Delores knew all this might seem mean, ruthless, and uncaring. But at the end of the day her motives were simple: she just didn’t want to be hurt. She had promised herself, as a child, that when she grew up she would not be hurt. So, Delores built a wall.
She planned hard and she worked long. Behind her wall, she planned for success, wealth, and power. She planned for a husband and two children. What she
didn’t
plan for was an addicted daughter. She didn’t plan for a pregnant thirteen-year-old. She didn’t plan for a prodigal son.
Because she had drawn her life’s conclusion as a child, it didn’t contain truths that only come to the most mature adults. If she had been a little older when she formed her determination, Robert Burns and John Steinbeck might have told her about the best laid plans of mice and men. She might not have avoided keeping company with those who had less than she did. A little older, and she might have learned it is often the weak, poor, rejected, and disenfranchised—the silent, most unlikely people—whose stories point the way to hope and healing.
And so it was that Delores sat in her office alone, certain that her life was over. Assured that all she had worked to build was crashing down around her.
Delores had not studied the stories of women like Mother Teresa. There were no men behind her walls like Nelson Mandela and Elie Wiesel. What she needed, in her despair, were people like them. People whose lives and memories would have assured her that she had the strength to survive and endure. Unlikely heroes who could remind her that suffering, even extended suffering, does not have to dehumanize. Delores could have used a friend like Jesus to tell her, “In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.”
4
It would have helped her to lean on the shoulder of a psalmist like David, to listen as he sang, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”
5
But her plan and her defenses kept her from such comfort.
In her sorrow, Delores could have used the embrace of a mother. If not her own, then the embrace of a surrogate, a handmaid, or a nurse mother. Not someone famous, not some media darling, but Delores could have used a down-home mother. She needed the arms of a woman full of wisdom and hope—a woman aged like herself, but a woman tempered by grace. That woman’s stories of survival could have strengthened Delores. That heavenly minded mother’s example could have shown her that there is solace in music, that there is eternal hope in prayer, that there is divine strengthavailable in faith, and that there is great comfort in family . . . fellowship . . . and love.
Such an old woman’s personal stories of renewal and restoration—of living through the Depression and World War, of her mother and father’s survival during the Jim Crow era—might have been just the thing to give Delores the courage to go forward. She could have used a mother like Sarah to tell her that she might be crying now, and that it might take a long time, but that God was going to make her laugh again. She could have used a woman like Ruth to tell her that no matter how bad it looked, God was not going to leave her alone—that God specializes in restoration.
In all Delores’s confusion, a child might have helped her, too. A child might have been able to whisper deep into Delores’s spirit that the least of us may have the wisdom and compassion to save us all. There are children who walk to school every day in war-torn urban areas—Kosovo, South Central LA, Harlem—children who are not certain that they will live to reach adulthood. Those brave children, unlikely heroes, might have been a comfort to Delores. Those children might have convinced her that she could still dance, write poetry, and sing in a world in which she no longer felt safe. A boy like Solomon could have told Delores that if one asks, God will grant, to even a child, wisdom and understanding.
There are survivors of abuse and disease, wounded warriors who could have told Delores stories of how they have pressed forward to squeeze life and hope from each day during times of uncertainty and tribulation. Maybe if Delores had sat a while with the infirmed woman or with the woman with an issue of blood, the sisters could have told Delores that God has the power to loose, and that there is nothing too hard for Him.
Delores worried that her wall was about to come tumbling down, that her kingdom was about to come down in ruins. Someone could have comforted her. Maybe the homeless could have taught Delores that she was so much more than any wall, business, or building that she might erect or in which she might dwell. Perhaps, if she had leaned in closely, they might have told Delores how to feel safe and keep her dignity when her wealth, her wall, or the other symbols of her safety were lost. The patriarch Joseph might have told her that it is neither the pit nor the palace that determines the depth of a man’s character, but character is determined by virtues like forgiveness and enduring faith.
If Delores had sat with Mary, she might have told her that the Master really would come. Mary might have reassured Delores that no matter how putrid and stinking things might appear to be, God specializes in resurrecting dead things.
When the vines of Delores’s own existence began to choke her, a Canaanite woman might have comforted her and reassured her that God would transform the rules, if He had to, to get her a blessing.
But Delores had formulated her life’s plan as a child—a nugatory plan to build and live life behind a wall. So when life crashed around her, there was no one to help. Delores was alone. There was no Paul to counsel her that the solution to her problems was to renew her mind, to put away childish thinking. He wasn’t behind the wall to tell her intellect and all she knew wouldn’t save her when her back was against the wall, but that she needed to rely instead on eternal hope.
The walls Delores had built were so true, so high, and so wide there was no one she could call. So, she wondered in her heart if there was a God and if He could hear. If He did exist, Delores wondered, could He or would He send someone over the wall.
S
everal weeks had passed since Delores had returned to work. That’s how she referred to it:
since she had returned to work.
She didn’t mention—even to herself—about her granddaughter or about the nastiness with her son. The key to coping, she had determined after she returned to work, was to create two separate lives. There was a work life and a home life—and never the twain would meet. It kept her afloat. She was still Mrs. Judson. In fact, all might have been settled.
Except for Carl.
Her husband didn’t know everything she knew. So he kept talking about the right thing.
“Do you think it’s the right thing for Claudia? Shouldn’t we think it over? We’re not religious people, dear, but do you think abortion is the right thing?”
Delores had been making the decisions all these years. Now Carl wanted to talk about the right thing. He would grow weary of it, though. She would just wait him out. There was still a little time.
She pushed back from her desk, stood, and stretched. They still called her
Mrs. Judson
here. She still had an office with a view of the city. She still made the rules.
She reached in her cabinet and grabbed her purse, then into her desk drawer for her shades. She left her office and nodded to her receptionist. “I’m going to go get a bite of lunch.” Delores never ate in the restaurants in the building. She usually ordered in or dined with other bigwigs in exclusive restaurants. Familiarity with subordinates breeds contempt—she had learned that at an executive women’s leadership seminar.
As she walked through the office, she noticed Tonya standing at Michelle’s desk. Since Delores had returned to work, Michelle hadn’t been much on her mind other than that she noticed Michelle had been much quieter. It was still unusual to Delores, though, to see Tonya and Michelle smiling together. The two women seemed more . . . carefree—happier. Something about the change seemed unnatural and made Delores feel uncomfortable. Besides, today there was something else about Michelle—
Delores looked at the young woman from behind her shades. That was it—shades. Michelle was wearing shades in the office. She was a most peculiar girl.
Delores rode the executive elevator to the lowest level, got off, and walked into the nearest restaurant. The waitress seated her in a booth surrounded by ferns and ivy. Her waitress took her drink order and then walked away. It was like sitting in a secluded paradise. She sat back and enjoyed the moment.
Removing her glasses, she closed her eyes, pretending she was far, far away. Until she heard her waitress’ voice nearby.
“Is this booth all right?” She recognized the two women’s voices as soon as they answered. She checked the plants around her to assure herself that she could not be seen.
Why, of all places, did they have to eat here today?
The last thing she wanted to see was someone from the office. The last thing she wanted to hear was Tonya and Michelle.
“It seems funny eating without Shadrach. Without Coach Shadrach.”
Delores could hear Michelle laugh. “You got that right, Tonya girl. He’s coach—a big, old, mean coach, too.”
“Not so mean, though. Just serious, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, Shad is good people. He said that about you, too, Tonya—that you were good people. I didn’t want to hear it then. But he was right. You are. And I appreciate all that you have done.”
“Oh, girl.”
“You didn’t have to do it. You didn’t have to stand up to Mrs. Judson for me, Tonya. You didn’t have to risk your own job.”
“Michelle, the funny thing is, I didn’t have to risk my job. Mrs. Judson was so easy about it. Like there was something else on her mind. I didn’t have to do anything—I guess I just had to be willing.”
“Well, whatever you did, girl, I appreciate it.” Michelle laughed. “I appreciate you and I appreciate Shad, with his big old self.”
Tonya laughed. Not convincingly, but it was still a laugh. “It sounds to me like . . . I didn’t know you liked Shadrach.”
“Why not? What have I got to lose? I’ve bombed out with everyone else in my life. I might as well mess it up with him, too.”
“Have you all—are you all dating?”
“Dating? Nobody dates, anymore, Tonya girl. You really are old school, aren’t you? No, we’re not dating, but the way things are going—” Delores could hear Michelle tapping on something. “—I might as well give it a whirl.”
“Does he know?”
“There’s nothing to know. I’m in search of a good man, and after this—” Delores heard the tapping sound, again. “—he’s as good as any.”
“What? Is there something about your glasses?”
“Come on, girl. Why do women usually wear shades at work?”
Delores heard Tonya make a clucking sound. Her own eyes widened as she realized Michelle was talking about bruises.
“I’m sorry,” said Tonya. “I didn’t even think about that. I didn’t think Todd was that kind of man.”
“Todd? You must be kidding. That man is straight as an arrow. All he knows how to do is love me and watch over me. Todd would cut off his own arm before he would hit me. No, this is Trench’s handiwork—the lover extraordinaire. I guess him talking to me like I was crazy wasn’t enough. He figured he had to hit me before I could get it. A woman can’t build her life just around a man.”
“We can’t build our lives around anyone. And we put too much on men, like they can make everything wrong with us turn right. They can’t always be perfect or strong either. But you’re right, we can’t build our lives around men. That’s the truth.”
Delores could hear Michelle laughing. “What do you know about life? What do you know about men?”
“I may look like it’s been just Jesus all my life, but that’s not true.”
The waitress came back to the booth to take Delores’s order. She pointed at her drink and then waved the girl away. The last thing she needed was for Tonya and Michelle to think she was listening to the two of them. Even if she was.
Tonya lowered her voice. “I guess you know about my son and about my marriage? Why wouldn’t you—everyone in the whole office knows. But before then—I went out with some boys, some men before I was married.”
“Who? Dudley Doright?”
“Right, Michelle. Thanks.” Tonya laughed, too. “I went with a boy in high school.”
“And how long ago was that? Was
Soul Train
even on television then? What about
American Bandstand
?”
“Don’t be smart-mouthed, Michelle. I’m trying to tell you something.”
“Okay, girl, spill it.”
“I was so in love with this boy, girl. I love-ded him! I mean I looooov-ded him!”
“I like that, girl.”
“Well, I liked it, too. But I was naïve. I didn’t know a lot about the world.”
“Which you do now?”
“I know more now than I did then.” Tonya stopped speaking for a moment. “Things got serious, too serious. I got pregnant.”
“Tonya, I didn’t know you had a baby that old.”
“I don’t.”
“What?”
Tonya’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. “I had an abortion. We were just kids. We didn’t know what to do. I don’t even know where he got the money from. It was illegal where we lived, so we had to go to another state.”
Delores froze, her glass held to her mouth.
“You know you hear all of this stuff about how gruesome the procedure is. People try to use scare tactics to keep women from doing it. But fear won’t stop a desperate woman or a desperate girl. You’re already trying to get an abortion because you’re afraid. Somebody else trying to scare you just makes you run more.
“What nobody told me was about the emptiness that I would feel. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I didn’t even associate it with the abortion, but it was like something had died in my life. Because of what I’ve been through with my son Richard Jr.—when I look back, I realize that I was in mourning.”
Tonya’s voice sounded teary. “And nobody told me about the guilt. You deny that you feel guilty, but you have this secret shame that follows you for years and years. Think about it: you’re having the abortion because you don’t want to deal with the shame, but the silent shame gets you anyway. Even after I got deep into following the Lord—I was going to Bible Study, I was even married—I couldn’t talk about it. If I told my husband, the father of my sons, what would he think of me? If I told the people at my church, what would they say? Can you still be holy and have had an abortion? Is it like adultery for a man—is it an unforgivable sin?”