“Yes, ma’am.”
“Let me sum it up for you. You and your husband, speak to what’s left of the mountain and tell it to be removed. Keep your thought-life in check, and don’t let your mouth utter anything contrary to the Word of God. I don’t care what the doctors say, what the TV say, what the internet say. You”—she poked my shoulder—“fear not and believe only. Find you some scriptures to stand on and don’t be moved.”
I wiped my face. “Thank you.” Such inadequate words. “Thank you so much.”
She gave me a big Grandmomma-hasn’t-seen-you-in-a-while hug. “Bless Jesus.”
Chapter 30
Stelson’s groaning permeated the midnight silence. “Baby?”
He was upright, groping his knees. “All of a sudden, they just started throbbing. Maybe it’s—”
“Don’t even speculate. Get the scriptures,” I declared before he could confess something we’d have to strike down later.
He hit the light and pulled the index cards out of the drawer. I leaned into him as we professed in unison, “My son, attend to my words; incline thine ear unto my sayings. Let them not depart from thine eyes; keep them in the midst of thine heart. For they are life unto those that find them, and health to all their flesh. Proverbs 4:22-23,” we professed in unison.
“But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed. Isaiah 53:5.”
Then, I placed both hands on his knees and spoke to them. “On the authority of the Word of God, we come against everything that’s out of line with perfect health given to us through Christ. I command these knees to be healed and cease from throbbing in the name of Jesus.”
Stelson rubbed my back as I continued praying for him. Normally, I would have just said a few words and given him an Aleve. But the Spirit pressed me to tarry over him. And that’s exactly what I did. Led by Him, I spoke not only to his knees in a general sense, but to his cells. Mind you, I didn’t remember anything about cells from my science classes.
But I knew He did.
My tears fell onto my husband’s body as the cell-calling continued up and down his legs. “Sickness, be removed from his body. We cast you into the sea.”
I prayed and commanded until Stelson’s hand stopped moving and I heard him snoring again.
Music to my ears.
Poor Zoe. Her first birthday was in less than a week and I hadn’t officially invited anyone to the simple gathering at the park. In truth, we had been blessed with unseasonably warm weather for late January—not that Texas weather follows any logic. A check of the 10-day forecast put us in the high 60s just in time for an outdoor party (with plenty of bug spray).
If the comparative lack of documentation in her baby book was any indication of how different things would be for her as a second child, I could see why so many people suffered from second-child complex.
Mommas be tired!
“Who’s gonna show up besides Daddy, Jonathan’s crew, Momma Miller and a few people from the church?” I asked Stelson as we waited in the doctor’s office.
“Don’t worry. No one remembers their first party.”
“When she sees pictures of Seth’s first birthday party, she’s going to notice a difference. Remember? We had the bounce house, the cotton candy machine, face painting…”
Stelson winced as he read the latest issue of Time Magazine. “I remember it all too well. Two different flavors of cake, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, a piñata—”
“We did not have a piñata!”
He shrugged. “Might as well have.”
Seth’s first birthday party had been one of our biggest blow-ups. I believed in giving our kids things I never had. Stelson believed I was throwing the party to impress our new neighbors and the people at the church. There was some truth to his argument, but I was too hormonal to acknowledge his point. I went behind his back and planned a huge celebration. I thought Stelson was going to spit fire when he opened the door and saw that overgrown masked turtle.
I chuckled at the memory. “Okay. No turtle this time. But we will have a bubble-blowing machine.”
“Works for me.”
By this time, I already knew the number of stripes on the outdated wallpaper in the doctor’s office. I had seen every segment of the continuously playing “educational” video twice. The testimonials read more like horror stories. One man was perfectly healthy until he woke up one morning and couldn’t move his arms. Of course, the commentator ended his segment by saying that his doctor prescribed yada-yada.
Seriously, if I hadn’t been immersed in the scriptures on health, coming to the doctor’s office would have scared me silly.
Stelson and I had already prayed before we got out of the car. I’d drawn up the verses on my phone and we recited them together, though it was clear we both knew them by heart. For as much as I’d been slipping little index card reminders in his lunch, Stelson probably hid them in his heart before I did.
The nurse beckoned us to a patient room, where Stelson’s doctor performed an examination and reviewed the most recent lab results. “So far so good. But there’s always a chance of bizarre, random symptoms popping up later with Lyme disease.”
“I understand,” Stelson politely acknowledged without agreeing.
I winked at him.
We left the office holding hands. Actually, swinging hands like two nine year olds who had just shared a secret.
Daddy and Momma Miller had agreed to each watch a child while Stelson and I went to his late afternoon follow-up appointment. I had no doubt Momma Miller could handle them both, but I felt an obligation to divvy them up if at all possible. Now that Zoe was walking and getting into everything, I needed to save the double-up babysitting for special occasions.
“You want me to drop you off at home before I go get the kids?”
“No. I’m not going back in to the office today. I’ll go with you,” Stelson said.
First stop was Peaches’ mother’s house. Upon entrance, we knew she was at it again, baking cookies to send home with us. She kissed us both, squeezed Zoe, then gave her to Stelson while thrusting a plate of decorated sugar cookies in my hand.
“Zoe helped make these,” she claimed.
“You teaching my baby to cook already?”
“Gotta start early,” she joked. “She is such a joy, Shondra. And her golden brown color is really coming in. No offense, Stelson.”
“Why would I be offended?” he asked with a hint of polite laughter.
“I’m just sayin’. This one ain’t gon’ look like you.”
In the car, Stelson asked me what I thought Momma Miller meant by her comment.
“Nothing.”
“Then why did she say it?”
“Stelson, people in her generation, in Daddy’s generation…they had a different experience growing up. Can we leave it alone?”
Uneasiness etched in his forehead as he headed to my father’s house next. “I wish we could all come to an understanding. Get on one accord.”
“May not happen in our lifetimes. Can you live with that?”
“I suppose I’ll have to.”
To my surprise, he parked the car and slid the keys out of the ignition.
“You’re getting out?”
“Yeah. I owe your father an apology.”
“For what?”
He widened his eyes. “Does the name Chuck E. Cheese ring a bell?”
“Yeah.” I popped my lips. “Pretty bad day.”
Stelson faced me. “When your dad walked you down the aisle and gave you to me, he wasn’t expecting to see his little girl be mistreated. Looking at Zoe—with her golden brown skin,” he teased, “I don’t know what I would do if someone disrespected her in my presence. I want to look your father in the eye and let him know I’m sorry I let him down. Man-to-man.”
Now, if we had been talking about any other “man” except my Daddy, Stelson’s sen
timents might have actually been touching. Endearing. But this was Daddy and I knew my father had a hard, nearly impossible time forgiving people.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t,” I tried. “My father isn’t always a reasonable person. You might think you’re going to talk to him about your behavior, but I guarantee you somehow, some kind of way, he will turn this into something else. Maybe you should write him a letter or—”
“I’m not a coward,” my husband spat back at me. “I got this, babe.” He unlocked the doors and exited.
I unlocked Zoe from her seat and kissed her gently. “Sweetie pie, your Daddy is going into a lion’s den.”
She grinned, showing off her little square white teeth.
“Yes, he is,” I cooed.
Stelson knocked on the door.
I rushed up behind him. “Just tell him you’re sorry and get it over with. No long, drawn out conversation. Check?”
“Check.”
“Do not answer any questions. All questions lead to endless debate. Capiche?”
“Capiche.”
Daddy answered the door. Saw Stelson. His face soured. “I’ll get Seth.”
“Great.”
“Wait. Mr. Smith,” Stelson said before Daddy could walk away. “I want to apologize for the way I talked to both you and LaShondra at Seth’s party. It was rude and disrespectful, and I’m sorry.”
Still partially veiled behind the screen, Daddy asked, “Heard you must have been real sick at the time.”
“Yes, sir, I was…not that I’m making excuses for my behavior.”
His eyes swept over my husband. “I accept your apology. You look like yourself again. Must have gotten over it.”
“I did, by the grace of God.”
“Uh huh. What’d you have, anyway?”
“Daddy, I told you he had Lyme disease. We don’t want to hold you long.”
“Shondra, can’t you see I’m talkin’ to the man?”
I rolled my eyes behind Zoe’s back.
Daddy continued, “I told a friend of mine about it. He does a lot of studyin’ and stuff on the internet. Told me Lyme disease is man-made, just like the government created AIDS and the West Nile virus. Printed off a bunch of papers and everything.”
Stelson shifted. “Yes, LaShondra told me about the theories floating around, but you know, I don’t really subscribe to these unfounded government, military conspiracy theories except, maybe, the one about who shot JFK.”
I kicked my husband’s foot.
“Say you don’t believe in ‘em, eh?” Daddy baited.
“No, sir.”
“You ever heard of the Tuskegee Experiment?”
Stelson leaned his ear toward the door. “The what?”
Didn’t I tell him not to entertain questions?
Daddy swung the door open. “Y’all come on inside.”
“Are you serious?” I begged.
“I’m just gon’ educate the man,” my father insisted.
Stelson crossed the threshold.
I had no choice except to follow him. Otherwise, who knew what might happen? “Ooooh!” I fumed, stomping in the house. “Where is my son?”
“Back there by the washing room foldin’ towels. You were right. Seth can sho ‘nuff make a perfect crease. He can do sheets, too. And I told him he’s off to a real good start. Needs to get used to doing things better than other people so they won’t look down on him, look down on his race.”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to agree to disagree on Seth’s need to represent the race,” Stelson said.
“Maybe we will,” Daddy said, “but let’s at least understand what we’re disagreeing about.” He pulled out a kitchen chair for Stelson to sit. Then he scooted a chair close so that he and Stelson were almost knee-to-knee.
Disgust twisted my face. I stood over them both with Zoe dangling from my side. “You two are asking for trouble. Stelson, you know you don’t need to get agitated. And Daddy, your pressure is not the lowest. Why can’t y’all just let it go?”
“We’re two perfectly sane men,” Stelson set it up. “If we can’t talk through our differences like civilized people, we’re both terrible examples for our race and Seth is in deep trouble.”
I shoved Zoe onto Stelson’s lap. “She’s young, impressionable, and very sensitive. Don’t do anything to scare her. Either of you.” I wagged my finger between my husband and father.
“Reach me those papers over there,” Daddy ordered, pointing to a pile on top of the microwave.
My lips tightened as I fulfilled my father’s request. I handed him the papers.
He slapped them on the table and pushed them toward Stelson. “This is the Tuskegee Experiment.”
“I’m outta here.” God, I hope You got this.
Chapter 31
Stelson
Stelson leaned past Zoe’s head to read the first paper. He read the headline and a few captions first: The Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment. Government officials used black men as lab rats. Wanted to study their corpses.
As a matter of habit, he noted the fine print at the top, which referenced the URL hosting the information: TheNewUndergroundRailroad.us. “No disrespect, Mr. Smith, but you printed from a no-name website. Anyone can post anything on the internet, whether it’s true or not.”
Stelson sat back in his chair.
Mr. Smith snatched the stack. “All righty, Mr. I-gotta-hear-it-from-somebody-I-know.” He shuffled through the papers. “CNN good enough for you?”
Stelson raised one eyebrow as he bent and surveyed the article. The Darkest Chapters of Medical Research. He handed Zoe to his father-in-law and read the short report documenting the government’s 40-year inhumane research on the deadly STD using hundreds of black, uneducated sharecroppers. The men were informed by the United States Public Health Service that they were being treated for “bad blood” when, in fact, they weren’t being treated at all; researchers simply wanted to document the effects of Syphilis.
“You see the dates?” Mr. Smith interrupted.
“Yeah,” Stelson said in awe, “forty years. 1932 to 1972.”
“You were alive in ’72, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you got to admit, it wasn’t that long ago that the government was willing to risk people’s lives for the sake of an experiment, right?”
Stelson nodded. “This is…terrible.”
“Well, if you feel that way, then welcome to the club,” Daddy announced with arms open wide.
“What club?”
“The Messed-Over-by-the-Man club. Just like the government experiments cost these men their lives, the government experiment got you payin’ a price with this Lyme disease.”
Daddy shoved the papers even closer to Stelson. “Read all these and tell me you still trust what they were doing on Plum Island.”
Stelson leafed through the stack, skimming through the headlines. “If all this is true, we should be ashamed of ourselves as a country.”
“We?” Mr. Smith pointed back and forth between the two of them. “As in me and you?”
“We as a people. As a country.”
“This ain’t the black man’s country. This land don’t belong to all the people. White people gonna always have the upper hand, and they gonna always use that hand to slap black people back to the bottom, ‘cause y’all can’t stand to see us get ahead.”
“What about President Obama? Tons of white people voted him in office.”
Mr. Smith crossed his arms. “You ever seen a man in the office of the President of the United States of America be so disrespected?”
“Yeah, Bush Junior. People made a calendar of the ignorant things he said. They’ve written books, posted a ton of YouTube videos online. The compilations are hilarious, actually.”
“See the difference!” Mr. Smith jabbed a finger at Stelson. “When they don’t like a white president, they make jokes. But
when they don’t like a black president, they get hateful. Write all kinds of rhetoric to discredit him, his intelligence, his character. Talk about his wife like a dog. You ever seen so many people criticize a first lady’s appearance?”
Stelson frowned, obviously considering his father-in-law’s viewpoint.
“You don’t see no light-hearted humor about the black president and he’s a hundred times smarter than Bush. ‘W’ used to say stuff so stupid, made me squint at the TV,” Mr. Smith hissed.
The vision of Mr. Smith staring at the screen in disbelief during one of President George W. Bush’s impromptu blunders sent a ripple of laughter through Stelson.
“I’m glad you think this is so funny now. Won’t be funny when Seth gets sent to the office for doing the same thing the white kids get away with. Or when somebody say Zoe got a bad attitude ‘cause she ain’t makin’ everybody laugh, which is all they expect us to do anyway—entertain and play sports. Can’t come across like she’s too intelligent or they’ll say she’s intimidating.”
Stelson’s smile slipped away, cognizant of the fact that he was in Mr. Smith’s ‘they’ category. “What exactly do you recommend I do, Mr. Smith?”
“Tell ‘em the truth. Tell them that, as far as the world goes, they’re black. Let ‘em know they got natural born enemies.”
“But—” Stelson spotted a movement in his peripheral vision. He saw Seth standing at the door leading to the main hallway. He hoped his son hadn’t heard much. “Hey, buddy.”
“Hey, Dad. Hey, Zoe, Zoe, Zoe!”
She squirmed out of her grandfather’s lap and tottered toward her brother, who swooped her up into his arms. She hung awkwardly as Seth leaned back to balance her weight. He kissed her three times, once on each cheek and then the chin. For as much as he must have been cutting off her circulation, Zoe didn’t complain.
“Let’s go, sissy.” He struggled to carry her away.
“Seth, where are you taking her?” Stelson asked.
“Where I am. By the laundry room.”
“Be careful with her.”
No Weapon Formed (Boaz Brown) Page 21
