by Dijorn Moss
“Let me ask you something.” Jamal looked squarely into Pastor Brown’s eyes. “Does your wife give her male coworkers rides to work?”
Jamal then looked at Chantel, who sat in silence, with her eyes seemingly fixated on the plethora of plaques on Pastor Brown’s wall. “Oh, you ain’t got nothing to say, huh?” he noted.
Jamal asked Pastor Brown another question. “Does your wife call her”—Jamal did the quotation marks gesture with his hands—“guy friends baby? Sweetie? And does she—”
“Okay, Jamal, okay! You proved your point. You always got to do extras.” Chantel unfolded her arms and threw them up in a tizzy.
“That’s because you’re always taking me there,” Jamal snapped back.
“You know what? Forget this! I ain’t marrying your punk-butt. We can cancel this whole thing! I mean, we’ve already postponed it.” Chantel folded her arms again.
“You crazy in your head. My grandparents bought plane tickets from Philly that are nonrefundable. We done paid to have stuffed shells at the reception. We’re getting married.” Jamal held up one finger. “The only reason why we postponed it was, one, you lost your job, and two, I felt that it was important that we have premarital counseling before we got married. Neither one of us has had great examples of marriage in our lives.”
Pastor Brown finally spoke. “You guys have to remember that in marriage there is compromise. To be honest, both of you need to cut down on your single friends when you get married. You guys need to hang out with like-minded couples.”
“You hear that, Jamal?” Chantel added.
Jamal bit his bottom lip and resisted the urge to be rude and scornful. In a previous lesson Pastor Brown had warned against saying things out of anger.
“This is one of the most important sessions we’ll have.” Pastor Brown paused to clear his throat before he continued. “Look at it from this perspective. If you were in a war, what would be the most critical tool used to destroy your enemy?”
“Communication,” Chantel said.
“Exactly, because if you can’t communicate with your partner, then you can’t see where the enemy is coming from and you can’t plan for a successful defense. No matter what, you can’t break down your lines of communication.”
“But, Pastor Brown, I don’t think it comes down to communication. This whole thing”—Jamal did a circular motion with his finger—“it comes down to trust.”
“I trust you. I just don’t trust another woman,” Chantel said.
“Then that means you don’t trust me, because no matter how fine a woman is, she can’t make me cheat on you. I got control of my own actions.”
“Ain’t nobody saying that you don’t have control, but still. Women are trifling, and I know because I used to be one of those girls who didn’t care about anything or anyone.”
Jamal remembered that season in Chantel’s life. It was right after Clay’s death. Both Chantel and Jamal took Clay’s death hard. With his death, Chantel lost her high school sweetheart and the father of her child. Jamal lost his best friend. Both felt their forbidden love for each other was the root cause of his death. But where Jamal found faith, Chantel found depression, which led to a reckless lifestyle.
“See, this is why I didn’t want to do this whole premarital counseling thing,” Chantel added, then picked up her purse and fumbled with it. Jamal assumed that she was in search of a tissue.
“Here we go.” Jamal leaned back in his chair.
“You right about ‘here we go,’ because it seems like all we do here is criticize who I am and talk about how I need to change.” Chantel caught a tear that had snuck down the side of her cheek.
“No, we don’t! We talk about my stuff too,” Jamal replied.
“Hold on, Jamal. Let her finish,” Pastor Brown interjected. “Go ahead, Chantel.”
“I was raised not to expect a man to do anything for me. Now it seems like in order for me to be a good Christian woman, I have to bow down and become a servant.”
Jamal didn’t just bite his lip; he put his whole hand over his mouth. He had lost count of how many spirited arguments he and Chantel had had over the issue of submission.
Chantel went on. “Whatever! You can say what you want. But it says right there in the Bible, ‘Wives, submit to your husbands.’ The marriage vows include the word obey. That’s degrading for a woman to have to say that. Slaves submit, and dogs obey. I ain’t doing that, and I definitely ain’t saying obey at our wedding, either.”
“Let’s consult the scriptures.” Pastor Brown picked up the Bible that was in front of him and started to turn the pages. “Ephesians, chapter five.”
Jamal picked up his Bible from his lap and turned to the familiar passage.
“I’ll read verse twenty-one, and you guys will take turns reading the rest of the chapter,” Pastor Brown said.
Jamal shared his Bible with Chantel. Even though it irked him that Chantel frequently forgot her Bible, Jamal remained silent on the matter.
“Honor Christ by submitting to each other,” Pastor Brown said.
Chantel read the next three verses, and then Jamal came in and finished out the chapter. The scriptures took on a new light for Jamal, and he hoped that they would have the same effect on Chantel. When Jamal finished reading, he and Pastor Brown sat their Bibles down on Pastor Brown’s desk.
“You see, Chantel, the Bible does ask for a wife to submit to her husband, but it also asks for a husband to love his wife as Christ loved the church,” said Pastor Brown. “God does not want you to submit to a man who does not honor Christ. God wants you to submit to a man that has already laid down his life for you, just as Christ did the church.”
Chantel had a hard exterior, but Jamal believed that Pastor Brown’s words found a place in her heart.
“Getting back to today’s session, it’s important that you communicate with one another, just like you are doing now. Communication doesn’t always mean that what you say to each other is pleasant, but it does mean that you’re at least talking out your feelings and frustrations. One of the biggest problems I have observed with marriage is that most couples have forgotten how to talk to each other,” Pastor Brown told them.
Whenever Jamal heard the word communication coupled with the word marriage, he always thought about his mother and father. His father had interpreted the phrase “forsake all others” loosely, and his mother had allowed his father to send her to an early grave.
“I think this is a good session,” Pastor Brown said.
“Seriously?” Chantel asked.
“Trust me, the couple I worry about is the one that has problems and never gives voice to them. You guys should be fine so long as you continue to communicate.” Pastor Brown stood up and extended his hand to Jamal. “Well, we’ll talk more at our next session.”
“Thank you, Pastor Brown.” Jamal shook his hand, in amazement at the wisdom and practicality Pastor Brown possessed. Pastor Brown had about the same build as Jamal, but he was a little older and wore some thick bifocals. Yet Jamal revered him.
“Thank you.” Chantel extended her hand and retrieved it before Pastor Brown had gotten a firm grasp of it.
She stormed out Pastor Brown’s office, as if she was trying to make it to the bank before it closed. She pushed through the double doors and made her way under the archway and down the front steps of the cathedral.
“You forgot that we took my car?” Jamal called as he jogged down the steps after Chantel.
“I haven’t forgotten anything. I remember being independent and having my own place and my own income. Now it seems like I’m going backwards.” Chantel did not break her stride in her rant.
“Hold up.” Jamal finally caught up to Chantel and took her by the arm. “Where’s this coming from?”
“This is exactly why I have problems with church. You expect me to give up my independence and become submissive and less than your equal.”
“Have I ever asked that from you?”
“No, but you’re real clever. I wanted a September wedding, my dream wedding, and you said no, that you wanted to do premarital counseling. Now I see why you got me in premarital counseling. So you can indoctrinate me and have me at home, cooking, cleaning, and baking cookies.”
“Heck, naw. You can’t bake cookies nohow,” Jamal said as he let out a giggle.
Chantel punched Jamal in the arm. “I’m not playing with you. I don’t want to become some subservient woman with no say-so. This ain’t the fifties.”
“I’m marrying you for who you are. I’m not asking you to be nothing other than yourself. I just want to do the right thing.”
“Oh really? Is that why we’re living together? Because last time I checked, the church frowned upon that,” Chantel said.
“You know I only did that to help you out after you lost your job.”
“I also know that those late-night creeps into my room are not for nothing.”
Chantel’s words punctured Jamal’s spirit, and self-righteousness was left in its wake. As much as Jamal tried to rationalize why he had decided to let Chantel move in with him,there was no escaping the fact that the decision was not one that God would be proud of. Jamal wondered how he and Chantel would build a marriage if were not living right and they couldn’t communicate.
Chapter Six
Will
One Week until the Men’s Retreat . . .
“Don’t come back over here, cuz.” A firm threat from a member of Will’s former gang.
Will considered the severity of the threat as the Oster two-speed clippers cruised at a low altitude and trimmed off the corkscrews of hair that gathered on the crown of his client’s head. The Oster was followed by a hairbrush to smooth out the surface. As the hair descended to the floor, Will put down the brush, and with his free hand, he grabbed a mini-brush to dust off the excess hair from his client’s shoulders. The line at the barber college steadily grew. Will focused on the client in the chair and continued to prune the hair in an effort to create an even low-cut hairstyle.
Will’s mind was divided into three compartments: his client’s haircut, the risk Will took to see his family, and what God expected from him. Not that long ago Will could remember a time when he didn’t fear death, because there was nothing worth living for. Will still had little concern about death, but every day hope grew inside of him. He wondered if his life would be struck down before he even got a chance to enjoy the freedom and peace he had found in Christ.
Will thought about the number fifteen hundred. Fifteen hundred represented the amount of hours Will needed to complete in order to become a licensed barber. Every customer brought him closer to full-time work as a barber. He appreciated Quincy, who bankrolled his tuition and living situation.
For the first time in his life, someone believed in Will and demonstrated it through actions. The idea of being independent of the hustle game and independent from the family business motivated Will to both study hard and work hard.
Will attributed his barber skills to his meticulous nature and his desire to work in the spirit of excellence. He stayed focused on the ebb and flow of patrons who came into the shop for a cheap haircut. Most of the chatter that went on in the barbershop was fruitless. Will had no interest in the social side of the barber profession.
Will was finishing up the haircut when Joshua walked in the door with a backpack on his shoulders and a skateboard under his arm. Russell, the director of the barber school, was empathic about Will’s situation and allowed Joshua to come to the shop from school every day while Will worked.
“What up, man?” Will gave his brother a handshake that ended with the snap of their fingers. “Go ahead and go back there and get started.” Will pointed to the break room in the shop. Joshua followed his older brother’s orders without hesitation.
“Thanks, man, and good luck with getting your license,” Will’s customer said as he got up and examined his haircut in the mirror Will had positioned behind him.
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” Will shook the man’s hand, and then he shook out the excess hair on the barber’s cape before he made his way to the back of the shop. Will discovered that Joshua had already taken a seat at the empty table in the back of the room.
Joshua opened his backpack and removed his math textbook. With his foot on the skateboard, he began to complete his problems. Adjacent to Joshua was the shop’s refrigerator. Will opened the refrigerator door and took out a turkey on wheat sandwich and a bottle of vitamin water.
“Here. Eat up.” Will handed Joshua the sandwich and water and took a seat at the table.
Joshua wasted no time; he unwrapped the sandwich and took a monstrous bite. Will smiled as he observed his brother with contentment. It felt good to be able to provide his brother with some semblance of stability.
“How’s everything at home?” Will asked.
“Mom and Dad are fighting again,” Joshua said in between bites.
That was not an earth-shattering revelation. The eye of the storm dwelled on Atlantic Avenue, to the point where whenever Will’s parents acted normal, he would think that they had been invaded by an alien life form.
“How’s my baby sis?” Will asked.
“She cries every time they argue, and her screams could break glass.”
Will loved his baby sister, Elisha. She favored his mother. While Will had known only the addict version of his mother, his baby sister looked like an innocent version of Carroll. Elisha enabled Will to consider what his mother’s life was like before she turned to drugs. Elisha also reminded Will of how shallow his relationship was with his mother. He had never asked Carroll about her dreams or aspirations.
As much as Will loved his sister, he doubted that he could raise a baby girl on his own. It was not hard for him to be with Joshua. Will just did the opposite of whatever he had seen his father do. Girls were more complex to Will, and in truth he had not met a girl he could be in a serious relationship with, let alone raise.
“I’m hoping that Dad will let you come live with me,” Will told his brother.
Joshua put his head down, as if the world he lived in was without hope.
“I wish you were there, bro. We could be a family again,” Joshua said.
“Listen, Josh, I know your intentions are good, but that’s a fantasy. Too much has happened, and I’ve seen too much to believe that things can change.”
“I thought you were supposed to believe anything is possible?” Josh asked.
“I believe in wisdom, and the Bible talks about being wise, and when you have people who can’t own up to their own mistakes, then there is no hope.”
“You don’t give up on your family,” Joshua replied.
“We ain’t never been a family, Josh. I don’t know what we are, but it sure ain’t no family.” Will put his head down to fight back his anger.
“Dad’s home now,” Joshua replied.
“We’ll see for how long.”
“I think it’s for good, and you know our father. He won’t say it, but he misses you, and maybe we can work things out if we all lived together.”
“Look, Josh, I know you want us to be a family, but you got to understand something. I’m trying to turn my life around, and I can’t do that if I’m living at home. I can’t. I’m sorry.” Will tried to hold back his irritation.
“All you care about is yourself. You got a place some rich dude is paying for, and you can care less.” Joshua started to rock back and forth, with his fist clenched. Will knew his brother was holding back both his tears and his fists.
The words had come out of Joshua’s mouth, and it was Joshua’s voice that had said them, but those were someone else’s thoughts and feelings. Joshua was all twisted inside, and Will did not know how to help.
“Most of my friends wish they had their father in their lives, even if he had been in and out of prison like our dad. Don’t the Bible teach forgiveness? When are you going to forgive our father?”
That was
a good question, one that Will did not have the answer to. He harbored a lot of hatred toward his father, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized he even harbored hatred toward his mother too.
“Just because our father is somewhat in our lives doesn’t mean that’s a good thing. What example has he set for us? Is there anything that he has taught us that doesn’t involve getting over on people?”
“He taught us how to survive, and you know we wouldn’t have if he didn’t.”
“See, that’s the thing. That’s not enough for me. I don’t just want to survive. I want to thrive, and the life our father offers is no real life at all.”
Will felt like he was talking to a younger version of himself. He leaned back in his chair and watched Joshua eat.
“You know that D-Loc got shot,” Joshua said.
“I heard, but what’s that got to do with you?”
“Nothing. I’m just saying. He was a friend of the family and he—”
“He was never a friend of the family. He was a parasite, and you can’t expect to have a happy ending when all you’ve done is brought destruction.”
“He looked out for us, though.”
“He used us, and you can’t tell me that life is better with him around than without him.” Will bent down to adjust his shoes for comfort. He saw a blue shoestring hanging out of Joshua’s backpack. Will looked at Joshua’s pure white shoes. “What’s this?”
Will removed the shoestring from Joshua’s backpack. He did not wait for Joshua to respond. He beat Joshua to the punch and snatched the backpack from his younger brother before Joshua even had a chance. When Will opened the backpack, he found a royal blue T-shirt and a royal blue bandanna. He laid the items on the table before he removed a green folder with the word Untouchables written across it.
