Falling Into Grace

by Michelle Stimpson

  Dealing with her parents’ finances now was a pretty straightforward matter. They were on a fixed income. Two thousand five hundred twenty-seven dollars a month, combined. The house was paid for and they no longer drove, so there was no car payment or vehicle insurance. The only thing they really owed at this point was the loan to remodel the house. They had the power, gas, water, satellite, and food bills, but those didn’t amount to much; maybe four hundred twenty-five dollars. Her father still watched the thermostat like a hawk and put water in half-empty ketchup bottles to make it last longer. Every bit did help, Alexis had to admit.

  If Momma and Daddy had been in good health, they’d have been fine. Alas, medications and supplies, doctor visits, Medicare deductibles, and trips to the emergency room because Daddy would not cooperate ate up most of their disposable income. They were lucky to have a hundred dollars left over at the end of the month. And even with that, Momma insisted on giving to somebody she’d heard about who “needed help.”

  “Momma, you need help,” Alexis had laughed halfheartedly at her mother’s directive to send a donation to a woman on the news who’d lost her home in a fire.

  To which Momma replied, “There’s always somebody worse off than you, Lexi.”

  Now that Alexis had gotten into the hang of balancing her parents’ budget, she realized that the only reason her parents were in such good financial shape now was because her mother was a giver. She believed in sowing and reaping, and she believed that whatever she gave to the poor would be repaid by God Himself.

  Alexis had to admit, He had done a good job of keeping her parents intact, despite the T. J. fiasco. It was no coincidence that she’d been blessed with more than enough when her parents were in need.

  She calculated the bottom line in the old-fashioned blue and white checkbook ledger Daddy insisted she use.

  “One hundred twenty dollars left,” she announced across the kitchen bar.

  Her parents barely nodded from their lounge chairs.

  “Send some of that over to Sister Paul. She just had hip surgery, and I know that ain’t cheap,” Momma said.

  Obediently, Alexis wrote out a check, then deducted twenty-five dollars from the balance.

  A thought skidded through her head suddenly. When she’d finished her own budget calculations for the month, she’d had $357 left over, even after savings. And she knew someone who seemed to be struggling financially. Camille.

  She could send her a check for a hundred dollars. After all, Camille’s Sweet Treats stream of income must have dried up a long time ago. Without some kind of formal training or a degree, she must be really struggling, especially in this economy. And single, too? Yeah, Camille could probably use some help.

  But would she be too prideful to take the money? Probably so. Camille wasn’t Kyra. Never mind. Bad idea.

  Besides, sending Camille money wasn’t really something she would be doing for Camille’s sake. It would probably feel like more of a guilt offering because, fact was, while Camille’s stream had dried up, Alexis was still getting paid. So were Kyra and Tonya. And they didn’t feel one bit of remorse, because Camille was the one who’d suggested and made sure they got rid of Courtney.

  Still, Alexis couldn’t keep this from Camille much longer. No matter what the law allowed, this thing wasn’t right.

  CHAPTER 12

  Some people don’t try to be sexy. They just are. Ronald Shepherd was one such person and, for the life of her, Camille couldn’t figure out why the other single women in the young-adult choir hadn’t snatched his behind up already. Had all their church-going holiness blinded them to his obvious hotness? Not to mention a deep, smooth voice that could put a vicious pit bull to sleep.

  Whatever. Camille hadn’t caught the I’m-too-saved-to-look bug. Unfortunately, Ronald seemed to have the church thing down a little too well. When she arrived at rehearsal fashionably late, he’d looked up from his piano seat and closed his Bible. Annoyance peppered his face, as though she’d interrupted something important.

  “You must be ... is it Cameron?”

  “Camille,” she politely corrected him.

  “Yes, Camille. Nice to meet you.” He placed his Bible on the piano stool, stood, and walked toward her, extending his hand for a very professional handshake. Then he escorted her to the front of the room, near the piano where he’d been sitting. “Everyone, this is Camille. Camille, this is everyone.”

  A soft “Hi, Camille,” rose as all eyes settled on her. She tested the female vibe first. Cordial. Yielding. Didn’t take women long to figure out who was the alpha female. A few men did double takes, but only what might be appropriate for church. Had she met them somewhere else, things would be different. Church guys were always desperate to get married so they could stop all that fornicating, in Camille’s experience.

  Ronald continued with his introduction speech. “She joined church last week, and she’s thinking about joining the choir. So let’s make sure we show her some Grace Chapel hospitality. Sopranos, give her some room.”

  A smiling woman on the front row wearing a broom skirt and sporting foot-long dreadlocks patted the empty seat next to her. Camille obliged, somewhat thankful to get a seat so near Ronald. He’d be able to hear her voice loud and clear.

  “Let’s go ahead and close out our study session in a word of prayer,” he said.

  Study? Prayer? If they were going to have Sunday school and a prayer meeting before every choir rehearsal, she’d come even later.

  “Father,” Ronald began, “thank You for Your word. Thank You for leaving Your peace, for letting us know that we never have to worry about tomorrow, for You hold all of our tomorrows in Your hands. In Jesus’s name we pray. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  Ronald opened the official practice portion of the meeting by sharing his latest original compilation, entitled “Use Me, Lord.” The young-adult choir, adults age twenty-one to forty, would be singing this coming Sunday. Ronald’s song would be their second number, to be performed during the offering.

  Not a song Camille wanted to shine on. People would be busy writing out checks and fanning through wallets while the buckets passed through the audience. When she sang, she wanted their undivided attention.

  “Sopranos, here’s your key.” Ronald delved into his teaching. Camille’s section caught on quickly. Altos were fine, too. The tenors weren’t so easy. Somebody sounded way off, and Ronald was taking the courteous route to correcting the error: having the whole group repeat the line over and over. If a no-nonsense director had been running the show, he’d have had each tenor sing one at a time so he could tackle the guilty party head-on.

  This was going to be a long night.

  Camille’s mind wandered around the choir room. This practice area was bigger than the whole sanctuary at her childhood church. Matter of fact, this choir, which nearly filled up seven rows with seven cushioned seats in each row, would have made for a good Wednesday-night crowd back in the day. She had to admit to herself that she preferred this rehearsal space over the wide-open gulf of the church’s main gathering room. This was better for blending harmonies, working out the fine musical details.

  One wall of the choir room was composed of a row of windows facing the busiest street in the neighborhood. Camille craned her neck to watch cars pass. She got caught up in the saga of an old man operating a Hoveround who obviously hadn’t gotten the memo that he was supposed to use the sidewalk. Had the nerve to take up a lane of traffic, like he was rolling in a state-registered vehicle complete with bumpers and a license plate.

  Just a few weeks ago, Camille nearly ran slamp over an elderly man in a motorized wheelchair while pulling out of the McDonald’s drive-through. She shook her head. We gotta do something about these people.

  “Sopranos, are you ready?” Ronald shouted as he revved up the piano for their line.

  Ready for what? She must have missed something.

  Everyone in her section seemed to know the words. “Let Your
way be known in all the earth,” they crooned in unison.

  Flabbergasted, all she could do was move her lips softly in hopes of catching the last sound of each word.

  “Great. Altos, you’re next.” Ronald moved on without giving Camille her moment in the sun.

  Dang! She’d choked on her chance to make a good first vocal impression. Now every time she sang well, he’d think it was a fluke. What is wrong with me?

  From then on, Camille paid close attention. She hit every note precisely. Loudly. The woman sitting next to her took notice with an elbow and an “All right now.”

  All Ronald said was, “Good, sopranos.”

  Sopranos? I’m carrying this whole section!

  An hour later, Camille’s cords began to strain. She had to tone it down a notch or she’d be no good Sunday. Some girl on the back row took over the volume lead. Camille decided to let her have it today.

  Surprised by this turn of events, Camille began to wonder if she could make it through a full-length concert. If just sitting in a chair and singing intermittently taxed her body, how would she be able to sing and dance at the same time? Did gospel singers dance, anyway?

  Maybe John David and the rest of the music industry knew something about turning thirty that she didn’t know. Was she slower now? Less apt to recall lyrics? Would the microphone pick up a hint of unwelcomed maturity?

  This first rehearsal had been all but useless. She was no closer to the praise team than an usher patrolling the back pew.

  After practice, she got the standard, “Nice to meet you, Camille,” and, “Hope to see you again,” from several of the members.

  The only one who seemed to recognize her talent was Miss Smiley-face. She followed Camille to the parking lot, dragging complimentary chitchat with her. “Girl, if I could sing like that, I’d be somewhere with Kirk Franklin’s choir right now.”

  Now that Camille was actually standing face-to-face with her, she could see beyond the old-timey clothes and realize that they were actually about the same age. “What’s your name?”

  “Mercedes.”

  “Mercedes, it’s not like you can’t sing,” Camille returned the compliment. Mercedes could hold a note, after all. Her pitch wasn’t always perfect, but, hey, who needs perfect pitch when you’re surrounded by a choir?

  “You ever sing professionally?”

  “Yeah,” Camille admitted as she approached her car.

  She watched Mercedes’s expression as she must have registered the Lexus emblem. Over the years, Camille had learned that a negative reaction from seeing the luxury icon, even a slight one, signaled a hater.

  Camille still remembered the day her boss at her first real-people job called her out about owning the vehicle. She and several other employees were sitting in a conference room that faced their small employee parking lot. Her boss, Martha, fell into category-A hater, the worst kind. Those were the ones who hated because they believed their best days were behind them. They complained about their life and yours.

  Anyway, Martha had already made a few remarks about how much Camille probably spent to get her hair and nails done every week. The day Martha’s true colors came out, the sun had been particularly bright. To warm the freezing-cold meeting room, Martha had opened the blinds. When she spotted Camille’s car in the row, she put a hand on her hip and exclaimed, “Who am I paying enough to drive a car better than mine?”

  The category-B haters in the room, who still had goals but hadn’t reached them yet and didn’t appreciate others who had already arrived, offered Camille up to Martha. That next week, Martha saw to it that two insubordination reports made their way into Camille’s personnel file. A month later, Camille was fired. She knew now to watch out for how people responded to her car.

  When there was no reaction from Mercedes, Camille concluded that Mercedes was just genuine good people.

  “I knew you must have sung somewhere else,” Mercedes said.

  Camille answered the unasked question. “I sang with a group called Sweet Treats. You remember a song called ‘Meet Me in the Hot Tub’?”

  Mercedes dipped her chin and glanced above the rim of her glasses. “Girl, yes. My mother didn’t want me to listen to it, but I knew every word.”

  “Well, I was the lead singer.”

  “Get out!” She punched Camille’s shoulder. “For real?”

  “Yep.”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  Of course, the attention fed a hungry ego. Camille popped her trunk and whisked out a CD. The trunk light provided just enough illumination for Mercedes to verify the face on the cover.

  “Oh my goodness! It is you!”

  Mercedes’s outburst caused a few other choir members to approach the car. She quickly explained Camille’s background and showed them the CD as proof. Oohs and aahs abounded as each one read the title list and compared the picture to Camille’s present-day face.

  By this time, Camille’s head began to swell. This was the rebirth of her fan club! Plus, she might even be able to make a little money. “Anybody want an autographed CD?”

  “Yes!” Mercedes exclaimed as she dug through her purse. “How much?”

  “Let’s do a Grace Chapel special. Ten dollars.”

  A few people walked away, saying they didn’t have any cash on them. But Camille was able to sell four CDs within ten minutes right there on the church grounds. “Thank you,” she remembered to say to each customer.

  Yes! Mo’ money for my ticket!

  The Sweet Treats store stayed open another five minutes as the parking lot cleared. Mercedes said her farewells as Camille lowered the trunk.

  She entered the cab of her car and buckled herself into the seatbelt. A knock on the window startled her. Ronald’s face and torso appeared on the other side of the glass. Camille braced herself for a conversation.

  “ Hi. ”

  “Hello. Hope you enjoyed the rehearsal.”

  “Yes, I did, thank you. You’re great with this choir.”

  “Thanks. Will we see you again?”

  She nodded. “Definitely.”

  “Great.” He tapped the hood of her car. “Have a good night.”

  “You, too.”

  She watched Ronald walk back toward the building and enter the doors again. Yes! He must have come out just to speak to her, to beg her to stay in the choir. Okay, he hadn’t exactly begged. But the fact that he made a special trip proved the old boy recognized talent when he heard it. He wasn’t so aloof after all.

  CHAPTER 13

  The only method for sitting in Ronald’s face every week as well as singing in the choir almost every Sunday was to be in more than one choir. Camille joined every choir for which she was eligible—the young-adult choir, the women’s choir, and the unity choir. If that didn’t prove her faithfulness, she’d have to bring Mr. Ronald before the elders or something, because it just didn’t get any more faithful than being in three choirs.

  After a few weeks of practicing (always arriving late to avoid Bible study) and another conversation with Ronald in which she officially signed up for ministry in the music department, she was finally invited to put on a choir robe and sit in the choir stand. This, of course, meant she had to be at church fifteen minutes early. Not part of her plan, but there was no way out of it. The Fluffy excuse wouldn’t work in this case.

  Her first Sunday in the choir, she performed with the young-adult choir. They sang contemporary gospel: Hezekiah Walker, Fred Hammond kind of stuff. Most of these songs were seriously group-y. No leader. No way to shine. All she could do was holler “Woooh!” during an instrumental portion. But once she started adding the background sounds, everybody in the choir did the same, turning the “Woooh!” into nothing more than a cheerleading chant.

  The first chance she got to blow the audience away didn’t come until her second Sunday in the choir stand with the women’s choir. A few old heads in the group had asked Ronald to sing a Walter Hawkins song, “Goin’ Up Yonder.” On her own, Camille practi
ced for the moment she’d copy the leader. And when the choir reached the encore moment, she was ready.

  “One of these old days,” the leader screamed.

  Camille echoed, “One of these old days.” Sounded great. Just like the album.

  “One of these old days,” the leader sang again.

  “One of these old daaays.” Camille threw a little twist on the end.

  “I said one of these old days.”

  Camille let ’er rip. “Yaaaa! One of thee-eee-eee-eee-eeese old days.” The crowd was loving it. Her voice carried well, the run was perfect. Patti LaBelle would have been proud.

  She fully expected somebody to pass her a microphone so she put her foot in this song, but Ronald crossed his fingers, signaling the band to bring it to a close.

  “To be with my Lord,” came quicker than Camille could think. Ronald sat the choir down and quickly took his place behind the organ as Pastor Collins dove into his sermon.

  What the heck just happened?

  After service, Camille joined the rest of her choir in the choir room again, where they took off robes and hung them on appropriate racks—one for the closet, one for funky robes that needed a trip to the dry cleaner’s.

  The good thing about a large church, Camille decided, was that people weren’t trying to be all up in her business. They practiced, they sang, they left.

  Or so she thought.

  “Camille, some of us are going out for lunch. You want to join us?” Mercedes asked.

  She wanted to ask if Ronald was going, which would be the only reason to break bread with these folks. Camille wasn’t in the market for friends. She was a self-proclaimed loner. Not because she couldn’t get along with people, just because people couldn’t get along with her.

  “No, thank you. Maybe another time.”

  Mercedes winked. “I’m going to hold you to it.”

  Oh, great. Now I have choir friends. She didn’t want choir friends. She wanted only praise team friends, if need be. It was important for a singer to bond with backup to some extent.

  Camille breezed out of the room and into the flow of traffic exiting the building. She was almost out the doors when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Ronald needed her attention. He signaled for her to step into an empty hallway so they could allow traffic to flow.