reached for her glass of wine and countered, “But, Mama, you don’t understand, you’ve never been down this road.”
“Oh, yeah? You think you’re the first one who’s had to deal with one of them bitches!”
Tai almost choked on her chardonnay. In all this time of knowing Sister Maxine, she’d never heard her say so much as “darn.” Yet here was this matronly diva, still the epitome of style with straight-legged black pants, an extra-large jungle print top that reached midthigh and coiffed hairdo swept up and secured into a fashionable French bun, rolling “bitch” off her tongue as if it wasn’t the first time. Tai stared at her wide-eyed.
“Mama Max!”
Mama Max just gave her a look and then swiveled around to stir the spaghetti. “You got any more of that?” she asked without looking back.
“What?” Tai asked, still amazed Mom had “gone there.”
“That what you’re drinking.” She replaced the lid on the spaghetti and reached for the loaf of French bread and butter. “Pour me a glass and I’ll tell you a story. And shut your mouth before a fly gets in.”
Mama Max went on to tell her about the time almost twenty years earlier when “the Rev acted like a plum fool.” It had been while they were out of town, at a convention in the big city of Dallas, Texas. Sistah Max had been born and raised in a small town and moved to an even smaller town when her husband got his first church. Their marriage experienced its share of ups and downs, but she’d been happy. She’d gone back to the hotel right after service and was in a sound sleep when the phone rang. “Sistah Brook,” an unfamiliar voice had whispered into the receiver. “I don’t mean to be nosy or rude, but I just saw your husband come into the lobby, and I don’t think he’s headed to your room.”
“Who’s this?” Mama Max demanded, now wide awake and sitting up.
“You can just say…I’m my sister’s keeper.” Then the line went dead.
Mama Max jumped out of that bed as if lightning hit and started praying in tongues. “Give me the spirit of discernment, Holy Ghost,” she intoned as she paced back and forth and around the room. After about fifteen minutes a number came to her clear as day—915. Without hesitation, Mama Max slipped on her caftan, pulled on her slippers and checked her always perfectly coiffed hair in the mirror before leaving the room and heading for the elevator. When she reached room 915, she knocked on the door. After a moment, a quiet voice asked tentatively, “Who is it?”
“It’s your worst nightmare!” Sistah Max explosively responded. “Wife of Bishop Stanley Obadiah Meshach Brook and mother to his four children: King, Queen, Daniel and Esther.” Sistah Maxine was yelling for the world to hear. “Open up this door, you two-bit hussy. I think you’ve got something that belongs to me!”
Tai was incredulous. She’d never have that kind of nerve. “What happened?” she squealed, leaning forward as though she were watching a thriller on television.
“What do you think happened? She opened the door. My husband came out, and by this time a few more guests had come out of their rooms as well. Assured that I was the center of attention, I made an announcement. I said real calm and quietlike, ‘You low-life trollop, if I see you or anyone who looks like you with my husband again? I will kill ya and tell God I did it!’” Sistah Maxine’s eyes were twinkling as she relived the story. She buttered the last piece of bread, placed the bread back in the foil and placed the foil in the oven. Before continuing, she took a long swallow from her glass.
“Well, you know that the next fastest way to spread a message besides telephone is tell a church member. The story was on more people’s lips than that night’s sermon. I became a hero of sorts to the married women and someone not to be messed with to the would-be husband-stealing floozies. It probably didn’t hurt that I signed up for a gun permit as soon as I got back home.”
“You did what?” Tai exclaimed. No longer able to sit still, she jumped up and reached for a knife and a tomato to begin the salad preparations.
“Oh, I never got a gun,” Sistah Max went on calmly as she plucked lettuce leaves and placed them in a colander. “But word got out that I had applied.” She took a delicate sip of wine before continuing.
“The Reverend was in the doghouse for about six months, and I got some of the best jewelry of all our years of marriage. I told him I would not forgive him a second time, and even though vengeance belonged to God—the next bitch I caught him with would think it belonged to me. To this day, to my knowledge anyway, he’s never strayed.” She turned off the fire under the spaghetti, eyed Tai with a slightly raised eyebrow and sly smile, announced that dinner was ready and said she’d “fetch the chil’ren.” Then she drained her glass, patted her coiffed do and walked out the kitchen while humming “I’m a Soldier in the Army of the Lord.”
Tai smiled at the memory of her mother-in-law all those years ago. That particular heart-to-heart had influenced Tai’s decision to stay married. Mama Max had always been a pillar of strength, but after that day, their relationship took on a new meaning, a more sisterly bond. Tai and King got back together, and although it was different, they were able to pick up the pieces and put them together reasonably well. To his credit, King had gone out of his way to assure her of his love for her and their children. He’d cut back on his overloaded schedule, brought her flowers and gifts, spent more time with her and the kids, and they’d even splurged on a two-week vacation to Orlando, Florida, and Disney World. But Tai never got over the betrayal totally, and after that, all women were suspect. She even felt she’d developed a sixth sense where women who might threaten her marriage were concerned, and that was why Hope Jones was not a surprise.
Remembering Hope made Tai’s smile disappear. She rose from the couch where she’d downed her second cup of coffee with Bailey’s. She opened the refrigerator but deciding she wasn’t hungry, poured a glass of water instead. She wanted to call Vivian but knew they would still be in church. She needed her friend desperately but didn’t know if she wanted to have this conversation with her. Again. To this day, King denied anything was happening with Hope Jones. Something was going on. King came home later and later. When he was home, he stayed in his office. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Tai’s intuition told her King was using strike three. She would not be fooled.
Hearing from God
The hip-hop sounds of gospel artist Tonex blasted out of Hope’s canary yellow Mazda MG as she sped down I–35 on her way to Kansas City, Missouri, to see her cousin and new best friend, Frieda. “You are my personal Jesus,” she crooned along with the hip-hop singer with much enthusiasm and excitement if just a tad bit off-key.
Hope felt good. Not only was it a sunny March day in the Midwest, but it was also Sunday, her favorite day of the week. Church had been inspiring. Her praise dance troupe, the Angels of Hope, had performed for the first time and had been heartily received. Their performance alone had been a miracle. It had taken much prayer and a private meeting with the highly opposed Mother Bailey before she convinced this tradition-inclined church matron and others that dancing could be holy, not a matter of “branging that devil’s music into ’de Lawd’s house” as Mother Bailey had more than implied. Even so, Hope had choreographed a conservative routine. She’d prayerfully chosen the music, an updated gospel classic, “I Surrender All.” And rather than have too many steps or other dance movements, she’d decided to use her knowledge of sign language and incorporate a large amount of dramatic hand movements and facial expression into the presentation, combining drama with dance. Not only that but she, along with Sistah
