There were footsteps on the porch, two people coming down the stairs. Ioletta wiped the tears from her eyes and dried her face on her sleeve. Scorning what they might think of her staring at a statue of herself (even if it did resemble a warrior-girl instead of a 400-pound woman), she didn’t turn. Besides, who was to say she couldn’t look like that again, if she really put her mind to it?
“I didn’t ask for this burden,” Cinnamon announced quietly.
Ioletta fumed, wrestling with her inner grump. “I know,” she replied, the passing seconds weighing upon her, forcing the words from her lips. Maybe she wouldn’t turn to face Cinnamon, but she couldn’t be completely rude without catching a burden of guilt over it.
“Angel honey,” Cinnamon said in farewell.
From the corner of one eye, Ioletta saw Angel pause in his work to wave goodbye. He grinned, ceasing his humming, and when the fading footsteps signaled Cinnamon’s departure, his humming resumed on the note where he had left off.
Ioletta heard the sound of hammer and chisel, and waited for Stella to return from the gate.
“I think I broke your chair,” she said contritely.
“It was bound to happen,” Stella replied.
Bound to? “You should talk!” She exclaimed, hooting with laughter. “It was bound to happen--!”
Stella grinned. “I’ve been thinking of buying some good, heavy-duty steel chairs.”
“Don’t think I’m the only one around here needs to go on a diet,” Ioletta retorted.
“As skinny as all that, I shouldn’t guess you have to worry about diets,” Stella said, staring pointedly at Ioletta’s statue.
Sobering quickly, Ioletta glanced sideways at Stella. “Are you gonna tell me, or not?”
“The way you rushed out, I didn’t think you wanted to know.”
“The woman’s a witch,” Ioletta complained bitterly.
Stella was silent a long moment, before asking, “Just because she told you that you need to forgive your father?”
Ioletta’s eyes grew large. “She tol’ you about that?”
“No, I just guessed it--figured you didn’t listen to her anymore than you did to me.” Or to God, she could have added.
It was Ioletta’s turn for silence. Her face twisted in a series of frowns and scowls, finally settling upon a tight-lipped expression.
“Ioletta dear,” Stella said, again the one to break the silence. “Some people really do hear from God. It’s not like you don’t know that.”
“She’s one of those always hearin’ doom, that’s what I don’t like.”
Stella peered at her questioningly.
“Okay, so I don’t like her tellin’ me things I knowed in the first place,” she admitted.
“She could maybe approach people a little differently,” Stella said.
“I should think so.”
“Of course if you’d ever forgiven your father like you were supposed to, God wouldn’t have to tell me or poor Cinnamon to talk to you about it.”
“Huh!” Ioletta retorted, turning away.
“That’s your answer?” Stella asked.
“Let’s clean up that rickety ol’ chair of yours,” she said, tilting her head toward Angel, signaling her desire to speak in private.
In the kitchen, she wouldn’t allow Stella to speak until she had inspected the split chair. “I’ll ask my Lamarr if he can fix it,” she said doubtfully, acknowledging to herself that maybe there was a limit to how many times a chair could be repaired.
“I didn’t think you and your son were on speaking terms,” Stella remarked.
Ioletta squinted through one eye at the chair. “Well, just this once.”
“Oh, stop with your nonsense already.”
“Well, you can tell me what Persim--Cinnamon said, but I ain’t sittin’ down to hear it, that’s for sure, not on one of your cheap, flimsy chairs, lady.”
Stella rolled her eyes in amusement. “What’s to say?”
“See, I tol’ you, I knew it was doom and gloom.”
Stella took a deep breath before answering. “It didn’t exactly come as a surprise.”
“What?” Ioletta asked, growing impatient.
“She told me I was to put my house in order.”
Ioletta’s jaw dropped.
“I’ve been workin’ at putting my house in order for years,” Stella said.
“Wha--what? To move, or somethin’?” She asked, knowing full well what it was that she meant.
“I have--well, you know I haven’t been feeling too well these past few months. Not since before Angel’s accident, really.”
“Yeah?”
The doctor thinks I have--leukemia. I didn’t want to tell you, not yet. The doctor just diagnosed it and is waiting for more tests to come back.”
Ioletta leaned against the kitchen counter and took deep, slow breaths, while her friend watched in alarm.
“I-I could die in months or it could be years,” Stella said, speaking reassuringly. “No one really knows, except the Lord.”
“Oh good,” Ioletta blurted mildly, raising one hand to ward off a comforting pat on the arm. “For a minute there I thought it was something serious.”
When Stella’s eyebrows arched in surprise, Ioletta said, “I was tryin’ to be funny. ‘Laughter doeth the heart good medicine.’ ”
“Oh,” Stella said in small voice. “Ha-ha. It was funny.”
“See, you’re looking better already,” she answered in a voice equally small. There was a rueful expression on her face. “I knew this nice day couldn’t last.”
“Nice day? I tell you I’m dying, and you’re complaining about it ruining your day?”
“Yeah, I’m selfish,” Ioletta said, careless of what it sounded like. “I don’t have so many nice days that I like them spoiled by my friends dropping like flies around me.”
Both women were silent for a long moment, silent and uncomfortable in each other’s presence.
“You know,” Ioletta said, breaking the silence, “I could die long before you do.”
“If it makes you feel better,” Stella said, her shoulders slumping.
“It does,” Ioletta answered. She took a seat and, elbows propped on the table, rested her chin in her hands.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Stella said.
“You won’t like ’em.”
Stella sat down, elbows on the table, too, consciously mirroring her expression. “Try me.”
“I was just wonderin’ how somebody like Mertie Davies could steal your son away...”
“Yes?” Stella said, turning suddenly pale.
“Before you start preaching ’bout how unchristian I am,” Ioletta said, “you tell me how fair it is for you to die and that woman to go on livin’.”
Looking stricken, Stella held her hand delicately to her throat. “You take my breath away, Ioletta. What an awful thing to say!”
Ioletta sat back in her chair, laced her hands over her stomach, and set her jaw firmly. “Still, I don’t see how it’s right.”
“Well...” Stella said, attempting to marshal her thoughts. “Isn’t that God’s business and not ours? I mean, if He wants me to die before her, isn’t that up to Him? And besides, He forgave her and gave her another chance just like He did you and me, don’t you think?”
Ioletta clicked her tongue in disgust. “It don’t seem right, not when she don’t even write to you after all we done for her.”
Stella sighed. “We were praying God would heal her, weren’t we?”
“Still...”
“And you did say she prayed like I told her to, didn’t you?”
“Well... yes. I guess.”
“Then I think we just have to have faith and patience with her. We can’t always judge a thing with our eyes, can we?”
“Well, no.”
“And we don’t know when I’ll die, or you, or any of us. Like I said, it could be years. The doctor told me him
self. Could be like that Bible story, you know the one.”
Ioletta raised her eyebrows.
“Hezekiah, you know,” Stella said. “The one where the king was dying and God gave him another fifteen years.”
Ioletta relaxed, dropping her hands to her sides. “Fifteen years would be all right.”
“You want more iced tea?” Stella asked. “I’m brewing up some.”
“Yeah, that would be good. You any of them snicker doodles hidden around here somewheres, too?”
“You think those are right for your new diet?” Stella asked, rising from the table and going to the pantry cupboard for tea bags.
“Diet? What are you talkin’ about, girl?”
“Never mind, I’ll dig them out of the ice box,” she answered, concealing a grin.
Ioletta rested her elbows on the table and hid a smile of her own behind her hands, content to wait for the tea and cookies. Fifteen years would be fine. She would ask for the church to pray, and Stella’s church would pray, too, though those white folks weren’t as good at it, and just like Hezekiah she would live her fifteen years more. The day wasn’t ending so badly after all.
Knowing Stella Jo wasn’t dying right away, her thoughts returned to Angel’s newest statue. All in all, it was a pretty good day--even if she wasn’t sure about the matter of Lamarr’s promotion and his going back to Vietnam.
“Stella Jo?”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe I’ll have just one of them cookies of yours.”
“All right,” Stella said, smiling brightly and reaching for a plate.
“And the same for you,” she added. “Wouldn’t seem right, me thin and you lookin’ like a balloon.”
Stella glanced out of the corner of her eye, as she set the cookie plate on the table. Ioletta hadn’t so much as grinned!
“Don’t press your luck,” she warned her. “You keep on, Ioletta, I’ll only let you have half a cookie.”
“Hmmh.”
“Hmmh what?”
“Well, you know, I did think you been lookin’ awful puny this last year... I could do with half a cookie, but maybe you oughta have two?”
****
Chapter 40
Rev. Champion’s Cadillac was parked in front of the church. Forgetting the argument with his mother, Lamarr took the church steps in two strides. Someone had the door propped open with a piece of scrap 2x4.
“Reverend Champion?” He called.
Cedric was in the sanctuary. To Lamarr’s astonishment, he was dressed in a t-shirt and carpenter’s overalls. The minister saw his look of surprise and shrugged apologetically.
“Nails are the devil on suit pockets, and a belt loop’s not much good for holding a hammer, now is it?”
“No, I guess not,” Lamarr said. “I’m still surprised, though. Have you ever swung a hammer?”
Cedric grinned. “You wouldn’t ask the Lord that, would you, son?”
Lamarr scratched at the stubble on his chin and dubiously looked Cedric up and down. “No,” he answered. “But you’re not the Lord, and as I remember it, He was a bona fide carpenter.”
“All right,” Cedric rumbled threateningly.
“Take some getting used to, I’ll tell you, never seeing you in anything but a suit.” He pointed his chin at Cedric’s shoes. “I wouldn’t go climbing any ladders in those, that’s for sure.”
Cedric glanced down at his black wingtips. “All right,” he said again, his rumble tamed, this time. “I’ll remember that.”
“You still haven’t told me if you know how to use a hammer, sir.”
“It’s been a while, but I’ve used one in my time.”
“Yeah, but weren’t those wooden pegs you were usin’ on the Ark?”
Cedric winced. “That would be funny, if I hadn’t heard something like it a hundred times.”
There was a gleam in Lamarr’s eyes. “I suppose you’ve heard them all... you’re old enough.”
“That’s respect for you,” Cedric muttered, as Lamarr laughed. “Didn’t anyone else show up today?”
Lamarr found his carpenter’s apron and belted it on. “There were six of us. One or two said they wouldn’t be coming back after lunch.” He checked his watch. “They have a few minutes.”
“Robertson and Davis?” Cedric asked. “Captain Odoms?”
“Not today,” Lamarr said, looking sharply at Cedric. “You knew about them?”
“I stopped by after church Thursday.”
“They knew what they were doing. I didn’t have to tell them anything--they just did it.”
“Those boys aren’t stupid.”
“That’s true. Do you want to help me, or do you want to work by yourself?”
“Whichever you like. You can point me to something and I’ll do it, or if you want I can give you a hand.”
Cedric’s back was to the foyer. Lamarr faced the open doorway. Cedric saw his eyes widen.
“Can you gentlemen please tell me where Reverend Champion is?” A woman’s voice asked.
Cedric turned and faced Sharese. Her baby was snuggled against her left shoulder, and she was dressed in a brown smock, blue jeans, and white sneakers.
“Reverend Champion?” She said in surprise.
“I’ll go ahead with my work,” Lamarr said.
“Did you come for the tour?” Cedric asked. He noticed Lamarr staring after them as they walked away. Undoubtedly, Sharese noticed, too.
Fifteen minutes later, Cedric returned without Sharese. Lamarr and several other men from Alliance were nailing up drywall. Lamarr motioned for him to join him.
Several minutes passed, with them working steadily, before Cedric said anything. He found Lamarr’s patience impressive.
“You know that’s Erwin’s ex-wife?”
“Erwin?” He said, failing to place the name.
“You met him in my office once--the two of you weren’t real friendly.”
“Hmmh. Oh that--was that his real name? I think my mother wrote me about him. Reminded me of the neighbor’s rat terrier. Would like to have kicked him to the moon.”
Cedric let Lamarr’s comment pass. “She’s doing a real work in his old church.”
Lamarr held a sheet of drywall in place with one knee and pounded in a nail. He nodded, more nails lined up between his lips, waiting their turn.
“The denomination sent out a replacement, but she’s the glue holding the place together.”
Lamarr grunted, continuing his work, while Cedric made sure the drywall didn’t slip out of position. Maybe he didn’t have to say anything, there being women all over the world who hold churches together.
“She asked about you.”
Lamarr squinted as he pounded in the next nail. “And you told her...?”
“About how you’re a war hero,” he answered, a glint in his eye. “You know, the usual thing. How you love to save damsels in distress.”
Lamarr shook his head, and pounded in another nail. He supposed he deserved that. He paused for a moment. “You were mistaking me for that old friend of yours.”
Cedric looked at him questioningly.
“You know, Sir Lancelot, back in the days of yore.”
“Your mother’s told me about your smart-aleck remarks for years, son.”
“She can’t get one over on me either, sir.”
The sir, Cedric knew, was Lamarr’s way of blunting any disrespect in his jesting. Jousting, Cedric thought, was how Lamarr used his humor.
“She did ask about you, though. She’s looking for someone to give his testimony on Sunday night.”
“Do a little preaching, you mean.”
Cedric nodded. “Could be.”
“Be a model for the young boys. Someone to look up to. Besides the pimps and drug dealers and numbers runners.”
“I’m sure that’s what she has in mind.”
“Someone she can marry.”
“I don’t know about
that--after him, she may be soured on the idea.”
“You won’t ever catch me preaching.”
“I don’t suppose so.”
They set another piece of drywall in position. “You told her?” Lamarr asked, as he put in a nail.
Cedric nodded. It had always been the same, with Lamarr, when it came to speaking in public. He wondered how many years it would take before Lamarr realized he had the call upon him. But then, it was usually the ones with the strongest call who resisted the most.
“Have to keep focused,” Lamarr said.
“What?”
“All I’m doing this month is work on the church.”
Cedric didn’t say anything about maybe giving his testimony could be thought of as building the church. Not Alliance. The Church. A thought suddenly occurred to him.
“Is there someone you’re not telling us about, son?”
Lamarr squinted at him in surprise, and went on nailing, swinging the hammer harder. When he wanted to, he could work faster than several other men combined.
“Hit the nail on the head, huh?”
“What?”
“Nothing, son.”
“You keep calling me son. Something you and my mother forgot to tell me, Brother Champion?”
Cedric let out a loud huh! Next time he helped Lamarr he would make sure he wore the suit, nail holes or not.
****
Part Six
Chapter 41
March 10, 1971
My Dear Son Duane,
As always, I am praying for you--
Duane, lying on his back in the top bunk of his jail cell, crumpled up the letter and tossed it expertly into the waste basket. The envelope followed, side slipping through the air and falling to the floor halfway across the cell.
“You pickin’ that up, fool?” A voice from the lower bunk demanded.
Duane McIlhenny, or Mark John Davies as he preferred to be called, ignored his cell mate and slipped his thumbnail into another envelope already slit open by the prison censors. He pulled out the letter. At the top of the page, Mertie had written Feb. 26, omitting the year.
Dear Marky John,
This is your Mama writing to you--
She thinks I don’t know her handwriting by now? he thought, scowling in annoyance. She always began her letters in the same stupid way.
I know you don’t know, but this is the hardest thing I ever had to say in my whole life, honey--
With Mertie, life was one emergency after another. What now? he wondered, as he felt the bunk bed shaking under him.