Read When the Fairytale Ends Online
Authors: Dwan Abrams
When the Fairytale Ends (10 page)
Eight
Greg stared at his iPhone as he contemplated calling Shania back, but then decided that he didn't want to lose focus on the task at hand. He continued working on Mother Washington's pipes until he could flush the toilet repeatedly without the water rising to the top of the bowl, threatening to spill over.
“Mother Washington!” he called, and she hurried into the bathroom as fast as her fragile legs and cane would take her.
When she stepped into the bathroom, her eyes were scrunched in pain, and she was holding the side of her head. “Not so loud, suga,” she said, massaging her forehead. “That headache keeps sneaking up on me.”
Greg apologized and lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Watch this,” he said and flushed the toilet about ten times. Not once did the water rise.
“You are a doll,” she said and hooked one arm through his and gave it a strong tug. “I don't know what I would do without you.” She patted his hand softly. “This old house is just falling apart.” She cleared phlegm out her throat and spit into the handkerchief that she kept balled in her hand. “Henry wanted me to move outta here before he passed, but I said naw. I been in this house this long. Why leave right 'fore the Lord take me home?”
Greg wasn't sure what to say. This was the first time Mother Washington had ever talked about her late husband with him. He had heard stories floating around church, talking about how her husband's health had been failing for years before he finally passed away three years ago. He'd had a bad everythingâa bad heart, bad kidneys, bad liver, bad lungs. Basically, years of unhealthy eating, cigarettes, alcohol, and obesity had finally caught up with him.
He had also heard rumors about her husband being accused, but never convicted, of inappropriately touching young girls in the church. Church folks criticized her for being married to a pervert.
“When Henry got real bad off sick,” she said, shuffling her feet as she walked into her cluttered living room with Greg trailing behind her, “that old church I was going to didn't do a thing to help me. They knew I had to take care of Henry and myself, and they knew I didn't have no type of help. They thought taking up an offering was good enough, but it wasn't, Greg.” She collapsed into her rocking chair, which was covered by a red, blue, and green crocheted throw. “I ain't need they money, suga. I's got plenty of money. I needed they help.”
Greg grabbed her blanket off the couch and covered her legs with it, because even though it was May, Mother Washington always felt cold and liked to have a little heat going. While she talked, Greg went over to her fireplace and lit a starter log and waited until the flames leaped high before he dropped a log of wood atop it.
“Thank you, suga,” Mother Washington said and hummed while she picked up a white and blue crocheted blanket she was working on.
Greg sat down at the foot of her rocking chair and watched the dancing flames while she talked.
“And when Henry passed,” she continued, “you think anybody came over to help me out? No, siree, not a soul. That old church just took up another offering pan for me, like money is the answer to every problem.”
“And that's what eventually brought you to Saved and Sanctified Baptist?”
“Sure is, chile,” she said, pursing her lips and nodding her head. “Soon as I walked through them doors, I felt the love in that place. Ain't no denying the love or the anointing in that church.”
Greg nodded. He knew exactly what she was talking about, because he had only been going to that church five years longer than her. Franklin was actually the one who'd invited him to church with him. He went one Sunday and had been going ever since.
Mother Washington hummed some more, then said, “Thems little children at that church treat me like I'm they's grandma, and it makes me feel good. And everybody there calls me Mother, and they treat me like a mother too. You know how good it makes me feel to be treated like a mother?” She laughed to herself like she had just said the funniest thing; then she stopped laughing and held her head, wincing in pain.
“Mother, you might want to go get that checked,” Greg said, looking over his shoulder at her. “If it's been bothering you for this long, you might need to take migraine medication.”
“No, I don't need the doctor's medication. I got the best doctor in town, and He's gonna take sho'nuff good care of me.” She kept rocking, then hummed some more. “Did you see my daughter at church Sunday?”
As soon as the words came out of her mouth, Greg immediately knew who she was talking about. She was talking about the girl with the big brown eyes, the jet-black hair, and the white dress. However, he had to wonder whether Mother Washington meant that literally or figuratively, because if that was her biological daughter, they didn't bear any resemblance.
“The woman in the white dress?” Greg asked.
“Yes, chile. Ain't she beautiful? Ain't my baby beautiful?”
“Yes,” Greg whispered, nodding. “She was gorgeous.”
“See, if you wouldn't have met that pretty little lady you married, I would've wanted you to marry my Kaiya, 'cause then at least you could've been my son-in-law.”
“That's her name? Kaiya?”
“Yeah, but she goes by Kai. Just as pretty as she can be. Real sweet-spirited.” Mother Washington sighed. “Too sweet-spirited. I wish she had more of a backbone. Wish she was more of a fighter.”
“She must look just like her daddy.”
“Well, I can't call that one, suga, 'cause I don't know who her daddy is.”
“Mother Washington?” Greg looked over his shoulder again, this time with a look of incredulity. Even though she was a “Mother” now, he was sure she hadn't been saved and sanctified always. But yet and still, he found it shocking that she would so boldly admit her promiscuity.
She started laughing again, then stopped to cough up more phlegm in her handkerchief. “No, chile, I ain't mean it like that. Kaiya is my sister's baby. She had two little girls less than a year apart, but my sister passed away when they was real young. So I took 'em in and raised them like they was my own. I ain't never have no kids, 'cause though I got pregnant seven times, I could never carry the baby long enough for it to live.”
The thought of such a kindhearted woman having to suffer through seven miscarriages pained Greg and he reached over, slipped off her shoes, and pulled her feet in his lap.
“No, no,” she said, trying to pull her feet out his hands. “You don't wanna massage them things, all those bunions, calluses, and corns.”
Despite her protests, Greg held her cold feet in his lap and warmed them and massaged them with his hands.
“What about the other daughter?” Greg asked.
“Oh, she's a hateful old somebody,” Mother Washington said, making a sour face and shaking her head. “See, I found out later that men touched her when she was a young girl. They touched her down there a lot. And I guess she turned bitter because of it. And even though I took her in and raised her, she give me 'bout as much respect as someone would give a rabid dog. She like a vulture, Greg. Just sitting around, waiting for me to die. She blames me for not protecting her.”
Greg's cell phone rang again, and this time, he answered it. “Shania, baby, I'm coming, okay?”
“Where are you?”
If he didn't know any better, he could've sworn that she'd been crying.
“Babe, are you okay?”
“Gregory Crinkle, where are you?”
“I'm at Mother Washington's house.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
He glanced at the cuckoo clock that hung above the fireplace. It was a quarter to eight. How had time gotten away from him so quickly? “Babe, I didn't realize thatâ”
“Would a courtesy call have been too much to ask?”
Yeah, those were tears in her voice.
“Babe, I'm sorry, okay? I'm on my way right now, okay, Shania?”
Her answer to his question was the dial tone. Greg pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it, struggling to believe that his wife had just hung up on him. He looked over at Mother Washington, who was wearing a smile on her face.
“IâI don't know what's going on,” Greg said, pocketing his phone and standing to his feet. “She hasn't been herself lately. I don't know what's gotten into her.”
“I know what's gotten into her.”
Greg stared at Mother Washington, even more confused, but she simply gave him her toothless smile. “Go'n home to your wife, Gregory. She needs you. And don't you stress no more about that job. God's gonna work everything out for your good. Just know that whatever happens, it's for your good. You hear me?”
“Yes, ma'am,” he said and disappeared into the back room, only to come forward with a pair of thick, furry socks. He slid the socks onto her feet, tucked the cover close around her, and kissed her forehead. “Take it easy, Mother.”
“You take it easy, son. And be careful on that bike.”
“I will.” Greg smiled. He liked when she called him son.
He hurried outside to his bike, jumped on, and heeded Mother's warning as he drove only five miles above the speed limit to his house. When he got there, Shania was curled into a fetal position on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket, with a half-empty box of Kleenex and a pile of balled tissues lying on the couch beside her.
Guilt stricken, he realized that when he hadn't called her, she probably thought something bad had happened to him.
“Oh, baby,” he said and scooped her against his chest as though she was a small child. She must've been too tired to remember she was mad at him, because she threw her arms around his neck and held on tight.
He carried her to the bed, and as much as he wanted to make love to her, he simply held her and stared at her beautiful face until his own eyes became too heavy to hold open and he drifted off to sleep.
The next day, he woke up early in hopes that he could get to the office and see if he could add some more clients to his roster. He slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Shania, and prepared himself for work.
Within the confines of his cubicle, he worked hard and diligently, pulling more old files and calling even more numbers. Even when Franklin came over with a cup of coffee and every intention of chatting, Greg shooed him on his way and told him he'd talk to him some other time.
He reaped a few benefits from his hard work; he got a definite yes from four of the callers, and a possible yes from one. That boosted his ego until his boss's head peeked around the side of his cubicle as he tapped on the vinyl siding.
“Mr. Crinkle, you got a moment?”
Greg straightened his tie and sat a little straighter in his chair. “Follow me,” his boss said as he led Greg into his office.
If his heart beat any louder, there was no way that he could hear a word that his boss spoke. Mentally, he tried to remain optimistic. He thought about the President's Circle, his long-standing clients, the four, possibly five, deals he had just secured within a two-hour frame. But as soon as his boss took a seat in the vacant chair and said, “You are an excellent worker, Greg. You really are. Without you, this company would not be where it's at now. However . . .”
As soon as he reached the “however” mark, Greg blanked out. He had worked there long enough to know what kind of speech his boss was giving him. This was the you-just-got-cut speech.
Though the man's mouth continued to move, Greg's mind was a mile away from the current conversation. He looked over the desk into the round red face of his boss, who was in the process of firing him. As he stared at the man's moving lips, he knew his boss was in the middle of telling him the canned spiel from human resources about his severance package and eligibility for unemployment benefits.
Greg sat there in numb amazement as he wrote down his system passwords on a piece of paper. Turning over the passwords felt like the final nail in his professional coffin. He had always been told to safeguard his passwords and not to write them down or share them with anyone. He unclamped his ID badge and placed it on the desk. Staring at his smiling photo, he remembered how happy he had been when he first started working for the company. He couldn't believe that he, along with fifty percent of the people in his office, had been let go. His boss had apologized and seemed to have genuine concern, but that was of little consolation for Greg.
While half listening to his boss, the desire to cuss him out clouded Greg's brain. He felt like telling his boss where he could go and how to get there. To keep from going off, Greg clutched his iPhone so tight that he expected it to shatter in his hand at any moment. To say he felt angry would be an understatement. He felt like straight punching someone. His nostrils flared as he mentally reminded himself to breathe and not lose his cool. He didn't want to lose his religion and be seen as unprofessional, especially since he might need a reference.
Other books
Becoming King by Troy Jackson
The Heiress by Lynsay Sands
Crash Into You by Katie McGarry
The Ballad of Tom Dooley by Sharyn McCrumb
UNSTOPPABLE (Siri's Saga Book 2) by Klide, Jessika
SMITH (The Beckett Boys, Book One) by Olivia Chase
Something the Cat Dragged In by Charlotte MacLeod
Midnight by Ellen Connor
When I Fall in Love by Bridget Anderson
Walking with Plato by Gary Hayden