Sweet Violet and a Time for Love (4 page)

“Turn up the music, Sienna.”

Leon's bald head bobbed up and down to the Sunday morning mix programmed into my car's audio system. Part aerobic, somewhat techno, hinting at gospel, and all spiritual, I blasted my mix not just on Sunday mornings, but whenever my spirit needed a lift or my worship needed a workout.

We were on our way to early morning services at Second Zion Worship Center, having now been members there together for the past couple of months. As newlyweds, we both wanted to start our lives together on the same page; being at a new, but familiar, church together made sense to us. I'd grown to appreciate the expansive ministry when dealing with a foster child and her foster parents several years ago. Leon felt strongly about helping out with the youth ministry, and I had been finding a comfortable place helping out with the extensive counseling ministry network of the respected megachurch. Despite the growth by the thousands of the increasingly multiethnic church, the pastor refused to allow his salary to grow past what he initially accepted when the church had just 300 members. The extra monies that had poured in over the years of growth were used strictly for service and ministry. Far from feeling like a corporation, Second Zion maintained an aura of community and served as a rest stop for spiritually weary souls.

“I don't even remember you coming in last night.” Leon's head still bopped, but I noticed he'd turned down the music. A light snow fell around us, but immediately melted on the warm ground.

“Yeah, it was pretty late when I got in, but you don't have to worry about late nights like that for me anymore. I'm going to make sure that Mabel gets this pager back first thing tomorrow morning. I'm done with providing free on-call services!”

“You said that two weeks ago,” Leon gave me a side glance and smiled. Side note: he had beautiful teeth.

“I mean it this time, especially after last night. You should have seen this woman they called me in for in the emergency room. She—”

Leon held up a hand. “Don't tell me about it. Your stories always alarm me. I'm always afraid that something will happen to you and none of your stories ever make me feel better about my fears.”

“Oh, this woman was harmless; a little off, but harmless,” I shooed his concern away. “The only time I felt a little unnerved was just as she was getting out of the car. She said—”

“Wait,” Leon interrupted, “she was in your car?” His smile dropped immediately. “You drove a patient somewhere? A psych patient was in this car alone with you in the middle of the night?”

“You make it sound worse than it was.” He had a point. The way he put it, my decision to drive Frankie Jean, or whoever she was, back to the shelter, did sound a little unwise. But what else could I have done? “She was harmless,” I asserted again, to both me and Leon.

He shook his head before turning the music back up. “I'm holding you to your promise to return that pager. No more late Saturday nights. I've been missing my wife.”

“I've been missing you.” I smiled and ran a palm over his chocolate bald head. He gave me another side glance and I saw the heat in his eyes.

Mmmm. This man was mine. All six feet and two inches. My husband was too fine and if we weren't already pulling into the church parking lot I would have suggested that we go back home and make up for the lost night.

And then the rumbling in my stomach began again. A thick queasiness that made me think of hot, curdled mayonnaise oozed up my esophagus
. Hurry up and park the car!
I wanted to scream as a sour, metallic taste filled my mouth
. I cannot throw up!
How would I explain such a thing to Leon? There was no way I was telling him about the positive pregnancy tests. No need to alarm him over what I was sure was defective merchandise.
I'm going to try a different brand tomorrow.
I swallowed hard, willing the bubbles gurgling at the back of my throat to settle down.

Leon had the car in reverse, repositioning it between an SUV and a minivan. Normally a smooth driver, the car seemed to start and stop in awkward positions as he struggled for a perfect alignment.

His attention seemed elsewhere as he sighed and began straightening out once more.

“Excuse me.” I smiled, my words calm and easy, the exact opposite of the unsettledness that rippled just below my collected exterior. “I need to grab something from the back.” I was about to blow. I needed a bag, a bucket, an old soft drink cup, something, anything to catch the catastrophe that was four seconds away from emptying out of my raw stomach. Thank God we had used my car. Trash, old tissues, or something was bound to be on the rear floor since I wasn't as fastidious as Leon when it came to keeping a clean vehicle. I prayed and swallowed hard again as I reached behind Leon's chair in search of something that would address my predicament.

My fingers touched cold plastic.

A clear bag with the words M
ETROPOLITAN
C
OMMUNITY
H
OSPITAL
printed on it, a dingy housecoat tucked inside, lay on the floor behind me. Blue slippers.

“Oh no!” I whispered for many reasons. The first being that my sick stomach was not going to be stopped. And the second: I still had Frankie Jean's belongings in my car.

“Leon, I need to get out!” I pushed the car door open just as he cut the ignition, and just in time, too. My stomach emptied right there on the church parking lot. A woman wearing an oversized white feather hat frowned as she passed our car. I pulled myself out of the car and stood, gripping the top of the car door for balance. The snow had stopped falling, and it wasn't piling up anyway. There was nothing to hide or cover up my current situation.

“Sienna, are you okay?” Leon somehow was standing next to me, his broad palm rubbing my back.

“I'm fine.” I pulled away from his touch, not wanting him to be too concerned. “That patient left her bag with her stuff in it in the back seat, and it, the bag, and, uh, remembering some things about last night made me gag. You know how weak my stomach is.” I wasn't lying, I convinced myself, forcing the memory of her dancing with her open housecoat, with nothing underneath, into my mind. Yeah, that was enough to make anyone gag. “I promise you, I'm fi . . .” The words got caught in my throat as another wave of nausea rolled out of me. Leon did not budge from my side.

“Sienna, you must not be feeling well. Maybe you picked up some type of stomach bug working at the hospital.” The worry in his eyes was genuine.

Sick. A stomach virus. Yes. That's what it was. Had to be. Even Leon suspected no less. I nodded as I clutched my stomach tighter.

“Let's get you home, babe.” He was already headed back to the driver's side.

“No.” I didn't want him worrying over me. “Look, you're in charge of manning the youth ministry booth after service today. Stay here. I'll come back and get you.”

“You shouldn't be driving, Sienna. I—”

“I'll be okay. You stay. I'll be back.”

He let out a loud sigh, thought for a moment, then swung his door shut without getting in. “I hate leaving you alone sick, but if you think you'll be okay for a couple of hours, I probably do need to uphold my commitment to the ministry. People are signing their kids up for the spring retreat, and I'm the one with all the answers. Sienna, you sure you'll be okay?”

I forced a smile onto my face as my stomach curdled up again. “Don't worry about me. I've spent most of my adult life managing colds and viruses alone. I'm a big girl.”

“You're my wife. You're not alone anymore.”

It had to be love. Why else would a man look ready to kiss a woman who'd just vomited all over the ground?

“Thank you.” I smiled at my husband of five months. “I feel better just knowing you care. Please stay here. I'll be back by the end of service.”

He shook his head as he began walking away. “Don't worry about coming back to get me. I'll get myself home. I'm sure Deacon Tony won't mind giving me a ride since he doesn't live too far from us. You just get home and get in the bed. And stay hydrated.”

He saw me looking at the clear plastic bag filled with Frankie Jean's dirty belongings. “No, Sienna, don't worry about that right now. Enough.”

“I'm taking it back. Dropping it off. That way I'm a hundred percent done with it all. Finished. That will help me rest better.”

“No.” Leon shook his head. “You are not feeling well. That bag of dirty clothes is not a priority right now. I want you to go home, get in the bed, and get better.”

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

I put on a smile.

“Okay.” I walked over to him and stood on my tiptoes to peck his cheek. “That's what you want me to do, so that's what I'm doing.”

Leon smiled back at me. He put his index finger under my chin and turned my lips to his.

“You can't possibly want to kiss me right now. I'm . . . sick, remember.”

“Get some rest, sweetheart. I'll be home to you soon.” He planted a deep kiss on my lips and then turned toward the church entrance. “And don't worry. I'll get that mess taken care of.” He pointed back to my stomach contents on the ground.

As he entered the church, I got back in the car and glanced over at the plastic bag of that woman's belongings.

“I will go home and rest, but first I'm getting rid of that bag so I don't have to think about it anymore.” I figured if I said it out loud, though he was well out of earshot, I would not have just lied to my husband about going home.

“I'm pregnant.” I said that out loud too, letting the full weight of the words rest on me. There was no denying it anymore. The nausea was way too big of a clue. Okay, and so were the three positive pregnancy tests. I exhaled. Wanted to scream. Cry. Laugh.

I did all three as I drove down Belair Road to the heart of East Baltimore. If anyone driving past me had a glimpse of me at the wheel, hopefully they would think I was just getting filled with the Spirit and not losing my marbles. It was Sunday morning, after all, and my gospel music mix still blared out of the speakers.

“I'm pregnant,” I said it again as my emotions continued their spin cycle. My hands shook on the steering wheel. I hadn't carried a life in me for twenty years. And, after two decades of immaturity, waiting for a man, my first husband, to come back to his senses and back into my life (yes, I could finally admit my truth), after forgiving his lies and moving past my foolishness, I had just started living my life over again. A smile came to my face. If I had to carry a man's baby, at least it was Leon's.

We were going to have a baby.

My smile dropped and my heart picked up extra beats. I was about to turn forty years old. Leon was already forty-two. How did I tell him that we were about to start a baby registry at Target and research car seats, strollers, and college savings plans. And what were those contraptions called I'd seen mothers putting soiled diapers in? And organic baby food and baby bath tubs with built-in thermometers and scales and jets and shower heads? What did I know of these things?

I bit my lip. My hands shook harder on the wheel. We'd never talked about children. Well, we talked about Roman and the kids Leon used to mentor back during his officer days at the Police Athletic League, and the at-risk high school students he let intern at his restaurant. Outside of his concerns about the fatherless sons and the daughters of the streets he tried to redirect, we never talked about children.

We were going to have a baby.

I looked back at the plastic bag with Frankie Jean's belongings and knew the real reason I wanted to get this bag back to her. I needed a distraction. Thinking about a baby was just . . . too much. As I turned a corner and neared the women's shelter where I'd dropped her off just hours earlier, I knew that a distraction and then some was just what I was going to get.

Several police cars lined the block where A New Beginning House stood. A crowd of people murmured on the corners, their mouths covered, their heads close together.

Yellow police tape.

“What is going on?” I parked the car about a block away, covered my ears as another siren wailed by, gasped as a couple of marked homicide detectives whisked past me. As I opened the door of my car and stood, heaviness sat down in me.

“What happened?” I approached a man smoking a cigarette. He sat on the cracked and yellowed marble steps of a corner liquor store.

“Shootin' early this morning.” He took a deep drag and let the smoke glide over his face. He was a young man but his features had a worn, hard edge to them. Cold, stone. Tired. His eyes were a light shade of brown. Golden raisins were what I thought of when his orbs pierced mine.

“What . . . Who . . .” I struggled to get out my words as the heaviness that had sat down inside of me had gotten comfortable, kicked off its shoes, and put its feet up. Whatever had transpired on this block wasn't going to shake off of me for a long time; I knew it, felt it.

The man-boy looked me up and down and took another drag. “You a cop?”

“What?” A small laugh escaped from between my lips as I thought about me standing there in my church clothes looking a far cry from a police woman.
He's serious,
I realized as not even a trace of a smile leaked onto his face. He meant his question.

“No, I'm not a cop.” I sobered as another emergency vehicle whizzed by. “Do you know what time the shooting happened?”

“I've seen you somewhere before.” The man-boy had no interest in answering my question. Despite the chilly November air, he wore only a T-shirt, white. Blue jeans.

“I have had some television interviews over the past few months and been featured in a bunch of articles. Maybe that's where you've seen me.” I wasn't boasting, just stating the facts. Since uncovering that terror suspect several months ago, even I had gotten tired of seeing my face plastered all over the media.

I gave the young man a polite smile and resumed walking down the street determined not to get sidetracked from my necessary distraction. The clear plastic bag with the dirty housecoat and worn slippers inside hung from my palm. Despite the yellow police tape circling half of the block, I was determined to rid myself of the last remnants of the weekend gig that was keeping me from spending quality time with my husband.

Yellow tape enclosed an area a couple of doors down from the shelter. I exhaled, realizing that a part of me had been concerned that whatever had transpired was somehow related to A New Beginning House. A uniformed officer eyed me as I neared the gated entrance. Though officials milled about, I wasn't concerned about being stopped as I noted the mix of women, most likely residents of the shelter, mingled in with the investigators. Clearly, nobody was worried about crowds compromising the crime scene.

Or so I thought.

“Ma'am, can I help you?” A woman's stern voice rang out behind me when I was about three steps away from the entrance. I turned around to face an older white woman, her hair tied back in a frizzy auburn ponytail. She wore a dark red turtleneck and a long, floral-print skirt. S
ISTER
A
GNES
was written on a plastic badge on her chest. A N
EW
B
EGINNING
H
OUSE
was stenciled underneath her name.

“Oh, I just came to drop off the belongings of one of your residents.” I found myself whispering, matching the hushed voices around me. The yellow tape was only feet away from me, closing off the area in front of a narrow red brick row house two doors down from the shelter. I was a little surprised that the small group of women could stand so close to the obvious crime scene. The woman, Sister Agnes, for her part, seemed oblivious to the flurry of activity, the sirens, the investigators surrounding us. She stared at the bag and then me, raising an eyebrow, a razor-thin darkly penciled eyebrow.

“I'm a social worker and I helped a lady, again, one of your residents, who was brought to Metro Community ED last night,” I explained. “I saw to it that she returned, but she left behind her things.” I held up the bag of soiled belongings.

The thin eyebrow rose even higher. “We didn't have any hospitalized guests last night. They are called guests here, not residents. This is a temporary living arrangement, not a long-term solution. As a social worker, I'm sure you can understand our approach.”

I ignored her last statement, having no desire to debate the best way to help the homeless. I only wanted to rid myself of Frankie Jean's bag to be done with this assignment once and for all. My bed, and toilet, was waiting for me at home. And I couldn't wait to get there to wait for my husband to come home from church.

“I was assured by, I believe her name was Sister Marta, that our patient, Ms. Frankie Jean, was a resi . . . I mean, guest at your shelter.”

“Sister Marta?” The woman's thin lip quivered. I noticed several of the women around me had grown quiet. All eyes were suddenly on me.

“Um, Frankie Jean. Do you know her?” What else was I supposed to say? The quiet, the attention only added to the discomfort of the nausea that pulled at my stomach again.

“I have to start service. We all must go on.” The woman, Sister Agnes, turned away and headed for the front door of the row home that sat between the shelter entrance and the cordoned house. Her black clogs and nude stockings were the last I saw of her as she disappeared into the entrance. Loud wails poured out from the other side of the door before it slammed shut. The small group of women who'd surrounded me began walking toward the same doorway.

“Church,” one woman whispered as she passed by me. “We still havin' service even after all this.” She was a cinnamon-colored woman with high cheekbones and a nervous smile that flitted across her lips. She was my height, but about a quarter of my size. Though she smiled, her eyes were red and puffy like she'd been crying. Or maybe she was just high. Or sick. I'd been trying to practice not jumping to conclusions or assumptions about people I didn't know.

“Is Sister Marta at the service?” I looked down at the bag in my hands. There was a trashcan at the corner. If all else failed . . .

“Sister Marta?” The woman's smile dropped and she looked at me like I had three heads.

“Yes, I talked to her very early this morning about someone who stays here, Frankie Jean. Do you know her?”

The woman drew in a deep breath as the crowd who had once surrounded us had now all disappeared into the doorway of the house next door to the shelter.

“Sister Marta dead and I don't know no Frankie Jean. I gotta get to service now. I ain't losing my bed for missing church.” Whatever flighty nervousness had been on the woman's face seconds earlier had dissipated into a steely sorrow. She turned and scooted away from me.

“Dead?” The word fell off my lips and landed in the quiet hush around me. I looked back at the cordoned-off door two doors down, noticed for the first time the ANBH E
MPLOYEE
E
NTRANCE
sign. Sighed. Pushed back the heave that wanted to run right through me. A belch came out instead. “What happened?” I whispered loud enough for no one to hear.

Something was not right. I felt it. I'd just spoken to Sister Marta a few hours ago. Dropped that woman, Frankie Jean, off right after. And now... “Dead?” I asked again, this time the word was louder. A police officer who'd happened to step out from the yellow tape glanced at me before joining another group of investigators with their hands in pockets, small talk, slight chuckles, and occasional solemn faces to respect the mood of the mourners.

“Sixty-seven-year-old Marta Jefferson had been a staff member at A New Beginning House for about forty years.” A woman in a black suit spoke solemnly into a large padded microphone steps away, a camera aimed at her face. “Ms. Jefferson was leaving through the employee entrance early this morning when she was tragically gunned down. Police believe it was a robbery as her wallet and cell phone are both missing. There are no witnesses, no suspects, and no other leads, though authorities want to interview a group of juveniles who were believed to be in the area at the time of the incident. That's all the information we have for now. This is Laila Kennedy reporting live in East Baltimore. Back to you in the studio, Steve.” The reporter stepped away from the camera and put on another coat of berry-colored lip gloss.

Now what?
My heart broke that the sweet shelter worker had lost her life to senseless violence. My stomach twisted in nauseating agony. And my hand still clutched Frankie Jean's bag of dirty clothes.

A robbery? Juveniles? My heart pounded heavy within me, but I knew there was nothing else that I could do.
God, help her family.
I looked at the steady stream of women entering the building, knowing that this group, unrelated by blood but connected by the streets, was part of the family who would be grieving for a while.

The bag of dirty clothes.

I looked at it hanging from my hands, knowing there was nothing else for me to do with it but leave it by the door. Sister Agnes, the stern-looking worker who had spoken with me moments earlier, was under the impression that nobody by the name of Frankie Jean was a “guest” at the shelter. I decided to leave the bag by the doorway, in case she was around nonetheless. I was in the process of dropping the bag by the metal gate when a sharp whisper caught my ear.

“Psst. You the lady asking about Frankie Jean?”

The voice came from behind, so I turned around to see who it was.