Something She Can Feel (19 page)

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Authors: Grace Octavia

BOOK: Something She Can Feel
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Chapter Sixteen
T
he day after Evan told me about the money, Jethro Cash was someplace he seldom frequented. Just as I was about to let my last class go on Wednesday afternoon and consider if I was even going to take the trip to Atlanta, he walked into the classroom.
I was standing in front of the sopranos, going over some notes they'd confused in “Amazing Grace.” He came in and excused himself, tiptoed to my desk and took a seat. He was wearing one of his chocolate brown suits and had his old brown hat in his hand.
When we finished and the bell rang, he clapped proudly as they exited more expeditiously than I'd ever seen them. At least seventy-five percent of the kids were raised in Prophet House. “Hey, pastor,” they said respectfully, waving as they walked by the desk. “Good job, kids!” he replied. “I'll see you tonight at Bible study.”
“Hey, Daddy,” I said, walking over to the desk and bending down to kiss him on the cheek.
“How are you?”
“I'm fine. What brings you out here? The last time you came to see me teach was five years ago when I won Teacher of the Year.”
“Ah,” he began, “don't be so skeptical about your old man. Maybe I just wanted to see my little girl. We don't talk much anymore. Not since you got married.”
“I know.”
“Speaking of marriage, I spoke to Evan today. He came by the church,” he said.
“I knew it had to be something,” I hissed and stepped away from him.
“He was concerned. That's all. Wanted to talk.”
“Look, Daddy, I don't know what kind of deal you and Evan made, but I don't want any part of it,” I said. “We'll pay you back everything.”
“You think I care about the money?”
He slid the hat onto the table and stood up.
“I just want you to be happy,” he said. “So does Evan. What's so bad about that?”
“No one's saying it's bad. I just want to be financially free from you and Mama,” I pleaded as he walked over to me.
“You've been saying that since college and I don't understand it. Do you know how many children wish their parents could give them five hundred thousand dollars to buy a house? How many parents wish they could do that for their kids? It's a blessing.”
“You gave him five hundred thousand dollars?”
“It's not about the money, cupcake.”
“Yes, it is,” I cried. “Gosh, I've been struggling all these years, all this time to just try to be myself, to be who I am, and all this time everyone is just pulling strings above me. I don't know if I chose any of this or if you just gave it to me.”
I started to cry and hid my face to stop the tears.
“I didn't mean to make you cry. You know that hurts me,” he said softly.
“It's not just you, Daddy,” I said, feeling bad that I'd gone this far with him and raised my voice. My father was who he was, but I was raised to respect him and I believed in that.
“Look, if you want to be financially independent, that's fine with me,” he said. “I only did it because I wanted to make you happy. I wanted you and Evan to start out with your dream house instead of waiting fifteen years to get it like me and your mother.”
“But that made you stronger.”
“It almost tore us apart,” he said sadly. “If you want to give the money back, that's fine. I'll put it in a trust for my grandchild and then we'll all be happy. Right?”
He smiled and pinched my cheek.
“Yes,” I said vacantly.
“You can't deny me that joy. Because when I get to see my first grandson, I'll be a new man.”
Just then I realized Jr still hadn't told him about the little boy.
“Have you spoken to Jr?” I asked cautiously.
“We had some meetings yesterday. Why?”
“I was just wondering if he'd spoken to you about something.”
“You mean all the stuff with May?” He turned and walked over to the desk to retrieve his hat. “I told him, he's got to control her.”
“Control her?”
“Yes. She can't let her worship come between the two of them. I've seen it happen. Women get so wrapped up in the Lord, they think that's their husband and not the man in bed next to them. They forget the orders from the Bible. The man submits to God and the woman submits to her husband and the Word.”
“So, he told you that May went to stay with her mother because she's too wrapped up in the Word?”
“He said she won't talk to him. Won't go anywhere without that Bible,” he said. “Why? Is there more?”
 
 
My conscience tells me to say that as I drove to Dreamland later that night, I thought of a million reasons not to show up. A million reasons to feel bad and turn that pretty red car around and go home to Evan. Tell him the play was canceled. But really I hadn't. I didn't even come close to ten reasons and the two I was considering seemed just flimsy in the wake of the confrontation with my father. My heart thumping madly, my mind racing as I passed people and cars on the street, I kept thinking that what I was doing was just wrong and that once I left Tuscaloosa physically, mentally there'd be no turning back. I had to admit that to myself. But at the moment, I felt like I wanted to leave Tuscaloosa physically and mentally. I felt like everyone was trying to control me. To have their way. To have me submit. And suddenly in my spirit, I was just now longing to be free of all of it. If only for a little while.
I was thirsty to see Dame. To know the freedom I'd felt when I was with him. To smell him. To have him say just one nice thing to me that I really believed. And it wasn't because I hated Evan or my dad or even Jr and I was going to leave for good and start some scandalous affair with my former student. That was ridiculous. I just wanted to feel something else inside for a little while. To get away. For me and for May.
When I turned into the lot at Dreamland, the Bentley was parked and the driver, the same, short white man with jet-black hair who'd driven Dame and me to Dreamland the first time, was standing by the door, waiting to open it for me. Billie's empty car was beside it, but I couldn't see if she was in the Bentley because all of the curtains were pulled in place.
I waved at the driver and pulled my car beside Billie's.
I pulled down the visor to see myself in the mirror.
“Okay, Journey,” I said to my red reflection. I was excited, but also nervous and it was literally evident on my face. “You're just doing this to get over the Dame thing. It's just a
little crush
. That's it. You're going to see him one last time and then move on with your life.”
I looked into my eyes in a pause to see a flash of agreement, something in my reflection that knew this was the right thing to do. I waited.
“What, you getting ready for Glamour Shots at the mall?” I heard Billie yell. I looked and she was standing with half of her body outside of the back of the Bentley. “Come on!”
“Okay,” I said, quickly flipping up the mirror. “I'm coming.”
I snatched my purse and hopped out of the car.
“Good evening, Ms. Cash,” the driver said as I walked up. He extended his arm toward me graciously and opened the door.
“Mrs. De—never mind.” I smiled and turned back to my car. Looking at the car was suddenly like looking at Evan's love and just like that, all of the million reasons I needed to turn back set heavy on my heart. This wasn't just crazy. It was
really
crazy. This was beyond rational. I knew better than this.
“We'll need to leave now,” the driver said, “if we are to catch the show.”
“Yeah,” I replied, hearing Billie giggling inside the car.
“Mr. Mitchell is very excited that you're coming,” he said then, and I could tell by his voice he knew I was considering turning around. “I've never seen him this excited about ... a woman.”
“Really?”
“I don't get paid to lie,” he declared.
“Come on, J,” Billie called, but I couldn't see her behind the curtains. “I want everyone in the A to see me in a Phantom. Big time!”
“I guess I'm going to Atlanta,” I said uneasily.
“I guess so,” he said, smiling.
I bent down to get into the car, and Billie was so close to the door that I knew immediately she was sitting in the middle of the row and that someone must be seated beside her.
“Mustafa?” I said, looking in to see him sitting beside Billie.
“Is it okay?” Billie asked. “He wanted to come see Dame.”
I was still standing at the door, and seeing the frown on my face, Billie eased out to talk to me.
“I can't believe you brought him,” I said.
“I really wanted him to come. He won't even talk. He's just going to be with me.”
“That sounds crazy. How is he not going to talk? And we only have two tickets.”
“I already spoke to Mr. Green”—she winked at the driver—“and he said not to worry. He'll call Benji out to get us. It'll be fine.”
I gasped and kicked a bit of dirt at my feet.
“I really can't believe you somehow managed to make this be about you,” I said. “We were specifically going here to—” I ground my eyes into Billie because I couldn't say what the plan was in front of the driver.
“I know. I know,” she said. “But then I realized that I needed a date if you were going to be alone with—” She said “Dame” with her eyes. “So you can—. And what was Mustafa supposed to do, in my house all night by himself ?”
“Watch Barack Obama on CNN like the rest of the world.”
“Don't be mean, J. Come on. This'll be fun.” She grabbed my arm. “We'll have drinks and hear some music and get you over this—thing with—.” We both looked at the driver.
“Fine,” I grumbled. “But only because I need to—!”
 
 
I was back in high school. Memories of riding in the back of cars with Billie and a boy. She giggled and whispered and every five minutes pretended to care about how I was doing. This was how it went the whole way to Atlanta. Mustafa was quiet all right. But that was only because everything he said was whispered into Billie's ear and most of the time I couldn't even see his mouth, because it was glued to hers. I wanted so badly to hate her. As I rolled my eyes at their cooing, I was desperate to curse her out. But this was just Billie being Billie. And I realized when we were in sixth grade, she only traded my warm tuna fish sandwich with her honey ham because she knew the tuna would make her sick and she'd have to go home—that it was better to learn to live with who she was than to try to change her. Everybody had flaws. At least I got to benefit from her selfish craziness sometimes. And I always knew she'd be on my side.... But I was still mad.
 
 
I know I'm in Atlanta when I see the lights. Like fireworks blazing in the dark night sky, riding into the city, everything goes from being dull and consistently familiar, to big and bright and inconsistently attractive. And not in the same way that it does when I see the lights in downtown Tuscaloosa or Birmingham. It's like comparing a street lamp to a Vegas sign, and that's no insult to the street lamp because one is more necessary than the other. Like the signs in Vegas, the lights that seem to encircle and hover over Atlanta are meant to dance to the eye. To fill me with excitement and make me believe this city is the biggest in the world. And while I am like every other person in every car being led to the city like fireflies to a porch light, I know this isn't true, but I really want to believe that something brilliant and bright could be born in my South.
Mustafa, Billie, and I, all in one row in the back of the Bentley, became quiet and wide-eyed as the driver pulled off the highway exit and chauffeured us into the city. It wasn't the most spectacular sight that any of us had ever seen, but we all seemed to be waiting for something to happen.
The club where the concert was happening was right off the highway, and when we turned onto the small street that came to a dead end, people were everywhere. In the street. On the sidewalks. Standing on top of cars that checkered both curbs. Just wild and everywhere. Posters of Dame's album cover were tacked to every pole lining the street and some of the cars even had posters taped to the sides.
As Mr. Green made his way through the tangle, I looked at women yelling and laughing, men macking and some rapping in circles. It was more of a party than I expected from a concert. And looking at the faces through the window, mine seemed old and out of place.

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