Grown Folks Business (13 page)

“O
oohhh, I’m telling,” Tori sang, as if those were the words to a song.

Sheridan allowed herself a quiet smile as she descended the stairs and paused outside the kitchen, stopping to check the mail. The days were moving ahead, pulling the three Harts into the future, and Sheridan was pleased. It had been almost a month, and she and the children were finding a way to be normal. It was amazing to her that as different as the world was, so much was the same. The children still got up and went to school, did their activities, came home, did homework, ate, and went to bed. In between they had their sibling wars and then made up, finding a way to become allies.

Life felt the same. Except for when the telephone rang every evening after dinner and Tori ran to answer it. And then there was the fact that every night she went into her bedroom alone.

“Ooohhh, I’m telling Mom,” Tori sang again.

Sheridan opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Christopher growled, “You’d better not.”

Sheridan frowned but remained silent.

Christopher continued, “If you say anything, I’m gonna kick your butt.”

Sheridan marched into the kitchen. They both looked at Sheridan as if she’d materialized from the middle of the floor.

“Mom, Christopher got a tattoo!”

It took a moment for the words to reach her brain, and then she laughed.

“Look at his arm,” Tori continued her case.

Sheridan’s laughter stopped, and she grabbed her son’s arm, twisting him around. She gasped. “Christopher.”

“What?” he asked, trying to lower the short sleeve of his T-shirt, even though his arm was still in Sheridan’s grasp.

“What…is…this?” She couldn’t take her eyes off the black dots that connected to form a cross with the letters
JIMH
down the center.

“It’s a tattoo, Mom.”

“You’re not old enough to get one.”

Christopher pulled away from his mother’s hold. “The man said I was.”

“I don’t care who said that. What were you thinking?”

He shrugged. “I went with Brendan and Gary. They got tattoos too. We all thought it would be cool.”

“It’s not cool, Christopher. It’s not legal.”

His eyes widened. “Why is it illegal to get a tattoo?”

“Because you’re sixteen. You need permission. Who did this?” she demanded.

Christopher swallowed. “Mom, it’s no big deal. I just wanted to be like the rest of the guys. They all got one.”

“And you think that impresses me?”

“Why are you upset? I should be able to get a tattoo; it’s my body.”

“No, it’s not, Christopher. Because, you see,” she began, her voice rising and her finger pointing, “as long as I put food in it and clothes on it, it’s my body. And you do what I say, when I say it, until you’re able to take care of that body yourself. Do you hear me?”

He nodded.

“Where did you get that?” she asked again.

“Mom, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. The guy thought I was eighteen.”

“Why did he think that?”

Christopher lowered his eyes.

Sheridan shook her head. “I don’t even want to know. Just go to your room.”

Christopher moved as if he were being set free. But before he got to the doorway, Sheridan said, “What is that on your arm anyway?”

He frowned, looked down at the black marking, and then looked back at her.

“I know it’s a tattoo,” she said. “What is it supposed to be?” Sheridan held her breath. She hoped those letters weren’t the initials of that little girl in this new group of friends he’d found.

“It’s a cross,” he whispered. “That’s why I didn’t think you’d be mad, Mom.”

She folded her arms. “And,” she began, almost afraid to continue, “whose initials are those?”

“They don’t belong to a person, Mom. The initials stand for…‘Jesus is my homeboy.’ ”

Sheridan’s eyes opened almost as wide as her mouth. It took her a moment to sputter: “You can go now.” As he bolted up the stairs, she added, “And you’re on punishment until you’re thirty-five.”

She turned around and looked at Tori.

Tori said, “I think I’ll go to my room too.”

Sheridan nodded. “Good idea.” It wasn’t until she heard Tori’s room door close that she sat at the table and held her head.
“Jesus is my homeboy”?

She grabbed the telephone and dialed. The moment he answered, she said, “Quentin, we have a problem.”

There had been no signs that three people were in the quiet house when Quentin stepped through the front door. And Sheridan couldn’t remember a time when she’d been happier to see him.

Quentin slipped his jacket from his shoulders and tossed it over the settee in the entryway like he always did when he came home. “A tattoo?”

Sheridan nodded. “A cross with the letters
JIMH
in the center.” She shook her head as she remembered Christopher’s explanation. “First, we have to get rid of the tattoo. Then I’m going to kill him.”

Quentin sat on the couch. “I can help you with the first part. It can be removed by laser, I think.”

Her sign was one of relief. “So now what?”

“I have to talk to him. We should have insisted that he speak to me before this.”

“That wouldn’t have changed anything. The only thing that would have made a difference…” She paused. “Never mind. Let me get him.”

She called twice before Christopher came out of his room and stood at the top of the stairs. “Could you come down here, please?”

His hands were stuffed in his pockets. His eyes widened when he saw his father.

“Chris,” Quentin said simply.

Christopher looked at Sheridan, as if for help. But she kept her arms crossed. Then he looked at his father. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I want to talk to you.”

He chose the chair in the corner by the window, as far away from Quentin as he could get.

“Your mother told me about the tattoo.”

Christopher kept his eyes away from his father.

“I don’t care how mad you are at me. Or how mad you are at what’s happened. I don’t like what’s happening to you.”

Christopher looked up, and the glower in his eyes made Sheridan doubt her call to Quentin.

“Chris, what I want you to know is—”

“My name is Christopher now.”

“Okay.” Quentin’s eyes moved between Sheridan and Christopher. “It doesn’t matter to me what you want to be called. What matters is what you do. I know, Chris…topher, that you knew better than to get that tattoo.”

Christopher’s piercing stare was louder than any spoken words.

“Why did you do this?” Quentin asked.

Christopher shrugged.

“You don’t have anything to say?”

A beat passed. “Not to you.”

Quentin pressed his lips together and stared back at his son.

This was a bad idea,
Sheridan thought as she watched the war of wills. “You know what,” she said, going to Christopher’s side. “I think he understands now.”

Christopher looked at Sheridan. “I’m sorry. Mom.”

There was no way she could look at Quentin. She knew he wasn’t finished, but she also knew that this was enough. If this continued, words would come out of Christopher that all three of them would regret. “Okay. You can go upstairs.”

For the second time that night, Christopher raced away with the speed of an Olympic sprinter. She didn’t look at Quentin until she was sure Christopher was away from the sound of their voices.

“I wasn’t finished,” he said.

“I’m sorry, but it was enough.”

“He wouldn’t even talk to me.”

She wanted to ask, What did you expect? Did he really think he could move away from his family into this new life and not have it affect his teenage son?

“I didn’t want it to be this way,” he said, as if he heard her thoughts. “I left this house, but I didn’t leave my family.”

“There’s not a difference to Chris. Really,” she said, looking away, “I don’t understand the difference either.”

“You know, when I first told you about what I was feeling, I wasn’t planning to move out.”

She raised her eyebrows. “So you’re saying that if I didn’t insist you go, none of this would’ve happened?” She held up her hand before he could say anything. “It doesn’t matter.” She paused and looked at him. “And there’s no turning back.” She said it as if it were a warning. “What’s important now are the children.”

He nodded. “I agree. That’s why…” He stopped. “I got the divorce papers. I was surprised.”

“I told you I was going to file them.”

He nodded. “I just don’t understand the rush.”

“And I don’t understand why we’d wait.”

He took a breath. “I want you to know I’m not going to fight you. My attorney has looked over the papers, and I’m fine with everything. I just want to do this right.”

You can’t make a wrong right.

“Anyway,” Quentin said, “We still need to talk to Tori.”

“What do you plan to say to her?”

He shrugged. “The truth; that’s what I want to live by.”

Before she could stop herself, she said, “I guess that’s a new thing for you.”

Almost a minute passed. “I’m not your enemy, Sheridan. And I think if you want things to get better, you’d better stop treating me like I am.”

He stood, grabbed his jacket, and slammed the door on his way out.

T
his was the reason she’d kept the message.

Sheridan pressed the number one on the dialing pad and listened to the message again. “Sheridan, this is Pastor Ford. I’ve missed you and Quentin in church the past few weeks, and Kyla Blake just told me you guys were no longer leading the planning committee for the retreat. I hope to see you in church tomorrow, but if not, please give me a call. I want to talk to you and Quentin.”

Sheridan sighed, hung up the phone, and knew she had to go to church this morning. She hadn’t been to church this year and now Pastor Ford was calling. If she showed her face, that would allay the pastor’s concerns.

Sheridan stood and posed in front of the mirror. The St. John knit fit her even better now than it did when she’d bought it with Kamora.

Have I lost weight?

She made a mental note to check, but no matter what the scale said, the mirror said she looked good.

But the mirror can’t see my heart.

That part of her was a long way from feeling fine.

And now, today. How was she supposed to handle church? How would she answer the question sure to come—where’s Quentin?

She grabbed her Bible and purse, draped her jacket across her shoulders, finger-combed her hair, and then stepped into the hallway. She almost bumped into Christopher as he rushed through the hall.

“You guys ready?” she asked.

He looked surprised. “I…didn’t know you were going to church, Mom.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you haven’t been going.”

She lowered her eyes. “I’d been working late the past Saturdays.”

His glance said,
Yeah, right.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” she asked.

“Nowhere.” His cell phone rang. Christopher pulled it from his pocket, then lingered in front of his bedroom as he whispered.

Sheridan moved slowly toward the stairs, trying to stay close enough to hear her son’s conversation. But by the time she got to the bottom of the stairs, she knew nothing more. His monosyllabic responses were so soft she couldn’t tell if he was still on the phone.

When he came down the stairs, Sheridan said, “Who was that?” She kept her eyes away from his, shifting items from one purse to another, all the time trying not to be too interested.

“Nobody.”

She sighed inside. “Tori, are you ready?” she yelled.

Tori’s bedroom door opened and she skipped down the stairs. “Hi, Mom.”

At least one person in their home was happy.

“Mom, I’m going to walk.”

Christopher’s lips moved, but his words didn’t make sense. “Who are you? And what have you done with my son?” Sheridan kidded.

He looked down at the carpet as if his answer was there. “I just want to walk.” He glanced up, but his eyes wouldn’t stay with hers. “I’ll meet you at church. I’m going to the teens’ service.”

She eyed him a little longer. “Okay.” She looked at her watch. “You only have twenty-five minutes.”

Christopher nodded.

She turned to Tori. “Are you walking?”

“No,” Christopher said quickly.

Both Tori and Sheridan turned toward him in surprise.

He added, “I don’t feel like babysitting.”

“First of all, no one has to babysit me,” Tori said, resting one hand on her side as if she had hips. “And second of all, I wouldn’t want to walk with your stupid behind anyway.”

Sheridan smirked. “I guess she told you. Anyway…” Sheridan paused.
What are you up to?
“Just make sure you have your…behind in church on time.”

In the car, as Tori chatted, Sheridan couldn’t get her mind off her son.
What is Chris up to?

Sheridan tossed her feelings aside. Christopher was a good young man. He’d never been in trouble. This tattoo had to be just a case of a teenager acting like the visitor to this planet that all teenagers were.

She twisted the car into the curve of the church’s parking lot, and thoughts of her son dissipated as she eyed Francesca Mills edging her fire red Ferrari into a spot. Sheridan chose a space as far away from Francesca as she could find. But the moment Sheridan stepped away from her car, she heard the familiar screech. “Sheridan.”

Sheridan shuddered, stopped, and then faced Francesca with as fake a smile as she could muster.

“Hi, Ms. Francesca,” Tori said.

“Hi, darling.” Francesca kissed Tori. “Whew,” she said, turning to Sheridan. “It’s been so hard catching up with you.” She stood on her toes and blew her signature air kiss in Sheridan’s direction. “I’ve left you a million messages. I had some questions about the marriage retreat. I have an idea for a workshop and…”

“I’m not on that committee anymore. You should talk to Kyla,” Sheridan said, walking toward the church. She stretched her long legs, hoping to leave Francesca behind.

“What happened?” Francesca asked, somehow matching Sheridan’s long-legged strides.

“Just talk to Kyla.”

“Should I talk to Quentin?”

Sheridan stopped moving. “I said…talk to Kyla,” she said in the tone she reserved for her children.

Tori leaned closer to her mother, while Francesca took a step back.

“I’m sorry.”

Without acknowledging Francesca’s apology, Sheridan took Tori’s hand and walked into the sanctuary. She took a breath, glanced around, and then eased down the aisle, smiling at the familiar faces, waving at friends, not giving a hint of any of the turmoil she felt.

“Mom, today’s the Sunday that the kids can go in with the teens. I’m going in there, okay?”

“Sure,” Sheridan said, although it wasn’t all right with her. She wanted Tori by her side, a shield to protect her from questions she was sure would come. But she couldn’t put that on Tori. And her almost-ten-year-old loved the classes with the teenagers. She couldn’t deny her that.

Sheridan sat on the left side of the altar, totally opposite where she and Quentin used to sit every Sunday. She glanced at her watch and wished she’d timed this better. Five minutes still remained before praise and worship. She should have walked with Christopher.

“Hey, Sheridan.”

The greetings started.

“Love your hair, girl.”

She held her breath.

“Where have you been?”

No one asked about Quentin.

When the praise team began the morning service, Sheridan released a lungful of air. But as she stood to join the worship and raised her hands in the air, she wondered why no one had asked about Quentin. Did everyone already know?

You’re being paranoid,
she thought, as she tried to focus on Jackie at the keyboard. But although she sang the words, her heart took her mind to other places: The day she and Quentin first came to Hope Chapel. The weekend when they attended their first marriage retreat. The Mother’s Day when Quentin, in front of the congregation, proclaimed, “A million lifetimes would not be enough to hold all the love I have for you.”

Her thoughts kept her so far away, she didn’t notice when Pastor Ford stood at the pulpit. It wasn’t until she realized that she was the only one standing that she eased into her seat.

But through the pastor’s prayer, through the offering, through the sermon, Sheridan’s mind kept her away from the present. She tried to remember the last time she’d come to church without Quentin, but she couldn’t think of it. If Quentin didn’t go to church, she didn’t. Now there was a lifetime of Sundays—without Quentin—in front of her.

“We serve a God who is kind, and patient, and merciful, and faithful.” Pastor Ford’s voice made its way through her tangled thoughts. “But what happens when trials come? Does that mean that God is not kind and patient and merciful and faithful?

“Joseph had his trial when he was sold by his brothers; Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego had their trials when they were tossed into the fiery furnace. Paul and Silas had their trials when they were thrown into jail. Each of them served the Lord.”

Pastor Ford continued, “So, where was God’s kindness and patience and mercy and faithfulness when they were going through?

That’s a good question,
Sheridan thought.

The pastor’s manicured fingers swept her shoulder-length bob from her face. She placed one hand on her hip, and with the other, she raised her Bible high in the air. “God was right there. He was there with Joseph and the Hebrew children and Paul and Silas. How do I know?” She paused, looked around the congregation, and said, “How do you think they made it through?”

The congregation applauded.

“Amen.”

Some stood on their feet and waved their hands at the pastor.

“You better preach that word, Pastor.”

“The Lord never promised you a trial-free life,” Pastor Ford continued. “He never promised existence without tribulation. But He did promise to always be there. To help you make it through!

“God promises spiritual security in the midst of troubles.”

Pastor Ford continued, but Sheridan never heard another word. She gazed at the pastor and wondered how she knew. Surely she’d planned this Word for her.

Was this what it was all about? Was this just a trial in the bumpy road of life that she had to endure? Was God still really with her?

“Sheridan, your AIDS results…are negative.”
She heard Dr. Hong and then asked herself how she could wonder if God was with her. His mercy had made sure she had her health.

As Pastor Ford strutted up one aisle and then down the other, teaching, Sheridan pondered Pastor Ford’s questions.

If all of this was just a test, why did God have to choose this one for her? She would have much rather had something she could handle—Quentin losing his job, or one of the children having difficulty in school. Or even Quentin with another woman. She could pray for God’s help with that.

You don’t get to choose your trials,
the spiritually mature side of her mind told her.

Sheridan sat through the rest of the service, and before the last note was played on the keyboard, she stood, ready to rush from the church. And then she remembered her children.

Sheridan tried to make herself invisible in the midst of the crowd, surrounding herself with people she knew only well enough to smile at.

At the door she glanced at her watch.

In another minute they’ll both be walking home.

“Oh, Sheridan.” Dana King walked up to her.

Sheridan smiled. If she had to talk to someone, she didn’t mind Dana. She was one of her favorite sorors. But the look of tragedy covering Dana’s face made Sheridan’s heart beat faster. “Hi, Dana,” she said, as if she were afraid to speak.

Dana pulled her away from passing ears. “I just heard. Tori told me that you and Quentin are getting a divorce,” she whispered, just as Christopher and Tori walked up to them.

Christopher’s eyes widened as he heard the woman’s words.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t know,” Dana said. She glanced at the children, her face covered with pity. “If there is anything I can do, let me know.”

In better days Sheridan would have asked what Dana thought she could do for a woman losing her husband. But now she couldn’t move away fast enough. “Thank you, Dana,” was all Sheridan managed. She looked at her children and her eyes told them to follow.

They hurried past the crowd that hovered at the church’s entry—the eight o’clock service mixing with the eleven o’clock arrivers.

As they rushed to the car, Christopher asked, “Tori, did you tell Ms. Dana that Mom and Dad were getting a divorce?”

Sheridan clicked the remote to the car and jumped inside.

“I didn’t tell Ms. Dana that,” Tori said, and eyed her mother in the front seat.

“Well, why did she say you did?” Christopher almost screamed, although his lips barely moved.

Tori shrugged, and Sheridan didn’t have to turn around to know that tears were building in her daughter. “I didn’t tell Ms. Dana. But after the service Ms. Francesca asked me what was going on and I didn’t know what to say.”

“I can’t believe you did that,” Christopher roared.

Sheridan glanced at her son. “Don’t yell at your sister. I never told either of you not to say anything.”

But she wished she had. It never occurred to her that the rumors would begin through her children. But she should have known. Francesca Mills was a proficient gossip. She’d go to any level if she smelled scandal.

“I don’t care what you say, Mom. What Tori did was stupid. It’s nobody’s business what’s going on with us.”

“But this isn’t Tori’s fault.”

“I’m not stupid,” Tori cried. “And if you had been in class, you could have helped me.”

Before Sheridan could ask Christopher where he’d been, he said, “Because of you, everyone’s going to know Dad’s a faggot.”

Sheridan was sure her world would end now. She peeked in the rearview mirror. A mixture of confusion and fear creased Tori’s face.