Mr. Wrong After All

by Hazel Mills



  Acknowledgements

  Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths. —Proverbs 3: 5-6.

  Father God, thank you for your son, Jesus. Thank you for opening the windows of heaven and allowing your gift of creativity to rain on me. I feel your limitless love and abundant peace surrounding my life daily. Amen.

  KD, I never knew true unconditional love until God, with his awesome omnipotence, gave me your hand. Your faith filled patience and constant support makes me shine. You are my muse and I will love you until infinity becomes measurable. Z.I.G., mommy loves you!

  Venessa, thanks for listening. Your friendship encourages my soul to crawl out of its hiding place.

  Finally, I dedicate this book to the memory of my parents, Sarah and Dumas Evans. From day one, they believed that the sun rose and set on their little girl. They taught me that I, with God’s help, could climb any mountain. I thank them for their unselfish love and dedication. Even though they are no longer with me physically, their beautiful spirit breathes into me every day.

  THE JOURNEY BEGINS

  Chapter 1

  Nicolette Evans

  The beautiful campus of Georgetown University was much more intimidating than it appeared in the brochure, especially for a country girl like me who was accustomed to the nonchalant, small town Alabama life. Before leaving for college, I had never traveled further north than Birmingham.

  My parents were not the types to spend extra money on vacations. My father was the pastor of the small but intense congregation of Shades Temple Pentecostal Church. The membership of about two hundred, saved, sanctified and Holy Ghost– filled, yet poor, parishioners did not pay a salary that would allow our family to live high on the hog by any standard, but they gave all they could to my father. After hearing one of his “it is better to give than to receive” sermons, I watched elderly women who were facing eviction from their homes give money to my father instead of paying their rent. When they were ultimately left homeless, their pastor would ridicule them for not having real faith.

  “God punishes those who do not believe in Him or in His anointed,” he would preach as he looked down at them from his pulpit.

  If only the congregation really knew what kind of man their pastor really was, I’m sure a lot of them would have kept their hard-earned money in their pockets. There were occasions when we often ate rice for dinner or when the electricity was disconnected because whatever money he made was usually spent on liquor and other women. It was important to him that his members never knew what life was really like within the boundaries of the four walls of our house. My father had the entire congregation fooled about the kind of man he really was. Those poor and downtrodden members believed that their pastor was above reproach. They came to him for guidance, in times of indecision and comfort, in times of tragedy, and he was the consummate expert at putting on a front for them. It was enough to turn even the strongest of stomachs. I watched him lay hands on the sick, claiming to be anointed by God with the ability to heal. I remember thinking that those healing powers must have also extended to his dick because he laid that on many women, and a few men, all in the name of God.

  My father wanted my mother to be home and at his beckoned call. He was one of the last men on earth who truly believed that women were created for only two things.

  “Woman was created for man’s pleasure,” my father would preach to his congregation and to his wife and three daughters. “This is the way God designed it and we are not to question His will for our lives.”

  I never questioned God’s will. It was my father’s. But no matter what my father said or how loud he said it, my mother never questioned or even argued with him. She just did as she was told. I often felt sad for my mother because she never seemed to be happy. I mean really happy. The kind of happiness one feels when they are truly satisfied with the direction in which their life is going. Behind her loving smile, I saw pain and discontent. She heard the rumors about my father and other women. She knew he drank and how often. She knew all of the vile and sometimes violent things he did, both inside and outside of our home. Sometimes my father didn’t even try to hide what he was doing.

  I remember when he brought home a woman that everyone in town knew to be a prostitute. My father claimed her pimp had abused her and she needed to stay with us for a while. Just until he could be sure she would be safe. Well, my father went the extra mile to insure her safety. He volunteered to sleep in the same room with her the entire two weeks she stayed with us.

  Then, there was the way he abused his daughters. Because I was the oldest, I think I suffered the lion’s share of it until I left home. When I was ten years old, my father almost choked the life from me for refusing to do what he wanted. I went to my mother crying uncontrollably, hoping she would do something, anything to stop his horrible behavior. But, before I could even finish talking, my mother shut me down immediately.

  “Nicolette, you listen to me. Your daddy is your daddy and you will not disrespect him with your childish lies,” she chastised. “Your father is the pastor of the church and I don’t want you going outside of this house telling people our business. That would not look good.”

  I could not believe the words that poured from her mouth. At the time, I wasn’t sure whether it was because she didn’t believe me or because she had decided it would be best if she ignored everything that was happening around her. I later realized that it was the latter. My mother used denial as a coping mechanism. She put up with all of his crap and kept all of his secrets.

  My father was probably too selfishly wrapped up in his own world to even notice how miserably unhappy we all were. Then again, maybe he did notice but just didn’t give a damn.

  I was determined not to live my life with that same discontent as my mother. I knew that there were other places for me in the world besides the kitchen and the bedroom. The first step to finding these places was for me to get the hell out of Prichard, Alabama and out into the real world.

  Knowing that my parents didn’t have the money to send me to college meant I had to work extremely hard to earn full scholarships. I studied from sun up to sun down and gave the phrase “burning the midnight oil” brand new meaning. I don’t think I slept at all during my senior year of high school.

  Lord, please give me the knowledge necessary to make excellent grades. I need to earn a scholarship so that I can escape this awful place.

  My father would not allow me to get a job outside of our house. Instead, I babysat for my cousins and other neighborhood kids in our home in order to make extra money. That way my father could keep his eye on me and make sure I wasn’t out somewhere “sinning” with a boy. Yeah, boys were another issue where my father had definite opinions. We were not allowed to date, as he believed boys only wanted one thing. Sex. And, who would know about that better than a man who always had sex on the brain twenty-four-seven and usually it was with everyone except for with his wife.

  I once made the mistake of having one of my male classmates call me to discuss a history project we were working on. My father almost had a stroke when he answered the telephone.

  “You are not to have boys call or come by to see you. Do you hear me? They just want one thing and when they get what they want, you’ll be left with nothing but regret and a screaming bastard to raise. I will not allow that kind of shame on my house or my church,” he yelled.

  My father’s attitude and behavior toward many things was what fueled my desire to leave home on the first thing smoking as soon as a viable opportunity presented itself.

  When the news of my scholarship to Georgetown leaked, the entire town was excited. With a
n SAT score of 2100 and an ACT score of 32, along with my 4.0 grade point average, I had actually earned six scholarships. Three of the scholarships were to colleges within the state of Alabama. Turning down those three schools was an easy decision to make because there was no way in hell I was staying here. Another scholarship was to Stanford, all the way out in California. I wanted to get away but not that far away. The other was to Tulane in New Orleans. Far, but not quite far enough. New Orleans was still within driving distance. My decision was easy. Georgetown University was closer than California but farther away than New Orleans, which made it the perfect choice.

  The members of the church raised money to help my parents with the expense of driving me to DC. Instead of using that money for gas, my father spent a huge chunk of it, on God only knows what, and purchased me a train ticket with what was left and, as usual, my mother didn’t say a single word about it.

  Instead, she cried like a baby the entire week leading up to my departure. My younger sisters were little chatterboxes and begged to come to DC for campus visits and for me to send them each Georgetown t-shirts. They couldn’t wait to get the hell out of Alabama either. My father made sure that I had a brand new Bible, complete with a rainbow of highlighted scriptures to read whenever I was tempted to drink, smoke, steal, cuss or, his favorite, have sex.

  “Satan is going to come at you now that your protective hedge has been removed.”

  I just stared at him blankly and nodded my head, pretending to give a damn about his bullshit.

  Just as soon as I am away from here, I plan to forget any and every thing you have ever said to me.

  I couldn’t believe that I was finally going to be away from home and on my own.

  Washington, DC. The nation’s capital. Once I stepped off the train and into Union Station, I realized that this was an entirely different world for me. I became anxious about all of the opportunities that awaited me on the other side of those doors. There was something about the unknown that made my heart race and my stomach quiver. It was as if my life was just beginning and I was the one in control of its destiny. I used some of the money that I’d secretly saved to take a taxi from the train station to the University. Once the Middle Eastern taxicab driver learned that I was new in town, he insisted on taking the scenic route through the city to get to Georgetown. I suspected that he was taking advantage of me but I didn’t care. I enjoyed the ride up Constitution Avenue, passing the U.S. Capitol and the Washington Monument. These were places I had only seen on television or read about in a book and it was well worth spending a few extra dollars just to see them in person. I closed my eyes and said a brief thank you to God for blessing me with this opportunity to set an example for my sisters. I promised not to waste it. I wanted them one day to feel the same safety and security I was feeling at that moment.

  When I finally arrived on campus and checked into my dorm room, I fell on my bed and exhaled. I felt as if I had spent the last eighteen years running a marathon trying to find peace and now that I had found it, I was exhausted. My life now belonged to me. What choices I made from now on were also up to me. This was truly the time for me to grow up and become the woman I wanted to be.