Rhythms of Grace (9 page)

It was my turn not to respond. I poured myself some green tea from the refrigerator and stirred in the fresh mango juice. It was Mal’s favorite and I should have offered him a glass, but it’s hard to be hospitable when someone is looking through your mail. He put down the postcard, but kept what mattered most—the envelope with my old notebook inside.

I sat down, my drink on the bar between us. “I thought I was done with it too, but evidently God isn’t done. He’s not done with a lot of things.”

My bare feet had left footprints, I noticed. Only the toes showed up, like a young girl on tiptoe. Perhaps that’s just what it was. I grabbed the envelope and pulled. My boyfriend’s shocked look made me smile. “I’m not who you think I am, Mal. Nobody is. You know me as Grace, but in this envelope is Diana, a part of me that I have silenced for a very long time. The part of me that’s missing.”

It must have been his turn to surprise me, because he sat down, right there in my dirty footprints on my kitchen floor. He was wearing his favorite pants. Mine too. He didn’t seem to care as he motioned for me to join him on the floor.

I did, but not before offering him some tea. He declined.

“Tell me then. About Diana, I mean.”

And so I did that too. Between sips of mango tea, I told him about how my ballet teacher and my mother had plotted to starve me (he laughed), the leaves and the bus stop (he cried). I even went a little further, to my time in the psych ward (he looked concerned). It seemed best to stop there.

Thank God I didn’t tell him everything.

He hugged me, but it was more polite than passionate. “I’m so sorry, Gracie. Or should I call you—”

“Grace is fine.” I’d long since gotten over the confusion of my fractured identities. One day there would be someone who could see me for all I was, Diana Grace Dixon Okoye. Until then, there was Jesus. “And I’m sorry that I stood you up. Maybe this was supposed to happen. We can still do our planning though. Let me get my binder.”

He hung his head. “Maybe we should just pray on it some more? We’re getting married. I love you. It’s just . . .”

His declaration of love sounded like he was trying to convince himself too. It took me a minute, but I caught on. Mal had been looking for a running mate as well as a wife. Someone to grace his arm in the next few years when he got his own congregation. Yesterday, I’d fit the bill, before the mailman came.

We got up at the same time. I waved away his explanations. I didn’t want to hear them. I grabbed a travel cup from the cupboard and made him some mango tea, knowing it would likely be the last I’d give him. He took his time with it as though he knew it too.

Outside, we held hands as I walked him to his car. He didn’t talk. There was nothing to say. He’d fallen in love with who he’d thought I was. The real me, however, scared him to death. What he didn’t know was that she scared me too.

I smiled and waved goodbye before plunging into a patch of Indian Blankets with both hands. Transplanted from where I’d gently picked them on the shoulder of Interstate 75 one day when my car went dead, the flowers had never quite taken to their new surroundings. I watched as the man who had been my future pulled away, probably calling a new woman from his B list on speakerphone as he went.

That made me laugh as the petals slipped through my fingers, bright and fragile, like all the lies I’d told myself. Another part of my life was over, and after five years of mourning one man and two years of playing games with another, I resented all of it. The meanings would come clear eventually, but right now I needed answers, and preferably not the obvious ones. The only comfort came in my heart. A verse that I memorized after losing Peter.

Return to me, for I have redeemed you. Your husband is your
maker, whose name is the Lord of Hosts.

I grabbed a pot and started to pull up the bulbs, careful not to disturb the root system. If I worked quickly, maybe they’d make the move intact. I wasn’t getting another man. I’d had men enough. This time, God was giving me a mission: to change the lives of children the way Joyce had changed my life.

I’d lived many places, moved many times, but this time, I was going home.

10

Ron

Broken beer bottles and overturned carts formed the trail to the Strong and Jones Market. I jogged along the path, careful not to cut myself, but just as eager to get inside. The parking lot had been a maze in itself, packed tight with the luxury cars of suburbanites in need of soul food ingredients and local wrecks driven on fumes to try to cash a check with no ID. Kool menthols and Cuban cigars crunched under my tennis shoes as the bell rang over my head. I grabbed a cart with urgency, knowing that nothing would be left but ingredients for side dishes and desserts. I’d come to get some greens.

After spending part of the summer on a mission trip to Mexico, I knew God could provide what I needed, even if it wasn’t what I wanted. That was a lesson it seemed I’d be learning all my life. At least I was free of my tie and suit, if only for the weekend. The taped-up glass door opened and shut behind me. It occurred to me that there must have been another break-in since the last time I was in. I hadn’t heard about it, but they didn’t often report crimes over here anymore. If someone broke into a house in my neighborhood, SWAT would be dropping out of the clouds. If it wasn’t so messed up, it’d be funny.

No matter how many times the store got robbed, we’d keep coming. The outside of the building left a lot to the imagination, but no finer ingredients for down-home cooking could be found for thirty miles. At least. The thing was, you had to get here early when the farmers drove in their produce fresh. And that was on a regular day. It was Labor Day weekend and I’d neglected that important detail.

The line for the produce section snailed down the cramped aisle. I glanced at my watch. Four fifteen. Who was I fooling? Refusing to give up, I waited my turn, hoping against hope while knowing the greens were probably picked clean by noon. Three bunches of wilted mustards awaited me. I tossed them in the cart as if they were weeds.

At the meat cooler, I netted the last ham hock—if you could call it that—shriveled like an oversized dog treat. My stomach growled while my mind churned with other menu possibilities. The greens and cornbread dinner I’d planned definitely wasn’t going to happen. Cabbage could work if I put a little ham in it. Maybe some macaroni and cheese . . .

I shook my head, knowing I’d settle for some nasty hamburger again. If only they had a drive-thru window for my troubled mind too. I leaned over the cart and rubbed my temples, praying that the headache trying to bloom between my ears would wither and fade. More often than not, I felt like this: chest pains, headaches, nights without sleep. My doctor had no explanation and I didn’t offer one, even though the cause of my pain was neither new or unknown to me.

Despite making more money than I’d ever imagined and serving God in ways I’d always hoped, there was still one thing in my life that didn’t line up: the woman I dreamed about every night wasn’t the one I was planning to marry.

“If you wanted greens, you should have been here this morning,” a female voice spoke behind me, tinkling like a bell.

Without turning around, I knew who it was. I ground my teeth, realizing that I’d really waited so late to come here in hopes of avoiding her. And here she was anyway.

Zeely
.

A quick pivot brought us face-to-face. I leaned down to give her a quick hug, but once I had her, I didn’t let go. I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to ignore her perfume. Beautiful, the same one she’d worn that summer so long ago. It described everything about her. “Hey, Zee.” I’d almost called her Birdie, but thought better of it. It hurt to even think it.

She cocked her head and smiled up at me. Her dark skin was flush with the last bit of summer’s heat. She had the look of a chocolate bar just before it melts. She wore pink today, from her baseball cap to her coordinating sneakers, sweat suit, and nail polish. Unlike me, she was always all put together.

I was falling apart. I knew that for sure when I realized that I’d lifted her off her feet. This realization came by way of a pinch. I eased her back to the floor, hoping it hadn’t looked like it felt.

Zeely didn’t let on. “It’s me, Red. Or what’s left of me. You were squeezing me to death.”

Red. It pained me to call Zeely by her nickname, but she had no problem throwing mine around. I stood back and chuckled low in my throat, trying and failing to mask my embarrassment. She had a way of stripping me bare. Sometimes I thought she even enjoyed it. Still, I hadn’t meant to hold her that tight. Or for that long.

“You want me to finish the job?” I asked, motioning to hug her again. I tried to laugh, but it sounded false. Hollow.

She swatted my hands away, managing a few genuine-sounding giggles herself. “I saw your silly behind zooming through the aisles with those crazy pants. All those pockets . . . like a little kid. I should have known it was you.”

You should have.

“And I saw a pink Cadillac outside—without a Mary Kay sticker. I should have known it was
you
.”

Maybe I had known, but I just didn’t want to admit it. I didn’t want to think about it. My headache was breaking through, sending the first shoots of pain behind my eyes.

She balled up a fist and waved it under my nose, poked at my chest with an airbrushed fingernail. It was all I could do to keep from kissing her knuckles. Maybe she felt it too because she pulled back her hand as I lifted mine.

“Be serious for a second. Do you really need some greens? I got four packs this morning when the truck came. I came back for some sweet potatoes.”

“Let me get some greens, if you don’t mind.” I pulled out my wallet.

She looked offended. “You don’t have to pay me. You know that. Do you want me to cook them for you? I have to do mine anyway.”

I sighed, remembering the first time I’d sampled Zeely’s cooking. Flaky biscuits and scrambled eggs cooked just right, eaten on a bare, stained carpet.

“Ron! Do you want me to cook them or not?” She shook her head. “You’re just like Jeremiah. All off in never-never land.” She looked away. “Have you talked to him lately? How’s he doing?”

My dreamy smile disappeared. I’d wondered how long it would take for the conversation to turn to my old friend. How was Jerry? From the looks of the guy, not too good. His divorce and move back to town had hit him hard. I saw him at church functions and we talked a lot, but we never really
talked
. “I should probably be asking you how’s he’s doing. We hang out, but I don’t really know what’s going on with him a lot of the time. You probably know more than I do.”

She clucked her tongue. “Not really. We went out quite a few times last year, but lately I haven’t talked to him much at all.”

Good
, I thought and immediately hated myself for thinking it. “How are things at Imani? I heard there was some trouble over there while I was gone this summer.”

Zeely nodded. “Yeah, you missed all the fun. You get to travel while the rest of us have to work. Must be nice.”

I wanted to remind her that I’d mentioned it to her too, that she’d paid her deposit and pulled out at the last minute, that if I’d known she wasn’t going, that maybe I would have stayed home too, but that wouldn’t help anything. Things were what they were. Besides, Mindy and I wouldn’t have gotten close, gotten engaged, if I had stayed home. “We dug holes, Zee. Built a church. No toilets. No cars. I’ll pay your way next time if you’re interested.”

She frowned. We weren’t supposed to talk about real things when we saw each other. Only this playful chitchat was allowed. I was pushing too far. She had missed me and I was trying to actually make her say it. That wasn’t fair. I nodded in agreement.

Her smile returned. “I was just kidding. Lighten up. We’ve had some trouble at the school. Ever since spring semester. Had to kick out a few kids, wannabe gangsters, the Golden Boys or whatever they’re calling themselves this week. Who told you? Brian?”

Don’t I wish
?

“Joyce. Brian and I don’t talk much. He’s so busy—”

“Doing what? Moving back to Africa?”

“Be nice. You know he’s always over at social services.”

“Which makes no sense. He’s got a job.” Zeely stared at the greens in her hand. “And a brother. I just don’t get you guys. You’re supposed to be family.”

My mouth felt dry. While she was talking about me and Brian, I knew what she really meant, what she was really upset about. Me and her. We were the family she was mourning. I felt her pain, at the back of my neck, wondering not for the first time how things had turned out so different than we’d thought they would.

“
Awesome God” rang out from my pocket. My cell. I held up one finger, as much to catch my breath from the pain in my head and in my heart as to take the call. “Just a sec.”

She nodded, tossing my greens back in the bin.

I fumbled with the phone, watching Zeely disqualify the items I’d chosen as though she could cook them with her eyes.

I’d like to put her on a plate. God help me.

She looked better every time I saw her.

“Jenkins,” I said, finally lifting the phone to my ear.

“Are we still on for tonight?”

I smiled at the familiar voice and the irony of the caller’s timing.

Zeely gave me a frown reserved only for my girlfriend, Mindy, and whispered into her cupped hand, “Is it your woman?”

With a smirk, I handed Zeely the phone. Mindy was spending her holiday with her rich daddy somewhere I couldn’t remember. They’d invited me, but when I mentioned greens and cornbread, she wasn’t interested. I stayed home. Now I wondered if I wouldn’t regret it.

“Nope. It’s your man.”

11

Zeely

The phone was small, but it felt heavy, like a rock in my hand. Ron’s words, half joke and part accusation, weighed on me even more.

It’s your man.

It was like a joke with no punch line. If it didn’t hurt so much, I might have laughed. Jeremiah Terrigan was a man like many others, but he’d never been mine, no matter what anybody said.