Chapter Four
“H
ere comes the preacher's kid; look at her shoes,”
Billie sang as Evan and I made our way back to the car after the service. Aside from accepting a few gifts from people passing by and greeting others, we didn't talk about what happened in the church. I didn't want to. I wasn't even sure what to say. Maybe I was choked up with all of the attention or maybe it was because I hadn't been up there in front of the congregation in months since I'd left the choir. Either way, it didn't feel right.
Billie's voice cracked on the possibility of every single note in her ditty. She was leaning against the passenger door where she always waited for me and Evan after church. A few steps away from her stood a tall, dark-skinned man, who was dressed in a distinctive, black suit. Even though Evan and I were still a few feet away, the man filled the suit out in such a way that I could tell that beneath the fabric was a solid, toned body. As we got a bit closer, I spied that in addition to having a handsome body, he also had a handsome face. A clean, close haircut framed an angular face with full lips and dark, masculine eyes. He stepped toward Billie and she stood up, sliding her arm around his waist and snuggling into his side.
“Who is that?” Evan demanded.
“I think it's her friend visiting from Nigeria.”
“Africa?”
“Just be nice,” I whispered to him before we approached.
“Thirty-three and older than me,” Billie said, breaking away from the man and hugging me.
“I'll never be older than you, old lady,” I said. “We're still counting gray hairs ... and not years?”
“Very funny.”
Evan and the man shook hands and I heard him say, “Mustafa,” in an unyielding and defined voice that echoed
some
African nation. As they greeted one another, Billie and I exchanged quick, secretive glances that only two women who'd shared jokes their entire lives could understand. My glance said,
He's handsome, but who is he?
and Billie's glance said,
I know, girl.
We then regained our composure and turned back to the men.
“Journey, I'd like you to meet my dear friend,” Billie said, trying to sound formal and as if she hadn't lost her cool. “Mustafa Serenge. He's from Nigeria.”
“Most wonderful to meet you,” Mustafa said, taking my hand and bowing down to kiss it. When he looked into my eyes, I saw that Mustafa was actually beyond handsome. He was strikingâin the way that those
Ebony
male models were who always came to town with the fashion shows. Evan, who was a few inches shorter than Mustafa, recoils and looked on baffled like the other women who were walking by and stealing glances at the dark and lovely stranger.
“Oh,” I said, knowing my face had turned red. “Well ... it's a pleasure.” I glanced at Billie again. My eyes said,
Where did this man come from?
Mustafa didn't look like he'd come from anyone's Internet dating site. More like someone's dreams.
Billie simply smiled and I knew I had no reason to be surprised. This sort of episode was perfectly in line with the drama filled arc of her life. Since she wore her grandmother's 44DD bra to second grade show-and-tell, I knew Billie to be the type to show up cloaked in the unexpected. That's why we'd been so close. It seemed that whenever I wanted to act out and just really be myself, Billie was right there, waiting to be my accomplice. Now, I wondered what I was signing up for.
“Your father is a holy man. You should be very proud,” Mustafa said.
“Why, thank you,” I replied, trying to sound as dignified as he did. “Did you enjoy the service?”
“It was fulfilling. I have much to share with my Christian brothers and sisters in Nigeria.”
“Wonderful. I hope you'll be joining us for dinner at my parents' house this evening.”
“We wouldn't miss it,” Billie jumped in all giddy as she swung from Mustafa's huge arm like a little girl. “Mustafa will be here for three weeks, so we're making sure he sees everything ... and everyone.”
“Three weeks?” I repeated. “That's a long time. Don't you have to work, Mustafa?” Billie glared at me, but I ignored her.
“I am on holiday from my work,” he said, obviously flustered, and I even heard a break in his voice. “I closed my office, so I could be with my African violet.”
Billie giggled and rubbed his arm.
“African violet?” Evan rolled his eyes and I nudged him hard.
“Well, we look forward to seeing you two later, then,” I said, as Evan stepped away to open the car door.
“No, we look forward to it!” Billie cheered.
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“Who was that?” Evan asked as we pulled off, still waving at Billie and Mustafa.
“Mustafa.”
“I gathered,” he said drily. “But what's he doing here?”
“I guess he's Billie's new boyfriend.” I shrugged my shoulders to defend my best friend against whatever Evan was thinking about Mustafa, even though I was probably thinking the same thing. But I couldn't admit it. Evan had little patience where Billie was concerned. Through suggestion and snide remarks, it was clear he wanted to classify Billie as “wild,” just like everyone else. But I knew that he knew this wasn't true. Evan was just offended that Billie was the other ear I had a hold of. The two always disagreed and Evan often suggested I get “more like-minded” friends. This made me wonder what exactly he thought was in my mind.
“Wait until Clyde gets an eyeful of this.”
“Well, Clyde's moved on with Ms. Lindsey, so why can't she?”
Evan looked at me vacantly.
“We're not talking about what people should do. We're talking about Clyde and Billie. I hope that woman ain't trying to start something. Brought some fool over here from God knows where to start something.”
“Start something? What are you talking about? If anything, Clyde's the one who started something. He's been starting something for years.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Billie should know his card by now.”
“So she should just accept it and do nothing? Be single for the rest of her life as she puts up with his crap?”
“Again, we're not talking about what people should do.”
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Billie was squeezing my right hand. Hard. We were standing beside each other in a circle with everyone around the dining room table, holding hands as my father blessed the heap of food in the middle. While my mother alternated between two cooks during the week, so she could keep up with both my father's and her schedule, on most Sundays, she, Nana Jessie, May, and I made Sunday dinner together. “Got to learn the old way,” Nana Jessie would say to May and me as she rolled and cut bags of collard greens and made biscuits from scratch with a precision that belied her age.
My parents lived in a gated estate that they'd planned room by room together. It was a gorgeous home, nearly twice the size of mine and Evan's, that had been featured three times in
Southern Living
. The editors simply never had enough space to capture all of the rooms my mother had specially designed herself.
About five minutes into the prayer, as my father started praying for the homeless people in Tuscaloosa and the grandchildren he didn't have, Billie started squeezing my hand just as she'd done during my father's long prayers when we were children and she'd stayed for Sunday dinner. Then I'd really want to focus, to be prayerful and thankful for everything he'd mention, but sometimes it seemed the longer his prayer got, the farther my mind would drift. Most times, I felt guilty for not being able to “meditate on the Word” the way he and Jr seemed to be able to do. But the older I got, I realized that, like everyone else at the table, I was just hungry.
I was trying my best not to laugh at Billie's tight grip, but as I held it in, my body began to shake a bit. Evan, who was on my left, yanked my hand. Still listening to my father, I opened my eyes to see Evan frowning at me. Next to him was my father, his head low and nodding reflectively with each word, my mother, Nana Jessie, Jr, May, and Mustafa, who was next to Billie.
“Stop,” Evan mouthed angrily.
I frowned back and rolled my eyes playfully at my father, who was now actually repeating a part of his sermon.
“Amen,” my mother said suddenly during one of his pauses. “Amen and hallelujah.”
“Amen,” we all said quickly, opening our eyes and smiling at my father to reassure him we were prayed up sufficiently enough to eat.
A crease between his brow, he eyeballed each of us hard and slow as he always did and then looked to my mother.
“Amen,” he said, resolved. “Let's eat.”
Everyone relaxed and we sat down and began passing the large platters of Nana's macaroni and cheese and collard greens around like it was Thanksgiving. I watched as Jr eyed everything May put on her plate and scowled at him when he snatched a biscuit right from her hand. May, who was brown-skinned and had peach-shaped features and a sweet smile that immediately warmed everyone she came in contact with, had been taking fertility pills so she and Jr could finally have their first child after ten years of marriage. Over the last three years, her once petite frame had picked up more than fifty pounds and a face full of acne. But there was still no baby. It wasn't necessary to spend more than ten minutes with her and Jr to see that this and her new appearance was taking its toll on their marriage. He seldom even looked at her, and when he did, it was most certainly to say something nasty.
“You need to say no to the carbs, too,” he said to me, laughing with Evan as I frowned at him for taking the biscuit.
“I don't see six packs on the two of you either.” I reached and grabbed a second biscuit in protestâI'd regret that later. But my little demonstration was completely necessary. May was the most saved and sanctified person I knew. She knew her Bible better than most pastors and often spent hours in prayer. Because she was always trying to preserve her peaceful and angelic demeanor, she was often railroaded by Jr's antics. Her only ally at most dinner tables, I usually picked up the boxing gloves on her behalf.
“You two stop it,” my mother said.
“There's nothing wrong with a woman with a little meat on her,” Billie said, wiggling delightfully in her seat beside Mustafa. “They like big women in Nigeria. Don't they, Mustafa?”
“Yes. The queen must have fertile hips,” Mustafa said confidently and everyone looked up from their plates and at him. Jr's fork fell to the table, May leaned in to be sure she could catch every word, Nana Jessie's glasses were slid to the tip of her nose as she peeked over the brim to get a closer look. Even the crystal pyramids hanging from the chandelier over the table seemed to sparkle right on Mustafa.
While I'd explained everything I knew about the situation with Mustafa and Billie before the two got to the house, my family just wasn't the sort of crowd I could spring surprises onâat Sunday dinner, no less. We'd hosted many guests, some from as far away as Ireland and another minister who always came for Easter from Australia. But still, the Cashes weren't exactly the United Nations when it came to non-Southerners. And this non-Southerner happened to be with Billie, who my father swore was just out in the world, sleeping around with everyone since she wasn't married and thirty-two. Naturally, they'd been waiting to dig into Mustafa and he'd presented the perfect starting point for their inquisition.
“Fertile?” my father asked.
“Yes,” Mustafa went on, “so she can give her husband many sons.”
“Oh, you don't have to worry about that with Billie over there. She ain't the motherly type,” Evan said. “Are you, Billie?”
“Yes, I am!” Billie cut her eyes at Evan. “I'm just looking for the right man. And I think I found him.”
She and Mustafa linked hands on top of the table.
“How lovely,” my mother said politely as she put more ham on my father's plate. “Mustafa, I hope you enjoyed worshipping with us today.”
“It was quite moving, Mrs. Cash. It wasâ”
“Yes, that was a wonderful sermon, Dad,” Evan cut Mustafa off, his voice effortlessly reverent.
“Amen,” Nana Jessie agreed.
“Sure was,” my mother added. “And it would've been better if Journey would've sung.” She looked to me. “What happened?”
“I don't know. I just froze. I've been tired lately.”
“I remember when you used to sing at church and the pews would fill up,” my mother continued. “And I was so proud. Seemed like people got just as much out of your singing as they did the Word. Like the Holy Ghost was standing right next to you.”