Made of Honor

by Marilyn Griffith

  What was she thinking so hard about? Being pregnant didn’t seem to faze her. I decided for a change of direction. “You know a lot about makeup, huh?” I was careful not to say whether she knew anything about applying it.

  The girl squirmed in her chair, then took a sip of the pop in front of her, topped with a cherry. “It’s not so hard. You have to know how to pick the colors.” She nodded, staring at my plain face. “You’d look good in some of the neutrals. Warm colors would look nice, too. Come to think of it—”

  “Uh-huh.” My lips twisted to the side then. Why did it always have to come back to me? “I was just thinking that maybe you could spend the night with me this Saturday and we could go to church together in the morning. What do you say?”

  Shemika stuck out her tongue and made a gagging motion. “Church, church, church. You bad as Grandma. It’s so boring. And so fake. All those girls up there singing in the choir like they all holy.” She folded her arms. “I see half of ’em in the club the night before. Some of them don’t even change they clothes.”

  I made a sour face, knowing it was the truth. How many times in years past had I done it myself?

  “And those guys? Please. All dogs. Maybe when I’m old and lonely like you and candle man I’ll go to church, but I get more out of just praying to God myself. We got a thing, me and Him.”

  Tangela cleared her throat and looked in our direction. I ignored her.

  “A thing, huh? An understanding do you mean?”

  She pounded the table. “Yeah, girl! An understanding. And now you understand, too.”

  Sadness clouded around me as I heard the words I’d said so often in my younger years. My distorted belief system. I had one, of course. No atheism or anything like that for me. Jesus died, was buried and rose on the third day. John 3:16 and all that. And I’d get to the rest of it later, say when I was approaching thirty or so? Until then, I did my thing and God understood. People in the church were phony. It would turn out fine.

  It hadn’t. And it wouldn’t for Shemika, either. How could I reach this girl without turning her off? Did I dare speak the truth to this stranger when I couldn’t have this conversation with some of my own family?

  God, who reconciled us to Himself through Christ, and gave us the ministry of reconciliation….

  There it was, Tracey’s devotional verse. It wasn’t the pastor’s job to help this girl, or even the church’s job. God had sent her to me, a minister of reconciliation.

  I turned my chair her way. “If you knew a couple who were perfect for each other and truly in love but someone came along and lied to one of them and convinced her to leave the other, would you try to get them back together?”

  She waved her hand like waxing a car. “Oh, yeah. I had some friends like that. Josefina and Ricky. I could not let them stay apart—”

  My hand covered Shemika’s. “So you understand how I feel right now. God has loved you from the foundation of the world. He loved you when you were born, when you did right and you did wrong. He’s watched you give up your treasure to this boy because you thought you had to do that to be loved….”

  She squeezed my hand.

  “I thought that, too. I gave myself away, hoping that would be enough to keep a man by my side. It never was. I was trying to fill myself with human, failing love when what I needed was the love of God.”

  Shemika nodded. “I just wanted him to love me, you know? I thought that if I gave him a baby—” She choked back a sob. “It works for some of the other girls.”

  I shook my head. “No it doesn’t, sweetheart.” My sister’s sad eyes at Sunday’s dinner flashed through my mind. “It never works to try and win a man’s love. But God can fix it. Jesus can put the pieces back together. He did that for me. He’ll do it for you, too. Spend the night with me this Saturday. We’ll get pretty for church and go to your boyfriend’s house after and talk to his—”

  “No.” The word hissed from between Shemika’s teeth. “His mother will lose it. And I’m afraid he’ll—”

  “He won’t. We’ll pray and God will go before us. It’ll be all right.” In an Adrian-inspired moment, I kissed the top of her head.

  As she returned my embrace, a round of soft applause filled the room, the kind produced by a lifetime of Junior League luncheons. I turned to see even Tangela wiping her eyes. Just as quickly the spark returned to her. “Well it’s obvious that Dana isn’t going to be quiet, so we’re dismissed.” She waved her hand toward my table. “Next time, keep all that at home.”

  I smiled through my tears as Shemika wrote down her phone number. We stood.

  “Do you need a ride now?” I asked, hoping she didn’t. I’d dived in over my head again and would need a day or two to recover.

  “No, my boyfriend is picking me up,” she said, wiping the black trails of mascara from her face. “He just got his license back.”

  My body tightened. “Oh, yeah. Him.” I picked up the pen where her phone number was written. “What’s his name again?”

  She looked both ways. “Come on, Miss Dana, don’t you know?” She forced herself between the tables, moving for the door. “It’s your nephew. Jericho.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Saturday came before I was ready. In my mind, I was still back at the South Sails Country Club with Jericho’s name echoing in my head. I hadn’t gotten any sleep that night, between wanting to throttle my nephew, being sad for him and wondering how on Earth to tell Rochelle without her killing us all.

  Add in Daddy popping over and eavesdropping—or playing close attention as he calls it—and the whole thing was a nightmare. For the first time ever, I was thankful Mama was dead. It’s a horrible thing to say, but had she been alive, I might have been the stroke victim. Daddy wasn’t happy about the pregnancy, but he took it in man-fashion, offering to cook for their wedding and let them take his bed at Jordan’s after the ceremony. I squashed that until Rochelle found out, in hopes of keeping them from a bed at Saint Elizabeth Hospital.

  So by the time Shemika showed up on my doorstep, clean-faced and somewhat sensible-acting, all my wonderful plans for girl-talks and makeovers had gone out the window. I had orders for two impromptu bridesmaid spa parties to get out by Monday and Daddy had taken over my kitchen with Sunday dinner preparations.

  What a surprise when Shemika turned out to be a hard worker under all that Ebonics and lipstick? Without anyone saying a word, Shemika set to work, chopping and boiling the twenty pounds of potatoes for the potato salad, making a pot of the best baked beans I have ever tasted—I’d never admit it to Daddy—and helping me wrap and label 500 heart-shaped soaps and create the scented centerpieces for an upcoming Valentine’s Day wedding.

  Jericho managed to come over and help, too, looking happier than he should have been. When he’d arrived to pick up Shemika and I gave him the news, instead of being crushed as I expected, he seemed intrigued at the prospect of being a father. He smiled at me now, then scooped some of the potato salad into a bowl.

  “Don’t let Grandpa catch you. If you eat now, you might not eat tomorrow.”

  He didn’t seem concerned about that, either. “Does the baby mean I don’t get to play basketball? At college, I mean?”

  “Probably not,” I’d said, trying to let him down easy. He went to the refrigerator for an orange, peeled it and put it on a plate for Shemika. When he started grilling her on her milk intake, I got a little upset, but managed to keep from kicking him out until an hour or so later, when Rochelle called. I wasn’t sorry to see him go. This whole situation would take some getting used to.

  Dahlia showed up next, reminding me I’d promised to babysit while she went with Trevor to the recording studio. I’d managed to block the whole thing out of my mind, but as soon as she mentioned it I remembered. I’d agreed only because the all-night daycare she’d mentioned taking Sierra to was always in the news for child abuse. A regular avenger of the downtrodden I was these days. The question was, who would take of me?

/>   I will.

  I am.

  And He was. Through all my bumbling the past few months, God continued to sustain me, to hold me up with His right hand. As I collapsed onto the couch with tears daring to flow, a knock came at the door. A knock, not the doorbell. Adrian. Daddy had managed to call him between the peach cobbler and the chocolate cake and I was glad to see him.

  Without blinking an eye, he listened to all the problems as they tumbled out of my lips. He hugged me, put Sierra to sleep, and herded Shemika and Daddy out of the kitchen.

  “I’m taking everyone to dinner and a movie,” he said softly before tossing a fifty-dollar bill on the coffee table. As everyone happily filed out of the house, he kissed my hairline. “Take a nap. If you’re too scared to mess with your Dad’s food, order something. The Mexican Mama is doing takeout now. I can order for you on the cell if you want.”

  Why wasn’t I married to this guy again? Issues. Issues. The undoing of us all. “You’ve done enough. I’ll figure out something. Thanks so much.”

  I ate my delicious chimichanga, sanitized the kitchen for Daddy’s next round in the kitchen—or mine—and watched a funny movie on cable before drifting off on the couch while considering whether or not to risk Daddy’s wrath by sampling a little of his peach cobbler. When a knock sounded again, I stumbled still half-asleep, but crazy enough to decide on kissing my benefactor. The cheek would be best considering my salsa-dinner-and-a-nap breath.

  Still groggy but eager to show my gratitude, I drew back the door, taking his cheeks in my hands and puckering before diving in, unfortunately before opening my eyes properly.

  Only when lips met mine instead of stubble, did I realize that these cheeks were smooth and a few inches lower than they should have been.

  “Well, hello to you, too.” Trevor, in a shirt I’d bought him six Valentine’s ago and a pair of jeans fitted in all the right places, stood just beyond my face, licking his lips.

  I shut my eyes as if this would all go away. “I am so sorry. I thought you were—That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  Trevor stepped inside and kicked the door shut with one of his boots. “I’m glad it did. I’ve missed you, Dana. I mean really missed you.”

  Run!

  Doing a football shimmy I once saw on a horrible exercise video, I got away the best I could, though Trevor closed the distance with two strides.

  “What are you doing here anyway?” I said in a pitiful voice. My chest heaved from the short run. I really needed to get back to the gym.

  “We wrapped up early. Came to pick up the baby.”

  I swallowed hard, trying to ignore his lingering scent. I stared at Sierra snoozing on the couch behind me. Good thing I didn’t send her with Adrian or I’d have had to face Trevor alone. “Okay. Let me gather the baby’s things. I had, uh, planned to take her to church in the morning.”

  As I dived into the hall closet for the baby bag, I decided to toss it to him on the way to the door.

  Don’t look at him, whatever you do.

  When I got back to the living room, Trevor was half out of his shirt. Obviously, he had plans, too. Flipping him the child’s bag in a pass worthy of the Super Bowl, I made for the door, jerked it open…and ran into Adrian’s chest.

  He wasn’t smiling.

  Trevor shrugged on his shirt and called to Sierra, now awake and blinking on the sofa. “Come on sweetie. Let’s go home.” He winked at Adrian. “Our work here is done.”

  What I wouldn’t do for a quiet little Sunday.

  Today was anything but. Instead of sunshine, angry clouds raged on outside my windows, clumps of cotton against the blue-gray sky. As freezing rain burst from the clouds, tears eased down my cheeks. I tiptoed past the couch where Adrian and Daddy slept. Shemika and Jericho were propped uncomfortably on two recliners. Holding hands. It’d been a long night for sure.

  I paused and looked down on Adrian’s smooth head. My hand rested on his, pinching the bridge of his nose even in his sleep. Remembering the confusion with Trevor, I pulled away, grateful he wasn’t awake.

  Or so I thought. He pulled my hand to his chest. I didn’t resist. A tear splashed on his forehead.

  “I believe you,” he said, rising from the couch, and heading for the door. He pulled me along for the ride.

  “I know how it must have looked.” I didn’t really. I know how it looked to me when Trevor had unbuttoned that shirt. I didn’t dare think how it might have looked to another man. Especially not Adrian, who had so many times removed himself from my presence so as not to get either one of us into more than we could handle. I’d spent most of the night crying in my room after the look he’d given me. Even Shemika seemed disappointed. But somehow during the night, some way, Adrian had changed his mind.

  I smiled as we reached the door, thinking of Sandy, his late wife. What must it have been like to be married to this man? I’d always thought of Adrian in superhero terms, much as a teenager I’d dreamed of El Debarge or Prince—until I realized he was less than five feet tall. This was different. Grown up. Real. Jesus had changed things so much between us. “Thank you. For taking everybody out. For believing me.”

  He nodded. “You met Trevor at my wedding, remember? I know his games.” He squeezed my hand and reached for the doorknob. “And I know you.”

  How can you? I don’t know me.

  I nodded, thankful Adrian hadn’t showed up any later. I’d learned early on in my walk with Christ that the place I felt strongest was often the place the enemy attacked first. I’d always expected war in my weaknesses, but it was my strengths that often brought me down.

  Being single and celibate had come first on my list of Christian virtues. And allowing God to refine me had become my deepest prayer. Watching Adrian walk away from me, limping as though he’d been shot through the heart, I knew two birds had been killed with one stone this time. I could only hope that my faith in the rock of my salvation would prove stronger than the boulder of my past.

  “Dana?” My father’s slippers hit against the floor like a flyswatter against a screen door.

  “Yes, Dad. It’s me.” I tensed, then walked to the kitchen, knowing that’s where I’d find him. Watching as he started the Day Two recipes for the dinner—things that were best made on the day of eating, dough for rolls, salad and the pineapple passion fruit punch Tracey served for her reception—I marveled at the care with which he prepared this food and the disdain with which he lived his life. Though he’d cleaned up these past few months living with Jordan, he refused to get a job or go to church, a place he had once loved.

  My heart raced at the memory of his baritone voice slipping over the sanctuary. I’d loved watching everyone’s backs hit the pews as he sang the pain out of them, drawing out the sting of a long week with each honeyed note. And if any hurt was left, well, it was nothing a slab of ribs or a plate of hot fish couldn’t cure. I sighed. Why were things so simple, but so complicated?

  “You’d better get them young folks up and dressed if you all plan to get to church on time. Takes about thirty minutes just to find a parking spot over there. And don’t you have to sing? You look like—”

  “Daddy.” I took another sip of tepid water and put the teakettle on the only available burner.

  “Well, you do. Tea isn’t going to help those bags under your eyes. Grab one of those cucumbers and go lay down. I’ll set you out some clothes and get those children going.” He paused, probably thinking of just how many children he was really referring to.

  Set me out some clothes? I hadn’t heard him say that in years. He’d once heard me complaining to Mama after service about being too old for the ruffled taffeta dress he’d chosen for me. The next Sunday he’d told me to go and put something on with my grown self and that had been that. What a fool I’d been. I needed somebody to lay my clothes out today. I needed somebody to lay out my life. “Thank you, Daddy,” I said, slicing a bowl of cucumbers—after recovering from the shock of actually having cucumbers—and headi
ng for my room.

  “Thank you, moppet.”

  Moppet. My lips curled inward remembering the blowout Easter afro that had earned me the name. As the day went on, everyone else’s hair got bigger. Mine shrank, flopping at my ears until I looked like a little brown rug, parted down the middle. Muppet they’d called me, until Daddy corrected them. “No. Moppet. She’s so cute you could wipe up the floor with her.”

  It was corny and he was drunk when he’d said it, but that didn’t lessen the hot, sappy feeling rising in my gut as he said it now. “Oh, Daddy.” I hugged him with all the strength I could muster.

  He squirmed and wiggled, waving me off as though I were a killer bee. “Go on now. Women. Never know when they’re going to act crazy.”

  I giggled. Men. I always knew when they were going to act crazy. As long as they’re breathing. I stretched and set out across the dining room, which had shaped up nicely without the cardboard boxes that had once filled it. I wondered what kind of crazy outfit Daddy would “set out” for me.

  My front door exploded in a chorus of angry knocks before I could think on it further. I inched along with my head tilted back to keep the cucumbers on my eyes, but one fell off with a splat. In true teen boy form, Jericho jumped out of the recliner and ducked onto the balcony, choosing to weather the pouring rain and freezing temperatures rather than the impending storm in my apartment.

  With a sigh, I stuffed the remaining cucumber in my pocket, then started for the door. Still Sundays, I used to call them. If God let me see one again, I’d never complain.

  Shemika pulled her covers up around her neck as I passed her. I shook my head. “Tell him to get back in here before he catches pneumonia.”

  The girl looked torn. “He thinks it’s his mother.”

  “Nah. This one’s for me.” I knew Dahlia’s crazy knocking anywhere. No doubt, Trevor had gone home and shared his imaginary escapade with my sister. Or even worse, my sweet little niece had bumbled out the scene as only a toddler can.