by Pat Simmons
When she reached Chambers Road’s steep hill, her walk increased to a jog. She admired the dignified vintage three-story houses. Large address tags identified them as historic. Their unusual colors, sloped roofs, and huge wrap-around porches seemed out of place with the smaller bungalows in the neighborhood. As she passed Walgreens, a horn sounded. Cheney glanced over her right shoulder at the offending driver.
“Parke? How ghetto,” she said, twisting her mouth in disgust.
“Hey,” he yelled from a shiny brown SUV, stopping in busy traffic. “Need a lift?”
Shaking her head, Cheney increased her speed. Ghetto.
He blew his horn again. “You sure?”
Nodding for the second time, she jogged past The Corner Coffee House, a quaint outdoor café. Funny, his vehicle seemed similar to the one Mrs. Beacon ran off the block the other night.
She redirected her attention to the old town charm that she never noticed in the months she had lived in the area. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as the four-lane traffic converged into two lanes under a railroad trestle, forcing Parke to merge right. She laughed until she blinked away a tear. Boy, her neighborhood was full of characters.
“What an idiot,” she said, shaking her head.
A tall street clock encased with wildflowers greeted her, announcing Ferguson’s downtown shopping and business district.
“Hmm, one day my garden will be just as beautiful,” she proclaimed as another horn honked. What is it with people honking their horns today? Turning around, Cheney rolled her eyes, annoyed—Parke again.
“Are you sure I can’t give you a ride? I’m going your way.” Parke grinned like a flirty teenager. His brilliant white smile matched his white polo shirt.
“Yep.” She pointed to the furniture store. “I’m here.” Clenching her teeth, Cheney opened the front door and removed her sunglasses. “Good riddance, Mr. Jamieson.”
An older man sauntered toward her. With her wallet containing all her credit and debit cards, Cheney was ready to shop until her money dropped out of her accounts.
“May I help you look for anything in particular?”
Cheney scanned the crowded showroom. “Yes, living room furniture. I want something unique, but contemporary that will look just as fashionable years later—and dining room furniture, depending on the price.”
“Of course, follow me,” the salesman instructed.
Despite the cluttered appearance, the selection was endless. It wasn’t long before Cheney purchased a sofa, two high-back chairs, and a coffee table. She limited herself to three African-American pictures out of many. It would be months before she could afford another such spree. Only after she paid for everything, Cheney realized the pictures portrayed scenes with a small church faded in the background. What a coincidence since she’d handpicked the pictures because of their brilliant colors.
“Now, Jim,” Cheney addressed the salesman as if he were an old friend. “You’re sure they’ll be delivered tomorrow evening after four? I’m having a party on Saturday.”
He scratched his thinning hairline. “You have my word on it, Miss Reynolds.”
“Thank you. Good night.”
Streetlights flickered on as Cheney stepped outside. She had been in there longer than she realized. In the parking lot, Parke sat behind the wheel of his Envoy, bobbing his head to music. Watching her, his stare wasn’t scary or uncomfortable. His expression revealed more of a “you’re here so I’m here” attitude as if he was security detail.
“Hey, Parke,” the salesman yelled, stuck his head out the door and waved.
“How’s it going, Jim? Thanks for that client referral,” Parke called back before Jim locked the showroom door.
“This guy is worse than Mrs. Beacon.” She groaned. So Parke was some kind salesman, which explained why he was a professional nuisance.
She paused, thinking about her neighbor, Cheney realized she hadn’t seen the mean old bat of late. Maybe she had broken a leg. Why did seeing Parke trigger thoughts of Mrs. Beacon? Both were pests. Still concerned, Cheney decided she would go to check on her.
“Need a ride home?” Parke hurried out of his vehicle. His demeanor was still non-threatening; his voice gentle, his appearance was casual and very nice. He was handsome without trying. Did I just appraise a man? She was losing focus.
“You expect me to say yes and climb in?” Cheney rammed a fist in her side and glared up about five inches at him. “Think again. Are you crazy? I don’t really know you well enough to get inside a vehicle with someone who hangs out of a window, yelling like a fool. Go away. I know my way home.”
“Never said you didn’t,” he said coolly, ignoring her insults. As an enticement, Parke jingled his keys. “You know, women have called me softer, more intimate names. I’m only being neighborly.” He wiggled his thick brows.
“Ha! You’re one step away from stalking me.”
Forming a devastating smile, Parke mixed it with an innocent expression. Maybe his charm worked on most women. Male charm, deceit, and fake love had almost destroyed her five years ago. What little she was able to salvage had made her immune to the opposite sex.
“C’mon, Cheney, surely we can be neighbors and friends.”
“Maybe, but not tonight. I’m not getting into that SUV. Bye.” Tipping her cap, she dismissed him. As she began her trek back to Benton Street, Parke followed at a snail’s pace. Cheney laughed when red lights caught him, then missed his company.
But like a bloodhound, he was back on her trail. She didn’t want to acknowledge or encourage a man who needed to get a life. Secretly, his gesture made her feel secure; an emotion she thought Larry had packed up and took with him. Without as much as a wave, Cheney entered her house, locked her door and went about her business.
***
Friday morning, Cheney awoke anxious as she dressed for work. The furniture and floor samples she had purchased would transform her house into a home, but the anticipation of seeing her family the next day left her feeling akin to a prisoner granted a visitor’s pass. She hadn’t seen them in years, and after the last series of phone call debacles, she spared herself further humiliation and mailed invitations instead.
She had to remember that she was the one who broke the family circle. The truth was Cheney wasn’t ready to relive her abortion through explaining why she had needed the distance. At least Imani would be there. “Let the good times roll.”
Unlocking her front door, Cheney thought about Mrs. Beacon, briefly, very briefly. She glanced at her watch. Unfortunately there was time to check on her neighbor. Cheney inhaled a fortifying breath and crossed over the imaginary property line. “Why do I even feel obligated to check on the neighborhood terror?” she drilled herself.
Cheney’s knuckles froze in mid-air before tapping on Mrs. Beacon’s front door when it flung open and bass-pounding music of Janet Jackson filtered outside. Stunned, Cheney stared. So she is alive and kickin’.
Mrs. Beacon didn’t miss a beat as she bounced from one foot to the other lifting a gray dumbbell weight in one hand.
“Well, what do you want, Heney? You’re interrupting my morning workout. I sure hope you won’t become a worrisome neighbor.”
Taken back, Cheney threw up her hands. How could a person be so rude? If Cheney was mean-spirited, she would have knocked out Mrs. Beacon’s false teeth—if she wore them. Instead, she turned and stormed away. There goes my good intention.
Chapter Seven
“Hey, baby,” Malcolm whispered as his soft, wet kisses seduced Hallison.
“You’re torturing me,” she mumbled, collapsing in his arms.
“No, I’m going to love you.”
Hallison didn’t protest as he fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. This moment was what she wanted to experience with him. Moaning, his touch was scandalous.
No more holding back. Eat your heart out, God….What was that annoying buzzing in her ear? After she swatted the pesky insect, it returned closer
and louder. The noise changed to a familiar voice. Hallison frowned at the interruption. Somehow she was dreaming and had answered the phone. “Mom?” she asked breathless.
“Hali? Is that you? Are you alone?”
She gripped the receiver. “Ah, oh, yeah, I think so. I guess I was dreaming.”
“Hmm. ‘He that committeth fornication sinneth against his own body.’ Don’t forget 1 Corinthians 6:18, sweetie.”
Hallison blushed. She was twenty-four years old, gainfully employed, living alone, and busted by her mama. Typical Addison Dinkins—she knew the Word. God aside, they sometimes acted like girlfriends. She heard her mother softly sipping; no doubt she was drinking her first cup of coffee. Her mother would always begin her day with an hour of prayer, an hour of Bible reading and mediation, and then an hour of making phone calls. Addison’s mission was reminding Hallison and the world that Jesus was coming back. She only wished her mother would spare her.
The more Hallison tried to push away, the more Addison pulled her back. Breaking the child-parent string meant Hallison finding her own church. She knew the difference between right and wrong, and God loved her no matter what. Do your dirt, girl, then repent. Simple. Hallison knew how to play the game well enough to keep from going to hell.
Evidently, members of her mother’s prayer group, Saving Souls for Jesus, called her name out to make sure of it. They ranged in age from eight to ninety-seven. Rain or shine, they made daily calls, delivering inspirational messages and reciting scriptures. Without signing up, Hallison seemed to be on more than one list.
She wanted to remind her mother of her grown status, but any hint of sassing Addison Dinkins would result in her mother hunting her down and returning the favor.
“Hali, what’s going on with you?”
She could picture her mother frowning, marring a face resembling a younger Della Reese, but standing five-two. Hallison inherited her five-foot-ten height from her dad, Harold, who stood over six feet.
“Huh?” Hallison knew she couldn’t fool her mother, but she was stalling. The only child of middle-aged parents, she had attended Sunday school and worship, Monday prayer meeting, Wednesday Bible class, Thursday youth activities, Friday evangelistic services, and anything else when the church doors were opened. When her dad passed away ten years ago, her mother seemed to increase her prayer life, which included Hallison against her will.
“What man has you moaning? Thank God you were dreaming.” Her mother’s voice always was gentle; her interest, genuine.
Sighing, Hallison heard her mother shuffling pages. Odds were Addison was hunting down a scripture to throw at her. Hallison didn’t have to wait long.
“We have to be careful, even in our sleep. Satan can plant his seeds at any time and then wait for us to act upon them. St. James 1:15 says, ‘When lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin’.”
“Mother, you’re condemning me—”
“No, I’m not, sweetheart. Only God can condemn you. I’m just reminding you. I’ll never stop being Momma. Now tell me about this captivating young man.”
Smiling, Hallison flipped her hair back off her face. Their conversations always began the same way, scriptures before girl talk. “Malcolm Jamieson is a wonderful man. He’s a CPA, very handsome, intelligent, and he worships me.”
“So, you’re his god, huh?”
“Momma!”
“Okay. I’m listening.”
“He makes me feel so beautiful, like I’m an Egyptian or African queen. I really like spending time with him, Momma.”
Addison didn’t seem impressed. “You didn’t meet him at some nightclub?”
Hallison needed her privacy. Otherwise her mother would call her feelings for Malcolm scandalous. She would never forget the day she and Malcolm connected. He was the best thing that had ever happened to her.
“No. We met at a minority job fair. I was representing my bank. He and another guy were representing their accounting firm. There were about fifty Black-owned companies or firms recruiting Blacks. I’m surprised he even noticed me. It was packed.”
“You’re my beautiful daughter who has become a woman. What man wouldn’t notice you?” Addison chimed in.
“I’m just glad it was Malcolm. I remember how striking he looked, dressed in a show-stopping, deep-brown pinstripe suit. Mmm, he made the suit, not the other way around. He watched me throughout the fair.”
“He looked that good, and I’ve never met him?” her mother teased. “Well, that’s a safe way to happen upon someone, a professional setting. Church would’ve been better.”
“I’d never found a man like him in the church.”
“So, I guess you were watching him, too. I hope you were dressed to the nines.”
Starry-eyed, Hallison chuckled at her mother’s statement. “It wasn’t as if I was watching him so much as I could feel him watching me. His stare held me hostage.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Four months.”
Addison gasped. “And I’m just now hearing about him? I thought we were closer than that.”
“We are, Ma,” she whined. “This is different. I cherish this relationship. Our feelings took me by surprise. Now, Malcolm’s the only man I want in my life.”
“I see. Four months, and I’ve never met him.”
Checking her alarm clock, Hallison noted the time. Later that evening, she would attend the St. Louis Black Journalists’ silent photo auction with Malcolm. She couldn’t wait to bid on black-and-white memorabilia and unusual prints for her apartment. Closing her eyes, Hallison imagined breathing in Malcolm’s cologne. She loved to watch his thick, black eyebrow lift when he was contemplating a decision. During the past few months, he had invited her to his apartment for dinner. She had declined, knowing the heat between them alone would cook more than a meal. She was determined to sleep with Malcolm, just not yet. When Hallison did, she wouldn’t feel guilty about it.
Her mother must have known where her thoughts were leading because she broke out with a Bible verse. “I trust you, but not the tricks of the devil. Just this morning, I was mediating on St. Matthew 16:26: ‘For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?’”
“Mama, I’m not selling my so—”
“No man, job, or desire is worth you losing your soul. Why don’t you come to church with me tomorrow and bring your exciting young man?”
Irritated, Hallison began picking her teeth with her fingernail. “Mother, God gave me a choice. You can’t save me. I have to save myself.”
Silence, then her mother’s voice softened. “‘Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man sows, he also reaps.’ Read Galatians, the sixth chapter. Be careful what you’re sowing out there, baby, because there is a harvest. Remember I love you.”
Pastors didn’t know everything. Hallison didn’t want them trying to dictate her life. That’s what happened to her friends, Tavia and David. Despite the pastor advising against marriage, they married anyway and were happy. Hallison’s rebellious streak included smoking because she was big and bad enough. But that habit didn’t last.
Guilty tears began to stream down her cheeks. Why did she have to know the scriptures and the consequences of her actions? “I love you, too. Just pray for me, okay?”
“I always do.”
Hallison hung up, too scared to recapture the erotic dream that previously had her enthralled. “No offense, Lord, but I want Malcolm. You’ll just have to understand.”
Chapter Eight
Saturday morning Cheney prayed, if a person counted, Blessed are the peacemakers, as a prayer. She couldn’t remember the rest, but it would have to do because she needed a peaceful reunion with her family, but this was her family she was trying to fool. Grudge was their middle name, and Payback could be their last.
After dressing in a sleeveless black shirt and a multi-color pair of capris, she walked outside to the curb.
Standing behind a large tree, she fumbled with ribbons tied to balloons when Parke zoomed by in a jogging suit.
“Keep going, keep going, keep going,” she chanted, pretending not to notice him.
Parke glanced over his right shoulder and stopped abruptly. “Cheney? Is that you?”
She finished looping the ribbons in knots. “Yes, Parke,” she answered dryly.
“Wow.” He strutted back toward her with his head cocked, doing a slow inspection. “Woman, you clean up real good. I hardly recognized you without the sweats. And you’re wearing makeup, too?” He stepped back, whispering, “Nice.”
His one word gave her an unexpected pleasure. “Thanks. Funny, my radar picked you up, and I’m getting warning signals to run for my life.”
“Smooth, Miss Reynolds, I’m sure there’s flattery hidden somewhere in there. What’s with the balloons?”
“I don’t have time for Twenty Questions. I’m having a housewarming, good-bye.”
Parke didn’t budge. Instead he looked her up and down. “You know, red lipstick brings out your full lips, and you look kinda cute in civilian clothes.”
She laughed at his off-handed compliment. “I can’t come out and play right now. Go away. I’m already nervous.”
“Unbelievable.”
“What?” She frowned, wondering why she was giving him her time.
“When you laugh, your face glows. It’s definitely because of your lips.”
“Parkay, I’ve already been romanced by the world’s finest, most charming and the biggest lying brotha God ever made, so save your sweet talk.” She turned and sped back to her porch just as Mrs. Beacon peeked out her window.
“Cheney!”
