Don't Blame the Devil
Read Don't Blame the Devil Online
Authors: Pat G'Orge-Walker
Somebody's Sinning in My Bed
Somewhat Saved
Cruisin' on Desperation
Mother Eternal Ann Everlastin's Dead
Sister Betty! God's Calling You, Again!
I dedicate this story to my parents,
the late Reverends Margaret and Alonza,
Mount Vernon, New York's own
Delilah and Thurgood-light
And they shall be mine, saith the Lord of hosts, in that day when I make up my jewels; and I will spare them, as a man spareth his own son that serveth him.
âMalachi 3:17
To all my supporters, your prayers and encouraging words have sustained me, and it is with these words that I convey my love:
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Heart to heart I've shared my words with you
Heart to heart to my friends old and new
Please remember, after all that's been said and done
It's been heart to heart as oneâ¦
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I thank God for His son, Jesus. Precious is the time God's given me, and blessed am I to be counted among His own. He's led me in a new direction for this story, and I thank Him.
There is a bit of a personal story interwoven in
Don't Blame the Devil
. I did not see my mother from the age of nine until I reached eighteen. Therefore, though my mother and the character Delilah had very different reasons for their absences, I share a lot of Jessie's pain and ultimate acceptance of the outcome.
I also thank, with all my heart and my love, Robert; you're my best friend and a husband whom God created especially for me.
Beautiful childrenâGizel Dan-Yette, Ingrid, and Marisa, along with my grandchildren and great-grandchildrenâI thank each of you for your contributions and gentle reminders that at the end of the day, no matter what other hats I wear, I'm still just Mama, Grandma ATM, and Granny. My familyâmy sister Arlene Baylor and brother Anthony Acker, Sr., Uncle Elbert and Aunt Ovella in particular, as well as my other sisters and brothers along with numerous cousins, close friends who prodded, prayed, babysat, and sometimes fixed a meal or twoâI thank each of you for your support and faith in what God has placed into my hands.
As always, I'd like to thank them for their prayers and support: Bishop John L. and Lady Laura L. Smith of the St. Paul Baptist City of Lights Ministry, and the congregation; Reverend Stella Mercado and the Blanche Memorial Baptist Church family; and the numerous churches and organizations who've supported my efforts for many years. I offer deep gratitude and appreciation to my editor, Selena James, along with the entire Dafina/Kensington Books family, and to my longtime friend and attorney, Christopher R. Whent, Esq., and publicist, Ella Curry (EDC Creations). Without a doubt my Facebook and MySpace family of readers, friends, numerous book clubs, and authors are the winds beneath my literary feet. Of course, there are several authors who are my sisters from other mothers: Jacquelin Thomas, Michele Andrea Bowen, Lutishia Lovely, Olivia Stith, Zane, Tracy Price-Thompson, ReShonda Tate Billingsley, Dr. Maxine Thompson, Dr. Rosie Milligan, and the woman who makes my phenomenal promotional items, Debra “Simply Said” Owsley.
A special thank-you to Doctors Manolis Tsatsas, Ruthee-Lu Bayer, and Yardley Pierre-Jerome-Shoulton; and to Ms. Diane Gissinger.
Finally, to my family members who left too soon in 2010: Aunt Connie, cousin Theresa, and niece Treva.
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When diagnosed in April 2009 with cancer, my first reaction was to laugh. I thank so many of you who laughed along with me, prayed diligently for me, encouraged me daily, and then shouted hallelujah when the prognosis was
we got it all.
I always believed then, and continue to believe now, that when you know the Prince of Peace (Jesus), then you can have peace.
The Beginning before there was a Delilah
N
ine months ago she was the darling of the Apollo Theater. A gorgeous R & B chanteuse and often mistaken for a Dorothy Dandridge look-alike. Nine months ago, Claudine Dupree Jewel was someone on the verge of stardom because she'd made it into the downtown Manhattan nightclub scene. Downtown was where the white folks with money and connections migrated and played the queen-making game for some lucky Negress.
Nine months later, Claudine was an angry, fame-chasing, maternally lacking, pregnant, and unmarried nineteen-year-old.
It was 1947, and it came to a head during a snow blizzard in Westchester County, New York. She'd never completed high school and was barely existing on the little money she'd made and saved before she began to show. Nobody would hire a big-bellied singer, no matter how good the singer was.
In no time the money dwindled. Claudine didn't have money for the crowded, vermin-infested room she'd rented and barely enough to pay for a bus ride. But Claudine had what she called street smarts, so she made a plan. She couldn't afford prenatal care, so she just simply planned to wait until a few days from the date when Mother Luke, an elderly church mother who rented one of the other cockroach motel rooms, suggested she'd give birth, and then go to a nearby emergency room.
But Mother Luke's old custom of placing a hand on the belly and sizing up the dark line that ran from the navel to the pubic hairline wasn't quite scientific enough. If the pains that racked Claudine's back meant the baby was coming, then the old church mother was off by a couple of weeks.
So armed with just enough bus fare, and towels crammed into her underwear to catch the birth water, she stood on the bus, crushed between others who didn't care if she was pregnant or not. Twenty minutes later, a young and alone Claudine Dupree Jewel barely made it across the street after she'd stepped off the bus. Within fifteen minutes after arriving and some ignorant doctor yelling, “Don't push,” while the blizzard howled louder than her screams, she gave birth in a small hospital labor room in Mount Vernon, New York. Shortly after, since she'd registered as a charity case and the bed was needed for paying patients, there'd been not too subtle hints tossed her way indicating that her stay would be short.
“We're sorry we can't allow you to stay past a day or so until you get your strength,” the charity ward nurse began in her most uncharitable manner, “but the best we can do is give you a few diapers and a letter that will authorize a few bottles of formula from the hospital pharmacy. Once you leave, I suggest you try and eat healthy enough to give that baby some breast milk.”
So that was all the kindness Claudine received. A couple of diapers, a letter for formula, and advice to eat healthy on money she didn't have so she could provide breast milk from her tiny yet swollen breasts. She got the news after she received a few hope-this-will-hold-ya stitches. Her five-pound-two-ounce pasty-colored baby girl, just hours ago, had almost ripped the petite Claudine apart.
To add further insult as she lay without the benefit of even an aspirin for the bone-crushing cramps that followed, someone came over to the bed and urged her to hurry and name her baby. Paperwork needed filing before they kicked Claudine to the curb in another twenty-four hours.
Claudine didn't give it a second thought. “I'm naming her Delilah.” Her chest heaved as the tears poured. “This little girl's gonna blind every man with her beauty and steal their very soul, just like that Delilah gal did in the Bible story.”
The unsympathetic woman with the pen and paper remained disconnected as she added, “And don't forget to fill in the father's name and date of birth.”
“He's dead.” Claudine let out another groan, indicating that was all she would say about the matter.
The woman retrieved the pen and paper from Claudine's hand and left without any further information. It wasn't the first time a woman gave birth and didn't give the father's name.
The real truth was that Claudine didn't care what the woman thought. Despite her pain and the wails coming from her hungry newborn baby in the bassinet a few feet away, Claudine turned to face the wall and cussed damnation upon every Y chromosome that walked the earth. Of course, there was one man in particular whom she'd have shot if he were there. She was really angry at a silvery-tongued devil named Sampson, and despite telling the lie that he was dead, she was very sure he was still alive.
Sampson, the object of her hatred, was a few years older; a tall, butterscotch-complexioned bass player who'd gotten more than a phone number from herâhe'd gotten her pregnant. As smart as she thought she was, she'd fallen for the old “We don't need no piece of paper to show how much we love one another” jive. The first few months were like magic. Then hocus-pocusâSampson disappeared off the planet as soon as she mentioned she'd missed her period. She would never forgive herself for not learning more about him so she could've ruined his life like he'd done hers. The only way to get back at him was to never tell her daughter who her father was. Claudine never did; not even when Delilah grew up teased and called a bastard child and cried to know his name.
Like most of Claudine's decisions that weren't well thought-out, if thought-out at all, she also messed up when she named her baby with a less than noble motive. Claudine hadn't read the entire biblical story, because in the end that particular Delilah didn't make out too well, while in Sampson's case, he brought the house downâ¦and not in a good way.
Only time would tell if Claudine's need for revenge would manifest in little Delilah's life, and to what degree. Whether it did or not, Claudine never waited to find out. As soon as Delilah, talented and gorgeous, turned eighteen, Claudine did to her daughter the same thing she'd always hated Sampson for. Claudine disappeared and left Delilah to fend for herself.