The Devil Made Me Do It (25 page)

Briggs looked at his alarm clock for the tenth time that night. Its large digital numbers read five-twenty. He thought back to his conversation with Esther and knew that if his soul would let him, he could break every vow he ever made with God. She had always been the one he wanted, but they had lost the right to be with each other. They both let go today, and all he wanted was a chance to grieve in private for what might have been. The problem in the next room, he would brave tomorrow. For what was left of his night, he would use to really let go.

The door crept open, and Monica slipped into his semidarkened room. Her peach-colored negligee was barely a wisp of colored cloth. Briggs breathed, “Man, not now.”

Monica drifted over to his bed and sat down so close that Briggs could smell her desperation. Her thoughts were so strong; Briggs felt he could hear them.
He's been here a long time, and if I know him, and I know him, he has been as faithful as a puppy. He has to be feeling that familiar itch that only I can scratch.

“I couldn't sleep. I was wondering if you were having problems sleeping too.” Monica's husky low voice swirled into the silence.

Briggs saw her eyes fastened to his naked chest. “Monica, what will this solve? We have so many problems to overcome, and I believe that through God, we can overcome them. Let's not muddy the waters.”

Monica stiffened, Briggs waited. This is where she would usually storm out. Instead of leaving, Monica asked, “Muddy the waters? Briggs, we would be clearing things up.”

Briggs took her hand.

Yes,
her face screamed. She was transparent to Briggs.

He placed her hand back in her lap. “Not until you and I get marriage counseling and you take a series of STD tests.”

Monica leaped up. “What!”

“Please, Monica. Stop the drama. Did you actually think it would be that easy? That you would sashay yourself in here, and it would all be forgotten? Girl, I'm saved, not stupid. You know I couldn't even speak about the thought of your cheating. Or allow myself to dwell there. But make no mistake about the fact that I am not an ignorant man. I've counseled too many trusting spouses with HIV to not use wisdom about this.”

Monica stood with so much fury on her face that she couldn't speak. She spun around and stomped out of the room.

Briggs could hear the sound of glass hitting the walls and prayed she wasn't breaking all the first lady's imported, expensive Lladró knickknacks.

 

 

It was Tuesday morning, and Briggs leaned against his office window at Love Zion church and daydreamed. It was a wonderful fall day in Detroit. The sun was shining bright, and the sky was clear of smokestack pollution, but none of that registered for Briggs. He had awakened to the smell of cinnamon rolls, sausage, and Blue Mountain coffee. Monica was doing a Donna Reed routine, and he didn't know what to say to this new side to her. Whatever happened in Atlanta must have been a doozy. Monica's usual routine was to tell him to hit Starbucks on his way to work. He wasn't complaining about the food, just the intent behind the gesture. On his way out the door, she told him she would be cleaning the house and washing his clothes. Monica then stole a smooch to his cheek and smiled serene that she would see him for dinner. Briggs blinked in confusion and scratched his head. If Monica wanted him to die of a heart attack for his life insurance, she almost had her wish because he couldn't take any more shocks in a twenty-four-hour period.

Briggs shook it off and sat at his desk to study his Sunday sermon. This was his most difficult message. He wanted to preach against the people from the pulpit, but the God in him said no. He wanted to call out the hypocrites and liars, but couldn't because his conscience was not clear. He had not acted, but he had lusted in his heart. He breathed heavily. This is why you shouldn't sin. At the end of day, it didn't allow you to throw any stones. And Briggs wanted to pitch a rock or two.

Last night, after Monica left him alone, Briggs called out to God in frustration, anger, and then acceptance. Yes, he had given Esther the “we're Christians and we must do the right thing” speech. However, there was still this imp telling him he didn't have to let go. It said, surely, he could have the dream of his youth. When he admitted to himself his role in his own pain, he got out of his bed, kneeled in a posture of submission, and repented. No lip service, no fake platitudes, just real tears of letting go. His shift brought the understanding that his sermon was needed to heal hearts, not tear them apart.

The phone rang, and as Briggs looked at the caller ID, he picked it up. “Hello, Mother Reed. It's good to hear from you. How are things? Are you feeling all right?”

“I remember when a body had to answer the phone to find out who was on the other end,” she said, chuckling. “Other than that, I'm blessed. This newfangled diet everyone is making sure I keep to be boring me to tears. Takes all the spice out of enjoying a good meal, but Mother is being obedient.” There was a calculated pregnant pause before she went on. “I was wondering if you had spoken to Charles.”

“No, ma'am. Naomi told me about the incident when I came in this morning, and I tried to call, but his cell went to voice mail.”

“I know this thing hit him harder than he's sharing,” Mother Reed explained. “That devil don't mean any of us any good. We gon' need to hear a powerful message this Sunday, something that will slay the dragon in his steps. We need to steal his thunder, kill them nasty rumors good-bye, and destroy his designs against our church.”

Briggs could feel a spiritual split in the road. He'd tried to check on Charles. Should he call Esther? It would make sense as her pastor, but with his new resolve, he felt they both needed time and space.

Mother Reed interrupted his musing. “You there, son?”

Briggs refocused. “Yes, I was just thinking. I'm seeking God's counsel more than ever on this week's sermon. I'm praying for a word that will unite us. I'm disappointed in some of our members, but I'm going to love them even when it seems like they don't deserve it. I call it loving the unlovable and hugging the unhuggable.”

“God's done the same for you. If we waited to deserve love, we would all be alone. But God decreed that it wasn't good for man to live by himself. You keep calling to speak to Charles, okay? He's acting like ain't nothing happened.”

Briggs remembered the truth he had recently learned. “We have a need to be strong, even when bending will assure our position in strength; otherwise, we might just break. He needs an in-time Word to propel his way through this season. The good news is God is already on the job.”

Mother Reed shouted her amen, and then settled down to finish talking. “Phyllis is a good wife, and she's growing in maturity. But sometimes wisdom has to come from someone who has walked the same path, so the person going through doesn't make the same mistakes they made.”

“Mother Reed, that's a nice way to say, ‘Don't let the boy mess it up by being silent like you did.' I hear you,” Briggs stated without shame.

“Humph, what you learn the lesson for if it wasn't to help others bypass it?” Mother Reed asked. “Anyhow, what's going on with you and your wife? Ain't it past time she made an appearance? If she did, this other foolishness could filter on out.”

Briggs was saddened people actually brought the lies to Mother Reed. “You've heard that nonsense?”

“Uh-huh, I've heard it. Don't know how much nonsense it is. Don't get me wrong, both of you have a special place in my heart. You snuck in where Esther has been lodged since her birthing. I've been praying for that child for years. See . . . I know her spirit; she's not one to covet nothing her neighbor owns, so I know that she didn't intentionally do nothing wrong. But, honey, that's why we have to be prayerful about guarding our hearts. It can run away with us, and the enemy just waiting for a chance to catch us in some mess. And that is what all this talk is—a mess!”

Briggs sat and wondered if he should even try to defend himself when he had already been found guilty as charged. It had taken him a full night of prayer to come to the conclusion that Jesus had paid the price for his shortcomings and to lay in guilt and shame would be to let the enemy win this round. For Briggs, that wasn't happening. He had cried for what could have been. Now it was important to fight for what was promised.

Briggs confirmed his new standing. “I'm good, Mother. As a matter of fact, I was going to call you for that very reason. My wife, Monica, is here.”

“My goodness! You've just let me go on and on and haven't given me your good news. No wonder we haven't heard from you. You over there courting. Now, Mama gon' go in this c'here kitchen and pull out y'all favorite food. What she like, Briggs? I'm gon' make y'all an old-fashioned country feast. So get ready to come on over Saturday.” Mother Reed was excited to be cooking what she considered real food again.

Briggs tried to catch her enthusiasm, but this was Mother Reed. “We have some problems to get through, Mother.”

Mother snorted. “So, you fasting all week?”

Briggs knew he was caught short. “No, ma'am.”

“Humph, besides the point that you probably ought to be, there's nothing stopping you from eating. So I 'spect to see you two Saturday. All right?”

“All right, I love you, Mother. You keep me straight,” Briggs said, smiling.

“God always sends a ram in the bush, Briggs, always.”

Briggs felt Mother Reed's last statement was mysterious. But growing up with elders visiting his home and making cryptic remarks, he was used to deep revelations. He was sure he would understand it later.

They hung up, each in their own world. Mother Reed was happy about cooking something with seasoning and butter. Briggs was making note to call Charles. Trying to figure out how he would tackle the problems between him and his wife was a steep mountain he would hike up later.

 

 

After a full day at the church, Briggs ended the call he was on with his mother. He was pulling into the gas station and he didn't talk and pump gas. A young man was filling his tank while his music blared loud through his window. When the gangsta rap fouled the air with cursing, he decided to speak up. “What's up, young brother? You think you can give us a break on the sounds?”

The young man's hardened stare pierced Briggs's heart.
When did we lose these children?
he wondered.

“Man, I don't know you. Back up off of me,” he barked, pulling his sagging pants up.

Briggs rounded the car. “Well, now, that can be remedied. I'm Pastor Stokes. I'd like to invite you to Love Zion Fellowship this Sunday, or even on Thursday evening. That's our youth night. We serve some great pizza.”

“You serve pizza? Oh, goody, I'll run right over,” he said sarcastically before he stopped with a look of recognition on his face.

“Hey, did you say, Stokes. Love Zion? Oh, snap. You that pastor that be getting it on in the church office?” the young man said, laughing. “Yea, I'll show up at your church, and you can introduce me to them saved little honeys. Shoot, you the mack daddy. Wait 'till I tell my grandma I'm coming to her church this Sunday.”

Briggs's mouth stood wide open as he watched the young man get in his car and screech off. The music's foul lyrics lingered in the air.

An agitated Briggs walked into a house that smelled delicious. He sniffed the air in appreciation. Monica hadn't cooked liked this since—well—never. He paused before entering the kitchen, wondering what approach was best. He and Monica needed to talk, and then talk some more. He heard humming and looked up to see a vision of Monica he didn't know existed. She was clean faced, sans makeup, with worn blue jeans molding her slender hips. Her plain blouse hugged her in all the right places, but was not low cut. Her only jewelry, her wedding ring and the two carat diamond earrings he bought her on their second anniversary. No bling, no skintight jiggling.

Monica smiled. “Good, you're here. You couldn't have arrived at a better time. I think your mother's lemongrass chicken came out perfect. And I just took the rosemary potatoes out of the oven. And if you think I'm playing, wait until you taste the asparagus. I grilled it just the way you like it. Go wash up, and we can sit down.”

Briggs would have loved to give Monica the silent treatment. But, lemongrass chicken? He could taste the lemon and lime rolling across his palate. Indeed, God directs our path. We just need to be observant and take the right road. Briggs chose the road of obedience.

“I'll be right back. It smells delicious.” Briggs hurried to the bathroom.

 

 

He returned to the kitchen and was surprised by the simple, but charming place settings.

“I hope you don't mind sitting in here. I thought it would be cozier than the dining room.” Monica continued to place food on the table.

Briggs rubbed his hands together and started filling his plate. “This looks great.” He placed his full plate in front of him and stretched out his hand to Monica to bless the food. “Father, bless the food for the nourishment of our bodies. Bless the hands that cooked it, and the means to provide it. Allow our dinner conversation to be of one accord. Amen.”

Monica grinned at the first satisfied moan out of Briggs's mouth. “Good?”

“So good, I believe seconds will be in order.” He took a few more bites, and then wiped his mouth with his cloth napkin. “You know, we have major problems a good meal won't cure.”

“I know that, but I thought if you saw I was trying, that maybe you would believe we could get past our issues.” Briggs studied her as tears welled in her eyes making them glisten and her appearance vulnerable.

Briggs took another bite and asked the deciding question. “Can you tell me the truth? And allow me to tell mine?”

“What if the truth hurts? What if you can't take my truth?” Monica asked, fearful of his answer.

Briggs laid down his fork and patted his mouth dry. “I can't make any promises. I've met a wonderful woman. Her name is Mother Reed, and she invited us to dinner on Saturday.” Briggs paused before continuing. “I shared some things from my past with her, and it was the most painful and exhilarating experience. Afterward, I felt free. Maybe with God as our guide we can re-create that atmosphere of acceptance here, tonight.”

Monica nodded her head in agreement, and they both silently decided to finish their meal in peace.

Their meal completed, Monica cleared the table, and Briggs went into the family room. He put on a worship CD and walked through the room praying. The room was so peaceful; he could tell Reverend Gregory must have spent some quality prayer time in it.

Monica stood at the door, tears spilling down her cheeks, her face draining of color. “I can't do this, Briggs, I can't. Maybe next week,” she sobbed.

Before she could turn to leave, Briggs grasped her hand and guided her into the room. “Yes, you can. We have to, or we're destined to fail even further.”

“You start then, Briggs,” Monica said through her sniffles.

Briggs rubbed at the tight feeling in his chest. “I don't know if you remember when we first met, there was a young lady named Esther I used to talk about.”

Monica snorted. “You mean you used to sing about, dream about, drink about . . .
that
Esther?”

Briggs considered that this was easier said than accomplished. “Okay, let's lay some ground rules. When we are telling it all, no one gets to interrupt, because it's hard enough to tell it the first time. No one gets to make snide remarks, even when their feelings are hurt.” Briggs looked over at Monica's dried tears and heated eyes at the mention of Esther's name. He noted her small fists balling up in anger. “And no one gets physical.”

“Yeah, well, you remember all these rules when it's your turn to listen.” Monica folded her arms with an evil glare. “Continue, Briggs. I'll be quiet.”

Briggs cleared his throat. “Esther lives in Detroit.” He heard Monica's snort and paused. “And, no, I didn't know that when I took this assignment.”

Monica nailed him with a piercing glare.

Briggs stumbled to clear up his statement. “Okay, let me rephrase that. Yes, I knew she lived here, but I didn't know she was a member of Love Zion. Detroit's a big place, and it's been ten years.”

Monica gasped when Briggs stated Esther attended Love Zion. She stood, and then sat back down, rigid and unmoving.

Beginning to perspire, Briggs hurried to finish. “I felt a strong attraction for her when we met again.” Monica clapped her hands and rubbed them together in angst at his admittance. He held up his hand and continued. “An attraction I did not act on.”

Frowning, Monica folded her arms and waited, but Briggs appeared done. “My turn?”

Briggs nodded, and Monica unfurled her arms. “I had an attraction too.” She exhaled, her voice becoming brittle. “I, however, did act on it. I've . . . had an affair.”

Briggs grabbed the couch pillow and pounded it against his knee. He strode to the door, and then returned. He gulped, but no words were formed. Finally, he sat and gritted his teeth. A teardrop slid down his face and rested in the cleft in his chin.

Monica moaned and wept freely. “I . . . don't . . . want to hurt . . . anymore. Forgive . . . me please,” she hollered.

Compassionate for anyone hurting, Briggs gathered her in his arms. He held on until the tightness in his chest eased and resolve replaced it. Monica sobbed out her pain, her fears, and her insecurities that she was never good enough for him, his parents, or the church.

Together, they slumped to the floor. Briggs revealed his own insecurities and his need to be seen as his own man. He shared his feelings of rejection, abandonment, and embarrassment when she refused to take her rightful place and join him in Detroit. He admitted to Monica his shortcomings behind the malicious rumors, and how he now saw the part he played in them.

They listened, they accused, the rules were broken, and more of Mrs. Gregory's Lladró was smashed.