Someone to Watch Over Me (28 page)

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Authors: Michelle Stimpson

BOOK: Someone to Watch Over Me
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When they called all concerned parties in our case forward, I was still trembling—but only on the inside. The state's caseworker actually smiled as she passed me. I stood, not sure of exactly what I was supposed to do. The knee-level swinging doors hit the back of my legs as I cautiously entered Judge Kiplinger's playpen.
“You coming forward or what?” he asked.
I cleared my throat. “Yes. You want me to come up there?”
“Affirmative.”
I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me.
I took another step toward the judge's stand, surprised my joints hadn't given out on me already. In a passing manner, I looked back at Jacob. He nodded slightly, confirming the scriptures.
“Your honor,” the caseworker began, “this is simply a matter of formality. DeAndre Lester was found riding around town this morning on his bicycle. The state requests custody until we can determine whether or not he is being properly supervised.”
He turned to me. “And who are you?”
“I'm Tori Henderson. DeAndre is my cousin. I'd like to request temporary custody.”
“Oh.” The caseworker smiled again, her curly blond wig mirroring her bubbly personality. “You must be the one he was trying to visit. When the police asked DeAndre where he was going, he said he was riding to Houston to be with Cousin Tori. Evidently, he's very fond of you.”
Emotion flooded my body.
He was coming to see me?
I had to stay centered.
“Miss Henderson,” the judge inquired, “what is your relation to DeAndre?”
“He's my cousin . . . by marriage.”
“Whose marriage?”
“My mother married his uncle.”
“So he's not your
first
cousin?” Here we go with all this numerical stuff!
“No, your honor. But his aunt,
our
aunt, was caring for him until she had a stroke. I stepped in to help and I've been taking care of him for several weeks now.”
Judge Kiplinger took a moment to review DeAndre's file. “His mother's incarcerated?”
“Yes,” the caseworker and I said.
“But you live in Houston?” he questioned again.
“For now.”
“For
now
? When do you plan on moving—and where to?”
“I'm not exactly sure, we're—
I'm
. . . in the process of making a decision . . . about moving.”
Judge Kiplinger leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. The caseworker bit her lip. I felt my face tingling under the judge's ogling eyes. He pressed a finger on his temple, raising a row of wrinkles that covered his fingertips.
“Who lives with you in Houston?”
Suddenly, I wished Jacob hadn't come along. “My friend.”
“Your friend
who
?”
“Kevin Walker. But we just broke up. I won't be living with him much longer.”
Judge Kiplinger raised his voice. “So you're living in Houston with your ex-boyfriend—for now—and you want me to grant you permission to drag little DeAndre hundreds of miles away to thrive in
your
unstable home?”
The caseworker focused on the floor, where my heart lay.
“Absolutely not,” Judge Kiplinger lambasted. “I will not subject this child to a questionable living arrangement. DeAndre Lester is hereby awarded to the state pending further investigation by the Department of Child Protective Services.”
That stupid gavel sealed DeAndre's doom, in my wretched opinion. “Next case.”
Numb, I passed through the hinged doors wondering how my life could get any worse. Jacob met me at the aisle and put an arm around my shoulder, escorting me from the courtroom. I burst into tears on the courthouse steps.
“They wouldn't let me have him, Jacob. He's in foster care and it's my fault,” I cried into his chest.
He wrapped his arms around me, kept me from melting right there on the concrete.
With snot dripping from my nose, I looked up into Jacob's eyes. “I'm sorry, Jacob, about the whole Kevin thing. I wanted to tell you, but—”
“Shhhh,” he stopped me. “We can talk about that later.”
I felt a slight tap on my shoulder. “I'm so sorry,” the caseworker tried to comfort me. “We'll take good care of him. Here's my card.” I read the name: Stella Gentry. “Call me if you have any questions. I'll do my best to keep communication open between you and DeAndre. You obviously love him very much.”
“Yes. I do.”
“Well, don't you worry, Miss Henderson. The foster families in Bayford County are
very
receptive to colored children.”
Ain't that special?
Chapter 29
I
worried myself sick that next week. Literally. Fever, chills, runny nose, no appetite. Despite Cassandra's whopping daily cash register balance, I was bummed about DeAndre, Jacob, and NetMarketing. In essence, my entire life had bottomed out. My nightly prayer centered not on my problems, but on DeAndre's well-being.
God, I don't know why You allowed him to be put in foster care. People say I'm not supposed to ask You questions, but since I'm already thinking it, You might as well know—I do wish I knew why You allowed this. Just like with Job.
Anyway, I trust You know what You are doing. Please protect him. Please work this whole thing out like Your Word says. Amen.
Instead of me reading scriptures to Aunt Dottie, she read to me nightly. If I followed along in my Bible, I could decipher her words. She emphasized encouraging passages—mostly in Jeremiah and Isaiah. Every day, her speech improved. This must be what DeAndre did for her—sat and listened to her talk.
Jacob dropped by once to check on me. Being subject to his bright, cheerful aura made me feel even worse. Why was he being so nice to me after what I'd disclosed in court? The woman he deserved in his life certainly wasn't sharing an address with another man.
Aunt Dottie left us alone in the kitchen. My hair was as dry and brittle as my lips but I didn't even care. This was the
real
me Jacob claimed was dead. Yeah, he had the Bible on his side, but my phantom was stronger than most, I guessed.
“You don't have to keep playing this charade.” I granted him a get-out-of-jail-free card.
“Who's playing?”
“Achoo!”
“Bless you,” he conferred. He snatched a paper towel from the holder on the counter and rejoined me at the table. “Here.”
“Jacob, stop with the kind come-as-you-are thing already. Don't you want to know who I was living with and why?” I grilled him.
“Yeah.” He came clean finally. “But I figure you'll tell me when you're ready.”
“I'm ready to get it over with.”
He tightened the corners of his lips. “Go.”
“Kevin's my ex-boyfriend. We lived together for eighteen months. In fact, I was living with him when I came here to Bayford.”
Jacob's brows jumped.
“But he's never home. He's a traveling salesman. We hardly ever see each other.”
Jacob solicited, “But you
were
living together?”
“Yes.”
“And you never moved out?”
“No. But I plan to.”
He posed another question. “What's the holdup?”
“I don't know. I mean, my life was cut and dry before I came back to Bayford. Then the store, and DeAndre, and . . . you. Everything changed.”
“I told you things would be different once you started walking in the Word.”
“I thought you meant for
better
, not for worse. Now DeAndre's in foster care, my job is in jeopardy, and you know
all
my personal business.”
He laughed quietly to himself. “Yes, ma'am. I sure do.”
“I'm sorry, Jacob.” I laid my hand on top of his. “Being with you has shown me what it's like to be in a real relationship with someone who actually has my best interest at heart. The more I got to know you, the more I realized . . . what I had with Kevin wasn't real. He became less and less significant until there was nothing to tell, really.”
“Is that the whole truth?”
I laced my fingers between his. “Yes. Kevin and I were finished a long time ago.”
“Well, since we're putting all our cards on the table, there's something I need to tell you, too.”
“Surprises are not welcome. What?”
“I already knew about Kevin.”
“How?”
“How else?” he hinted.
“DeAndre.”
“Yeah. You might not want to tell him too many of your secrets,” Jacob warned. “He told me Kevin
lived
there, but he didn't
stay
there. Had me confused.”
“Why didn't you just ask me?”
“It wasn't time. We haven't committed to anything formal, haven't made any declarations about this relationship—if that's what it is. I didn't want to pressure you,” he rationalized. “I still don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Don't want to pressure you.”
Jacob probably didn't mean to sound like Kevin in his effort to prevent stress in our relationship, but I'd heard this all before. In my brain, no pressure meant no obligation. No accountability. And, by the same token, no passion.
“I like pressure, Jacob. Pressure makes me sharper. Gives me something to look forward to.”
He smiled. “Me, too. So here's my first and probably my only pressurized question.”
“Already?”
Stress lines formed on his forehead. “How soon can you move out of the apartment you're sharing with the old dude?”
“Depends on what happens with my job. I'm meeting with my boss soon.”
His facial muscles relaxed. “All right, Schnookums.”
“Uh, let's
not
do pet names.”
“Aw, come on, Honey Bun.”
I protested, all the while leaning in for our second kiss. My only regret was lack of lip gloss. I cut the kiss short, from sheer embarrassment. “Sorry about my lips.”
“Yeah.” He laughed. “You kinda nicked me there.”
I whacked his unyielding shoulder. “Stop.”
“Might need stitches.”
“Anyway!”
 
Cassandra hauled me out of bed and up to the store as soon as I'd been fever-free for a day. “Look, girlie, we gotta keep it jumpin' and humpin'. Walmart's been open for a week already, and we're holding our own.”
I pulled the sheets over my head. “Who let you in here?”
“None other than your favorite person on earth.”
Now that Aunt Dottie could amble around the house with her scooter (she ordered a red one), she'd gotten into the habit of taking company again. We had guests galore, just like I remembered from my high school days.
“I'm sorry about DeAndre,” Cassandra fussed, “but he's gonna be all right. Did you talk to the caseworker lady?”
“Yes.” I spoke into the bedding. “Ms. Gentry says he's with a nice colored family with other colored children his age and adjusting very well. She says he's playing baseball, too.”
“Okay, so she was wrong for the colored thing. But this is Bayford. Look on the bright side,” Cassandra perked. “He might actually win a game or two.”
I ignored Cassandra's optimism. “I'll bet she tells every family member this same story. What else can she say? She won't tell me DeAndre's crying his eyes out every night, that he wants to come home so he can be around other coloreds who actually love him.”
Cassandra's feet halted their pacing. “DeAndre is in God's care. He always has been and he always will be. How do you think he made it to the sanctity of Aunt Dottie's house with a momma like Zoletha Simpson and a daddy like Ray-Ray Lester? God's protecting DeAndre for His purposes. Have a little faith.”
I tucked the sheets under my chin and watched as Cassandra authorized herself to open my closet doors and select my clothing. She laid a pair of jeans and a baby-doll T-shirt on the end of my bed. “Now get up before I get Aunt Dottie to roll in here and pop you with her good arm. She might ziggle you with the other one, too. She's getting pretty strong, I see.”
Cassandra opened the top drawer of my bureau, grabbed my black hat with silver rhinestones, and tossed it to me. “Here. Take this, too. We're going to Walmart after we close Dottie's tonight.”
“Why?”
Her eyes became slits. “We need to scope out the competition. See what kind of specials they're advertising, see which products they've put on their end caps. Only best-selling items get prime placement in a store, you know? I've been doin' my homework, fo' rizzle.”
“So why the hat?”
“Celebrity disguise. Can't have Dottie's customers thinking we're Walmart groupies,” she whispered.
“I'm not wearing this hat.”
She took a look at my do. “You might wanna rethink your position. Your hair is straight Shaka Zulu right now.”
“So. You got a problem with Shaka Zulu?” I objected. “There's nothing wrong with my natural African naps.”
“Girl, please. Shaka wouldn't claim you. He'd say ‘she no in our tribe. Enemy afro texture. Seize her! Woolloo-woolloo-woolloo! '”
Cassandra's clowning sparked a giggle deep inside me that ballooned into a full-blown guffaw. “You are crazy, for real!”
“Woolloo-woolloo-woolloo!” she shrieked again, repeatedly tapping my afro with a hanger.
Elbows covering my head, I surrendered. “Okay! I'm up! I'm up, Shaka!”
I noticed Aunt Dottie parked at my doorway, her body bouncing with laughter.
“Aunt Dottie, why did you open the door for Cassandra?”
She waved my question away.
Cassandra shouted, “'Cause she loves you, girl.”
Aunt Dottie corroborated with a glint in her eyes, “Aaah luuuh you, Toor.”
There it was, spoken from her own lips. Sometimes those three words make all the difference between a life falling apart or coming together.
“I love you, too, Aunt Dottie.”
“Awwwie! Group hug!” Cassandra decreed. “Group hug!”
We got to the store just before Cassandra released the Dottie's Throwback text, which always brought in a rush of patrons.
Virgie and Elgin welcomed me back, as well as the entire town of Bayford, it seemed. “We've been praying for you, Tori”; “We know God will work everything out for you and DeAndre”; “Missed you.”
The support from people who didn't know me personally lifted my spirits tremendously. Some of them probably knew me because of Aunt Dottie. Others maybe because of Jacob. Nonetheless, they cared because, in some way, we were connected.
Almost made me forget about my problems. Almost.
We closed the store with another successful count. Though Cassandra was supposed to go home hours ago, her dedication to the success of Dottie's knew no end.
Cassandra and I helped Elgin lock up, since Virgie had to work her other job that evening. “Elgin, we'll see you tomorrow,” Cassandra discharged. “Don't break anything on the dance floor tonight.”
“Can't make no promises,” he clucked.
We made it to Walmart a little after eight. The parking lot was packed, which surprised me. I guess I figured since we were in such a small town, there wouldn't be so many shoppers. Wrong. Super-wrong.
“Dang!” Cassandra gawked. “Everybody and their
second
cousin is here! Shabooty!”
We drove around for a while hoping for a good spot. Nothing opened after creeping up and down three aisles.
“Looks like we're going to have to foot it, homie,” Cassandra concluded. She gave in to a block on row H. After parking, she tapped my hat's bill. “Pull it lower.”
“I will not,” I griped.
“All right,” she hissed, “if the paparazzi catches you in the enemy's territory, don't blame me.”
“You are too serious about this,” I warned her. “We are not spies.”
“I know. For real, though, I need a new kitchen rug.”
“Get out, Sandra.”
We entered the store. Bright lights illuminated the warehouse motif. Polished concrete floors, exposed beams high overhead, humongous signs marking the various departments.
“We need signs in Dottie's,” Cassandra noted on a mini-spiral she'd produced from nowhere.
“Everyone knows Dottie's layout,” I reminded her.
“Doesn't matter. The signs aren't up to let you know where everything is—they're suggesting things you hadn't even thought about buying before you walked in the store,” she explained. “Suggestive selling.”
Shut my mouth
.
“You go down the snack aisles. I'll check the meats and produce.” She tore off a sheet of paper and handed me a pen.
“What am I looking for?”
“Go down the aisles and see which items are at eye level and on the end caps. Write down their names and prices,” she instructed. “And if you see anything that shocks you—layout, placement, pricing—make a note.”

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