Made of Honor (8 page)

I’d been doing okay with my eating, but couldn’t seem to squeeze in time to get to the gym. The blistering cold kept me from my summer walks and work seemed to beckon from every corner. Gone were the days where excess pounds dropped off in a week or a month. Less than a year shy of thirty, I had to fight to lose even an ounce. And at this time of the month, it was pretty much a lost cause.

Shoving back my closet door, I stared at the satin cemetery of bridesmaids gowns in the back—ten dresses in a rainbow of pastels, peach, lavender and robin’s egg blue. A lovely canary yellow that had actually looked good on me. The last, a shocking pink with a ruffled skirt, sported two slits down the sides.

Remembering it was the third Sunday and the choir needed to dress the same, I reached for a black wrap-around skirt and white blouse, both in a size I’d vowed never to wear again.

Why’d you keep them, then?

Just in case, the same reason I still had my hope chest full of dishes that Mama had given to Adrian and me. The thought made me a little queasy. I’d have to get rid of that. It was just weird.

I stared at the clock. Six-thirty. At noonday prayer on Friday, I’d promised Mother Holly I’d pick her up for church this morning. Did she go to the early service? I’d forgotten to ask. I’d been too busy soaking up her powerful prayers for my situation with Jordan and Rochelle. I didn’t give the details, but having been my mother’s friend, she knew enough to read between the lines.

“Don’t worry about it, baby,” she’d said in that singsong voice of hers. “You just do your thing. Keep your eyes on Jesus. He’s got this.”

I smiled at the thought, both knowing and wondering if she was right. He did have this thing, didn’t He? ’Cause I didn’t.

Peeling off the tight-sleeved dress, I smoothed my skirt down over my stockings, then tucked my blouse into the flexible waistband.

Ahh…much better.

Nothing like elastic when you bloat up like the Good Ship Lollipop.

The phone rang, interrupting my silly thoughts. I walked toward it, put my hand on the receiver, but didn’t pick up. Surely Rochelle wouldn’t choose now to try and “get things straight” as she had on many other Sunday mornings. Nah. Maybe later, after her solo, when she felt especially holy.

What about Adrian? Besides our inopportune run-ins in the business owners’ parking lot and my constant glances across the street, e-mail had been our only contact. And even that proved more than I could deal with. Three messages from him awaited my reply.

“You have reached Dana Rose. You are fearfully and wonderfully made. Leave a message and have a blessed day.”

“Dane! It’s Tracey. I know you’re there. Probably standing up in your stockings talking to yourself. Pick up! I—”

She knew me so well. “What is it, silly? And I’m not talking to myself. I’m thinking, thank you.”

“Mmm-hmm. In your stockings.”

I shrugged, staring down at my toes peeking through the black sheer. No sense arguing the obvious. “How’ve you been? Things any better?”

Tracey didn’t respond. I slipped my foot in one shoe and waited, growing concerned with the lengthening silence. When there was something big to tell, Tracey went quiet on you. Surely
their marriage hadn’t gone totally sour in two months? “Tracey? Is everything okay?”

Sobs poured through the phone. “No…it’s not…okay.”

I stared at the clock. Six forty-two. Mother Holly wasn’t going to make it to the early service. Neither was I. “Take your time, hon. Whatever it is, we can work it out. God can work it out.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

I could imagine Tracey nodding, tears trailing under her chin. Besides her laughing capabilities, she was a great crier, too. Should have been an actress. Only these tears were all too real.

“Just say it. I’m here.”

“I’m…I’m…”

My neck rotated in circles as if I could make her spit it out. “Yes?”

“I’m pregnant!”

I let out a long breath. “Wow.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

Oh, no, there’s a lot more I could say, but I’ll hold my tongue for now.

Rochelle is going to blow.

“I’m so happy for you, Tracey.” And I meant it. I think. A baby. I
so
did not see that coming.

“Are you, really? Happy for me, I mean?” Another sniff.

“Really.” I sat down on the edge of the bed, staring into my closet. Who knew? Maybe this would be the thing to help them get closer. I doubted it, but maybe. “Aren’t you happy, too? I know it’s not the best time, but you both want children.”

Her voice turned to a whisper. “I know. It’s just—I’m scared, Dana. Ryan seems happy about it and everything, but I feel the munchies coming on and you know how fast I can gain—”

Boy did I. Nobody could gain or lose weight like Tracey. I maintained a steady up creep to keep things interesting, but over the years, Trace had earned stock in everything from Deal-A-Meal to Jenny Craig, only to drop it all when she finally fell in love. Still, I was surprised that weight was her main concern.

“You’ll be fine. Just walk the block. Eat some fruit and veggies every day and don’t overdo.” Good advice. Why didn’t I take it?

“That’s easy for you to say, Dane. You always look good.”

I tapped the receiver. Was this thing on, or had my just-married-now-pregnant friend lost the last bit of her mind? “You called Dana, not Rochelle. Dana.”

“I know who I’m talking to. Rochelle is too skinny to live. You’re a great size. You just insist on buying clothes that don’t fit and make you look bigger than you are. You’re beautiful. And those eyes? Man. I was so afraid Ryan still liked you. Really afraid.”

Whoa. What was this, Black Confessions? I could only take so much. “Afraid? Of me? Trace, you’re like a genius, you dress like a goddess and you’re so nice. Everybody loves you. Everybody.”

She sniffed again. “Not everybody. It’s horrible out here. Everybody at church has kids. All the women are perfect. Just perfect. A bunch of stay-at-home moms—”

I rubbed my eyes, suddenly feeling very sleepy. “But that’s what you want to be, remember? You’ll be perfect, too. The best mom ever. Now go back to sleep.”

“Sleep? Ha. I can’t. I have to run to the bathroom every ten minutes and then I get thirsty. Then I’m hungry, then I get sleepy and right when I nod off, and it starts all over again. I—”

“Tracey.” For all my friend’s bubbliness, she had a manic side, too, the side I’d considered dousing with punch at her reception. Getting her to stop this hysteria wouldn’t be easy. “Let’s pray.”

“Okay. You go.”

Of course. “Lord, You said that children are a blessing from You. Thank You for giving Tracey and Ryan this gift. Help her to stay calm to trust You and do the things she knows to do. Give her the peace that passes all understanding.”

She sighed through the receiver. “That was soo-oo-o good. Peace that passes all understanding. You always know just what to say.”

I groaned. “It’s in the Bible, Tracey.” She always made it sound like I’d made some Shakespearian performance every time I prayed. Her kid would have disgustingly high self-esteem. She’d probably cheer every time she changed a diaper.

“I know, but you just say it so well.”

“Whatever. Look, I’ve got to go. Your church doesn’t start until eleven, right?”

“Ten-thirty.”

“Okay. Take a nap and have a great worship—”

“Rochelle is going to have a fit.”

I smiled. “A honeymoon baby? Oh, yeah. She’ll go nuts. But don’t worry about her, she’s busy being mad at me.”

“What’s up with you two? Is it—”

“More than I have time to tell.”

“E-mail me.”

“I will.”

The phone beeped indicating another call. Who was it now? Rochelle would be on the way to the seven o’clock service by now. Had I given Mother Holly my number? Maybe she’d looked it up in the church directory.

“Look. I’ve got to go. Someone’s calling.”

“At this time of the morning? Who is it? Should I hold—”

“No. I love you. And it will be okay. It really will. Bye.”

I pressed the button, collecting my apologies.

“Mother Holly?”

A man’s voice, still and calm, answered my greeting. “No, sorry to disappoint. It’s Adrian.”

I stumbled, trying to jab my foot into my other shoe, now overturned beside the bed. “Uh, hi. Coming to Broken Bread today?” My ankle wobbled. I flopped onto the chair. “Or are you going to the Messianic place?”

“I’m coming with you today. Are you okay?”

Probably sounds like a dogfight over here. “I’m fine.” I watched in horror as an inch-wide run tore up my leg like a flame. My last pair of hose.

“I just figured that since we’re going out after service to talk business…”

“We are?” I clutched the closet door.

He sounded hurt. “I think that’s what your last e-mail said. Me coming to Broken Bread. Us going to lunch to discuss the joint coupon promotion idea?”

Somehow I’d missed that part of the e-mail. Honestly, I’d forgotten the whole thing until he called. I’d have to read these electronic communications from him more closely. Us girls just sent stuff back and forth, knowing we’d have to follow up with a reminder or a call. Guys actually scheduled things based on a “sure.” Me, I’m a skimmer. There was always some fine print to our interactions that I never got around to. “Right. Lunch. No problem.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up,” Adrian said calmly, while I tried not to panic.

I stared down at my bare leg peeking through my torn hose. “On second thought, today’s probably not the best day. I have to pick up one of the elders this morning.”

“Even better. I’d be honored to help. My car’s got plenty of room.”

I’ll bet, I thought, trying to keep my mind off my last image of him—long, strong legs, packed into a pair of jeans. What would he wear today? I gulped, thinking of how he’d looked in that gray suit at Tracey’s wedding. Those square-toed shoes…

That’s one fine bald-headed somebody.

As I realized that I had just had “man feelings” without realizing or authorizing them, Adrian’s voice creaked through the receiver, tangled in a ball of static.

“So…I’ll be there in a minute…I’m losing the signal.”

“Huh? Wait!” Too late. He was gone.

W
hen the doorbell rang, I’d peeled off my ruined stockings, buzzed the downstairs door and ran to my own door, my legs bobbing like skinless drumsticks. I reached for the knob, thanking God that I did at least have good calves. Probably from riding a motorcycle through high school and college. It was hard for me to imagine doing something like that now.

I pulled back the door, hoping Adrian wouldn’t notice my fancy-free legs.

My concern was unwarranted. Adrian wasn’t the one at the door. The face that met me on the other side, eyes so much like my own, stared back at me, draining any remaining resolve I had.

My brother Jordan. The last person I expected to find at my door. A month ago, I’d been dying to see him. Now, I was late, my legs were bare and I had no idea what to say.

“Hey, sis.”

“Come in.” It was all I could think of.

We never were close. He was always running, jumping, shooting, dribbling…Moving past me, away from me. Away from the women trailing behind him—Rochelle, Mama, my sister Dahlia.
They pounced on him every chance they got, cornering him, demanding he confess his unrequited love.

And he did, on cue, like a battery-operated action figure, while Daddy and I looked on, both in awe…and disgust. In awe of Jordan’s muscles, his magnetism, his power to make the women in our house love him so readily, so greedily. In disgust of the same things. How could he be so cavalier about being, well…himself?

It seemed arrogant in the rudest way then, but looking back, I guess he was just a kid after all. Nineteen. A few years older than Jericho was now. What a switch between those two. If Jordan was so mature and did what he did, what hope was there for Jericho?

Jesus is the only hope for anyone.

I sighed, looking over at my brother, now seated on my sofa, silent after all these years. Where did he stand with Jesus? Was it even appropriate to ask? Most Bible thumpers would have said yes, but I’m more of a relationship witness and right now whatever relationship we might have had seemed nonexistent. Or was there something left?

He’d come to my door today, with not so much as a phone call of warning and knocked softly, as was his way. He’d never needed to pound. Somebody always ran before he could knock twice. He could turn Mama’s head just by breathing in her direction. Even now, with his long legs crossed and his Dudley Do-Right dimpled chin perched on his fist, he was Jordan. The one.

“I saw Dad at the airport.” His voice surprised me. I’d forgotten the rumble of it, low and warm like those hot toddies Mama used to make us when we had colds. A winter voice.

“Was he drunk?”

Jordan shook his head, his eyes dancing with alarm.

I chuckled. If Dad being drunk worried Jordan, he’d be in for a lot of sleepless nights. Like the ones I’d had worrying about him.

“What did Dad say?” Besides bumming money of course. That was a given.

“Not much. He said I looked good and that Mama had—had missed me. And I should have called or come to the funeral.”

Wow. Dad said all that? He must have been really drunk. Or really sober. The sight of Jordan probably freaked him out. I thought back, trying to remember if he’d ever said that much to my brother…nope. In fact, he’d avoided Jordan like a flu bug once he grew past six feet.

I grabbed a pillow from behind me and clutched to my chest, as if to hold my heart in. I hadn’t planned to hurt today. Not that the men in my life seemed to notice. Suddenly, the shop, Rochelle, even Adrian paled in comparison to this moment, this pain I hadn’t even realized I had.

A memory invaded my head. “Do you remember payday, J.?”

My brother shrugged his shoulders. Why would he remember? I’d always been the one clinging to Daddy’s heels.

“Friday, four o’clock. Dad would toss that money on the table and smile at me. I’d smile back, but Mama didn’t. She’d count it, tuck it in her bra and turn back to the stove. Or the sink. Or the refrigerator. But she never smiled. Or said thank you, or even kissed him like those happy blond women on TV. She just kept chopping, scrubbing, cooking…” A tear trailed my cheek.

“Dane…”

I choked up at the image of my mother in the kitchen, her dress bulging with that wad of Daddy’s money, her brown eyes glossy and vacant, her lips silent and unkissed.

“‘Curse you woman,’ Dad would say and march off to the back door, the front door, the window, any way he could get out.”

“Yeah. He always was a runner. Always going somewhere.”

I guess you got it honest.

“And you know why, J.? Because he couldn’t stand to stay and see her eyes light up when her real man came home. Her true love.” I turned to face him. “Jordan Kennedy Rose, her only son and gift to the world. The rest of us, well, we’d do in a pinch.”

Before, he would have said, “It’s not like that.” But not today. Today, Mama was dead and we were grown and things just were what they were. There was no use trying to sugarcoat it. I drank in the silence, wondering where Adrian was. The last thing I needed was for him to walk in on me like this. A few swipes with the back of my hand cleared my eyes, but soon they flooded again. Adrian or no Adrian, we had to talk this through.

“I wish it would have been you, Dane. You don’t know how it was. So much pressure. I could never just…be, you know. I had to do. Something. Everything. Mama. Rochelle. Even Dahlia.”

I winced at the mention of our little sister. He frowned in confusion, but continued. I hugged the pillow harder. If Rochelle hadn’t told him about me and Dahlia, then I wasn’t going to, either. Not now, anyway.

“Everybody was depending on me to make it to the NBA, to bring us out. Even Daddy. He might not have said anything, but he didn’t pay for those sneakers for nothing. The message was clear. Make it or don’t come back.”

I tossed the pillow on the floor. It wasn’t helping. “But you did make it.” I stood, trying to run before I lost it. Too late. “And you didn’t come back!” The scream came up from my toes.

Sobs wracked my body. Jordan caught my wrist, pulling me down onto his lap. “I’m sorry.”

“Mama waited for you! They all did. They sat by the phone every night. Watched your games on TV. Tried to call the team…” My fists pummeled his chest. His face. He didn’t try to shield himself, only held me tight by my waist. Finally, I collapsed on his shoulder.

“She died waiting for you. That morning, before she had the stroke, she said, ‘Did he call?’ ‘No, Mama,’ I told her. ‘He’ll call tomorrow.’ Tomorrow. She said that every day. But you…never…came!”

Jordan pulled me closer and lifted my hands, inspecting each of my fingers, like a father to a baby. He let me cry until I fell silent.

He looked down at me. “Are you done?”

I slumped against his chest. “No. But I’m tired.”

He reached for a tissue from the table behind us. I took it and dabbed my face, trying not to think about what I’d look like when Adrian arrived. Right now, I just wanted him to knock on the door. I needed him.

“You don’t have anything to say about Rochelle, Dana? About the baby?”

Baby? Jericho? The boy was almost six foot three. If he qualified as a baby, Tracey was in big trouble. “I don’t even want to get into that. I’m just going to say that since Mama died, Rochelle has been there for me every step of the way. We raised your son—Rochelle, Tracey and I. Only now, he doesn’t want—or need—any of us. He needs a man. Something you obviously know nothing about being.”

He lowered me back to the couch, talking in that Nat King Cole voice again. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Let it out.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Well, first of all, it’s no fun screaming at someone who isn’t screaming back and second of all it doesn’t matter. It’s done. Forgiven. Over.”

Jordan bridged his fingers under his chin, then sat back on my sectional. He still had the same dark curls, though it looked as if someone had cut out a perfect circle in the top with a rotary cutter. Still tall, but not as tall as I’d remembered him. He was a giant to me back then. Now for all his height, he looked small. Old, as if this whole mess had hurt him just as bad. Only his eyes held that same twinkle.

Mama’s twinkle.

“Forgiven, huh? It sure doesn’t sound like it. Say what you need to say. I can take it. I just wanted to come here to see you—”

“See me? Didn’t you see me waiting scared to death in the hospital room with Rochelle? You didn’t just leave her…or Jericho. You left me.” Though I screamed the words in my head, they came out as a whisper, like ashes of all the love I’d once had for him. Love? Yes, in spite of myself, I had loved my brother. And loved him still.

Where was that pillow? I reached behind me and dug my fingers into another one. Why couldn’t Jordan have come here after church? I stiffened. Had he gone to Rochelle’s with this same calm speech? I remembered his unscratched face and knife sharp pleats when he’d come inside. Nope. He’d come here first.

“Dad says he’s handsome. Tall.”

“Jericho?” My face crumpled, realizing he hadn’t seen Jericho since…well, ever. Just those baby pictures Mama had sent everywhere. Most of them returned.

“Yeah. He’s gorgeous. Your spitting image with Rochelle’s eyelashes, Mama’s legs and Dahlia’s mouth. Oh, yeah, and Daddy’s ears.”

“That’s quite a picture.”

I nodded in agreement. “It is. Wait ’til you see him….” My voice faded. How could he do it? All these years and show up now, calm, like nothing ever happened? To never even call? What kind of man does that?

What kind of Christian tells someone they’re forgiven but refuses to forget?

There’s a lot on this tab, Lord. A lot.

I took a deep breath. “Did Dad ask you for money?”

“I gave him three hundred. He rode home with me in the taxi.”

Home? What on Earth did that mean? Jordan’s apartment? Or did he think this shell of a place as his home? He’d taken the home from here long ago.

Don’t judge before the time.

The time was years ago! I dropped my head back against the sofa. “Don’t give him so much money. He’ll kill himself.”

Jordan stared at me like I was speaking Russian. To him, I suppose I was. When he’d left, Dad only got tipsy at a wedding or barbeque now and then. Now he stayed drunk. With three hundred dollars, he could wreck himself for sure.

“Okay. I didn’t know—”

“There’s a lot you don’t know, J. Like paying Dad’s rent, putting food in his fridge once a week, taking him to the doctor, making him take a bath—” All of which I hadn’t done with any regularity lately.

“I’m sorry.” My brother’s words came out sweet and syrupy, like the gooey insides of a pecan pie. The scratch kind. “I never meant for you to have to become the man of the family.” He hung his head. “I’ll try and make it up. When I find Dahlia—”

I pulled away. “Good luck with that.”

“What happened between the two of you? You were so close. You had her. I didn’t think you needed me. Well, maybe she did, but not you. Never you.”

He left off what Mama would have said. Dana, she’s the strong one. What a joke. I was strong all right, but only because I didn’t have a choice. All the “weak” ones did the choosing for me.

“When you find her, ask her yourself. But don’t look for her to help you. She won’t.” I swallowed. Would helping Jordan fall to me, too? “You can stay here if you want, but I warn you, Rochelle is welcome. Jericho, too. They always—”

He shook his head. “I’ve got a place. I didn’t come here to take anything from them. Or from you.”

There’s nothing left to take. “That brings me to the real question, J. Why are you here? Mama’s not waiting anymore. And I’m worn out from covering for you…and praying for you—”

He stiffened. “Praying? You?”

I guess that forgiveness bit had gone right over his head. I tried not to be offended by his surprise, remembering what a pistol I’d been growing up. Judging from the way I was acting today, I still had a few bullets left in me.

“Yes, me. Who else?” I paused. “Well, Rochelle prayed, too, of course.” Probably not lately. “Maybe Dad, too. He gets real holy when he’s drunk. Prays for everybody on the globe.”

I wiped my tear-streaked face. “Me, I’ve been praying for your sorry behind every day since you left, though none of those prayers probably made it past the ceiling until the past three years.”

Crow’s feet creased the corners of my brother’s eyes. “Three years? Are you sure?”

I snorted. “Oh, believe me, I’m sure. I’ll never forget the day. June—”

“Ninth?”

We stared at each other. What had happened to him on that day? The day I was born again.

“Those prayers got somewhere all right, sis. In fact, they made it a long way.” He patted the sofa beside him. “This is going to sound crazy…”

I braced myself. “Okay.”

“You know I played a few years for the Celtics. Then got into some trouble…”

Yeah, I knew. Drugs, fighting, all sorts of madness. And plastered on the news for Mama to see. “She really thought you’d come home then.”

He shook his head. “Don’t say anything until I’m done.” His jaw set into a line. “For real.”

I closed my eyes, prayed, and then opened them before nodding in agreement.

“Well, after I got kicked out of the league, I went to Europe, then wherever would have me. I met a woman….”

While we were teaching Jericho how to color inside the lines, he was traveling with a girlfriend? Was this what Rochelle didn’t want to tell me? And why did I feel both pity and anger toward this stranger, this woman who’d changed all of our lives? Maybe because I’d tasted the wrath that led her to such violence and only the sweetness of Christ has washed the bitterness from my mouth.

“Anyway, we were at a tournament in Mexico and things went bad between us. Real bad.” He wrung his hands, then lifted his sport shirt. A mishmash of scars cluttered his chest. I gasped, both at the wounds and the outline they made—a crooked cross. “She left me for dead then killed herself. I spent ten years in a coma.” He dropped his shirt. “Three years ago, on June ninth, I heard somebody calling my name, telling me to wake up….” His lip trembled. “That it was time for breakfast.”