Camille stopped shy of the driver's door. “What have you heard about me and Ronald?”
Mercedes released her arm. “Nothing, but it's pretty obvious. You were a regular at choir rehearsal, now you're MIA. Ronald's back to his same old uptight self. Doesn't take a genius to figure out something happened.”
“He's uptight?”
“Ummm, yeah. Nathan told him to take a chill pill the other day. I think you should talk to Ronald, for real,” Mercedes suggested. “Y'all gotta work this out, because he's miserable without you.”
“I can't talk to him. There's nothing to discuss.”
“Yes, there is, and you can. I'll let you practice on me. At the festival. You game?”
Camille sighed. “Okay, okay. I'll go to this thing, but there better not be any weird spoken-word artists sounding all spooky and stuff.”
“Hey, they're artists, too.” Mercedes laughed.
As she followed Mercedes downtown and into Fair Park, Camille wondered if Mercedes would be as friendly if she knew the big secret Ronald had obviously been keeping from everyone. The fact that he'd been so discreet and protected her reputation made Camille feel even more guilty. If he told them all, then they might treat her with the contempt she figured she deserved after all that lying and using them. But their consistent love, consistent respect only exacerbated the problem.
Mercedes parked several yards away from the bulk of vehicles, presumably to protect her car from dings and nicks. This must have been her secret to preserving her ten-plus-year-old Chevy Malibu. Camille had to give it to her: That thing looked as good as any new car. Probably ran better, too, in Mercedes's care.
From the bottom floor, Camille could see that the artwork and authors must have been on the upper levels. Chunks of people ambled through the booths and displays. On the bottom floor, where they'd entered, the literary festival was more like a food festival than anything else. Vendors teased the book lovers with cakes, barbecue, pies, and even turkey legs. Warming up for the fair, Camille supposed. Though they had eaten a light snack at the meeting earlier, both ladies agreed to eat before exploring the various workshops and readings.
Mercedes had to buy Camille's food because the turkey-leg seller didn't accept credit or debit cards. “I gotcha,” she'd quickly offered, whipping out a twenty-dollar bill.
“I'm sorry. I never carry cash,” Camille said.
“No worries. That's what sisters are for.”
Poor Mercedes. She had been nothing but kind to Camille from the beginning. She, too, needed to know the truth.
“How about right here?” Mercedes motioned toward an empty table in the museum's makeshift cafeteria.
“Okay.”
They sat across from each other, blessed the food, and literally tore into the meat like untamed carnivores. There was really no other way to do turkey legs. Plus, there was no need to try to be cute. This was Mercedes, after all. She'd seen Camille up at seven in the morning with no makeup, hair a mess.
“So,” Mercedes began, “let's give this a shot. You're you. Imagine I'm Ronald. What are you going to say to him?”
Camille raised an eyebrow. Now was her chance. “I'm going to say to you exactly what I need to say to Ronald. And I want you to react the way you think Ronald will react. So I can be prepared.”
“Got it.” Mercedes took off her shades, peered into Camille with the same serious expression Ronald would probably have on his face. They both cracked up laughing. “You said act like Ronald!”
“Okay, okay. You're right. Okay.” Camille collected herself. Mercedes was about to get more than she'd bargained for. “Ronald, you were right. The only reason I became a member of Grace Chapel was because I wanted to join the choir so I could advance my singing career.”
The ever-present giddy smile vanished from Mercedes's face.
“I especially wanted to get on the praise team so I could record myself singing with background and give the file to my agent, who was waiting on it.”
“Oh my goodness, are you kidding?” Mercedes asked.
“No. Let me finish. Those were my intentions. And they were wrong. But once I got into the church, met nice people like you and Mercedes, my heart began to change. I started ministering to the girls. People whom I intended to use started loving on me, and before I had a chance to back out, I had fallen back into the person I'm supposed to be, the person my mother raised me to be, the person God has called me to be.
“When I asked you to sing that song at the studio, I was desperate. I should have told you about the lyrics ahead of time, but I was sure you'd say no before I could even get you into the studio, so I kept my mouth closed, hoping you'd just do it for me. But I'm glad you didn't. You showed me what it means to have convictions. Thank you for your example.”
Mercedes bit her lower lip.
Camille's voice filled with emotion. “I'm sorry I used you, the church, and the choir.”
Mercedes let out a cleansing breath. “Geez Louise. That's a lot to digest.” She snatched a bite of meat.
“I apologize to you, too, Mercedes. This was all one big show at first. I was just stupid and selfish.”
Tears breeched the brim of Camille's eyelids. All she could do now was focus on the turkey.
“Okay, for the record, you were wrong,” Mercedes fussed. “I accept your apology. But you're not the first person to join church for all the wrong reasons. Folks join church to find a husband, receive from the benevolence fund, get their company name in the church business directory.
“And
plenty
of women have joined the choir in an attempt to get next to one brother Ronald Shepherd. Jesus knew why you were here, but He let you stay anyway. It's kind of like what Joseph told his brothersâyou meant it for evil, but God meant it for good. I'm not saying what you did was right. I'm just sayin' God used it anyway, 'cause He's sovereign like that.”
Camille held up her greasy hand. “This is you, Mercedes, not Ronald. What is
he
going to say about all this?”
She shrugged. “Ronald's not stupid. He's been in choirs all his life. He has to know that people join choirs for various reasons. In college, some of us joined the gospel choir so we could get a free hot meal after church Sunday.
“But here's the thing that I know about being in God's service with people who truly have a white-hot passion for Him. That fire will either draw you in or push you away. You can't stay around it too long without being affected one way or another. Sounds to me like you got pulled inside.”
“Yeah. I guess I did,” Camille had to agree.
Mercedes credited, “By the grace of God.”
Over the next several, silent chews, Camille pondered Mercedes's summation. If she hadn't joined the church, she never would have met Ronald. Never would have been sitting under Pastor Collins's poignant preaching. Never would have been there for Brittney and the rest of the girls.
Though this whole thing had begun as a selfish endeavor, maybe she was exactly where she was supposed to be this very moment. And she owed Him all the thanks.
“So what do I do about Ronald?”
“I don't know. All I know, Ronald is the best kind of man.”
“What's the best kind of man?” Camille quizzed. “I mean, Ronald hasn't said he loves me or anything. I don't even know if the relationship was going anywhere, so how could he be the best man for me?”
“The best kind of man is a man who loves God more than he loves you,” Mercedes clarified. “He has to forgive you, be faithful to you, love you, and treat you well, because when he doesn't, he can't stand in the presence of his true love, Christ.”
“Hmmm. I'm thinking a man like that deserves a woman who loves God more than she loves her spouse, too,” Camille said. After all, given her past, she'd probably be nothing more than a thorn in Ronald's side.
“I agree. And if you want to be the type of woman who loves God more than anything, you needs to get your behind back in church, back in the arc of safety, as the church folk said back in the day,” Mercedes teased. “Not for Ronald, but for God. If Ronald's not the one ordained for you, whatever. You've got to run on anyhow.”
“Enough with the old-school church clichés,” Camille warned.
Mercedes continued, “Ninety-nine and a half just won't do.”
They both squealed in laughter.
“So, Mercedes, tell me. You've been at Grace Chapel for a long time. Why didn't you and Ronald ever get together?”
She shook her head. “Girl, please. Ronald is, like, my third cousin on my daddy's side. Illegal in all but a few backwoods counties.”
CHAPTER 34
B
obby Junior had given Courtney the number three days ago. “ 'Bout time one of you got a lick of sense.”
He couldn't argue against his father. Bobby Junior was right.
Now, as he entered the numbers, adrenaline rushed through his veins. The last time he spoke to Camille, he had said some pretty ugly words. She deserved them, but still ... his mother would have been ashamed to hear them coming from his mouth. He prayed for the right words this Sunday morning.
Â
In her bedroom, Camille propped herself on pillows, turning on her phone to see if she needed to address any important e-mails before getting ready for church. Surely people reviewed and responded to job applications over the weekend. She hoped.
Her screen lit up, showing three e-mail messages she'd received overnight. Two were spam. One was a generic note from Ronald, addressed to the list for the young-adult choir, reminding her of practice Tuesday night. She hadn't heard anything personal from him in over a week now.
She'd heard about men's cave mentality, that they had to go somewhere to think for a while before they could address problems. She wondered if he would ever come out of the cave, or if she should knock on the rock and see if he'd answer. Maybe it was just over between the two of them, period, despite Mercedes's promptings for Camille to give Ronald a call.
The other day, she'd gone to the recreation center and searched an online Bible for the key words “apologize” and “regret.” Ronald was a man of God. He'd probably already forgiven her. Didn't mean he had to go out with her again, though.
If she'd been the superstitious type, she would have asked God for a sign. Maybe her lights would flicker. A cereal box might topple from the counter inexplicably. Such things happened only in cheesy novels and Lifetime movies with people who didn't have this inner voice whom she knew would speak again whenever it was absolutely necessary. Too bad He didn't deem the situation with Ronald dire.
Cued by Camille putting her feet on the floor, Cat crawled from under the bed and stretched himself. Lately, he'd been acting strangely. Scratching at the windowsill, acting all territorial like he didn't want her to come into the restroom. Then sometimes he didn't want to be around her too much, which suited Camille just fine. Cat liked his space, and so did she.
Camille fixed herself a bowl of instant oatmeal and plunked herself in front of the television screen. Early-Sunday-morning television consisted of political shows, preâsporting event shows, and preaching. She settled on a Joel Osteen broadcast. In the past couple of days, she'd been listening to him preach positive messages. The kinds that helped people who'd ruined their lives muster some kind of hope. When she listened to him, that nasty old accusing voice within her had to shut up for a little while.
After pumping herself up with the Word, she actually began to entertain the idea of going to church. If she got there late, they'd seat her in the balcony. The video cameras never took shots of the late folk. And when they dismissed, she could sneak out one of the less-traveled side entrances farthest from the choir room. She'd be in there and out of there.
Yes. I'm going to church.
She flicked a blouse and skirt off the hanger and dressed before she had time to change her mind. When doubts arose in her thoughts, she said aloud, “I
am
going to church today.” She knew she'd better leave and get in her car quickly. Her last order of business was to pocket her cell phone. She noticed the blinking message light. The voice mail icon sat in the status bar.
Who would be calling me this early in the morning?
She checked the call log and noted the unfamiliar area code. Next, she listened and nearly felt all the blood drain from her face as her brother's voice addressed her.
“Hi, Camille. It's your brother, Courtney. Dad gave me your number, I hope you don't mind. I also hope you're well and everything's fine with you.” He cleared his throat. “It's been a long time. We need to talk and I don't know where to start, really, so if you don't mind, could you please give me a call back?” He'd left his number, then signed off with, “Call me as soon as you can. Thanks.”
Mouth wide open, Camille stood in her bedroom trying to process what had just happened.
Courtney called me?
And he didn't even sound angry. Immediately, she called Bobby Junior's last known number in an attempt to make sure her father was still alive.
Why else would he be calling me?
She put her fears aside when her father answered the phone. “Hey, Cami.”
“Hey, Bobby Junior. How are you?”
“Oooh, you right on time! You got ten dollars I can hold 'til next Friday?”
“No, I do not. I don't even have a job right now, Daddy. We're both broke, all right?”
“If you say so.” He moaned.
“What are you doing up this early anyway?”
“I'm on my way to church.”
“When did you start goin' to church?”
“Well”âhe lowered his voiceâ“it's this woman I'm with now. She's retired. Drives a nice car, got a house, but she lives at church, that little one on Mohawk Street. She just like your momma used to be, there every time the doors open. Say she ain't gon' let me lay up here in her bed while she's gone. When she leave, I leave. Most the time, she on her way to church. And since I ain't got no car to go nowhere right now, I gotta go with her.
“You know what, Cami? These preachers are makin' a killin'! All they do is get up there and read a few scriptures, start hollerin', and the people go crazy. What you think about me becoming a preacher?”
“No, Bobby Junior, that is not a good idea.” Camille had to leave it alone. At least she knew where she'd gotten her conniving ways.
“Hmmm. You probably right. This woman would want me to marry her then and I shole ain't 'bout to jump no broom with nobody treatin' me like I need a babysitter. Shoot, I'm a grown man.”
“Alrighty, then. I'll talk to you later.”
“Hey, your brother call you?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty good news, huh?”
“What good news?” Camille asked.
“You didn't talk to him?”
“No. He left a message.”
Bobby Junior laughed slightly. “I'll let him tell you. Call him back.”
“I will. Have a good time at church, and
listen
to the preacher.”
“I would if he'd stop all that whoopin' and hollerin'.”
“Bye.”
“Bye, Cami.”
Talking to Bobby Junior could nearly drive Camille to need a strong drink.
Hands shaking, she pressed Courtney's number in her call log. No answer from Courtney. Unsure of what to say, she kept her message short. “Courtney, it's Camille. I got your message. I'll try you again later.”
Camille slid the phone into the top pocket of her shirt dress. With keys in hand, she reached for her door's knob and barely had the door cracked when Cat squirmed between her feet and darted out the front door like he was on his way to collect a check from Publisher's Clearinghouse.
“Cat!” Camille screamed as she watched him amble down the staircase and across the parking lot before he disappeared under an SUV. “Cat! Come back here!” Then she saw the problem. Another cat, which led the way across the courtyard and into a set of bushes.
Cat had a friend. A friend with benefits, which would explain why he'd been clawing at the windows and acting like he was running things.
Mmm-mmm
. It was time for Cat to get fixed, 'cause all this running out the door chasing female cats in heat was not going to work.
She stood on her balcony for a few minutes. Should she wait until he ... finished his business? What if a dog found Cat? Or a mean serial killer in training? What if he got run over by a car? Cat might instinctively know what to do with another feline, but he had absolutely no experience with humans or vehicles.
“Cat! That's enough!”
When did he get like this anyway? He was too little to be mating, wasn't he? That other cat was grown. What if she didn't like Cat snooping around? What if another male cat beat Cat up?
All thoughts of church slipped Camille's mind as she followed the trail to the bushes, hoping Cat would be finished by the time she reached him. But when she approached the spot where she thought they'd be, they were gone. She glimpsed the tip of Cat's tail in a water draining hole.
“Cat! Why are you doing this?”
She didn't bother to answer the question for herself. She knew
why
. But why
now
? Of all the hundreds of times she must have walked out the door, he chose the one morning she was about to return to church to run off and act uncivilized.
Immediately, the tail disappeared. Camille got down on hands and knees, peering into the opening between the street and sidewalk curb.
“Oogh!” Camille shrieked in frustration, beating the ground with her hand. That's when her phone slipped out her pocket and landed within centimeters of the drain. Without considering the momentum of the device, Camille reached for the phone. In her haste, she managed to shove it over the edge and into the underground abyss. “Aaah!”
Fearlessly, she extended her hand into the unknown and felt a slickness she wasn't even sure she wanted to identify. A four-letter word as intense as the horror of losing a cell phone in such an absurd manner escaped her lips. “Lord, forgive me,” soon followed. He must have forgiven her a hundred times now since she walked out of the jailhouse. And that was just for the stuff she remembered to ask pardon for.
The phone was gone. Courtney's number, gone. Bobby Junior had it, surely, but come to think of it, she didn't even know Bobby Junior's number by heart.
Mohawk Street.
He'd said the woman attended a little church there. Not far from her apartment. She'd have to run by there as soon as she was dismissed from Grace Chapel.
A few months ago, she wouldn't have dreamed of risking her knees, let alone her phone, to chase down this cat. Cat gone, off in the free world, doing catly things with his cat buddies, would have been a dream come true. Now ... now he was hers. He had a bowl and a nice spot under the bed. Had his own kitty litter box, for crying out loud. Why leave at this point, after she'd invested all this money and they'd been through all this mess together?
Camille stood, but her shoulders slumped with her next thought.
What if Cat never comes back?
Some people might find him, take him in. He probably wouldn't even miss her.
She was tempted to go back to the apartment and drown her sorrows in television while waiting for Bobby Junior's church to dismiss. Maybe she should try getting in touch with Sheryl. She would know what to do. And even though their parting hadn't been friendly, Sheryl would do anything for an animal.
Against all pride, Camille scuttled to the 7-Eleven, asked the attendant for a phone book. At first, he looked at her like she was crazy. Then she looked behind the counter and saw the subject of her question. Poor boy didn't even know what the white pages were. Camille looked up Sheryl's number and jotted it down, certain that there weren't many Sheryl Finkowichs listed. She grabbed a quarter from her coin bag and made the most unsanitary call she'd made in a long time. Public pay phones should have been banned a long time ago.
This time, the emotion in her voice came from within her chest rather than feigned from her throat. “Sheryl, I'm sorry to call you but my cat ran away. What do I do?”
“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh. Where did he go?”
“He chased another cat.”
“A female cat?”
“I guess,” Camille wondered. “Maybe she was in heat?”
“Has he been acting weird? Trying to get out of the house?”
“Yeah. He's been scratching at the windows.”
“You're right. The female cat was probably in heat. He got a whiff of her and had to chase her down. Don't worry. I mean, you
can
worry because of traffic, but you're in an apartment complex. They'll probably just go do their business and he'll be back in a while.
“But you've got to get him fixed or else he's going to drive you crazy. Has he sprayed your furniture yet?”
Camille guessed, “No. I don't think so.”
“Oh, if he did, you would know. No human can stand the smell of a cat marking his territory while he waits for a female cat to mate with. Get him neutered before he starts spraying, or you're gonna be in huge trouble.
“Don't you know this stuff already?” Sheryl questioned.
“No. I don't.”
“Hmmm. Fluffy must have been fixed when you got her.”