Made of Honor

by Marilyn Griffith

  “Winston Churchill?”

  “Theodore Roosevelt. It’s at the bottom of all my e-mails. Just goes to show how much attention you pay me.”

  She had me there. “Sorry. I sort of glaze over all that stuff.”

  “Whatever. Look, you can say whatever you want about Adrian, but at least the guy stepped out and took a risk.”

  My teeth set on edge. “Risk? What would you know about it? If you’re not at work or church, you’re home hiding behind that computer.”

  Rochelle flinched, then pressed the receipt back onto one of the boxes. “At least I can afford to. You don’t hear me complaining about not being able to pay my bills. I’m not afraid to charge what I’m worth. If you come to Shoes of Peace, you won’t find any pumps hidden in my back room. They’re in the display window, where they belong.”

  I hunched a little, like a crazed kitten driven into a corner. “Complaining? I haven’t asked you for a dime. You’re always the one pushing, trying to make me something I’m not. Don’t you know this isn’t about money to me? This is something I can predict, something I can control. I can throw it out and start over if it doesn’t work out.”

  Clutching my chai, I tried to get a grip. Why couldn’t Rochelle understand? Tracey never bothered me about this stuff. I took a sip of the tea. Tepid. Ugh. I set it aside, ready to try once more to express my muddled feelings.

  “Soap can’t lie to me or—or show up smelling like oranges and daydreams, waiting to break my heart—”

  “Oh, honey.” Rochelle touched my shoulder.

  “All these years you’ve waited, surely you know. Surely.” I shrugged off her touch, realizing I’d crossed her boundary by mentioning Jericho’s father. For once, I didn’t care. I had to get it out.

  “This is my risk…and my safety.” My teeth nipped my bottom lip as if my subconscious were trying to shut me up. A staple gun would have been more appropriate. Why had I shared so much with Rochelle, shown her so much of my heart? She’d just use it against me in some subtle way, some devotional about the mouth showing the condition of the heart. Maybe if I actually talked to her about it instead of complaining to Tracey, she might realize what she’s doing and how it hurts me. If she only knew, I’m usually well aware of my heart’s condition before saying a word. “Now let’s just let it go.”

  “Fine.” She sounded wounded.

  I stormed into the living room, slowing with each step. Normally, I would have taken Rochelle’s dishing because I knew she had it hard being a single mom and sometimes needed to let go on somebody. But today, I just couldn’t take it. Was it because I’d used Tracey for the same purpose?

  I didn’t want to think about it. As I dropped onto my leather sectional, a bulletin board framed with orders stared back at me. My bread store soap rack leaned against the wall like a gas tank at the middle of a long trip, half empty and half full. Just like my week. Just like my life.

  “If you get your clothes on, we can grab some dinner before we go.”

  The apple cobbler soap I’d made two weeks before filled the room with scent as I rotated the bars so air could hit every side. The tart sweetness settled down around my shoulders like an old sweater. Or an old friend.

  I turned. “I’ll go, but I’m not voting and if Tad uses the words spiritual intimacy more than once, I’m out of there.”

  “Deal.” Rochelle wiped her eyes and walked toward me, the skirt of her dress swaying with each step.

  Knowing that she needed a hug, but wouldn’t offer one, I opened my arms to her. She accepted my affection, but more stiffly than usual. My gut wrenched. Letting off steam had seemed right at the time, but now it seemed foolish. I hugged her closer, bending her rigid fear into my soft shoulder. Fear of loving again, fear of what would happen to our friendship without Tracey to blur our sharp edges, to make us laugh in the right places.

  I patted Rochelle’s back. “It’s okay. I’m scared, too.”

  Chapter Three

  Deal. I should have known better than to say that to Rochelle, to agree to drag myself to the singles group. Such things never work in my favor. When I heard Kirk Franklin playing and saw the disco ball, well, all hope of escaping unscathed went out of me.

  “What on Earth is this, Chelle?” I tugged at her sleeve, my feet poking around in those moccasins I’d vowed to save for a special occasion. This definitely wasn’t it.

  Waving to the DJ and other thirtysomethings trying desperately to look cool, she patted my hand. “Lighten up, Dane. It’s just a little fellowship to go with the elections.”

  Fellowship? Maybe on an alien planet. Though a few hairs short of thirty myself, I knew I’d long since ceased to be cool. Somehow, these people hadn’t been given the you-are-out-of-date memo. I’d been duped again. “Whatever.”

  I slumped into a chair for the first half hour, dreaming of my Chunky Monkey ice cream and my comfortable bed, and wondering whether the salon where I’d cancelled my pedicure took walk-ins. Today had been draining and tomorrow I’d have to be singing in the choir, serving dinner after church and probably back again in the evening. Coming along for the ride was one thing, but this added too much onto an already heavy day.

  Rochelle’s elbow, pressed to her side like a broken wing, jabbed me once again. “Are you asleep? Come on, we’re counting the ballots.”

  I formed a lengthy reply, but telling Rochelle that I’d thrown my ballot in the trash with my last plate of chips would hurt her, so why bother? “Okay.”

  “Seriously. You should come on over. Talk. Some people are picking prayer partners and discussing ideas for next quarter’s activities.”

  A look in the direction she pointed revealed all the reasons why I dare not leave my seat: Tad admired himself in the punch bowl, while next to him, Deacon Rivers checked for nose hairs. Near the door, the did-I-tell-you-about-my-divorce-yet group gathered in the corner. Normally, I’d suck it up and participate, but my tolerance for the ridiculous had run dry, expended on Tracey’s wedding.

  “Chelle, I don’t think I can—”

  “Wait! Hold that thought. They’re here!” She whirled around and paced to the front of the general-purpose room…its general purpose tonight was to torture me. She had the DJ stop the music.

  I drank in the quiet, trying to remember which scary movie this scene was edited out of.

  “Well, everybody, I wasn’t sure if they could make it, but I invited a few friends from the regional singles’ conference. They’re from Agape Worship Center, over by the mall.”

  I watched in disbelief as a line of balding, bulging fellows trailed into the room. They slapped hands with Tad, who promptly marched off to sanitize himself in the bathroom. For once, I had to agree with him. These gentleman just looked…wrong. Like a bunch of football players who’d been squished into a time machine and had the plug pulled midway through the trip. Those jeans definitely didn’t make it to the new millennium. Not attractive. And to think that Rochelle tried to give me a makeover to come here.

  Even if the room had been filled with male models, this church basement happy hour just didn’t work for me. Rochelle, Bible guru that she was, seemed to be having a wonderful time, flitting from person to person, and just like earlier, not spilling a single drop of punch.

  I’d already stained my jeans. With Sprite.

  Why didn’t I drive?

  As I pondered the distance home, one of the once-upon-a-time tight ends from the other church reached for Rochelle’s hand and proceeded to a chair at the side of the room, where he opened a Bible and began speaking intensely, no doubt trying to cultivate “spiritual intimacy.” Too bad Tad was still in the bathroom. That subject was his specialty.

  As the anger and the confusion of the day detonated within my mind, I knew I was going to lose it. I mean really lose it, like say something all of us might regret. I’m still not sure how I got that microphone…

  “What are you people? Crazy?” I asked through the blaring sound system. “Hell-ooo, this is
a church, not some pathetic nightclub. The singles group is not about getting with somebody, it’s about being single!”

  I raised both my hands and quickly dropped them to my sides as cheetah memories flashed through my mind. No time to think of that nightmare. I was on a roll.

  Rochelle looked up from her deep conversation as if she’d swallowed a fly.

  “I’ve come here week after week and listened to you people tell your little pity party stories about your ex-spouses and your baby Mama drama and—”

  “I don’t have any out of wedlock children, thank you—” Tad dried his hands.

  Thank God there’s only one of you.

  “Anyway. I came here for you to pray for me, to study the Bible with me, not have you all tell me I’ll be a real person when I get a man.”

  My voice quivered. “This should be a place where it’s okay to be alone. Instead, you all act like it’s some sort of crime. The real issue is, if none of us ever gets a mate, is God enough…or isn’t He?”

  A wall of silence crept up between me and the rest of the room. Rochelle stared at me, her eyes searching mine. The music stopped. Everyone took their seats. I remained standing, not knowing what else to do.

  Tad brushed past me and took the mike. He started a slow, but mounting handclap. “Well, that was dramatic, now wasn’t it?” He paused with his eighty-percent-chance-of-rain smile and I remembered why I never watched the weather anymore. The thought of what a blizzard might do to his lips was too frightening to consider.

  Don’t be mean.

  As if they’d been taped for a laugh track, the whole room burst into guffaws.

  Deacon Rivers tapped his cane against the floor. “Was that a skit, sugar? It was good. Shore ’nuff good.”

  By the time everyone got through hemming and hawing, I was mad. Shore ’nuff mad. Not that it mattered. I managed to slip off into the sanctuary just as Tad suggested a verse-by-verse study on Song of Solomon.

  “To prepare our hearts for intimacy,” he said as the door shut behind me. I took the steps two at time and collapsed on a back pew.

  “Lord, what are You doing? You told me to be at peace in my singleness, and I am. Please, just let me be.” The words rushed from me, more desperation than anything. I gathered my flailing braids into a ponytail and laughed at myself. Maybe Tad was the sane one after all.

  “You said a mouthful in there.” A deep, mellow voice spoke above my head, articulating each syllable.

  At the sound of his voice, I sat upright, took one look at Adrian and began estimating the distance I’d have to walk home. Not too far probably, but considering my speed was about .5 miles per hour, it could get ugly.

  He came close enough for me to smell him, but walked past me and took a seat in the next pew while I digested the fact that he’d heard my little tirade.

  “The music started up when I was just outside the door. I saw some weird-looking guys when I was parking. Do you all have a football team?”

  That cracked me up. I slung an arm over my eyes. “We do now.”

  “Well, anyway, I was headed back to the car when I heard you in there. Good stuff.”

  I peeked at him, with that big, crooked grin. My toes curled in my moccasins.

  He leaned over and pinched one of my toes, my pinky. “Nice shoes. The real thing?”

  I nodded. “Always.”

  He pulled his hand up onto the back of the pew. “You’re the genuine article. I’ll give you that.”

  No, you gave her that.

  Where did that come from? Was I losing my mind? Probably. If not, I would soon if he kept staring at me like that. By the time I remembered I could look away, that this wasn’t one of the stare-down competitions from our playground days, I could almost hear the bionic music in my head.

  He nodded. “Definitely a Six-Million-Dollar moment.”

  My eyes fluttered shut, my brain flashed to us running down the avenue making our bionic noises, our way to break the mood after a long day at school. Later, it became the cover for tense moments, as well. Me falling down the stairs in the civic center with my name on my back or Adrian blowing up the chemistry lab were never, as our teachers termed them, “painful experiences” or “embarrassing times.” Just Six-Million-Dollar moments. Like now.

  God, are you trying to kill me?

  The tears ran sideways down my face. Into my ears. My hair. I didn’t bother to wipe them away. Resistance was futile.

  He leaned over that pew somehow because I could see the blur of him above me, but he didn’t leave his row. For that I was thankful.

  “Just cut it out, okay? Please. Go home,” I said.

  His fingers, long and slender, and always smelling like something good, touched the corner of my good eye. He didn’t try to wipe the tear away. He just touched it. His touch felt like a poker searing through my brain. Jasmine, my favorite scent, escaped his fingertips to torture me further.

  “I am so proud of you, Dane. I’m sorry I didn’t say that this morning. It’s true though. When I heard you in there tonight, I couldn’t help but think that. How proud I am of you.” He traced the path of my tears to the top of my ear and then leaned back on his knees, safely restricted to his pew.

  I lifted my head, more to let the tears drain out of my ears than to face him, but there he was. “I wish you hadn’t come in on that. It’s just—”

  “I think you explained it very well.” He stacked his fists on the edge of the pew and rested his chin on top. “I get it. Trust me.”

  Trust him? Hadn’t I tried that program before? “I guess I’ll have to. Trust that you understand, that is. It’s been so long that my mind plays tricks. We’re grown up now. Changed. I don’t know you anymore, not the man you are.”

  That should get rid of him.

  Adrian sighed. He pulled off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Uh-oh.

  “Don’t try that with me, okay? I’m not your Dad or Jordan. Or even Dahlia. I know I messed up. I should have called. I should have tried harder to connect with you, even when you wouldn’t respond. Still, it wouldn’t have been any easier than this.”

  I stiffened at the mention of my brother and sister and at his quick deflection of the isolation tactics that worked so well with others. I sat up slowly, estimating the miles back to my apartment again. Couldn’t be more than six, maybe seven…

  “She told me that she called you. Sandy, I mean.”

  That struck me like a punch. Had she told him what she’d said, too? Had he come here for that? For me to “take care of him?” I hoped not. I could barely take care of myself. “She did call. I had hoped we’d talk again.” I paused to mop my eyes. “Tell me what happened with her exactly? I never could get the story straight from Rochelle. She said lupus, but I told her people don’t die from that.”

  “Sandy did.” He stared off in front of us, to the cross suspended overhead. “Some women do. Black women mostly. They don’t always know why.” He whispered the last of it, as though he’d told me a secret, the way I’m sure I sounded when I talked about Mama’s stroke or other senseless things. My mother’s death had shattered me, and though God had healed so much of the hurt, made a mosaic out of my broken pieces, the jagged edges poked me still. Of course they cut Adrian, too, losing as he had: his father, his mother, his wife…

  “You can stop rubbing your head,” I said as he started on his temples again. “The trouble won’t go back into your brain, no matter how big your mind is.”

  He glanced up at me, then nodded with a chuckle. “I suppose it never did much good. Not then or now.” He reached for my hand. “Or maybe it does. Sometimes you think something’s a habit, but later you realize it was more.”

  “Or less.” I pulled away, taking a second to focus on the cross myself. One day back and we were doing it already. Playing games.

  “Right. Well, I’m going to get out of here. Need a ride?”

  I considered it, but no Bible passages came to mind regarding
rational interactions with sweet-smelling widowers. “I’ll pass,” I said, nodding toward the downstairs door. “They have to come up sometime. Thanks for asking though.”

  Adrian shook his head. Laughter creaked through his lips. “You sound sincerely afraid of me.”

  I didn’t crack a smile. “I am.”

  “I’ll take two vanilla lotions, a shower tower of soap…lavender, a fruit cocktail mask and—”

  I stared up at Renee, my assistant and default member of the Sassy Sistahood. Times like this I regretted indulging her request to join the loop. Too much information for coworkers. Well, then there was Tracey, who I’d worked with and lived with, but that didn’t count.

  It was too Monday for this, especially after the weekend I’d had. Sure I was flattered that Renee wanted to order everything on my little product menu, but how many times had I told her to keep that stuff out of the office?

  My desktop rebooted. “Renee, you’ll have to e-mail your order to me or leave it on my answering machine at home.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “I’m on company time now.”

  Raking a long purple nail across her chin, Renee nodded. “Naomi is gone. I made sure of that before I came over. Don’t worry. I got your back.”

  Had my back? This wasn’t sixth grade. I turned back to my computer. “I appreciate that, Renee, but it’s not just about Naomi. It’s me, too. I don’t want any confusion. While I’m here, my mind is on S&S products, not mine.”

  In theory, anyway. I could harness my transactions, but truth be told, my mind did wander back to my dining room and all my new supplies every half hour or so. At least.

  Renee pursed her blue-black lips and ran a hand through her brunette hair, laced with skunk stripes of blond. “Oh. Trying to be Miss Clean, are we? Well, I won’t bother to close all those files you leave open every night with all your notes and recipes then.”

  I opened my mouth to say something and shut it again.

  “Gotcha,” she said, extending her index finger.

  What could I do but smile? I didn’t mean to do that, scribble in those digital notepads, but when an idea came to me, I needed to write it down…didn’t I?