Rhythms of Grace (11 page)
“Equals progress.”
Another of Joyce’s many proverbs she’d drilled into us. If only I’d listened as hard as Zeely to all those sayings, maybe things would have been different. Maybe I would have been different. I hoped not. I’d just started to love myself again, to really enjoy being me. It’d be a pity to waste all that love.
Zeely checked her manicured toenails for cracked polish. “It’s amazing how we can still remember all that stuff Joyce used to tell us. Sometimes I find myself saying Joyce-isms to my students. It’s crazy.”
That much I could agree with. “Isn’t it?” Zeely also had Joyce as her teacher at school, so it was no wonder that she remembered the Ngozi sayings word for word. It wasn’t the words that I remembered so much but the dancing. And the beat. Lately, I’d been hearing it, seeing it in my sleep. My short time in Ngozi had changed my life. I had no doubt that Imani would do the same.
Imani. Faith. How appropriate. It had taken all the believing I had and then some to get here. All Joyce’s believing too. Where she’d gotten so much faith I never could figure it, but she’d always had it, bidding us leap when we could barely stand. “The school. Tell me about it.”
“You’ll see it soon enough. You know Joyce. She hasn’t changed.” Zeely patted my thigh. “Let’s talk about you. You look good. Better than the last time I saw you. You must be dancing again.” She pinched the back of my arm. “But still eating the house down, I see.”
I shrugged. Counting things and going to gyms wasn’t my thing. I walked, climbed, ran, but never anything steady. Without dancing, my body didn’t operate very well. “I did do a dance actually. Not long ago. On the riverfront with a class of kids. It was amazing. Those kids were totally into it. I don’t think I was ever like that.”
Zeely rolled her eyes at me. “Oh, you were into it.”
Another shrug. “Maybe.” We were going into were-was territory, the land of things that happened but didn’t happen. It was a rocky, dangerous land.
I chose to focus on her compliment. I smoothed a hand down my jeans. “I’m still hanging on to a little muscle mass from climbing that rock wall last year, but not much.”
Zeely stretched out on my couch and raised an eyebrow. “I remember that. It sounds just as crazy now as it did then. Didn’t your mama tell you black folks don’t do stuff like that?”
No, my “mama” hadn’t concerned herself with what black folks didn’t do. Even now, my mother prided herself in doing the unexpected. After I’d climbed the wall, she’d driven down a van full of her Bible study friends and done it too. “All kinds of people do all kinds of things. You’d be surprised. . . .” I joined her on the couch. It was even more comfortable than it’d been in the store.
Zeely cracked a knuckle. “Well, it won’t be me. We both know that.”
We both laughed. Zeely’s fear of heights and planes had squashed many of our travel plans over the years. Before Peter, I’d been like that. I’d been twenty-two probably when he taught me how to drive. Back then I was scared of everything. Now I was just trying to feel, well, anything. Either way, I knew how it felt to be afraid of something. “I understand. Sometimes I still feel afraid of things, but after Peter died—”
It was Zeely’s turn to shrug. “I know. I know. Tomorrow isn’t promised and all that. Are you still keeping that hundred-things-to-do-before-I-die list?”
I was surprised that she’d remembered. “Yes. I’m up to thirty-seven. Wearing my hair natural.” I drug a hand through my hair, curly since that day when the envelope came. A few strands floated to the floor. I’d always wanted to do it and now that there were no men to consider, I’d made my choice. Now if I could just figure out how to keep it from all falling out. That was number thirty-eight.
Zeely frowned. “I’m not even going there about the hair. You know what I think. I have to give you props for being different though. You are something else, Di—I mean, Grace. Sorry. That’s still weird sometimes.”
I looked up at the woman’s eyes in the picture over the couch. Peace. It’d been God’s gift to me. It was my job to keep it. “It doesn’t bother me. It might be a bit strange here. Joyce calls me both.”
“I’m not as flexible as Joyce. I liked Diana.” Zeely got up and poured herself a glass of water. I noticed for the first time that she’d unpacked the dishes too.
“I hated it. It always made me think of the princess. Peter always called me Grace. When Princess Di and Peter died, I started to go by it.”
“I still love Diana. I always will. Right now, though, it seems I need grace more than anything.”
I held the glass up to my cheek. “Don’t we all?”
We looked at each other, but neither of us spoke. The silence swirled around us, knocking off scabs neither of us wanted to acknowledge. Sometimes, the only way to clean a wound was to rip it open. Not today, though. I had enough to deal with just getting situated.
I got up and walked to the window. Sage and lemongrass seedlings lined the windowsill. I wiped my eye. That spoke more than anything Zeely could have said. I picked one up and sniffed it. All the tension rolled down my spine. “Thanks. For everything.”
Zeely headed for the door. “Forget it. Call me when you’re ready for orientation at the school. I’m doing the early part of the program and leaving, but you’re welcome to ride. There’s some teriyaki chicken in the fridge. Oh, and there’s some boxes in the attic. The stuff that couldn’t fit. I can help you go through it later if you want.”
I hesitated. “Sure. Later.” It should have occurred to me that some things wouldn’t fit. A house can’t fit into a condo no matter how much you toss out at the last minute. This move would probably squeeze a lot more out of me than those boxes upstairs.
What am I doing here
?
My answer wafted to the ground like a sleepy leaf. Number thirty-eight on my life list, a strand of hair I was struggling to keep. I’d come here for Joyce, there was some truth to that, but I’d come for myself too. I’d come to find the weed still growing in my heart, the thing that was eating me—from the roots up.
Daddy keeps asking me why I’m so quiet. Secrets don’t
leave much room for words.
Diana Dixon
I drove my own car to orientation. It probably ticked Zeely off a little, but I wasn’t quite ready to carpool yet. At least not for this trip. Zeely mentioned that she’d probably leave early anyway, after the “Everything you want to know about Imani” session. There was no sense in her driving back to pick me up. Though I’d never been to Joyce’s school before, I knew that it was on South Side. I figured this was a ride I probably needed to take alone. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
It was all still there. Mount Olive Missionary Baptist Church came first, where Zeely’s father still preached every Sunday. She still sang in the choir, probably wearing her robe from high school. The sight of Strong and Jones Market made me smile. Daddy’s favorite pork chops had come from there, right up until the week he died. Mom came back to town for church events and reunions but she never sets foot in there.
I slowed a little, checking the address Joyce had given me, following the numbers until I saw . . . the Charles C. They’d painted it and spruced it up, but there was no mistaking it. On the side of the building a blue and gold banner hung high.
Imani Academy. Where we believe in you!
No wonder Zeely hadn’t wanted to talk about school. I felt a little sick turning into the lot, but there was nothing to do now but my job. And if the packed parking lot was any indication, there’d be plenty of work to do.
Circling the lot for the third time, I watched Zeely go inside. She gave me a long I-told-you-so stare before going in. Fair enough. Next time, I’d listen. Maybe. For now, I just needed to find a parking space and neither my car nor the crowd was helping me out.
Across the lot, a white van pulled out of a space and limped out of the lot. I went for it, praying my car would come through for me one last time.
I’ll take you in Monday, baby. Promise. Just let me get in here.
It would have been a great coup, grabbing that space and running inside right on time, if it weren’t for that black import with the same idea. I didn’t see it until it was too late.
The metal made a horrible crunch. This couldn’t be happening. Almost hysterical, I laughed to keep from crying.
The other driver didn’t find it funny. He tapped on my window. I stared at him for a few seconds before rolling it down. This was not Mr. Homecoming from earlier. This was a grown man wearing a dashiki that wasn’t made in China. He had the kind of locks in his hair that were somewhere on my life list, though they looked better on him. Until he started talking anyway. “Are you crazy?”
“Not technically. I have issues, but I’m working through them. You?” I could be a smart aleck when I’m nervous, but this was ridiculous.
Before I could apologize, he pulled my door open and extended his hand. When I got out, he gave my door a good slam. He shook his head at the state of my ride. “I’m surprised the door didn’t fall off.”
Me too
.
He smoothed his beard a few times while I tried to figure out what color it was exactly. His skin was definitely honey. Or maybe ginger . . .
After looking me up and down, he asked if I was okay. When I said I was, he asked—with skepticism—if I had insurance. That made me a little mad. Sure my car wasn’t in the greatest shape, but I wasn’t totally irresponsible. Sometimes things just got away from me. Usually the best things.
He scribbled down all his information in the biggest Daytimer I’d ever seen. Then he shook my hand and told me his name while I tried to act unaffected. “Dr. Mayfield. Nice to meet you, although the circumstances could have been better. I guess that’s what I get for leaving home later than I should have.”
“No, it was my fault, Dr. Mayfield.” His name felt familiar in my mouth, liked I’d said it before, seen him before. But I doubted that. I would have remembered. He wasn’t the kind of man that a woman forgot. He had presence like someone who usually ran things—and liked it. “I’m Grace—Grace Okoye.”
He really looked interested then. “You’re Nigerian?”
“Something like that.” I sighed, not really wanting to get into my late husband’s genealogy with a stranger, especially not if he was one of those deep back-to-Africa brothers that could talk you to death. I was late enough as it was.
The police saved me from having to explain more. I made a mental note to look out for Mayfield kids in any of my classes. Boy or girl, any child of his wouldn’t be hard to find.
When the policeman left (who the good doctor had known by name, but whose name I’d forgotten already), Dr. Mayfield pointed to the boxes still in my backseat. “New in town? Or coming back?”
“Both.” I grabbed my purse from the car. Poor guy. He would have to meet me when I was in one of these moods. Oh well. “Let me know if I owe you anything else,” I said before straightening my dress and stepping around him.
While he’d seemed to be in a big hurry too, my last vague comment must have taken him over the edge because he grabbed my hand and spun me toward him like in some kind of black-and-white movie. I tried to duck when he—and his lips—moved closer to my face, but he was too quick. While I cringed, he planted a quick kiss on the top of my hand.
“That’ll cover it,” he said, before walking away, leaving me staring after him.
Brian
“A custom program for at-risk students . . .”
That’s how the Imani Academy radio spot began. Judging from the crowd, the advertising campaign targeted the right market.
At-risk
. I hated the phrase. It was worse than a torn-up umbrella in a downpour—no help and something else to carry. It wasn’t just the students who earned the label. It was the parents too. At risk of losing their jobs, their marriages, and sometimes even their minds.
Right now, I felt at risk of going crazy myself. Maybe I already had. I ran my thumb across my lips and slid into my chair at the registration table. While I processed a grandmother with a kind smile and the six thugs in matching outfits who turned out to be her grandsons, what just happened outside turned over in my mind.
I couldn’t make sense of it any way I turned it, so I just let it go. Or pretended to. Women approached me all the time, but nothing usually came of it. Especially not lately. In the past year, I’d just been . . . hesitant. Until tonight.
If I could find that Okoye woman again, I’d apologize, but that might just make things worse. I hoped I hadn’t gotten myself into a mess. These days, a man couldn’t be too careful, litigation being such as it is. I warned my male students every day. Look, but don’t touch. Now here I was doing the opposite.
A corporate couple signed in next, pulling along their son, with hair spiked like a porcupine and snakes tattooed around his neck. The father looked unsure, but the mother, briefcase in hand and Bluetooth in operation, had a set, determined line across her mouth.
Next came Mr. McKnight, a man whose blood pressure was high and his tolerance for foolishness low. I’d picked that up the first time I’d met him. I think they sent him to anger management class over the summer too. We’d both blown up over his son Sean, a former student of mine who’d made some bad choices and landed me in a mess of trouble. As usual, Joyce had neglected to tell me that the boy would be back.