Kimba giggled, and I lost it. We all busted out laughing—except for Renee, of course.
“You two condone her behavior?” Renee asked.
Kimba, loosened up by the tequila, said, “It’s not for me to condone or not condone. Tash is a grown-ass woman.”
“Don’t even bother, Kimba,” Tasheta said. “When you’re not here, I just ignore Miss Holier-Than-Thou.”
“Back to the subject at hand . . .” Renee said. “It’s for the best that Uncle Bert couldn’t remember that other girl’s name. Everything happens for a reason.”
“Jesus Christ, I swear your native tongue is ‘Cliché.’ ”
“Don’t you—”
“—take the Lord’s name in vain, blah, blah, blah. Do you realize you cling to an imaginary white daddy because your flesh-and-blood daddy wasn’t shit? Well, guess what. Your imaginary white daddy ain’t shit either. If he was, he would’ve given you a real daddy that was worth a damn.”
Renee took a deep breath and turned her back to Tasheta and addressed the rest of us. “As I was saying: it’s for the best. She isn’t really one of us anyway.”
“One of us?” Tasheta laughed. “And who are we exactly? Except a bunch of women fathered by the same old deadbeat nigga with a thing for barely legal girls. She most definitely is one of us.”
“I mean”—Renee whipped around again to face Tasheta—” she didn’t know our father like we did. And even though you did not respect him in life, at least show some respect for the dead.”
Tasheta began to speak, but Kimba cut her off. “To your corners, ladies. You are working my last good nerve.” She rubbed her temples.
Tasheta giggled. “Girl, that’s just the tequila.”
Renee said, “Scripture says, ‘Honor thy father and thy mother—’ ”
“Honor thy father?” Tasheta yelled. “When did that motherfucker ever honor you? Or me? Or Kimba? Or Nichelle? Or anybody but his own trifling self? I ain’t honoring shit.”
“Blasphemer!” Renee screamed and covered her ears.
Tasheta laughed. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“Both of you!” Kimba hissed. “Keep it down. Grandma and Uncle Bird are resting.”
Renee lowered her voice. “I know one thing. You better not make a scene at the funeral.”
Tasheta tilted her head to the side. “Or what?”
(You might be interested to know that Tasheta is the only one of us who knows how to fight. Kimba will debate you until you cry uncle. Renee will pray for you. And I’m just gonna talk a lot of shit from a distance.)
“Or . . . or I will have you escorted from the church.”
“Yeah, okay. Good luck with that.”
“I’m serious, Tasheta. Funerals are to honor the dead and comfort the living. If you can’t respect that, you need to stay away.”
“Listen, I know you think you’re in charge and you were his favorite and all of that. You can have that. But you don’t run me. You. Don’t. Run. Shit. Here.” Tasheta punctuated each word of her last sentence with a clap.
“Can we call a truce?” Kimba asked.
“No!” Tasheta and Renee said.
“Renee,” I said. “Stop carrying on like we’re some kind of great dynasty and Stet was some kind of patriarch. And if you’re going to quote Scripture, quote the whole thing. ‘Honor your father and mother—which is the first commandment with a promise—so that it may go well with you and that you may enjoy long life on the earth.’ Girl, I get it. You are trying to get that crown in heaven. And you wanted desperately for that man to love you back. And maybe he did. But respect the fact that the rest of us didn’t want what you wanted and didn’t get whatever it is you think you got from him.”
Renee folded her arms and began to cry. She looked so much like her ten-year-old self that Father’s Day in church, I almost backed down. Almost.
“And,” I said, “if we’re going to keep it really real, the next verse says, ‘Fathers, don’t exasperate your children; instead, bring them up in the training and instruction of the Lord.’ ”
“In other words,” Tasheta said, “if you weren’t beating him over the head with Scripture, leave me the fuck alone about it.”
“And you . . .” I turned to Tasheta. “We are more than just some deadbeat’s kids. We’re sisters. We don’t always get along, but we’ve always had each other’s backs. I’m not going to wear black and sit up in that church because he was some great father. We all know he wasn’t. I’m going because I love Grandma and Uncle Bird and Renee and Kimba and your messy ass. Stet was our connection, but it’s not like we haven’t spent our whole lives together, 99 percent of the time without him. We spent whole summers in this house, playing all day in that tiny-ass front yard because Grandma wouldn’t let us out the gate. Remember?”
Kimba and Tasheta nodded and started cracking up. Even Renee cracked a smile.
Kimba said, “Remember that time we came in from playing, and Uncle Bird said, ‘Gotdamn, y’all smell like a pack of billy goats!’ ”
“And Grandma hit him in the back with the rolled up newspaper for cussing in her house?” Renee said, rolling her eyes in Tasheta’s direction.
We laughed some more, then we sat there, quiet for the first time in forever, remembering. There had been good times and close times. Those summers at Grandma’s. Spending the night at each other’s houses during the school year. Swapping clothes. Trips to Disney World. Worrying over boys. Complaining about our mothers. Doing each other’s hair. Proms. Graduations. Kimba’s wedding.
And Stet had had nothing to do with any of that. Because he was a man who took without giving, he left us nothing to grieve.
Tasheta broke the silence. She stood up and made herself a plate to go. “I got work in the morning. I’m out,” she said. She grabbed her keys and purse, and hugged everyone goodbye except Renee.
At this point, you may be thinking that this situation is a hot mess, and there’s no way in the world you want to have anything to do with us. But I promise you: we are the best sisters you could ask for. Let me tell you what happened next.
The next time we were all together was for the limo ride to the funeral. Renee put all of us sisters in one limo, and Grandma, Uncle Bird, and Kimba’s husband and kids in the other.
Renee and Tasheta were still in the midst of a cold war, but at least it was cold. Tasheta showed up at Grandma’s house the morning of the funeral in a backless black dress and clear heels, but agreed to wear a blazer Renee pulled out of the trunk of her car.
The funeral was . . . a funeral. Renee, Grandma, and Uncle Bird cried. Kimba’s kids were restless; her mom tried to keep them occupied with snacks. My mother sat in the last pew; I didn’t see her, but that’s where she told me she would be. A bunch of Stet’s friends who knew nothing about him as a father stood up and talked about what a great friend he was. The choir sang two songs. The pastor spoke of my grandparents’ faithfulness as a covering on the lives of their children and their children’s children, which I suppose was the most he could say. And then he did the thing pastors always do at the funeral of someone who hadn’t darkened the church’s door in a few decades: reminded mourners of their own mortality and where they are likely to spend eternity if they don’t get right with Jesus.
Jesus and I got right at an altar call years ago, so I basically zoned out at that point. Stet and I had also made our peace a long time ago too. I stopped expecting him to be a father, and he stopped expecting me to be Renee. When the usher came to lead us out of the sanctuary when the service was over, I was beyond ready to go.
At the graveside, we sisters gathered round Grandma and Uncle Bird as the casket was lowered into the ground. After everyone dispersed to head back to the church for the repast, I stood next to the grave, alone. I wasn’t ready to be with people just yet.
But of course, Black people can never just leave you alone. A light-skinned man with jowls and graying hair walked over and stood next to me. “I’m
so sorry for your loss,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“I was your daddy’s friend. Chauncey?” Chauncey waited for some sign of recognition on my face. When there was none, he just kept talking, wagging his finger at me.
“You know, your daddy always talked about you. Bragged about you. Always getting straight As in school. Going off to college and whatnot. Yale!”
“That’s . . . not me. That’s my sister, Kimba. And she went to Harvard.”
“Oh, well, you know, alla y’all made him proud . . . Yessir, mmmh mmmh mmmh! Stet got some really beautiful daughters.” Chauncey rubbed my shoulder, and I shuddered at his touch. I’m sure he felt it, but he kept on rubbing. My skin went clammy beneath the fabric of my suit jacket.
“Real beautiful girls,” he said.
It took a few seconds for Chauncey’s words to register as a compliment. Then it took a few seconds more for this to register as a highly inappropriate compliment, given the circumstances and the way his hand lingered on me.
“So whatchu doin’ later on?” he asked.
I pulled away. I squinted. This couldn’t be happening. “You’ve got five seconds to get the fuck away from me,” I said, “before I start screaming for my uncle to come over here and stomp a mudhole in you. Five . . .”
Chauncey backed away.
In the limo, I was quiet. I figured everyone would just think the weight of the day was on me. But not Tasheta. I told you that girl is smart.
“NiNi, what’s the matter?”
I swallowed hard and told them what had happened.
“Oh, hell, no,” Renee said. “That motherfucker . . .” We all stared at her.
At the repast, I sat with Grandma, Uncle Bird, Kimba and her crew, and my mother. Ladies from the church brought us heaping plates of food and cups of fruit punch.
At the next table, I saw Tasheta sitting across from Chauncey, smiling and nodding. From what I could make out, he was once again talking about Stet’s beautiful daughters. Renee joined them and set a plate of food and a cup of punch in front of Chauncey. He kept on talking, and Renee and Tasheta kept on smiling and nodding.
And then Chauncey took a long drink of his fruit punch.
And screamed.
He clawed at his throat. He broke into a sweat, and his eyes filled with tears. Some of the ladies from the church rushed over to help. Renee and Tasheta floated over to our table with their plates, sat down, and kept eating.
“What happened to Chauncey?” Uncle Bird asked.
“Maybe he put a little too much hot sauce on his chicken. Or something,” Renee said. “Grandma, can I get you anything?”
“Oh, no, baby,” Grandma said. “I’m good. Just need to find out who in here pregnant. I keep having them fish dreams . . .”
It was a long day.
And this was a long letter. But we didn’t just want you to know that Stet died. We also wanted you to know us. Even Renee. She’ll come around. When Uncle Bird finally remembered your mother’s last name, she pouted a little, but she’s just as curious about you as the rest of us are.
And Kimba says that if you’re ever in Philadelphia, let her know. All of our addresses and phone numbers are below.
And Uncle Bird said to tell you that he’s got room in his heart for one more niece.
And I’ve got room in mine for one more sister.
Finally, Tasheta wants to know if you prefer brown or white liquor.
Your sister,
Nichelle
P.S. Grandma wants to know if you’re pregnant.
PEACH COBBLER
MY MOTHER’S peach cobbler was so good, it made God himself cheat on his wife. When I was five, I hovered around my mother in the kitchen, watching, close enough to have memorized all the ingredients and steps by the time I was six. But not too close to make her yell at me for being in the way. And not close enough to see the exact measurements she used. She never wrote the recipe down. Without having to be told, I learned not to ask questions about that cobbler, or about God. I learned not to say anything at all about him hunching over our kitchen table every Monday eating plate after plate of peach cobbler, and then disappearing into the bedroom I shared with my mother.
I became a silent student of my mother and her cobbler-making ways. Even when I was older and no longer believed that God and Reverend Troy Neely were one and the same, I still longed to perfect the sweetness and textures of my mother’s cobbler. My mother, who fed me TV dinners, baked a peach cobbler with fresh peaches every Monday, her day off from the diner where she waited tables. She always said Sunday was her Saturday and Monday was her Sunday. What I knew was that none of her days were for me.
And for many of those Mondays off and on during my childhood, God (to my child’s mind) would stop by and eat an entire 8 x 8 pan of cobbler. My mother never ate any of the cobbler herself; she said she didn’t like peaches. She would shoo me out of the kitchen before God could offer me any, but I doubted he would have offered even if I’d sat right down next to him. God was an old fat man, like a Black Santa, and I imagined my mother’s peach cobbler contributing to his girth.
Some Mondays, God would arrive after dinner and leave as I lay curled up on the couch watching Little House on the Prairie in the living room. Other times my mother and God would already be in the bedroom when I got home from school. I could hear moaning and pounding, like a board hitting a wall, as soon as I entered the house. I would shut the front door quietly behind me and tiptoe down the hall to listen outside the bedroom door. “Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!” my mother would cry. I could hear God too, his voice low and growly, saying, “Yes, yes, yes!”
Even before he started coming by on Mondays, I had suspected that Pastor Neely, the pastor of Hope in Christ Baptist Church, was God. He was big, black, and powerful, as I imagined God to be. My very first Easter speech, memorized in kindergarten during Sunday School, was “Jesus is the Son of God,” but I didn’t find it odd that Black God could have a blue-eyed, blond son. Pastor Neely was dark, his wife was pale, and their son, Trevor, who was around my age, had gray eyes and wasn’t too much darker than the Jesus whose picture hung all over church. Plus, midway through every Sunday service, Pastor Neely, his wife, and Trevor stood in the front of the sanctuary and collected a love offering from the congregation as the choir sang “I Love You (Lord Today).” So it was easy for me to deduce that Pastor Neely was the “Lord.” My mother’s cries of passion through our bedroom door confirmed it.
I enjoyed the theater of Pastor Neely’s Sunday sermons. From the pulpit, he thundered and roared at the congregation about God’s wrath and judgment. And when he intoned about God’s goodness and mercy, he wrapped his arms around himself and rocked. Then he stepped down from the pulpit and prowled the aisles of the sanctuary, energized and excited to tell us what he called the Good News. For a big man, he moved with surprising ease and grace. By the time he got to the altar call, most of the women and some of the men would be up on their feet, swaying and crying out. But not my mother. She stayed seated, her face unreadable as usual.
Pastor and First Lady Neely were the opposite of Jack Sprat and his wife. He, thick and corpulent. She, gangly and gaunt, like a child’s stick figure drawing. During the love offering, she stood as straight and stiff as an arrow. Her straight brown hair hung past her shoulders, and I thought she was a white woman until years later, when I saw her up close for the first time, at her front door.
Like many of the church ladies, First Lady Neely wore a wide-brimmed hat, but hers hung low and almost obscured her eyes. But I could see enough of her to know that she did not have big, begging eyes like my mother; she was not beautiful like my mother. She did not have my mother’s round breasts and full hips, the kind that excited strange men on the street. Men my mother called “dirty motherfuckers” when they said nasty things to her as we walked past. First Lady Neely probably never walked anywhere. I saw her stepping out of a pink Cadillac in the church parking lot one day. I heard one of
the church ladies standing nearby say she had earned that car selling Mary Kay.
Pastor Neely always drove a luxury car, a new one each year, gifts from the congregation. He parked it in our backyard, which was adjacent to the woods. Our house sat alone at the dead end of a gravel road. The nearest neighbor was a half a mile away, near my bus stop.
One day, in second grade, I ran that whole half mile home, excited to share some good news with my mother. I burst into the house, threw my backpack on the couch, and ran straight into the kitchen, breathless.
Pastor Neely sat at the table, hunched over. It was a Monday. He looked up from his plate of cobbler and said hello in that fake, forced way that drags out the o—the way people say it when they don’t enjoy talking to children. I said hello back, and he went right back to his cobbler. He ate surprisingly small spoonfuls, slowly. His full lips, slightly parted and glistening, made me think of the kissing I saw on TV and the movies. The spoon practically disappeared in his bear paw of a hand. His fingers resembled the thick sausages my mother made for breakfast sometimes on Sunday morning.
My mother leaned against the counter near the back door with her arms folded, watching Pastor Neely eat. She looked pleased—not particularly happy, but pleased. And yet she watched him so intently she also appeared ready to rush and block the door if he tried to leave.
“Mama!” I said, still gasping to catch my breath. “Guess what!”
“What?” She never took her eyes off the pastor.
“Latasha Wilson invited me to her birthday slumber party. Can I go?” The talk at school was Latasha Wilson lived in a two-story house and had a pink canopy Barbie bed. Her hair was always neatly pressed and pulled into a high ponytail of shiny, spiraling curls. Her father worked at a bank. The birthday party invitation, which I’d shoved down inside the front of my shirt, smelled like bubble gum. Latasha smelled like bubble gum. I bet her house smelled like bubble gum too. I couldn’t wait to find out.
“No,” my mother said.
I bit down on the “why not” that almost slipped out of my mouth. My mother’s eyes were still on Pastor Neely. His eyes were still on the cobbler. My eyes filled with tears.
The Secret Lives of Church Ladies Page 3
