No Weapon Formed (Boaz Brown) (4 page)

“That’s like a one in a
million chance, Millicent,” I reasoned.

“Well, somebody’s got to be
the one, right?” she said, wagging an authoritative finger.

“Well if you think I’m the
one, you wanna go buy me some lottery tickets?” I teased.

“No, ma’am,” she declined
with a smile. “But I will go get you some ice at least.”

“Thank you, Millicent.”

The bag of ice sat against my
foot all morning as I sat across from Jerry Ringhauser, a hulking, jowly man, who
was the campus principal. He and I met alongside academic department heads to
conduct teacher interviews for the few remaining unstaffed positions. Being so
late in the summer, the pickings were slim. The top graduates had jobs lined up
before they even walked across the stage. What we had left was a group of
people who’d majored in something unmarketable, couldn’t get a job right after
graduating and were scrambling for a way to start making their first student
loan payments. In other words, candidates for whom teaching was “plan C”.

Nonetheless, we needed
teachers as much as the applicants needed jobs. As we questioned each potential
employee, I silently asked the Holy Spirit to help us ask the right questions
and give discernment about which ones might actually be falling right into
their destinies, despite the fact that teaching wasn’t first on their agenda.

But what if I hadn’t been
there? What if I had been at home taking care of Zoe and Seth and missed the
opportunity to hear from the Lord about something as serious as choosing a
remedial reading teacher for my struggling students who would probably end up
dropping out of school without the right help?
My work at Plainview is as
important as Peaches’ work at home, isn’t it?

“Mrs. Brown, do you have any
more questions?” Jerry asked abruptly. That was our pre-arranged cue to end the
interview.

“No. I think we’ve heard
enough to make a decision,” I said in a phone operator’s tone, standing so that
the applicant got the hint. “We’ll be in touch with you in the next few weeks.”

The interviewee, Lyndsie
Adams, shook everyone’s hand and promptly left the conference room. Jerry and I
talked with Mrs. Sedian about the interview for a short while. None of us
wanted Lyndsie on our staff. She was too sarcastic. Borderline obnoxious. We had
enough of those on the roster already.

Mrs. Sedian, who had just
used up one of her precious summer days to interview for her English department,
grabbed her purse. “Call me when you get the next interview scheduled.”

“We’ll keep looking,” I
assured her as she left the room. “And thanks for coming in.”

“No worries. If we don’t hire
the right person, it’ll mean more work for me in the long run. I’m glad to help
now.”

Mrs. Sedian had barely shut
the door good when Jerry sighed, “This is going to be one rough school year.”
He tilted back in his chair and covered his lips with a fist. I’d been working
with Jerry for three years. He was a man of relatively few words. When he
spoke, he meant business.

“Why do you say so?” I asked.
Not because I didn’t have an idea, but because I valued Jerry’s perspective. He
was the only person to whom I didn’t mind losing my bid for the top position at
the district’s premier school.

“Six brand spankin’ new
teachers. Ranier
didn’t
retire, which only means he’ll cause more trouble
than ever because he doesn’t want to be here. Fielder’s going to be out on
maternity leave almost as soon as we start,” he listed. I really had forgotten
about Mickey Fielder, the head officer of security. She was a small woman with
a giant attitude who kept kids twice her size in check.

On top of personnel issues
was the fact that the state had changed the mandatory testing requirements.
Again.

“Just be prepared,” he
warned, rising from the table. “We need you here. Every day. On time.”

My mouth clamped shut as
Jerry exited the room. He had been so gracious about my shoeless foot. But
there was no mistaking the tone of his last words. He’d observed me coming in late
that particular morning and, perhaps, many more, thanks to my unpredictable
life with a baby and a four year old.

The respect I had for Jerry
prevented me from snapping back with an excuse. Really, there was none. He
wasn’t threatening me or my job. He’d simply reminded me of where the bar
stood. If I wanted to stay viable in the workforce, I couldn’t play the Mommy
card anymore.

By Wednesday afternoon, my
foot had darkened around the toe. Stelson snuck a peek at me while I was
changing from the purple slipper to the pink, which matched my clothes. He
almost hit the roof. “We are
not
going to church tonight. I’m taking you
to see a doctor.”

He called my father and asked
him to watch Seth while the rest of the family forged onward to an urgent care
clinic with my heroic husband at the helm. X-rays showed that my toe was broken.
Worse, they had to tape it to my next available toe so that it could heal
properly.

“Otherwise, it could cause
you to end up needing surgery where they have to re-break the toe in order to
set it straight again,” the doctor informed us.

Stelson, who was sitting on
the stool next to me, crossed his arms while Zoe slept in her portable car
seat. I avoided his glare, though his eyeballs were burning a hole in my cheek.

I held my breath as the
fairly young physician gently pushed a piece of cotton between the two toes,
then taped them together for stability. The process was quick and relatively
painless, though nerve-racking.

Moving forward, I asked the
doctor, “How long will it take to heal?”

“Six weeks. Stay off your
feet as much as possible. Elevate and ice if it starts to swell again. You
should be back to yourself soon.”

Now
that’s
what I
wanted to hear. With the good news, I was finally able to look at my husband.
“See, babe? I’m fine.”

But on the way to my father’s
house, we got into yet another tiff. “This is silly, Shondra. You were too
preoccupied with work to take care of your own health.”

“What? You want me to be a
hypochondriac?” I knew I was taking my side to the extreme, but for real,
I’m
a grown woman.
Shouldn’t I be able to make choices about when I want to
see a doctor?

“It’s not just your foot.
It’s your
life
. You put your job before
everything
,” he
overgeneralized, “and we’re only in summer school. What’s going to happen when
the regular session starts?”

Since giving birth to Zoe in
January, I had been afforded some degree of luxury. I returned to work in May.
By then, the extremely disruptive students had already been worked through the
system and were matriculating at RightWay, or district’s alternative school.
Final exams were quiet time. And the last week, seniors were off campus, which
took care of a third of the disciplinary battles. Kids were skipping or
attending class out of dress code, but most of the teachers were too tired to
care enough to go through the referral process. When our test scores came back
with higher-than-expected results, the entire campus had gone on cruise control
until the last day.

That said, Stelson had a point.
I was about to hit the ground full-speed in the next few weeks. Still. “You act
as though I’m the only working mother in the world. Wives balance home and work
every day, honey. Single moms have it even worse, but they’re doing it, too.”

“True. Many women are doing
it. The question is, are they doing it
well
?”

I refused to incriminate
womankind. “I can’t speak for every mom who works outside the home.”

“Just speak for yourself,
then.” He parked in my father’s driveway. Looked at me. “Do you believe you’re
going to be able to give the kids, our home, me, and even yourself your best
while working? If you can honestly answer ‘yes’ I won’t bring it up again.”

Stelson had thrown the kids
and our household into the equation, but in my heart, I knew he was pleading
for himself more than all of the above.

“You’re asking me to predict
the future.”

“No. I’m asking you if the
past and the present are an indication of what we can expect in the future.”

Sometimes, I thought it would
have been easier if I’d married a man who didn’t have any godly expectations.
Then
I
could be the only “holy” one in the family, like my mother and my
grandmother had been. No one would be able to question my motives.

But Stelson was no ordinary
husband. He was my Boaz. The godly man I’d asked for. Waited for. The father of
my children who worked hard to provide for us and lead us as the Holy Spirit
led him. Even if I disagreed with him, I had to respect his position.

The loud exhale I gave him,
however, wasn’t quite as respectful as the Lord would have wanted. “Okay. I’ll
do better. I promise. I’m gonna get a housekeeper. I’m gonna get in touch with
that personal chef lady who catered the women’s conference at church. Her meal
preparation service was reasonable, remember?”

I reached across the center
console of our Chevy Tahoe and rubbed his shoulders. The rock-hard tension
caught me by surprise. “Stelson, honey, this is just a different season in our
marriage. We have little kids. We’re busy. We’ll make it through.”

“You know…” He rolled his
lips between his teeth. “We can hire someone to help with the house and the
cooking. We can even hire someone to help with the kids. But we
can’t
hire another wife.”

My neck and my hand snapped
back. “What is that supposed to mean? Is that a threat?”

Zoe stirred with the sharp
tone in my voice. Sitting in the car seat without the vibration of a moving car
was prime cause for a hissy fit in her world.

“No. That’s not what I’m
saying.”

“Then what
are
you
saying?”

“I’m saying that in this
season
,”
he slung my churchy term at me, “I’d like for you to slow down.”

“What about you? Are you
going to slow down, too? I don’t like it when you travel and when you work
late. Makes me feel like a single parent.”

He nodded. “That’s fair. I
can slow down, too. I did most of the traveling when Cooper’s kids were
younger. I’m sure he’d be willing to return the favor if I asked.”

Of course he could slow down.
He was the “Brown” of Brown-Cooper Engineering. He was one of the bosses, and
his partner was a perfectly reasonable man who would do anything to help
Stelson through a rough patch.

Zoe’s whimpering permeated
the car, causing me to tear away from the conversation with my husband. “It’s
okay, Zoe,” I bubbled.

In baby language, she told me
that she wanted out of those straps.

Stelson went to retrieve our
son while I dug through Zoe’s bag for a toy to keep her occupied. She smiled as
I presented her a plastic key ring. “Here you go!”

With my baby temporarily
distracted, I whispered to God, “You gave me this man. You gave me this family.
You also gave me my degrees and my job. You know I just can’t see myself as a
stay-at-home mom. Am I wrong for—”

The screen door of my
parents’ house swung open violently as Stelson ordered Seth to get in the car.

Father God, what did my
child do now?

Seth skipped to my side of
the car and opened the door. “Hi, Mommy.” He hopped in. He rubbed his forehead
across Zoe’s forehead, a roughhousing move that she adored. “Hi, Zoe, Zoe,
Zoe!”

He didn’t act or sound like a
little boy in trouble.

Zoe giggled in complete awe
of her big brother. He was the only one who could invade her space with such
gruff treatment and get away with it.

Stelson went back into the
house, but the main door was still open so I could hear him and my father
having a simmering discussion. I pressed the button to lower my window and
eavesdrop, but I couldn’t make out their words.

“Seth, honey, what are Daddy
and Grandpa talking about?”

“Oh, I told Daddy that
Grandpa said I’m gonna be a negro when I go to pre-kindergarten,” he informed
in a most innocent tone.

“A
what
?”

“A negro. Black. And I gotta
be real smart, Grandpa said. And he showed me a big, big chapter book with a
lot of words. It had pictures with black people in them, and they were
really
,
really
black from a long time ago. But I told him I’m not gonna be
black,” Seth continued. “And I’m already really smart.”

Though there were still a
thousand questions to be answered—like how he and my father had gotten
into this conversation in the first place—I wanted to chase the color-rabbit
in Seth’s head. “What’s wrong with being black?”

“I’m not black,” he said.

“Well…you kind of are,” I
said. “I mean…I’m black. And I’m your Mommy…”

“You’re not black, you’re
brown,” Seth corrected me. “We’re all Brown because of our last name, so we’re
not black.”

“I see. Go ahead and get your
seatbelt on.”

This was not the kind of
conversation I wanted to have with Seth without Stelson. And it certainly
wasn’t the conversation my father should have had with Seth,
ever
.

If it wasn’t so hot outside,
I would have pulled the brake, lowered the windows, taken the keys and gone
inside for a minute to diffuse things. Leaving the kids alone in the car
without air, however, wasn’t an option. Dragging them inside wasn’t an option,
either.

I tapped the horn.

Stelson emerged from the
house, stomping toward the car as my father yelled from the porch, “I only told
the boy the truth!”

“Ooh,” Seth gasped as his
father descended the driveway. “We should change Daddy’s last name to Red.”