Of course, I still wanted my husband to succeed, but I could no longer tolerate “the business.” I did not want those rapping thugs or singing hoochies in my house or around my children. I didn’t want my hard-earned money going toward promoting music that glorified sin. I wanted to play gospel music all day every day. I even suggested that Troy try writing gospel songs. He just laughed at me and said that there wasn’t enough money in it.
One day I got tired of my utilities getting disconnected, so I stopped willingly giving Troy money. I would send checks out for bills before my paycheck even hit my checking account. That did nothing but anger him, and he just started taking money out of the ATM, not caring if a check was going to bounce. For three months in a row our account was overdrawn for hundreds of dollars.
I went to my pastor’s wife for advice. She told me to get on my face and pray for my husband’s salvation. She told me to continue being a good wife and to demonstrate the gospel instead of trying to preach it.
Maybe it’s easy to pray for your husband if he’s a pastor and he’s taking care of you. But I find it difficult asking the Lord to bless a man whose only purpose in life is to get on my nerves. Maybe I’m one of those WIP Christians—you know, a work in progress.
Actually, the Lord has been dealing heavily with me on so many things. And it seems that the more I seek God’s face, the more I alienate my husband. I’m still a wife in every way that matters to Troy, but my heart isn’t really in it. It’s almost like I want him to run into the arms of another woman. I don’t think that I really want that, but I could be free of him if he did.
Freedom. What is that anyway? What would I be free to do? Free to raise two daughters by myself? It’s not like Troy does a whole lot for his children as it is, but at least he is around.
Still, as I watch my husband do what he seems to do best—sleep—I feel bile rising in my throat. He’s even starting to get a gut. When in the world did that happen? Troy used to be a fitness fanatic. All that workout equipment he “invested in” is just getting dusty. I want to throw something at him, but there’s nothing handy that won’t do real bodily harm.
I shake Troy. “Get up.”
Troy replies groggily, “What’s wrong, Pam?”
“We need to talk. Right now.”
“About what?”
“About our marriage and our relationship. I think we’re growing apart.”
This makes Troy sit up in the bed. He looks shocked and hurt, as if he’s oblivious to any problems. How could he not see what I’m seeing?
He says, “What do you want to do about it?”
I wasn’t truly prepared for this conversation. “I don’t know, Troy. But this is not the life I had planned for us . . . for me.”
“What’s wrong with our life?”
I feel furious all over again. “You act like all I’ve ever wanted to do is work every day, then come home and take care of you and the kids.”
“I thought you liked taking care of us.”
“When does someone take care of me?”
Troy is silent and pensive. He probably thinks that I mean taking care of me financially, but that’s only part of it. I’m tired of supporting his dreams when mine are going out of the window. I need him to ask me about my dreams, like he did when we first met.
“Pam. The money is coming. I guarantee you that you’ll be able to pursue whatever it is that will make you happy.”
“You don’t even know what would make me happy.”
“Do you?” counters Troy.
I’m not sure how to answer him. “It would make me happy if you’d turn your life over to Christ.”
Troy sighs. “Please tell me you didn’t wake me up to talk about church.”
“No, but that would make me happy.”
“Okay, after I accept Christ—then what? I become like you? No thanks. I haven’t got time to be in church every day.”
“Living your life for the Lord is not about spending every waking moment in church. When you come to Him and repent of your sins, it’s a wonderful thing. I want you to experience His love and His perfect peace.”
“Just like you, huh?” replies Troy sarcastically. Troy rolls over in the bed and closes his eyes. I guess that means the conversation is over.
Maybe I’ll give my prayer partner a call. It’s always good to have a sympathetic ear, and I chanced upon an excellent prayer partner this time around. Once a year the women choose prayer partners. I usually get somebody nosy or carnal or, worse, nosy and carnal. I can always tell the busybodies, because they always want to know the specifics of what they’re praying for. Still, a best-kept secret is never uttered, so maybe I’ll pray on my own.
Chapter 6
Yvonne
I hope that Sister Taylor appreciates what I’m doing for her. I spent a whole lot of time picking up, washing and sorting all of these little-boys’ clothes that I collected from the congregation. I didn’t have to do it, but I kind of felt a little guilty about the way things turned out at the Sister to Sister meeting. Truthfully, I’m hoping that a gesture of kindness will convince her to give us another try.
Some people don’t appreciate a person doing something nice, though. I swear, if she’s one of those uppity heifers that don’t accept hand-me-downs, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I doubt that is the case, though. According to Sister Lang, Ms. Taylor is in no position to be snooty. She says that Joshua has more wear and tear on his little clothes than they can handle. I just think that’s a pitiful shame.
There are some men out here that just won’t step up to the plate. I know the Lord is going to punish the sorry excuse for a man that has left that girl and that poor child in such a bind. He doesn’t let that kind of thing go. Not the God I serve. It’s probably somebody sitting up in church with us every week, because as fly as she is, Taylor doesn’t seem like the type to get caught up with a worldly man. Probably one of these players from the singles ministry. Making all kinds of promises and then not following through. It’s a pitiful shame.
Well, I guess it doesn’t matter how a baby makes his way into the world, he’s still a blessing from God. I wouldn’t know firsthand, but all the mothers that I know, even the ones with sons in jail or daughters strung out on crack, wouldn’t trade their motherhood for anything in the world.
There are not many things in my life that I regret, but not having children is probably at the top of my list. Luke and I wanted to wait until the right time. When we first married, he was on the road a lot with Pastor, and I was afraid to be home by myself, let alone with a baby to look after. Then we wanted to wait until we could afford our own house. We wanted our children to have a stable and loving home. On our tenth anniversary we finally became homeowners. By then we were so comfortable and carefree with just the two of us that we weren’t even interested in reproducing.
I know that I’m only thirty-nine, and technically it’s not too late for me and Luke to become parents. To be honest, I don’t even know if Luke would still be game for the notion. Anyway, isn’t forty a little old to be starting out on the parenting journey? I’d be in my sixties before I had any grandchildren, and I probably wouldn’t even see them grow up.
It’s not like I don’t keep myself busy, and I’m definitely not lonely. I’m too busy serving the Lord to even think about any nonsense like that. Maybe God just wanted me to be a help to others in the congregation, because He could’ve let me get pregnant any old time. I’ve never used any type of birth control because I don’t believe in that. I’ve also never investigated the slim chance that there might be a physical reason why I never had babies, and I’m not trying to find out now. What I don’t know is not going to kill me.
I watch Taylor doting on her little Joshua sometimes. It’s touching, but I think she’s going to turn that baby into a mama’s boy. That’s why every child needs its father around, especially boys. Although I know plenty of girls that ran and married the first man that said, “I love you,” just becaus
e they’d never heard a man say that before. Yep, girls need their daddies too.
I asked Luke if maybe he could offer to take the little boy to the zoo or to the park, or to get a haircut, just so he could be around a man for a change. He had the nerve to get mad at me and tell me I was trying to be funny. He said he didn’t have no time to spend with somebody else’s son.
But then, Luke hasn’t been himself a lot lately. Sometimes he acts like he can’t stand being in the house with me for an entire day. He acts like if he doesn’t leave for hours at a time, he’s going to go crazy. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s gone on his little sabbaticals before, but this spell seems to be worse than all the other times. Maybe it’s a midlife crisis or something. I learned a long time ago that you can’t stop a man from being a man, so I don’t even say anything about his actions.
I must admit that Luke scared me the first time he didn’t come home at night. He told me that he had just driven and driven until he was too tired to drive any more. He says he slept in the car, but when I got the credit card statement, there was a charge for a hotel room. I didn’t confront Luke with that, because I didn’t see the point in arguing about something so minor. It was a cheap room anyway, not anywhere he’d take a woman if he was messing around. Not a decent woman anyhow.
Since that first time, Luke stays away from home maybe once every couple of months. He’s been doing it for years. Too many to even count. After his little vacations he seems to be a lot less restless. He even does things around the house that he’s been planning on getting to for years, so I’m not really complaining. I was young and naive when he started leaving, but now I’m just comfortable. I know he’s saved, so I’m not worried about him messing around. Besides, after twenty years I could use a vacation or two myself.
I know that some wives would assume that their husband is out womanizing if they can’t account for all their whereabouts. But I know my Luke. He loves the Lord more than anything, and even if he didn’t care anything about me, the thought of sinning against God would stop Luke in his tracks. He is one of the prayingest men I know. He’s the first man I’ve ever seen stand up at the altar and cry like a baby.
Even if Luke was cheating on me, I’d probably forgive him. Of course, I’m never going to tell him that, but it’s the way I feel. I’ve given Luke twenty years of my life, and I sure ain’t about to throw two decades down the drain. I’d end up going mad if he was gone, and I’d literally die from boredom. What would I have to do all day if I wasn’t taking care of him?
I probably sound like a dumb bunny to one of these new and improved, liberated women. They don’t take no stuff from their men, and they will file for divorce at the drop of a hat. Even though I’m relatively young, I’m old-school all the way. Back when my mama was growing up, folk just didn’t get divorced. Men had all kinds of kids and women on the side, and their wives just pretended not to know or care. My daddy had plenty of mistresses, but he always took care of home.
These women out here think they’re doing something special, getting divorces and raising their children without a daddy. They aren’t doing anything but assisting the adversary. The devil loves seeing a broken home, and most of the time he doesn’t even have to intervene. The saints are doing it to themselves.
That is not going to happen with me and Luke. I know how to hold on to a husband. Until he gets delivered from this wandering spirit, I’m going to focus on serving the Lord. Luke will get it together. I’m not being overconfident. I just know what I know.
Chapter 7
Taylor
I have never, not since I began working at the tender age of sixteen, been without a steady paycheck. I got my walking papers the Monday after I forgot to schedule that conference for Mr. Franklin and one of his important clients in town from Singapore. I guess I can’t blame Mr. Franklin. He ended up losing a five-million-dollar account because of me.
Even though it was a major screwup, I didn’t think that I’d be fired. Written up, maybe even suspended, but definitely not fired.
I knew it was bad when Mr. Franklin sent Jennifer over to my desk to summon me to a meeting. She wore a smile so smug that I wanted to slap it from her skinny lips. I walked to Mr. Franklin’s office like a murderer on her way to the electric chair.
The first thing I saw when I walked into Mr. Franklin’s office was the disciplinary write-up form on his desk. I expected as much. The presence of the form did not tell the extent of action to be taken against me. I hoped for the best.
Mr. Franklin fired me in what I guess he considered a quick and painless fashion. He didn’t give me a chance to give any rebuttal, explanation or even a display of desperate emotion. After he was done with his swift execution, Mr. Franklin called security to see me out of the building. He didn’t have to do that. It was the single most embarrassing moment of my life.
That is, until today. I’m standing in this line at the Ohio Bureau of Employment Services, feeling like a beggar. I’ve already started applying for jobs, but until something comes through, me and Joshua have to live. Jesus, please don’t let me see anybody in here that I know. But then again, if someone I know is here, they’re going through some financial hardship too, right?
I had to fill out about twelve forms the first time I came, and that was last week. Something went wrong with my claim, though. Mr. Franklin has decided to deny me any unemployment benefits. I didn’t even know he could do that. I thought that when they took money out of your paycheck for unemployment, it was like saving for a rainy day. After I stand here, I have to wait to be called by a caseworker. I hate that they call their employees caseworkers. It makes me feel like I’m at the welfare office, and that’s somewhere I’m definitely not trying to be. Not at all.
Now, I’m not a stranger to Ohio Job and Family Services. My mother raised me and my brothers on about five hundred dollars a month, which was a combination of cash and food stamps. I promised myself that I would never be in a predicament where the county would have to take care of me and mine. My mother always looked defeated when she walked out of the huge olive-green building. She wanted so much more for her children, but she did not have a choice. I do. At least I thought I did until last week.
For about five seconds I thought of letting Luke know about my dilemma. But then I thought, why should he care? He’s never held or touched Joshua. He hasn’t even seen him up close. I think he’s convinced himself that he’s not the father. Either that or he’s just plain cruel. Any man that can sit in the same church every Sunday with his own son, and not even look at him, has got some serious issues.
I have to use the restroom, and I could really use a Pepsi, but there is no way I’m leaving this room until they call my number. Last time I did that, I added an hour to my wait time. Is it just me, or do these government employees take a lot of breaks? And someone needs to come in here and retrain the entire staff because customer service seems to be the least of their goals.
“Taylor Johnson . . . Taylor Johnson.”
“Yes! Here I am.”
I’m sitting up here daydreaming and almost let that woman skip my name. She sure has a sour expression on her face. I hope that doesn’t have anything to do with my case.
“Have a seat, Ms. Johnson.”
I sit down in what has to be the most ragged chair in the office. Mrs. Eckhart, or so her nameplate says, is shuffling a stack of papers. She keeps clearing her throat, as if she has a gallon of phlegm lodged in her esophagus. I want to hand her a cough drop, a peppermint or something.
“Well, Ms. Johnson, it looks like your former employer, Fisk Rubbers, has denied your unemployment claim.”
“But why? I worked there for five years. Shouldn’t I get something?”
“From the documentation they have provided, they have just cause for firing you. There are several instances of gross negligence listed in the past year alone.”
Okay, so I’d missed a deadline or two, but I was a good employee. I came to work on ti
me every day. I was honest. As a matter of fact, I think I was the only honest person in that entire office. This is nothing but an attack from the devil.
“So am I allowed to appeal?”
“Ms. Johnson, you may appeal if you wish, although I don’t see much promise in it. Your best bet is to start your job search. We can assist you with that, but you need to register.”
Oh no, Mrs. Eckhart did not just hand me another stack of ten thousand sheets to fill out. She has got to be joking. By the time I finish all this paperwork, me and Joshua will be starving.
“Well, what are me and my son supposed to do in the meantime?”
“If you are a single mother, I suggest that you apply at Ohio Job and Family Services for emergency benefits.”
“Welfare, huh?”
“There’s nothing wrong with it, Ms. Johnson, if you need it. Don’t think of your pride. Think of your son.”
Now, I’m not a racist or anything, but it seems real odd that Mrs. Eckhart immediately threw welfare out there as an option. I wonder, if she was looking at a white girl that could have been her daughter or niece, would she be so quick to recommend the poisonous crutch of government money? I’m not too proud to get help, but how about giving me a list of jobs to apply for, or something like that? I think that black women are sometimes steered toward welfare just the way our fathers, husbands and sons often become permanent fixtures in the justice system.
“Mrs. Eckhart, I’ll take the forms and fill them out. When can I see someone about employment?”
“The Employment Services center is open on Wednesdays from noon until three. Call for an appointment.”
Before I can even gather my things and leave, Mrs. Eckhart is calling her next client over. She has a half-smile on her face, so maybe there is good news for the new client. I’m trying to keep from bursting into tears before I make it out of the building.
What a Sista Should Do Page 4
