Guilty of Love (9 page)

“
Do you mind if we anoint
your head with Holy Oil before we pray?” Eric was already
unscrewing the top off a small sample-size bottle. Turning it
upside down on his finger, Eric dabbed the liquid on everyone’s
forehead, including Parke’s.

Parke bowed his head with the others
as Eric prayed, “Father, in the name of Jesus, we thank You for the
opportunity to be in Your Presence. We thank You for the
opportunity to warn others about the devices of the devil, and we
further pray that You will draw Parke into Your fold when the time
is right. We ask that You save and sanctify not only his mind, but
his body, in Jesus’ name, amen.”

Without another word, they left. Was
it because of Annette that they prayed for him? Shrugging, he
dismissed their visit as he closed his front door. He decided to
call and check up on his mother. “Hi, Mama.”

“
PJ, my long-lost oldest
man-child. How you doin’, son?” Charlotte Jamieson’s soft singsong
voice greeted him.

Chuckling, Parke loosened his tie and
unbuttoned his shirt. He peeked inside his stainless-steel
refrigerator, grabbed a pint-size juice carton, and bumped the door
closed with his hip. For a few minutes, they chatted about what was
going on with the family.

“
When are you comin’ for
dinner? We haven’t had an old-fashioned family night in a while. I
miss my boys, since Cameron stayed in Boston for summer classes and
to work that internship. Your crazy schedule makes you a stranger,
and Malcolm is spending more time with Hallison. She’s such a cute
little thing. We’ll play your favorite game.”

His mother professed to see goodness
in everybody except some of his choices in dates. The woman was
shapely and tall. “Ma, there’s nothing little on her.”

“
Stop it, PJ. She’s good
for Malcolm. So, when are you visiting?”

“
Cook my favorites and
you’ll see me soon.”

Speaking of food, Parke scanned his
refrigerator for leftovers. He reflected on his family’s Friday
night tradition of bonding through games. “Yeah, I’m craving some
Black Heritage Trivia and The Underground Railroad board
games.”

His mother’s sigh came through loud
and clear. “Anything, but Life As A Blackman.”

“
Hey, you just said we
could play my favorite.”

“
Hmmm, I was hoping you
didn’t hear that,” she teased. “That game lasts longer than
Monopoly, especially when you all start arguing.”

“
Humph! It’s called
debating, Mama.”

“
Rhetoric to you, arguing
to me. Just the same, you Jamieson men are loud.”

Grinning, Parke leaned against the
counter. “Can I help it if I’m usually the only one smart enough to
survive Glamourwood Districts, The Ghetto, Corporate America, and
Prison before advancing to Freedom and winning?”

“
Cameron has strong
opinions about social and racial injustices, roadblocks, and
driving-while-Black patrol,” Charlotte reminded him. “You forget
churches are positioned at every corner to help guide each player
toward the ultimate goal.”

“
You’re stirring the pot
now. Set the date.” They laughed. She agreed to let him know before
Parke disconnected.

Those ethnic games influenced Parke to
major in African-American studies at Lincoln University in
Jefferson City, Missouri. Former slave James Milton Turner founded
the state’s first historically Black college. On campus, Parke
thrived in the Black history classes, participated in African
cultural events, and was committed to Black history preservation,
but his choice of a major had infuriated his parents.

“
It’s good to know who
you are and where you came from, but White folks only want to hear
so much about
Roots,
the slave ship, and breeding slave
women like cattle, son. Take some business courses and focus on
economic empowerment,” his father had strongly advised with an
underlying threat.

Of course his parents had been right.
So six years earlier, Parke had graduated cum laude with a B.S. in
business and a minor in history. He wanted to teach in a college
setting, if nothing but a weekly night class, but local
universities didn’t see the need for an African-American history
curriculum. So he became a traveling one room school house to bring
the past to life. Otherwise, hundreds of thousands of slave
narratives’ testimonies wouldn’t be heard. Parke couldn’t allow
that to happen.

He took a position in the business
world to feed his stomach while his passion for history fed his
starving soul. He believed his ancestors spoke to him through his
dreams, and guided him through his financial
transactions.

The spirits also spoke of his future
mate—a strong woman disguised by her outer appearance. Malcolm and
others thought his choice of dates crazy, but he was searching.
Parke knew his bride was living “uncover” but her grand entrance
was nigh.

***

A detour past Cheney’s house became a
part of Parke’s new route. Her nonchalant attitude bugged him.
Somehow Cheney was one of only a few women who didn’t respond to
the Jamieson charm. Parke cringed just conjuring up her
“heaven-kissing” height. Normally it was a turnoff, but her saucy
attitude was entertaining.

Yet, Parke could sniff out a cover-up.
Cheney had something buried, either physical or mental, and he
sensed she dared anyone to find the key. Why the facade? Parke
tapped his brakes at the same time realization hit.
Wait a
minute
,
Cheney Reynolds? Nah.
What Parke saw was what he
wasn’t getting. He didn’t want.
It must’ve been the spicy hot
links I gobbled down at lunch because my imagination is running
wild,
he consoled himself.

A week later

Cheney’s arms refused to move. Her
knees couldn’t. Finally, her body obeyed her command and stood. It
demanded a break from applying grout to her kitchen floor.
Massaging her back while rolling her head, she admitted she’d taken
on too big of a task.

But it was her
home
. Stepping
into her living room, she admired the newly installed oak shutters
in one of twin bay windows.

“
They’re beautiful,” Cheney
complimented Mr. Harrison, the owner of Harrison’s Custom
Windows.

The man who looked like he had skipped
too many breakfasts, lunches, and dinners stood back and viewed his
handiwork. “Yeah, I think so, too, Miss Reynolds. They’ll give your
room a relaxed feel with sunrises and sunsets.”

“
I like the sound of that.”
Cheney arched her back then touched her toes. She tilted from side
to side like windshield wipers; she could feel the blood
circulating again. When Mr. Harrison stared at her with amused
curiosity, Cheney stopped. “Sorry about that. I’m a little stiff.
Now, let me get a better look.” She walked closer and let her
finger dance across the smooth wood grain. “They’re adding
character already. I can’t wait to get furniture. So far, I haven’t
seen anything that has caught my eye.”

He moved to the other bare bay window
and began prepping it. “You might want to stop by Ferguson Sofa
Store on South Florissant. My wife finds something unique there
every time she remodels, which seems like practically every
year.”

“
I’ll do that. I’m having a
housewarming Saturday, and I need furniture fast.”

“
Housewarming?” Nodding, he
asked, “You’re new to the neighborhood?”

“
Yes, I am. I’ve lived here
almost three months.”

“
Well, I’ll take ten
percent off my job as a welcome to the neighborhood
gift.”

Just as Cheney was about to thank him,
a large spotlight crossed her yard. Its aim was a brown Envoy
parked not far from her house.

“
Did you see that?” Mr.
Harrison’s panicked expression looked as if he was about to take
cover.

By accident or intentional, the bright
light found its mark, then the driver sped off. For the next few
minutes, the spotlight did formations against houses like a circus
act. Then the block returned to a semi-dark state.

“
What was that all
about?”

“
Who knows?” Cheney
shrugged. “I’m sure Mrs. Beacon is up to something.”

“
Grandma BB?”

“
You know her?”

Mr. Harrison grinned. “Her reputation
is legendary.”

***

It was almost midnight on Wednesday
when Cheney came home from work, tuckered out. She grabbed her mail
out the box and went inside. She briefly thought about a light
snack before bed, but she was too tired to fantasize about
food.

She had tackled one building problem
after another at work. Menopausal women complained their offices
were too hot, iron-deficient workers griped about freezing to
death. They threatened to plug in space heaters in every available
outlet.

Plus, Cheney had scheduled the annual
fire detection system testing, a job that couldn’t start until
after the last shift. The three-day process checked alarm horns,
emergency lights, and the smoke detectors.

She was not only responsible for the
employees’ safety, but for protecting expensive telephone
equipment. A small fire could reap more damage than a severe storm
and disrupt phone service to thousands of customers in North St.
Louis County.

Enough about work,
she thought
as she stared wearily at her bare living and dining rooms and noted
that time was running out. Although her brain was falling asleep,
Cheney took a minute to sort through her mail. As she separated
bills from junk, she found two pocket-size comic books in the mix.
After opening one, Cheney blinked at the number of times God was
mentioned, then she realized it was a gospel tract. She immediately
pitched them in the trash, along with the other solicitations and
went to bed.

On Thursday morning, Cheney hurried
home from work. She whipped off her business suit so fast she
almost tripped over her slip as it shimmied down her legs. She
landed on her hands like she was a participant in a game of
twister.

She laughed at her own clumsiness, and
finally dressed in comfortable clothes and tennis shoes. Cramming
her wallet into her back pocket, Cheney grabbed her house keys,
then decided to walk the one mile to downtown Old Ferguson.
Shielding her eyes from the evening sun with dark glasses, she
donned a white baseball cap and was on her way.

When she reached Chambers Road’s steep
hill, her walk increased to a jog. She admired the dignified
vintage three-story houses. Large address tags identified them as
historic. Their unusual colors, sloped roofs, and huge wrap-around
porches seemed out of place with the smaller bungalows in the
neighborhood. As she passed Walgreens, a horn sounded. Cheney
glanced over her right shoulder at the offending driver.

“
Parke? How ghetto,” she
said, twisting her mouth in disgust.

“
Hey,” he yelled from a
shiny brown SUV, stopping in busy traffic. “Need a
lift?”

Shaking her head, Cheney increased her
speed.
Ghetto.

He blew his horn again. “You
sure?”

Nodding for the second time, she
jogged past The Corner Coffee House, a quaint outdoor café. Funny,
his vehicle seemed similar to the one Mrs. Beacon ran off the block
the other night.

She redirected her attention to the
old town charm that she never noticed in the months she had lived
in the area. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as the
four-lane traffic converged into two lanes under a railroad
trestle, forcing Parke to merge right. She laughed until she
blinked away a tear. Boy, her neighborhood was full of
characters.

“
What an idiot,” she said,
shaking her head.

A tall street clock encased with
wildflowers greeted her, announcing Ferguson’s downtown shopping
and business district.

“
Hmm, one day my garden
will be just as beautiful,” she proclaimed as another horn honked.
What is it with people honking their horns today?
Turning
around, Cheney rolled her eyes, annoyed—Parke again.

“
Are you sure I can’t give
you a ride? I’m going your way.” Parke grinned like a flirty
teenager. His brilliant white smile matched his white polo
shirt.

“
Yep.” She pointed to the
furniture store. “I’m here.” Clenching her teeth, Cheney opened the
front door and removed her sunglasses. “Good riddance, Mr.
Jamieson.”

An older man sauntered toward her.
With her wallet containing all her credit and debit cards, Cheney
was ready to shop until her money dropped out of her
accounts.

“
May I help you look for
anything in particular?”

Cheney scanned the crowded showroom.
“Yes, living room furniture. I want something unique, but
contemporary that will look just as fashionable years later—and
dining room furniture, depending on the price.”

“
Of course, follow me,” the
salesman instructed.

Despite the cluttered appearance, the
selection was endless. It wasn’t long before Cheney purchased a
sofa, two high-back chairs, and a coffee table. She limited herself
to three African-American pictures out of many. It would be months
before she could afford another such spree. Only after she paid for
everything, Cheney realized the pictures portrayed scenes with a
small church faded in the background. What a coincidence since
she’d handpicked the pictures because of their brilliant
colors.