Never Say Never

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  “You forgot one thing.” She paused. “He’s . . . black.”

  I blinked a couple of times, because that was not what I’d expected. “And your point is?”

  “He’s black, Emily!”

  “What is it with you guys?” I asked. “Michellelee said the same thing, that Jamal is black. As if I couldn’t see that for myself.”

  “Well, if we both told you—”

  “I know what color he is. But I also know that he’s really cool and I want to get to know him.”

  “What about your boyfriend?”

  “Boyfriend?” She must’ve known something that I didn’t because I didn’t have a boyfriend, not even a casual one.

  Miriam said, “You know, Waldorf Astoria.”

  “Clarkson’s not my boyfriend.”

  “He calls you all the time.”

  “He calls me from Mississippi, so what? He’s the guy that my parents want me to marry, but I haven’t been interested in him since kindergarten, and you know that.”

  “Maybe you need to give him another try. He might make a good husband.”

  “Husband? I’m not looking for a husband!” I shouted. “I don’t want to marry Clarkson or Jamal. I’m just trying to talk to him.”

  The way Miriam tucked her chin to her chest and folded her arms tighter let me know that she was buckling down. She was not about to be moved. “I don’t think you should talk or do anything with Jamal.”

  Even though we’d been going back and forth for a couple of minutes, I couldn’t get my best friend’s words to compute in my mind. Slowly, I sat down on her bed. “Really?” I whispered. “You don’t think I’m good enough to see Jamal?”

  “It’s not that.” She loosened her arms and softened her voice. “Okay, let me give it to you real, let me give it to you straight. Have you ever read the book or seen the movie Waiting to Exhale?”

  “No,” I said, wondering what in the heck a movie had to do with our conversation.

  “Well, you should see it. ’Cause this brother leaves his wife . . . for a white woman.”

  At first, I pressed my lips together. “And?”

  “And? It was awful and terrible and I hated reading and watching every second of that.”

  “Wait a minute.” I paused. “Is Jamal married?”

  “No!” she said, as if I’d asked the stupidest question.

  “Then what does this have to do with—”

  “Look,” Miriam said, not letting me finish. “There aren’t enough brothers out there. Do you know the ratio of black men to black women?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, neither do I, but that’s not the point. Whatever the ratio is,” Miriam said, “the fact is, there are not enough black men to go around. So many sistahs don’t have a man, and will never have a man because our men are either in prison or are batting for the other team, or”—she paused, as if she was going in for the big finish—“they’re hooking up with white women.”

  I couldn’t even get the word out of my mouth, but finally it came. “Wow!” I stood up and moved toward her bedroom door, but I couldn’t leave like this. When I turned around, the heat of my anger was already flashing beneath my skin. “So, you’re saying that you’re going to help the cause by keeping me away from Jamal?”

  She hesitated, and spoke even softer this time. “Something like that.”

  “Because I’m white.”

  I felt like I’d hit a three-pointer with those three words, because Miriam slid down in the bed a little. Maybe I made her feel bad, and that was good, because my feelings were so hurt. But I didn’t make her feel bad enough, because after a few seconds, she nodded.

  All I could do was shake my head. “I thought we were friends.”

  “Don’t go there, Em. You know we are.”

  “No, we’re not. If we were, then all you would want is for me to be happy.”

  “Come on, Em. I do want that. But we also said we would always be honest with one another, right?”

  That was the truth. That was our promise. “Yes. Honesty.” I turned back to the door. “Thanks for being honest,” I told her, barely glancing over my shoulder.

  “Emily!”

  I grabbed the door, swung it open, and then slammed it shut.

  “Emily!”

  I heard her calling me until I got up to my room. Then I slammed my door for good measure.

  If anyone had ever told me I’d have this conversation with the woman I thought of as my sister, I would’ve called them a liar . . .

  Jamal’s reaction had been even more unbelievable than Miriam’s. I’d gotten his number, thanks to Michellelee and her budding investigative reporter skills. But when I called Jamal, his response had been much the same as Miriam’s.

  “Uh, Emily, I think you’re cool and everything, but . . .” He didn’t even have to finish. After talking to Miriam, I knew what he meant. But he went on anyway. “I’m not trying to hurt your feelings or anything, but I’m not into—”

  “White girls,” I had finished for him and then slammed down the phone.

  I smiled a little now as I remembered the way I had called him and Miriam every single name listed in the Book of Curses. I had paced in my room, ranting to myself about how it wasn’t just white people who were prejudiced. I’d made a commitment that day that I would never have anything to do with Jamal.

  But God had different plans. Me and Jamal, Miriam and Chauncey. The four of us had grown into a happy family.

  Now, though, we were three, and I prayed that we would be able to find a new happiness among us. But we’d need help with that.

  I put my car back into drive and once I reached the traffic light, I pressed the button on the console to activate the Bluetooth feature.

  “Call Pastor Ford,” I said.

  Three seconds passed, then the ringing of the phone. Five rings and I was just about to hang up when my pastor answered.

  “Good morning!” Pastor Ford’s groggy voice came through the car speakers.

  I glanced at the clock on the dashboard and cursed inside. I was so unfocused, I hadn’t even remembered the time; it wasn’t even eight o’clock.

  “Pastor, this is Emily; did I wake you?” And before she could respond, I added, “I’m so sorry to be calling this early.”

  “No, no, it’s all right. I was just up late last night. So much going on.”

  “I know.” I sniffed back my emotions and said, “I should’ve called you last night, but . . .” Another breath. “Pastor, Chauncey Williams died.”

  “Oh no!” she exclaimed. “In the fire?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was going to call you and Miriam this morning to make sure everyone was all right. Yesterday was crazy. Quite a few of our children went to that school; so many were hurt and we lost one.”

  “Oh,” I groaned.

  “Yeah, I know. I was with the Millers all last night; they lost one of their six-year-old twins and it was all that I could do to comfort them.” There was silence and I could imagine the pastor shaking her head. “Now, Chauncey. How’re Miriam and the boys?”

  “I’m worried about her, Pastor. I talked to her this morning and she’s really upset with God.” I repeated the conversation Miriam and I’d had. “She won’t even pray,” I said, finishing up. “And that scares me.”

  The slight chuckle from Pastor Ford sounded more bitter than sweet; still it surprised me. “You don’t have to worry. Miriam has enough in her, believe me. She’s been praying to God for so long, she might stop, but her heart won’t.”

  I shook my head even though my pastor couldn’t see me. “I’m just afraid because now is when she needs Him the most.”

  “You’re right about that, but just because she’s mad doesn’t mean God’s going to turn His back on her. We might do that to people when we get mad at them, but He doesn’t do that to us.

  “She’s all right, Emily, and it’s okay that she’s upset. She serves a big God and she has big expectat
ions, so right now, it’s understandable. But there are two things I know: she’ll get over it and God is fine with it.”

  “Okay,” I said, feeling just a bit better.

  “I need to get over there,” Pastor said. “Are you there now?”

  “No, I’m on my way to First Baptist. Some of the parents are bringing their children over for some counseling. I was called in to help.”

  “Good. So, who’s with Miriam? Her mother-in-law?”

  “Not yet. She’s on her way; right now, only Jamal is there.”

  My pastor paused for so long that I called out her name to make sure that the call hadn’t disconnected.

  Finally Pastor said, “So, how’s Jamal? I know how close he and Chauncey were.”

  I sighed. “He’s doing well. We’ve both shed quite a few tears.”

  “I know you’re concerned about Miriam, but make sure you take care of him, too.”

  “Oh, I definitely will, Pastor.”

  “And just keep praying around Miriam. Soon, she’ll open up her mouth, too. I’ll give her a call now and I’ll see you over there later.”

  “Thanks, Pastor.”

  I clicked off the phone, but then hit the call button again.

  “Call Red,” I said into the speaker.

  I could barely understand Michellelee when she mumbled, “Hey, girl.”

  “You just getting up?”

  “Yeah, a long, long night. Are you with Miriam?”

  “I was, but I just left. I was called in by the school district.”

  “Girl, there’s so much tragedy behind that fire. Chauncey and nine kids.”

  “Wow! I didn’t know it was that many.”

  “Yeah, and now they’re pretty sure it was arson.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Yup, and because it was September 11, Homeland Security is all up on it.”

  “I cannot believe this. Well, I just spoke to Pastor and she’s on her way over to Miriam’s.”

  Michellelee groaned. “I cry every time I think about her.”

  “I just had my own breakdown; I couldn’t even drive. But we’re gonna make it. All we have to do is stay close to Miriam. Between you, me, and Jamal, we’re going to have to keep her covered twenty-four-seven. Are you in?”

  “You know I am. What do you want me to do?”

  I smiled, though I wasn’t surprised. This was just how the three of us were with one another.

  We were the Red, White, and Blue, and would get through this tragedy together.

  7

  Emily

  There was no other way to say it: I was just sad.

  And this was only the first day. As I sped from the church, I prayed that the crying that was still in my ears would fade. The entire sanctuary of First Baptist had been filled with parents and teachers . . . and the children, who were still traumatized and would be suffering for a long time. All of those children had been in the building when the fire started. More than half had been rushed out when the smoke alarms first sounded, but the fire had been aggressive. Dozens had been trapped, and those children had had to experience the abject fear that came with being on the edge of death. They’d seen the flames, inhaled the smoke, felt the smothering heat, and some may even have seen their classmates die.

  I’d explained to the parents that this was going to be a long road to recovery, and though I’d given them tips about not leaving their children alone, and letting them sleep with the lights on, I wasn’t sure how I was going to handle all of this trauma and tragedy. The city had called in only three psychologists. But three were not enough with this devastation.

  Turning my car onto the freeway, I accelerated, so glad that I was heading toward home. But even though I was three miles away from the church, I could still hear the wailing in my ears. Especially the cries of LaTonya Miller.

  I’d shed so many tears since yesterday morning, it was a wonder that I had any left. But I had plenty now, for LaTonya, the six-year-old who lost her identical twin sister. That gorgeous, precious little girl still pierced my heart.

  “Mommy and Daddy said LaTrisha died!”

  She kept saying that over and over, though I was convinced that she didn’t have a complete understanding of what that meant. Or maybe, because she was a twin, she did. I was concerned about all the children, but especially about LaTonya. I suspected that the closeness she and her sister shared, a relationship that had been established before they were born, could bring a ton of other issues. It was these unknown issues that truly concerned me. It was why that little girl had already captured my heart.

  I was grateful that LaTonya was with both of her parents, and even though the Millers were grieving the death of one daughter, they were willing to do whatever they had to do to help the child who was still with them. The Millers, though only in their twenties, seemed to be parents who understood their love would save their child.

  The Millers were parents who were so different from mine.

  I glanced at my cell phone, hesitated, then pressed the Bluetooth before I could change my mind.

  “Call Mom,” I said into the speaker quickly.

  As the phone rang, I held my breath, praying that the call would be answered. It rang, and rang, and rang. Just when I was sure that my mother would let my call go to voice mail once again, I heard her voice.

  “Emily?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Call me at home. He’s not here.”

  “Okay, I’m going to call you right back. Please pick up.”

  “I will, honey.”

  I clicked off and then commanded the hands-free unit to call her at home. As she waited for her house phone to ring, I imagined my mother deleting my call from her cell, erasing the evidence that she’d spoken to me.

  When my mother picked up on the first ring, I was happy and sad at the same time. Happy to speak to her, sad that I could count the number of times that I had in the last year.

  “How are you, sweetheart?”

  Those words resonated through the car and then wrapped around me like my mother’s arms, making me feel loved and safe for a moment.

  “I’m . . . okay.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  It had to be her mother’s intuition, another sign that we were still connected, that she still loved me.

  I answered, “It’s Miriam . . . her husband died.”

  She hesitated for a moment. “Miriam?”

  “My best friend.” I sighed inside.

  “Oh my! What happened?”

  “He died in a fire.”

  “Oh, goodness. That’s so sad. How is she?”

  I let a beat or two pass, wondering if my mother would backtrack and ask about Jamal, since I had mentioned that it was a fire. Then I said, “She’s not good.”

  My mother tsked and moved on. “Well, I’ll say a prayer for her.”

  I attributed my mother not asking about my husband to her not remembering that Jamal was a firefighter, too.

  “Anyway,” I began, deciding to move on as well. “I’ve been called in to work with the children who were in school at the time.”

  “The fire was at a school? Oh, my goodness.”

  “It’s been pretty tough, and so I just wanted . . . I just needed to speak to you. To hear your voice.”

  “I’m glad you called, sweetheart, because you have to be strong. For the children. They need you, and they’re lucky, because you’re one of the best.”

  “Thanks for saying that, Mom. Anyway, how are you?”

  “We’re doing well here. You know, I’m still very involved with DAR,” my mother said.

  That made me smile. My mother had been one of the key women in the Mississippi chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution since I could remember. When I was a little girl, I loved to go with her to the auxiliary meetings. She didn’t let me go often, but I lived for the afternoons when I could be with all of those women, wearing their Sunday best, sitting around drinking tea and eatin
g crumpets and tea cakes. It felt so grown-up to me. I always thought I was going to be just like those women, with their demure ways and Southern sensibilities.

  But I was so wrong. Maybe it was because I was too much of a tomboy. Or maybe it was because I’d soon grown to be so tall. Or maybe it was because once I was a teenager, I didn’t care much about the ways of the women who were lineal bloodline descendants of someone who fought in the American Revolution. I cared more about the present than I did the past.

  “This year,” my mother continued, “I’m working with the scholarship committee and the literacy outreach program that we just started.”

  “That sounds so good, Mom. I wish I were there—we could work on that together.”

  There was a moment of silence as both of us reflected on my words. We both knew that I wouldn’t be there with her. Probably never again.

  After a moment, I asked the question that I knew would make both of our hearts break. “How’s Dad?” My question wasn’t perfunctory. I truly wanted to know.

  “He’s playing golf,” she said, as if I’d asked an ordinary question about an ordinary father.

  “Mom . . . do you think . . . if I called him—”

  She didn’t even let me finish, and I could almost see my mother, sitting in the Victorian-decorated parlor (they never called it a living room) of the six-thousand-square-foot home that I’d grown up in, shaking her head.

  My mother answered my question with her own. “Are you still with Jamal?”

  “Mom, you say that as if we’re just dating. We’re married.”

  “That is exactly why your father won’t speak to you,” she said in a tone that sounded like she was scolding me.

  “You don’t approve of my marriage and you speak to me. Even when you know Dad’s going to be mad if he finds out, you still do it. Why can’t he love me the way you do?” I cried.

  My mother sighed. “It’s different for me,” she said. “Your father’s heart is truly broken. He doesn’t understand it and in a way, he blames himself.”

  “This is so ridiculous. He’s blaming himself like I went out and became a stripper or something.”