Divas of Damascus Road

by Michelle Stimpson

  “I guess it can be,” Yolanda agreed.

  Aunt Toe put her hand on Yolanda’s arm. “Don’t be afraid, baby. God’s got everything under control. Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to you that He don’t already know about.”

  “Hmm.” Yolanda gave Aunt Toe a big hug. It wasn’t often she got the chance to sit next to her great-aunt and capture nuggets of her wisdom. She was grateful for moments like this, especially considering that she might not have many such moments left.

  Chapter 22

  Yolanda agreed to a truce with Kelan. With her family off doing couple things, and Paulette having kicked Kelan to the curb for good, they were both down to each other. They attended watch service together on New Year’s Eve.

  At the stroke of midnight they praised the old year out and the new year in. Yolanda was thankful for the relationship that they’d both come to rest in throughout the previous year. And whether or not she was ready to admit it to herself, she was truly falling in love with him. Not the kind where the butterflies fluttered aimlessly in your stomach—the kind where your butterflies knew what they were fluttering about.

  Yolanda conceded that they were in a romantic relationship. Kelan seemed happy enough to introduce her as his girlfriend, and she could live with that. Some days she looked at him and he was a man, complete with biceps, powerful thighs, and the unmistakable aura of masculinity.

  Other days he was just artsy, quirky, plain old Kelan.

  Still, she had to confess: “Kelan the man” days were beginning to outnumber the others.

  Kelan, on the other hand, was tired of this shallow declaration of their connection. Even with all her issues, he couldn’t imagine his life without Yolanda. He knew that with time and patience she would come to realize that God was trying to love her through him. But how much time would it take?

  “Happy New Year,” he said to her later over waffles at an all-night pancake house.

  “Same to you.”

  “This is going to be a blessed year.” He seemed assured.

  “Go on, brother, prophesy.”

  “Well, I don’t know if you’re ready to hear it.” He shook his head, taunting her.

  “I’m ready.”

  “Yolanda, I’m in love with you, and before this year is through, we’re either going to make a commitment or go our separate ways.”

  “What?” She dropped a corner of her waffle back into its syrup.

  “I told you you weren’t ready.”

  “What are you talking about, Kelan?”

  “I’m talking about us. I love you, Yolanda. I love everything about you. I love the spirit within you.”

  “Kelan,” she laughed slightly, “you’ll have to forgive me, but you do love every woman you meet within three weeks?”

  “Okay,” he traded laughs, “I’ll give you that one. I used to have this wildly romantic idea about love. But our friendship has shown me the best of what God meant for Adam when he created Eve. But I can’t keep going with this friendship front.”

  “So our friendship is a fake?”

  “No, the friendship is real.” He stopped her. “It’s built on a firm spiritual foundation.”

  “Right,” she agreed.

  “Right, and that’s the great thing about us, Yolanda. We did all of the groundwork without any pressure. And I’m not trying to put pressure on you now. I’m just not interested in having a lifetime girlfriend.”

  “You picked a fine time to tell me about all this.” She put her fork down. The part of her that was in love with Kelan was happy to hear he wanted more than a friendship. But the part of her that held its independence and order sacred was knocking at the knees. It spoke for her. “You know, Kelan, if you really loved me, you wouldn’t push me to do something I’m not ready for.”

  “If you’re not ready, that’s okay, Yolanda. I would never ask you to do something you’re not ready for. I just need you to understand that I am ready to be in a committed relationship. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us to carry on in a relationship that isn’t filling our needs. Perhaps we simply have different desires at this point in our lives.”

  “Perhaps we do. Maybe it’s best if we just stop this whole thing in its tracks.” She bobbed her head.

  “Yolanda, you don’t have to get an attitude about it.”

  “You’re just like everybody else.”

  “No, it’s just like you to run from everything,” he said. “I know you well enough to understand that every time something threatens to disrupt your life as you know it, you run.”

  “I’m not running from you.”

  “Well, what are you running from?” He sensed her despair and gently took her hands into his.

  Again Yolanda reveled in his touch.

  “Yolanda, I love you. We’ve spent I don’t know how many hours on the phone. We check on each other throughout the day, we’re partnered on the hospitality committee, we pray together about everything, I’m a regular at your family’s dinner table. I mean, how many other symptoms do you need before you can make this diagnosis?”

  “All that doesn’t mean I love you,” she interrupted him.

  He withdrew his hands. “Then what does it mean?”

  It was one of those moments when you know what you probably should say, but you just can’t make the words come out of your mouth, maybe because they’d sound too corny. Maybe because they would come back to haunt you—Yolanda couldn’t be sure which. She played it safe. “I don’t know what it means.”

  He heaved a miserable sigh.

  She hoped he was as frustrated as she was. How dare he spring this on me? Yes, she’d seen it coming. She’d prayed with, for, and about Kelan, and she knew that he was, in all honesty, a godsend. And she did love Kelan—was crazy about him, actually. She had all the symptoms: doodling his name over and over when she should be working, accidentally calling other people his name in conversation, thinking in terms of their plans rather than hers alone.

  Were it not for her upbringing, Yolanda might actually have suggested they move in together. She could live with someone indefinitely. Commitment, however, was another thing. After all, she reasoned, people could be fickle—especially men. This was one instance where being a practicing Christian was extremely inconvenient.

  Lord, what do I do? “Kelan, I’m sorry. This whole thing is just mind-blowing, you know? I need some time to pray on it.”

  “May I ask when I can expect to hear from you on this?”

  “I don’t know.” She dipped her head, annoyed with his question. “I hope you’re not trying to give me a deadline or something.”

  “What about the meanwhile?”

  She gave him a questioning look.

  “Until you make your decision, I’ll still consider myself a bachelor.”

  “You are a bachelor. You always have been. We are both too old to be playing these games. You do whatever you want to do,” Yolanda hissed.

  “Cool.” He took a sip of his ice-cold water.

  Needless to say, Yolanda’s New Year came in with a bang. Kelan had caught her off guard with that all-or-nothing spiel. True to his usual style, he was premature. Flattering but premature, she felt. She had a good mind to make him wait it out until December 31 before she gave him her answer—whatever that was going to be—barring someone else might actually snatch him up before she got the chance to grace him with her answer. What if?

  When she finally got off work the day after New Year’s, Yolanda took a long bath and then pulled out her Bible. It was the first chance she’d gotten to sit down with the Lord since Kelan’s semi-proposal. Lord, what do I do? I’m not ready to get married, but I don’t want to lose Kelan’s friendship.

  She came out of that prayer and study with no reply. Usually, that only happened she already knew the answer. No, it wasn’t right to expect to be able to have her cake and eat it, too. She would either have to commit to him or set him free.

  Chapter 23

  In the words of the late R
everend James Cleveland, nobody told Dianne that the road would be easy. She could handle a hard road, no problem. But a midnight-black road with potholes deep enough to sink in, a shoulder that dropped off over a cliff, and a curve that could only be overcome with slow, painstaking maneuvers—she wasn’t so sure about. Such was this road to recovery.

  “Dianne, we’ve had quite a bit of time to talk about the changes God has made in your life. And maybe it’s time we took things to another level. Would you join me in prayer?” Dr. Tilley offered her hands to Dianne and sat forward in her chair.

  Dianne took those hands as she had done many times before, closed her eyes, and imagined that God Himself was physically touching her. She had no doubt He had worked through Dr. Tilley to free her mind of the constant strain. Dr. Tilley said a prayer that Dianne knew was coming. “And, Lord, as we delve deeper into the work You have laid before us, help Dianne to remain strong. Give her the courage to face the obstacles ahead and gain the victory in You. In the precious name of Jesus we pray, amen.”

  Dianne’s hands were sweaty by this time, her nerves rattled by this prayer. Dr. Tilley said, in no uncertain terms, that it was time to deal with the nitty-gritty: her feelings about and against Joyce Ann. Time to let go of unforgiveness, anger, grudges, all of those feelings Dianne felt she had a right to.

  Dianne nodded in agreement, but wondered: If she’d gave up her feelings, Joyce Ann might actually get away with what she’d done.

  “You understand that facing your giants is the only way to slay them?” Dr. Tilley asked by way of provocation. It didn’t work.

  “Yes, I understand.” Dianne looked Dr. Tilley directly in the eyes.

  “And you know you must work through the pain to get to the other side.”

  A tear trickled down Dianne’s cheek. “I know. I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

  “Do you think you could write a poem about it?” Dr. Tilley made a desperate attempt to turn the pain inside out, put it on the table so they could poke at it and slowly drain it of its power in Dianne’s life. She had a vision for Dianne.

  “I could. I don’t know how Christ-like it would be.” Dianne gave a pathetic laugh.

  “Just write it.”

  At home, Dianne took her every bit of five minutes to belt out a poem of hurt and despair. She’d cried so hard that she could barely see the words eighteen inches from her eyes. Tears smeared the ink, but she kept on writing.

  How Could You?

  If you loved me, how could you? How could you?

  Watch me tremble in fear at the broken body,

  Join forces with your new love and pounce on my spirit,

  When I already couldn’t breathe.

  Maybe you wanted me to suffocate.

  How could you?

  You don’t get to watch me grow, be what you couldn’t.

  You don’t get to feel my love, use me like ointment to

  soothe your wounds.

  You don’t get to hear me say that everything’s okay.

  Why? Because it ain’t.

  And I can’t.

  How could you?

  Aunt Toe scrambled through the numbers in her phone book. It was her tradition to call everyone she knew on their birthday, first thing in the morning, and pray for another good year. Dianne’s birthday was easy—it was the same as Regina’s. The past few years she’d only gotten Dianne’s answering machine. And Dianne would call her back to thank her for the call but rush off the phone with some excuse or other. That Dianne was so busy running—the kind of running that leaves you so exhausted when you finally do pass out, you wake to find you haven’t really gone anywhere, Just used up precious energy. A mental treadmill.

  She waited until the news came on with that wonderfully articulate African-American anchorwoman. She was a smart cookie, quick to pick up where the field journalists left off. She didn’t skip a beat—made Aunt Toe proud to watch her. The late-breaking news was dreadful, as usual. The devil was roaming the streets, seeking whom he may devour. Nothing new, really.

  Dianne kicked her feet beneath the covers in temper- tantrum style. It had been another one of those nights where you plead with your brain to shut off, but it just keeps connecting the ticks to the tocks, pondering every little inkling of a thought until it’s so late that it’s early. It seemed like, only moments ago, she’d won the battle. Now this. Who is calling me at this hour of the morning? “Hello?” Dianne bit into the inconsiderate caller as though Aunt Toe could have possibly known that this had been another of Dianne’s sleepless nights.

  “Dianne?” Aunt Toe was sure she’d read the tone in Dianne’s voice correctly.

  Dianne pressed her eyelids together, hoping to squelch the irritation that had almost overcome her in a matter of seconds. “Good morning, Aunt Toe.” Her words came softly.

  Aunt Toe’s brow unfurrowed. “I waited for a while before I called you—I didn’t want to wake you up,” she apologized indirectly.

  You waited until five-thirty to call me? Dianne laughed a little, thinking that both she and Aunt Toe had probably been awake only an hour ago. “I appreciate you, Aunt Toe.”

  “Well, you know I always call and wish you happy birthday.”

  Dianne hadn’t given the day a second thought. Hadn’t even written it on her calendar, let alone her heart. Another year, compounded issues. Would she take them to her grave?

  “Thank you, Aunt Toe.”

  “Dianne, is it all right if I pray with you?” Aunt Toe wasn’t really asking. Dianne needed prayer. She had been a great Christmas host, but even Yo-yo didn’t seem to pick up on the loneliness. Aunt Toe had arrived at her own conclusions during their visit. A two-year-old Bible in perfect condition, no pictures of people on display, no linger of good times in the air. Dianne needed her God and her family. Problem was, that gal never came around enough to realize it.

  “I don’t mind.”

  Aunt Toe proceeded to pray, thanking God for another year in Dianne’s life and, almost word for word, reiterating Dr. Tilley’s request for courage and strength in the upcoming year. It seemed to Dianne that everyone must know how weak she was. Am I that transparent?

  “In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Toe.” Dianne smiled, wishing now she hadn’t scanned the caller ID for the past two years and conveniently missed Aunt Toe’s calls. She could have used a good prayer a year ago today. Already, she felt better about the day—but not about Joyce Ann.

  “You got any plans for today?” Aunt Toe asked.

  “No. Just another workday.”

  “Why don’t you go shoppin’ or somethin’? Splurge a little,” Aunt Toe suggested.

  “I don’t know.” Dianne sat up in bed and turned off the alarm clock. No need to wait for the irritating beep-beep now. “I might go out after work.”

  “Dianne, when are you going to talk to Joyce Ann?” Aunt Toe got straight to the point.

  Dianne’s defenses jolted into place. “I have nothing to say to Joyce Ann.”

  “Well, I have somethin’ to say to you. I know she still loves you and you still love her, too. God’s already showed me that. It’s about time the two of you stopped waiting for the other one to step forward. Life is too short for holding grudges.” Aunt Toe let the words off her chest, feeling lighter with each word. Then she waited for Dianne’s response.

  “Joyce Ann is no longer a part of my life. She made that decision a long time ago.”

  “I would let it go if I could see the two of you make peace. I can’t leave this earth without doing my best to make sure this family buries some old hatchets and puts some old problems to rest.”

  Dianne’s body hiccuped in shallow laughter. “Thanks for the birthday call, Aunt Toe. I have to go now. I have to get ready for work. I love you.”

  Aunt Toe scrunched up her lips, racking her brain to come up with the right combination of words. In the movies there was always one line, one concoction of words, that made all the difference in the wo
rld. She wished she had it now, but life had taught her better. Sometimes there were no words. Sometimes people had to hit rock bottom to get to the Rock at the bottom.

  Chapter 24

  Joyce Ann was going on her seventh month in Gloria’s rent house. Yolanda had gone by there a few times to say hello. Always, Joyce Ann was busy sewing in her bedroom, wearing that same old faded muumuu. She had a small refrigerator, a toaster oven, a television, and a portable stove all within reach of her bed. Except for her room and the adjacent bathroom, the rest of the house was dead.

  The drapes were drawn, with the only light coming from the tiny bulb on the sewing machine. Yolanda gathered that Joyce Ann stayed confined to her tiny quarter of the house most of the day, working and watching television. She seemed subdued, more melancholy than she’d been in recent weeks.

  Truth was: she had been repeatedly assaulted by her past.

  Her head was wrapped in a scarf, and she wore a housecoat that looked as though it was way past repair. Her face, soft and brown, contrasted with her hard, chapped, blackened lips. Even in her rough simplicity, Aunt Joyce Ann was more attractive than the average woman.

  “Your sister hasn’t come by to see me.” Her lips flattened. “You think she ever will?”

  “I’m sure she will,” Yolanda said. “Just give her some time. Actually, I came by to ask you if you wanted to come to Momma’s house and celebrate Regina’s birthday with us. I guess it’s kind of a birthday brunch. Not much, just whatever Momma made and some cake.”