Falling Into Grace

by Michelle Stimpson

Camille had made light of Brittney’s remarks. “Well, I like that you like me and you like that your daddy likes me, too. Sounds like there’s a whole lotta likin’ goin’ on, right?”

  Now, as she secured herself in Ronald’s truck for the second time, Camille wondered if she should say something about Brittney’s comment. Knowing Ronald, however, he would scold his daughter for interfering. He probably fussed at Brittney for everything already, as parents of teens tended to do. No need adding another reason to the list.

  She decided to tackle another issue. “When do you plan on telling me where we’re going?”

  Ronald winked. “When we get there.”

  She crossed her arms. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Immensely.”

  “I don’t like surprises.”

  “Neither do I,” he said, “unless I’m the one doing the surprising. Just sit back and relax. You’re acting like I’m some kind of axe murderer you met on the Internet who’s about to make you his next victim.”

  “You might be,” Camille shrieked.

  “A bishop’s son who’s an axe murderer and a widower, heavily involved in ministry, with a fifteen-year-old daughter?”

  Camille answered, “Axe murderers pride themselves on blending into society.”

  Ronald laughed fully. “Aw, Camille, you crack me up. I always know I’m going to laugh when I’m with you.”

  “I never know what’s going to happen when I’m with you,” she teased. “I might get a sermon, might get a lecture. Might not even know where I’m going.”

  Ronald’s refusal to let Camille in on their destination proved a wise move. “Nuh-uh,” Camille fussed when he parked in a spot outside what appeared to be a small art gallery labeled Paintings by U. “I know we did not drive clear across town to go look at art by somebody with a one-letter name.”

  “We’re not looking at art. We’re making art,” he clarified as he helped her out of the truck. “U stands for y-o-u.”

  She objected, “I can’t draw anything except stick figures.”

  “We’re in the same boat, but you don’t have to be able to draw. They’ll teach you,” Ronald said. He unlatched the back cabin door and produced a grocery sack.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Our food. Hope you like my specialty, grilled ham and cheese.”

  “Sandwiches?”

  “Don’t worry,” he taunted, “I cut yours up into triangles.”

  He closed and locked the doors. “Ladies first.”

  Camille looked him upside his head. She’d been real with him so far. Why stop now? “Ronald, this really isn’t my speed.”

  “Hey, I’ve never done this, either.” He shrugged. “One of my friends told me about it, said it was fun, said I should try it some time. I’ve never had anyone to try it with until now.”

  Softened only by his vulnerability, she took the first step toward the building and into a new experience. Turned out, Paintings by U was a make-and-take art studio. The instructor, a young man named Wess with a mess of brown hair on his head, explained the concept to the first-timers. He would give them precise direction on how to create the night’s painting: a fruit bowl on a pedestal. The canvas, paint, and aprons had already been provided. All they had to do was listen and paint. And, of course, they were welcome to enjoy food, wine, and whatever else they’d brought to snack on.

  Camille took one look at the picture and whispered to Ronald, “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. Stop being such a wimp.”

  She slapped his arm. “No, you didn’t. You know what? Since you called me a wimp, my painting is going to be better than yours.”

  “Bet?” he challenged.

  “Bet.”

  For the next two hours, Camille and Ronald, along with twelve other amateur artists, created their own versions of the master illustration.

  “Keep your arm steady, now,” Ronald said as he attempted to sabotage Camille’s masterpiece by jiggling her elbow slightly.

  “Stop.” She laughed. The distraction had actually reminded her to swallow. She’d been paying such close attention to Wess’s direction, she’d almost forgotten she was on an afternoon date with Ronald.

  She took a brief recess in order wash her hands and eat her sandwich. Ham and cheese wasn’t exactly her favorite main entrée, but Ronald had been right about his special skills. High-quality, deli-sliced ham, just enough mayonnaise, bread buttered slightly and toasted to perfection.

  “This is good,” she had to admit. “You could open a ham-and-cheese sandwich store and be set for life.”

  “Thank you. Secret family recipe.”

  “And thank you for my triangles.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Camille snacked on a few chips, took a swig of apple juice, and got back to work on her painting, which was shaping up quite nicely. She could tell by Wess’s directives that he had coached plenty of art-challenged subjects toward success.

  As she added the finishing touches, Camille began to declare victory. “My brother, I do believe I’ve outdone myself today.”

  Ronald leaned over, got a look at the canvas perched on her easel. She snuck a glance at his work. Not too shabby, but his pedestal was a tad bit squatty. Could have easily been mistaken for a stool. Ronald must not have been watching closely when Wess showed them all how to measure from the bottom with their paint brushes.

  “I do believe I’ve won the bet,” he declared.

  “How you gon’ win the bet with that tiny pedestal? Look at Wess’s, look at mine, and look at yours. Please!”

  “That’s why mine is better. Yours is a cookie-cutter image. Where’s your sense of style, Camille? Your flair?” he flirted. “This here, what you’ve done, is almost an exact replica.”

  “Isn’t that the idea?” A smile wiggled free from her grasp.

  “No.” He couldn’t hold a straight face, either.

  “Let’s ask somebody to be the judge,” Camille suggested.

  “No way.” Ronald removed his smock. “I’m not showing this thing to anybody.”

  Camille squealed in victory but quickly recanted when she saw Ronald slide his work into the ventilated box. “Ronald, it’s not that bad.”

  “It’s hideous.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “So ... you’re saying it’s better than yours?”

  She backed up, suddenly aware of his psychological scheme. “I ain’t said all that.”

  They drove home with the smell of fresh paint filling the car. Ronald rolled down the windows so they wouldn’t suffer adverse reactions, in accordance with Wess’s caution. The breeze swishing through the truck thwarted any real conversation. Camille simply caught on to what she could hear coming from the speakers. Another gospel song. She recognized Yolanda Adams’s voice, hummed along with a few bars.

  As soon as the front wheels of Ronald’s truck rolled onto the driveway, a boy hoisted his sagging pants, dashed off the front porch, and ran across the lawn while the front door simultaneously slammed shut.

  “What’s going ...” Ronald’s voice trailed off before he could finish the phrase.

  Ronald had barely parked before his foot hit the pavement. “Stay in the car. Call nine-one-one.” Then he bounded toward the door, hollering, “Brittney! You okay!”

  Camille sat dumbfounded. Ronald was clueless. Here he was thinking Brittney was under attack. Camille, on the other hand, was certain about what she’d just witnessed. Brittney was either saying good-bye or hello to a male friend, and her father had returned home just in time to see it all go down. No need to get the police involved. Not yet, anyway.

  Next thing she knew, Ronald tore out of the house, tracing the boy’s escape route.

  Unsure of what to do next, Camille let herself out of the truck and grabbed her painting. She sat the box in her trunk, threw her purse in the front seat, and locked the door again. She stood in the driveway. What else could she do? She didn’t want to just take off like
, “I’m outta here,” but this really wasn’t her business.

  Ronald appeared at the edge of the yard, huffing and puffing, anger etched in every nook of his sweaty face. Camille thanked God he hadn’t caught the boy, because Ronald’s mind was obviously far from Jesus right now.

  “I’ve got to deal with Brittney.”

  “Okay.”

  She watched him enter the house again and slam the door almost as hard as Brittney had earlier. She heard Ronald yell his daughter’s name and knew there was nothing she could do to save her young friend. Sweet little Brittney had been exposed. Camille could only hope their arrival had interrupted a bad decision, prevented Brittney from doing something stupid—assuming this was her first time contemplating company in her father’s absence.

  Probably not, though. In Camille’s experience, you never got busted the first time you did something stupid because, initially, you were careful. It wasn’t until the fourth or fifth time you’d gotten away with something that you stopped watching your back.

  She ought to know. She’d snuck her fair share of friends into the house back in the day. Courtney was usually at work, Bobby Junior at some other undisclosed location when Camille returned from school. The only person she had to dodge was Miss Gracie from across the street.

  Brittney, however, had a different situation altogether. She had a father who hadn’t lost his mind when her mother died. She had her mother’s family. There was no reason for her to get involved with this whoever-he-was boy. No reason except infatuation and teen stupidity itself, which didn’t need a reason at all.

  Camille carefully transported the painting from her trunk to her living room when she arrived home. Cat was meowing like crazy, so she let him out of his living quarters and allowed him to roam. He squeezed into his usual spot beneath the couch to watch television. He’d stay there until Camille went to her bedroom. Then he’d follow her and curl up under the bed. Cat didn’t want her attention so much as her presence to ward off his massive fear of being alone outside of the bathroom.

  After watching a few You Tube videos and reading up on blogs about cats, Camille had figured out that Cat wasn’t your usual feline. He was more like a lapdog than a cat. Or maybe he was just slow. Slow to get himself another owner, that was for sure.

  True to his pattern, Cat found his place in her room as Camille settled in for a nap. A ding on her phone registered a text from Ronald. Had a nice time painting with you. Sorry I didn’t get to say good-bye.

  Camille responded. No worries. Is Brittney still alive?

  Moments later, he replied. Y

  She ventured. Are u ok?

  N. Can’t believe this is happening. She says he was just a friend. Nothing happened. Not sure what 2 believe.

  One could never be sure when talking to a panicked teenager. If she were having this conversation with anyone else, she might suggest a stiff drink. Ronald, however, needed a little encouragement in his own language. Camille texted: I will b praying 4 u & Brittney.

  Thx. We both need it. Don’t know when Britt will see light of day again.

  Camille laughed. This 2 will pass. Room 4 growth?

  She imagined Ronald shaking his head as he replied. Room 4 a beat down. Had to count 10 to calm down. Still breathing hard. Thx 4 understanding. Ttyl.

  Ttyl.

  CHAPTER 23

  Cute gray kitten. Answers to “Cat.” Sweet disposition. Docile. So far, all he does is eat, pee, poop, crawl under furniture. Not destructive at all.

  Perfect for an older person who just wants a companion.

  214-555-8766

  The first two calls she got were actually from guys who chatted briefly about Cat, then got to the point where they “wanted to get to know her.” She promptly declined their advances. By the third call, Camille had figured out how to cut to the chase. One real contender wanted a pet for her two-year-old. Didn’t she read my ad? Cat wasn’t for kids. He wasn’t playful or outgoing. He’d be terrified of a two-year-old; back at the shelter in a hot minute for scratching the toddler’s face in fear.

  The second person claimed he didn’t have other pets, but Camille could hear dogs barking in the background. When she viewed the person’s profile, she noted he owned several rough-looking pit bulls. Cat would probably be ripped to shreds by the time his dogs finished practicing their aggression on him. A quick chat in a cat-lovers’ room confirmed Camille’s suspicions. 4Cats4Me commented, There are a lot of mean people out there. Be careful giving your kitten away. Why don’t you just keep him?

  Camille thought about writing the truth—she didn’t like cats. But the people in this forum would go coo-coo. Instead, she wrote part of the truth, Someone gave him thinking I wanted another cat, but I don’t.

  FelineFemale posted, Sounds like you care nuff 2 want a good home 4 him. I say he’s yours ;0)

  Not likely. Camille figured you were either born a cat person or not. She was a not. Furthermore, she learned via the Web that the pet deposit for her complex was two hundred fifty dollars. Certainly not going to happen. Even if she wanted to keep Cat, which she didn’t, she couldn’t afford to. According to the paperwork Sheryl gave her, he’d need shots soon, too. More money.

  Still, the thought that she might turn Cat over to a torturer wasn’t something Camille could live with. She immediately removed the ad for fear of coming in contact with a sadistic animal-killer. After all, she told herself, they start with animals and graduate to people. I’m not gonna be somebody’s first human victim on account of Cat.

  Sheryl, of course, basked in her good deed. “How’s the kitten?” she’d ask every morning.

  “He’s fine,” Camille would reply truthfully. For as much as she didn’t appreciate Sheryl’s unwelcome gift, she had to admit it was nice to talk to her boss without all the guilt for once.

  “We’ll have to get our cats together sometime for a playdate,” Sheryl suggested.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m very busy on the weekend with church and all.”

  “Oh”—Sheryl seemed shocked—“you go to church? I didn’t know you were ... I’m guessing ... like, a Christian, right?”

  Camille cleared her throat. “Yes. It’s a Christian church.”

  “What do you do there?”

  “I sing in several choirs,” Camille shared. “I’m always at rehearsal or mentoring young ladies. The church keeps me very busy.” She’d hoped to see Sheryl give up on her quest for cat fellowship. Yet, she wondered why Sheryl’s eyes had suddenly taken on a new shine. She never got this excited about anything except animals.

  “Oh my goodness! That’s wonderful.” Then she dipped her head, stepped fully into Camille’s cubicle. “Lately, my husband and I have been talking about going to church or something. Gotta figure out the whole life purpose, you know? I don’t know if we need to start going to church or volunteering, but we’ve been so fortunate, we gotta do something.”

  “You’re such a sweet person. You’d be great.”

  She smiled. “You think?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Here.” She pointed at the sticky notepad on Camille’s desk. “Write down the address to your church. Maybe one of these Sundays, my husband and I will get to visit. No cats allowed, right?” She tilted her head, jeering.

  “No cats allowed.” Camille hoped Sheryl was joking.

  Since the boy-on-the-porch incident, Camille found herself on the receiving end of dozens of questions from Ronald about what might be going on in Brittney’s head. He seemed lost about how to handle his baby girl now that he realized she wasn’t a baby anymore. In his mind, Brittney had morphed into a foreign creature capable of all manner of evil, never to be trusted again.

  “I just don’t see how she could do this,” Ronald anguished for the millionth time in a week. He glanced at Brittney, who was sitting alone at her own table in Panera while he and Camille occupied a different table in the restaurant. He didn’t trust his daughter to stay home alone anymore, so she had to tag along
like an ... irresponsible teenager who couldn’t be trusted to stay home alone.

  Camille, too, snuck a peek at her mini-me. Poor Brittney’s clothing expressed a complete lack of interest in her appearance. Aside from the fact she was on punishment, Camille realized that Brittney was ashamed and embarrassed about the whole situation. She couldn’t look her father in the eyes. She barely whispered when speaking to Camille.

  “Ronald, stop taking this personally. It’s not about you,” Camille tried to explain over baked-potato soup. “She didn’t ask herself, ‘What can I do to break my father’s heart?’”

  He winced. “What did she say to herself? What did go down in her mind?”

  Camille blinked once. “What went down in your mind when you were fifteen years old and falling in love, sneaking behind your parents’ back to talk on the phone or spend unsupervised time alone with your girlfriend?”

  He admitted, “My problem exactly. Wasn’t but one thing on my mind when I thought about being alone with my fifteen-year-old girlfriend. Same thing that was on that boy’s mind.”

  “True, true,” Camille agreed, “but from what I can tell about Brittney, that’s not what was on her mind. She didn’t set out to disappoint you. She probably just ... really likes the kid. I’m sure he makes her laugh, he tells her she’s pretty. He probably does things Brittney would never do, tells her about all his thuggish adventures. It’s pretty enticing, actually.”

  “I’m gonna be sick.” Ronald fake gagged. “You make it sound like a good thing.”

  “It’s not, but you have to understand where she’s coming from. The boy talked her into doing something she knew she shouldn’t have done. I’m sure he told her it wouldn’t be that big a deal. He really wanted to see her, he can’t stop thinking about her—”

  “Lies,” Ronald fumed.

  “We know that, but Brittney doesn’t.”

  He defended himself, “But I’ve taught my daughter better.”

  “Look, anybody can be tricked into doing the wrong thing. If it happened to Eve and her daddy was God, it could happen to Brittney, all right? This is not about you, Ronald. And the last thing Brittney needs is for you to make her feel like a complete idiot who can’t do anything right. An unloved complete idiot, to make matters worse.”