Rhythms of Grace

by Marilynn Griffith

  The Quakers thinned, easing out of the county as the greed moved in. Fear came next, carrying night torches and speaking in whispers. There were too many Negroes coming in and with the possibility of treasure, the influx had to be stopped, they decided. So they instituted the testimony, five hundred dollars per slave, an amount some people couldn’t pay today to be free of the things that hold them captive. An impossible amount in those days for a walking, talking piece of property to pay. Or so some people thought.

  Some came up with all the money and little explanation. Others passed over from Louisiana mulattoes or Virginia freedmen, with their wheat-colored hair and hazel eyes, to Ohio whites, living a shadow life far from any sunlight. Some from plantations in Georgia or Kentucky disappeared with the Indians only to be seen again with a papoose and a vacant look. Freedom was precious in those days with men and women on every side praying to a God with the same name: Jesus.

  Only the midwives truly knew who was what—white, black, red, or a little bit of all—they saw the babies whose fingers turned brown around the cuticles, who showed their color on the backs of their ears, the children whose hair curled tight like question marks. In later years, some of those children would disappear or be given to the family maid, according to local lore. As a child, I only knew that my fair, light-eyed father didn’t mind being out after dark anywhere in town. My brown, smooth mother regarded the setting sun with haste and concern, determined to be home before dark.

  There were other towns like ours above the Mason-Dixon line, sleepy little places who’d sent their sons to fight for Dixie instead of Lincoln, towns that somehow managed to keep a black school and a white one in spite of integration. Places with churches who taught that love came in many colors—as long as those colors were all the same. While I’d detested my ballet class, I learned later that I’d been the first and last black girl to ever dance at that school. It closed up not long after.

  I could see now that there was more diversity, but it was still a heterogeneous mix, with each group distinct and separate while sharing the same space. I’d seen the same thing most places I’d lived, but usually there was some part that gelled in the center, with no start and no end. It didn’t happen often or for long, but when it did, it was glorious. For all my faith, I doubted it would happen here if it hadn’t in all these years.

  And yet I felt hopeful, despite spending most of the morning on the phone with Mal, fending off his feeble apologies and lackluster prophecies. He was right about one thing though: God had a plan, one I was determined to discover. The day had begun as every day had since my showdown with Mal—with the notebook Joyce had sent me and all the beauty and hurt it contained. My musings had ended with me on a packed highway zooming toward Labor Day traffic, a blur of green mile markers and sometimes bumper-to-bumper cars. Other drivers got off at the exits with skyscrapers and neon signs. I’d kept going, with my transmission protesting all the way.

  As I pulled off exit 83, promising food, gas, and fun, I thought about those Testimony ex-slaves, tired and afraid but willing to lose everything for what seemed like freedom. Now I felt some deceit in the air, as though I’d fallen for the same trick.

  Mal had gone so far as to call Testimony hopeless. He quoted rising crime statistics and plummeting test scores. He’d heard they were planning to close the projects and remove the rusty playgrounds and the people whose children played on them—both eyesores, as far as some were concerned.

  Everyone would go along, he said. Everyone would give in. They had no other choice. Then the street would be dug down to the historic cobblestone to draw tourists to a make-believe town where no one could afford to live. It was a sound and cruel plan with one flaw, underestimating Dr. Joyce Rogers.

  If you ever loved me, please come.

  The lady drove a hard bargain. Unsure of the exact distance to my new place, I pulled into the first gas station I saw. An attendant approached quickly.

  “Filling up, sweetheart?” he asked.

  I nodded, noticing immediately a difference between the tightlipped courtesy of Cincinnati and common flirty talk of Testimony. He pumped the gas quickly and cleaned the windows before I could protest.

  “There you go. Come back soon with your pretty self. Anytime.”

  Too stunned to speak at first, I stared at him for a long time. “Right . . .”

  Looking into the rearview mirror, I pulled away slowly. I remembered him. He’d been homecoming king at my high school in my freshman year. His hair was still blond and his shoulders square, but the years had not been kind to him. In many ways, time hadn’t been my best friend either.

  The fallen king hadn’t recognized me, but already I knew that this might be harder than I’d thought. Especially the driving part. My car bucked under me like one of those electric broncos. I escaped just as Mr. Homecoming started toward me, no doubt to offer his shade tree mechanic services and perhaps his undying love. I turned onto Main Street, thinking I might be in need of both before this was all over. Probably not. Love had caused me enough grief. Or was it the other way around?

  It didn’t really matter. This car had brought me this far. Now I just needed to make it home.

  Home.

  That seemed strange to say, but it came to me naturally, even when I drove past the neighborhood where I’d once lived. There were two guards working the gate now. I tried not to think about what that might mean. Instead I took in the new chain supermarkets and fast-food joints.

  I found my place pretty easy with a final turn. I passed Zeely’s condominium and stopped in front of mine, unit eighteen eighty-two. There was a stack of flattened boxes at the curb. My front door was open. Music streamed out the door. Zeely’s music.

  In seconds, I was headed up the sidewalk. Zeely met me at the door. We shared a tight, fierce hug, and went inside. I purred almost like a cat when I saw it. It looked the way I’d always wanted my house to look. Eclectic. Honest. I gave her another squeeze for putting everything together. “I can’t believe you pulled this off all by yourself. I just meant for you to air the place out.”

  My furniture, the first I’d picked out by myself, looked perfect against the desert-colored carpet. A black sofa with kente accents graced the left corner of the living room with a coordinating rug. A Japanese table I’d had in storage for years caught my eye as well as the Nigerian art and mudcloth throw blankets. Flowers and candles cascaded above my biggest piece of art, a framed black-and-white of a Sudanese mother holding an infant’s shoe. A streak of blood, the only color in the scene, stained the hem of her clothes. In spite of the scene, there is hope in her eyes.

  Though I’d seen it many times since buying it, once again it took my breath. “It’s exactly straight. I never could have gotten it like that.”

  Zeely reached for her ankles and did a cat stretch. “I let the furniture guy in and the rest is history.”

  I gave a knowing nod. Unlike friendships built on chitchat and frequent interaction, Zeely and I had a sisterhood that picked up wherever we left off. And we left off more often than not. In my years with Peter, we’d survived off cards and phone calls, then came email, which made things easier, but still wasn’t the same. Now here we were, face to face, friend to friend. We’d spent more time together in the last few weeks than we had in years.

  The hard thing was that Zeely hadn’t changed at all and I, it seemed, had changed completely. Zeely had a knack for getting her way, which was how I’d gotten such a choice place to live on such short notice. Still, I knew that most times I didn’t meet up to her expectations. Most times I wasn’t sure I even understood them. And yet, we both longed for the friendship we’d shared as girls. Whether it was unattainable now, neither of us was willing to concede. Living on the same block would either make us or break us.

  Zee wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. It was the only evidence that she’d been working. Her pink sweats, matching T-shirt, and hat looked as though she’d just put them on. “It really was
n’t that bad. You had the layout on your boxes. That’s the only reason I kept going. You had it organized. You know I can’t stand a bunch of mess. You know . . . prayer plus planning—”

  “Equals progress.”

  Another of Joyce’s many proverbs she’d drilled into us. If only I’d listened as hard as Zeely to all those sayings, maybe things would have been different. Maybe I would have been different. I hoped not. I’d just started to love myself again, to really enjoy being me. It’d be a pity to waste all that love.

  Zeely checked her manicured toenails for cracked polish. “It’s amazing how we can still remember all that stuff Joyce used to tell us. Sometimes I find myself saying Joyce-isms to my students. It’s crazy.”

  That much I could agree with. “Isn’t it?” Zeely also had Joyce as her teacher at school, so it was no wonder that she remembered the Ngozi sayings word for word. It wasn’t the words that I remembered so much but the dancing. And the beat. Lately, I’d been hearing it, seeing it in my sleep. My short time in Ngozi had changed my life. I had no doubt that Imani would do the same.

  Imani. Faith. How appropriate. It had taken all the believing I had and then some to get here. All Joyce’s believing too. Where she’d gotten so much faith I never could figure it, but she’d always had it, bidding us leap when we could barely stand. “The school. Tell me about it.”

  “You’ll see it soon enough. You know Joyce. She hasn’t changed.” Zeely patted my thigh. “Let’s talk about you. You look good. Better than the last time I saw you. You must be dancing again.” She pinched the back of my arm. “But still eating the house down, I see.”

  I shrugged. Counting things and going to gyms wasn’t my thing. I walked, climbed, ran, but never anything steady. Without dancing, my body didn’t operate very well. “I did do a dance actually. Not long ago. On the riverfront with a class of kids. It was amazing. Those kids were totally into it. I don’t think I was ever like that.”

  Zeely rolled her eyes at me. “Oh, you were into it.”

  Another shrug. “Maybe.” We were going into were-was territory, the land of things that happened but didn’t happen. It was a rocky, dangerous land.

  I chose to focus on her compliment. I smoothed a hand down my jeans. “I’m still hanging on to a little muscle mass from climbing that rock wall last year, but not much.”

  Zeely stretched out on my couch and raised an eyebrow. “I remember that. It sounds just as crazy now as it did then. Didn’t your mama tell you black folks don’t do stuff like that?”

  No, my “mama” hadn’t concerned herself with what black folks didn’t do. Even now, my mother prided herself in doing the unexpected. After I’d climbed the wall, she’d driven down a van full of her Bible study friends and done it too. “All kinds of people do all kinds of things. You’d be surprised. . . .” I joined her on the couch. It was even more comfortable than it’d been in the store.

  Zeely cracked a knuckle. “Well, it won’t be me. We both know that.”

  We both laughed. Zeely’s fear of heights and planes had squashed many of our travel plans over the years. Before Peter, I’d been like that. I’d been twenty-two probably when he taught me how to drive. Back then I was scared of everything. Now I was just trying to feel, well, anything. Either way, I knew how it felt to be afraid of something. “I understand. Sometimes I still feel afraid of things, but after Peter died—”

  It was Zeely’s turn to shrug. “I know. I know. Tomorrow isn’t promised and all that. Are you still keeping that hundred-things-to-do-before-I-die list?”

  I was surprised that she’d remembered. “Yes. I’m up to thirty-seven. Wearing my hair natural.” I drug a hand through my hair, curly since that day when the envelope came. A few strands floated to the floor. I’d always wanted to do it and now that there were no men to consider, I’d made my choice. Now if I could just figure out how to keep it from all falling out. That was number thirty-eight.

  Zeely frowned. “I’m not even going there about the hair. You know what I think. I have to give you props for being different though. You are something else, Di—I mean, Grace. Sorry. That’s still weird sometimes.”

  I looked up at the woman’s eyes in the picture over the couch. Peace. It’d been God’s gift to me. It was my job to keep it. “It doesn’t bother me. It might be a bit strange here. Joyce calls me both.”

  “I’m not as flexible as Joyce. I liked Diana.” Zeely got up and poured herself a glass of water. I noticed for the first time that she’d unpacked the dishes too.

  “I hated it. It always made me think of the princess. Peter always called me Grace. When Princess Di and Peter died, I started to go by it.”

  “I still love Diana. I always will. Right now, though, it seems I need grace more than anything.”

  I held the glass up to my cheek. “Don’t we all?”

  We looked at each other, but neither of us spoke. The silence swirled around us, knocking off scabs neither of us wanted to acknowledge. Sometimes, the only way to clean a wound was to rip it open. Not today, though. I had enough to deal with just getting situated.

  I got up and walked to the window. Sage and lemongrass seedlings lined the windowsill. I wiped my eye. That spoke more than anything Zeely could have said. I picked one up and sniffed it. All the tension rolled down my spine. “Thanks. For everything.”

  Zeely headed for the door. “Forget it. Call me when you’re ready for orientation at the school. I’m doing the early part of the program and leaving, but you’re welcome to ride. There’s some teriyaki chicken in the fridge. Oh, and there’s some boxes in the attic. The stuff that couldn’t fit. I can help you go through it later if you want.”

  I hesitated. “Sure. Later.” It should have occurred to me that some things wouldn’t fit. A house can’t fit into a condo no matter how much you toss out at the last minute. This move would probably squeeze a lot more out of me than those boxes upstairs.

  What am I doing here?

  My answer wafted to the ground like a sleepy leaf. Number thirty-eight on my life list, a strand of hair I was struggling to keep. I’d come here for Joyce, there was some truth to that, but I’d come for myself too. I’d come to find the weed still growing in my heart, the thing that was eating me—from the roots up.

  13

  Daddy keeps asking me why I’m so quiet. Secrets don’t leave much room for words.

  Diana Dixon

  I drove my own car to orientation. It probably ticked Zeely off a little, but I wasn’t quite ready to carpool yet. At least not for this trip. Zeely mentioned that she’d probably leave early anyway, after the “Everything you want to know about Imani” session. There was no sense in her driving back to pick me up. Though I’d never been to Joyce’s school before, I knew that it was on South Side. I figured this was a ride I probably needed to take alone. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  It was all still there. Mount Olive Missionary Baptist Church came first, where Zeely’s father still preached every Sunday. She still sang in the choir, probably wearing her robe from high school. The sight of Strong and Jones Market made me smile. Daddy’s favorite pork chops had come from there, right up until the week he died. Mom came back to town for church events and reunions but she never sets foot in there.

  I slowed a little, checking the address Joyce had given me, following the numbers until I saw . . . the Charles C. They’d painted it and spruced it up, but there was no mistaking it. On the side of the building a blue and gold banner hung high.

  Imani Academy. Where we believe in you!

  No wonder Zeely hadn’t wanted to talk about school. I felt a little sick turning into the lot, but there was nothing to do now but my job. And if the packed parking lot was any indication, there’d be plenty of work to do.

  Circling the lot for the third time, I watched Zeely go inside. She gave me a long I-told-you-so stare before going in. Fair enough. Next time, I’d listen. Maybe. For now, I just needed to find a parking space and neither my car nor the crowd
was helping me out.

  Across the lot, a white van pulled out of a space and limped out of the lot. I went for it, praying my car would come through for me one last time.

  I’ll take you in Monday, baby. Promise. Just let me get in here.

  It would have been a great coup, grabbing that space and running inside right on time, if it weren’t for that black import with the same idea. I didn’t see it until it was too late.

  The metal made a horrible crunch. This couldn’t be happening. Almost hysterical, I laughed to keep from crying.

  The other driver didn’t find it funny. He tapped on my window. I stared at him for a few seconds before rolling it down. This was not Mr. Homecoming from earlier. This was a grown man wearing a dashiki that wasn’t made in China. He had the kind of locks in his hair that were somewhere on my life list, though they looked better on him. Until he started talking anyway. “Are you crazy?”

  “Not technically. I have issues, but I’m working through them. You?” I could be a smart aleck when I’m nervous, but this was ridiculous.

  Before I could apologize, he pulled my door open and extended his hand. When I got out, he gave my door a good slam. He shook his head at the state of my ride. “I’m surprised the door didn’t fall off.”

  Me too.

  He smoothed his beard a few times while I tried to figure out what color it was exactly. His skin was definitely honey. Or maybe ginger . . .

  After looking me up and down, he asked if I was okay. When I said I was, he asked—with skepticism—if I had insurance. That made me a little mad. Sure my car wasn’t in the greatest shape, but I wasn’t totally irresponsible. Sometimes things just got away from me. Usually the best things.

  He scribbled down all his information in the biggest Daytimer I’d ever seen. Then he shook my hand and told me his name while I tried to act unaffected. “Dr. Mayfield. Nice to meet you, although the circumstances could have been better. I guess that’s what I get for leaving home later than I should have.”