Stepping Down (21 page)

Mark
jotted down the scripture reference and thanked Pastor Phillips for his time
before hanging up.

For
as much as his heart weighed, Mark was yet lifted by the Word.

The
clank of metal on metal behind him raked Mark’s nerves. Nothing like a
long-forgotten sound to remind him that though time had passed, little had
changed between him and his father. Mark Wayne Carter, II was yet again behind
bars, and Mark Wayne Carter, III was yet speaking to his father through a thick
glass window.

Mark
sat in the hard orange chair, studying his father’s features for a moment
before picking up the blue phone receiver. If Sharla were there, she would have
wiped both ends and the handle with a Clorox wipe. Thankfully, she wasn’t. And
he wasn’t about to tell her that he’d gone to visit his father for help.

As
far as Sharla was concerned, Mark Wayne Carter, II had done nothing but cause
trouble. Every time they tried to get something financed or register to
volunteer, there was always the question of Mark’s criminal record, which
belonged to his father. It had gotten to the point where Sharla offered the
information up front to avoid the embarrassment or, worse, flat denial that
would come otherwise.

His
father had lost weight. Twenty pounds or so. And despite the fact that he
hadn’t even turned sixty yet, he looked like he’d lived a long, hard life
already. Scars on his forehead and cheeks, a missing tooth, deep lines beneath
his eyes.

“Hey,
son.”

“Hi.”

“Glad
you made it,” his father teased.

“Me,
too.” Mark wasn’t exactly glad about the meeting, but he was glad to have the
connection. “Dad, I’ve got a situation.”

“Yeah.
I heard it on TV,” he said. “Thought you might end up in here with me for a
minute.”

“No,”
Mark shook his head, “I don’t think so.”

“You
never know,” his father said with a hint of optimism, “Father and son together
again.”

Rather
than look at his father like he’d lost his mind, Mark ignored the off-track
comment. “Well, since you already know what happened, I’ll just tell you why
I’m here. The man who was chasing the young lady and me, I think he’s either
paying someone off or they’re scared to look for him, but
I
need him off
the streets.”

“Hmmm,”
the senior said, rubbing his stubbly chin. “You got a name?”

“Boomie.”

His
father’s eyes sparked with recognition. “Yeah, I heard the name. He’s crazy.
Likes to shoot people. They don’t call him Boomie for nothin’.”

“That’s
what I’m afraid of. He might want to finish off the girl, and me, too,” Mark
explained.

“Well,
you’ve come to the right place.” His father surveyed the room, then leaned in
toward the glass, whispering, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.” He resumed an
upright position.

Mark
mimicked his father’s movements, settling his back against the chair. His
father might have been a drug dealer and a money launderer, but he’d never been
a liar. If he said he was going to get Mark a 10-speed bike for Christmas, he
got it. If he said he was coming to the birthday party, he came. Mark just had
to worry about
how
his father would fulfill his promise. “Dad, I don’t
want him…you know…”

“What
you don’t know won’t hurt you,” he kicked Mark out of the particulars. “I might
be an old cat, but I still got my connections. And you still my son. Nothin’ I
wouldn’t do to protect you. Some of the guys in here started clownin’ when they
saw you on TV. I told ‘em straight up, you ain’t one of them hustlin’
preachers. You ain’t all about the money, ‘cause I always told you, you could
make
far
more money sellin’ crack.”

Mark
thought to himself, “Now, how many Dads have told their sons
that
?”
Still, he had to be grateful for whatever help his father had to offer.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,
I told ‘em you ain’t no average fakin’ and shakin’, jack-legged preacher,” his
father bragged. “You the
real thang
, son.”

His
father’s words hit him hard in the chest. Confirmation, even from a man behind
bars, couldn’t be denied. “I appreciate you sharing that with me.”

“Hey
– I ain’t done much for you except give you good looks, you know. So now,
when I save your life from Boomie, that’ll count for something, right?”

“Umm…yeah,
that’ll count.”

“Good.
How’s Sharla and Amani?”

“They’re
fine,” Mark answered.

“How’s
your Momma?”

“Good.”

“She
still married to the midget?”

Mark
had to laugh at his father’s ongoing joke about his mother’s vertically
challenged second husband. “Yes, they’re still together.”

“Well,
long as she’s happy with him. Tell everybody I said hi.”

Everybody,
of course, included his brother and sister. As far as Mark knew, they hadn’t gone
to Huntsville to see their father. He was out of sight and out of mind, which
was usually best, Mark had to admit. If he sat around thinking about his
father’s life of crime, he might start to question the blood running through
his veins.

“I’ll
see you later, Dad.”

“See
ya.”

Mark
got up extra early so he could spend half an hour in prayer before he talked to
Sharla about Bria’s request. He could have almost kicked himself for not
running it by Pastor Phillips when they spoke the day before. Maybe the man
could have given him some guidance.

But
even as he mentioned his negligence to God in prayer, the Father reminded Mark
that He knew more than Pastor Phillips. In fact, He was the source of the more
seasoned minister’s wisdom.

“Thank
You, Lord,” Mark heard himself whisper into the cup of his hands. Though it
seemed almost trite, Mark revisited the story of the two harlots who came to
Solomon complaining that the other had stolen her baby. The real mother was discovered
by her love for her child; she would rather give him up than split him in two.

Perhaps
I should share this story with Sharla
.
Or not, seeing as his wife had bribed Amani’s grandmother. At first, Mark
couldn’t believe Sharla had done it. But the more he thought about it, the more
he realized that Sharla would have done anything to keep Amani. Back then she
was working full-time and probably spent every spare dime on Amani. He was the
best-dressed baby, the best cared-for toddler, perhaps even the most
worried-over child.

He
recalled one night in particular when Sharla asked him if he would be willing
to relocate to Mexico if the judge didn’t award them Amani.

“Relocate?
You mean run away?” he had asked her as they lay in bed together.

“Whatever
you want to call it.”

He’d
looked down into Sharla’s face to gauge the level of intent behind her words.
Her somber expression said she was dead serious.

“I’m
gonna pray for you ‘cause you’re taking this too far. Demetria told us not to
get attached to the baby until the ink dried—
if
it dried,” he ran
the warning by her again.

“It’s
too late. I love him. I
can’t
let him go back, knowing he’ll be in the
hands of a wild party-girl and her mother who raised her to be a wild
party-girl. If I turn on the television in fifteen years and see my sweet
Amani’s face on a mug shot, I’ll blame myself forever.”

He’d
sent up a couple of half-hearted prayers, but not nearly the kind of
intercession his wife must have needed. Once again, he’d left things at home unattended
and made room for his wife to fend for herself. She was a grown woman with a
will of her own, but maybe if he’d paid more attention to what was happening at
home, she might not have been able to get so desperately attached, let alone
pilfer $5,000 from their accounts without notice.

He
should have done better.

Now
that he knew the whole truth about how Amani had come to be their son, Sharla’s
insecurities made sense. She tried to keep him close, never wanted him to latch
on to his teachers, and she worried excessively about whether or not she was
being a good mother. No wonder her moods could change at the drop of a hat.

It
had resulted in her nagging Amani non-stop about all that she expected of him,
because any failure on his part meant failure on her part.

But
it had to come to a stop. Even if it meant Sharla might have to endure legal
consequences; she couldn’t go through life on pins and needles. Mark loved her
too much to see her suffer that way.

Sharla
was already up and making breakfast by the time Mark exited from his prayer
time. Still in his nightclothes, he joined her in the kitchen. “Waffles?”

“Blueberry.
They’re Amani’s favorite.” She smiled contently.

Mark
stole a piece of bacon from the platter before Sharla could swipe his hand
away. “Go on, Mark. Wait until we’ve called Amani down and we’re all gathered
for devotions.”

Somehow,
devotions seemed to go better when they broke bread together first.

“Baby,
I need to talk to you before Amani gets down here.”

“Okay.”
Sharla rinsed her hands in the sink and wiped them on her dishtowel. “Go.”

“It’s
about Bria. She wants to see Amani.”

Sharla
rubbed her hands against her white apron. “Oh.”

Mark
watched as his wife tried to hide the fear that must have been creeping up her
body, inch by inch.

She
caught hold of the island countertop. “And how do you know this?”

“She
called the church and left a message. I called her back.”

“What
did she say?”

Though
Mark figured he’d already given his wife that information, he repeated himself,
“She wants to see Amani.”

“What
else
does she want?”

“That’s
it.”

“Does
she want to be in his life?” Sharla squeaked. The tears were forming already.

“She
is his birth mother. I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t…if he wanted to be in her
life, too.”

“I
do,” Amani’s voice broke into their conversation.

Sharla
and Mark turned abruptly to find their son standing at the foot of the staircase.

“Amani,
honey,” Sharla said nervously, “um…I made blueberry waffles…”

“I
know, Mom. The smell woke me up. But that’s not what you guys were talking
about.”

Mark
gritted his teeth, then relaxed them. “You’re right. Come on, ‘Mani. Have a
seat. Let’s pray, then we can talk while we eat.”

Mark
wasn’t sure how the conversation would go, but a part of him was glad Amani
would be included. His presence all but insured that Sharla wouldn’t go flying
off the handle.

Sharla
served the plates full of food to Mark and Amani first, then she joined them at
the table. Mark said grace, asking God for wisdom and understanding as they ate
and talked.

“The
lady I was in the wreck with is named Bria Logan. She’s your birth mother,”
Mark started carefully.

“Yeah,
I figured. I
can
Google and read, you know?” He crammed a gob of waffle
into his mouth.

For
once, Sharla didn’t point out that he’d put too much into his mouth. She
nibbled aimlessly at a corner of a piece of bacon.

“Here’s
the thing, ‘Mani. We don’t know Miss Bria’s family—your family. We don’t
know anything about them, anything about their beliefs, their lifestyle. Like I
told you before, God has a reason for giving us the privilege to raise you. We
want you to get to know your blood relatives. But we don’t want you to be
confused about who you are and what God wants to do in your life.”

Amani
swallowed his food hard. “Thanks, Dad. I mean, sometimes, when I’m chillin’
with the twins or at somebody’s house and they start arguing with their
brothers and sisters and cousins, I feel jealous because all our family is,
like, not here. When we went to Mama B’s, I felt like I belonged.”

“You
do
belong. Here. With
us
,” Sharla finally spoke.

“Yeah,
but you guys are, like,
old
. And
boring
. No offense. And y’all
hardly let me go anywhere, so it’s like, maybe if I had some family members,
y’all would loosen up, like when we were in Peasner,” he explained. “I need
peeps.”

Sharla
dove into her waffle. Mark wondered why on earth his wife was taking this so
personally. Amani was growing up. He needed more than his Mommy and Daddy.

“I
hear you, ‘Mani.” Cutting the waffle with his right hand slowed the process and
sent shockwaves through his arm, but Mark followed his therapist’s orders. Patience.

“What
about your church friends? You’ve known them for more than half your life now,”
Sharla groped.

“They’re
cool.”

Mark
stared at the side of Sharla’s face, but she didn’t look at him. He felt he
owed it to both Amani and Bria to orchestrate a reunion; he wasn’t so sure he
wanted Sharla there. Amani seemed to be handling the situation gracefully, but
Sharla wasn’t ready.

Mark
transitioned them into devotions by reading from Ephesians 4. He prayed for
them all to find their truest sense of family in the body of Christ. Then he
announced, “I told Miss Bria we’d come by the hospital this morning. You ready
to meet her?”

“Cool.”

Sharla’s
fork tinked loudly on her plate. “
Today?
”

“Yes.
Today,” Mark said.

She
wiped her mouth with her paper towel. “May I see you in private?” She didn’t
wait for his answer, but stormed off to their bedroom.

“Put
these dishes in the dishwasher and go ahead and get dressed,” Mark told his
son. “We’ll be leaving in a little while.”

“Dad,
go easy on her,” Amani pleaded for his mother. “She still thinks I’m, like, a
baby.”

“Gotcha.”

Mark
couldn’t have said it better. He was glad to know that Amani had some sense of
how hard this must be on Sharla. Of course, he didn’t know about the bribery.
Maybe it was best that he never knew about what shady lengths Sharla had gone
to, to adopt him.

Unsure
of exactly what Sharla would say, Mark asked God for the wisdom to interpret
her heart, no matter what words came spilling out of her mouth. He closed the
door behind him, then leaned his backside on the dresser.

Sharla
sat on the bed, arms folded. “Why do we have to go today?”

“What’s
wrong with today?”

“I
need more time to…to process,” she pouted.

“Process
what?”

“Everything!
What if…what if she wants to visit him regularly? What if she wants to
blackmail us? What if Amani…” Sharla slapped her forehead. “What if it’s
already been planted in Amani’s heart to love her more? Why wouldn’t God let me
have kids, too? What if
God
loves her more, too?”

And
now Mark was hearing something he hadn’t heard in nearly a decade: this
business about having babies. Mark had wanted a blood-related son as much as
the next man, but given his relationship with his father, Mark knew there was
no magic to having a natural kinship. Growing up, he’d had more of a
relationship with the men at the barbershop than his own father. He had hated
the fact that he was named after a man everyone in the neighborhood talked
about negatively—for good reason, too.

God
hadn’t given him a son by birth, but He had allowed them to raise Amani, and
he’d given Mark a peace about the situation. To hear her rip the scab off that
old wound angered him slightly. Until he got the answer to the prayer he’d
prayed before entering the bedroom.

Rather
than give Sharla a lecture about how it wasn’t about her, how she was going on
forty years old and needed to get over the fact that she wouldn’t or couldn’t
give birth and be thankful that they’d been able to adopt, seeing as so many
people couldn’t even do that much, Mark listened.

He
walked over to his wife and kneeled down, cupping her hands into his. “Baby,
there is no way anyone can question your love for Amani. You’ve been a great
mother to him and he knows it. It was wrong of you to bribe Bria’s mom. It was
also wrong of Amani’s grandmother to accept money in lieu of her grandson. The
whole deal was bad on both sides. Maybe her family will want to blackmail us.
Maybe Bria will go to the authorities. I don’t know. But we can’t keep hiding
behind our faults to protect ourselves. This isn’t about me or you or even
Bria. It’s about Amani and what’s best for him.”

Her
warm, wet tears dripped onto his hands as he looked up into her face. The
makeup she’d so delicately applied ruined in the wake of emotions. “But how do
we know that meeting Bria is what’s best for Amani?”

“How
do we know it’s not? This whole saga started with her trying to reach out to
him. After all that’s happened, all
she’s
been through, all
we’ve
been through, it would seem ridiculous not to let her meet him.”

Sharla
dried her eyes with the back of her hand. “If you say so.”

“I
say so. You trust me?”

She
sniffed. “Yes.”

“You
trust God?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s
do this.”