Somewhat Saved (7 page)

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Authors: Pat G'Orge-Walker

BOOK: Somewhat Saved
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10
The National Missionaries and Mothers Board Convention started late the next morning but it didn't matter. Most of the five hundred attendees were well past the age of worrying about showing up on time. They were happy just to show up at all.
Outside, the morning air was muggy with a rare thunderstorm threatening to kiss the arid Las Vegas atmosphere with much needed moisture. Inside one of the Edna Jaeger Hotel and Conference Center's banquet rooms the ongoing praise service was hot.
The Edna Jaeger was a new facility built less than five years ago and named for one of Las Vegas's leading Afro-American female entrepreneurs. There were four floors of opulence with two of its floors completely enclosed in glass. The Jaeger, as it was called for short, also had a top-of-the-line sound system and a grand stage for small performances or events. It had the added attraction of having its own casino and first-class first aid center. The latter two features explained why the Jaeger was chosen for the Mothers Board Convention. Gambling and the acceptance of Medicaid were a plus for most of the seniors.
Bea and Sasha stood beaming behind the podium. All the attendees were dressed in white from head to toe. Bea and Sasha looked well-rested despite their action-packed afternoon and their constant bickering. Sasha had even managed to forgive Bea for suggesting that her room number, 666, was prophetic. They'd managed to take a break by going to their respective hotel rooms to regroup for the election battle.
“This is lovely,” Bea whispered as she waved to several of the women she knew. She let her dark, weathered-skin hand drop and rise, as though the audience would receive an anointing by her action.
“We can't lose with this much love in the room,” Sasha added with a low chuckle.
As if on cue the other attendees started clapping and then one by one they stood.
“Oh my.” Sasha blushed as she pretended to be embarrassed by all the applause.
Bea was about to go into her humility routine when someone from the crowd hollered, “Praise the Lord, Sister Betty's here.”
Bea's wig slid off to the side as her head quickly twisted toward the door.
Sasha's jaw dropped and so did her false teeth. If the crowd wasn't so involved in greeting Sister Betty, they'd have heard the partials clang when they hit the floor.
All the attention caught Sister Betty by surprise. It was her intention to arrive and just sit in the back until the nominations and other festivities were over.
While the other mothers and missionaries flocked toward Sister Betty, Bea and Sasha fought the urge to rush over and tackle the woman, the sanctified thorn in their sides. But they stood and smiled using the correct amount of decorum because they were there to represent their church. And, more so, they wanted the reelection.
Bea and Sasha gave one another a quick glance. The sneers hidden behind the false smiles silently conveyed their collective plans to get rid of Sister Betty.
“That old heifer has got to go,” Bea hissed.
“I agree.” Sasha had raised her cane out of habit but quickly let it drop. “Let's get together after we go to the casino and pray about it.”
 
 
It was much too hot, even for a Las Vegas morning. But for Zipporah, weather conditions couldn't be a consideration for her first day on the job. It wasn't something she'd wanted but the homeless shelter mandated that each occupant had to search for work. So when the director handed her a list for possible employment openings, she had to take it. Especially since the musical job hadn't panned out.
She had her application folded neatly in her pocket as she made her way to the employee administration area in the rear of the Jaeger Center.
A nondescript woman wearing light blue eye shadow sat at a small desk outside an expensive oaken door. The door had a gold-edged plaque reading
HUMAN RESOURCES DIRECTOR
.
“Just have a seat. I'll let you know when you can go in.” For the next few minutes the woman kept her head down, which allowed her blue-tinged silver locks to thankfully hide the ugly blue eye shadow.
“Thank you.” Zipporah waited for the woman to indicate where she should sit. “Is there any particular place?” Zipporah finally asked.
The woman still didn't respond, so Zipporah found an expensive red leather chair and allowed her weary body to succumb to its comfort. Until that moment, she hadn't realized how tired she was. But of course she was. How could she not be tired? Her tiny room certainly didn't offer a tenth of the luxury contained in the small space in which she now sat. Without thinking, she allowed her head to lie back. She fought the urge to close her eyes but she'd already lost the battle as soon as she sat down. The luxury where she now sat, compared with where she'd laid her head for the past few months, rushed past her fatigue and took over.
The rooms inside Zipporah's West Strip Homeless Shelter were small. Each room resembled a cramped prison cell, containing only a narrow cot with a thin mattress and a dresser. Comfort was not a consideration for short-term accommodations. A clock radio's alarm sat among the clutter on a small dresser. Every morning it screamed as if in pain to wake Zipporah from restless sleep.
That morning Zipporah was robotic as she prepared to leave the confines of the shelter for another day of searching for work. There were small scratches on her arms that confirmed she'd clawed and scratched at invisible demons during the night. Self-mutilation had almost become the norm for her. She dabbed a little cocoa butter on her skin to quicken the healing. Singing was the dab of healing she used for her inside wounds.
Zipporah had no sooner signed the residency clipboard meant to track the comings and goings when she heard the voice she'd assiduously tried to avoid.
“Miss Moses, can you please step inside my office?” Miss Thompson's words were soft and sympathetic but official. Taking a file off a cabinet, she walked toward her office, not bothering to see if Zipporah followed.
To visitors, the fortyish Miss Thompson appeared as an overweight yet genteel woman. She had cinnamon-colored skin and snow-white hair that cascaded past her shoulders. To the residents of the shelter, she was a nosey woman who always seemed determined that they would never overstay their allotted time unless it was at her whim.
“Close the door, Zipporah.” Miss Thompson still hadn't turned around, choosing instead to flip switches on her standing fan. She seemed pleased as the fan blades hummed louder.
Zipporah closed the door. She shuddered slightly despite her effort to remain calm. Almost thirty days ago, she'd asked Miss Thompson for an extension on the measly but necessary living arrangements. She was almost three days past the time she was supposed to leave.
“I think I know what you're about to say—”
“I doubt it.” Miss Thompson hadn't bothered to sit, choosing to lean over her desk as if it gave her more authority.
“You're past your discharge time and I don't have to remind you that there are others who need shelter, too.”
Zipporah was determined not to let one tear fall. She failed.
“You're young, very pretty, and I'm sure you have talents you haven't tapped into yet.”
Miss Thompson let the word
talents
linger as though it was a term to which she could attach all sorts of meanings.
“I don't want you to say a word. I need you to listen. I've a friend who can use a woman with your
talent
.”
Zipporah's heart raced. She'd heard those words before, spewed from her then supposed boyfriend, Lonnie. With common dreams of producing their own Broadway-styled show, they'd arrived in Las Vegas full of hope. He was thirty. His tall, muscular build and pecan-brown complexion were disarming once he lit his charm fuse. A slippery tongue and large innocent brown eyes, he had; money he did not.
Within two months, they were broke. Lonnie decided he would earn a few dollars performing one-nighters as a bassist with whoever was hiring along the strip. Despite her protests of doing anything illegal such as shoplifting, he'd beaten her and then smiled before depositing her from their used Odyssey van onto the unforgiving streets of Las Vegas.
“You're talented. Do on the street what you do to me at home. Figure it out.”
“Zipporah, figure it out.” Miss Thompson stood with her arms folded as though she expected Zipporah to drop and give her several push-ups.
“Excuse me?” Zipporah spoke with indignation. She'd finally figured it out.
“Did you understand what I just offered?” Miss Thompson's voice was no longer soft. It seemed to rise with annoyance as she again asked, “Have I made myself clear?”
The answer wrapped in a string of expletives lay trapped inside Zipporah's dry mouth. Her eyes tried to escape the intense gaze emanating from Miss Thompson's cherublike face. The balance between hunger, homelessness, and the possibility of escaping both seesawed within her mind.
While Zipporah's mind raced, the buzzer on the intercom caught Miss Thompson's attention. She glanced away quickly to answer the call and to write a quick note. It was long enough for Zipporah to rush out of the room.
Without a thought of the meager belongings in her room, Zipporah fled the shelter. She sprinted for two blocks without stopping until she arrived at the bus stop. It didn't matter where the bus was headed, she just needed to escape.
And that's when she realized she'd left her bag inside Miss Thompson's office.
That was yesterday. She'd managed to talk the night supervisor into retrieving her bag from Miss Thompson's office. She'd made the excuse of having cramps and just needing to go to her room and lie down. The night supervisor, a kindly woman and the total opposite of Miss Thompson, sympathized and took the bag during a time when the office was empty.
About the same time her head nodded off to the side again, Zipporah's name filtered through her involuntary nap. How many times had her name been called?
“Miss Moses, you may go in.” The annoyance in the receptionist's voice was palpable and the ugly blue shadow seemed darker and uglier. “Perhaps you'd like to go home and rest before you commit to a possible job here.”
Zipporah's head snapped as though held by a rubber band. Aggravation accompanied each word the woman had spoken, but not without reason.
“I'm so sorry,” Zipporah answered sheepishly. “I was praying.” The lie had rolled off her tongue too quick. Her face twitched from guilt. But it wasn't enough to take the lie back.
From the sour look on the receptionist's face Zipporah wasn't too sure if she had even a chance of getting the job. The woman's face suddenly softened as though she understood the need to pray.
“Have faith,” the receptionist whispered and smiled.
A man opened the door and politely invited Zipporah to come inside and have a seat.
“Good afternoon, I'm Mr. Lamb.” She could tell his smile was genuine and inviting when he didn't immediately look away. His speech had a hint of a southern twang and it sounded almost like he was teasing her, although he'd not said anything that would indicate that he was.
“Miss Moses, have you had a chance to look over our manual and familiarize yourself with our particular needs?”
“No, I haven't. I've only completed my application.”
“Let me give you one to look over.”
He hadn't said it but he seemed to indicate that the job was hers, if she wanted it.
“Thank you.”
Mr. Lamb walked back and forth between two cabinets selecting several manuals and papers. He walked like a professional model displaying a well-proportioned body. His waist was small but definitely manly. His skin was olive brown, smooth and hairless in the places she could see.
She noticed that they had something in common. It was in the eyes.
Mr. Lamb was at least a head or so taller than Zipporah. He acted a bit older than he appeared and she guessed his age to be in the early to mid-thirties.
He was gorgeous and she wasn't quite sure what to do with her observations. But her angst suddenly dissipated as she determined that whatever Mr. Lamb was selling, she was buying.
“Tell me a little something about yourself.” The accent tantalized her as she drank in every inch of him. He'd asked about her, wanted to know something personal.
And then she remembered. Her clean but faded floral-print dress revealed more than she'd wanted. Her black pumps that set her back twelve dollars, which she revered as though they cost a million, said that she was Zipporah Moses, a homeless woman. Las Vegas's best-kept secret—a woman who could out-sing Aretha and hit notes that Mariah couldn't reach with a ladder.
Her shoulders slumped as she scrambled to find a way to evade the question. She didn't have to. The telephone on Mr. Lamb's desk rang. “Chandler Lamb speaking, how can I help you?”

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