“Thank you, Deacon Pillar, but it’s not necessary. I believe she probably went for a walk. She’ll be back.” Jessie turned back to face Delilah. He nodded her way and admonished the deacon, “Just make sure you take out the trash when you leave.”
“That’s mighty Christian of you.” Delilah turned away from Jessie and with her head held high, as usual, added, “I need some fresh air.” Delilah announced it as though Jessie had begged her to stay instead of ordering her to leave.
Defiant as always, she spun around and looked Jessie straight in his face while saying to the deacon, “C’mon, Thurgood, let’s go.” Sheer stubbornness replaced her need to use the bathroom.
Delilah took a few steps back without taking her eyes off Jessie. She grabbed the deacon by one elbow and started to lead him out of the room. She wasn’t waiting for the deacon to respond or to recover from the shock of her deciding that they needed to leave because she said so.
“You just hold up a moment, Delilah!” Jessie’s eyes narrowed and sweat poured from his face and neck. “In the precious name of Jesus”—in an instant Jessie went from threatening and almost cussing to praying—“Delilah, I’ll not let you take away my testimony.”
“C’mon, Brother Jewel.” The deacon gently moved Delilah aside. He stepped to Jessie and put an arm around his shoulder. “That’s right, you pray. You let God use you.”
“Why are you two acting like y’all the only ones God can use?” Delilah wasn’t certain if she liked the spontaneous change in Jessie. She was sure she didn’t trust it coming from the deacon.
“Delilah,” Jessie said softly, as though she were a child and not his mother, “I’m beyond angry and conflicted. Yet I can feel a stirring deep down in my soul. The Bible says that I shouldn’t let my good works be spoken evil of. . . .”
“Preach it and make it plain.” The deacon relaxed his arm around Jessie. The way he did so looked as though he’d really placed his arm there to hold Jessie back from jumping on Delilah. “God is not an author of confusion.”
“Ain’t nobody confused but you, Thurgood. Everybody knows the Bible says not to let the moon show up and you still mad.”
She needed something to show that she was not intimidated and knew a little something about God’s Word.
“The Bible says not to let the sun go down on your anger,” the deacon murmured and turned back to Jessie. “She does try, though.”
“For Pete’s sake, be quiet, Thurgood.” Delilah shifted her pocketbook from one hand to her other and stared directly at Jessie. “I’m not saying that you don’t have a reason to be upset with me, because you do. But I am saying that you don’t have all the facts, so before you give the devil your testimony, you might get to know me a little better.”
“I’m not blaming the devil for this.” Jessie continued to speak softly yet his mouth still looked a bit twisted. And the perspiration now poured from his head and down around his ears. “I am saying that I just watched the one good remaining part of me and Cindy bolt from her home. I’m saying that the Bible says that I am to forgive my enemies and those who spitefully use me.”
Delilah’s mask of composure slipped and she didn’t try to hide it. Her son’s words had confused her and she wasn’t sure where he was heading. “I’m not your enemy and I’ve never used you.”
Deacon Pillar, as usual, shot off a word or two from the sidelines. “I can bear witness to that.” Then he remembered he wasn’t supposed to have known that Delilah was Jessie’s mother, so he added, “I’ve never known her to use any children for nothing. . . .”
“Thurgood, will you please just keep quiet.”
“This time you’re right, Dee Dee. I shouldn’t interfere.”
Jessie used the deacon’s interruption as a chance to pick up a Bible off the coffee table. “It’s true,” Jessie said as he began to flip through the pages of the Bible using his good hand. “You’re not my enemy in the way the Bible describes such, and I don’t recall you ever using me.”
“I haven’t,” Delilah replied. “I can promise you that.” She wanted to add more, but was drawn to the many pictures on the wall and almost everywhere else in the room. They were of Jessie, Tamara, and Cindy. There were even a few that had the deacon posing with them. Delilah’s heart raced and her blood boiled. The deacon had enjoyed what she’d given up. All this time, and her family was so close and yet so far away. I shouldn’t be the only one Jessie’s mad at. Delilah turned to the side and glared at the deacon, who’d already turned away.
“But you see”—Jessie stopped thumbing the pages as he apparently found what he sought—“this is the scripture that the Spirit brought to my mind after Tamara left and when I’d just used language that I hadn’t in years. The Word says in Proverbs 23:22, ‘Listen to your father who gave you life, and do not despise your mother when she is old.’ ”
Both the deacon and Delilah were completely dumbfounded. Neither dared to breathe or to speak, each for a different reason.
“Now, I haven’t used the term mother in quite a long time, unless I referred to Cindy or to my last foster mother. And I don’t know who my father is, and at this point, I’m not sure I’d believe you if you told me. I do know beyond a shadow of a doubt that at this moment it is easier for me to forgive my enemies than it is for me to forgive you. So I’m going to now do what me and Cindy always did when we confronted the devil.”
“So now I’m the devil?” Delilah’s face produced a frown that made her look very much like something she didn’t like—she looked her age.
Jessie ignored Delilah’s question and continued. His voice remained calm despite the pain that still engulfed the hand he used to point to a room off to the side. “I’m going to go into my prayer closet. I’ll fast and talk to God. I don’t know how long it will take, but I do know this: My God will fight my battles and He’ll lead me to the place in His will where I’m to be and where He is, too.”
“Then you need to pray for Jehovah-shammah’s grace,” Delilah whispered. It took all the strength she possessed not to reach out to him. She’d do anything to have it all back again.
For a brief second both Deacon Pillar and Jessie were stunned, but Jessie recovered first. “What do you know about Jehovah-shammah?”
As Jessie asked the question, the deacon pondered the same thing. I thought I knew all of God’s nicknames.
“Jehovah-shammah means ‘the Lord is there.’ ” Delilah’s voice was reverent as she said the name Jehovah. No matter how she prayed, it was always something about the name Jehovah that gave her the most comfort.
“I know what it means,” Jessie replied. “I’m just surprised that you would.”
Still confused, Delilah decided to take what Jessie said as something positive. “I’m so sorry you’re in this state, but you being a man of God, I know you will find it in your heart to forgive me.”
“I certainly hope so, too, Delilah, because right now I can’t stand to look at you; I can’t stand to hear your excuses. To be truthful, I’m not certain I even care where you’ve been all these years, and that’s not of God, nor is it the person I truly am.”
“I’m sure you’ve raised Tamara to never have a reason to look at you like that. . . .” Delilah’s eyes swelled with tears, preventing her from explaining further, but she refused to let one drop fall. Perhaps, if she hadn’t given in to her stubbornness instead of pushing the deacon out the door ahead of her, she would’ve seen the flood of tears that’d begun to soak her son’s face.
Jessie remained silent as his tears poured. He looked like an adult who’d suddenly had to grow up and didn’t want to. All his life he’d wanted to experience the beautiful flower of a natural mother’s love. Now it came delivered in person and he’d treated it like poison ivy.
But like Delilah, who hadn’t seen her son’s tears, he, too, had turned and walked away and hadn’t seen hers.
All those tears wasted.
In the darkness, with only a glimmer of light provided by t
he street lamp, Tamara rested against the coolness of the metal chain fence for almost twenty minutes, and she was hot. Emotions of anger, confusion, and the need to pray collided.
“Tamara?”
Tamara’s face swung around toward Sister Marty’s voice. The proud walk, the pure white nurse’s uniform—she’d know the woman anywhere, even if she’d not called out. Sister Marty was the sort of godmother who’d laughed, sung, prayed, cooked, and was the one who answered yes when her mother often said no. Although Sister Marty, a petite woman, was a size five to Cindy’s tall size eighteen, some folks wouldn’t believe that Marty wasn’t somehow Cindy’s lost sister. And because Cindy loved Marty for the way she’d loved Jessie when he was in her foster care, the two remained inseparable until Cindy’s death did the parting.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Sister Marty called out again as she came toward Tamara lugging two heavy plastic bags. Her usually smiling, pecan-colored, heart-shaped face looked confused. “What are you doing outside my door by yourself? You have my spare key. Why didn’t you go on inside and wait for me?”
By the time Tamara could think of an answer, Sister Marty was standing next to her.
“I haven’t been here but for a minute,” Tamara replied, not wanting Sister Marty to worry. “It was such a nice evening I thought I’d come down and chat for a moment.”
“Oh, now really . . . ?” Sister Marty handed one of the bags to Tamara and started up the porch steps. “Didn’t your father tell you that I was working late and couldn’t make the Bible study? I certainly hope he told the deacon. . . .”
And that’s when Tamara happened to turn and look up the block. She saw Delilah appear to drag the deacon along as the two of them headed toward the deacon’s truck. The truck was parked just a few doors down from Sister Marty’s.
“I don’t know how you carried these heavy bags,” Tamara said as she almost threw Sister Marty through the open door. “Whew! I need to hurry and set this thing down.”
Sister Marty was too surprised to answer. And she’d have been even more surprised if she’d seen what Tamara had.
Chapter 9
It was Monday, and two days had passed since the deacon had driven Delilah home from Jessie’s house. She couldn’t believe she’d finally seen her son and met her granddaughter. But now she’d grown tired of being stuck at home.
And yet she still couldn’t wrap her mind around how her only family lived an hour or so away, and that she’d had her car repossessed. She’d have to take three buses just to get to a train that would take her to Brooklyn. She needed her beloved Navigator to get around, and back into their good graces. Delilah was at her wits’ end. Knowing where Jessie lives ain’t doing me a bit of good if I can’t get to him. And what about getting to a church service? I certainly need a car for that.
So over the past forty-eight hours she’d often fallen to her knees or just stood in the middle of the floor and prayed.
Delilah looked at the clock in her living room. It was almost twelve noon. She’d heard it mentioned that God was always available for extra heavy lifting at twelve, three, six, and nine o’clock. So she went for it.
“Jehovah, one and only . . .” Delilah began with what she felt was the solid truth. Everything she’d had was her one and only: the deacon, the only man she’d ever married or truly loved; Jessie and Tamara, her only son and granddaughter; even her career—she’d never done anything but sing and model. She needed to start there because at the moment, none of her life made sense except her one and only great Jehovah.
And so there she was. Even at the end of praying for two days, the sense of family she’d seen on display in Jessie’s living room gnawed away at her. Where was that homey feeling inside her home? And why should the deacon be free to remarry, if she went through with the divorce plans? Did she really need to go through with the divorce after the deacon hadn’t been honest about knowing where Jessie was? It was beginning to look as though everyone would end up with a family except her.
She’d gone from room to room, inside her large rented house in affluent Garden City. And yet Delilah felt as abandoned and as poor as a church mouse. Suddenly none of her mementos displayed throughout the house meant a thing.
Pictures of her and Ella Fitzgerald should’ve been of her and perhaps her daughter-in-law, Cindy. The ones of her and jazz great Arthur Prysock, whom she’d met when she spent a short time in South Carolina—that should’ve been Jessie standing proudly next to her. Even her precious autographed pictures of her and Lena Horne became almost irrelevant. Lena had written on one of them, To Delilah, my sister from another mother. It should’ve been of her and Tamara. After all, if she could pass for Lena, then so could her one and only granddaughter.
Delilah had also waited for the deacon to call. When he’d brought her home the other night she could tell he’d softened a bit toward her. Besides, she could’ve spilled the beans about him back at Jessie’s and she hadn’t. Before he’d driven away she’d exploited his unspoken guilt and gotten him to promise to help her get her car back. Of course, she had to also promise not to drive it anywhere on Jessie’s block. She’d only made the promise because she had to. Delilah also had to get her family back, and if that meant she had to park around the corner from Jessie’s block to keep her word, she would.
But just when she thought the deacon wasn’t going to come through with his promise to call, he finally did. He called that afternoon. But all he seemed to want to talk about was making an appointment to see a divorce lawyer. Every time she asked, “What about my car?” he’d respond with, “What about that divorce?” Finally she’d slammed down the phone out of frustration.
To her credit, she did want to call him back. She’d sacrifice and be the bigger person, but she couldn’t. She should’ve insisted on getting his telephone number, too. Doggone cable folks would have to keep their subscribers’ numbers unlisted. She’d gotten that tidbit from the deacon when she told him how hard she’d tried to find Jessie and couldn’t.
But all she could do was go inside her living room and wait. Waiting wasn’t something she was good at or used to, so she hoped the deacon was still anxious for his divorce and would call back.
At the same time that a frustrated Delilah waited inside her Long Island home, anger brewed over in Brooklyn, New York.
Upstairs inside his comfortable one-bedroom apartment, Deacon Thurgood Pillar was pissed. He slammed down the black phone, which looked almost pale compared to the deep ebony hue his already dark skin took on.
“That witch Delilah just hung up on me. She’s fussing about where I’ve been, like I was supposed to be at her beck and call.”
So Deacon Pillar did what any proud man, who’d always bragged he’d given the cat its meow, would do in a situation like that. He got dressed in a multicolored, striped shirt, polka-dot suspenders, and khaki pants, which like all his pants were an ill fit for his height.
Once he got inside, he ignored the sound of his bony butt slapping against the leather seats of the truck he called Old Lemon. His gnarly long fingers yanked the gears hard enough to create a new gear. Then he tore out of Brooklyn for the long drive out to Long Island.
By the time Deacon Pillar reached Garden City, it was well into the late afternoon. Most of the residents on Delilah’s street were absent from their front yards. It didn’t mean they weren’t home, it was just that they preferred to lounge in their backyards, on patios, or in swimming pools. Hanging out in the front of one’s home was so low class.
Deacon Pillar searched the block until he found Delilah’s address. It was dark when he’d driven her home the other night. This was his first opportunity to see it in the daytime. “No wonder this woman stays broke and can’t pay a car note.”
He pulled up to Delilah’s house and turned off the engine, which always barked like a mad dog and caused cats and squirrels to scatter. Accustomed to parking in his crime-filled area of Brooklyn, he took a moment to wrap a club device around the steering column,
and got out. No sooner had he rung the doorbell and she finally opened it a bit than he received the welcome he’d figured he’d get from Delilah.
“What the hell took you so long?”
“Don’t talk trash to me,” Deacon Pillar ordered loudly before he pushed past her and entered. And before she could protest, he marched toward her living room as though he’d been there many times before.
“Damn.” Delilah looked out the door to make sure no one saw what’d happened and called the cops. She followed a few seconds later. Her face was still a mask of irritation. “Don’t bother to sit ’cause we need to get started.”
“I don’t intend on staying too long. I guess we must’ve had a bad connection. I’m sure a classy woman such as you wouldn’t hang up on someone who’s trying to help her out.”
“I reserve my class for them that has some.”
“Not has some, it’s have it.”
Like an old habit he just couldn’t get rid of, the deacon wanted to reprimand Delilah further about her bad English, but decided to stick to the plan.
“Look, Delilah.” Deacon Pillar began to speak, and with a quick wave of his hand he cut off whatever nastiness Delilah was about to spew. “I know I was less than honest about Jessie’s whereabouts. But hell, I wasn’t all that thrilled when I ran into you a few weeks back, and neither have I walked on cloud nine during our brief encounters since. For all I knew you could’ve just wanted to make his life a living hell, ’cause that’s what you do to folks.” He stopped and paused for a quick breath. “Okay, I’ll say it again, just like I said it the other night. I thank you for not telling Jessie everything you know about me.”
Don't Blame the Devil Page 6
