed her body, how would she be able to sing and dance at the same time? Did gospel singers dance, anyway?
Maybe John David and the rest of the music industry knew something about turning thirty that she didn't know. Was she slower now? Less apt to recall lyrics? Would the microphone pick up a hint of unwelcomed maturity?
This first rehearsal had been all but useless. She was no closer to the praise team than an usher patrolling the back pew.
After practice, she got the standard, “Nice to meet you, Camille,” and, “Hope to see you again,” from several of the members.
The only one who seemed to recognize her talent was Miss Smiley-face. She followed Camille to the parking lot, dragging complimentary chitchat with her. “Girl, if I could sing like that, I'd be somewhere with Kirk Franklin's choir right now.”
Now that Camille was actually standing face-to-face with her, she could see beyond the old-timey clothes and realize that they were actually about the same age. “What's your name?”
“Mercedes.”
“Mercedes, it's not like you
can't
sing,” Camille returned the compliment. Mercedes could hold a note, after all. Her pitch wasn't always perfect, but, hey, who needs perfect pitch when you're surrounded by a choir?
can't
sing,” Camille returned the compliment. Mercedes could hold a note, after all. Her pitch wasn't always perfect, but, hey, who needs perfect pitch when you're surrounded by a choir?
“You ever sing professionally?”
“Yeah,” Camille admitted as she approached her car.
She watched Mercedes's expression as she must have registered the Lexus emblem. Over the years, Camille had learned that a negative reaction from seeing the luxury icon, even a slight one, signaled a hater.
Camille still remembered the day her boss at her first real-people job called her out about owning the vehicle. She and several other employees were sitting in a conference room that faced their small employee parking lot. Her boss, Martha, fell into category-A hater, the worst kind. Those were the ones who hated because they believed their best days were behind them. They complained about their life
and
yours.
and
yours.
Anyway, Martha had already made a few remarks about how much Camille probably spent to get her hair and nails done every week. The day Martha's true colors came out, the sun had been particularly bright. To warm the freezing-cold meeting room, Martha had opened the blinds. When she spotted Camille's car in the row, she put a hand on her hip and exclaimed, “Who am I paying enough to drive a car better than mine?”
The category-B haters in the room, who still had goals but hadn't reached them yet and didn't appreciate others who had already arrived, offered Camille up to Martha. That next week, Martha saw to it that two insubordination reports made their way into Camille's personnel file. A month later, Camille was fired. She knew now to watch out for how people responded to her car.
When there was no reaction from Mercedes, Camille concluded that Mercedes was just genuine good people.
“I knew you must have sung somewhere else,” Mercedes said.
Camille answered the unasked question. “I sang with a group called Sweet Treats. You remember a song called âMeet Me in the Hot Tub'?”
Mercedes dipped her chin and glanced above the rim of her glasses. “Girl, yes. My mother didn't want me to listen to it, but I knew every word.”
“Well, I was the lead singer.”
“Get out!” She punched Camille's shoulder. “For real?”
“Yep.”
“Nuh-uh.”
Of course, the attention fed a hungry ego. Camille popped her trunk and whisked out a CD. The trunk light provided just enough illumination for Mercedes to verify the face on the cover.
“Oh my goodness! It
is
you!”
is
you!”
Mercedes's outburst caused a few other choir members to approach the car. She quickly explained Camille's background and showed them the CD as proof. Oohs and aahs abounded as each one read the title list and compared the picture to Camille's present-day face.
By this time, Camille's head began to swell. This was the rebirth of her fan club! Plus, she might even be able to make a little money. “Anybody want an autographed CD?”
“Yes!” Mercedes exclaimed as she dug through her purse. “How much?”
“Let's do a Grace Chapel special. Ten dollars.”
A few people walked away, saying they didn't have any cash on them. But Camille was able to sell four CDs within ten minutes right there on the church grounds. “Thank you,” she remembered to say to each customer.
Yes! Mo' money for my ticket!
The Sweet Treats store stayed open another five minutes as the parking lot cleared. Mercedes said her farewells as Camille lowered the trunk.
She entered the cab of her car and buckled herself into the seatbelt. A knock on the window startled her. Ronald's face and torso appeared on the other side of the glass. Camille braced herself for a conversation.
“ Hi. ”
“Hello. Hope you enjoyed the rehearsal.”
“Yes, I did, thank you. You're great with this choir.”
“Thanks. Will we see you again?”
She nodded. “Definitely.”
“Great.” He tapped the hood of her car. “Have a good night.”
“You, too.”
She watched Ronald walk back toward the building and enter the doors again.
Yes!
He must have come out just to speak to her, to beg her to stay in the choir. Okay, he hadn't exactly
begged
. But the fact that he made a special trip proved the old boy recognized talent when he heard it. He wasn't so aloof after all.
Yes!
He must have come out just to speak to her, to beg her to stay in the choir. Okay, he hadn't exactly
begged
. But the fact that he made a special trip proved the old boy recognized talent when he heard it. He wasn't so aloof after all.
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