Falling Into Grace

by Michelle Stimpson

  Two intersections and ten minutes from the studio, Camille got a text from John David. Where are you?

  The crawling pace of traffic allowed time for a reply. Almost there.

  “So, tell me about this demo,” Ronald asked.

  Camille could have sworn he’d already asked her this question. “It’s for a sound track,” she snapped. “But it won’t be for anything if this traffic doesn’t clear. John David’s already texting me.”

  “Oh”—Ronald perked up—“I’ve heard his name tossed around. He’s got some big-time connections.”

  “Yeah. We’re almost there,” she cut him off with her no-nonsense tone.

  Without a minute to spare, Camille swerved into the studio parking lot and nabbed the closest parking spot. She put her car in park and grabbed her purse simultaneously, almost leaving Ronald behind in the effort to place her foot inside the building at exactly 5:59 AM so John David couldn’t accuse her of being late. She’d already given him enough reasons to drop her like a clingy girlfriend.

  Ronald caught up with her halfway down the studio building’s hallway, doing double-time to keep up with Camille’s near running. “Where’s the fire?” he joked.

  “Right here,” she said, pausing momentarily to knock on the door to Stevie’s studios.

  Almost instantly, John David opened. He looked at his watch, raised an eyebrow at Camille.

  Nervously, she chirped, “Six o’clock on the dot.”

  “To be on time is to be late,” he scorned. Then, his countenance switched gears as he focused his attention on Camille’s guest. “You must be the man with the voice that melts perfectly with Camille’s. Ronald?”

  “Yes.”

  They shook hands.

  “I’m John David. Mind if I call you Ronnie?”

  “Yes, I do,” Ronald said. “Ronald will suffice.”

  John David dipped his forehead in submission. “Ronald it is, then.”

  Camille bristled inside. Why wouldn’t John David listen to her like he listened to Ronald? James Brown wasn’t ever lyin’ when he said this is a man’s world, rest his soul, wherever they decided to bury him finally.

  John David introduced Ronald to Stevie, and the three men talked like old friends for a second. John David sucked up to Ronald like he owned a straw factory. Camille stood near her ... babe, she guessed ... and nodded as the men talked music mumbo-jumbo. They seemed pleased that Ronald knew much of their jargon.

  Stevie remarked to Camille, “This Ronald knows what he’s talking about.”

  His obvious reference to Faison sparked Camille into action. “We’d better get started. I’ve got to get to work as soon as we’re finished.” Assuming she’d still be employed.

  “Sure thing,” Stevie said. He sat down, fiddled with the switches, plucked a pair of headphones from a stand, and handed a pair to Ronald.

  “I’ll let you listen to Camille’s track first. Have you read the lyrics?”

  “No,” Ronald said as he snapped his headphones in place.

  Camille shifted and reshifted her feet.

  John David shot a dagger toward Camille. She pursed her lips in an I-didn’t-know-what-to-do smirk.

  “No problem. I can tell you’re a pro,” Stevie praised Ronald. “She’s actually done most of the song. I just need you to get in where you fit in, especially on the hook.”

  The sinking feeling had descended to her bladder. Great. Now I have to pee. Nowhere in any of the screen shots she’d played the night before had it occurred to her that she might actually pee on herself in the middle of all this. But she dared not leave the room at this critical moment. Ronald was about to read the lyrics, hear her singing “On Top of Me” for the first time.

  Stevie gave Camille and John David the other two headphones, and they all sat while the opening bars of the song played. Ronald glanced at Camille, smiled. She managed a smile back. His head bobbed to the beat, fingers tapped on his knee.

  Stevie and John David joined in the head-bobbing dance, grooving with Ronald. They were all on the same page, the same note.

  Camille lowered her eyes and waited for her voice to crank out the first verse. Baby, I’ve got the place for you. A place that satisfies.

  Ronald’s fingers stopped tapping.

  I’ve got the perfect place for you. Right here between these thighs.

  He turned his chair slightly. Bumped knees with Camille’s.

  Slowly, she raised her eyes to his and read the no screaming from those brown irises. Worse was the disappointment tucked in the corners of his mouth. Camille wished she could literally crawl into a hole and die a slow, painful death. Might as well. She could just as well have been singing “Amazing Grace” because this felt like the funeral of her relationship with Ronald. Actually, a funeral would be better than this torment. She couldn’t even look at him anymore.

  The music continued. That place, that space, is here on top of me, baby. Take me ecstasy. Oooh, yeah! On top of me, baby.

  Stevie yelled over the music, “Ronald, I think this is where I’ll have you come in. Second verse.”

  Ronald sighed, took his gaze off Camille as they all listened to her croon, Don’t make this a one-night stand, baby. We can meet here and do it ’til these sheets are soaked in love. Get over the past. Get over the future, and get on top of me, baby!

  Oblivious to Ronald’s disgust, John David and Stevie continued their exaggerated head dips.

  “Here’s the hook,” John David bellowed.

  Ronald lasted until she started with the part about “pumping” before he had to take off his listening equipment. The others followed suit. Stevie turned down the volume, thwarting the sounds coming through their collective headsets.

  “Lady and gentlemen,” Ronald announced, “I’m sorry to disappoint you all, but I cannot sing this song.”

  “What’s the problem?” Stevie asked. “It’s a powerful arrangement.”

  “True,” Ronald said, “but this isn’t the song for me. I can’t lend my voice, my gift to something I disagree with.”

  “What’s there to disagree with?” from Stevie again.

  “Look, I know that sex sells. This is your business, you do what you do,” Ronald reasoned. “But I have to do what I do, too. I’m a minister; I’m a father. I can’t lend my voice to a song that promotes principles I don’t believe in.”

  As though he’d been awaiting Ronald’s reaction, John David pressured, “Aw, come on, dude. It’s just a song. It’s not like you’re killing anyone. And if you want to make some good of it, just donate some of your royalties to charity.”

  Bewildered, Stevie threw up his hands. “For crying out loud, this song is about sex, God’s best gift to mankind. I don’t understand what’s wrong with that?”

  Ronald shook his head. “I don’t expect you to understand. I’m playing by different rules.”

  “Hey,” Stevie barked, “I’m a Christian, too. I know right from wrong. This is not wrong. It’s art. Music.”

  Ronald put palms to his chest. “I can’t tell you what’s right or wrong for you. Only God can judge that. All I know is, I don’t use my talent to oppose the One who gave it to me. Whatever you decide to do with your God-given talent is between you and Him.” Ronald pointed toward the ceiling.

  Camille watched as though she were a fly on the wall. These men were arguing about her future. She’d been so busy observing, she’d almost forgotten the lines she’d mentally rehearsed all night long. “Stevie, I was thinking ... maybe we could change a few of the lyrics. Or just have him harmonize with me on a few notes.”

  She had Ronald’s attention now.

  “You know ‘Nobody Greater’ by VaShawn Mitchell? He and the choir sing most of the song, but one lady does a few ooohs and repeats what the choir says. You think that would work. I mean, in light of your convictions?”

  “We could try it,” John David interrupted cheerfully. “I’m willing to try anything.”

  Ronald’s cheeks dropped a
nother inch, as if that were possible. “I’m not. Camille, I thought you and I had the same convictions.”

  “We do,” she all but whined, “I’m just asking, for this one song, Ronald, to get my foot back in the door. Please.”

  “Camille, believe me—I really wish I could. But I can’t. My life, this voice, doesn’t belong to me,” he said.

  Ronald stood. John David scrambled to his side, grabbed Ronald by the shoulders, and fast-talked. “Okay, Ronald, forget Camille. She’s ... she’s a chameleon. How about you? A different song? I’ve heard you, you’re right. You have an amazing gift. Your voice is heavenly. I could match you with a different woman. Same soundtrack, different song. It’ll be as innocent as ... what was that reggae song? ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy.’”

  Now Camille stood. “Are you kidding me?”

  “You can leave now,” John David ordered.

  She would do no such thing!

  But before Camille could speak, Ronald asked John David a question that zipped her mouth, sent her pulse through the roof. “When have you heard me sing?”

  John David pointed at Stevie. Stevie unplugged a cord, pushed a button, and the room filled with voices Camille and Ronald’s voices.

  Mmm, I don’t know. I was trying to get to the gym tonight.

  You look fine to me.

  Thank you, but that’s only because I’ve been working out lately.

  It’s definitely paying off. But I was really hoping we could grab a bite since Brittney’s still in practice..

  Cool.

  “Sorry. Let me back it up,” Stevie said. He stopped the tape, pushed another lever.

  Ronald crossed his arms, stared Camille dead in the face. “You were recording our conversations?”

  “No,” she denied. “I recorded us singing. I just forgot to turn it off.”

  “That’s What I Live For” blared through the speakers now. Soprano and tenor, their undeniable mix, along with background.

  “Ronald, you’re incredible. You’re a force all by yourself, but you’d also make anybody’s voice sound like a million dollars next to yours. You balance, man, like Billy Ocean. Stevie Wonder.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not interested,” Ronald declined. “I’m gonna call me a cab now so I can go to work. Sorry to have wasted your time.”

  Ronald excused himself and walked out, just like she’d imagined he would. In fact, watching his backside leave the room in blue jeans and a red shirt was exactly the way she’d pictured this going down. Begging John David, that two-faced, male chauvinist, was out of the picture. John David was straight triflin’, right along with three-fourths of the other people in the industry. Ridiculous!

  “There went your last chance with me, Camille,” John David piled insult on top of injury.

  “No,” she countered, “there went your last chance. I see who you really are. All you care about is the bottom line.”

  John David crossed his arms, stared down at her condescendingly. “I thought that was all we both cared about.”

  “God made the earth, but money makes it go ’round, sweetheart,” Stevie added.

  She started down the nearly vacant hallway, her heels echoing so loudly they almost made her ears hurt. “Ronald, wait.”

  He stopped, pivoted with alarming speed, and tore into her. “What else have you been recording, Camille? What is this all about?”

  She sighed. “Ronald, I can explain. I needed a demo to give to John David.”

  “So you took it upon yourself to record us anyway, without my permission.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “What else have you recorded?”

  “Nothing else.”

  He hung a hand on his neck. “Why couldn’t you just tell me?”

  “I didn’t want you to think that I was ... I don’t know—”

  “Using me?” he completed her sentence precisely.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You recorded other people, too. What’s your excuse there? For all I know, you could have been recording the choir, making copies, and selling bootleg CDs.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Am I, really, being silly, Camille? Let me ask you this, why did you join Grace Chapel to begin with?”

  Now was her chance to come clean. Even if it meant losing him forever, at least she’d lose him for the truth, not because of this craziness with John David and the recording. She forged ahead, hoping if nothing else that he would at least appreciate her honesty on his way out of her life. “I did join the church, initially, to be a part of the choir. At John David’s recommendation. But—”

  “So you’ve been using all of us.”

  “No. I mean, at first, yes, but not now.”

  His eyes misted slightly. “Brittney, too? Was she just part of the plan to get closer to me?”

  “No, not Brittney,” Camille declared plainly. “Brittney’s different. We connected before I even knew she was your daughter, Ronald, I swear.”

  He sighed. “Leave us alone.” He took off again.

  “Ronald, I’m telling you the truth.”

  He yelled over his shoulder, “You want a sticker for that?”

  She quickened her pace but held her breath as they turned the final corridor and beheld flashes of red, white, and blue bouncing off the walls. What’s going on?

  Up ahead, Ronald opened the exit door. Quickly, he called to her, “Camille, the police are at your car.”

  “What!”

  She pushed past him, rushing toward her vehicle. “Hi. What’s the problem?”

  “You Camille Robertson?” a female officer in her mid-forties who’d never heard of lip gloss or Chapstick asked.

  “Yes.”

  “First of all, you parked in a handicap spot. One of the tenants of the building couldn’t even park, thanks to your inconsiderate actions.”

  “Sorry about that.” In her presunrise rush, she must have missed the faded sign atop the leaning pole in front of her car. Weren’t the building owners responsible for making the signs visible? And why did this slight error merit a cruiser with lights?

  “Secondly,” the officer continued, “we have a warrant for your arrest.”

  “Huh?”

  John David and Stevie appeared at the door now.

  “Unpaid ticket.”

  “There must be some kind of mistake. I paid my ticket,” Camille claimed loud enough for everyone, including her former agent, to hear.

  “Tell it to the judge, Miss Robertson. Let’s go.”

  “Wait.” Camille backed away from the officer.

  “Are you resisting me?” she taunted.

  “No. I just want to give him my key.” She motioned toward Ronald. He stepped forward. Camille removed the vehicle’s key from the ring and placed it in his hand.

  He took it without a word.

  Obviously chomping at the bit to tow Camille’s car, the smart-mouthed officer asked, “Not so fast. Is the vehicle insured?”

  “Yes. The card is in the glove compartment,” Camille stated. She looked at Ronald again. “I’ve already paid this ticket. This is a mistake.”

  Again, he held on to his words.

  Ms. I-Love-Hating-People flirted with Ronald. “Honey, I wish I had a dollar for every time someone told me I was arresting them for no reason. You and I could run off to Hawaii.”

  The second officer slapped the cuffs on Camille’s wrists.

  “Officer, do you really have to restrain her?” Ronald asked.

  “Policy,” he explained compassionately. “It’s not safe for us to escort hostile subjects unrestrained.”

  Then he led Camille into the backseat of the cruiser and escorted a boo-hooing Camille to the station.

  CHAPTER 30

  Somehow, she’d managed to convince the nicer male officer that there was something wrong. If he’d just open her purse, he’d see carbon copies of the checks she’d written to the county as payment for the ticket. But his partner said she’d heard this story a
million times. She confiscated Camille’s purse and told Camille to save her story for the judge.

  Camille stopped talking and did the only thing she could do ... pray. She closed her eyes and asked God to intervene and do whatever He had to do to make everything right. Everything, including this situation with Ronald. God, I’m sorry. I’m going to jail, God! Jail!

  Inside her heart, she heard a whispered rhyme. Better jail than hell.

  Surely, God didn’t find this situation funny. Was this His way of getting her attention? She’d heard about people having to be flat on their backs before looking up. Why did it have to be this way? Why couldn’t He just teach her a lesson the easy way?

  You wouldn’t listen.

  Okay, there it was again—this argument emanating from within herself. If she had been pondering, thinking to herself, she might have believed these words were her own. But they couldn’t be. She would never accuse her own self of not listening, let alone decide that a trip to jail was preferable to the eternal elevator down. Aside from all that, God’s sentences were awfully short.

  This was God, speaking to her like a father chastising His child. No hint of condemnation, only an undeniable truth. God was right.

  Between God softening the officer’s heart and the check copies Camille was able to show the booking clerk, she managed to avoid a cold, hard jail cell and the humiliation of taking a mug shot. She whispered a thank you to God as she waited for the error to be unearthed.

  As she waited in what looked like a secured interrogation room, Camille put her head down on her desk, encircled by her arms. She wanted more than anything to wake up from this nightmare. She’d never imagined things could turn out this bad. As far as she knew, no one in her immediate family had seen the inside of a police station. Not even Bobby Junior, for all his shady ways.

  How would she explain this to him? His only daughter, downtown. On false premises, of course, but still ... nobody wants to have to call someone and say, “Hey, can you come pick me up? I’m at the jailhouse.”

  His first question, of course, would be, “What did you do?” And all of this would make it back to Courtney. He’d probably have something smart to say, even if, in his heart, he, too, was disappointed in his little sister.