Don't Tell A Soul Page 3

  Yvonne stares at me, and I stare back. These meetings are a joke. Rhoda and Rochelle are either gossiping or requesting prayers of revenge, and they are the only regular members besides me, Taylor, and Yvonne. Maybe it’s time to end this group and move on to the next ministry.

  Shaquan says, “Y’all have got to be kidding! This is the prayer group that Taylor rants and raves about? This is a mess.”

  “See, Yvonne, I knew once we start letting these hood rats into our meetings that the quality of discussion would decline,” Rhoda says while cutting her eyes at Shaquan.

  Typically, I’m the one that gets everyone back on target—back to the “praise the Lord” place. Back to the “bless the Lord, oh, my soul” place. But right now I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs.

  “Hood rat?” Shaquan asks. “You know what? I’m gonna let that slide. I am not trying to violate my probation dealing with y’all churchy heffas.”

  Yvonne says, “Rhoda, apologize right now. You’ve run away almost every visitor to our meetings. I’m telling Pastor Brown about this.”

  “Oh, whatever. I’m sorry, okay? I hope you stay and enjoy yourself in the Lord. Come on, Rochelle. Let’s be out.”

  “Where are we going?” Rochelle asks.

  “To a place where they honor the anointing.”

  Rhoda storms away from the circle of chairs, and Rochelle follows at her heels. I keep wondering when Rochelle is going to grow up and find a friend other than Rhoda. I guess some people are just made to be followers.

  I feel something inside me snap. I think Troy started this. He caused the first crack in my armor before I left the house.

  “I’m sick of them,” I announce.

  Yvonne’s and Carmisha’s eyes bulge with shocked expressions. I know they’re not used to me telling it like it is, but that’s the place I am in at this very moment.

  I go on. “And you know what? Carmisha, I’m sick of you, too. Coming to these meetings, always talking about a financial blessing. When are you going to get a job?”

  Yvonne jumps out of her seat and plops down next to me. “Pam . . .”

  “No, I’m serious. McDonald’s and Wal-Mart are both hiring last time I checked.”

  Carmisha looks at the floor. “I . . . I have a special needs child.”

  “Just because you took that boy to the doctor for some Ritalin so you could collect a check does not mean he has special needs,” I reply.

  Yvonne locks her hand around my arm and pulls me away from the circle. I open my mouth to say more, but Yvonne whispers in my ear. “No, Pam. Don’t do that.”

  Yvonne continues to pull me until we are outside and standing next to her little black Ford Focus.

  “Get in,” Yvonne says.

  “I‘m fine, Yvonne. You don’t need to do an intervention.”

  “This is not an intervention, Pam. You’ve got something on your chest, and clearly, you need to get it off. I’m just gonna let you vent. In a safe place.”

  “I don’t want—”

  “Get. In.”

  Since I know that Yvonne is not going to leave me alone, I get in the car. Yvonne gets in on the driver‘s side and slams her door.

  “Spill it, Pam. I know the money is not right, but y’all have had this issue before.”

  I swallow hard. I don’t know if I’m ready to share this struggle. “Yvonne, I’m just stressed.”

  “It‘s more than that. How are your book proposals going?”

  “I got an offer from Gideon Publishing. A two-book deal.”

  “Then why are we not celebrating?”

  “Why do you think? Mr. Dream Killer himself, Troy didn’t even congratulate me. He was mad that I didn’t get offered more money, because he’s got yet another trick up his sleeve for that Aria.”

  “You have got to be kidding me, Pam. What is his problem? You’ve been praying about this open door for years.”

  I let out a long, weary sigh. “Tell me about it. He had the audacity to tell me I need to get a job!”

  “Oh, my Lord. Come on, Pam. Give me your hands, girl. We have to pray about this.”

  Yvonne grabs both my hands and begins her supplication, which I promptly tune out. She’s praying for the book deal to pan out, for opportunities, and saying all the right things. Yvonne is a prayer warrior; I learned this about her when she was going through her divorce.

  While Yvonne pleads the blood over Troy’s ignorance and names and claims open doors and windows of heaven, I watch a woman emerge from her car in the church parking lot. She looks down at a piece of paper, as if checking the address, and then back up at the church.

  The woman has on a business suit and heels, and her hair is pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. She has a pretty, exotic look, and curves that I would kill for.

  Yvonne has worked herself into a prayer frenzy by the time she hollers out, “In Jesus’s name!”

  “Amen,” I quickly say, trying to match, but not quite capturing, her intensity.

  “Who is she?” Yvonne asks as she notices the woman, too. She looks as if she’s trying to decide whether or not to go in.

  I open the car door and get out. “You know, if God brought you this far, you should probably go on in.”

  The woman laughs. “You’re right. I—I just . . . well . . . I’m not a b-beggar.”

  She breaks down in tears, and her body shakes with violent sobs. I take a few more steps until I’m close enough to embrace her. Yvonne jumps out of the car and joins me. She rubs the woman’s back until she calms down.

  Then the woman looks embarrassed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “We all cry sometimes,” Yvonne says. “Today it was your turn. Tomorrow it might be mine. How can we help you? What is your name, honey?”

  I hand the woman a tissue from my purse, which she uses to blow her nose and dab her eyes. “My name is Eva Jacobs. I lost my job, and I’ve spent just about all my savings. I was told that there is a food pantry here. Is that true?”

  I stare at Eva in wonder. She doesn’t look like someone who needs to use our pantry. Her makeup is carefully applied, especially her eye makeup, which showcases her striking doe-like eyes. Eva could’ve been one of my coworkers at Ellis Financial or maybe even a pastor’s wife. Usually the women who come here for help look more like how Carmisha did the first time she walked through the church doors, high on some kind of drug and dragging her toddler son in tow, begging for food and money.

  Yvonne takes Eva’s hand and pulls her toward the church. Eva looks so shocked at Yvonne’s aggressive manner that I almost let out a chuckle as I follow them.

  “Do you have somewhere to stay?” Yvonne asks.

  “For now I do,” Eva says.

  “That’s good. Let’s get your kitchen stocked, then.”

  When we walk back into the church, Yvonne leads Eva to the food pantry. Carmisha’s eyes lock with mine, and Shaquan, who is texting someone, looks up at me and smiles.

  “Well, Ms. Keepin’ It Real is back,” Shaquan says. “Let me get up out of here before you read me, too. I ain’t all the way saved, so I can’t say things would turn out the same way if you start telling me where I can go.”

  “Sister Shaquan, what you saw tonight was totally out of character for me. I assure you this never happens. I’m . . . having a bad day.”

  Shaquan gives me a skeptical head nod. “Sure it doesn’t. I just know Taylor didn’t tell me y’all get down like this. I mean, if she had, maybe I would’ve come sooner. This is pretty entertaining.”

  I shake my head and ignore Shaquan’s response. I already feel bad enough; I don’t need her rubbing it in. “Carmisha, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say those things to you in that way. It wasn’t Christlike at all. Will you please forgive me?”

  After a long pause, Carmisha sighs and nods. “I do forgive you, Sister Pam, but did you mean what you said?”

  “Well . . .” I clear my throat, trying to bide my time and think o
f the best response. “I would like to see you become self-sufficient. If you had a job, you would have such a better quality of life.”

  “I know you don’t believe my son is special, but he is. He is not successful in day-care facilities. If I just had someone to take care of him, I would get a job.”

  Carmisha stares at the floor, but not before I see the look of shame on her face. She can’t be feeling lower than me, though. I’m supposed to be the leader of this group, and here I am, letting my emotions get the better of me.

  Shaquan finishes her text and stands. “Will you please tell Taylor that I was here, Pam? I sent her a text, but she doesn’t believe me.”

  “Why wouldn’t she believe you’d come to church?” Carmisha asks, looking genuinely curious.

  “Well, I had an issue with one of the deacons here. He started tripping when I broke it off, and I didn’t want any drama,” Shaquan explains.

  “But now that Deacon Wallington is in the nursing home, it’s safe for you to return, right?” I ask.

  Shaquan laughs. “Yeah, girl. I didn’t want ole deacon salting up my game, in case there’s anybody else up in here I might want to meet. A sista is always looking for a husband.”

  “I know that’s right!” Carmisha says. “You should really come back to this group! It would be nice having someone on my level.”

  Shaquan gives Carmisha a tiny smile and a squint, which, in my opinion, says, “We are not on the same level,” but I don’t think Carmisha gets this message, because she’s grinning from ear to ear. Something got lost in the interpretation.

  Yvonne and Eva emerge from the food pantry with several heavy bags of groceries. Eva’s face is tear streaked, but she’s wearing a smile. Leave it to Yvonne to make Eva feel okay about her situation.

  It wasn’t always that way with Yvonne, though. She wasn’t really the warmest sister in the Sister to Sister group. Well . . . she was actually the most judgmental of us all. But life taught her a lesson I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

  “Eva’s going to come to service on Sunday!” Yvonne says.

  Eva glances quickly at each of us. “I haven’t been to church in a really long time.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. “God isn’t keeping track of attendance.”

  “Thank you all for being so friendly. I didn’t know what to expect,” Eva says.

  “Now, why wouldn’t we be friendly?” I ask Eva while giving her the most welcoming smile I can muster with Troy and his chicanery still lingering in the back of my mind.

  Eva gives me an intense stare that sends a chill right through me. She seems to shrink before my eyes, her eyes blinking and the corners of her mouth twitching with uncertainty. It isn’t a look of someone redeemed.

  She looks broken.

  She’ll fit right in here.

  CHAPTER 3

  TAYLOR

  “Spence, honey. Put the belt away.”

  Spencer steps out of his walk-in closet and looks at me like I’m crazy, but I do not care. He is not about to hit my son with that belt.

  “The Bible says, ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child.’”

  He is not changing my mind by quoting a Scripture. I know all about not sparing the rod. My mother never spared the rod on me, and it just made me angry. She was beating my tail until I was seventeen years old, when I finally had enough and took the belt away from her. I don’t want my son angry.

  “You’re not hitting him with that, Spencer. You’ll have to find another way to discipline him. He is eleven years old. You should be able to get through to him without putting your hands on him.”

  “He should not have hit that boy.”

  “Maybe if you’d been at the game—”

  “You are not going to make this about me working on Saturday. Taylor, you know I have to work weekends during month-end close!”

  “I’m just saying.”

  Spencer throws the belt onto the bed and sighs. “Why do we keep arguing about this, Taylor?”

  “Because you are not listening.”

  “Every time I get ready to spank him, you act like he’s your son. But when it’s time to spend some money, he’s our son.”

  I look away from Spencer’s demanding glare and shake my head. He knows this is not true. He is Joshua’s father, even though he’s not his biological dad. We don’t use the terms stepfather or stepson in this house. And I know that he loves Joshua.

  But when it comes to laying hands on him, I just cannot get with it. I’ve heard too many stories about boyfriends and husbands killing a woman’s kids, by accident or worse . . . on purpose. That’s not about to happen in this house.

  Every time we have this conversation, it makes me feel like I have to choose between my son and my man. I don’t want to do that.

  “Joshua is out of control, Taylor. He punched a boy in the face on the soccer field. Are you getting that? He knocked the boy’s front teeth out, for heaven’s sake. Is he going to pay for that boy’s dental work?”

  “And you think the way to show him not to hit someone is to beat him with a leather belt? That doesn’t make any sense, Spencer. You’re just angry because it’s going to cost money.”

  “My father whipped me when I was a child, Taylor. He did it out of love, not anger, and I am the same way. I love Joshua. But if we don’t teach him right from wrong, the world is going to teach him.”

  “I want you to teach him right from wrong. Without hitting him.”

  I fold my arms across my chest and stretch my legs out on the bed in front of me. In my opinion, the conversation is over. It’s a done deal.

  “You know what? You handle your son. When he winds up dead or in jail, I won’t say I told you so.”

  I jump up from the bed and stand to face my husband. “Seriously? You’re calling down curses on my baby!”

  “No, you are. Because you’re not letting me be a father to him. You’re spoiling him.”

  “He is not spoiled.”

  I know he did not just say that. He is really trying to take me there. If my son wasn’t two doors down, I’d cuss Spencer out, and I stopped cussing a long time ago.

  Joshua spent the first five years of his life with nobody but me. He struggled as I struggled. He never had birthday parties and big Christmases and Easter baskets overflowing with goodies. I was too busy trying to keep a roof over his head and clothes on his back. My mother helped me try to make his life normal, but a grandmother is not a daddy. Not even close.

  When Spencer and I got married, Joshua finally got to start living like a normal kid. He started getting clothes that weren’t hand-me-downs and toys that were brand new and out of the box. But even with all that, he’s had too much hurt in his life to be classified as spoiled. Never that.

  Spencer paces back and forth across our bedroom, looking like a caged lion ready to pounce on some dang body. I change gears a little bit, because while I do want to protect my son, I don’t want my husband to turn on me. I don’t want to go back to raising Joshua by myself.

  I grab Spencer by the hand and pull him into an embrace. “I know that it’s hard raising Joshua, and I appreciate everything that you’ve done for us. But can you please just handle this my way? Let’s be on one accord, baby.”

  I plant tiny kisses on Spencer’s neck and feel him relax. Finally, his strong arms embrace me back. This man can’t resist me. I’m all that and—boom—he loves me!

  “We’ll try it your way for now. But if I don’t see a change in Joshua’s behavior, we are using my strategy.”

  “Okay, honey. I hear you.” My work here is done!

  If nothing else, I’ve bought some time to deal with Joshua on my own. I don’t know how long I can hold Spencer back if Joshua keeps tripping. He got suspended twice last year for fighting. I don’t know where he gets this anger from, but I do agree with Spencer on this. It has to stop.

  I leave my husband relaxing in our bedroom to have a chat with Joshua. His bedroom door is locked, so I pound on it a few ti
mes.

  “Open this door, Josh.”

  After a few long seconds, Joshua finally opens the door. Standing there, still in his soccer uniform, he is the spitting image of his biological father, Luke. He’s tall for eleven, with muscles bulging in his arms, legs, and abs. That wild head of curly hair, he got from me. We have twin Afros, since I decided to give up the weaves and embrace my natural hair.

  “Tell me again why you hit that boy.”

  “I told you. He said something about you, and I didn’t like it.”

  I put my hands on my hips and say, “Boy, how many times have I told you that it doesn’t matter what people say?”

  “He said you were hot.”

  I crack up laughing. “Boy! You punched him in the face for that? You are just gonna have to get used to the fact that your mama looks like Beyoncé.”

  Joshua balls his hands into fists. “That’s disrespectful. Ain’t nobody ’bout to talk about my mama like that.”

  “Calm down, honey. I have Spencer to protect my honor. You just practice being a kid, okay?”

  Angry tears pour down Joshua’s cheeks. I have no idea what to do with all this turmoil in a little boy.

  “I’m quitting the soccer team,” Joshua says.

  “Why? Because of the fight?”

  “No, because everyone laughed when Braydon said that about you. I hate them.”

  I let out a long sigh. “Baby, just think on it. Don’t make a rash decision. Tomorrow it might not seem as bad. Maybe I’ll get Uncle Tee to come over and take you out for lunch.”

  Uncle Tee is my big brother Tyrone. He seems to get along with Joshua a lot better than Spencer these days. My brother is a thug, but he loves Joshua to pieces. He can usually get through to his nephew.

  Joshua’s eyes light up. “Uncle Tee! Yeah, I want to hang out with him.”

  “Okay, go ahead and get a bath and chillax. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  Joshua laughs. “Mommy, nobody says chillax anymore.”

  I stick my tongue out at him. “I do! So get with it!”

  As I close the door to Joshua’s room and head downstairs for a snack, I wonder why he can’t have that type of relationship with Spencer. I know they love each other, but something is hindering them from being close.