Wrath

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  He took another swig. “So”—I could tell by his tone he was settling in for a long talk—“did Roxanne pull a Diane, Mattie, and Trina on you?”

  I felt it, starting at my feet with the mention of those names. That fire again, slowly burning, slowly rising. My eyes narrowed, I clenched my fingers, wanting to punch something. One punch would give me relief. One punch always did.

  After another swallow of my imported beer, Bryce placed the bottle on my table. “What happened this time?”

  Bryce, his words, his tone, poured fuel on my fury, and I wanted to throw him out. But the truth was, I needed to talk this out. Maybe even help me devise a plan to get Roxanne back.

  So I answered, “She got upset.”

  He shook his head. “I told you before with the others, women don’t break off engagements because they get upset.”

  “I never gave Diane a ring,” I said. “She doesn’t count.”

  “But Roxanne counted, and she didn’t break off your engagement over something small.”

  “Yeah, she did,” I said. “It was over something small and crazy. I wanted to go out and she didn’t seem like she wanted to and then she said she would and asked me what she should wear.” The fire within me burned hotter with the memory, and I stood to get relief. “I told her it didn’t matter what she wore.” I paced away from Bryce. “But she kept pushing. She kept talking until…” I slammed my fist into the palm of my hand.

  There was nothing but silence as Bryce stared at me. After many moments, he said, “Is that what you did to her?”

  I glanced down at where my hand was still in a fist, and I lowered my arms. “No.” I shook my head. “Of course not. I didn’t hit her. I would never…”

  Bryce raised an eyebrow, and I sank back down onto the sofa.

  “I didn’t hit her,” I repeated. “I love Roxanne.”

  “You loved Diane, too.”

  I paused and remembered that day of rage. I’d just resigned from my second law firm, a resignation that had been strongly suggested by my boss after a client had threatened a lawsuit because I’d gotten a little angry. I’d come home, wanting space and solace, but Diane had drilled me with question after question after question, until I’d tossed her down on the bed. “I didn’t hit Diane…” Then I repeated, because I needed Bryce to understand what I hadn’t been able to get Roxanne to hear, “I love Roxanne.”

  My best friend nodded. “I know you do.” The heat within me began to cool with his acknowledgment, but then he had to add, “Just like I had no doubt you loved Diane and Trina and—”

  “Would you stop saying their names?” I shouted, pressing my hands against my temples.

  “X-Man, you’re gonna have to do something.”

  “About what?” The words were hardly out of my mouth before I regretted them, knowing what he was going to say. So I preempted him. “Yeah, I get angry sometimes, but who doesn’t?”

  He shook his head. “No, what you experience isn’t anger, bruh. It’s beyond that, and I don’t know how many women have to leave you or how many jobs you have to lose before you see that. Before you’re ready to do something to take care of yourself.”

  “So what am I supposed to do? Tiptoe around people? When I have something to say, I say it.”

  “No, when you have something to say, you punch something, and what you need to do is get help before you finally cross the line and that something turns into someone. You need to speak to somebody about this rage.”

  “I’m speaking to you,” I said because I didn’t have another response.

  “And if I could help, I would. But you need far more help than what a black man with an MBA from Stern can give to you. You need to see a therapist, a psychologist, a psychiatrist, one of those doctors from Grey’s Anatomy—I don’t know, fam. But you need to see someone.”

  I glared at Bryce, but he didn’t flinch under the heat of my stare. So I leaned across the sofa and grabbed my cell phone from the side table, tapped on Instagram, and scrolled through my timeline. Not that I’d ever spent too much time on social media; I never posted anything. But the posts from the people I followed were interesting enough to keep me from having to deal with Bryce. I was tired of folks telling me I needed help. It was like a black man couldn’t get upset about anything anymore.

  After a few minutes passed, Bryce said, “So this is how you’re gonna handle it?”

  I just kept scrolling through pictures and posts that I paid no attention to. My mind was still on what Bryce had said and what Roxanne had said and what all the others had said. It was times like these when I felt so alone. Like not even the people who were supposed to have my back tried to hear me.

  My condo was silent except for the summer sounds that seeped through my window: children’s laughter, the Mister Softee ice cream truck, and the hum of the rubber hitting the road of the traffic that rolled down 132nd Street.

  I wasn’t going to say a word, and neither was Bryce, I knew that. We’d been here before. But something else I also knew was Bryce wouldn’t leave until the last drop of beer had been emptied from his bottle.

  That was okay—I had plenty to scroll through. After Instagram, I’d head to Twitter, then finally Facebook. I’d go into social media overload—until Bryce decided to get his happy ass up and out of my apartment.

  Finally, that moment came. Bryce stood, but my eyes remained on my phone. “So you got nothin’ to say?”

  I tapped the phone’s screen and switched to Twitter. Even though I didn’t look up, I imagined the way Bryce stood, his broad shoulders squared, built like a running back if he’d ever gone out for football. His stature was imposing to many. Just not to me.

  When he tired of watching me, he made his way to the door. Still I stayed focused on my phone, but I was aware. I felt him pause, felt his eyes turn once again to me.

  For the first time in minutes, I spoke—“Thanks for stopping by, black man”—though I didn’t look up.

  This time, he was the one who stayed mute as he walked through the door. The moment he stepped outside, I sighed. Bryce didn’t get me, and he wasn’t the only one. Clearly, Diane, Mattie, Trina… and now Roxanne could be added to that list. All I knew was that I was a good man and I’d find that good woman.

  Switching to the phone icon, I frowned at all the missed calls from Bryce. But before I could even think about it, the phone rang in my hand—UNKNOWN CALLER flashed across the screen.

  I pressed ACCEPT. “Hello.”

  “Xavier, this is Chastity. I met you last night at…”

  My smile was instant. “Do you think I need a reminder?” I leaned back, resting my head on the sofa’s high cushions. “I’ve been sitting here all day waiting for your call.”

  Her laughter was like a cool shower, relaxing me from the heat Bryce had left behind.

  She said, “Another good line. Like I told you last night, you’re full of them.”

  “At least you didn’t say I was full of it.”

  She laughed again and now, I swung my legs up and lay down. This time when I closed my eyes, I had no intention of sleeping. All I wanted to do was block out everything except for the sound of music that was Chastity’s sweet voice.

  As we chatted, every concern I had faded behind the light that Chastity brought. This morning, I never thought I’d smile again. But now, as Chastity and I laughed together, I had a feeling I might never stop smiling.

  5 Chastity

  Greater Grace was rocking; this was the way I remembered the church that had been as much a part of my life as the Harlem brownstone where I’d been raised.

  The praise and worship team sang the last chord of “Every Praise,” and Lauralee, the minister of music, had those singers hold the last note so long, some of their brown faces turned crimson as their lungs screamed for relief. When Lauralee dropped her hands, everyone in the sanctuary breathed and lifted praises to the Lord.

  I stood in the first pew, in the second seat of honor, shoulder to shoulder wit
h my mother. As the atmosphere filled with worship, I sat, then closed my eyes, pressed my hands together, and bowed my head. It was a stance of prayer, but that wasn’t what I was doing. I was basking, actually, in the jubilation that I always felt whenever I came to my home church.

  Greater Grace held so many of my first life memories: the times when I’d crouch under the huge desk in my father’s office, playing hide-and-seek with my dad. Or the first time I stood at the altar next to my father and recited the 23rd Psalm for Resurrection Sunday. And then there was the first time I’d danced with the praise dancers under the guidance of my mother, the choreographer.

  My mind was filled with good times, good memories.

  “Let the church say ‘Amen.’ ”

  The richness of my father’s baritone reverberated off the walls, and like when I was a child, his voice made me smile even before my eyes fluttered open. I hadn’t realized my father had entered the sanctuary.

  “Amen!” filled the church, the congregants following my father’s directive.

  With a smile, my eyes locked on the man I called Papa.

  Hovering on the edge of sixty, my father still had the physicality that had made him a basketball star and the mark of too many women. Memories warred inside of me: the man who wrapped me in the best hugs, but then, the same man whom I’d seen embracing women, always leaving me wondering, was this lady the reason why my mom had cried the night before?

  I wanted to shake away those memories just as my mother had asked, but they were etched too deeply inside my hippocampus for me to forget.

  In the pulpit, my father moved with such grace, his hands gliding like a maestro’s as he spoke. But seeing him in the pulpit made me shiver as another memory bombarded me, hitting me hard, hitting me fast:

  May 6, 2004

  All my life, my parents had done this to me. From my sweet sixteen surprise party they’d sworn I wouldn’t have, to the BMW that was my high school graduation gift, they’d always caught me, but today, I was doing the catching!

  Swinging my car into Greater Grace’s parking lot, I was thrilled about two things: one, Aunt Estelle had been right when she said my parents were still at church after their Thursday-night budget meeting, and two, my dad’s Range Rover was the only car left—another good sign, but not a definite. So many took cabs to Greater Grace, so there was still a chance I might have to share my reunion with others besides my parents.

  I hopped out of the car, giddy with my excitement that I’d pulled this off, even though I’d told a few tales that had me crossing fingers behind my back. It was Mother’s Day weekend, but I wasn’t supposed to be home. Both my mom and dad had been sad, though they’d tried to hide it; I hadn’t been home since I’d left for London in September.

  It was only because my parents were so proud I was spending my junior year at Dartmouth abroad that I was able to get away with the fib that I had to finish an important project. But the whole time, I’d planned this (along with Aunt Estelle); this was going to be the best weekend.

  I scurried up to the side entrance of the church, used Aunt Estelle’s key, and held my breath as I pushed the door open. I paused, not wanting, after all of this, to spoil the surprise by allowing them to hear me. When all was clear, I tiptoed down the hall, my eyes on the light that shined from my dad’s office, and with my fingertips, I pressed back my giggles. I hadn’t decided if I was going to jump into the office and shout, “Surprise!” or if I would stroll in as if I were supposed to be there.

  After just a few more steps, though, I stopped. I was too far away to see them, but what I heard left me frozen.

  “How could you do this to me again?”

  The words made me press my back against the wall. Standing just feet away, I took in the sound of my mother’s tears. I’d almost forgotten how she sounded, almost forgotten how much she’d cried.

  My father’s voice was next. “This is not the time, this is not the place.”

  “And why not?” My mother’s volume rose. “This is where she gave me these pictures of the two of you. This is where she had the audacity to…”

  It was difficult for me to concentrate anymore. Pictures? I moaned. Over the years, I’d had to deal with this too much, since women approached when I was out with my mother or with my father—the tricks, as I’d heard my aunt Estelle refer to them.

  But now… there were pictures?

  “Sisley.” My father’s plea was inside his tone. “We’ll talk about this when we get home.”

  “No, we’re talking now. Look at these,” she demanded.

  With my back still pressed against the wall, I sidestepped as if I were walking a tightrope, stopping at the door’s edge. I’d be able to peek in without my parents noticing, not only because of the way my dad’s office was arranged but because there was little that would distract either from what was in front of them.

  I peeked inside and watched my mother stand with squared shoulders over my father who still sat at his desk.

  “I can’t do this anymore, Kareem.”

  This was one of the few times I’d heard my mother call my father by his name.

  She continued, “She’s put it in my face. She has to go.”

  “I can’t do that. Cynthia is the best assistant I’ve ever had.”

  “You mean the best lay, don’t you?”

  Her words made me gasp. Sisley Jeffries had taken so much from my father, but she’d always handled it with what I’d come to call Southern grace. It sounded like she’d changed, though. Sounded like she didn’t have a bit of grace within her.

  “Really, Sisley? You want to disrespect the house of the Lord this way? Is this how you want to speak as you’re standing just feet from the altar?”

  That was his response? He thought this was the moment to rebuke her for what she’d said after what he’d done?

  The one thing I’d never seen in my parents’ house was physical violence. The psychological abuse of my father’s numerous affairs had been damaging enough. Surely, though, my father’s admonishment would make my mother slap him. But the sound of flesh assaulting flesh was not what I heard next.

  Instead, it was laughter, and as I once again peeked around the entrance, I watched my mother, her shoulders hunching up then down as she laughed straight in my father’s face. He sat, taking her manic outburst, waiting for her to gather herself back into the prima donna she’d always been.

  Just moments before, she’d been buckled over in the pain of her tears, and now she was cackling like she’d gone mad…

  “AND THAT IS having my daughter, Chastity, home.”

  I heard the words, but I was still so deep in the eighteen-year-old memory that my mother had to nudge me back to 2019. Only then did I hear the applause, and another motherly nudge sent me rising to my feet.

  My eyes locked with my father’s, and that beam in his eyes, which always melted my heart, almost melted my memories. Almost.

  “Can you believe this is the first time I’m seeing my little girl since she returned to New York last week?”

  I chuckled with the people and grinned back at my father with the same adoration he gave me.

  “I don’t think I need to tell anyone in this sanctuary how much I love my wife and our beautiful daughter.” He pressed both hands against his chest. “I don’t have to tell you my testimony because you’ve heard it before. But I’m gonna repeat it because God’s grace is just that good.”

  When Lauralee hit a note on the keyboard, the sanctuary filled with “Yes!”

  “I was a sinner in need of a savior,” my father sang. “And when I tell you the Lord saved me through His mercy, but then, do you know what He did with His grace? Whew!” he shouted, with his hands raised. “The Lord gave me my wife.”

  “Preach!”

  “Oh, yeah, I don’t have to tell you ’cause I’ve told you before. But I was a ho out there in these streets.”

  “You better tell it!”

  “I knew God, but I’d turned my
back on the Lord because I loved the limelight that came with the fame of being KJ on this New York basketball team.”

  “Speak!”

  “But that limelight was nothing but darkness. Until”—he paused and looked at my mother—“God gave me a glimpse of His grace through the woman He’d chosen just for me. She loved me through all of my infidelities that came from all of my insecurities.”

  Again, my father pressed his hands against his chest, and when my mother blew him a kiss, the sanctuary exploded with applause.

  “It still took me a long time,” my father said, his tone singed with sadness. Then my father’s face brightened when he said, “But once I got it…”

  Lauralee hit another chord on the keyboard.

  “Whew!” my father shouted.

  Another chord.

  “Thank you, Jesus!”

  Then the third chord.

  “Hallelujah!”

  And then, Lauralee kept on playing. My father danced, and the members and visitors of Greater Grace stood and danced with him. When my mother turned to me and offered me her hand, I got up and danced, too. It was a celebration of how good God had been.

  L. Frank Baum had been right. In one of my favorite children’s books, The Wonderful World of Oz, I’d loved his words the first time I’d read them, and I truly loved them now. There was definitely no place like home.

  * * *

  AS SOON AS the benediction had been given, I rushed through the side door before I could be ambushed by well-wishing church members. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to acknowledge the people, so many of whom claimed to have known me when I’d been in my mother’s womb. But how could I greet anyone when I hadn’t properly done that with my father? So I bypassed the reception line where my father and mother stood after every service and retreated to the massive space of my father’s office.

  When I was a child, this office had felt as grand as our home. Stepping inside now, I was still in awe, but for different reasons. I appreciated that every inch of the custom-built walnut bookshelves that stretched from the floor to the ceiling and lined two walls were stocked with hundreds of Bibles, about four dozen of which were in different languages. Then, there were the two stained-glass windows that, to this day, I’d never seen in an office. Black Jesus was sketched into one, and on the other side was His black mother. Both hovered over and glanced down at my father whenever he sat at his desk.