by Love Belvin
“I’ve been out of town, visiting family.” His cheeks lifted warmly, eyes brightened with appreciation. “You been good, though. Right? I haven’t heard about my guys needing to run up in here.”
I nodded, hands lifting into position. “What can I get for you tonight?”
“You got any more of that pecan pie back there? I know it be racing outta here.”
No need to write that down…
I dropped the pad and pencil into my pocket and took off for the display counter’s fridge where they were usually stored. There were two slices left. I slipped on gloves and began to box and bag one. By the time I made it back to the counter, Damien had a ten-dollar bill in front of him.
“How’s ya brother?”
“Oh…” I thought for a second. “He’s good. I spoke with him a couple of days ago. He’s counting down the days, you know?”
“Yeah. He’ll be a’ight.”
I grabbed the ten. “I’ll get you change.”
Damien was pushing up from his stool. “You know I’m good. Enjoy your night, beautiful.”
“Thanks, Damien,” I murmured, giving him the obligatory smile when I wanted to do much more.
I wanted to ask a gazillion questions about why he came in here the way he did and never ordered food, just desserts. I’d been dying to know why he acted as a superhero for me at the diner and in the neighborhood. Was he only “Clark Kent” when around me? Or did he make another lucky girl feel as special as I did each time he came in here?
But that was Damien. Even the owners knew what he did for me which, in turn, helped them. That was why whenever he came through those doors, all the staff would find me to wait on him. It was weird, but was my life over the past six years.
“One of these days, you’ll grow the cojones to tell him he’s good looking. I bet then, he’ll sweep you off your feet.” Carina, my other boss’ wife, rolled her eyes as she hissed.
When I turned to face her, all I caught was her jaw chomping on gum, as she always did. Carina was tough, but sweet. She didn’t take crap off any of the staff, customers, or owners and was respected for that.
I gained on her near the register.
“Why do you always say that?”
Carina’s head whipped to face me so fast, her blonde tresses cascaded in the air. “Because it’s true. Life ain’t about a fairy tale, Bilan.” Her Italian accent was faint. “In the real world, not every man has it in him to kick shit off. You probably think cheating is a reason to divorce.” She shook her head.
I didn’t want to go there. That could have opened a can of worms I didn’t want to eat. It was known around the diner how Vincent, her husband, flirted heavily with the young girls on staff. He’d even slept with one or six over the years. That type of behavior wasn’t what I’d ever agree to accept.
“Do me a favor,” she proposed over her shoulder while counting cash. “Take this one for me so I can finish this.”
I glanced around and found all the girls who worked the floor and counter busy with a customer. Instead of rolling my eyes, I held my breath as I turned to the incoming customer. My posture stiffened, muscles all over went rigid. The air holding in my lungs jostled through my nostrils, some sputtering through my lips. I blinked a few times and tried to manage the choking happening from my attempt to swallow and breathe at the same time.
His distinctive golden eyes swept the long counter, clearly in search of something. Dessert. It had to be something in the display counter fridge. The black tuxedo he wore had to be cut with specificity of each inch of his frame. The skin of his russet head glistened under the ceiling lights. He stood with one hand in his pants pocket, revealing the details of the crisp white dress shirt beneath the jacket. The man wasn’t particularly tall, but his presence was vast and commanding, introducing him without words.
He began his stride toward the counter, and what a graceful one it was. His confidence was clear to me already. I watched fixedly when his regard swung up and landed on me. There was a slight stumble in his smooth gait. His expression was flat, but eyes alive when they fastened onto me. His skin was roasted almond—you know…the outside of the nut. No. Tan—maybe the color of a paper bag. I couldn’t decide. He was definitely light-skinned, but with rich olive undertone.
He arrived at the counter, and I had to tell myself to snap out of it. I needed to get out of here and not melt in my shoes at the sight of a stranger. Possibly a lost stranger. An incredibly, impossibly good-looking lost stranger.
“Ha—” My pitch was too high. I cleared my throat and attempted again, so caught up in trying to count the colors in his irises when I breathed. “How can I help you?”
Under those dense, unruly brows, I finally counted four: a dark brown perimeter enclosing a hue of green, then yellow and an impossible orange before a speck of black at the mecca of the iris. I’d never seen such exoticism in my life. Tangerine hair sprouted from his face, trimmed into a meticulous five o’clock shadow. Friggin’ orange facial hair—that wasn’t dyed. That tangerine against russet skin made his beauty otherworldly.
When his eyes settled on me at a closer proximity, I watched his full lips part as his tongue swiped the inner lining of his bottom lip, back and forth. He wasn’t hurried with his response. He just…gaped at me.
Seconds felt like extended minutes, and I quickly grew self-conscious. Around me, I could feel bodies briskly move, but couldn’t shift my eyes away from him.
“I’m looking for sweet potato pie.” His words fell effortlessly and with self-possessed pacing.
Before I could find the words to reply, quick clacking steps our way stole my attention. My regard shifted to a tiny woman wearing a red, flowing ball gown as she ambled to his side. Her creamy bountiful breasts spilling over the bustier. Her sky-blue eyes peered over to him timidly, then shot over to me. She didn’t speak, and he didn’t regard her. His eyes were stapled to me, lips still ajar, tongue still brushing the inside of his bottom lip.
Oh…
I got it. Both dressed like extras for “Gone with the Wind.” They were together; making it abundantly clear was her hand rubbing her bulged belly. She was pregnant. The woman was White. Swathed in a gorgeous ball gown. And very pregnant.
That jolted my brain into the here and now.
I cleared my throat. “Sweet potato.” I scribbled onto my order tab. “Will that be all?” My eyes brushed back up to him.
I caught her hand going to his arm… The one with the hand in his pants pocket. “And banana pudding.” Her soprano was soft, timid.
The guy’s sights never left me. “And your banana pudding.” Again, his words were unhurried.
Unlike my initial reaction to her presence, he was unaffected. His eyes narrowed and he chewed on the inside of his mouth before he uttered, “Sweet potato pie and banana pudding for the lady.”
With an internal flutter, I scribbled and nodded before taking off. I pushed the order slip into the hand of the first waiter I passed.
“Fill this, please,” I grumbled, not stopping on my way back into the kitchen.
I was annoyed. Why? I didn’t know. Since when did seeing an incredibly good-looking guy get to me? Why did seeing him with his…wife make me react that way?
Quickly, Pedro and Maria were at my feet with new mixture samples to taste. I really needed to go, but couldn’t be rude to them. After tasting them and giving feedback, I grabbed my things.
“Nicky,” I shouted over to the other side of the kitchen. “I’m out. Be back in a few hours to get started on my cakes for tomorrow!”
I was out the back door, knowing a response or acknowledgement wouldn’t come.
∞2∞
It was close to eight by the time I walked into the church. I stopped in the vestibule I imagined was just outside of the auditorium. I could hear a man speaking in there. It was confirmed when a woman with an all-white nurse’s uniform strolled out of one of the auditorium’s doors. That’s when I caught a glimpse of the vast audien
ce inside as I pulled my phone from my bag.
Me: I’m here.
I waited, looking into the packed auditorium now that the door had been left ajar. I hadn’t been near this place in years. It was one of the biggest churches in Paterson, one that invited celebrities into the city; that was the impression I got from an old friend who was a member. I hadn’t heard from her in years, which made my invitation from a new friend ironic.
Tasche: Bitch you all late and shit I’m coming back for you
I knew she was angry. My arrival time was crazy, later than the six-thirty start time she gave me. This wasn’t Tasche’s church, and she wasn’t exactly happy to be here. Tasche was from Harlem. She moved to Paterson two years ago to work at a strip club out here. I met her at the diner after her shift one morning. She came in complaining about how the city was mini-Puerto Rico. She said they would never let Hispanics take over Harlem the way Patersonians clearly had with their city. I laughed my ass off because I was sure Vinny, the second owner of the diner who was listening in, may have felt that way about Blacks coming into Paterson when Italians pretty much ran it.
Almost done with my baking in the back, I waited on her that morning and we caught conversation, going from one topic to the next. Since then, almost every morning Tasche worked, she stopped in to eat before going home to crash. She’d turned into a friend, something I hadn’t always been open to. But the girl had one of those personalities that was as though you never met her for a first time. If she was comfortable around you, she’d talk your head off. If she didn’t pick up the best vibes from you, she’d close up.
“I straight up thought you flaked on me, yo?” The fire in her tone as I turned to find her approaching me had my head swinging back and eyes blinking. “Don’t look at me like that,” Tasche tried to whisper. “I fuckin’ begged you to come with me for over a week now.”
“I know, T. I swear.” I tried pleading with her despite her unusual nasty agitation. “I told you I had to train two people in the kitchen this afternoon and get my usual orders done. I’m not even finished. I have to go back in tonight.”
Tasche rolled her eyes, and I was able to catch her ensemble. She wore…flat shoes. They were black leather ballerina shoes, paired with a fitted green dress stopping above her knees and a yellow, waist-length cardigan sweater. It didn’t cover her bountiful rump, but the look was hella modest for my girl.
“You look…wholesome.” I coughed into my hand, ignoring her flash of ugliness.
Tasche’s eyes rolled down to her feet before closing tightly. “It’s too tight, I know.”
My eyes ballooned. “Nooooo!” I breathed under the sounds of the speaker inside preaching. The dress was rather short, but nothing illicit, I thought. “You look fine, T,” I whispered.
“Nah.” She shook her head. “I already know. Look at my ass, yo.” As she turned a three-sixty angle, I flinched. Tasche’s panty line was not only screaming through the cotton, but the cotton itself hugged her like shiny polyvinyl. When she heard me squeak, Tasche turned to face me.
“See!”
“It’s okay.” I searched through the tote bag on my shoulder and pulled out a denim jacket. “Here. Wrap this around your waist. It’ll cover your rump.”
Tasche quickly pulled the arms of the jacket around her tiny waist, tying it before reaching back to be sure it covered her voluptuousness.
“See. That worked out.”
“Easy for you to say,” she hissed, eyes sweeping my clothes. “You know how to dress for shit like this.”
She cussed again. “We’re in church, Tasche,” I whispered even lower.
“I know! That’s what the fuck I’m saying, yo!”
And again…
My eyes circled the small foyer. Not many had passed through here, I’d guessed because the program had begun.
“What I mean is…” I decided to go a different route. “I got dressed for a meeting on campus this morning. Besides, this isn’t a regular place for you or me. No one should judge you because of that.”
“It ain’t about judgment, yo. It’s my home girl from Harlem, man. Her and her old man is doing this here tonight. That’s him speaking in there now.” She pointed toward the door she came out of. “He a big time preacher, travel around the globe…the nigga is a big damn deal in their network. This dude got mad school degrees—one from Oxford, wherever the fuck that joint is overseas—done traveled to places a bitch can’t name, speak a bunch of different languages and is so damn smart, it makes him weird as fuck!” she whispered as though shouting in my face. “And you know the crazy part of all that shit?” Her dark, drawn-on brows lifted. “The fact that he scooped up my girl from Harlem World.”
With a wrinkled forehead, I shrugged. “So what? That’s great.”
“Nah, it ain’t, ‘cause it means if he checking for her regular ass—nah, Lex-Dawg something kind of special, but she got that fuckin’ Harlem Pride—it means he can judge me.”
“And if he does, that’s his problem as a minister…reverend or whatever. Not yours. And why are you here if you think he’s like that?”
“I ‘on’t know if he like that, like that. Ezra always been a cool cat with me, and he a real one. A real stiff nigga. Dude don’t drink, smoke, cuss, and I ain’t get word ‘bout him cheating on her, and they been married for like three years, or some shit.” There she went again with her language. I was not religious in the least, but my mother taught me to respect faiths. And I was quite sure cursing was sacrilegious around here. “She the one who invited me here.”
“Okay. So, you’re here to support her! Never mind him.”
“It’s weird, is all I’m saying.”
“I don’t get it.”
“When I told her I was quitting my old spot, Rusty’s, and moving to Jersey, she got crazy souped, and shit. Then when I hit her with the fact I was coming out this way to dance at a new club, I could tell she was disappointed.”
“Real friends don’t judge,” I protested firmly.
“Lex never judge, but that don’t mean she ain’t grow the hell up and change for the better. We used to work at the same spot. She was a bar girl and I danced. She left for…whatever reasons and kept improving her situation. She went back to school, like you doing, and got her degrees. And then turned around and married this rich ass preacher dude. I ‘on’t see shit they got in common, but the nigga is crazy about my dun, yo!”
I shook my head again. “Okay. So what’s the problem, Tasche?”
“When she said they was coming around the way and invited me, I wanted to show some love.” Her eyes swept around as she adjusted the jacket at her waist. “I told her I was bringing a new friend, somebody in school and shit...”
That’s when I finally understood. My being here, by her side, was a big part of Tasche’s plan tonight.
I took a deep breath. “You want to show her you’re evolving, too.” Her eyes fell, confirming my theory. I turned to be shoulder to shoulder with her, then wrapped my arm around hers. “Let’s go support your friend. My hooya—”
“Your what?” Her face strained, confused.
I cracked a smile. “My mom used to say your heart speaks a language louder than your tongue. It’s sweet you want to support your friend and do it her way.” I urged her to the door of the auditorium, hoping her friend appreciated it, too. “Let’s show her that love by not missing all of the show.”
Tasche didn’t speak, but she did let me guide her into the sanctuary, where I was struck with anxiety the moment we crossed into it. It was quiet inside, other than the raspy speaker with most eyes fixed on him. Walking toward the row where Tasche was seated, I noticed the man on stage running rosary beads through his fingers as he calmly paced the stage.
“But against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world—when you think it’s your job, it’s not. When you think it’s your husband, it usually is not. When you think it’s your wayward child, tabernacle, it likely
is not. It is your assigned spiritual warfare. It is your destiny breaking through.” He stopped pacing as he gazed intently into the crowd, which was now stirring with claps, outbursts, and jumping to their feet. “It is that battle you take on with one or more of those gifts He left behind before ascending to heaven to complete the will of the Father.”
He gave a moment for the crowd to get out their hoots and hollers. More were standing at this point, tossing their fists into the air, spiritedly shouting.
“Against spiritual wickedness in high places,” he murmured contemplatively before returning to his normal octave. “And in the seventeenth verse of First Thessalonians, chapter five, the Bible tells us to pray without ceasing. Tabernacle, if you can’t see or understand your opponent, you have to stay connected to your covering. Instead of you fighting in the flesh—fighting on your job, threatening divorce to your spouse, or losing hope for the child He entrusted to your care—you need to apply the same fervor of your fear and frustration to supplication.”
The bearded preacher traveled down one step of the podium, engaging the crowd. As he continued rousing them, a tall woman with dark skin and thick, long, and coarse hair bouncing in the air behind her traveled to the lectern on a subtle, but feminine strut. She was dressed in an A-line cut, black denim dress with a wide leather belt tied at her narrowed waist. Her three/fourth quarters sleeves were rolled up on her arms with what I knew to be silver Cartier LOVE bracelets on each. The soles of her high-heeled booties matched her red belt. Quietly, she collected what I assumed to be the preacher’s things with a bowed head, then made a beeline to leave the stage.
“You must combat your unseen enemy by encasing yourself in His promises, putting that breastplate of righteousness in place, taking up the shield of faith, and taking the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit!” he shouted, but not before nearly the entire room was on its feet, slapping palms and screaming their approval.
My neck whipped over to Tasche to find she’d done the same, our expressionless faces communicating the same thing to each other. The organ sounded, then drums. Then we heard what I could only describe as an Indian war cry. A running woman sped down the main aisle. The next thing snatching our attention was a man jumping to his feet and stomping the floor rhythmically.
