Don't Blame the Devil (7 page)

“Oh, now really…?” Sister Marty handed one of the bags to Tamara and started up the porch steps. “Didn't your father tell you that I was working late and couldn't make the Bible study? I certainly hope he told the deacon….”

And that's when Tamara happened to turn and look up the block. She saw Delilah appear to drag the deacon along as the two of them headed toward the deacon's truck. The truck was parked just a few doors down from Sister Marty's.

“I don't know how you carried these heavy bags,” Tamara said as she almost threw Sister Marty through the open door. “Whew! I need to hurry and set this thing down.”

Sister Marty was too surprised to answer. And she'd have been even more surprised if she'd seen what Tamara had.

I
t was Monday, and two days had passed since the deacon had driven Delilah home from Jessie's house. She couldn't believe she'd finally seen her son and met her granddaughter. But now she'd grown tired of being stuck at home.

And yet she still couldn't wrap her mind around how her only family lived an hour or so away, and that she'd had her car repossessed. She'd have to take three buses just to get to a train that would take her to Brooklyn. She needed her beloved Navigator to get around, and back into their good graces. Delilah was at her wits' end.
Knowing where Jessie lives ain't doing me a bit of good if I can't get to him. And what about getting to a church service? I certainly need a car for that.

So over the past forty-eight hours she'd often fallen to her knees or just stood in the middle of the floor and prayed.

Delilah looked at the clock in her living room. It was almost twelve noon. She'd heard it mentioned that God was always available for extra heavy lifting at twelve, three, six, and nine o'clock. So she went for it.

“Jehovah, one and only…” Delilah began with what she felt was the solid truth. Everything she'd had was her one and only: the deacon, the only man she'd ever married or truly loved; Jessie and Tamara, her only son and granddaughter; even her career—she'd never done anything but sing and model. She needed to start there because at the moment, none of her life made sense except her one and only great Jehovah.

And so there she was. Even at the end of praying for two days, the sense of family she'd seen on display in Jessie's living room gnawed away at her. Where was that homey feeling inside her home? And why should the deacon be free to remarry, if she went through with the divorce plans? Did she really need to go through with the divorce after the deacon hadn't been honest about knowing where Jessie was? It was beginning to look as though everyone would end up with a family except her.

She'd gone from room to room, inside her large rented house in affluent Garden City. And yet Delilah felt as abandoned and as poor as a church mouse. Suddenly none of her mementos displayed throughout the house meant a thing.

Pictures of her and Ella Fitzgerald should've been of her and perhaps her daughter-in-law, Cindy. The ones of her and jazz great Arthur Prysock, whom she'd met when she spent a short time in South Carolina—that should've been Jessie standing proudly next to her. Even her precious autographed pictures of her and Lena Horne became almost irrelevant. Lena had written on one of them,
To Delilah, my sister from another mother.
It should've been of her and Tamara. After all, if she could pass for Lena, then so could her one and only granddaughter.

Delilah had also waited for the deacon to call. When he'd brought her home the other night she could tell he'd softened a bit toward her. Besides, she could've spilled the beans about him back at Jessie's and she hadn't. Before he'd driven away she'd exploited his unspoken guilt and gotten him to promise to help her get her car back. Of course, she had to also promise not to drive it anywhere on Jessie's block. She'd only made the promise because she had to. Delilah also had to get her family back, and if that meant she had to park around the corner from Jessie's block to keep her word, she would.

But just when she thought the deacon wasn't going to come through with his promise to call, he finally did. He called that afternoon. But all he seemed to want to talk about was making an appointment to see a divorce lawyer. Every time she asked, “What about my car?” he'd respond with, “What about that divorce?” Finally she'd slammed down the phone out of frustration.

To her credit, she did want to call him back. She'd sacrifice and be the bigger person, but she couldn't. She should've insisted on getting his telephone number, too.
Doggone cable folks would have to keep their subscribers' numbers unlisted.
She'd gotten that tidbit from the deacon when she told him how hard she'd tried to find Jessie and couldn't.

But all she could do was go inside her living room and wait. Waiting wasn't something she was good at or used to, so she hoped the deacon was still anxious for his divorce and would call back.

 

At the same time that a frustrated Delilah waited inside her Long Island home, anger brewed over in Brooklyn, New York.

Upstairs inside his comfortable one-bedroom apartment, Deacon Thurgood Pillar was pissed. He slammed down the black phone, which looked almost pale compared to the deep ebony hue his already dark skin took on.

“That witch Delilah just hung up on me. She's fussing about where I've been, like I was supposed to be at her beck and call.”

So Deacon Pillar did what any proud man, who'd always bragged he'd given the cat its meow, would do in a situation like that. He got dressed in a multicolored, striped shirt, polka-dot suspenders, and khaki pants, which like all his pants were an ill fit for his height.

Once he got inside, he ignored the sound of his bony butt slapping against the leather seats of the truck he called Old Lemon. His gnarly long fingers yanked the gears hard enough to create a new gear. Then he tore out of Brooklyn for the long drive out to Long Island.

By the time Deacon Pillar reached Garden City, it was well into the late afternoon. Most of the residents on Delilah's street were absent from their front yards. It didn't mean they weren't home, it was just that they preferred to lounge in their backyards, on patios, or in swimming pools. Hanging out in the front of one's home was so low class.

Deacon Pillar searched the block until he found Delilah's address. It was dark when he'd driven her home the other night. This was his first opportunity to see it in the daytime. “No wonder this woman stays broke and can't pay a car note.”

He pulled up to Delilah's house and turned off the engine, which always barked like a mad dog and caused cats and squirrels to scatter. Accustomed to parking in his crime-filled area of Brooklyn, he took a moment to wrap a club device around the steering column, and got out. No sooner had he rung the doorbell and she finally opened it a bit than he received the welcome he'd figured he'd get from Delilah.

“What the hell took you so long?”

“Don't talk trash to me,” Deacon Pillar ordered loudly before he pushed past her and entered. And before she could protest, he marched toward her living room as though he'd been there many times before.

“Damn.” Delilah looked out the door to make sure no one saw what'd happened and called the cops. She followed a few seconds later. Her face was still a mask of irritation. “Don't bother to sit 'cause we need to get started.”

“I don't intend on staying too long. I guess we must've had a bad connection. I'm sure a classy woman such as you wouldn't hang up on someone who's trying to help her out.”

“I reserve my class for them that has some.”

“Not
has some,
it's
have it
.”

Like an old habit he just couldn't get rid of, the deacon wanted to reprimand Delilah further about her bad English, but decided to stick to the plan.

“Look, Delilah.” Deacon Pillar began to speak, and with a quick wave of his hand he cut off whatever nastiness Delilah was about to spew. “I know I was less than honest about Jessie's whereabouts. But hell, I wasn't all that thrilled when I ran into you a few weeks back, and neither have I walked on cloud nine during our brief encounters since. For all I knew you could've just wanted to make his life a living hell, 'cause that's what you do to folks.” He stopped and paused for a quick breath. “Okay, I'll say it again, just like I said it the other night. I thank you for not telling Jessie everything you know about me.”

“I probably should have. You looking down on me the way you do.”

“Looking down on you? I'm just happy I haven't had to look across a mattress at you for the past forty-something years. It was more of a blessing than I'd thought.”

“You wasn't no taste of sunshine, either, when I ran into your jacked-up self.”

Delilah abruptly stopped her impending barrage.
I need to stick to my plan,
she thought.
If this is the way Jehovah has things set up, I can wait a little longer—but not much.
“You know what, Thurgood…”

The deacon clasped his hands and this time he spoke slowly, cutting Delilah off before she could say something even nastier than before. He had already made plans to see Marty later that night, so the sooner he helped Delilah, the sooner they'd be divorced and the quicker he could get back to his life. “Forget all this. It's not about me or you. It's about family; Jessie and Tamara. They need peace in their lives, and if helping you get your car back so you can terrorize some other family, well so be it.”

Delilah didn't respond. She chose to hold her head a little higher. This time it was her way of letting him know that whatever he had to say was beneath her. Yet it didn't mean she wasn't listening or didn't know what the deacon implied.

“Look, Dee Dee—” Deacon Pillar caught himself.
Why do I keep calling her that?

But that time he wasn't quick enough to stop Delilah from interrupting and ripping into him.

“Look at what, Thur-no-good?” Delilah's eyes darted around the room as she wrung her hands. Help or no help, Navigator or no Navigator…She didn't try to hide her feelings. If she got her hands on something heavy, she'd knock him out. Frustrated, Delilah threatened, “What else you got to say?”

The deacon didn't flinch. He ignored her question and asked one of his own. “Why do you have to refer to my former street name, Thur-no-good, because you're antsy?”

“And I see you didn't forget what you used to call me, either, when you're trying to annoy me. You know I never liked that pet name, Dee Dee.”

“Don't you fret none, it doesn't have the same meaning as it did back then, when I'd come off the road from driving that old truck, or gigging, and want some special attention.” Deacon Pillar winked and allowed a smile to relax his face. “I mean it in a more affectionate but less sexy way now.”

“You'd better,” Delilah replied as she searched his face to see if he was lying. “Okay, I promise only to call you Thur-no-good when you work my last nerve.”

The deacon nodded slightly to signal he accepted the compromise.

But that was before Delilah added, without smiling and with just a hint of agitation, “I'm sure you'll be working my nerves just as bad as you have in the past.”

They went at it again. Delilah and Thurgood, old enough to be closer to a dirt nap than to a sky-high calling, quickly forgot what they'd each asked from God and needed from one another.

“Give me an aspirin,” Deacon Pillar finally ordered as he held his head in his hands. “As usual, whenever I'm within two feet of you I get a headache.”

And as if there'd been no separation of time, or animosity between them, Delilah didn't hesitate to move. On her way out of the room, she looked over her shoulder and asked softly, “You still chase your aspirin with your cousin Jack?”

That broke the ice as each began to smile and let their guard down. The two, without saying so, had again agreed to disagree.

Delilah shook her head and chuckled as she left the room to get the aspirin. She thought it was funny how she remembered their drink of choice. Even back then it was still whiskey. Within a few minutes she returned with the pills and an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel's.

“You still know how to treat your man, I see.” The deacon licked his lips and wrung his hands, a sign of anticipation as he playfully snatched the bottle from her hand.

Delilah didn't respond, choosing to ignore the reference to him being
her man.
Instead she watched in amusement as Deacon Pillar took two aspirins from the plastic bottle and laid them to the side. He then twisted the cap on the Jack Daniel's top until the wrapper came off and poured some of the dark liquid into a glass. She resisted an urge to smile as he threw back his head, his conk surrounding his bald spot like a halo. With what seemed like a blur, he'd quickly taken the pills and drunk the whiskey chaser.

“You still think you're the cat's first and last meow, don't you?” Delilah finally asked, with just a hint of fun in her voice. “Still can't believe you're a church deacon now. Old Thur-no-good Pillar working for the Lord while guzzling whiskey and aspirin. At least you keep it real and don't blame the devil for your little revisit to the drink. Maybe that's why that crazy concoction ain't ever killed you.”

“I never said anything about blaming the devil for the way I take care of a headache,” the deacon replied. “Besides, the Bible says you should take a little wine for the stomach's sake.”

“You're drinking whiskey,” Delilah reminded him.

“Do you have any wine?”

Delilah shook her head and conceded, “No.”

“Then you should remember the old saying that if you're a lioness who ate an entire bull, don't chastise or roar—”

“What are you talking about, Thurgood?”

“A hunter might shoot you if you roar, so just shut up when you're full of bulls—”

The truce ended, again.

 

It'd taken another thirty minutes before Deacon Pillar and Delilah calmed down enough to step outside her home without flailing at one another, and into his old truck.

They'd driven along the Long Island Expressway, hardly speaking, when suddenly the deacon broke the silence.

Out of the blue he said, “I'm still trying to figure out if God has a hand in all this sudden craziness. After all these years, and you're sitting beside me in an old truck like we just came back from a show in Manhattan or something.”

“Well, if you can't figure it out, you know I can't.” Delilah wanted to get her car, not chat.