Wrath Read online

  I was an in-and-out shopper. My hands were filled with a couple of sodas and a giant bag of chips, and less than five minutes after I arrived at the store, I was standing at the counter with my cash, when behind me, Nancy grabbed a tabloid and gasped.

  “Oh my God!” Her exclamation resounded through the store, catching the attention of the other dozen or so late-night shoppers.

  Nancy was always caught up in some pop-culture moment, but recently my blond-haired, ocean-blue-eyed roommate had been screeching and panting whenever she saw a photo of Senator Barack Obama.

  So when she ripped the tabloid from the stand and stuffed the magazine in front of my face, I expected to see some cute pic of the presidential candidate and his wife.

  But instead, the bold red-lettered headline of the National Intruder screamed: Pastor Kareem Jeffries Did Things to Me No Man Has Ever Done.

  The photo of my dad holding hands with the rapper-turned-actress Zena as they strolled up to the doors of the Plaza Hotel took more than my breath away—I had no words.

  Nancy shrieked, “That’s your dad,” as if I needed to be reminded of that in front of everyone in the store.

  As my friends hovered around, gasping at the photo and the headline, this should have been the most humiliating moment for me.

  “Is that really your dad, Chaz?”

  “He knows Zena?”

  “Oh my God, what about your mother?”

  Their words could have taken me out, but I felt no embarrassment. I was used to the whispers that stopped when my mother and I passed through the church hallways or any event where my mother was known. She’d had to endure the humiliation of my father’s infidelity for so long, and although this was bad, I was almost glad. This was so public it would have to be the straw that forced her to finally leave the man I called Papa…

  “IT WAS HARD for me, Mom,” I said, bringing myself back to the present. “I know it was unbearable for you, but for me, when you stayed and supported him, even after he’d disrespected you that way… again…”

  When she glanced up with glassy eyes that held their own memories, I was sorry I’d taken her back through this history. She said, “It wasn’t the easiest thing I’d ever done. But I leaned on God because I knew He’d chosen your father to be my husband.”

  A second before, I’d felt sorry for my mother, but now I fought hard not to roll my eyes. She’d told me this before: How God didn’t make mistakes, so she had to believe His choice for her. How the devil had always been after my father because Kareem Jeffries had such an anointing.

  “Do you know why I call your father Pastor and not Kareem most times?”

  “Yes, you’ve told me,” I said, praying she wasn’t going to take me through her explanation again. But my prayer wasn’t answered.

  “I began calling Kareem Pastor about two weeks after we’d met because I recognized the call on his life. Even as he was in the world, I knew what God wanted for him. When he finally retired from basketball and answered the call, I knew God wanted me to be part of that.

  “Even as the world continued to cheer him as the ex–superstar basketball player, I was there to remind him of his true purpose.” Then, she added, “It wasn’t just for him, though. Through the first twenty-eight years of our marriage, I called him Pastor to remind me.”

  I sat back a bit; my mother had never told me that last part. But… twenty-eight years out of the thirty-five that they’d been married?

  She continued, “That was how I stayed through all of those women, Chastity. That was how I stayed to help him get to where he is now.” She paused and peered at me as if she wanted to make sure I heard the next words. “Your father has become that man because I stood steadfast, doing what I was supposed to do no matter what the world… or you… said or thought.”

  Her last words were sharp, but then she leaned back, her shoulders relaxed now.

  “Mom, I never meant to judge you…”

  She held up her hand. “Yes, you did, but I get it. Every woman I knew and the thousands I didn’t were judging me and calling me all kinds of names that led back to the definition of stupid. But I was never moved because I will never allow any man or woman’s voice to ever be louder than God’s.”

  That rebuke made me lower my head, but my mother reached across the table and lifted my chin. “I’m just telling you this so you can understand where your father and I are in our lives. It took him a while—a long time, really. But God helped him to learn how to truly love and completely cherish me.”

  When I nodded, she leaned back and blinked hard, fighting the emotion in her words. “I hate what those challenging years did to you, though.” Her voice trembled as she rummaged through her backpack and grabbed a package of tissues. Dabbing at her eyes, she added, “That will always be my regret: how much this affected you. You became a divorce attorney, for God’s sake!” With the heel of her hand, she hit her forehead and chuckled, and I laughed a little with her. “When you could have been playing in the WNBA.” She sighed. “I just hope you’ll finally see me and your father for who we are now.”

  “Mom, I was just…”

  “Speaking your truth,” she finished for me with a shrug. “And sometimes the truth hurts. But at the same time, the truth comes with facts, and the truth today is your father is a changed man who tries every day to live up to greater expectations. Your father suffered, too, after his affair with…” She paused, not speaking the rapper/actress’s name. “When that story hit the papers, that’s what brought him to his knees, completely back to God and to me. And that’s where he’s been ever since.”

  It was hard to believe my father had received so much grace. Between the gospel grapevine and the Hollywood rumor mill, the story of my father and his mistress of the moment had been headline news from sea to shining sea. All of those quotes from Zena had set tongues and fingers wagging.

  I’d expected my father to step down from the church right before he and my mom were chased from the city. But after a tearful pulpit mea culpa and a thirty-day leave of absence to reconnect with God and my mother, my father had returned to his church, Greater Grace, with resounding praise. The African American Christian community blamed the devil and the wiles of Hollywood (and not my dad) for his downfall.

  In the middle of his leave from the church, I’d taken my leave from my parents, moving to Atlanta without even having a job. I’d begged my mother to come with me, but her heart hadn’t been open to anything except standing by her man.

  “It’s time for you, Chastity,” she said, breaking into my memories, “to make room for the gift your father has become.” Just as she said those words, her cell phone vibrated, and the smile that crossed her face revealed who was on the other end before she even said, “It’s your father.”

  I held up my finger, then slipped from my chair, giving her privacy to talk to the man I hadn’t seen or spoken to since I’d flown into New York a month before for my last interview with my law firm.

  I sauntered to the refrigerated shelves, checking out everything, looking for nothing, my thoughts still on our conversation. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw joy shining all over my mother as she talked to my father. She wore the expression of a woman who was hearing sweet everythings in her ear.

  My mom was happy, and she’d moved on. So why was it so difficult for me? Maybe it was because of the years I’d spent living with my mother’s misery, which began when I was just six…

  February 14, 1991

  My tiara was tilted; I couldn’t go to my birthday party that way. It had to be right because Papa said I was a princess.

  Rushing from my bedroom, I dashed down the long hallway. Mommy would fix it; Mommy fixed everything. But then, as I got close to her door, I slowed down Someone was crying. Maybe it was the TV—except Mommy and Papa didn’t have a television in their bedroom. I tiptoed to the door and then just stood there, too scared to move.

  My eyes were stuck on Mommy at her vanity. Her back was to me, but I could
see her face in the mirror, though her eyes were covered by her hands.

  But the sounds that came from her, the same sounds I’d made last week after I’d tumbled down the church steps… Had my mom been hurt, too?

  “Sweetheart.”

  I hadn’t noticed that my mom had spotted me.

  “Sweetheart.” Mommy sniffed the way I did when I was trying hard to stop crying. She held out her arms, and I ran to her.

  “Mommy.” I leaned back and wiped her tears away with my fingertips the way she always did for me. “Did you fall down?”

  “What?” She seemed confused.

  “You’re crying,” I said.

  Even though tears stayed in her eyes, a small smile graced her lips. “No, I didn’t fall down.” She grabbed a tissue from the silver holder on her vanity.

  “Then, why are you crying?”

  “I’m not crying.” She dabbed at her eyes. “At least not the regular kind of crying.” After she sniffed a few more times, her lips curled into a full grin. “It’s your birthday, and I’m so happy.” She hugged me. “You’re six years old today. And look at you with your tiara.”

  “Papa gave it to me.”

  Her smile dimmed a bit.

  “And it’s tilted.”

  “Well, I can fix that,” she said.

  “CHASTITY.”

  Blinking back from twenty-eight years ago, I made my way to my mother. With each step, my mind traveled through the years that followed my sixth birthday. All of the tears, all the years of hurt. It had overwhelmed me. Changed my views of men… even the papa that I loved.

  “Where did you go?” my mother said.

  “I stayed right over there.”

  “I called you a couple of times and you didn’t hear me.”

  “Oh, I was just thinking…” I left it there, didn’t want to tell my mother that I was still holding on to her pain… even if she wasn’t. “That was Papa?”

  She nodded, but her smile dropped as if my question brought back the memory of where we’d left off. “He said he can’t wait to see you tomorrow.” With her straw, she stirred the little bit of smoothie that was left, and without raising her eyes, she whispered, “So, don’t you think it’s time to forgive your father?”

  It was a crazy question. He had cheated on her, not me. Yet she knew the scars I wore.

  “It’s just all here.” I pressed my hands against my chest. “The memories of your tears and your humiliation.”

  She nodded her understanding. “But those were my tears, my humiliation…”

  “That I felt.”

  “I know, and I hate that.” Her sadness was palpable. “This is why you’re not married today.”

  “Whoa.” I held up my hand like a stop sign. “That’s not the reason,” I said, even though we both knew I wasn’t telling the whole truth. “I’m not married because I haven’t met anyone, but primarily because I’ve focused on my career.”

  She gave me a come-on-now glance. “As if you’re the first woman who’s busy with a career. You could have done both if you hadn’t been scarred by your parents.”

  “That’s not it.” There was such weakness in the tone of my denial.

  She said, “Release this, Chastity. Your father has been forgiven by God, by me, by his church members. It’s time for you to see what we see—that all we can do is strive to do better today than yesterday.” She paused. “Don’t let the sins of the father, especially a father who’s changed, stop the daughter from striving and becoming the woman she was meant to be.”

  I looked at my mother in all of her perfection: every hair still where it was supposed to be, her face makeup-free but her sandy-colored complexion still glowing. Even with tears in her eyes, she was filled with a jubilance I’d never seen in her.

  My mother stood and hovered over me. “James two-thirteen,” she said.

  I quoted her favorite scripture: “ ‘Judgment without mercy for anyone who doesn’t show mercy,’ ” I said.

  “That’s close enough.” My mother smiled. “Be merciful as the Lord says mercy triumphs over judgment.” She kissed the top of my head. “I’m going to talk to Estelle,” she said, referring to her best friend, who owned the studio. “Do you want to wait and we can Uber uptown together?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I need to get home so that… I can make it to church in the morning.”

  The wattage in her smile could brighten this city. “Church and dinner.” She raised her finger as a reminder before she pivoted in a move that showcased the dancer she used to be. But then, just as quickly, she twirled back. “When you give people room to be human, you have to give them the same space to make human mistakes. That’s what grace is all about.”

  My eyes followed her as she sauntered with the stride of a woman who looked decades younger. I watched her until she disappeared to the opposite side of the studio.

  Give them the same space to make human mistakes. That’s what grace is all about.

  I’d just sat through a whole sermon with my mother. And she’d more than told me, she’d shown me grace.

  She was so right: I needed to see my father, have the hard talk, make a new judgment, and not hold on to something old.

  The buzzing of my phone snatched my attention away. In the center of the screen was the reminder of a man I’d forgotten all about: Call Xavier.

  I’d meant to delete this reminder because his request last night was certainly disqualifying… if I’d been interested.

  But then my glance returned to the door on the other side of the studio, where I was sure my mother sat with her best friend, laughing and filled with all the delight I’d seen in her today. Even when I’d made her cry, she seemed to have such peace.

  I turned back to my phone, I held it up, and with the memory of my mother’s tears in my mind, I smiled.

  4 Xavier

  The banging startled me, and I bolted up on the bed… no, wait, I was on my sofa. A quick glance at the sixty-five-inch television mounted to the wall across the room helped me to see that, yes, I was in my living room.

  So now I knew where I was, but what had happened? What day was this?

  Another flurry of FBI-hard knocks grabbed my attention again. I stumbled toward the door and swung it open without checking the peephole. I wasn’t too worried about skipping that precaution. If anyone had made it past the doorman and concierge and was trying to bring trouble to my door, I was six foot four and a solid 240 pounds. Trouble usually took a look at me and walked the other way.

  “Bruh, you ain’t hear your phone ringing?”

  One glance at my best friend and I wondered who I needed to contact in management here at Lenox Luxury Condos to have the doorman fired.

  Turning away from Bryce, I said, “Clearly, I did not. And you need to demand a refund from NYU, specifically from your English professors.” I hobbled back to the living room.

  “I’ve been calling you,” Bryce said, ignoring my attempt to insult him.

  “And since I didn’t answer, that should’ve been a clue.” I sank into the softness of my oversize leather sofa.

  “What’s up with that, X-Man?” Bryce said, plopping down in the matching chair across from me, clearly not taking any hint. Before I could respond, he said, “You look terrible.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You look like you were run over by a garbage truck up on Lenox or something.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So what’s up? Why you asleep in the middle of the day, and why do you look so bad?”

  “I had a long night.”

  He grinned, then sat all the way back, relaxed now, as if my answer relieved him. “With Roxanne?”

  The mention of her name brought back everything that had ruined my life: the way she’d pressed her palm against my cheek—her forever good-bye. I sighed, pushing that image aside. “Nah, I hung out at Club 40/40 last night.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He sat forward. “What was happening there?”

  “A
private party. I went in to grab a drink and stayed awhile. It was better than coming home alone on a Friday night.”

  He chuckled. “You need to use your Obamacare and get that checked out, bruh. You’re a grown man. You can stay home by yourself.” He glanced around. “Where’s Roxanne? She go out of town to visit her folks?”

  Her name triggered another memory: Roxanne slipping the ring from her finger this morning. My glance wandered to the coffee table, where the diamond glittered beneath the sun rays filtering through my window.

  As the diamond held my stare, I remembered more: I’d laid the ring there, then rested on the sofa, staring at the ring until the glitter had lulled me to sleep. Sleep, the instant elixir for heartache.

  My stare made Bryce notice. He released a soft whistle, then rose up a bit and picked up the engagement ring that would forever be a symbol that another woman had left me.

  The way he held her ring felt like a violation, and I wanted to snatch it away, but I was too exhausted, in all ways, to do more than glare at him.

  “Does this mean what I think?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know how you think.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, you know, bruh. More than fifteen years of history, you know.”

  I hardened my glare; my intent was to make him put that ring down, shut his mouth, and just walk out of my door, leaving me alone.

  But that was my hope; that was not Bryce. He dropped the ring back onto the table, and then he stood but only made it as far as my kitchen. I couldn’t see him, but I heard the opening of the refrigerator, and I imagined him grabbing two beers.

  When he came back, he held only one bottle, though. The cap already off, the top of the bottle was already pressed against his lips. He leaned back in the chair. “I’d offer you one,” he said as if he were the host. “But it seems as if a beer is the last thing you need, fam.” He swung his legs up and rested his heels on the glass top of my coffee table, which had been shined spotless by my cleaning lady just the day before.