Song of Solomon (8 page)

Shay Décor
.

 

It was Thursday afternoon, and the name had played and repeated itself in Shaylynn's head continuously since Neil suggested it two days ago. During the lunch break given to the children prior to boarding the bus and heading back to school, Neil stood near her chatting on the phone to someone, when all of a sudden, he pulled the phone from his ear and brushed her arm with his fingers.

“Shay Décor.” He blurted the words as though a genuine light bulb had all of a sudden been turned on in his head.

Shaylynn didn't have a clue what he was talking about. “What?”

“Shay Décor,” Neil repeated. “That's it. That's the name of your business. Shay Décor.”

From the satisfied smile that seemed to cover the entire surface of his face, Shaylynn could tell that he was proud of his own epiphany. Neil actually looked as if he wanted to present himself with some sort of outstanding achievement award for the idea he'd produced in the middle of his telephone meeting. Shaylynn had looked at him, but said nothing more, and he'd gone right back to his cell phone conversation, barely skipping a beat. It took Shaylynn a moment to compute what he had said, but when she did, she liked it.

“It has a sophisticated flair to it,” Neil pointed out, still marketing the idea to her on the bus ride back to the campus. “It's so chic and refined and so . . . well, you.”

Shaylynn liked that too. She didn't know why, but hearing Dr. Neil Taylor refer to her in such a praising manner made her feel good. With a background as disgraceful as hers, she'd been called a lot of things, but never refined or sophisticated. Emmett's family would certainly scoff at that one.

“If he knew my history, he wouldn't have said it either,” she spoke aloud while admiring the second ad that she had placed in the newspaper concerning her new business. The
Atlanta Journal Constitution
was the most popular daily newspaper in Atlanta, and she'd placed an ad in it last week. This time, she took the advice of a television commercial and placed one in the
Atlanta Weekly Chronicles
. It was just as popular as the
AJC
, if not more; however, it was produced on a weekly basis only. The ad from last Sunday's edition stared Shaylynn in the face. It was larger and more prominently placed than her previous ad, and in the past two days, she'd received quite a number of calls. No promised jobs yet, but the calls proved that her investment had stirred some interest in the community.

Shaylynn guessed that the calls were coming as a result of the ad plus her additional personal endeavors to spread the word of her business. Tuesday, after finishing her assignment as chaperone for her son's field trip, she found an express package sitting on her front porch. It contained flyers that she'd ordered online through a company called Papered Wonders that she'd found one day while web browsing. Shaylynn was tired from her aquarium adventure, but she loaded the box of postcard-sized flyers in her car and went to work. She placed them on the windshields of hundreds of cars that were parked in the lots at area malls. She even invaded the lots of Home Depot, Michaels, Rooms To Go, IKEA, Wal-Mart . . . anywhere where people shopped for home improvement supplies and furniture. Shaylynn had spent most of the afternoon passing out business cards and postcards and most of the night massaging her aching feet.

It wasn't until today, when she took the time to read the
Atlanta Weekly Chronicles
newspaper in its entirety that she realized that the owner of the paper was the son-in-law of Reverend B. T. Tides. She'd been introduced to the name of the famed bishop while living in Florida, but had no idea that he had family ties to the weekly paper. And in the same newspaper, she saw a conspicuous advertisement by a company called Papered Wonders. Like her own business, Papered Wonders was a sole proprietorship, and it was owned by a single mother who was also a Christian woman. Now, Shaylynn couldn't brush off the feeling that the positive results she was getting from the news ad and the flyers weren't just because she'd knowingly chosen to do business with people who served the city honorably, but because she'd
unknowingly
chosen to do business with people who served God honorably.

Shay Décor
.

There it was again, echoing in her head. It was indeed an engaging name that, admittedly, Shaylynn found more appealing than Ford's Home Interior & Designs; but there was one problem. One
big
problem. The name Ford wasn't in it. For her, it was important that her last name was a part of her company's title. Somehow, having her married name represented kept Emmett's spirit alive and made him a permanent fixture in the business that he had encouraged her to start.

As soon as she thought of her deceased husband, Shaylynn's vision began to blur. Even after all this time, it was hard to believe he was gone forever. It was even harder to believe that his death still distressed her so. Dabbing the corners of her eyes with her fingertips, Shaylynn erased the visible signs of her lingering grief. When Chase was at home, he kept her busy, and she didn't think as much about the permanent vacancy that Emmett's passing had left in her heart. But when the house was quiet, even when she tried to occupy herself with other things, somehow her pain would resurface as though the horrific ordeal had happened just yesterday.

Standing from her living room sofa, Shaylynn walked to the fireplace mantel and admired the last photo that she and Emmett had taken not more than a month before his murder. Admirably, she smoothed her thumb across his image, wishing she could touch him once more; wishing he could touch her in return.

“I miss you, baby,” she whispered, forcing back the flood that wanted to rise behind her eyeballs. “I wish you were here to see how beautiful your son is and how much he's grown. He looks just like you, and I pray to God that he grows up to be just like you too.” Shaylynn thought about the massive shoes that Chase would have to fill in order to satisfy that wish, and she decided to compromise. “Even if he's half the man you were, I'd be proud.”

Her eyes darted to the bundle of violets that she'd preserved by leaving them pressed between the pages of her telephone book for a month following Emmett's funeral. The blue flowers had been her favorite ever since Emmett picked a bundle from an open field and handed them to her as he proposed in a surprising move during a casual Saturday afternoon walk. When Shaylynn closed her eyes, she could still see the look on Emmett's face as he held her trembling hand.

“Baby, I don't care what anybody says,” he'd told her. “Not my parents, my friends . . . nobody. It doesn't matter that we come from different worlds. Shoot, if you can stomach my present, which comes with my domineering mama and my superficial daddy, then I can sure deal with your past. What happened to you back then was out of my control, but I can promise you this: you'll never have to worry about trivial things like food, clothing, and shelter ever again. I'm on my way to big things, baby, and you're coming with me.”

It was at that moment that Emmett slid a small black box from the right pocket of his slacks and opened it for Shaylynn to see. She remembered momentarily being almost blinded by the sparkle that generated when the overhead sun clashed head-on with the one and a half-carat gemstone that sat atop the white gold ring.

“Emmett.” It was all that she could say, and even that was barely a whisper. He didn't even ask her if she would marry him. He must have already known the answer, because without hesitation or a second thought, he removed the ring from the box and slipped it on her finger. It was a perfect fit.

“I'm going to love you forever, Shaylynn McKinley. Nothing's ever gonna change that. You hear me? 'Til the day I take my last breath, I will love you.”

And he did.

Opening her eyes, Shaylynn found herself again staring at the violets on the mantel. They appeared distorted through her glossed eyes, and she wiped away the pool of moisture to get a better view. The ringing of the telephone startled her, and Shaylynn took a moment to gather herself. Although she used the same telephone for personal and professional dealings, the numbers were different, and she'd had it arranged so that the business line's ring was unlike the home number's ring. This incoming call was business, and she knew she had to get it together fast before it rolled into voice mail.

“Shay Décor.”

Shay Décor? Why did I say that?
The words had already come out, and taking it back would make her not only sound unprofessional, but like a babbling idiot who didn't even know the name of her own business.

There was a pause on the other end of the line wherein all that could be heard was heavy breathing. Shaylynn was just about to hang up the phone on someone she figured was some kind of pervert when a woman's voice spoke in her ear.

“Shay Décor?”

Breath.

“I, uh . . . I thought I was calling Ford's Home Interior and Designs.”

Breath.

“I think I may have dialed the wrong number.”

Breath.

Shaylynn shook away the thought that the poor woman on the other end of the line must be morbidly obese, knowing she had more important concerns. She was about to lose a client if she didn't think fast. For the sake of saving face, Shaylynn had to play it off, even if only this once. “No, ma'am, you have the right number. The business is going through a renovation that will come with a possible name change and currently, I'm using the possible new name.”

“Possible new name?”

The breathing sounds weren't quite as labored now, but the woman's tone made Shaylynn feel like a babbling idiot in spite of her efforts. If she tried to explain further, it wouldn't sound any less stupid, so she chose to maneuver the conversation along. “Yes, ma'am. Is there something that I can help you with?”

“Maybe,” she said, and then paused. “My name is Eloise Flowers, and I've been trying to do some stuff to my house a little at a time, but I'm giving up now. I've come to the conclusion that I'm just too old for all this work. I need help. Is that what you do, Ms. . . . ?”

Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Shaylynn assaulted herself inwardly. One would think that this was the first time she'd been in business. She knew better than to answer the phone without introducing herself. This was strike two. One more and she'd be out for sure. “I'm sorry. My name is Shaylynn Ford,
Mrs.
Shaylynn Ford, and I am the owner of F . . . Shay Décor.” She hoped her near blunder just sounded as if she were holding the “F” sound at the end of the word before it.

“I saw your ad in the paper,” the woman revealed. “I was wondering if this was the kind of work you did.”

“Yes, ma'am, it is.”

“How much is something like this here gon' put me out of?”

Shaylynn almost laughed. Southern people—especially older people—amused her. She hoped to appeal to a more corporate, prosperous crowd, but she had prayed for God to send business her way, and if there was one thing that her grandmother had grilled in her head, it was that beggars couldn't be choosers, and this woman sounded like she was closer to being ready to get to work than most of Shaylynn's prior callers had seemed. So for now, an aging, uneducated woman would have to do. “I'd like the opportunity to meet with you personally so that I can get a better idea of what it is that you desire for me to do,” Shaylynn said. “I'm sure that we can find something that fits into your budget.”

“Oh, you ain't got to fit it in my budget, honey. You got to fit it in my young-un's budget. That chile been trying to get me to get this house updated for years. Folks say I'm still living in the early nineties, teetering on the edge of falling back into the late eighties.”

Eloise laughed, and Shaylynn laughed with her. When she began talking again, Shaylynn noticed that the weighty breathing was all gone.

“Like I said, I saw your ad in the paper, and I thought I'd give you a call. So when can you meet with me, and how long is it gon' take? I ain't got all day, you know.”

Shaylynn smiled into the receiver. “I'm very flexible. I don't mind working around your schedule, Ms. Flowers, and the meeting will only take as long as you need.”

“How 'bout this evening 'round about seven?”

Shaylynn froze. “This evening?” She hadn't planned to meet outside of her normal office hours. That was her time with Chase.

“You did say you would work on my schedule, didn't you?”

Eloise reminded her.

“Uh, yes, ma'am, but I have a son who—”

“Well, bring him on with you, honey. It ain't gon' take long, and I don't bite. If you come hungry, I'll even feed you.”

This was the first call Shaylynn had gotten far enough with a potential client to set up an actual appointment. She had no choice but to make the sacrifice . . . this time. “Okay, Ms. Flowers. If you give me your address, I'll meet you at seven.”

Once a month on a Thursday night at six-thirty, the men of Kingdom Builders Christian Center gathered for a gender-specific Bible study and chat session. The organized, spiritually strengthening sessions were the brainchild of Jerome Tides, the second son of Reverend B. T. Tides. Jerome had begun the gatherings at New Hope Church just a year ago as a counterpart to Women of Hope, a weekly ministry that his younger sister founded for the ladies of the church. The Hope for Men's impact on the male population of the tabernacle quickly spread throughout the churches under the New Hope Fellowship of Churches. CJ wasted no time building the foundation of KBCC's own Hope for Men assemblies, and so far, they'd been accepted well among the brothers.

Neil had hardly recuperated from his busy day at the school before he had to prepare himself for the meeting. He enjoyed the brief but influential gatherings. Some of the things the men shared in those sessions were mind-blowing, and it was comforting to know that they had a safe place to go where they could talk to their pastor and fellow brethren without feeling threatened. But immediate disappointment settled in when Neil walked through the doors of the church and caught a glimpse of the associate minister who would apparently be facilitating tonight's meeting.

“Dang!” he whispered under his breath. CJ generally led the discussions, and Neil wouldn't have bothered to show up if he had known that Elder Ulysses Mann was going to be in charge. If Deacon Burgess's old Impala hadn't crept into the parking lot at the same time that Neil had shut off his engine, and had the old man not shuffled into the church alongside him, Neil wouldn't have thought twice about backing out the door and making a mad dash for his car.

Elder Mann was quite knowledgeable in the Word of God and had earned his ordination into the ministry, so his ministerial credibility wasn't in question. The problem was that he was one of the most lackluster orators that Neil had ever heard. The sixty-year-old mortician could break down a complicated scripture like a mathematician could break down a problematic fraction. Only an idiot wouldn't be able to understand the verse once Elder Mann got finished explaining it. But the man's humdrum voice was enough to put a chronic insomniac to sleep. He had about as much charisma as the corpses he came in contact with each week, and the only times he ever got the chance to address the congregation were the few occasions that CJ allowed him to lead their regular Wednesday night Bible study sessions.

Hope for Men usually lasted ninety minutes, but because no one felt compelled to participate tonight, the session was cut short. By the time the hour-long assembly was over, Neil had long lost count of how many peppermints he'd eaten in an effort to stay awake.

“Forty-two,” Deacon Burgess blurted out at Neil immediately following the benediction.

“Excuse me?” Neil wondered if this was one of the old man's senile days.

“Forty-two,” he repeated, flashing four crooked fingers, and then two more as a visual aid. “That's how many times you gapped tonight. Probably more. That's just how many I happened to see.”

Neil shook hands with two of the other brothers who passed by him on their way toward the exit, then he turned his attention back to Homer. “Gapped?”

“Yawned,” the deacon clarified while his wrinkled hand inched toward his keys that lay on an empty chair. Neil often wondered if Homer Burgess's driver's license was even valid. He found it nearly impossible to believe that the Department of Motor Vehicles continued to renew the man's driving privileges, even allowing him to drive at night. Incredibly thick lenses gave away his failing eyesight, and the Chevrolet that the man drove never moved more than thirty miles per hour on any given day. Deacon Burgess used the keys to scratch his scalp through fat curls of silvery hair that his age hadn't thinned one bit.

He flashed a perfect set of dentures at Neil and added, “Ain't no sense in me beatin' on you 'bout it, though. I was sure I was gonna die sittin' here waiting for that boy to shut his mouth. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” the man huffed out. “I ain't saying that I'm ready to check outta here or nothin', but I done lived a good long life, Deacon Taylor, a good long life. I done known love, raised chil'ren, seen grandchil'ren, great grandchil'ren, and great-great grandchil'ren come into the world. I done lived so long that I done buried both my wives, two of my sons, and my only daughter. And just in the past week, I was blessed with my first two great-great grandchildren. Twin boys.”

His proud grin vanished quickly and was replaced by a disapproving look that he hurled at Ulysses Mann, who was now kneeling next to his chair like he'd really outdone himself tonight and needed to stop and thank God for how powerfully He'd used him. Shaking his head, Deacon Burgess peered through his glasses at Neil. “While you were nodding off, I was praying for the Lord to call me home to glory. I'm a dime short of being a hundred, and the undertaker was already here, so it would have been easy on everybody. Like I said, I ain't necessarily ready to die, but a quick death would have been a heck of a whole lot less agonizing than sitting through this right here.”

Neil's body vibrated as he did his best to withhold an outburst. But inasmuch as the old deacon's words had been comical, Neil didn't fail to take note that he'd learned more about Homer Burgess in those fleeting seconds than he'd ever known about the man in all the time they'd worshipped together.

“You know I'm telling the sanctified truth,” Deacon Burgess concluded.

Not wanting to add his own lashes to the verbal beating that the deacon had already given the minister, Neil settled for saying, “Well, I think we'd all rather hear Pastor Loather bring the Word on any given occasion. I don't think we can fairly compare anybody to him. Pastor Loather has a rare gift.”

“Compared to that right there”—Deacon Burgess directed a bent finger toward the chair that Elder Mann had made into an altar—“
mildew
has a rare gift.”

The classroom was now virtually empty, and acoustics were making Homer's voice bounce off the walls. Neil was certain that Elder Mann could hear the exchange despite the fact that he remained in his bent-knee position. Neil theorized that Ulysses had probably finished his prayer a long time ago. He was probably just too embarrassed by what was being said to get up and face the church's oldest member.

In an effort to end the preacher's torture, Neil began walking toward the exit door. “Come on, Deacon. Let me walk you to your car.”

Deacon Burgess needed the assistance of a cane, and even then, the speed of his stride could best be described as creeping. A distance that Neil could have covered in thirty seconds had he been by himself took him five minutes walking with Deacon Burgess. They had barely made it outside the classroom door when the elderly man spoke again.

“Speaking of rare gifts, you got a pair of pipes in that there throat of yours, ain't you?”

Neil knew what Deacon Burgess was talking about, but they still had a ways to go before they would exit the church, so for the sake of conversation, he pretended to be clueless. “Pipes? What do you mean?”

Homer Burgess waved his hand out over the empty edifice and said, “You near 'bout tore up this place three, four Sundays ago.”

It was actually just this past Sunday, but Neil didn't bother to waste his time challenging him on it. “Thanks.” Neil didn't know what else to say.

“I remember when you used to sing all the time.”

Surprised by the declaration, Neil stopped and looked at Homer. He didn't think the old man's long-term memory was strong enough to make that kind of recall. “Yes, I did. I don't do it much anymore, but I'm glad you enjoyed it.” He ended the sentence in a lasting period, a tone that said the conversation was over.

They began walking again; only a few steps came before Homer's next words.

“I remember 'cause my grandson got saved on a Sunday that you and your brother sung. That had to be 'bout twenty years ago.”

Neil stopped again. Apparently Deacon Burgess's memory was better than his own. Neil couldn't remember this occurrence himself. “He did?”

“Yeah. You done forgot?” At last they stepped outside the church doors, and Homer leaned his full weight on his cane and looked at Neil, who stood on the top step. “Anthony was 'bout sixteen or seventeen at the time, and all his life that boy had done 'bout killed his parents with worry. He got in trouble at school all the time. The older he got, the worse he got. 'Fore long, he was running off from home, smoking pot, getting in trouble with the law. He had just got kicked out of school for fighting a teacher when my son and his wife brought him to church that Sunday.”

Deacon Burgess got a faraway look in his eyes. “Yes, sir. Y'all sho' 'nuff sung that Sunday. ‘Near the Cross.' That's what y'all sung. And somewhere in the middle of it, Anthony come a-running down the church aisle, eyes full of water. He fell at the altar, and he was never the same no more. Went on to finish high school, went to college, and he's a doctor right now in the nation's capitol.”

Warm tears stung the backs of Neil's eyeballs. He had totally forgotten that day. Forgotten the song that had been sung; forgotten the move of the Spirit; forgotten the face of the boy wearing the ripped jeans who raced to the front of the church and crumpled to his knees; forgotten how Dr. Loather had to revamp the whole service to meet the needs of one lost soul. So much about the days when he and Dwayne shared the mic were buried somewhere in the back of Neil's brain.

It was almost eight o'clock, and there was little to no chance that Deacon Burgess could see his tears, but Neil turned his back to the old man anyway. He pretended to gaze out over the well-lit parking lot where a security guard waited for the final cars to leave so that he could lock the entrance gate.

“Yeah.” Neil wiped his eyes with a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. It was warm tonight, and he could only hope that the deacon thought he was wiping away perspiration. Neil kept his voice steady. “Yeah, I remember that now. That was some kind of Sunday. I'm glad Anthony turned out well.”

“He did more than turn out well.” Deacon Burgess began the task of walking down the steps. There were only four of them, but for a man of his years, it was a chore. “He's preaching now too, you know.”

“No, I didn't know that,” Neil admitted.

“Son, a whole lotta folks in the world can sing, but everybody ain't anointed.” Homer placed his aged palm flat against Neil's chest as he spoke. “Your voice don't just sound good. God done gave you a voice that can heal. A voice that can deliver. A voice that can
save
. Do you realize how powerful that is?”

Maybe it was all in his mind, but Neil was certain that he could feel heat transmitting from Deacon Burgess's hand. The whole center of his body began to feel like it had just been rubbed with Icy Hot. Neil had used the cream on occasions after he drove his ATV. Depending on his speed and the ruggedness of the surface that he chose to take the 4-wheeler on, he would need the sports cream to ease the resulting soreness that crept in his muscles. It was that same heating sensation he felt now that prompted Neil to step away and distance himself from the deacon's touch.

“You miss your brother, don't you?” Deacon Burgess asked.

Neil looked out toward the parking lot again. He and Deacon Burgess had never had such a long conversation before. Most of the time when Neil spoke to him, it was in passing, and the man seemed to only half-comprehend what was being said. But tonight the ninety-year-old appeared to be sharper than ever. Neil answered the inquiry with a quiet nod.

“I know the feeling. Believe it or not, I've outlived all my brothers,” Homer said. “My sisters too. I'm the last of the Burgess baker's dozen. That's what our neighbors used to call me and my twelve siblings when we was kids. The last one to die was my sister, Karen. She passed away . . . uh . . . I guess it was 'bout six or seven years ago. I was the baby in the family, so she was older than me, but younger than Millie, so if Karen was alive today, she would be 'bout ninety-two, I reckon.”

Deacon Burgess started making baby steps toward the parking lot, and Neil inched along beside him. “Naw, it ain't no fun to bury your kinfolks, and I done buried a whole heap of 'em. It's hard enough to bury your siblings and your parents, but I think the hardest thing in the world is to bury your spouse or your chil'ren.”

Neil was sure that the deacon was right, but it was hard to imagine a pain worse than the one he felt when he had to say good-bye to Dwayne. Bidding his father farewell was hard enough, but Dwayne . . .

“That's why you have to make life worth living.” Homer's words interrupted Neil's thoughtful comparison. “You got to love your kinfolks so much that when any one of them dies, you find comfort in knowing that not only did they know what real love was, but so did you. 'Cause the truth of the matter is that as sure as we born, we gon' die one day.”

“What about love?” Neil heard himself ask.

“Love? What about it?”

“You said you were married twice.”

“Yep. Esther was wife number one, and Odette was number two. After that, I gave up. Marrying gets kind of expensive after a while.” He chuckled.

“And both of them died before you?”

“Uh-huh. Burying is expensive too.”

Neil knew that his question was a bit off-topic from their original subject, but he took the plunge. “Do you think that you would have ever married Odette if things hadn't worked out with you and Esther? I mean, if she hadn't kept her marriage vows, would you ever have opened your heart to trust another woman?”