Later that afternoon Delilah returned home. All her shopping was done and her hair as well. Yet again, Delilah decided to spend more money she didn’t have on something she didn’t need.
She sat at the kitchen table and perused the Amsterdam News. It was a Harlem-based newspaper she subscribed to. Her connection to the old days.
The Baby Grand presents the Sarah Vaughan Review tonight at 8 p. m. . . .
That’s it. Delilah smiled and reread the announcement. It was at moments like this when she realized she’d have to go to an event alone. And she’d have to pay her own way. She’d tried to keep a few female friends around for just such occasions, but it never worked out. The clutch of hens always cackled about something. One of the women couldn’t hold her liquor, or another couldn’t hold a man, and none of them could hold a candle to her good looks.
Then she did something she hadn’t done in the past few weeks. Delilah laughed and said aloud, “Have mercy. I wonder how many people knew Sarah Vaughan always carried that towel around because she knew she was going on stage after me. I made ole Sassy sweat with fear. Menopause, my foot! She and I both knew better; just like she knew I could sing rings around her version of ‘Lover Man’ and ‘My Funny Valentine.’ ”
Self-praise always lifted her spirits, but it didn’t take but a phone call to deflate them. Her hopes collapsed when she called the Baby Grand. “I’m sorry, ma’am. If you’d called a little sooner instead of a couple of hours before showtime, you might’ve been able to get in. We’re completely sold out for tonight’s show. The last tickets sold about five minutes ago.”
Delilah slammed down the phone. She took it personally that someone would buy the last tickets and deny her a night out on the town. All she could do was hiss, “Selfish bastard . . .”
And then Delilah’s face lit up. She had an idea. Tapping out a rhythm with one finger on the newspaper, she continued, “If I can’t see Sarah Vaughan Review in Harlem, I’ll get a taste of her in Brooklyn.”
Delilah rushed into her bedroom and started rummaging through her closet. “I got a taste for some salmon anyway. I can get in a little karaoke as well, and the Blue Fish is the only place I trust for that. I’m sure it’s still there where I left it three years ago.”
Delilah wasn’t concerned about whether they had Sarah Vaughan tracks or not. She had a vast collection of karaoke jazz, gospel, and rhythm and blues. She’d always carry a few with her whenever she wanted to sing. “I can still be back in plenty of time to rest up for church,” she muttered. “In fact, tomorrow I’ll go back to Brooklyn. I think I’ll see what the choir’s up to at First Corinthian over on Lafayette Avenue. I’ll try their eleven o’clock service and then maybe drive through St. Stephen’s and hear Keith Wonderboy. Now that young man knows how to throw down a song.”
Delilah acted as though she were choosing her salvation, one from column A and one from column B.
Chapter 6
Three weeks and Deacon Pillar had not seen another sign of Delilah around New Hope. Saturday he awoke with the hope that perhaps she didn’t want to have anything to do with him, any more than he with her.
Later that Saturday afternoon, Deacon Pillar stepped refreshed from his shower, and dressed. He was renowned for his fashion sense, or lack of it. He had no problem with wearing polka dots and stripes together or seersucker jumpsuits if he felt like it. As long as his conk looked tight, he was alright.
That Saturday he wore what he called a Pillar Design special: a green and blue polka-dot tie, a black shirt open to mid chest with a dagger-style collar and green, skinny-leg pants. To complete his Pillar-style outfit, he snapped on a pair of neon blue suspenders. He used one hand and slicked back his conk.
That conked salt-and-pepper hair, despite the huge bald spot on the top of his skull, hadn’t moved in weeks, and needed a touch-up badly. But until he could get it done, he reached for his old standby remedy: a jar of clear hair goo, applied two layers thick so it’d blend in with the conk and smooth the frizzy new growth.
“Now, if I don’t make the pig beg me to take his oink,” the deacon said with another laugh, “then a sausage came from a parrot.”
Yet a few days ago the deacon wasn’t quite so confident, and he sure wasn’t laughing as much. Running into Delilah had set his peace meter almost back to zero. But turning his life over to Christ hadn’t rendered him a complete fool either, especially where Delilah was concerned. He still had some residual “street” left in his system. So he met the problem head-on and had already taken a precaution or two. It was just in case age hadn’t slowed hurricane Delilah down none. Anyone who’d ever crossed her path soon learned that summer storms left a smaller trail than Delilah Dupree Jewel when she was in her season. She was never out of season.
Consequently, he’d called in a favor from a longtime connection he had with a local homicide detective who worked at Jessie’s precinct. He gave the detective the name on her license plate.
As soon as Deacon Pillar had explained the situation, the detective replied, “I see the women in Pillar Land are still giving you headaches?”
“Only if I let them.” Deacon Pillar had let out a nervous laugh. “And I don’t intend to let them.”
Soon after the detective left, he reappeared with the information. “According to the DMV, she lives in Garden City, New York, and there’re enough outstanding tickets to plug a hole in Hoover Dam. It also looks like there’s a suspension involved. You want me to see what it is?”
The deacon had cut the detective off. He’d gotten what he felt he needed. “Garden City isn’t all that far, but perhaps it’s far enough to keep her out of my neighborhood and she can deal with her own traffic tickets, suspension, or whatever.”
Now, just knowing that he knew more about Delilah than she knew about him, put a little extra pep in the deacon’s step. He was ready for prayer meeting. The deacon checked his watch. It was four o’clock.
Two Saturdays out of the month, whenever possible, the deacon came together with Jessie, Tamara, and, of course, Cindy, before she passed away. They held their own Bible study, complete with testimony and songs of praise. Either Cindy or Tamara would be on the piano and the deacon and Jessie would bring out their guitar and bass. They’d tried to keep up the tradition since Cindy’s passing, and tonight was another effort.
Tonight’s Bible study would be extra special as it always was when Sister Marty was able to join them. She was a huge part of all their lives and had a great voice, too.
Marty was in her early sixties and despite their age difference had been Cindy’s closest confidante and Tamara’s godmother. And Marty was the head of the nurses’ unit at New Hope as well as a registered surgical nurse at Downstate Hospital. She was also the last foster mother Jessie’d had. She and her late husband rescued Jessie from the system when he was twelve years old. Childless, they’d given him all the love they had, which was a great deal more than he’d received in his other three foster homes. He didn’t leave Marty’s house until he was in his twenties and married Cindy. When Marty’s husband died, Jessie bought the house two doors down. Even more importantly, she was the first woman the deacon let get close to reviving any interest in a serious relationship.
It was almost six o’clock that same evening by the time the deacon had decided that he was enough of a good thing and fit for Bible study. Depending on how the evening went, he was glad he’d earlier asked Sister Marty if, after she finished work, she would like to take in a late movie, or just spend some quiet time together. The thought of the woman brought another broad grin to his chocolate face as he stood in his living room.
“My goodness, that’s a fine-looking woman.” The deacon smiled and sang aloud, “She wears the sexiest looking pitch-black weave I’ve ever seen. A petite little thing with large brown eyes, a shape most women her age would pay extra tithes to have. If that gal plays her cards right . . .”
“Deacon Pillar,” a voice through the hallway intercom called out, interru
pting his made-up song, “I’ve got the list for dinner. It’s your turn to get it.”
The deacon shook his head and laughed before pressing the intercom button to respond. “Okay, Tamara. I’ll stop in and get your list.”
Tamara was Jessie’s twenty-one-year-old daughter. There wasn’t anything the deacon wouldn’t do for her. In the almost four years since he’d moved into the upstairs apartment he’d watched her blossom into a gorgeous young woman. Tamara was smart, a singing superstar in the making, and already headed into her second year of college at Juilliard. Those were her good parts.
The bad part was that since he’d run into Delilah, he realized just how much the two looked alike. He needed to do everything he could to keep Delilah from tarnishing Tamara.
“Okay, baby girl,” the deacon called out as he peeked inside the downstairs apartment at Tamara. “Let’s see how much you gonna take me for this time.”
“Oh, please, Deacon Pillar. You know you got more money than you know what to do with. I’m just trying to help you spend it before you forget where you hid it.” Tamara’s gray eyes sparkled as she laughed and teased the deacon.
“If that’s the case, then I need to spend more money on buying something with more calories to put some more meat on your bones. I’m still trying to recover from trying to find a size two petite when you graduated from high school.”
Although a couple of generations apart, Deacon Pillar and Tamara had a bond neither could explain. Almost immediately after he’d moved in, he was always available to play referee whenever she couldn’t get her way with her parents. He’d go out of his way to buy her little things that cost big money. To most, Deacon Pillar acted more like Tamara’s kindly old grandfather than just the upstairs tenant. And because he had no family he could claim, Deacon Pillar spoiled not only Tamara but Jessie. And he simply adored Cindy when she was alive. Coaxing her into singing while he strummed his guitar was his piece of heaven.
“Don’t you worry about me and my weight, Deacon Pillar. As long as I don’t go down to a size eighteen months, I’m cool.”
Tamara always had an uncontrollable giggle, especially when she gave the deacon the same answer when he teased her about her weight. Her giggle was that carefree sound that’d caused him to nickname her “baby girl.” “By the way,” she continued, “since I’m spending up your money, would you like for me to go with you? Daddy’s taking a shower, so he won’t be ready for Bible study for at least another hour.”
Deacon Pillar, as he sometimes did, touched Tamara’s cheek and gave her a quick kiss. “Nope, you stay here and finish working on that tune I taught you. You didn’t hit that G-flat and resolve it like you should. I’m gonna walk to the restaurant to use up some of that extra time and I can get my exercise in, too. Besides, the ladies on Putnam Avenue haven’t gotten their Pillar fix for today.”
“Okay, Deacon Playa, you do that. But you call me if you get a charley horse or something, or if Sister Marty catches you trying to fix something.”
She giggled again as she left the room, but that time the deacon didn’t laugh quite as hard.
If only Tamara didn’t look so much like that treacherous Delilah. There was no denying their resemblance now, and it made him sadder not being able to tell Tamara that he was her natural grandfather. It hadn’t bothered him nearly as much in the past as it had over the past three weeks.
He was glad Tamara had turned away and couldn’t see his face. Damn you, Delilah! When he stepped out of the apartment into the sunlight, he looked at the palms of his hands. They’d always had a dusty color to them. Right now, in the brightness of the sunlight, they looked dark and dirty; just like his past with Delilah. He quickly shoved the list and his hands into his pockets and walked away.
And much like real life, it wouldn’t take long before he’d have to show those hands. Even though he believed that God wouldn’t place any more on him than he could stand, and that the Almighty had forgiven his sins, he suddenly wasn’t as confident. He wasn’t ready for any trial or test that would reveal a past he’d avoided for so long. Just living in his small apartment above Jessie and his family was all he needed. Was God going to snatch it away? Would He use Delilah to do it?
Chapter 7
Delilah parked her Navigator a little ways from the front door of the Blue Fish Restaurant. She’d worn a bright yellow, sleeveless cotton top and a skirt that stopped about midcalf. Her walk was easy, not like the little hops that most women her age moved with. Each step permitted the high split to show creamy thighs with no cottage cheese curse. With her bag of karaoke tunes in her hand and her head raised as though she were above the surroundings, she walked toward the door.
Not a lot had changed in the many years since she’d been there. There was still the ghetto décor of burnt building frames dotted along Fulton Street, a few crackheads crossing against the traffic while they laughed and searched the ground, snatching at anything tiny and white. Of course, there were still not enough cops on each corner. There was what looked like a new shade of blue on the brick-and-mortar one-story building, and a larger sign that carried the name of its new owner. But it wasn’t until she’d actually gotten closer to the door that she realized that the sign no longer listed karaoke as entertainment.
“When did they stop having karaoke?” Delilah threw one hand up in surrender. “Okay,” she snapped. “I give up. Let me get something to eat. It’s their loss.” She stepped inside and told the server she only needed a table for one. The server led her to a small table for two near the front window. He removed one of the place settings and handed her a menu.
She hadn’t sat for a good five minutes, poring over what she could afford and what she was going to order, when she heard it.
“Dammit, Delilah.”
Delilah didn’t bother to look up. She knew it was Thurgood Pillar calling her name, again.
Just that quick, with just that one outburst, Deacon Pillar had erased his three weeks of peace and quiet. As soon as the letter D left his mouth, he’d lost the battle.
He stood there in his black seersucker shirt and pants, not two feet away from her, and wheezed. It was all he could do. His hands filled with the bags of food he’d ordered for the Bible study were the only things that kept him from choking her.
Delilah still didn’t bother to look around. Although there was no doubt the sizzling sound heard through the din in the restaurant came from the kitchen nearby, she was so mad it could’ve just as well been her wig crackling. She was just that angry. “Just when I thought there was somewhere I could go without seeing you, here you are.”
He’d walked the ten blocks to the restaurant praising God and humming. The deacon, though tired from the walk, had no more than a few moments ago resolved to walk happily back. The sight of her had erased all of that. He’d lost it and his mouth was now in overdrive.
Despite the chances of someone in the place knowing him, and that he was a church deacon, he blasted her. “You can go to hell! Now that’s someplace you won’t see me.”
Delilah shot up from the table. She turned around so fast she almost pulled off the tablecloth. With both hands now on the table, she glared. “Your old ass will be giving the welcome address while the devil ushers you in.”
From all over the Blue Fish, inquiring and surprised eyes turned in their direction. The server put his experience to work. He sprinted over and yanked another chair from one of the nearby empty tables. He shoved the chair by the deacon and almost at the same time a second place setting appeared on the table. The server almost slapped the deacon on the cheek as he forced a menu into the old man’s hands. “Have a seat, sir, where you can continue your overanimated conversation in private.”
“I don’t want him seated with me,” Delilah said quickly as she slumped back down onto her chair.
“You don’t get to tell me what I can do and where I can go. You gave up that right years ago when you decided the name Pillar wasn’t good enough for you.” Whatever else
the deacon was thinking didn’t require common sense or a lot of thought, evidenced by the way he then slammed the bags down to the floor and plopped down onto the chair. He sat opposite Delilah and let his glare show he wasn’t finished. “If you had any sense of decency, you’d have divorced me first. Or at the very least divorced me from wherever you’ve been hiding all this time.”
“Well, awrighty now. I’ll be back.” The server announced his lie with an air of authority. He’d done his job. Combat duty was not in his job description.
“The real question is why haven’t you gotten a divorce?” Delilah snapped. She couldn’t decide between giving the deacon hell and being nice so she could get her way. But he still hadn’t mentioned Jessie. Perhaps she could throw him off track and get him angry enough to spill something.
The deacon’s eyes became slits as he pondered his next step. I don’t care if it has been about forty years, she’s hiding something. I know her. She hasn’t mentioned his name at all. I wonder if she knows that Jessie lives right here in Brooklyn and that’s the real reason she’s haunting so far from Garden City.
The minutes seemed an eternity as the staring contest continued while each marinated in thought and plotted. But the time continued with no sign of either mule giving in, until another server appeared with a basket of bread sticks and a saucer overflowing with pats of butter. Much like the first server, he didn’t need a fortune-teller to tell him there was anger in the air.
Neither the deacon nor Delilah had any real plans beyond the stare-down. It took the loud sounds of their stomachs growling to break the ice.
Delilah was the first to reach for one of the bread sticks. After all, it was her table. He, on the other hand, was an uninvited and unwanted intruder. She studied him for a moment while she buttered the bread. He still said nothing, but she could’ve sworn he looked like he was about to pass out from hunger.
Don't Blame the Devil Page 3
