Prologue: Next six pages

 

     I walked up the stone pieced walkway to the front steps and rung the doorbell. Almost immediately, the massive mahogany double doors opened and the twenty-something dainty blonde trapped inside the portly body of Mrs. Angela Stephenson greeted me with the same overly excited welcome the young co-ed had come to master ever since the husband of her host had made the Milton Herald’s top ten list of the most influential pastors in the southeastern United States.

     “Naomeeeeeee!!!”  Mrs. Stephenson squealed and my roommate’s mother grabbed me and threw her fleshy arms around my neck as though I was Milton S. Hershey coming to  tell her she had won a lifetime supply of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Mrs. Stephenson had probably forgotten about the time she told her daughter to reconsider becoming my roommate because heterosexual women do not drive 1969 Shelby Mustang GTs. I had the urge to remind her of this statement. However, I had learned early on that visits with the First Ladies ran more smoothly when I was just as fake with them as they were with me.

     “It’s so good to see you too!” I squealed back. “Wow! You look great! Have you been working out?” I gave Mrs. Stephenson a wink and Layla’s mother quickly pulled at her shirt to shield my lustful eyes from admiring the fabric of her blouse getting stuck in between her stomach rolls.

     “No, but I’ve been on a diet!  I’ve lost five pounds in two weeks! I started listening  to Dr. Patrick Sheals of Hopewell Baptist Church out of Denver about a month ago, and Pastor Sheals says that fat people cut of their blessings because of gluttony, which by the way is one of the Seven Deadly Sins. He’s not Catholic or anything and that’s good because I don’t follow Catholicism. It ain’t nuthin’ but a cult. But you can’t tell them that because they get offended. The neighbors next door to me are Catholic and Mexican and when I tried to explain to the wife that the reason why their country was so poor was because they worship Mary and Paul and Joseph and whoever else they can come up with that’s just as good as Jesus Christ, they went and got the other Mexicans across the street to come to my house and-“

     “Is Mrs. Kinnebrew here?” I interjected and walking into the living room to save myself from having to stand there and listen to Layla’s mother making it painfully obvious that she was a bigot. 

      “Yes, Patricia is here and so is Wanda Gordon and Natalie Douglas,” she said closing the front doors and following me into the living room. Mrs. Stephenson then awkwardly walked over to me and hesitantly placed her right hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that you and Malcolm Douglas didn’t work out. But just know that whatever is broken, the Lord can mend back together. All you have to do is pray and ask God to remove anything inside of you that is unnatural and preventing you from loving the man God has for you. The devil is busy, but you don’t have to let him win.”

     “Thank you for that,” I said patting Mrs. Stephenson’s hand, which she quickly removed from my shoulder with a tight smile.

     “Well, we are still happy that you are here to see us.”

     “Actually, I’m here to see Patricia. I wasn’t expecting Mrs. Kinnebrew to have company.”

     “Oh, we are here to offer support. All of us understand what Patricia is going through. She isn’t the only one receiving messages from these people.”

     “What people?”

     “You can only imagine how upset we were when we found out that one of them is here in Milton to kill Patricia. For all I know, these crazy folks are out there trying to find someone to kill me too!”

     “What people? What crazy folks?” I repeated.                         

     “I don’t know who they are!” Mrs. Stephenson exclaimed. They call themselves, ‘The Excommunicated,’ a bunch of devil worshippers or crazy liberals wanting to take over the city of Milton. This is war, Naomi and the rest of the country needs to know that the most important evangelical leaders in the nation are being forced to pay all this money out to some greedy lunatic. So many people got a problem with how much money is coming in the church and how we spend it. But I have news for all them: It’s none of their business! We already got the IRS knocking down our door because of that senator from Virginia, who don’t like church folk in the first place because he had some of that barbeque that Bishop Long likes so much at the Crossroads’s church picnic in Knoxville last summer and got the worst gas this side of the Mississippi because he ain’t never had barbeque as good as Harris barbeque and couldn’t stop eating it and now wants all of us to tell him how much money we make and what we do with it-“

      “Mrs. Stephenson,” I said taking off my black wool naval coat and handing it to Layla’s mother when she reached for it. “Layla said that there was a man waiting outside her job today who’s involved with what’s going on. She said he was, ‘one of those who expose the lie.’ Do you know what she meant by that?” Mrs. Stephenson’s face fell and she slung my coat on the sofa. She then eyed me contemptuously and placed her hands on her hips as though I had asked her to give me a play by play of her wedding night.

     “Layla thinks it’s funny when she makes such comments, but I don’t find my daughter the least bit funny. And you can tell her I said that.”      

     “Do you know the man? He said there was a letter here for me-“

     “Do I know him? Absolutely not! I don’t know any of the men my daughter associates with. Layla is a drunk. I’m sure this isn’t the first time a man was sitting outside her job waiting for her,” Mrs. Stephenson said sharply before turning around and heading for the stairs. “Follow me, Patricia is waiting for you.”

     “Uhhhh, tell Mrs. Kinnebrew I’ll be up in a moment. I need to call my editor,” I said watching Mrs. Stephenson stalk out of the living room. I was digging my cell phone out of my bag and wondering if Layla’s mother had intentionally avoided answering my question or if she had suddenly became hard of hearing when the woman slammed her hand against the armoire to get my attention.

     “The women are upstairs waiting on you and it is downright rude to make them wait longer because you need to call that editor of yours. Don’t think for a moment that Patricia does not know that Ayana sits in her office all day smoking marijuana and fooling herself into thinking that The Bulletin is a respectable newspaper. That’s why none of the black folks in Milton like Ayana. She’s not doing anything but squandering her father’s investment away on weekend trips to Atlanta where she hooks up with some ragamuffin who can’t do anything for her but get her pregnant. Those men only want her because she got white in her. All that hair. I guess she thinks she can’t get pregnant, but I’ve heard that-…”

       “Yes, Mrs. Stephenson, I’ve heard all that too. I’ve also heard that Ayana has tattoos and piercings and that she’s even been with a woman or two, and if these ignorant bigoted statements about things that are really none of your business is any indication of how the rest of the evening is going to go, I’m going to get my coat, get back in my muscle car and get the hell out of here,” I said trying to restrain myself from throwing my cell phone at Layla’s mother.

     “My God! How dare you talk to me like that! Just wait until I tell Patricia how you spoke to me!”

     “Mrs. Stephenson, please, spare me the scare tactic. I’ll be upwhen I finish.”

     “Spare you the scare tactic?! Fine! You stay down here then!” Layla’s mother snapped back as she quickly headed out of the living room. I fell back on the couch and tossed the phone on the coffee table.  I did not feel like calling Ayana anymore to tell her I was right: Somehow I would evoke one of my stepmother’s infamous fits of rage in less than twenty minutes of my arrival. I knew it was a bad idea to accept Patricia’s invitation to come and see her, but it was an even worse idea to argue with Mrs. Stephenson. Mrs. Patricia Kinnebrew, first lady of New Kingdom, second wife of Pastor Charles Kinnebrew, stepmother to Naomi and Joel Kinnebrew, mother to Raven and Kayla Kinnebrew, did not tolerate ill treatment of her friends. My stepmother had no qualms about reminding me who was important in her household and who was not.       

      I listened for my Patricia’s all encompassing, spittle riddled holler to come down the stairs, stalk into the living room and grab me by the ear demanding I apologize to Mrs. Stephenson. But the holler never arrived. Is she really here? I thought to myself. I made my way to the bottom of the stairs to listen for her voice when I remembered the letter in the kitchen drawer. I quickly tip-toed to the kitchen door, then quietly went over to the set of drawers next to the refrigerator and pulled the top drawer open. Lying on top of various department store sales papers, birthday candles, ball point pens, and UPC codes cut out from the back of cereal boxes, was a black envelope. It was the size of a greeting card and made out of a smooth thick parchment that absorbed the oil from my fingers when I opened it. There was a black sheet of paper inside. I started to unfold the letter to read it, when I heard someone walking towards the kitchen.  I folded the letter back up, shoved it in the envelope and managed to hide it in the front of my loose-fitting ribbed sweater by the time Angela Stephenson opened the door to the kitchen and called my name.

     “Naomi,” she said breathlessly. “Patricia wanted me to apologize to you for what happened earlier in the living room. I’m under a lot of stress right now and haven’t had any carbs in about two days-“

     “Apology accepted” I said cutting Mrs. Stephenson off. Patricia wanted her to apologize to me. “Is there anything wrong with Patricia?” Mrs. Stephenson hesitated for a moment, then looked down at the ground.  

     “I think its best if you see for yourself,” she replied lowly.