When Solomon Sings (16 page)

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Authors: Kendra Norman-Bellamy

BOOK: When Solomon Sings
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Neil didn't know whether Shaylynn had chosen to close the door because she figured whatever business he and Margaret were about to discuss should be kept private, or because she'd picked up on Neil's enormous displeasure and knew that he would probably lay into his assistant as soon as he knew she was out of listening range. Either way, she was right.
“Ms. Dasher—”
“Dr. Taylor, I know what you're thinking, but before you speak, let me just say—”
“No.” Neil's finger was as stiff as his tone when he pointed to the only chair in his office that was exiled in a corner near the door. “You sit, and I'll do the talking.” The iron folding chair was in an area by itself for a reason. Because of its red color, it was commonly called the hot seat, and that wasn't a compliment. The chair didn't get used very often, but when it did, it always meant someone was in trouble. The only time it was ever occupied was on the rare occasion when a student's disruptive behavior got to be too much for the teacher, and the child had to be sent to Neil for reinforcement. Children were known to cry at the very mention of having to sit in that chair. Sitting in the hot seat generally meant that a sentence of detention was about to be handed down.
When parents or administrators were called to Neil's office for whatever reason, they had the privilege of sitting in one or both of the comfortable, black leather chairs that were positioned directly in front of his desk. Today was a historic day. Margaret had just set a record that no other administrator would dare want to break.
With some hesitation, she obeyed Neil's order and eased in the chair. She squirmed a bit, like she was trying to find a comfortable position for her full behind on the modest-sized, hard surface. “Can I just say something?” She raised her finger like a child in a classroom setting.
“No.” Neil was unyielding. “I've listened to what you've had to say about Shay and the things you've had to say about us as a couple. I know you don't agree with it, but guess what, Ms. Dasher? You don't have to.” Neil was standing just a few feet from her as he spoke. He was giving her the same menacing stare that he had given all the unruly children who had sat there before her. “This is my life, and she's the woman I love. Now you can take it or leave it. I can't make you like Shay, but you
will
respect her. That's something that I demand.”
Margaret's eyes shot up at him as if to say, “You
demand?”
And as if he'd heard her eyes, Neil said, “That's right.”
A level of deep concern etched its way on to Margaret's face. “What are you saying? Are you telling me that my job is in jeopardy?”
Neil's brows furrowed. “Of course not. I wouldn't fire you because you don't like Shay. That would be unethical. Your job isn't in any danger, but that's a heck of a lot more than I can say for our friendship.”
“What?” Margaret stood.
“Sit!”
Margaret sat.
“We've known each other for a long time.” Neil tried to soften his tone, but his insides were still raging. “And I value our friendship and our work relationship. I admit that I'm guilty of entertaining your opinions and even allowing you to make judgment calls on a lot of things that, quite frankly, aren't your business. But here and now, I'm drawing the line at Shaylynn Ford. Do you understand me? That means you don't get to talk to or about her in any cynical or snide manner. What you just said to her was out of order, and it was your last time doing it. If you want to continue any kind of cordial relationship with me outside of an employer/ employee one, then that's the way it's gonna have to be from this point forward. Period.”
“I have on my hearing aid today. You don't have to yell.”
It was an exaggeration. Neil knew he wasn't yelling, but he also knew that the edge in his voice was sharper than normal. “She's in my life to stay, Ms. Dasher. I'm not saying your opinion doesn't matter to me; I'm just saying it doesn't matter when it comes to Shay. And I don't ever plan to have this conversation with you again.”
The dismissal bell rang, and it seemed to serve as the end of their fight; or at least the end of round one.
A few moments of silence passed before Margaret cleared her throat and asked, “Can I please get out of this chair? It's not made for butts like mine.”
Neil rolled his eyes, and then turned to walk back to his desk. Stand up ... sit down ... he didn't care what she did, but he'd meant every word he'd said, so a lot was riding on the words that would come out of her mouth. Neil stood behind his desk and slipped the paper with all of CJ's scribbles back in the red folder he'd taken it out of, and then placed the folder in his briefcase. As he began clicking on the icons to shut down his computer, he could hear Margaret's heels clicking against the floor as she approached his desk with caution.
“I'm sorry if I have offended you, Dr. Taylor. That wasn't my intent.” She sounded genuine. “I just need you to understand that my reaction to Ms. Ford isn't without basis. She seems nice enough, as a person she's probably a delight. I just believe she's not the person for you, and as your friend, I think it would be wrong for me to feel that way and not tell you.”
Neil stood as straight and as tall as he could. “What the ...” He bit his tongue and started again. “How do you know what's right for me? Who do you think you are to draw that kind of conclusion?”
Margaret released a soft sigh. “I didn't pull that out of thin air, Dr. Taylor. I'm drawing that conclusion as a direct result of what she's doing to you. I told you before that it pains me to see what dating her has done to you. You're so unhappy.”
Anger was rising in Neil once more. “That's not true! I've never been more in love with any woman than I am with Shay. And whether you believe it or not, she makes me
very
happy.”
“Yeah ...
today
.” Margaret flung her arms in the air, and then allowed them to drop back by her sides. “You're happy today, and you've been happy for the past couple of weeks; I'll give you that. But what about tomorrow? What about next week? You're talking more and more like you might eventually settle down with her. Marriage is supposed to be forever, Dr. Taylor. So, what about the rest of your life? Huh? Does she make you the kind of happy that will last for the rest of your life?”
“Yes!” Neil slammed his fist against his desk, an action he immediately regretted when the aftermath of severe pain radiated through his wrist and up to his elbow. “Ugh!” He shook his arm in an attempt to fling away the pain. “Sit down, Ms. Dasher. Just sit down and listen to me for a minute, okay?” It was a directive that was far less harsh than the one that had banished her to the hot seat. Neil thought hard for a way to try to explain himself to his motherly assistant once and for all.
Margaret sat in one of the chairs situated in front of Neil's desk. She looked at the watch on her wrist, but didn't seem to be in any real hurry to leave. “I didn't mean to make you hurt your hand,” she mumbled.
“See, that's it,” Neil said. “That's a good way to clarify it to you right there.” Margaret looked confused, but he kept talking. “Don't you see? You didn't
make
me hurt my hand. I hurt my hand because of the way I reacted to what you said. You said something that annoyed me, and my knee-jerk reaction was to hit the desk, and because I made that choice, I hurt my hand. It isn't your fault, and nobody should blame you for that.”
“Okay ...” She still looked puzzled.
“That's the way it is with Shay,” Neil explained. “You're blaming her for how I'm reacting to stuff, and that's not fair.” He massaged his arm, from his wrist to his elbow, as he sat in his chair. “You were right the other week when you implied that I've been on an emotional rollercoaster ever since I've been dating her, but that's not her fault. On the days when my rollercoaster is on the downward slope, it's because of the way I'm reacting to a situation that she probably has no clue about. How I act is my way of dealing with the issue, and you can't rightfully blame her for that. I've never loved a woman more than I love Shaylynn Ford, and I don't think a woman has ever loved me as much as she does. There are just some ...
things ...
that I'm struggling to work though.”
“Things that involve her?”
“Yes. They involve her, but they're not her fault.”
Margaret scooted forward in her chair. “Then why don't you talk to her?”
Talk to her
. There it was again. If Neil didn't know any better, he'd think that at some point, on one of Homer Burgess's good days, the old deacon had gotten together with CJ, Theresa, and Margaret, and they'd all agreed to throw that line at him at the first available opportunity.
“Talk to her about what?” Neil heard himself ask. “This isn't her problem; it's mine.”
“If whatever it is involves her in any way whatsoever, then it's both your problem,” Margaret said. “You see that, don't you?”
Neil looked at his watch. “Why don't you go on home,” he told her. “I've already kept you past your time.”
“Is this your way of avoiding any further conversation about this?”
Neil nodded truthfully. “Pretty much.”
Margaret stood. “Fine.” She turned to walk away, and then turned back to Neil. “Are we still friends?”
“That's up to you.”
“Then the answer is yes. I'll apologize to Ms. Ford first chance I get.”
Neil was impressed by her willingness. “I'd appreciate that, and I'm sure Shay would as well.”
“Yeah. Now that you've explained everything, I'll stop taking it out on her and start taking it out on you. How's that?”
Neil couldn't help but laugh. She wouldn't be Margaret if she decided to stay out of it all together. “Deal.”
“Oh.” Margaret looked down at the notepad she was still holding in her hand. “You had two calls that I came in here to tell you about. One was from Sister Teena. She said she needs you to call her, but she said that it wasn't an emergency, so there's no need for alarm.”
“Okay.” Neil had planned to call Teena today anyway. He hadn't spoken to her or Deacon Burgess since he'd seen them both in church last Sunday. “What's the other message?”
“No message, but you had a call from a man named Sean Thomas.”
Neil tilted his head to the side. “Sean Thomas?”
“Don't waste your brain cells, he said you didn't know him. He didn't leave a phone number or anything; said he just wanted to be sure that he had called the right place of employment for you. He said he'd connect with you at a later time.”
“He didn't say what he wanted?”
“No. Just that he'd catch up with you later.”
Neil stood up from his chair and reached for his hat that sat on the credenza. “Well, I guess it couldn't have been too important.”
“You're headed out too?”
“Yeah. Nothing else here that can't wait 'til tomorrow. I'll call Ms. Teena en route. That way, if she needs me to stop by or anything, I can just swing by Deac's place before going home.”
Margaret began walking away. “Okay. Well, I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Bright and early,” Neil replied.
She opened his office door, but stopped short of walking out. Turning to face him again, Margaret said, “Remember what I said. Talk to Ms. Ford. You can't expect to get the closure or the results you want if you're not willing to talk about it.”
Neil didn't reply as she made her exit. As he slipped into his coat, he thought about the red folder that he'd shoved in his briefcase. He had to disagree with Margaret on that one. What he wanted was to end Shaylynn's love affair with Emmett Ford, and as the old saying went, there was more than one way to skin a cat.
FIFTEEN
“Sweetie? Sweetie ...”
In the middle of what had been a peaceful sleep, CJ smiled at the soft sound of his wife's voice, and he moaned pleasurably at the feel of her hand stroking his back. There was only one reason that Theresa ever woke him up in the middle of the night. Those “wakeup calls” of hers had been coming fewer and farther between over the last four weeks. As their baby grew and her stomach continued to swell as she got further into the final month of her pregnancy, lovemaking had become uncomfortable for her. CJ understood, and didn't press her, even when he was in the mood, but he definitely wasn't going to turn away any opportunities.
“Sweetie, wake up.”
CJ turned over in the bed to face her. “I'm woke, baby. I'm woke.” He kissed her nose, and then her lips. When she pulled away, he apologized. “I'm sorry. Let me go rinse my mouth. I'll be right back.”
“No, sweetie, it's not that.” Theresa grabbed his arm. “Don't get crazy on me, because I'm not one hundred percent sure, but I think I'm in labor.”
“What?” CJ shot up into a seated position and turned on the lamp beside the bed. He looked down at his wife and watched her squint from the sudden brightness of the room. “Why do you think you're in labor? Are you hurting? Did your water break?” He snatched the covers from both of them and began inspecting the fitted sheet for signs of moisture. “What's going on? What do you need me to do? Should I call the doctor?” Then, answering his own question, he said, “Of course you should call the doctor, you big, dumb idiot. Who else would you call, the Orkin Man?” CJ jumped out of the bed and picked up the cordless phone from the night-stand.
“Sweetie, put the phone down,” Theresa instructed.
“What?” For her to say she was in labor and then turn around and tell him not to make the necessary phone call didn't make sense to CJ. “Why am I putting the phone down?”
“Just put it down,” she urged while sitting up in the bed. After CJ hesitantly complied, she added, “The first thing I said was for you not to get crazy on me.” She patted the mattress beside her. “Come sit with me.”
CJ searched her face as he climbed back on the bed. She didn't seem to be in any pain or discomfort. Labor was supposed to hurt. Lamaze classes had warned them of the pain involved in the child birthing process. There would likely be long hours of it, they'd said. And other fathers had told CJ things that even took it a step further. Theresa was supposed to be screaming and calling him everything but a child of God. She was supposed to be making those “hee-hee-hoo-hoo” breathing sounds. She was supposed to be telling him she loved him one minute and growling at him in satanic-sounding voices the next. Theresa wasn't doing any of that. “Your due date is still two weeks away,” he said, trying to match her calm. “Why do you think you're in labor?”
“Because a pain woke me up about fifty-three minutes ago, and I've been timing them ever since. They're coming about fifteen minutes apart.”
CJ reached out and touched her stomach. “Are you hurting right now?”
“No. The last one was about eight minutes ago.”
“And you don't want me to call the doctor?”
“Not yet.” Theresa scooted out of the bed and stepped into her slippers. “It hasn't been a full hour yet. I want to be able to time them for an hour. That way, I'll be more certain that they're not Braxton Hicks contractions. I'm going to go and take a shower. If I have another one, then we'll call. My bag is already packed, so we should pretty much be set to go, if needed.” Before disappearing in the restroom, she turned to look at him. “You should probably get dressed just in case.”
“Yeah. Okay.” CJ's heart was pounding as he watched her coolly waddle into the master bathroom. He didn't understand how Theresa could be so composed. He was so unraveled that when he got out of the bed, he had to stop and think for a moment before he remembered which door led to the closet and which led to the hallway of their home.
“Okay, CJ ... get it together,” he whispered as he slipped on a pair of denim pants and a blue pullover sweater that he pulled from hangers in the closet. He'd read all the books and online Web sites that he could in order to ready himself for this moment, but now that it was here, CJ felt more than a little ill-prepared. He stood in front of the bedroom mirror and picked up the brush in preparation of grooming his hair. “No,” he said. Going back into the closet, he pulled off everything he'd put on, dropped it on the floor, and started over. When he emerged this time, he had one of his best clergy suits in his hand.
“Having another one, sweetie,” Theresa called from the bathroom shower. “Go ahead and call the doctor.”
With a face full of perplexity, CJ looked toward the bathroom door. His wife actually sounded like she was singing the words as she made the announcement. What kind of labor was she in? After putting on his shirt, socks, and pants, CJ dialed the emergency number for Theresa's OB/GYN, and gave the message of her status to the answering service. Two minutes later, just as Theresa shut off the shower, he answered a return call with doctor's orders for them to head to DeKalb Medical Center.
This is really happening. I'm about to be a father.
The thought filtered through his head as he placed the phone back on its base charger.
An outburst of laughter from behind CJ caused him to turn and face his wife, who had emerged from the bathroom draped in a towel. “What's so funny?” First singing; now laughing. Nothing in any of the pamphlets for expecting parents had warned him that delirium was a part of the early labor process, but he was beginning to think Theresa was going cuckoo.
“You, that's what,” she said as she headed to their closet. “Why are you dressed like that? We're going to the hospital, not the church. You plan to preach the baby out of me or something?”
CJ looked at his reflection in the mirror. He supposed it did look odd, but there was a method to his madness. “No, but if there's any chance that being dressed like a clergyman will get you seen faster, I want to take advantage of that.”
She came out of the closet with a purple and white jogging suit draped over her arm and tossed it on the bed before beginning the slow task of dressing herself. “Thanks, honey, but I don't think that's gonna win us any favors. When it comes to birthing, I'm pretty sure the woman who's dilated the most will get called before the woman with the husband who's most dressed like Father Flannigan.” She laughed again.
“You never know.” CJ finished brushing his hair, and then slipped on a pair of dress shoes.
“Did Dr. Daniels say what time we were to meet her?”
CJ looked at the clock for the first time. It was almost three in the morning. Babies sure had strange schedules. “No. She just gave the word for us to head to the hospital.” Theresa was having a hard time putting on her socks and shoes, so CJ knelt beside her and took over. “I didn't even talk directly to her, so she may already be there. I'm sure she's got other patients that may have checked in overnight.”
“Thanks,” Theresa said when he finished tying her tennis shoes. “While I get my coat and purse, you can get the suitcase. It's tucked in the closet in the nursery.”
“Oh, yeah. The suitcase.” CJ was trying to shake off the nervousness that he felt, but his stomach was insisting on doing backward handsprings. If the woman who would actually have to go through the process could be calm, then he certainly should be able to do the same. When he flipped on the light switch in the baby room, a new dose of reality set in. It wasn't just about him being a father; it was about him being a daddy. A new life, for which God had allowed him to plant the seed, was about to be birthed into the world, and this was the room where he ... or she would spend their earliest days, months, and years. As a daddy, CJ would be responsible to provide for and protect his child. The thought was so overwhelming that he found himself fighting back tears.
Using cautious steps, CJ walked inside the room that his son or daughter would soon be occupying. The walls, the bed, the dresser, the rocking chair, the stuffed toys, the framed poster of Dominique Wilkins ... everything was perfect. All that was missing was his baby, and the mere acknowledgement of that placed a level of fear inside of CJ that glued his feet to the floor. What if something went wrong? What if they had done all of this preparing and something tragic happened during delivery? What if the crib was left empty even after the childbirth process was over?
“The devil is a liar.” CJ closed his eyes, willed away the fear, and found his faith. “In the name of Jesus.” With those five words, he opened his eyes and rediscovered the strength to put one foot in front of the other. As he walked the floor, he began touching the railings of the crib, the mattress, the walls, the furniture, the toys; all the while, praying in tongues. He didn't know why he was suddenly bombarded with thoughts of the possibility of his child's death, but he refused to accept it. He had waited too long and prayed too hard not to fight for the life of his child. “In the name of Jesus. In the name of Jesus,” he repeated over and over.
“I just had another contraction, and it wasn't quite fifteen minutes from the last one.” Theresa had a peculiar look on her face, having caught CJ with his hand on the head of Elmo, praying out loud. “We ... we probably need to be heading out now.”
CJ saw his wife and heard every word she'd said, but he didn't readily move.
Theresa looked at his empty hands. More confusion filled her eyes when she asked, “What's the matter? You couldn't find the suitcase?”
Without answering her questions, he walked toward her, knelt on the hardwood floor, placed both his hands on her stomach, and continued his earnest prayer.

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