The only way I know how to fight the battle for this child’s salvation is to give it to the Lord. I pray for her. I do.
Every time she write in that diary, it gets worser and worser. I wish I had the right words to say. I pray to God to touch my mouth so that I can speak, and to touch her ears, heart, and mind so that she can hear.
Because God knows I don’t want no abomination living under my roof.
No, these kids today not like we was. We respected our elders. We ain’t sass and talk back. We did what we were told to do, and you only had to tell us once. None of this, “In a minute . . .” We didn’t have to be told twice. And if we did, we got the back of my mama’s hand for our troubles.
But I don’t hit this child no more. I can count on one hand the number of times I whupped her in her fourteen years on this earth and in my home, and I made sure that nobody else hit her either. There was enough hitting going on between her mama and her trifling daddy when she was just a lil bitty thing, which is how she come to live with me. So I didn’t want to do it if I didn’t have to, but she just has this way about her . . . Like she don’t respond to words she don’t like. She didn’t even respond the way I wanted her to when I braided them switches and tore up them skinny, yella legs of hers when she was little. It’s like she didn’t even feel it. Didn’t cry a lick. One time, when she was six and I took the switch to them legs, she just looked at me . . . just give me this look that froze my blood and sent me straight to my Bible. “Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy: and nothing shall by any means hurt you.” Luke 10:19.
And I stay in my Bible, I stay on my knees and prayed up over this child. I thank the Lord that she not fast in the behind like that lil friend of hers, chasing after grown men. But she still ain’t right, sitting up there with me in service every Sunday after Sunday School and then Bible study on Wednesday night. Every week. Sit right there and don’t say a word. And to look at her, you wouldn’t know. She look sweet in the face. Folks think she just quiet. But in her heart, her spirit, her mind . . . That ain’t of God. There is a battle going on, saints. I stay in my Bible and on my knees as a prayer warrior for this child’s soul. “For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.” Ephesians 6:12.
SWEET SADIE talked to me at church today! She asked me how I was doing and how Granny’s doing. I told her we’re doing fine, and I didn’t even mind that she kind of had that look on her face that people get when they talking to The Girl With The Dead Parents. Pity. I hate that shit. But it wasn’t so bad with Sweet Sadie. I feel like she really care.
ONE THING I can say good about her: she ain’t letting none of them boys mess with her, far as I can tell. They don’t come sniffing around here like they did with her mama and her mama’s mama, my daughter, God rest their souls. And I was up at the corner store the other day getting some Goody powders, and I overheard two fellas in the checkout line talking about her. Either they didn’t see me, or didn’t know I’m her grandmama. And the one fella say to the other one, “My man told me some girl kicked that nigga Jay’s ass.”
And the other one say, “Naw, man. It was Jay’s lil brother, Twan. And it didn’t happen like that, but it was some wild shit. That Jael, man. That lil redbone that live over on Perkins? That bitch crazy. Twan said ever since they were in grade school, she’d fight dudes for trying to grab her ass. She been going toe-to-toe with dudes around the block for years. So he figure, she must like girls, right?”
“Like what? A bulldagger,” the other one say.
“Yeah, man!” And then he lowered his voice, but I could still hear him. “You know I hollered at her a couple of times around here. Cause she fine.”
Now these fellas had to be thirty, thirty-five years old. Just filthy.
“So me and Jay and Twan were standing outside the store that day,” he say, “and here she come down the sidewalk with her friend. Twan figure she not gon’ try to kick his ass with us standing there too, right?”
“Right, right . . .”
“Twan called her name, and she ignored him. Just kept walking past. So he called her a bulldagger and ran up behind her and grabbed her ass. Maaan, she swung around with a bottle, smashed it against the wall, and had it at that nigga’s throat!”
“Redbones is crazy, man.” That’s what the other one said.
Then the first fella say, “I didn’t even see that bottle! It just came outta nowhere! She ain’t stab him, but that’s just cuz her friend—the one with the big titties? Lachelle? Kachelle!—she just started screaming, ‘He ain’t worth it! He ain’t worth it!’ But man, she was gonna do it. Jael crazy.”
That’s right, baby. Let ’em think you crazy. Let them think you don’t like boys, even though that is unnatural in the eyes of God. Least they leave you alone that way.
But maybe she really is crazy.
They say bad seeds skip a generation. My daughter Timna was just like Jael. Just looked right through you. Her best friend, a sweet, pretty girl named Gloria Mae, got killed by a train, and Timna never shed a tear. Not a single one. The two of them was playing around on the tracks—after I told them a million times to stay off them tracks—and poor Gloria Mae didn’t get out of the way in time. Sixteen years old . . . Lord, rest her soul. And you’d think a person would be sad to lose a friend, to see ’em die like that. But not Timna. She just wasn’t fazed. Just floated through life for years all closed up in herself until the Lord just took her one day. Walking home in the rain from her job down at Woolworth’s, struck by lightning, twenty-four years old. I told her a million times not to walk out in them thunderstorms, to get a gypsy cab and I’d pay the carfare, but she was hardheaded. And a decade after she died, here comes Jael, just like her.
And Jael’s mother, Keturah, that child wasn’t built for this world. I raised her from the time she was six, when Timna died. I did the best I could. But in the end, she let that nigga, Jael’s daddy, beat on her until he killed her. Wasn’t even her husband, just some no ’count Negro.
But here comes this fat yella baby, head full of good, curly hair. Eyes bright as buttons. But just like my Timna, she looked right through you. And just like my Timna, I give her everything I have. I have spared her the ugliness about her daddy and what happened to her mama. I am the only mother she has ever known. And she has wanted for nothing.
I tried, with Keturah and Jael, to do the things my mother did for us. Tried to teach them things, like how to cook a pot of rice just right, how to frost a cake without tearing it up, how to wash and fold laundry, how to make the bed, how to keep theyself clean. Keturah took to it all, loved baking and frying chicken and helping me out in the kitchen. She laughed easy and never talked back. She was a good girl. But then that nigga came along and took her away from here.
Jael is different. She’ll cook and clean and do whatever I ask, for the most part. But there is no joy in those bright eyes, not even when she was little. It’s like her body is in one place, but her spirit is somewhere else altogether. It’s always been that way. Now sometimes she will come in my room and watch my stories with me. She likes The Young and the Restless. And some Friday nights, she’ll watch my TV programs with me. Dallas and Falcon Crest. But most nights? I have to make her sit down and eat dinner with me. She live in her own world and keep me shut out of it.
Well, at least she don’t give none of these boys the time-a day. Unlike her lil fast-tail friend Kachelle. Jael not impressed by this high-yella nigga what she call “Morris Day,” come sniffing ’round these young girls. I know his type. Lord Jesus, I know that type too well. One thing always lead to another with them. Make you feel like the Queen of Sheba, like you the only one. You say stop, they act like you said go.
My old neighbor Miss Maybelle used to yell at us from her front porch, “Don’t let the boys fool ya.” We just thought she w
as a crazy old lady tryna keep us from having our fun, you know. But she knew. She knew. And we didn’t listen. I think sometimes how things mighta been if I had listened. Probably wouldn’t be no Timna, no Keturah, no Jael. Just me in the world. Doing what, I don’t know. Something.
Anyway. Jael ain’t said a word to me ’bout Twan or that crab boil that this Morris Day is supposed to be having. But she don’t tell me nothing. Just do what she want to do.
CAN YOU suck dicks and still be saved? I’m just wondering. I don’t care about dicks or being saved. Tracy round the corner suck dick all the time. But she’ll do anything, so you can’t go by her. Kachelle uncle had this white girlfriend, and Kachelle used to see her doing it on their back porch when they thought everybody was sleep. Kachelle says that sucking dick is nasty, and she will never do it. Kachelle is always talking about what she’s never going to do. I asked her if she like girls. Maybe she want to do things with girls. She got mad and said that that wasn’t funny. I said I wasn’t trying to be funny. And if she like girls that wouldn’t bother me. But she wouldn’t listen. Just shook her head and started crying about how she’s a good girl. Kachelle is a big crybaby. If I wasn’t around, people would mess with her even more than they already do. Anyway. Today at church, Old Rev was talking about how you have to be saved and give up the sinful pleasures of the flesh if you want to get to heaven. Seem like saved folks don’t like to do anything but talk about being saved, complain about sin, and go to church. And church be boring as hell, so I just watch Sweet Sadie and think about her sexy body and her secret past.
I NEED the Lord to give me a sign. I want to stay in His will. But what is worse? Jael not coming to church, or coming with a reprobate mind? That’s what our Bible study was about this week: “And even as they did not like to retain God in their knowledge, God gave them over to a reprobate mind, to do those things which are not convenient; being filled with all unrighteousness, fornication, wickedness, covetousness, maliciousness; full of envy, murder, debate, deceit, malignity; whisperers, backbiters, haters of God, despiteful, proud, boasters, inventors of evil things, disobedient to parents, without understanding, covenant-breakers, without natural affection, implacable, unmerciful: who knowing the judgment of God, that they which commit such things are worthy of death, not only do the same, but have pleasure in them that do them.” Romans 1:28–32.
That is Jael to a T. Full of debate, deceit, and malignity. And disobedient! At a certain point, if you just willful about your sin, God will give you over to a reprobate mind. As Deacon Sharpe explained this Scripture on Wednesday night, I looked at Jael out the corner of my eye. She had that blank look on her face at first, but then she smiled a little. And for a second, I thought Jesus had heard my cry and worked a miracle in her heart. But then I followed her eyes. She was smiling at Sister Sadie! And it was just like the Scripture say: wickedness, without natural affection. I could see it! But I don’t think anyone else could see it. Probably just looked like an innocent smile to them, because they don’t know the things I know, the unspeakable things she wrote about Sister Sadie in that diary.
Sister Sadie happened to look up at that moment and smiled back at Jael. Not that I blame Sister Sadie for just being polite and kind to an orphaned child. Jesus said to feed the orphans and the widows. But I know my Savior would not approve of the thoughts of this particular orphan.
Well. I made up my mind right then and there. I am not going to wake her up for church come Sunday morning, and no more Wednesday night Bible study either. She will not do her wickedness in Greater Holiness Baptist Church. Not as long as I draw breath in my body.
I just hope the Lord understands why I’m keeping her out of His house.
I DON’T like Morris Day. Turns out his real name is Jamie, a girl name. But I don’t know which name is worse because “Morris Day” makes me think of Morris the picky cat in the commercial. And come to think of it, he kinda looks like a yellow tabby cat. Gray cat eyes, whiskers. I’ve seen thicker mustaches on boys in my grade. He’s not even as cute as the real Morris Day. And he smokes cigarettes, so his breath smells horrible. And his house ain’t nothing special either. It’s got two floors, but the rooms are tiny. He’s got one room he calls a Florida room. It just look like a living room to me. And the rooms are crammed full of shit that belonged to his dead mother. She had terrible taste and she liked to make ceramic cats. I counted 50 fucking cats before I gave up. The crabs were good though. Real hot and salty, big chunks of meat, like I like them. Granny makes shitty crabs. Watery with no taste. Not worth all the hassle it takes to get at the stringy meat. She buys the teeny-weeny ones.
Morris Day/Jamie bought the big crabs that cost $8 a dozen. When he was dropping them in the pot, Kachelle was hiding behind me like she was scared. He grabbed one of the crabs with some tongs and played like he was going to put it on her. She started screaming and ran upstairs. Morris/Jamie ran up after her still holding the crab. After a minute, I thought Kachelle was going to run back down, but she didn’t. So I went upstairs. The crab was at the top of the stairs crawling toward me. I kicked it down the stairs back to the first floor. I heard a crack when it landed. When I turned around, Kachelle was coming out of one of the bedrooms, grinning like an idiot. Morris/Jamie was right behind her, still holding the stupid tongs, sweating like a crackhead. And the whole time we ate the crabs in the backyard, he was sweating. So greasy and disgusting. And he kept cracking jokes that wasn’t even funny. But Kachelle laughed all loud like he was Eddie Murphy.
When we walked home after, I waited for her to tell me something, but she didn’t. So I said, He sweat like a pig, and he ain’t even cute. And his house is full of junk. Kachelle just rolled her eyes and told me I don’t like nobody and she’ll talk to me later. That was four days ago. I called her a couple of times and Miss Debra said she wasn’t home. And she still hasn’t called me back.
I took the long way back from the store yesterday, cut through the field behind the high school, and walked past Jamie’s house. He was in the driveway washing his Cadillac, which is really his dead mother’s Cadillac. A cigarette dangled between his lips like it was gonna fall any second. And he was sweating like a pig, as usual, even though he was wearing an undershirt with no sleeves. His arms were soft and pale. No muscles in sight. Soft-ass nigga. I pretended like I didn’t see him, but he hollered Hey, Pretty Girl at me. I ignored him and kept walking. Then he said, You just missed your friend. She just left. He kept on talking and I kept on walking.
Fuck Kachelle and her bad taste in men.
NEVER IN all my days have I known a child so ungrateful. She has never known a hungry day in her life, not in my house. I bet she wouldn’t be so high and mighty in somebody’s foster care, which is where her behind would’ve ended up if I hadn’t taken her in out of the goodness of my heart. I raised my child and outlived her. My grandchild too. I believe I have earned some rest on this earth and my crown in heaven. But where else was she going to go? I do my best to make ends meet, and this lil heffa says I make shitty crabs?
Well. When she brings her tail back here from wherever she run off to this afternoon, I got something for her. It’s time for her to get a job.
ME AND Kachelle went to the beach with Jamie. Kachelle called him her goddaddy and she had on a new yellow bathing suit he bought her. He lifted her up high in the air and she screamed and laughed as he threw her into the waves over and over again. Kachelle is not a small girl. So I guess he’s stronger than those weak-ass arms of his look. Then they got tired of that game, and Kachelle climbed up and rode on Jamie’s shoulders as he walked farther out into the ocean. I couldn’t see, but I imagined his hands clutching Kachelle’s thighs. Every now and then, her body would shake. From laughing probably. They got so far away, I couldn’t hear her anymore.
It was hot, but not too bad under the umbrella Jamie rented. I sat on a blanket with a People magazine I picked up when we had stopped at 7–11 to get soda, ice, sunflower seeds, and potato chips. I had alre
ady told Kachelle I wasn’t getting in the water because I didn’t have a bathing suit. She said, You can get in with your shorts on. They’ll dry. I just rolled my eyes. She’s so dumb. But Jamie stood next to her nodding like she was just the smartest girl in the whole wide world.
When we walked down the boardwalk heading to the beach, we passed a shop selling beach stuff. Kachelle grabbed a pair of white sunglasses, some yellow flip-flops, and a huge towel with different color fish on it. She handed everything to Jamie and he paid for it. They had bathing suits too, right next to the cash register. Jamie didn’t offer to buy me one. Not that I would’ve taken it.
The water came up to Jamie’s neck at one point because I could only see Kachelle. It looked like she was sitting on top of the waves. Then she tumbled backward off Jamie’s shoulders and waves covered them both. When I could see their heads again, they were facing each other and Kachelle had her arms wrapped around Jamie’s shoulders. How could she stand his nasty cigarette breath that close up? UGH. I couldn’t see for the water, but I bet her legs were probably wrapped around his back. Then they both looked back at me. I lifted the People magazine to cover my face.
To hell with them.
I started daydreaming about Sweet Sadie. I bet she had come to the beach lots of times before she became a preacher’s wife. I imagine her riding down the shoreline on the back of some big dude’s motorcycle. Wearing a white bikini, which looks so good against her brown, brown skin. And the dude, I picture him wearing dark shades and a denim jacket with no sleeves that shows off his muscles. But when they start to pass me, Sadie tells him to stop and let her off the motorcycle. She stomps through the sand toward me and reaches out her hands. I try not to stare at her titties falling out of the top of the bikini, but she notices and just laughs. She pulls me up off the blanket and hugs me. She smells like vanilla and roses. And she keeps hugging me and we start walking, walking, walking down the shore.
The Secret Lives of Church Ladies Page 9
