Rhythms of Grace (25 page)

Quinn dribbled around my chair. I sat up, slapped the ball to the floor.

Quinn jogged after it. “You’re such a pessimist. Don’t worry about Miss Wells. We all know what’s up with her.”

For such a quiet student, it was amazing all that Quinn seemed to know. Sometimes I forgot that when he showed up at Imani three years ago, he’d come right off the streets. Literally. I didn’t want to figure out what Quinn meant about Lottie, but I knew what was up with her, all right. He knew what was up with her too. “You know her well?”

Quinn made a snorting sound. “She used to run a summer camp at the rec a few years back.” He stared at the floor. “I know her better than I’d like.”

I just stared at the ceiling. Though Quinn’s recent spiritual epiphany had caused a bit of a rift between us, I’d been closer to this boy at times than a lot of the people I called my friends.

If she did something to him, I’ll . . .

Quinn passed me the ball. “You down for some ball or what?”

When I pressed my thighs to check their condition, pain met my touch. “Not today.”

“Hamstring?”

“And quads. Comes and goes. I got a little crazy with the drumming.”

Quinn sat across from me, hugging the back of the chair. “New teacher’s chair? Smells good.”

I leaned in too, drawn by the faint sweetness wafting from the fabric. I smiled as Quinn sniffed deeper. In spite of his becoming a Jesus Freak, I often wished Quinn were my son.

“The young set told me she was fine. It’ll be hard to top Miss Wilkins though. I’m a senior and I just stopped sweating her over the summer. Sounds like Ms. Okoye has potential. What do you think of her?”

That was one question I didn’t intend to answer, especially not to a student. I reached for my bag under the desk and slipped out of my shoes, exchanging the leather slip-ons for a pair of sneakers I kept on hand for basketball emergencies. “One quick game. I’ve got somewhere to be.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “Can’t even talk about her? Sounds like you’ve got it bad.”

“You know me well, don’t you?”

“Know you? Doc, for a long time, I wanted to be you. I studied your every move.”

That’s scary. “What did I do to change your mind?”

“Nothing. I just found another hero.” Quinn picked a Bible up off the floor and placed it on the table. “Ask your girl. Looks like she knows him too.”

35

Grace

We went to King’s Island. I rode all the rides that said
don’t ride if you’re pregnant, but nothing happened.
It’s still in there. I can feel it. When I got home, I
climbed up the banister and jumped down to the
landing three times. Nothing. I’m sore, that’s all. The
women on TV always lose their babies when they fall
down the steps. I’d fall off a horse if I had one. No one
will ever love me now.

Diana Dixon

It had been a long day. A long life. And though I’d danced my heart out with Brian today, dance was the river I chose to drown my sorrows in. I’d agreed to attend Zeely’s dance class at the new and beautiful John Glenn Recreation Center long before now, but the day’s tension had made me sure to keep the commitment. The women all seemed to know each other and embraced me easily, telling me how good I’d do after a few classes, how fine I’d be.

That made me smile, especially since I didn’t really care about how well I would do or how many inches I’d lose, I just needed to let my body go so that I could listen with my spirit. So I could hear God.

“I haven’t been coming and I can tell,” the woman in front of me said, frowning as her shorts rolled up, exposing fat around her knees. The rest of the women, all shapes and sizes, nodded with agreement, their faces sparkling with expectation.

I smoothed my vented tank and cotton shorts and offered a tired smile.

“Don’t worry about it. They’ll be loose by Christmas,” I said to the woman. If Zeely’s classes were anything like her personality, we’d both drop some weight for sure.

The lady sighed, nodding. “Yes, Lord. I receive that.”

“I’m gonna gonna serve-a Jesus Christ-a . . .”

Reggae music blared, but Zeely was nowhere to be seen. Just as I considered leaving, my friend appeared, wearing a gold sarong and matching head wrap. Zeely’s eyes met with mine and turned away. A man with a set of drums came in next, his eyes honed in on me. I gasped.

Brian.

Zeely clapped her hands. “Say hello to Dr. Mayfield, one of my co-workers. He’s our live entertainment today.”

“I hear that. He’s entertaining me just standing there.” A woman with gray curls elbowed me in the side, her headband slanting sideways. A grin split the lady’s face from ear to ear.

I really tried to smile back.

“Also say hi to my friend, Grace. For my first recital I was her understudy, so you know she’s no joke. Hey, girl.” Zeely waved.

I waved back, my mind collapsing under the weight of everyone’s stares. Then Brian’s hands met with the goatskin. My body started to move, almost against my will.

If I survived this, Zeely was getting a beat down.

I made it through the class, but not by much. I limped into my apartment on rubbery legs. What the squats and lunges didn’t do, Brian’s sideways glances had taken care of. Zeely followed me inside without being asked. She dropped on the futon, guzzling water from the mesh bag slung at her side before turning to me.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me Brian would be there.”

Zeely looked regretful, but not guilty. “If I’d told you, would you have come?”

“Well . . .”

“You wouldn’t have.” Zeely walked to the kitchen, tripping over a bag of trash. She shot me a questioning look before gathering the plastic handles in her fingers. And she wrinkled her nose at the smell.

The mess I’d made this afternoon was substantial, more than some clothes thrown around on the way out the door: a sticky bowl and a half-melted quart of Häagen-Dazs, a worn copy of Nikki Giovanni’s
Ego Trippin’
, a notebook with tattered pages. There was the usual too: three outfits and two pairs of shoes.

Zeely picked up the ice cream and tossed it down the disposal. Then she lifted the trash bag outside the door. “What gives?”

I didn’t even want to get into it. “It was an ice cream kind of afternoon. That’s all I’m going to say.”

She reached for my hand. “Yeah. I heard. I’d already invited Brian and it was too late to back out on the invitation. And honestly, I didn’t think you’d show.”

Me either.

I didn’t want to talk anymore. I didn’t know what to pray. I kicked off my shoes and spread out on the couch.

“Oh no you don’t. Get your sweaty self off that good furniture. It’ll be all slick and nasty. Come on. Get up to the shower. You’ll feel better after.”

Too tired to argue, I mounted the steps.

As usual, Zeely was right. When I returned from releasing my sweat and tears into the steaming shower, Zeely had picked up and vacuumed. Candles burned in the oriental lanterns along the wall. I stopped at the last step and drank in the smell. Blueberry cobbler, my favorite scent.

My friend wiped the counter in the kitchen. “I know you’re all into that aromatherapy stuff, but that won’t cut it today. I had to put some of the goodies in the attic to use.” Zeely pointed to the sky blue pillars extending an inch above their glass containers. “If those don’t work, I’ll run home for the sugar cookie. It’s the psych ward after that.”

It won’t be the first trip.

Zeely put a hand to her mouth, but went right on cleaning. Some things were just better left unsaid.

And some things had to be dealt with.

I laid my head on the Formica counter. “Maybe we should drive on over to the head shop, especially after that workout class. You almost killed me.”

“You’ll live and I’m not taking you anywhere. They’d admit me first. All you need is a good dinner—well, scratch that since you dogged that ice cream—and a nap.” Zeely put on her coat.

“Maybe.” I fingered my sleeve. “I know I need something.”

Zeely froze, one hand on the front door. “There. You said it. You need something. It’s a start. Enough for me to stay. I’ll just shower here. This is my bathroom, anyway, right?” She walked back to the couch and stroked my hair.

That made me laugh. That bathroom wasn’t big enough for me to turn around in, let alone shower. I showed her the body wash and scented lotions I kept in there for the other skinny visitor who had yet to show up—my mother. No, I hadn’t talked to her much lately outside of a few rounds of phone tag. I told Zee before she could ask. Mom was still mad about me moving here. Going backwards, she said. In truth, I knew she didn’t want me uncovering the skeletons she’d buried so carefully. Or at least she thought so. She’d call when she was over it and not a minute sooner.

Zeely said her daddy did the same thing, but she and the Reverend were so close that it was hard for me to imagine him being mad at her. About anything. Her relationship with him was the opposite of what Daddy and I had in the end. She said her father never could make it until lunch without calling to apologize. I smiled. That was the Reverend Wilkins I knew.

She disappeared behind the door and poked her head out a few seconds later. “Pearberry. Now this is me! I know you say the chemicals will kill me, but at least I’ll die smelling good.”

I had to laugh then.

“I love you, girl. I’m glad you’re my friend,” I whispered beneath the roar of the water so that she couldn’t hear. Would she still love me the same when she knew everything? Not just what had been stolen from me, but what I’d given away? Until now, I’d been too afraid to find out. Maybe I still was. I got up to cook to clear my mind.

“I’m going up yon-der to be with my Lord . . .” Zeely’s singing boomed through the bathroom door. Her voice massaged my mind as my knife sliced through the gold-green peppers on my cutting board.

Zeely emerged wrapped in a towel, strutting as though it were a mink coat. She slid onto one of my barstools looking like her song had sounded. Her shoulders shined like wet satin.

I looked at her with wonder. “I think we’ve got it turned around, you and me. I say I want to be single and you say you want a husband. You don’t need anybody. You’re defined, completed. I’m the one who needs to be rescued.”

Zeely adjusted her bracelets. “Me, completed? No. That’s what loneliness—aloneness—does. You have to get real with yourself. Get used to yourself. There’s nobody else. There may never be.”

I stopped dicing. “Of course there will be somebody. Look at you . . .”

She put a finger to her lips. “Don’t. It hurt to hear it at twenty-one. I despise hearing it at thirty-five. I spent my entire life preparing. Becoming the best woman I could be. Struggling to keep myself. To maintain.”

Water cascaded over Zeely’s collarbone, like tears. “But good men, Christian men, don’t want women like me. They want to save somebody. I don’t have any kids for them to watch, no drug habit for them to free me from, not even bad credit. That’s too boring for them.”

It was funny how she said it, but it was all too true. Everybody loved an underdog, even when it turned and bit them. I scratched my forehead. “Don’t feel bad. I don’t have anything to offer either.”

“Please. You have it all and won’t even work it.”

I dropped the vegetables into the wok, now bubbling like a volcano. With my other hand, I measured two cups of basmati into the steamer. I had no clue where Zeely was going now, but I’d traveled enough for one day. I was going to sit this one out.

“See? That’s it exactly. That innocence. That naïveté that says, ‘Somebody has looked out for me, protected me. I’m a wife.’ It’s how you reach for your cell when the tire goes flat, and I reach for my jack.”

Grease popped up and almost got me as the peppers danced in the oil. Zeely had obviously given all this some serious consideration. “And I’m supposed to work that? I don’t even know I’m doing it.”

“You can’t control where the chips fall, but you can arrange them. Pray on that and let the chips fall where they may. That’s all I’m going to say.”