Don't Blame the Devil

by Pat G'Orge-Walker

  It didn’t matter. Delilah had moved on from that concern. She’d only wanted to block whatever would’ve happened with the woman if Delilah hadn’t attached herself to the deacon. She’d accomplished that.

  To the deacon’s surprise, Delilah pointed through an open door toward a small room where he had a twin bed. Beige striped sheets covered the bed and a deep brown comforter lay folded at the foot.

  “It’s been a long day and I need my beauty sleep. I’m turning in. I only see one bed, so just where are you supposed to sleep?” Impatience was Delilah’s middle name. So of course she didn’t wait for an answer. “Whatever happened to your sense of style, Thurgood? I’m surprised you took up with that overweight woman, whatever her name is. I don’t even see how the two of you could fit on that little mattress.” She always used sarcasm when it was available.

  “Oh, you mean Sister Marty. . . .” The deacon stopped. It was his home—why should he explain?

  “Marty, Cathy, Sasquatch; I really don’t care.”

  With her tiny, childlike feet she swiftly kicked aside a couple of magazines and with a frown on her face she wiped her finger across the dusty leaves of an artificial plant.

  Houseguest or not, Delilah didn’t try to hide her disapproval as she maneuvered her way through the small living room with its furniture almost piled one upon the other, until she arrived inside the bedroom.

  While Delilah performed her uninvited home inspection, the deacon slipped into the bathroom. It hadn’t taken Delilah two minutes to return him to headache hell. Lord, please help me get that woman to a hotel somewhere. When he came back she was still complaining almost as though she hadn’t noticed he’d left.

  “How do you sleep with your long legs in this small bed? Do you sleep balled up?” The bed occupied a space between a small dresser and a nightstand. “One thing’s for sure,” Delilah added while pointing back toward the living room, “I’m definitely not going to sleep all crumpled up in that recliner.” She’d barely finished her complaint before she’d added another as she sniffed the air. “And what’s that smell?”

  The deacon lifted the small Dixie cup to his mouth as he threw back his head to swallow his special headache medicine dissolved in a small amount of whiskey. When he finished he remained in the bedroom doorway. He sneered and took his time as he wiped his wet mouth with the back of his hand.

  Although the medicine concoction hadn’t had a chance to work, the deacon replied nonchalantly, “I haven’t slept anyplace other than my own bed for years. And if you notice,” the deacon said as he pointed to the wall over the bed, “that’s my picture hanging there, too, so why don’t you guess where I’ll be sleeping tonight?”

  Delilah’s lips tightened as she scowled. She was just about to reply when the deacon cut her off.

  “Hush your face, Dee Dee. Don’t you ask another dumb question and take away the buzz these pills are about to lay on me.”

  By the time the deacon finished giving Delilah the dos and the don’ts, he was holding his head in his hands again. And, he had drunk the last of his whiskey.

  However, he did manage to call two nearby hotels that wouldn’t cost him an arm and a leg in cab fare, but neither had a vacancy.

  “It looks like getting you a hotel room for tonight is out.” Deacon Pillar threw up his arms. His lips seemed to curl as he gave Delilah more rules of his house. “So whether you like it or not, you will sleep on that recliner or the couch, or you can sleep standing up—makes no difference to me.”

  The deacon inched toward his kitchen. He stood now with his hands on his hips and announced, “And as for that smell, I was cleaning some tripe and chitlins earlier and I forgot to take out the garbage. Of course, this smell is nothing compared to the scent you’ll get on the subway if you keep trying to have things your way when it ain’t your home.”

  “You finished?” Delilah had already stepped past the deacon and was laying down her pocketbook on the bed as though he’d said nothing. “Now, just let me tell you something—”

  “No, let me finish telling you something,” the deacon interrupted, “before you say or do something else akin to mulelike behavior; remember we need to get your car insurance so you can get your car from the repo man tomorrow. They only gave you a one-day extension. Now, go ahead, say something else!”

  Not more than thirty minutes later, after the deacon had tried repeatedly to call Sister Marty with no success he was sleeping in his own bed. He could’ve picked all the cotton out of his sheets, he was just that mad.

  In the meanwhile Delilah had traded in her usual classy outfit for one of the deacon’s old shirts. Minutes after she’d complained about the color, the ever classy Delilah was moaning and passing gas while balled up on the recliner.

  But then it was hardly another hour later before both the deacon and Delilah lay in that same small bed. They snuggled together like two spoons or a couple of old potato chips. And although they grinned like two babies, happily fed and burped, they snored like truck drivers on speed.

  Chapter 11

  The foreign buzzing sound of an alarm clock filtered through whatever dream state Delilah was in and caused her to bolt straight up in the bed. Her head wobbled side to side while her blond wig rocked somewhere between her shoulders and her ears. Both her white locks and the wig tresses were damp; no doubt a result of either sleeping in an un-air-conditioned room where the humidity was in abundance, or night sweats from her menopause.

  “It’s about time you woke up. Come on, there’s no time to waste.”

  Deacon Pillar stood by one of the three windows in his apartment. He was already dressed and about to open the venetian blinds just before Delilah finally awoke.

  “Thurgood Pillar,” Delilah snapped, “what in the world are you doing up so early?” She was about to say something more, but she realized she was lying in the bed and not the recliner. Naturally, Delilah thought she’d won the battle of the beds.

  “I see you are a gentleman after all.” She peeked under the sheets and saw she was still wearing the old nightshirt the deacon gave her. “I knew you’d let me sleep in the bed instead of the recliner.”

  “You know I’m a true gentleman,” the deacon replied slowly. “I certainly let you sleep in the bed. And I’d probably still be asleep in it, too, if I didn’t have to avoid your little hands groping all over me last night, trying to find the key to open your happy door.”

  And that’s when Delilah flipped. She jumped straight up and bolted from the bed. Delilah hadn’t moved that fast from a bed since she was in her thirties. For sure, the brick in the hand of her last man’s wife had been her inspiration.

  With the nightshirt barely covering what she affectionately referred to as her moneymaking pocketbook, she rushed toward the window where the deacon stood, now bent over in laughter.

  “You old degenerate!” Delilah balled up her small fists and threw one hand back like she was about to throw out the first pitch.

  “Sweet degenerate is what you called me last night.”

  Words wouldn’t come to her, so before Delilah left the room she threw the nearest thing she could find. It was a mayonnaise jar, one the deacon kept his loose change in.

  Jumping was the word of the day, because old Deacon Pillar jumped faster than he had in quite some time. That jar hit the wall and loose change sank into the deep carpet. Whether he tripped over a quarter or his ottoman didn’t matter; hitting the floor on his bony behind wasn’t an option. He reached out to grab on to something. Unfortunately, the closest thing was his small desk with one of its legs propped up by an old, thick telephone book. The book gave way and then he and it hit the floor with a loud thump.

  And that’s when his doorbell rang.

  It was all the deacon could do to stop a flood of un-Christian-like words from flying off his lips. He’d barely gotten to his feet to answer the door when it flew open. Of course, Jessie stood dumbfounded in the doorway.

  The deacon tried to explain for a s
econd time why Delilah was in his apartment. But Jessie was too angry to listen so he bolted out of the deacon’s apartment with the deacon in pursuit, and rushed down the steps. Jessie slammed the hall door, barely missing the deacon’s foot, and walked quickly into his living room. He paced back and forth. “Have you lost your mind, Deacon Pillar?” He wanted to take his bandaged hand and slap some sense into the old man. “Of all the places in Brooklyn, why would you bring that woman back here?”

  “I already told you why, Jessie. My truck broke down on me. My pants looked like I’d crapped on myself. I couldn’t find a vacant hotel room to toss her in, so I had to bring her back here. I can’t drive your automatic, you know that. Which reminds me, I need for you to take us to get this insurance. She can get her car back and drive on about her business.”

  “There’s something you’re leaving out,” Jessie said slowly, as he eyed the deacon up and down. “You could call a cab to take you to get insurance.” Jessie sat down on the sofa. He pointed to the love seat and indicated the deacon should sit there. “I’m concerned that you’re becoming a little too involved with a woman who you claimed you haven’t seen in almost forty years.”

  “Stop being so suspicious, Jessie.” Deacon Pillar didn’t know if he sounded convincing or not, but he was giving it his best. “Brother Jessie,” the deacon implored, “forget that she’s your deadbeat, absentee mother. Think about what Jesus would do.”

  Jessie leaned forward and looked the deacon right in the eyes. “Do you see a crown of thorns on my head?”

  The voices filtered up the stairs to the deacon’s apartment and through the bedroom door she’d left slightly ajar.

  Delilah hadn’t bothered to return to the scene of her hysteria, where she’d let go on the deacon with the mayonnaise jar filled with change. She would’ve, but she heard Jessie’s angry voice. Her son started arguing with the deacon as soon as he’d stepped through the door. As much as she wanted to see Jessie, she was smart enough to stay out of his way.

  About fifteen minutes later, when the deacon hadn’t returned and she could still hear their angry voices, she got dressed and waited for his return.

  At first she couldn’t figure out why the voices no longer filtered through the door yet she could still hear them. She looked around the living room where the voices seemed the strongest. She didn’t see any pipes or even a radiator where the sound could travel through. But as soon as she sat down by the window she heard them clear as day. Her eyes followed the sound and it was coming through the floor heating vent.

  And, of course, Delilah wasn’t happy with what she heard. “I shouldn’t have bothered. . . .” She stopped complaining. It didn’t make sense to complain to herself when she could grab God’s ear.

  “Great Jehovah,” she whispered, “perhaps this wasn’t such a great idea. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to have a family. You know my mama and her own mama didn’t want children. It seems like I probably didn’t either. . . .” She stopped and allowed her voice to become even lower and a little more reverent. “Now, Father Jehovah, since I do have a child and I did ask for Your help in finding him—if it’s not meant to be, and You only did it because You took a liking to me, please stop this madness. Please just let me go on about my business and grow old with a little dignity. Just give me a sign or something. Amen.”

  It wasn’t exactly a sign. It was more of a loud tapping on the half-open door. “Grab your purse or whatever and let’s get this over with. I don’t need conversation, I just need you to move on with your life and out of mine. So I’m helping with that.”

  Delilah looked up from her prayer just in time to see the deacon standing behind Jessie. He’d placed a finger across his lips, a signal for her to shut her mouth and move it while Jessie was in a good mood.

  And Delilah pretended she didn’t know what the deacon was trying to say or that Jessie had forbade any conversation between the two of them. “Thank you, Jessie. I truly appreciate your generosity.”

  “Since you’re gonna speak anyway, it’s not generosity. I’m not paying for it.”

  Jessie quickly turned around. “Deacon Pillar, I’ll be waiting downstairs.”

  The deacon waited until Jessie left before he felt it was safe enough to speak. “At least this is a start,” Deacon Pillar said nervously. “He didn’t say he was going to run you over or anything like that.”

  “Whatever.” Delilah frowned. There’s got to be a way to turn this around. I need an ally and it certainly can’t be Thurgood.

  “Let’s go, Delilah. Jessie ain’t gonna wait all day. He’s got to take Tamara somewhere, too.”

  Delilah suddenly got a burst of energy. Tamara was her key. It wouldn’t be easy, but she’d find a way to get to her granddaughter. It wasn’t that she didn’t want Tamara; Jessie and Tamara were a family package deal that Delilah wanted. She’d just never thought about winning Tamara over first.

  In no time Delilah’s smile vanished. No sooner had she stepped onto the front porch and looked toward the street than her blood began to boil.

  The deacon came out behind her and had just locked the front door before turning around. He almost had a heart attack. Seated inside the car with Jessie were Tamara and Sister Marty. The three of them were laughing up a storm.

  Chapter 12

  When Delilah and the deacon entered the car, everyone greeted him with a loud hello. Delilah got deafening silence.

  It was a tight squeeze inside the car as the five tried to get comfortable. Jessie had asked Tamara to sit up front with him. He purposely put Deacon Pillar in the backseat between Delilah and Marty. I wanna see the old playa play his way outta this one.

  “Hello, honey.” Deacon Pillar’s dark skin looked ghostly. “You look gorgeous, as usual. I didn’t know you were coming along . . . not that I didn’t want you to.”

  “Well, when you called me from Jessie’s earlier, you sounded a little strange. . . .”

  “Oh yes. I did call you from Jessie’s because that’s where I was. I was with Jessie.”

  Sister Marty sank farther into the car seat and looked straight ahead. From the corner of her eye she saw a smirk on Delilah’s face. But she would bide her time. “Don’t worry, darling,” she told the deacon. “Love means never having to explain. Besides, I was off today and going to choir rehearsal anyway.”

  Before Marty could get the last word out of her mouth, Jessie and Tamara smiled. Each thought Deacon Pillar was dumber than a bag of rocks if he believed all that Sister Marty had said.

  “So, Jessie”—Sister Marty’s frown quickly gave way to a smile—“Tamara tells me that she’s expecting a huge blessing in the near future.”

  “We’ve claimed it, for sure.” Jessie’s face broke out into a smile, too. “My daughter is going to be a star. I just know it.”

  “I always knew she would be.” The deacon couldn’t control himself as he reached over and squeezed Sister Marty’s hand.

  That action and none of the conversation included Delilah, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t parsing through it to see what she could glean. She pretended to focus on whatever was happening outside the car.

  “That’s right,” Tamara chimed in. “In a month or so I’m auditioning and they’re talking about coming to the church to check me out. In fact, the A&R rep mentioned that they may visit my home. Now, that doesn’t always happen, does it, Daddy?”

  “No, it doesn’t. But when God is in control,” Jessie replied, “ordinary has to take a backseat. You know I’m on pins and needles—and Cindy would’ve been beside herself.” Sadness crept into his voice and cloaked the joy. Would he ever get over his wife’s passing?

  With no prompting at all, Tamara broke out singing. She didn’t want to see her father sad when she was about to cry, too. By the time she’d gotten to the chorus, Jessie, Sister Marty, and Deacon Pillar had all joined in. They took quartet singing up to another level.

  They were about to go into another song when suddenly Jessie looked through his re
arview mirror. He thought he saw a look of defeat on Delilah’s face. It made him a little sad, and sad was not what he wanted to feel when she was involved.

  “Daddy, what kind of note was that?”

  “It was flat, Jessie. I don’t recall ever hearing you sing flat.” The deacon looked at Marty and hunched his shoulders to indicate he didn’t know what was suddenly wrong.

  “Don’t worry about my flat note, Tamara,” Jessie teased. “You just make sure you don’t sing one.”

  The spell was broken. The rest of the ride, no one said a word or sang a note.

  No one was happier than Jessie when he pulled up in front of New Hope Assembly. Peeking at Delilah each time he needed to use his rearview mirror was unsettling. No matter how long he’d prayed in the last few days, he still wanted to remain distant, if not angry, with her. “Okay, we’re here. Tamara, you make sure that you call me when the choir rehearsal is over.”

  “I will, but I still don’t think you should keep driving with just one hand.” Tamara leaned over and kissed her father’s cheek. “I love you.”

  All that love in the car and none of it for Delilah.

  At that moment Deacon Pillar couldn’t have looked at Delilah or Sister Marty with a straight face if he’d wanted to. One by one, his plans to get his divorce and keep Delilah away from New Hope for as long as he could were unraveling. It looked as though if she didn’t kill him, then Marty would. Now she knew that Tamara could sing well enough to have an audition at her own home. He tried to control his nervousness and agitation by tapping his foot and using one hand to rub a kneecap. Delilah was getting everything she’d wanted, so why should she help him?

  “I’ll talk to you later, Thurgood.”

  The sound of Sister Marty’s voice broke his train of thought. “Okay, Marty.” Because he’d sat in the middle he couldn’t get out and open the door for her. Before he could say anything or move, Jessie did the honors.