“Thanks, sis,” Hope replied. “I’m glad they turned out this time because my first attempt was a failure to the nth degree and my second try wasn’t much better. I guess the third time is the charm.” She picked up a crispy cauliflower and plopped it into her mouth. “Come on, your highness,” she said to Frieda, who was still lying on the chaise.
“Aw, hell,” Frieda moaned. She walked over to the spread, taking in the sliced baked chicken and kaiser rolls for sandwiches, the vegetables, and German potato salad. “Dang, Hope,” she said, after eating a slice of chicken. “Did you cook this?”
“Why, what’s the matter with it?”
“It’s good!”
Hope gave her a look of indignation. “You say that like you’re surprised.”
“I am!”
The women laughed, sat down, and fixed their plates. While Hope opted for sparkling water, Stacy and Frieda enjoyed chilled chardonnay. Soon eating replaced conversation, punctuated by the lapping water and an occasional screech of a bird overhead. After finishing off her first helping of vegetables, Stacy reached for her glass, sat back and sipped thoughtfully as she again took in the beautiful day.
“A penny for your thoughts, Stace,” Hope said, reaching for her glass as she too sat back.
“I was just thinking about what a difference a year made. This time last year I was in Phoenix, happily married. Tony was playing for the Cardinals and life seemed good. Then bad stuff started falling like dominoes. Tony got hurt, then cut from the team; he lost hella money on that stupid Ponzi-scheme, and started taking steroids. Did y’all know that taking that drug can make it difficult for a man to get hard?” Hope and Frieda shook their heads. “It can. A few times, we had problems in the bedroom. I thought it might be another woman. Never dreamed it was because of what is sometimes called ‘juice.’ I did research and found out that aggressiveness can be a side effect of over using. Guess that’s how Tony turned into a monster and beat me up. Now, here I sit. Back in LA, alone, unsecure and my future unsure.” She shrugged. “It’s a trip.”
“Are you still shopping your resume?”
“No. When Darius found out I was looking for work, he increased my child support, said he wanted my primary focus to be our child. I still want some type of career though; something that I can do from home.”
“Darius stepped up for real,” Frieda said, finishing a bite of chicken and picking up a tempura-battered asparagus tip. “Good for him. Let’s see, last year this time,” she continued as she thoughtfully chewed, “I was kicking it with Clark Pratt, living in Brentwood, and feeling that my husband and son were weights I could do without.” She finished her glass of wine and reached for the bottle. “If only I knew those weights were treasures that I’d give anything to feel right now.”
“When is the last time you talked to Gabriel?” Stacy asked.
“Over the phone, about a month ago. Other than that our conversations take place through e-mails or via his assistant and only involve arrangements for picking up Gabe.”
Hope finished her water and poured wine into her glass. “Is Cordella still living with them?”
“Yes. And I can’t even say I’m mad about that. I was blaming her for being in my business when, since I was screwing her son, she could say that she was minding her own. I was mad at her for not being down with my scandalous mess. But looking back at it, she was really trying to get me to pay attention to what I had right in front of me. She loves my son and whether I like it or not, he loves her. I don’t doubt that at all.”
Hope stared out over the ocean. “Do you think there’s a chance of y’all getting back together?” And then, “What about the letter? Did you write it?”
“More importantly, did you send it?” Stacy added.
“Yes and yes,” Frieda said, a soft sigh escaping before she could hold it back. “After a couple days I sent a text asking if he got it. He said yes.” She shrugged. “That’s it. So . . . it looks like I’ll have a new title in about three months—divorcée.”
It went without saying that in time, Stacy might be wearing that title too.
“Last year this time I didn’t know Trisha Underwood,” Hope said into the silence.
“Good thing she’s left the country,” Frieda said with a huff. For once, Hope was in total agreement with her cousin’s brash remark. “I still wonder whether that chick even had cancer.”
“She had it,” Hope said quickly. “We’ve had extensive conversations with Dr. Adzikiwe about her condition, Cy more than me. She was a very sick woman and she’s not out of the woods yet.”
“Well, at least she’s out of your husband’s life,” Stacy said.
“But she’s still in that wallet, isn’t that right, Hope?” Frieda asked.
“Yes, Cy is handling her medical expenses. There’s no way she could afford this treatment otherwise. It’s very expensive.”
“You’re a better woman than me,” Frieda admitted. “If it were my man and my money, chick would be at the county clinic ... maybe.”
“I’m glad we decided to help her. She’s not a bad person.”
Clearly, Frieda wasn’t convinced. “Whatever. What about Crazy Millicent? Will we be seeing the ebony and ivory tomorrow?”
Hope nodded, understanding Frieda’s interracial couple reference. “She’s finally over her morning sickness. Their daughter, Sarah, is staying with friends in Los Angeles but Millicent, Jack, and both sons will be here.”
“I never thought I’d see the day when Millicent would be eating a meal at your table,” Stacy said with a chuckle.
“Me either,” Hope replied. “Life is full of surprises.”
“Well,” Frieda said, once again reaching for the wine bottle and emptying it by topping off all of their glasses, “it looks like it’s a new day for all us sister-girls.”
Hope lifted her glass and her friends followed suit. “To a new day.”
“A better day,” Stacy added.
“And better decisions,” Frieda said.
The women clinked their glasses and hoped for the best.
50
The Woman I AM
The setting was the Gibson Amphitheatre located in Universal City and the place was standing room only. It was the final evening of the Sanctity of Sisterhood’s autumn conference titled The Woman I Am and, as requested, the attendees had dressed in white. The tableau created was majestic, almost heavenly in its appearance, over six-thousand women singing and dancing before the Lord.
The guest moderator for the conference, a former first lady in Los Angeles and current talk show host, walked across the stage and grabbed the microphone. Her double-breasted white suit with big bold buttons and an oversized collar made quite the statement as she stood before the women and lifted her hands to the sky. “Praise Him, sisters,” Carla Chapman extolled as she walked back and forth. “He made you the woman that you are, and you are made in the image of the great I AM.” Her declaration caused another uproar in the crowd, one that D & C, Darius Crenshaw and Company, quickly punctuated with riffs on the keyboards, strings, and drums. Realizing that this was a time of worship, not words, Carla gave an almost imperceptible nod to Darius, who broke out in a song taken from Psalm 8.
“Oh Lord . . . how excellent is Your name above all the earth; who has set Thy glory above the heavens. When I consider Thy heavens, the work of Thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which Thou hast ordained. What is man, that Thou art mindful of him, and the son of man, that Thou visits him? For Thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honor . . . O Lord our Lord, how excellent is Thy name in all the earth!”
Reactions varied throughout the arena. Some cried, some laughed, some simply raised their hands in adoration. Others sat in their seats and rocked. This was a personal moment between attendee and God, a time to reflect on what He had done, and why they should be thankful. Darius’s baritone flitted among the praise, the instruments in one accord with the anointing. When t
he song ended, Carla waited until most had taken their seat and then again attempted to move forward in the service.
“Yes, His name is excellent,” she began, her voice naturally authoritative. “And since we are created in His image, so are we! As we discovered in this conference’s sessions, it doesn’t matter who you are or where you’ve been, what you’ve done or who has judged you. Your membership in the kingdom has deemed you excellent and whole before the almighty God. Oh, yes, sisters. Some of you don’t believe it. But I stand here as a witness that He can take your feet out of the miry clay and set it upon a solid rock. What do I mean, you’re asking? What is miry clay? That’s just a fancy King James saying for dirt, y’all. Doing the dirty. Watching the dirty.” Various reactions from laughter to applause to shaking heads accompanied her statement. Still, others had looks that showed the listener seemed less than appreciative of what was being said. “I appreciate the applause, but not all of y’all are happy. Oh, I see the frowns and raised brows. And I know why. It’s because y’all think I’m talking about you.” She paused, looking over the crowded space. “Well, news flash, baby. I’m talking about me! I was the sinner, a wretch undone. Hey! A promiscuous teenager who became an unwed mother, an adulterer when I thought I was way past that kind of sin. Yes, I may be pointing one finger out, but there are three that are pointing back at me, and—hallelujah!—I’m so thankful to know that I am not what I’ve done. I am all that I AM!”
This statement brought out a praise party that lasted several minutes.
When the audience calmed down once more, she continued. “We have a special treat for you as we bring this conference to a close, and we want you to tell all of your sisters who couldn’t make it about the next major conference that will take place next August. Mark your calendars because you won’t want to miss it. We’re going to leave land behind, and our husbands”—Carla paused amid the snickers—“and set sail on one of the seven seas. That’s right, saints. Our next conference will happen aboard a cruise ship and will feature some of the most powerful women of God in the country along with some of our finest praise and worshippers, including who we’ve been blessed to have in our midst this weekend—Darius Crenshaw and Company!” Darius smiled and bowed to the crowd to acknowledge their applause. When it subsided, Carla continued. “Once again I’d like to thank this year’s cohost, Mrs. Vivian Montgomery, who pulled herself away from that fine husband long enough to talk to us about who we are in God.” Vivian smiled and waved. “I’d also like to thank Tai Brook who, while she couldn’t be with us in person, contributed in spirit and in monies by funding yesterday’s luncheon. Y’all, show Mrs. Tai Brook some love so that she’ll see it on the DVD! Oh, and we can’t forget her daughter, Princess Petersen. How about that workshop: Jesus Is My Boo; Let Him Be Your Boo Too. And Mamma Max!” Again, a nice round of applause was offered up by the attendees.
After thanking the other ladies who’d assisted with the conference, Carla motioned to the side of the stage. Out walked Hope and seven other women, also all dressed in white. “To close out this miniconference, I’m pleased to once again introduce Hope Taylor, back by popular demand, y’all, doing an encore of the praise dance to “In the Land of I Am.” Let’s put our hands together for Hope Taylor and the Women Who Worship!”
Hope walked up to where Carla stood waiting as the other seven dancers spread across the stage. The sound of a Ricky Byars original masterpiece filled the room. The crowd was on their feet as the words delivered above African-inspired music filled the women’s hearts and heads, reminding them of all that God is and because of being made in His image, of all that they were as well.
The conference ended and the conference speakers and cohosts prepared to go their separate ways. Vivian and Hope walked the short distance to their cars. “That was wonderful, Vivian. Thanks for asking me to participate. I’d never thought about it, but I loved speaking to and encouraging the women. It felt good.”
“They loved you, too,” Vivian replied. “Your topic, ‘I Am Hope,’ was perfect! Your story gives them faith to believe that their dreams can come true, too. It was also good that you included the challenges that have come with marriage, especially to someone as desirable as your husband. It’s good for women to see that we may live in big houses but we don’t live on big pedestals. We have problems, challenges and issues the same as them. Your story showed them that. The DVD from your session is selling very well.”
“I’m thankful for that.”
“We’re thankful for you. And I’m delighted that everything has worked out with your and Cy’s situation. It takes a big woman to do what you’ve done; to not only embrace a former lover of your husband, but to help her get better.”
“It’s not me, Lady Viv,” Hope said sincerely. “It’s the God in me. He is the reason why I am who I am.”
51
A Pledge of Allegiance
“Your Aunt Gladean is a mess!” Darius and Bo had just returned to their Manhattan luxury hotel suite after a day of love, laughter, liquor, and good home cooking. Instead of the traditional fare, this island-born clan of Trinidadians had brought out chicken pelau, curried shrimp, zucchini corn bake, macaroni pie, callaloo, fish stew, plantains, peas and rice, and coconut bread pudding. At Darius’s request, Bo’s Aunt Gladean had also made what she called a yam pie. “I think I’m forever spoiled by her sweet-potato pie. I hadn’t had any that tasted that good since my grandmother died.”
“Yeah, old girl can throw down, that’s no joke!” Bo placed his pouch on the dining room table and proceeded to the bar, where he pulled out a bottle of Courvoisier. “You want some?”
“Just one finger; lots of ice.”
Bo nodded and yawned. “Lord have mercy, I love my family, but they wear me out!”
“I love them too. Growing up, I never experienced the type of environment that you took for granted. Grandma was superstrict and our house was literally a house of prayer—no music other than gospel allowed and even that was played low. No loud talking; I never remember her laughing out loud, you know, one of those good belly laughs like your Aunt Phyllis let loose all day.” Darius smiled; the memory alone felt that good. “I swear her laugh could be a prescription for depression.”
“And if that didn’t work, her punch sure could!” Phyllis’s punch was famous throughout their Queens neighborhood. A mixture of Hawaiian Punch, orange juice, lemons, and a blend of liquors known by her alone.
They walked from the dining room into the bedroom. Darius began undressing before they reached the room. “Man, I’m tired. That was the most fun I’ve had in a long time,” he said around a yawn. And DJ’s been in heaven these past two days. He was knocked out, wasn’t he?”
“Gonna be hard getting that boy to leave their house tomorrow. My sister’s place has been like heaven for that only child.”
At this comment, Darius plopped down on the bed and perched himself up on his right elbow. “What are we going to do about that, baby? It’s time for us to have another child, before DJ gets too big. Man, if Stacy had said yes, that would have been perfect !”
“Yeah.” Bo joined Darius on the bed, bringing their drinks with him. “It would have been nice if DJ’s brother or sister could have had the same mother. But this visit back home has me thinking.” Bo paused and sipped his drink. “We’ve got a little Darius. I think we need a little Bo.”
Darius sat up, laughing as he did so. “Oh, Lawd, no. One of you on the planet is enough, man.” When Bo didn’t join in on the joke, Darius sobered. “I’m sorry, baby. I thought you were playing. Do you really want a child of your own?”
“I know. I never thought I’d want that either. But DJ changed my life. I like that little boy like my own, and watching him laugh and play with all of his cousins got me thinking of how nice it would be to have my own seed, in the home, living with us. Maybe two.”
“Whoa, now wait a minute, baby. Don’t forget our crazy schedule.”
“Hell, if Celine and Beyoncé
and J. LO and all them heifahs can drop babies and keep it moving, we can too.”
“Ha!” They were silent, sipping their liquor. “Do you have a mother in mind?”
Having finished undressing, Bo climbed onto the bed and positioned himself so that he faced Darius. He lazily ran a finger up and down Darius’s chocolate toned arm. “I’ve thought about it and I think that one of those surrogate agencies is the best way to go. You know, look through a catalog of women and their pedigrees like we’re shopping for designer clothes, and pick the one that will give us our dream baby.”
“I was kidding earlier,” Darius whispered, leaning over and placing a kiss on Bo’s waiting mouth. “I’d love to have a baby Bo.”
The lover’s innocent touches and light kisses soon turned more amorous. Bodies touched and hands roamed, until Bo squeezed Darius’s butt cheek and came in contact with the proof of prior anger. He began a journey along Darius’s body, kissing every square inch of exposed flesh—arm, chest, stomach, hip, thigh. When he reached Darius’s firm, round backside, he outlined the scar with his tongue, massaging the sensitive area just above his husband’s buttocks as he did so.
“Ooh, baby, you know I’m ticklish there,” Darius said, after Bo had licked a particularly sensitive spot of Darius’s lower anatomy. He returned to the scar, first licking and looking at it, really looking at it, for the first time.
“You know what, Dee? I think you need to get this scar tatted, memorialized. I don’t mean to be funny, but, baby, this kinda looks like a bow. I think you should add an arrow and let me forever be immortalized on your ass.”
“Ha! You are such a nut!”
“No, I’m serious. Hold on, let me get my phone.” Soon, Darius was looking at the scar that remained from Bo’s channeling Norman Bates in Psycho, when scissors instead of a knife punctured his soft flesh.
The Eleventh Commandment Page 24
