A Natural Woman Page 5

  “Aliesha, you know damn well that’s not what I meant. . . .” He reached for her, only to have her brush him off and move completely beyond his grasp.

  “No,” she said. “Really, Javiel, I think you ought to leave now.” In the seconds prior to his response, she caught herself glancing at the knife set on the counter behind him and wondering if the hands that had caressed her so tenderly the night before were capable of doing her irreparable harm.

  CHAPTER 9

  She swerved her honey-colored Nissan Altima into the first available space she spotted in Garden View’s modest parking lot. While grabbing her oversized leather attaché and other personal items off the seat beside her, she snuck a glance at her watch. 9:40. Only a deep and abiding respect for both the day and place kept her from uttering the curse souring the back of her tongue.

  She’d intended to arrive at the church early enough to grab a doughnut and possibly wash it down with another cup of coffee. She’d intended to spend a few minutes reviewing the Sunday school lesson. But mainly she’d hoped to arrive before a certain someone beat her there.

  The morning tiff with Javiel had scrambled her plans and dumped an additional set of burdens on her mind. On exiting her car and scurrying toward the church’s entrance, she scanned the vehicles parked in the lot, looking for the large but otherwise indistinctive black SUV. Before she could ascertain its presence or absence, she caught sight of the grin of a familiar face.

  “Well, now, look at you,” Aliesha said. “Stepping up in here on time for once. Looks like Garden View is going to make a good Presbyterian woman out of you yet.”

  Tamara Howard, who for the past several months had been showing up at Garden View for Sunday school, was also one of Aliesha’s students at Wells. On the surface, Tamara exuded a bright, confident, good-natured vibe. But underneath her ebony veneer hid a host of doubts and insecurities. She reminded Aliesha a lot of herself at that age.

  “Nah, I wouldn’t count on it,” Tamara said. “I told you, the Baptist in me runs three to four generations deep. I’d dare say it would take an exorcism to get the bulk of it out. Anyway, what’s your excuse for just now getting here? Hot date last night?”

  Aliesha nodded. “Hmm, something like that.”

  “Ooh, Dr. Eaton! But I’ve gotta say, that’s one of the things I like best about you Presbyterians. A prudish bunch, y’all ain’t. Matter of fact, hanging with y’all is the next best thing to being an outright sinner.”

  Aliesha reeled in her grin. “Yes, well, to use one of your favorite phrases, don’t go getting it twisted. Just because some of us aren’t afraid to embrace a spirit of open-mindedness doesn’t mean we espouse some sort of ‘anything goes’ philosophy or that our lives are any less Christ centered.”

  “Uh-huh, if you say so. Like I told you, I’m not trying to join anybody’s church. I’m only here to hone my participant /observer skills and because I get a weird kick out of seeing you outside of your element. Oh, and the refreshments aren’t too bad, either.”

  Aliesha took Tamara’s teasing in stride. Not too many others would have gotten off as easy. It irritated her that so many both in and outside the world of academia found her involvement with church odd, if not outright contradictory. For some, along with her expertise in the field of anthropology came the assumption she was surely an agnostic if not an out-and-out atheist. Few seemed satisfied with her expressed desire to relegate God to the realm of mystery—that which exists outside the boundaries of logic and scientific reasoning. Or, as stated in the poetic language and worn pages of her mother’s King James Bible, Hebrews 11:1: Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

  As soon as the heavy metal door of Garden View’s side entrance closed shut behind her, an indescribable sense of peace fell over Aliesha and all of her pressing concerns went on a temporary hiatus. In spite of Tamara’s comments to the contrary, the church was one place where Aliesha felt very much at home.

  Before her death, Aliesha’s mother, Connie, had seen to it that her only child had been christened in the Presbyterian faith. Connie had made a point of taking Aliesha to the church she’d long attended with her own family every Sunday. After her mother’s unexpected passing, when Aliesha was three, her father had seized the baton. Much to his credit, William Eaton had willingly overlooked his own disdain for his in-laws, as well as what he viewed as the unsavory dictates of organized religion, in order to keep alive the seed his wife had sought to implant in their much-beloved offspring.

  With Tamara still chattering at her side, Aliesha walked into her Sunday school classroom with her shoulders back and her chin tilted forward. Quite naturally, the first person her eyes fell upon was the certain someone whose arrival she’d been desperately hoping to precede.

  He smiled and said, “Ahh, my lovely successor will indeed be joining us today. I’d begun to wonder.”

  “Good morning, Kenneth,” she said, in a voice that bore no hint of the sudden flutter in her stomach.

  When he stood, all six foot four inches of him, Aliesha steadied herself, extended her hand, and said, “It’s nice to see you. It’s been a long time.”

  Kenneth took her hand and said, “It has, hasn’t it?” before bending forward and pressing his lips to her cheek.

  The kiss, the closeness, and the contact all stirred memories, not to mention a variety of hormonal responses that Aliesha had been doing her best to keep at bay every since she’d received the voice mail message from Kenneth, her former lover, informing her of his pending visit to Garden View’s 11:00 service and 9:45 Sunday school class.

  Aliesha opened her Sunday school text and her Bible prior to sitting at the head of the long conference table. Tamara, who parked herself in the chair to Aliesha’s right, cleared her throat in a way that let Aliesha know she wanted her attention. Ordinarily, Aliesha would have granted the request. But in that place and on that particular morning, she was in no mood for silliness or those kinds of girlish games.

  Nor did she feel the need to affirm what Tamara, no doubt, had already honed in on. Aliesha and Kenneth created an energy when they were together, a buzz, a hum, an irrepressible vibration that made all who felt it stop and stare, shake their heads or raise their eyebrows in acknowledgment. Indeed, even visually, they’d once made quite a striking pair. Both were tall, slender, and dark in color. While Kenneth’s skin was a brown reminiscent of roasted nuts and late autumn leaves, Aliesha’s was a deeper, darker, and richer hue, like the soft, black silt that washed up on the banks of the Mississippi.

  Rather than turn in either direction, Aliesha fixed her gaze straight ahead and focused on the mesmerizing figure dominating the space at the other end of the table. She couldn’t help but recall how they’d met. Oddly enough, had it not been for the insistence of one of Aliesha’s colleagues in the Anthropology Department, Dr. Patricia Henson, her meeting and subsequent love affair with Kenneth might have never occurred.

  Upon her arrival at Wells, Aliesha had taken an instant liking to Pat Henson, who with her sun-bleached hair, funky sandals, and beatnik ways reminded her of the down-to-earth, though somewhat sheltered and idealistic, White youths with whom she’d frequently studied and occasionally hung out while in grad school. On learning of Aliesha’s interest in finding a Presbyterian church home, Pat had talked her into visiting First United, the church she’d belonged to as a youth. Even though Aliesha knew only a Presbyterian church with a predominately African American congregation, not unlike the one she’d grown up in while residing in Chicago, would ultimately suit her needs, she’d agreed to accompany her friend on a visit.

  Meeting a man of any kind had been the furthest thing from Aliesha’s mind when she’d shown up at church with Pat that Sunday morning. But at six foot four and with his scrumptious, toasted pecan coloring and shiny bald head, Kenneth had been hard to miss in the crowd of overwhelming White and predominately gray-haired congregants who’d participated in the church’s coffee hour. The
very sight of him in First United’s small and densely packed fellowship hall had so mesmerized Aliesha, she’d stopped talking, stopped listening, and just gawked. The bright smile of acknowledgment he’d aimed her way had shaken her from her daze. She’d looked around, thinking surely his attention had been snagged by someone other than herself. Probably one of the few, young twenty-somethings, buzzing about the room. No doubt a blonde. And almost certainly White.

  After having spoken with a couple of Pat’s old friends, Aliesha had wandered over to the refreshment table with the intent of request a cup of punch. But the other offerings had looked so appetizing she’d lingered. She’d been trying to decide between a piece of cake and a slice of pie when a deep voice behind her said, “The pecan is what you want to go with. Don’t get me wrong, the pound cake is excellent, but the pie with the fresh toasted nuts, the sweet filling, and the flakey, buttery crust, oh yeah, it wins hands down.”

  She’d laughed; thanked him; and, while reaching for the slice of pie he’d offered, hoped he wouldn’t notice the array of goose bumps dotting the exposed flesh of her arm. After he’d introduced himself and treated her to his dazzling smile, which had proven even brighter up close, she’d said, “I take it you’re a member here . . . I mean, given that you appear to be an expert when it comes to the desserts and all.”

  “No, ma’am,” he’d told her. “What I am is a frequent visitor and a connoisseur of all things sweet.”

  Upon discovering that Aliesha taught at Wells, Kenneth had wasted no time in inviting her to visit his church, Garden View Presbyterian. “I teach a Sunday school class that’s full of lawyers, professors, librarians, journalists, and a host of other studious types,” he’d told her. “I think you’d fit right in.”

  “Well, if I didn’t know any better, Mr. Baxter,” she’d said, “I’d think you were calling me a nerd.”

  While scribbling Garden View’s address and phone number on one of First United’s programs, he’d said, “Please, call me Kenneth. And for the record, I was once married to a woman who, like you, was both smart and beautiful. I learned from experience that when it comes to gaining a woman’s respect, much less winning her heart, it’s best not to start off by insulting her intelligence.”

  She’d thanked him and watched him walk away. She’d been standing there wide-eyed and fanning herself with the program Kenneth had given her when her friend Pat had walked over and said, “Who was that? I mean, besides someone you’d obviously be a fool not to get to know better.”

  Once upon a time her and Kenneth’s roles had been the exact opposite. He had been the class facilitator and she’d been one of the students seated at the table’s end. The reversal hadn’t been one she’d sought or had even been happy about. But he’d insisted, and given the circumstances, she’d been left with little choice other than to agree.

  Kenneth leaned forward. His eyes searched her face, as if intent on reading her mind. Once upon a time, she’d almost believed he possessed that kind of power. She watched as he eased back in his chair and closed his eyes. Someone else might have taken offense at what was obviously a signal to her that it was time to start. But Aliesha knew he was so accustomed to being in charge, he couldn’t help himself.

  On bowing her head and shutting her eyes, she reached for Tamara’s hand as well as the hand of the person seated to her left. She drew in a breath before opening her mouth and leading the class in prayer, just like Kenneth had taught her.

  After the opening prayer, Aliesha asked the class to follow along as she read about the “beloved disciple” from the New Testament’s Gospel of John. When she stopped, she asked, “In your assigned reading of the King James Version of the Gospel of John, did any of you happen to spot an actual mention of the beloved disciple’s name?”

  “I know I didn’t,” Tamara said. “And not only did I read it line by line, I even tried reading it backward a couple of times.”

  After the laughter died, Theodore Nelson, a stern-faced tax accountant and the one person Aliesha could always count to stoke the flames of debate, said, “And that proves what?” He stroked his scraggly beard, and the lines in his permanent frown deepened. “Isn’t the Gospel in question named after John? Who in writing about oneself is in the habit of referring to oneself by name?”

  Before Aliesha responded, she issued Tamara a quick look of admonishment when her young student muttered, “Probably the same kind of person who’d repeatedly use the word oneself.”

  “Actually, Theodore raises a very good point,” Aliesha said. “But by the same token, what humble disciple of Christ would refer to himself as the ‘beloved’? Furthermore, tradition holds that the apostle John was, by trade, a Galilean fisherman, while the Gospel appears to suggest that the ‘beloved’ disciple was someone more settled, someone capable of providing a stable home and seeing to the needs of Jesus’s mother, Mary.”

  Aliesha paused before she asked, “Is it possible that the writer of the Gospel deliberately omitted the name of the beloved disciple? Wouldn’t that to some extent, enable any of us to be that beloved disciple?”

  While the class waged a lively and spirited debate over the matter, Aliesha again allowed her gaze to settle on her former beau. He sat in uncharacteristic silence and with his arms folded across his chest. But there was no missing the pride that beamed from every upturned line on his face.

  Aliesha still recalled how simultaneously shocked, amused, and impressed she’d been upon her first visit to the Sunday school class Kenneth had once facilitated. At one point, he’d riled the class into a near frenzy by quoting passages from a book by Marcus Borg that purported to contain the parallel sayings of Buddha and Jesus. When his class had finally ended and they had been the only two left in the room, Aliesha had asked him point-blank to specify what he believed about the nature of God, the purpose of faith, and his own role as illuminator of all the aforementioned.

  With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he’d told her, “Why, I believe the same thing you do, I imagine.” Then in a smooth and nearly continuous breath he’d said, “I believe in God, the Father Almighty; the Creator of heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ, His only son, Our Lord: Who was conceived of the Holy Spirit; born of the Virgin Mary; suffered under Pontius Pilate; was crucified, died and was buried; He descended into hell; The third day He arose again from the dead; He ascended into heaven and sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty; whence He shall come to judge the living and the dead; I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic church; the communion of saints; the forgiveness of sins; the resurrection of the body; and life everlasting.”

  The Apostles’ Creed was a prayer Aliesha had learned as a child and she, too, knew both the newer and traditional versions by heart. “Yes, and what else?” she’d insisted, determined not to let him off that easy.

  “Well, beyond that,” he said, “I think when people get too comfortable with what they think they already know, whether it be in a classroom, in the pews, or in life itself, they fall asleep. That’s why when you come to my class, my first goal is to keep you awake, even if I have to agitate you in the process. After I know that your eyes are wide open, my next goal is to goad you into stepping a bit beyond your normal thought processes. I guess what I believe, in a nutshell, is that once people are in the habit of thinking outside the box, they soon realize they aren’t relegated to spending a life inside of one, either.”

  Aliesha remembered mulling his response for a moment before telling him, “Sounds a lot like some sort of liberation theology.”

  “Do you disapprove?” he’d asked in a serious voice, but with a bit of a smile riding his lips.

  “Not necessarily,” she’d said, still hesitant to let him in on her delight in having wandered upon what appeared to be such a like soul.

  At the end of her own class’s forty-five-minute discussion about the “beloved disciple,” Kenneth waited until most of the room had cleared before approaching her. “Even though I’ve been hearing
all of these glowing reports about the fine job you’ve been doing with my old class, nothing beats having seen it for myself. All I can say is, wow! When it comes to teaching, you, my dear, are a natural.”

  She smiled and gathered her material. “Yeah, as if the mark hadn’t already been set before me. I’m sure if I had fallen short of it, you would have heard about that, too. You thinking about coming back? I mean, if you’re ever interested in resuming your old post here . . .”

  “No, no, that’s all in the past,” he said. “It’s all yours now. But I would like to speak with you after service if that’s possible.”

  “Ah, sure, sure,” she stuttered. “But I have a couple of administrative issues I need to go over with the new secretary. So I might be a few minutes.”

  Aliesha took her time in the secretary’s office. She really didn’t want to be alone with him. Just the thought of all they could have been still kept her awake some nights. But it was over. And even though she’d forgiven him for his one moment of insanity, she still couldn’t see herself allowing him back into her life, let alone her bed.

  On leaving the office, rather than take the side door that led to the parking lot and where she knew he would be waiting, Aliesha walked back toward the sanctuary. Oftentimes before leaving church on Sunday, she’d reenter the empty sanctuary. Sometimes she’d take a seat on one of the pews and, after focusing on the large, barren cross hanging on the wall behind the choir stand, she’d close her eyes and meditate. It was alone there, in those quiet moments, that she generally found “the peace of Christ” her Presbyterian brethren and sistern invoked on one another’s behalf every Sabbath morning.

  Other times she’d enter with the specific intention of finding said peace, only to instead find herself standing barely a few feet from the door and staring toward the image of her father she’d inevitably see in the back of the vacant room. Though William had never officially joined the church, he’d made it his business to have Aliesha there, bright and early every Sunday. After entrusting her to the care of the Sunday school teacher, he’d find a seat in the back of the empty sanctuary and sit with his eyes closed and his deceased wife’s Bible resting on his lap until the sound of the organ alerted him that the call to worship would soon begin.