by E. N. Joy
Perhaps Deborah should have worded that differently, because she raised a red flag with Ms. Lucas.
“You have to get your stories straight only when you plan on telling a lie,” Ms. Lucas said, poking her lips out and crossing her arms. “The truth is as straight as it gets. It’s a lie that’s all crooked and twisted.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Deborah grabbed her head. She was in no mood to debate with her mother.
“Well, what exactly—”
Deborah put her hand up, cutting off her mother’s words. She rested her forehead in her hand while shaking her head. “Mom, please.” Her voice almost cracked, and she fought back the tears threatening to escape her lids.
The baby began whimpering a little bit while he slept. Deciding to go ahead and tend to her grandson, Ms. Lucas didn’t put up a fight. She turned her attention to Tatum and left the other two grown folks in the room to do what they had to do. “Come on, Ganny Ban Banny’s baby.”
Deborah sighed and then made her way toward the steps.
“I’ll come help you. I’ll get your bathwater together while you—” Lynox began, but Deborah cut him off.
“I’m going to take a shower,” she said, in spite of her mother’s orders. She was grown enough to take a shower without getting her head wet.
“Well, okay,” Lynox said after a quick pause. “I’ll, uh, go start the water for you. You know how long it takes for the water to get hot in the master bath.”
Deborah started walking up the steps.
Lynox came up behind her. He put his hand on the small of her back. “Let me help you up the—”
Deborah turned sharply to face Lynox. “I don’t need you,” she snapped.
Lynox was caught off guard. Hearing his wife say those words stung him.
Looking at her husband and seeing the hurt in his eyes, Deborah added, “I don’t need your help. I don’t need you to help me up the steps.”
Although it was Deborah’s intention to be apologetic, Lynox still held on to her first words. He heard all sorts of things between the lines of that initial comment. His wife didn’t need him anymore. She didn’t want him anymore. He heard that and so much more. He slowly put his hand back down at his side. “I was trying to help.”
“You’ve done enough.”
Those words were uttered by Ms. Lucas, who had witnessed the exchange while she held the baby in her arms.
Deborah didn’t say a word about her mother speaking on her behalf. Instead, she continued up the steps. Lynox waited until she was at the top of the stairs before he followed her up. When he got to their bedroom, Deborah was over at her dresser, pulling out underclothing to put on. Lynox went and sat on the bed.
“I’m sorry about last night. It was an accident,” Lynox said.
Deborah closed the dresser drawer after retrieving a bra and underwear. She turned to face Lynox. “You say that like you’re trying to convince me. No need to. I was there. I know that it was my own actions that led to me ending up with stitches and a night in jail. I don’t blame you, Lynox. Not at all.” That was as close to the truth as Deborah was going to get.
“Oh yeah?” He stood up. “Then why does it feel like you have an attitude with me, like you’re mad at me?”
“I’m mad at myself,” Deborah said. “I’m disgusted with myself. I’m disappointed in myself.” The more she spoke, the louder and more emotional she got. “I hate myself, and as I sat in that nasty jail cell all night long, all I could think about was how I wished I was dead.”
“Oh, no, baby,” Lynox said. “We are not going to start talking like that.” He walked over to Deborah.
“But it’s how I feel,” Deborah said, trying her best to keep her tears at bay. “You have no idea what I’m going through. It’s like a war is going on, and my mind is the battlefield. I’m both the enemy and the ally. It’s me against my own self.” Deborah looked Lynox in his eyes. “I have tried everything to get right, but I can’t.”
“Why don’t you try counseling again?” Lynox suggested.
“I did, several months ago.” Deborah turned her back to Lynox and faced the dresser. Unable to look at herself in the mirror attached to the dresser, she simply closed her eyes.
“What? When? For how long? Why did you stop?” Lynox had an array of questions. Why hadn’t he known about his wife starting up counseling again? Had he been that involved in writing and book signings that she felt she couldn’t even stop him long enough to tell him what was going on? Or had she been telling him? Showing him? The signs were all there, now that he knew what the signs were.
When he and Deborah had hooked up again, Deborah hadn’t hidden from him the fact that she’d had a meltdown/breakdown period, though she hadn’t used those exact words. She’d decided to get help by going to counseling. Lynox hadn’t had a problem with that. In his unprofessional opinion, more people needed to see counselors, just because. It was like preventative maintenance, as far as he was concerned. If a person had a nice vehicle, they should make sure they did all the right things to take care of it and keep it in tip-top shape. Take it to the shop to get oil changes, tire rotations, tune-ups. Regular maintenance would keep the vehicle up and running. Why wait until the check engine light had been on for a year and the car had completely broken down before taking it in for service? Most people with good sense wanted to get the most out of their vehicles and didn’t wait until that happened, so why shouldn’t people show the same consideration with their mind?
Deborah was a little overwhelmed by all the questions Lynox was shooting at her. She took a deep breath and attempted to answer them one at a time. “A few months ago, when I started to feel like my old self again . . . the not so good old self, I decided to give counseling a try again.”
“Okay. And you didn’t tell me, because . . .”
“Because I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me.” Deborah turned to face Lynox. “Or leave me.”
“Why would I leave you or even be disappointed in you?”
“Because I told you I was fixed,” Deborah snapped. “I told everybody I was fixed.” Tears began to flow from Deborah’s eyes. “I stood at that church altar and told everybody how God had delivered me and healed my mind.” Deborah was referring to the Sunday she’d gone to visit Cinnamon’s church. “If people found out that I really wasn’t, everyone would think I was a joke.”
Deborah turned back away from Lynox and began to weep as she thought back to that Sunday at the altar. When Cinnamon had invited Deborah to attend her church that time in Persia’s basement, Deborah had kept her word and gone.
“Deborah, I’m so glad you made it,” Cinnamon had said when Deborah walked through the church doors. She’d promised Deborah in a text message that she’d wait for her before going into the sanctuary.
Deborah was glad about that, because she wasn’t comfortable visiting other churches. New Day had been her church home for as long as she could remember. The only times she ever stepped foot inside another church were when Pastor Margie was a guest preacher somewhere and asked New Day members to come out and support her, or when she was attending a church wedding at a different church. Not all churches operated the same way. Deborah was a creature of planning and habit. She had to know what was going on and what to do next at all times. She was almost neurotic when it came to such matters. She hated feeling like she stood out. Even worse, she didn’t want people to think she wasn’t a seasoned Christian who attended church on the regular. Looking like a fish out of water was too overwhelming for her. She wouldn’t be able to enjoy a service just because of that.
The only reason she’d even agreed to visit this church was that, ironically, she wanted to prove that she was a Christian. She wanted Cinnamon to know that she was more than a weed head. It wouldn’t be the first time she had gone to church not for God, but for reasons of her own.
“Thanks for inviting me,” Deborah had said and then had hugged Cinnamon.
“Well, we better head
inside. Service is about to start.” Cinnamon turned toward the sanctuary doors.
“Wait a minute,” Deborah said. “Where’s Klarke? I thought she was supposed to be coming too.” Deborah looked around, hoping to spot Klarke. It would be nice not to be the only fish out of water.
“Oh, she can’t make it,” Cinnamon said. She leaned in and whispered in Deborah’s ear. “She got a bad batch of you know what . . . homegrown. She has a mad headache.”
Deborah looked confused. She hadn’t been a weed smoker long enough to know the different kinds of weeds and the different effects they had. Cinnamon could see that Deborah was confused, so she shooed her hand and led her on into the sanctuary.
Now Deborah was more nervous than ever. Klarke wasn’t there to take some of the attention away from her. Besides that, Cinnamon wasn’t even her friend per se. She knew her only through Klarke. Now Deborah really didn’t want to be there. It was too late for her to cry headache too, though, as they had already entered the sanctuary.
“Hi, Sister Ethel,” Cinnamon said to one of the ushers. “How are you?”
“Blessed and highly favored,” Sister Ethel responded.
As Sister Ethel led them to their seats, Cinnamon spoke to several of her other fellow church members. She’d say good morning to them, and they’d reply, “Joy comes in the morning, indeed.” She’d ask them how they were, and they’d reply, “Blessed,” or “It’s not how I am. It’s who am I, and I am a child of the king.”
Deborah noticed that out of the five or six people Cinnamon had greeted or asked how they were, not a single person had replied with a simple “Hello” or an “I’m fine. How are you?” Deborah could tell right off the bat that half of these people were going to be too heavenly religious to be earthly good at all.
A couple of minutes after they were seated, a church elder took the pulpit and began exhorting. Even though she had smiled during her entire trek to the pulpit, once she got to talking, she sounded mad at the world.
“I don’t know what you came to do, but I came to praise Him,” she shouted. “How can you sit there, sit down on God, after all He’s done for you?”
Deborah hadn’t been led by the spirit to stand, but this lady seemed to be glaring right at everyone who hadn’t stood to their feet at the sound of her voice. That was the only reason why Deborah eventually stood.
Standing wasn’t enough for this woman. She scolded the congregation for not clapping hard enough. “How y’all gon’ pity pat God? He deserves more than an old pity pat clap!”
Nothing the congregation did seemed to please this woman. If Deborah wasn’t mistaken, their mission, though, wasn’t to please man, but to please God. Oh well.
“Some of you got the nerve to straggle in late and then sit down on God,” the woman continued. “I bet y’all don’t be late for that nine-to-five, for the man who didn’t hang, bleed, and die for you, yet you have no problem showing up to the house of the Lord late.” She shook her head.
And just when Deborah thought the Holy Spirit was the only one with the power to convict folks, this exhorter proved her wrong. This woman was making half the people wish they hadn’t bothered to come to church at all, and Deborah was one of them.
Sure, once upon a time Deborah had had that same attitude about being late for church. But then she had had that crazy morning when everything that could go wrong had. Her family had arrived at church late, but at least they’d gotten there. It was safe to say that the person in the pulpit didn’t always know the hell it took for some folks to get to church . . . late or alive!
After the woman finally got finished using the pulpit to fuss everybody out, she introduced one of the deacons to open up the service with prayer.
“Come on, saints. Let everyone please come down to the altar and pray,” the deacon told them.
Cinnamon and some of the other members of the congregation headed to the altar, and Deborah followed suit. There were some who remained in their seats, however, either because it had gotten too crowded down at the altar or because they were older and had a hard enough time sitting on a pew, let alone standing up. Some just plain ole didn’t feel like making the trip. Fifteen minutes into the prayer, Deborah wished she’d been one of those who had remained in their seat.
And I thought Elder Ross was bad, Deborah thought to herself. She’d take an Elder Ross prayer over this deacon’s anytime.
Once the prayer had finally ended everyone went back to their seats. Scriptures were read, from both the Old Testament and the New Testament. Next, someone came and made announcements, and then the woman who had fussed everybody out returned to the pulpit, this time to tell folks about themselves when it came to paying their tithes. She did everything from accusing folks of stealing from God by not paying their tithes to charging them with using God’s money to buy pizza and fast food.
“Even if you have to give your last gas money to pay your tithes, then that’s what you are commanded to do,” the woman said. “So what if you have to walk to work? Jesus did all His work on foot for His entire life.”
Deborah looked around at the faces in the sanctuary. The older saints agreed 100 percent, as evidenced by their nods and amens. That was probably because they were true and faithful tithers, so they didn’t have to worry about struggling down the road with canes and walkers. Some of the younger folks had their noses turned up and were rolling their eyes. Young people had to give their last gas money to the church offering basket? Some of them wouldn’t even catch the bus, let alone walk. Deborah had seen a Facebook post once about someone’s child who had called off work because he or she didn’t have a ride. These young folks with a spirit of entitlement were too much.
Deborah was so glad when the church choir entered the stands. She was definitely ready to be taken to the throne. She said a silent prayer that they would usher in the spirit, set the atmosphere so that the house could be prepared to receive the Word of the Lord from the pastor.
“You all right?” Cinnamon whispered to Deborah. “You enjoying yourself?”
Deborah nodded and then smiled. The nod was to confirm that she was all right. The smile was because her grandmother had always told her that if she didn’t have something good to say, then she shouldn’t say anything at all.
Deborah turned her attention back to the choir as the musicians began to play. From the first note, Deborah knew these people could sang, but within seconds she realized that they were not singing for the Lord, but rather for the choir director.
Although the choir director was rather short, he wasn’t so short where he needed to stand on a chair to direct, but that was exactly what he was doing. He had his director’s stick and was just a-flapping and swinging those arms as he stood on that chair. The members of the choir never took their eyes off of him, for fear they might miss a beat and be reprimanded.
The choir sounded good, but it was pure entertainment. The choir director was serious, too, as he pointed that stick and mean mugged anyone who he thought even looked like they were about to sing a wrong note. The choir members were sweating bullets. The director was sweating too. Deborah was so glad when they finally sang a song with a slower tempo. One more fast song, and she was sure he was going to flap them arms until he flew right out of one of the stained-glass windows.
“Our choir be jamming, don’t they?” Cinnamon asked Deborah, elbowing her.
“Oh, they be jamming,” Deborah agreed. They were definitely treating those songs as if they were the jam.
Praise and worship finished up their show. Right when Deborah thought she was finally going to get to the Word of God, the first lady of the church was introduced, and she welcomed all the first-time visitors. Deborah closed her eyes and bowed her head. This was too much. It became even more to bear when the first-time visitors were asked to stand. The first lady welcomed them one by one and asked them to introduce themselves.
When it was her turn, Deborah said, “I’m Deborah Chase. I’m a member of New Day Temple of F
aith, where Pastor Margie Hill is the shepherd of the house.”
“Pastor Margie,” the first lady said. “She that white woman, right?”
Deborah was stunned. What the fact that Pastor Margie was white had to do with anything, Deborah had no idea. Still, she nodded out of respect, even though she felt nothing but complete disrespect.
Luckily for Deborah, the first lady moved on. When the next visitor introduced herself, the pastor asked her if she attended a church or if she was looking for a home church.
“I belong to a church,” the woman said.
“What church?” the first lady asked.
“Victorious Life Christian Center.”
“Who is the pastor?”
Deborah couldn’t believe the first lady was drilling that poor woman, trying to catch her in a lie. It was a known fact that visitors to a church often made up lies about which church they belonged to. Either they didn’t want the church they were visiting to hound them about joining, or they didn’t want to appear to be unchurched heathens, so they lied. Usually, the unchurched heathens, when asked which church they were a member of, named one of the popular or larger churches in town. They might know the name of the church, but nine times out of ten they had no idea who the pastor was. It was clear that the first lady’s intentions were to catch someone in a lie. After watching the way she drilled this poor woman, the remaining visitors knew better than to lie.
The pastor couldn’t have mounted that pulpit any sooner than he did. Deborah looked down at her watch. This church service had started at the same time that New Day’s had. Pastor Margie would be about to close out her sermon by now, yet this pastor was just getting started.
The pastor had named the sermon, had even based it on a scripture, but what he talked about for the next half hour did not relate to the title of the sermon or to the scripture at all. By the time the pastor had altar call, Deborah wanted to run down there and prostrate herself on the altar, to express her thanks to the Lord that she could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel.
