Short Stories

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Jackie slid her sandals off as her car door shut behind her. She let her toes wriggle into the lush green lawn that was finally hers. Buying the house outside Atlanta while still living in New York City had been a feat but she was determined. Jackie knew Shandia deserved better than the life they’d left. A life with concrete everywhere, no yard to play in, gangs turning neighborhoods into war zones. Not to mention the memories.

Jackie took the wrap from her hair and let her long braids fall onto her sun-warmed, caramel-colored shoulders. She came expecting the ninety-degree weather of Georgia in July but the humidity was another animal entirely. She leaned in through the car window to dig in her purse for the house key. Tucking it between clinched teeth she headed for her front door with the first of many boxes.

* * * * *

Adele gave the door a healthy rap for the third time and still no answer. The loud music inside masked the knock so she decided to chance it and turned the knob. The scene was much as she had expected with the tiny woman with braids like a horse’s mane bopping to the music while unpacking. She tried clearing her throat a couple of times before she resorted to a sharp whistle combined with two quick taps on the hardwood floor. The little lady wheeled around candlestick in hand ready to strike.

“Now, simmer down baby. I ain’t here to hurt ya.” Adele’s sweet southern drawl dripped syrup with every word. She bustled right past the woman into the kitchen all the while jabbering like she’d been invited in for tea. “My name is Adele May Honeycutt. You can call me Mammy, everyone does. I live across the street and down one at 413. It’s the blue house with white shutters.” She set the cake she had been cradling onto the lone vacant spot on the counter. “Now I know you’s done been here nearly four days and I shoulda come that first day but I’s been under tha weather. This here’s a pineapple bundt cake. I always make it for tha new people.” Adele reached out her large, age-worn hand, “Now what’s yo name, baby?”

“Jackie Simms, ma’am.” Jackie grasped the proffered hand only to be pulled into the more than ample bosom of Mammy Honeycutt.

“Oh, its so good to have some young faces about.” Adele released Jackie to hold her at arms length, “Now you sure is a skinny one, ain’t ya? I’m gonna have to have you over for some meat loaf and mashed potatoes and collard greens. Why I’ll even make a pie!”

“That would be lovely. Thank you. Could you make it for three instead of two? I have a nine-year-old daughter who is staying with family until I get settled. She’ll be here next week.”

* * * * *

“Oooh ain’t you purty!” Adele squeezed the girl into a hug. “Now what is yo name chile?”

“Shandia Marie Simms, ma’am.”

“These hands have powdered too many bottoms and scrubbed too many floors to call me ‘ma’am.’ I’m Adele but you can call me Mammy, everyone does.”

The three Southern ladies, one born and raised and the other two adopted, sat to a table full of enough food to feed half the town. Mammy laid her upturned hands on the tabletop and bowed her head to say grace. A quick look of uncertainty passed between mother and daughter. Jackie nodded to Shandia placing her own hand in the leathered, work-worn palm. By the end of the meal they were beyond friends to family.

* * * * *

It was the third Friday that Shandia had spent the afternoon at Mammy’s while Jackie got in some overtime at store. Shandia sat at the kitchen table tapping her pencil on her forehead mulling over a math problem while Mammy worked the butter into the flour for biscuits.

“Mammy, why do you pray when there’s no God?”

“Baby, what you mean theys no God?” Mammy had been expecting something like this. She had prayed that when the time came that the Holy Spirit give her answers for all the young seeker could ask. She dusted her hands with the embroidered kitchen towel and took the seat across from Shandia.

“Well, my Nana prayed for a long time that Daddy wouldn’t hurt us anymore but he always did. If there is a God wouldn’t He have made Daddy stop?”

“Where’s yo Daddy now?”

“He’s in jail. He got drunk and killed a guy that tried to stop him from hitting Momma. Momma says he’ll never get out.”

Mammy patted her round lap signaling the girl to leave her seat for a more comfortable one. “I cain’t say as I know what God’s thinking when He hears us pray but I do know a coupla things ‘bout His protection.” Mammy leaned past Shandia to reach her Bible from the sideboard. She opened to 1st Peter 5:18, her southern drawl wielding the English of 1611 with sweetness and power, “Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.” She shifted Shandia to her own seat to have her full attention, “Now, the Devil is God’s enemy an’ since we’re God’s creation he tries everythin he can to hurt us an’ make us run from God. God wants to protect us from the Devil but lotsa times we don’t let Him.”

“But He’s God can’t He just do it?”

“Why, yes, He could but He wants us to want His protection and love. See, God gave us somethin’ called free will, that means we can choose Him or not. Choosin’ Him is called salvation.” Shandia’s semi-glassed eyes and pensive forehead wrinkles spoke of her half understanding. “Listen, yo mama’s gonna be here in a few minutes. I’ll ask her if you can come to church with me on Sunday. We’s got a great Sunday school. I know you’ll like it.” Mammy did just as she said approaching Jackie when she picked up Shandia. Jackie accepted, thinking it a great coincidence since she would have to fill in that day for a no-show employee. Mammy nodded thanking God for His planned coincidences.

* * * * *

“Because God betrayed me!” Jackie ground out the words through clenched teeth.

“She’s been goin a month now. Just cuz you got a beef with the Lord don’t mean you need to rob that baby of her hope and her new friends. Instead of being angry you ought to come see what you’s missing.”

“Mammy, I learned a long time ago not to trust a God that’s only there when He chooses. You can’t understand the hell I’ve been through because God wasn’t listening.”

Her composure gone, Mammy braced herself before correcting Jackie’s assumption. “Don’t you go tellin me what I understand. I am seventy-nine years old. I have been through war upon war, a depression, I seen more hatred an’ killin’ before I was grown than you seen yo whole life. I was spit on, kicked, called names, an’ had rocks throwed at me just for bein black an’ walkin down the street. It don’t matter that it wuzzn’t my husband that done it. Hate is hate. Violence is violence. God don’t do that to us. We do it to ourselves. Don’t you go blamin God for not protecting you when He sent that man who lost his life just to save yours. You got a home and a baby that loves you. You should be thankin Him.”

* * * * *

It took some doing but Jackie got the next Sunday off. She slipped into the back row of Christian Soldier Assembly just as the music began. The last church she attended was staid, somber. This was different. The band was complete with guitars, horns, piano, even drums. People raised their hands, clapped, shouted, danced. There was life here. That feeling stayed with her even through the sermon. It hit her right in the gut.

“God isn’t some cosmic butler waiting to see to your every desire. He wants relationship, companionship. Those are two-way streets. You have to give back to God to see all He has in store for you.” The preacher spoke for several more minutes before ending with, “If you feel that draw to find relationship with God then take that first step out of your seat. The rest will follow.”

Before Jackie knew what was happening her knees landed on the altar carpet, hands cupped over her eyes. Her voice crying out to her Heavenly Father. She prayed as best she knew how. Just when she thought she was done she felt one small, smooth hand and one older, calloused hand on each shoulder. A new flow of tears came but she didn’t try to stop them. They were good tears, coming home tears.

(c) Beatrice Scalf 2005

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