CHAPTER 20
H
aving Cat in the apartment proved a welcomed distraction on Mother's Day morning. He gave her something to feed, something to talk to while getting ready for church. “Cat, you've been decent so far. I'm gonna find you a really good home this week, 'cause I don't like your kind.”
Meow.
“Nope. I'm sorry, but you're not my type, Cat.”
He didn't have a name. Didn't need one, actually, because soon and very soon, he'd be gone and someone else would give him a real handle. In the meantime, turned out Cat wasn't so bad after all. Camille had gone online and figured out how to make a litter box using newspaper so he'd have somewhere to do his business. And when Sheryl brought the paperwork, she also brought a starter kit, which, hopefully, contained enough food to hold Cat together until he got to his permanent residence. So long as she gave him food and a place to “go,” Cat didn't bother her.
He wasn't as destructive as she thought he'd be. He tore paper towels to shreds when he got the chance, but that was about it. Maybe Cat was one of those calm kittens. She'd be sure to put that information in his adoption papers.
Growing up, Camille and Courtney had a dog. Butch. He was a classic German shepherd, black with brown spots. Camille remembered how he used to jump all over them when they were younger. As the years passed, he was content with a pat on the head. Finally, in his last years, he would raise only an eyebrow when they came outside to play. Butch died when Camille was in seventh grade.
Though the dog was more Courtney's than hers, she had missed Butch's presence. It seemed almost foreign to walk in the backyard and not see the big blob of fur somewhere on the landscape, even if he was only laying down.
Bobby Junior had said that God probably let Butch die to prepare them for Momma's death. That was a nice thought, but Camille realized nothing can adequately prepare someone for the loss of their mother. And nothing could permanently subdue the painful flares that burned in her chest when she sat down and thought too long about Momma.
Yes, Cat was good for something that morning.
Camille drove to church on autopilot, thinking about the song she would sing with Ronald and the rest of the praise team. She knew all the words. More importantly, where she'd throw in the runs and special notes. She'd been practicing since the impromptu rehearsal. Ronald's talent and intuition would undoubtedly add to the performance. This was going to be great. And it would all be memorialized with the help of her little friend: the digital recorder with lapel microphone she'd rented from the library.
Ronald requested that the praise team members not wear flashy clothes so the audience wouldn't be distracted by their costume. If she'd had a few rhinestones in her closet, Camille might have been offended. As it turns out, all the black in her closet was perfect for this morning. She was perfect praise-team material. Ronald needed to get with it.
Just before joining her cohorts, Camille stuffed the recorder inside her bra and attached the microphone to the knit shirt underneath her button-down blouse. Just yesterday, she'd experimented with this equipment wearing the same outfit, making sure her voice could be heard clearly while the microphone remained invisible.
She met up with Ronald, Evelina, Faison, and Nathan in Ronald's office, adjacent to the choir room, for prayer. Glancing around the room, she noted his degrees posted on the wall and several pictures chronicling his daughter's life. There was one picture, barely visible at the end of a row of books, featuring a much younger Brittney standing between Ronald and the woman who was obviously Brittney's mother. Same wavy hair, button nose. Quickly, Camille scanned the parents' hands. They had been married. It hit her: Ronald was a widower. She knew Brittney's mother had died, but somehow none of it clicked until this morning. Ronald, too, knew what it was like to lose the one person who had vowed to love you unconditionally.
Maybe they did have more in common than not.
Ronald reviewed the order of the songs. “âPrecious Jesus' first for the older mothers. Nathan, you'll take the lead there. Then Faison goes into âI Give Myself Away.' Evelina, you've got âChange.' Camille and I will end with âWhat a Mighty God.' That's our plan, but we all know to yield to the Holy Spirit's plan. This is God's house. Amen?”
“Amen,” from the team.
“We'll meet back in here after service.” Ronald led them in prayer, and they filed out of the room toward the sanctuary. Camille lagged behind, giving herself just enough time and space to manipulate the recorder's “on” switch.
Within the next minute, Camille felt a flood of memories overtake her as she took the stage. This was the life! Hundreds of people on their feet, clapping, awaiting the sound of her music and voice.
Everything went as planned, with Camille singing background through the first two songs. Nathan and Faison led their songs, no problem. Camille peeked down a few times at the huge, red digital timer facing the stage. Fourteen minutes had passed. She was still perfectly within the alleged three hours' battery life.
Then Evelina ministered before she sang. “Today is Mother's Day. Can I get all the mothers to raise their hands?”
Thousands of hands waved back at Evelina. “Amen. Happy Mother's Day to you.”
Annoyed slightly, Camille still kept a smile on her face. This whole Mother's Day speech was
not
on their official agenda. Actually, the dance ministry was doing the official tribute, not the praise team.
“I know we've got a lot of people here this morning that we don't get to see very often,” she said.
A slight laughter rose from the audience as they recognized the truth. After today, a good third of the people probably wouldn't be back until Christmas.
“Let me tell you something, it's every godly mother's wish to see her child grow up to love the Lord. To serve Him with all their heart. I know you came here today for Momma, but I'm here to tell you Momma's prayers won't go unanswered!”
“Yeah!” the congregants roared. Several women let out desperate shrieks as Evelina continued, “Mommas, some of us may not be here when the Word of God is fulfilled in our children's lives, but how many of you know the prayers of the righteous availeth much! A mother's prayer never dies!”
With that quote from the Bible, Camille sensed a change in the atmosphere. A reverential, earnest mood that stole attention from time itself and slammed Camille square in the midsection. What if Evelina's words were true?
“I'm a living witness. Some of you came here because you wanted to make Momma happy, but let me tell you something, Jesus wants to make
you
happy. He wants to make you into the person that God and your momma's prayers, grandmomma's prayers, and Jesus's prayers have already proclaimed over you. He wants to change you.”
Cued by her last sentence, Ronald and the band lowered the volume to a whisper as Evelina stroked each note precisely. By the time she got to “He changed my life complete,” her voice had pierced a tiny opening in Camille's stomach.
“And now I sit at my savior's feet,” she sang simply, sweetly, with her eyes closed, palms toward the sky as though God Himself might come down and lift her into the sky at any moment.
The hole in Camille's stomach spread now, causing a bubbling sensation to spread through her insides. She wondered if the audience could perceive what was happening inside her body.
As Evelina approached the encore, an all-encompassing intensity swept over Camille's body and forced her hands up in praise.
“I'm not the same!” Evelina declared.
Camille was supposed to follow with the word “changed” along with the other singers, but she was afraid of what might come out of her lips if she moved them. A cry? A scream? Words she didn't even recognize?
Instead, she simply stood in place, arms extended, while tears rolled down her cheeks. The bubbling swelled up to her throat, where she fought to keep it contained. She swallowed twice. That seemed to help, but her body was still shaking.
Evelina parlayed into another praise composition Camille didn't recognize. Ronald shadowed on the piano. Nathan and Faison chimed in. Again, Camille could only be silent because, unlike all the other 99 percent of church songs, this wasn't one of those get-in-where-you-fit-in numbers. She might as well be sitting in the audience right now because, since Evelina stepped forward, Camille had barely mumbled a word into the microphone.
Confusion about exactly how she could contribute to the praise team's praises brought her back to reality a bit, but the bubbling refused to cease.
I have to pull myself together for my song with Ronald!
Camille took a deep breath when Ronald played the opening chords for their duet.
Calm down. Calm down.
Calm down from what? Why was she suddenly so emotional? She reminded herself of the people at her church who got up to sing, got “touched” by the Spirit, then couldn't finish what they'd started. The crowd would first try to help the person with, “Let the Lord use you,” and, “Sing for Jesus.” If the vocalist still couldn't produce another coherent note, the audience would falter, “That's all right, God understands.”
Usually, Momma would steer the congregation to the good old standby, one-word hymn, “Yeees,” and a minister would take the pulpit, now that everyone had seen the power of God move.
Camille had felt the move of God's Spirit inside her before. In all those years of going to church, she'd learned to respect His presence and power, even if she wasn't willing to surrender to it when everyone else around her seemed to succumb. She never wanted to be the type to get so overcome with emotion that she couldn't sing. But this morning, that's exactly who she was. In fact, she was probably the very person she never wanted to be but Momma always wanted to see: Camille in the Lord's house singing His praises.
Her moment of truth came with the second verse.
Her
part. She was supposed to sing “He's the Alpha and Omega,” but the crackly sounds emanating from her diaphragm barely qualified as words. She turned her head slightly, managed to see Ronald's eyes through a blur of tears, and knew he would take it from there.
CHAPTER 21
T
he only thing Camille had managed to acquire during her big praise team debut was a honking headache. Once she stepped off the stage, her head seemed ready to explode from the thirty-seven minutes and forty-nine seconds of bright lights followed by the relentless rush between her stomach and her brain. She was very near exhaustion. Partly hungry, too. She needed some chicken, two Advil, and a good nap. And after she came to her senses, she would probably need a brown paper sack to cover her face, seeing as the spectators were surely wondering why Ronald had brought this crying girl on stage during praise and worship rather than the drama ministry's presentation.
She made a pit stop in the restroom after the benediction to remove the recorder from its hiding place. She might as well erase the file. There was probably nothing to hear except the sound of her sniffing up snot as she cried.
A quick text from Mercedes lightened her spirits. So nice 2 see God move N U today. TTYL -M
Later, she joined the rest of the team in Ronald's office for their mandatory closing group prayer. Only a few hours ago, she had envisioned herself walking back into Ronald's office with a small crowd of groupies following her to say what a wonderful job she had done this morning. Maybe even Pastor Collins himself would appoint Camille to the praise team.
Not.
Ronald closed the door behind Camille, since she was the last to enter his office. “Wow. Thank God for a powerful praise service.”
“Amen,” Faison agreed. “Evelina, you tore it up.”
She pointed upward. “Bless God.”
“Really, we could have stopped after you sang,” Ronald said, “'cause there wasn't anything else left to do but praise Him.”
What's he trying to say? I didn't need to sing my song?
“Thank you all for letting the Lord use you this morning. And thank you, especially, Camille, for standing in for Felecia.”
“Glad I could help.” She wondered if he meant “standing in” like she had been a replacement, or “standing in” as though she had literally just stood there. Which she had, mind you. He didn't have to bring it up, though, if that's what he was doing. Camille couldn't be sure.
“Let's pray.” Again, Ronald led them, asking God to restore their strength and keep the Word on their hearts.
Camille couldn't remember the Word. She'd been too preoccupied with regaining her composure. Well, that and trying to turn off the microphone without causing alarm, since it had slipped out of place when she raised her hands. She hadn't practiced recording while fully engaged in worship. Not part of the plan, either.
“Camille, can I see you for a second?” Ronald asked as she sought to bow out of his office with her self-esteem still intact.
She could only imagine what he wanted to say to her. The phrase “Why didn't you sing?” came to mind. Without a word, she stopped shy of his door, turned back to face him.
“Your presence on stage this morning was a blessing to the congregation,” he said.
You ain't gotta lie and make things worse.
“I really didn't do much.”
“This is the praise team, not the singing team. I know what it's like to have the Spirit come in and arrest your voice. Sometimes all you can do is weep before Him. He accepts all forms of sincere worship.”
“That's nice to know.” She grinned slightly at his attempt to give her some kind of credit before assigning her a permanent seat to the sopranos section of the choir. No way would he let her perform with the elite if she came unglued every time she got front and center.
She stood there a moment longer, wondering if she was dismissed.
“I also wanted to ask you,” he hesitated, “if you would go to lunch with me. Brittney's spending time with her mother's family this weekend, so I'd like the company. If you don't already have plans with your family, and you'd like to.”
Truth was, she could use the company, too. Camille was glad Brittney had the opportunity to be around those she loved, because the only thing worse than a motherless Mother's Day was spending Mother's Day alone.
“That would be great,” Camille answered as a nervous flicker settled in. First bubbling, now fluttering. What next?
“Cool. I'll drive.”
She wouldn't dare turn down the offer. Gas was almost four dollars a gallon, and she still had two more payments to go on her ticket.
Ronald drove a country man's truck: a Ford F-150. Double cab. Camille was taken aback when he opened the passenger's door for her. She couldn't remember any man undertaking this gesture for her, and she wasn't sure if she should be flattered or insulted. Her great-grandfather used to perform this task for his wife, but he was a mean, controlling old thing. Wouldn't even let Great-grandmother learn to drive.
Again, Camille checked out Ronald's turf as they both buckled seat belts. Clean, dustless dashboard. Vacuumed floorboards. If she didn't know any better, she'd think he'd been planning to take someone out to dinner after church today.
He started the engine, and a gospel song brushed through the vehicle. Camille wondered if Ronald listened to only church music. She surveyed the CD cases stacked beneath the dashboard and read their titles as best as she could. Suspicion confirmed. All Christian music.
“What do you like?” he asked.
“Anything and everything. I'm starving,” she admitted.
He laughed. “You need a buffet?”
“That'll work.”
“Chinese?”
“Okay.”
So this is it. A date at a Chinese buffet.
Is this a date?
She wanted to ask, but she'd already made a fool of herself on stage. Besides, the more she got to know Ronald, the more she realized he really wasn't her type. He was too ... churchified. He was like old-school saved, only he was her age. She'd hate to see him when he got sixty years old. He'd probably look like Moses.
He busted out with, “Camille, I've been thinking about what you said. Our conversation really ministered to me.” He looked both ways, entered traffic.
She racked her brain for a clue about their last words. “What did I say?”
“When we talked about being musicians' kids. Sometimes, Brittney does and says things that make me doubt whether or not she'll grow up to be the woman God has called her to be. She's entering this little rebellious time, but I'm going to stand on the Word. I want to see her come full circle, like you and me,” he explained.
Suddenly, Ronald slammed on his brakes. They jerked forward. Brakes screeched. Tires skidded, a horn blew. Camille glimpsed the Dodge emblem within feet of her door.
Ronald cried, “Jesus!”
Camille cried a four-letter word.
Instinctively, she grabbed the door's handle and braced herself for the crash.
Everything froze, including her heart.
Finally, she breathed. No impact. Somehow, both cars had stopped within inches of what could have been disastrous. The other driver backed up and sped around them, continuing along her illegal, light-running path.
“You all right?” Ronald asked, reaching for her trembling hand.
Camille squeezed his strong hand in return. “Yes.”
He looked up and exhaled. “Thank You, Lord, for protecting us from that fool.”
Camille had some other words she would like to use instead of “fool,” but she figured she'd already done enough cussing in front of Ronald for the day.
Taking turns going to get their food gave Camille a chance to regain her wits. Still shaking from the incident, she couldn't remember anything Ronald had said on the way to the restaurant. She hoped a little sweet and sour chicken with rice would advise her body that the danger had passed and the adrenaline pumps could be switched to stop now.
“You want to lead the prayer?” Ronald asked after they had both fixed their plates.
“No. You go ahead.”
He obliged, then dove into his food as though he hadn't just almost lost his life to someone who was drunk and/or didn't have a driver's license in the first place. She wondered how he could be so calm. If she died, no one would suffer. Bobby Junior might cry a little, but he'd be the first to go through her drawers looking for a life-insurance policy.
Ronald, on the other hand, had a child to raise. Alone. He should be more upset!
In the middle of his chat about the record-breaking temperatures, Camille interrupted him. “Dude, we almost lost our lives a minute ago. Doesn't that faze you in some way?”
He stopped. Raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, that was close. But it didn't happen. Besides, dying isn't the worst thing that can happen to you, you know?” He added a chuckle, took another bite of beef with broccoli.
Easy for him to say! He probably still had his mother. “I disagree. Totally. And I don't see anything funny about dying.”
Dropping his fork onto the plate, he apologized. “I didn't mean to upset you. Are you okay?”
Camille slammed her spoon and wrapped her fingers around her forehead. “No. I'm not. It's Mother's Day and my mother is dead, all right?”
Great. I just ruined our nondate.
“I'm so sorry, Camille. I had no idea.” He shook his head. “I thought you said she was a musician.”
“She
was
. Past tense.”
He repeated sincerely, “I'm so sorry.”
“Why do people say that?” She looked at him now. “It's
not
your fault.”
He sat silently. Probably unsure of what to say next.
She resumed eating. Ronald followed her lead.
“Do you mind me asking what happened to your mother?”
“She had cancer.”
“How old were you when she passed?”
“Seventeen.”
“Mmm. You were not much older than Brittney was when my wife died. I don't know what it's like to lose a mother, but I've watched what it's done to my daughter. I know, for her, it's a tough time of year. I admire your strength, Camille. To get up there and sing this morningâ”
“I didn't really sing, all right?” She had to correct him. “I choked, all right? Evelina started talking about people's mommas praying, and that was the end of me.”
“No, it wasn't,” Ronald stopped her. “You continued to praise God through theâ”
“Stop with all this church talk, okay?” She was sick of him being so holy all the time. Church folk and all their pacifying clichés irked her. If they were going to do this buffet-date thing, he needed to at least be real with her.
“What do you mean, âchurch talk'?”
“You're always praying, always putting God in everything. And who calls out âJesus' when you're about to get pulverized by a car?”
“You think what
you
called out helped?”
“No,” she admitted. “I don't cuss. I was just scared. I didn't even think. It was just the first thing that came out of my mouth.”
“Same here.” He nodded. “I didn't have time to think, either. The name of Jesus is the first thing to automatically come out of my mouth when I'm in trouble.”
Camille stopped chewing on the food in order to digest Ronald's statement. The blank expression on his face spoke the truth. He wasn't kidding. This
was
the real him.
She rolled her eyes. “I see. Well, I'm sorry about using profanity. I see your truck is all holy. Probably never even heard a cussword in it before.”
He smiled at Camille. Not fair. He had one of those contagious Magic Johnson smiles that warmed each recipient's heart. Made Camille relax a bit now. The adrenaline pumps halted, swapped places with the flirty-nerves machinery factory.
“Why are you smiling at me?”
“Because you crack me up,” he said. “And for your information, my truck has heard a cussword before.”
Camille smacked her lips. “I bet you know exactly who cussed in your truck and when, where, why, and how, don't you?”
Again, his grin crossed the line, opening Camille up in his presence.
He nodded dramatically. “As a matter of fact, I do. It was Brittney. She got mad at me because I wouldn't let her go to driver's ed. I believe she said the word âhell' and that was the end of our conversation about her getting behind the wheel anytime soon.”
Camille always knew there was something she liked about Brittney. Somebody had to give Ronald a taste of reality.
“So,” he asked, “who cusses in your car?”