Mama B - A Time to Dance (Book 2) (9 page)

By the time I
finished the two miles with her, it took the Lord Himself to bring me back down
through His word during my quiet time with Him. Hmph. Come to think of it, me
and God had a lot of quiet times all through the day, just talkin’ and singin’
and laughin’. His presence is so sweet, make you want to sit at His feet and
listen to Him all day, like Mary. Make you want to poke Gabriel in the ribs and
tell him to blow the horn already.

Still, I got a
life to live for Him. And, apparently, this life now included dancing.

Debra Kay
convinced me I needed a pair of dancing shoes. Black jazz shoes, she said. I
like jazz. But when I got to the dance store and took a look at those
plain-Jane flat things for almost forty dollars, I had a change of heart. Might
as well put on a pair of moccasins!

This dilemma
forced me to give Dr. Wilson a call. I got his voicemail and left a message
hoping he’d get back to me before I got out of the shopping center. In the
meanwhile, I ducked into a few ladies’ clothing stores and picked up some pieces
for fall. Purple was back, to my delight.

Dr. Wilson
caught me just before I got back into my car. “B, how are you?”

“I’m well, thank
you. You got my message, I see.”

“Yes. Don’t
worry about getting special shoes. Just wear something comfortable,” he put an
end to my quandary.

“Okey-dokey.
That’s all I needed to know.”

“I look forward
to seeing you again Friday.”

“Same here.”

An unmistakable
flutter hit my stomach. This time, I couldn’t blame it on nervousness or fear
of what Albert might think or even a should-be rated R movie. Plain and simple,
this was just
me
excited about going dancing with Dr. Wilson.

You coulda
bought me for a quarter after I seen all those folks my age in the dance class.
Where did all these people come from ‘cause they sure wasn’t at Mt. Zion or any
of the places I visited regularly. Black folk, white folk, red folk – I
mean, this was a little bit of every group over the age of sixty-five.

The dance room
was a big rectangle with a wooden floor. One of the long sides was nothing but
mirrors. The opposite side had windows, but the curtains were closed to give us
privacy. On one of the short sides was a row of tables we signed in at. And
opposite, the teacher had all her sound equipment; big old speakers and such.

Frank introduced
me to everyone he knew, which was about two-thirds of the people there. I
gathered he’d been dancing for a while. They all called him “Frank,” which let
me know he wasn’t hung up on the fact he had a medical degree. This was good
news to my ears ‘cause I
done met folk
who would just about cuss you out for not addressing them as “Doctor” or
“Bishop” so-and-so. And half the time the so-called credentials they got come
from somebody they ain’t never met from some place ‘bout no bigger than a snow cone
stand!

Yep, them the
ones you got to watch out for.

Not Frank.

Our instructor,
who introduced herself as Gavina, was a tall, lean, ballerina-type woman. She
looked to be in her mid-40s. “We’ve got quite a few newcomers tonight, so we’ll
start slow with a cha-cha step.”

Gavina started
the music. Frank offered his arm, and I followed him to a spot on the floor.
Oh, I had the cha-cha down by the second 8-count.

“You got some
rhythm in your feet, I see,” Frank said to me.

I sassed, “I’ll
try to slow down so you can keep up with me.”

“Watch out now,”
he edged me on.

We cha-cha’d, we
samba’d, we salsa’d ‘til I was almost worn out! I was so glad I’d listened to
Frank and worn something simple. A warm-up suit and slip-on tennis shoes. Who
knew dancing was so much
exercise
? Good thing I was already in good
shape because of my walking three times a week. Else, I would have run out of
gas like some of the other new folks.

Frank’s T-shirt
had dampened in a few spots. He was getting a good workout, too, I saw.

He did have
occasion to put an arm around my waist a time or two, but since every other man
in the building was doing it too, I didn’t feel antsy about it. Really, I
didn’t feel anything but free and relaxed.

This was
definitely something we could do with Peter and Libby—if Peter would ever
agree to it. He still kind of old school about church folk dancing and all.
Might feel funny, ‘specially seeing as he’s a pastor. I would have felt funny,
too, if me and Frank hadn’t already had that talk about what the Holy Spirit
has already been a witness to.

Now, my Daddy,
God rest his soul, didn’t believe in no kind of dancing, drinking, smoking,
listening to blues music. None of that. We couldn’t wear nothing but dresses
and skirts when I was a young girl. Mama couldn’t paint her face, couldn’t put
on no earbobs. I know she was crushed when my Daddy died of pneumonia, but I
reckon a tiny piece of her was glad to get back to the Baptist church and glide
on a teenchy-bit of lip color again.

Still, she
taught me to be modest. Respectful.

Peter and Libby
were Baptists, but he might as well have been Pentecostal ‘cause he sure don’t
believe in
lookin’
like he might be doing something wrong, even if he
ain’t. There’s a verse over in First Thessalonians five that agrees with him
(depending on what version you read) so I can’t argue with the man.

Me and Frank
were amongst the last couples on the floor. We’d lasted through seventy-five
minutes of dancing. Gavina started a round of applause for the couples who’d
made it through the entire class as well as those who’d had to conk out. Chile,
the way those folks was rubbing their knees and holding on to their backs, I
could tell there was gon’ be a shortage of Ben Gay at the pharmacy.

“Great work,
everyone,” Gavina said as she turned off the music and grabbed a towel to wipe
her face. “Hope to see you all again soon. Goodnight.”

We said good-bye
to more people than whose names I could remember. They were all so full of
compliments. “You’re a natural,” and, “I can’t believe this is your first
time!”

Somebody
remarked to Frank, “Looks like you’ve found a good partner. Better hold on to
this one, buddy.”

This one?
How many women had Frank brought in
here?

Until just then,
I hadn’t given much thought to the idea Frank might be steppin’ out, in more
than one way, with plenty other women. But I should have known. He was
handsome, fit, dark, and a doctor, to boot. Got to be plenty women barking up
his tree.

Not that I had a
problem with it. Well…maybe I did. A little. But besides, I don’t want folk to
mistake me for part of Frank’s dancin’ harem.

As we walked
over to the bag he’d brought, I fought to keep my mouth shut. No sense in
badgering the man. He grown. I’m grown. No strings here.

Frank unzipped
the black bag and pulled out a bottle of water, which he held out toward me.

“Thank you
kindly.”

“You’re welcome,
Miss Beatrice.”

I caught the
hint of sarcasm. “Why you say it like that?”

“Isn’t that what
you wanted me to call you?  I mean, I know everyone else calls you B, but,
you know…I respect your wishes.”

After a cold,
long swig, I gave in. “Frank, if you want to call me B, you can call me B.
How’s that?”

He smiled with those
big bright teeth. I still couldn’t tell if they were all the way real. “I’d
like that very much.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,
B.”

On the way out
the studio, we happened on a community announcement board. There, in big bold
letters, was a sign that seemed to be written entirely for me to see it:
SENIORS – ARE YOU BEHIND ON YOUR PROPERTY TAXES?

I took a step
closer to read the sign as Frank slowed behind me. From what I could tell,
there was some kind of county-wide charity helping people with their property
taxes, now that they were higher than ever with the new construction and
what-all going on around Peasner. The flyer listed a telephone number and a
contact name.

I knew right
away I needed to snatch a copy and pass it on to Ophelia first thing in the
morning.

But you know
what? All of a sudden, I felt a little ping in my chest. Instead of thinking
about what Ophelia said—about how we needed to help Henrietta in spite of
her ways—I started thinking about how she’d waddled her rump onto my
property and accused me of a being a two-timin’ hypocrite. And slapped my
nephew, too! She best be glad I couldn’t call the police on her.

Whether her
blood pressure was up or not, whatever she said was probably how she really felt
deep down in her heart. If that’s the way she felt about me, she could just
pack her bags and get ready to move into a housing project ‘cause that’s what
you deserve when you treat God’s people ugly.

I didn’t lift a
finger to get that flyer.
Take that, Henrietta
.

Now, y’all know
I didn’t even make it through the night without repenting. Barely made it
through the dinner with Frank without confessing my sin to him. I asked him if
the studio was open on Saturdays, thinking maybe I could go back and get the
paper. I figured the place Henrietta needed to call probably was closed all
weekend anyway. So long as I got the paper to Ophelia by Monday, we wouldn’t
lose no time and none would be the wiser.

Like I said, I
told the Lord I was sorry about passing up the opportunity to help Henrietta,
and I knew in my heart and by His word that He had heard my prayer. Me and Him
camped out on Ephesians 4:32 for a good fifteen minutes.
And be ye kind one
to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake
hath forgiven you.

Then we laughed
together as I flipped through the word looking for a verse that I’d heard
before about overlooking an offense. I couldn’t remember what the verse was, so
I opened up my Bible app on my iPhone and searched the words “overlook
offense.” The phrase popped up in Proverbs 19:11, NIV.
A person’s wisdom
yields patience; it is to one’s glory to
overlook
an
offense
.

Yes, I’d known
all that before I had the ugly moment at the dance studio. But God’s so good.
He’ll lead us to repent, then remind us who we are in Him. Then He’ll give us
another chance to walk out what He already put in us through Christ. All His
ways are good, even when we mess up sometimes.
Hallelujah!

My plan was to
get my hands on that flyer as soon as possible so Ophelia could go ahead with
whatever good plan they could work up for Henrietta. Once I’d done my little
part, I could rest well knowing I had overcome evil with good.

Well, that was
my
plan. But God said different.

I’m usually up
with the hens, but the next morning, my phone did all the wakin’. “B, it’s
Ophelia.”

I glanced over
at the digital clock. 4:52. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Henrietta.
Pastor said her sugar got too high and she slipped into a coma. Her daughter
found her passed out in the house last night. They don’t know how long she been
out. She in ICU and they not sure if she gon’ pull out of it.”

I threw the
covers back off my body. “What time you plan on goin’?”

“Around six. I
can pick you up at five-thirty.”

“Okay. Just blow
the horn. I’ll be ready.”

I ended the call
and slipped on down to my bedside to pray. Sure is a lot easier to pray for
somebody after you stop holdin’ a grudge in your heart.

Ophelia and I had to sit in the waiting
room while the nurses changed shifts. She had coffee, I had a bottle of orange
juice. I told her about the flyer I’d seen at the studio.

“Did you bring
it with you?” she wanted to know.

“No. I was too
mad at Henrietta at the moment. Enemy had me all puffed up, and I fell for it.
The Lord straightened me out, though. Told me to put back on my spiritual
glasses.”

Ophelia’s such a
good friend. She smiled. “You know that’s the funny thing. We both in our
seventies and, still, we sometimes forget who the real enemy is. Like my granddaughter
told her brother the other week, ‘Why you actin’ brand new?’”

“Ain’t that the
truth?”

We finally got
in to see Henrietta at nearly seven. Nearly broke my heart. My long-time church
member, my sister layin’ there in a tangle of tubes. One going down her nose,
one in her arm, another one to get rid of waste. Plus, both of her hands and
feet tied to the posts; I assume because her body was doin’ nervous jerks. And
her mouth was just movin’ like she chewing a wad of gum.

In my
seventy-two years, I done seen a lot of folk laid up in a hospital bed. But I
ain’t never seen nobody look so pitiful as Henrietta did that day. When Ophelia
said she was in a coma, I expected her to appear sleep. But Henrietta seemed
restless in the coma, like her spirit knew she fightin’ for her life. Restless,
I tell you.