The Truth About Butterflies: A Memoir (13 page)

In the late
60s, it was common for very young children to wear short dresses.  I was
wearing such a dress when I decided to go up and kneel at the altar at the end
of the sermon, which was a common practice.  However, somewhere between Aunt
Katie’s house and the church, I’d apparently lost my underwear.  I knelt, and
the church fell into an uproar.  Aunt Katie came and snatched me from the altar
and dragged me from the church amongst giggles and stares.

Once we were
outside, she grabbed both of my shoulders and said, “Where the hell are your
underpants?”  Well, it was news to me that I wasn’t wearing any.  It wasn’t
something a four-year-old child would concern herself with.  While Aunt Katie
ranted, Uncle Rosco went to pull the car around, and Becca, their middle
daughter, who was 10, was laughing herself silly.

By the time
we made it back to Aunt Katie’s, she was obsessed with finding the missing
underpants, which she never did.  When my mother arrived, Aunt Katie told her,
“I can never again be seen at the church.”

“Why not?” 
My mother asked.

After a long
draw on her cigarette, she said, “Nancy showed her ass; now I can’t show my
face.” 

To this day
when I get together with Katie’s kids, and when the reminiscing begins, this
story unfolds anew.  Kneeling bare assed at the altar is something I will never
live down.  It’s my sole contribution to the First Church of the Nazarene on
East 5
^th
Street.

Now Erma Lee
was telling me that I needed to give my life to the Lord.  I was both confused
and fascinated.  “Let me show you something,” she said, and then she lifted her
blouse. 

She ran her
hand along two deep, dark surgical scars that ran just below her right breast. 
“That’s where they took my liver out.  I got a little piece still left in
there.  You know what sir-roaches
[6]
is?”  I shook my head.  “It’s a disease that come on people who drinks too much
liquor, and I drank liquor like most people drink water.”

They had
to go in twice, and they took my gall bladder and some of my liver, and they
weren’t sure if I would live.  Every time they sont
[7]
me home, I was right back.  Off and on for six months, I got worse and worse. 
The last couple months I was in the hospital straight.  They had tubes to pull
that bile off me and tubes to feed me.  I was down to 87 pounds.

Round
that time, a missionary from the church came to see me in the hospital.  Said
she wanted to pray for me.  I let her pray.  Then she came back the next day
and had two, three more with her.  I said, “Oh no… Y’all tryin’ to get me roped
into somethin’!”

“No such
a thing, Sister Erma.  We just wanna pray for God’s healing.”

I was so
mean to those women, but they kept comin’ back. 

Finally,
the doctors said they had done all they could do for me and that it was best
for me to go home and spend what time I had left with my family.  They pulled
all the tubes out of me and sont me home.

I laid in
the bed day in and day out.  Everything I ate, I threw it up.  I couldn’t even
keep my medicine down.  Then low and behold, here come the missionaries to the
house.  I rolled my eyes, ain’t even wanna talk to them.  “Don’t be like that,
Sister Erma.  We just wanna help you.”  I told them, “If y’all wanna help me,
then bring me some lightnin’.”  They kept comin’ and kept prayin’. 

Then
something started happenin’.  My appetite come back.  I was able to keep my
food down; I started puttin’ on weight.  The strength come back in my legs. 
Before long I was able to get up and walk around the house.

Those
missionaries come back through and said, “Sister Erma, God done raised you up;
you ought to come on down to the church house.”  Hmph!  I told them I wasn’t
stud’n what they was talkin’ about.  I was back on my feet and had some
catchin’ up to do.  I don’t care how ugly I acted toward them, they had always
been sweet to me, but not that day. 

That
missionary looked at me and said, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself!  God
done delivered you from death’s door, and the least you could do is take your
hateful self down to the church house and give Him some thanks.”  My goodness! 
That hurt me so bad.  I apologized and told them I’d be in church come Sunday
mornin’.  But before Sunday mornin’ came, there was Saturday night.

I got
myself together and went on down to the joint, and I drank until the sun come
up the next day. But I was bound and determined to make it to the church house
because I’d give the woman my word.  I went in there stinkin’ like cigarette
smoke and sat all the way in the back.  I buried my chin in my chest, and while
those folks was shountin’ and dancin’ I was gettin’ some of the best sleep I
ever had.  

I woke up
just as the preacher was givin’ the altar call.  He said, “If you’re tired of
livin’ in sin, won’t you come?”  I thought, this is the perfect time for me to
make my exit.  I got up to walk out, but somehow I got turned around and ended
up walkin’ to the altar.  The preacher looked at me and said, “Sister?”  And
before I knew it, I said, “I wants to be saved.”  He smiled and told the
missionaries, “Y’all get her before she changes her mind.”  They took and
baptized me, and God filled me with the Holy Ghost.  I ain’t seen the bottom of
a liquor bottle since.

I went
back to see my doctor.  I was so fat and pretty, and when I walked in he looked
at me like he’d seen a ghost.  I told him, “God healed me.”  That’s been years
ago, and here I am today.

I was
extremely fascinated by this story.  The idea that God actually interacted with
people, that He did stuff seemed miraculous to me.  Without hesitation, and
knowing that it was possible, I sought that interaction.  When I talked to God,
I began expecting an answer.  I would lie awake at night and talk to Him.  I
would steal away to quiet places and listen for His voice.  I looked for signs
of Him in everything, the trees, the wind, the clouds and thunder.  I looked
for Him in the ants that crawled on the sidewalk and in the chalk I used to
play hopscotch. 

I lived in a
state of anticipation believing that each day was the day God would show
Himself to me, but my prayers were met with silence.  In fact, I’d felt closer
to God when I
hadn’t
expected anything from Him.  Now that I sought Him,
it seemed He was hiding, as if my searching had driven Him away.  “If you wanna
hear from God, read your Bible,” Erma Lee said.  “That’s how He talks to us.”

“But if He
talks to me personally, how will I know?”

“If He talks
to you personally, you won’t need to ask.”

I would have
to wait 13 years to find out that she was right.

Meanwhile,
life with the Daniels continued with very little variation: school, home,
church, and the occasional funeral or wedding.  Completely comfortable in my
new life, I grew into a typical teen.  I made the cheerleading team, but Erma
Lee wasn’t pleased with the short uniform, so I had to quit.  I tried my hand
at tennis but lost interest when I discovered I had to chase the ball.  Then I
decided to try my hand at something else.  I was, after all, 14 and in high
school.  I called one of my friends to tell her the news.

“No you
didn’t,” she said in disbelief.

“Yes I did.”

“Did it feel
good?”

“No.”

“Not even a
little?”

“No.”

“Then you
didn’t do it right.  Everybody knows that doin’ it feels good.  If it didn’t
feel good, then you didn’t do it right.  You’re still the same old you;
nothing’s changed.”

But
something had changed, and nine months later it showed up weighing 8 pounds, 11
ounces.

One fear
consumed me:  What’ll happen when Erma Lee finds out?  My best friend Leila
wasn’t convinced that I was pregnant.  “Just because you missed your period
doesn’t mean anything,” she said.  I was 14 and she was 16, so I expected her
to know what to do.  “We’ll have to go to Planned Parenthood,” she said, “so
meet me by the cafeteria tomorrow.”

“Does it
cost anything?”

“No, but
you’ll need some pee.”

“How am I
supposed to bring pee?”

“Just find
something that has a lid and pee in it.”

Erma Lee had
a spice rack in the kitchen.  After examining the bottles, I reached for the
fenugreek.  It was a spice she never used and wouldn’t miss.  I poured the
tiny, brown seeds down the sink and rinsed out the bottle.

The
following day, we left school and walked downtown, but Planned Parenthood was
closed.  The next day we tried again.

“Did you
bring pee?”

“Yep,” and I
pulled the fenugreek bottle from my pocket.  Leila stopped cold.  “Is that the
same pee from yesterday?”

I didn’t
answer, but the look on my face said it all.  “Damn it!  You can’t go in there
with day-old pee.  We may as well forget it now.”  Novices both, it hadn’t
occurred to either of us that I could just pee when I got there.

For the next
two months, Leila and I kept our secret.  But one Sunday afternoon, we locked
ourselves in the ladies’ room at church to mull over my predicament and discuss
what our next move should be.  Unbeknownst to us, one of the church members was
listening outside the door. 

At home
later that day, Erma Lee called me into the kitchen to help with dinner.  But
instead of asking me to peel or chop something, she asked, “When’s your last
period?”

I thought about lying, but it was my chance to
finally come clean.  “February.”

“Have you
fooled around with a boy?”

“Yes, but
only once.”

“When?”

“March.”

“I guess we
need to get you to a doctor then.”

And just
like that, it was over.  The yelling I’d anticipated never happened.  Later,
I’d heard Erma Lee tell someone on the phone, “Sister Henderson heard the girls
talking in the restroom, and she told the pastor; he called and told me.”

The next day
at school, I told Leila that Erma Lee knew.

“How’d she
find out?”

“Sister
Henderson was eaves dropping outside the bathroom door yesterday.”

Leila’s eyes
narrowed the way they did when she was plotting.  “That’s all right; I got somethin’
for her,” she said.

The
following Sunday at church, Leila told me to meet her out front once the
morning service was in full swing.  I followed her half way down the block to
where Sister Henderson’s car was parked.  “You stand there and tell me if
anyone comes,” so I turned around and kept an eye on the church.  Shortly I
heard the unmistakable hiss of escaping air.  After she finished with one tire,
she started on another.

As we walked
back to the church, I asked, “Why’d you have to do two tires?”

 “Because,”
she smirked, “I’m sure she only has one spare.”

After
service, Leila and I stood in front of the church and watched the drama
unfold.  The deacons tried to locate a portable air pump and the several
extension cords they’d need to make it reach.  Sister Henderson stood on the
sidewalk waving her arms in desperation, “Some ungodly heathen has done this,
and God is gonna get him!” 

The
following Sunday, Sister Henderson stood up during testimony service and, in
true dramatic fashion, said, “The Holy Ghost has revealed to me the person that
done this evil thing, but I’m gonna hold my peace and let the Lord fight my
battle.”  Leila cut her eyes at me, and I looked away to keep from laughing. 
Afterwards, I asked Leila, “Do you think she knows?”

“Who cares! 
I hope when the Holy Ghost was talking, He told her to mind her own business.” 
After that day, it was never mentioned again.

Erma Lee
made an appointment for me and when I arrived, I was surprised that the doctor
was so young… and handsome.  He spoke with an accent, and I asked him where he
was from.  “Turkey.  You know Turkey?”

“I know
where it is on a map.”

“Good girl.”

He said that
he’d talked with Aunt Betty.  “She very much loves you.”

“Did she
sound mad?”  I asked.

When Erma
Lee told me to call and break the news to Aunt Betty, I had dreaded it.  I
hadn’t wanted to tell Erma Lee because I thought she would be angry.  I didn’t
want to tell Aunt Betty because I knew she would be disappointed.  When I
called and told Aunt Betty, she gasped; “Nancy, please tell me that’s not
true!”  I cried and told her I was sorry.  She assured me that everything would
be okay and that she wasn’t angry, but I wasn’t sure.  When I asked the doctor
if she was angry, he said absolutely not, “She just wants for you the best.” 
He then called Erma Lee into the room and told her that I was healthy and would
have a new baby just in time for Christmas. 

Of course,
everyone at church knew.  As with any gossip-worthy information, it spread like
wild fire.  When I went to church, the church mothers would make their way to
me and remind me that, “God still loves you, baby; you just keep your hand in
the winding chain.”  They had a way of speaking symbolically and even though I
had no clue what a winding chain was, I agreed to keep my hand firmly affixed
to it.