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“No, we look forward to it!” Billie cheered.
“Who was that?” Evan asked as we pulled off, still waving at Billie and Mustafa.
“Mustafa.”
“I gathered,” he said drily. “But what’s he doing here?”
“I guess he’s Billie’s new boyfriend.” I shrugged my shoulders to defend my best friend against whatever Evan was thinking about Mustafa, even though I was probably thinking the same thing. But I couldn’t admit it. Evan had little patience where Billie was concerned. Through suggestion and snide remarks, it was clear he wanted to classify Billie as “wild,” just like everyone else. But I knew that he knew this wasn’t true. Evan was just offended that Billie was the other ear I had a hold of. The two always disagreed and Evan often suggested I get “more like-minded” friends. This made me wonder what exactly he thought was in my mind.
“Wait until Clyde gets an eyeful of this.”
“Well, Clyde’s moved on with Ms. Lindsey, so why can’t she?”
Evan looked at me vacantly.
“We’re not talking about what people should do. We’re talking about Clyde and Billie. I hope that woman ain’t trying to start something. Brought some fool over here from God knows where to start something.”
“Start something? What are you talking about? If anything, Clyde’s the one who started something. He’s been starting something for years.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Billie should know his card by now.”
“So she should just accept it and do nothing? Be single for the rest of her life as she puts up with his crap?”
“Again, we’re not talking about what people should do.”
Billie was squeezing my right hand. Hard. We were standing beside each other in a circle with everyone around the dining room table, holding hands as my father blessed the heap of food in the middle. While my mother alternated between two cooks during the week, so she could keep up with both my father’s and her schedule, on most Sundays, she, Nana Jessie, May, and I made Sunday dinner together. “Got to learn the old way,” Nana Jessie would say to May and me as she rolled a
nd cut bags of collard greens and made biscuits from scratch with a precision that belied her age.
My parents lived in a gated estate that they’d planned room by room together. It was a gorgeous home, nearly twice the size of mine and Evan’s, that had been featured three times in Southern Living. The editors simply never had enough space to capture all of the rooms my mother had specially designed herself.
About five minutes into the prayer, as my father started praying for the homeless people in Tuscaloosa and the grandchildren he didn’t have, Billie started squeezing my hand just as she’d done during my father’s long prayers when we were children and she’d stayed for Sunday dinner. Then I’d really want to focus, to be prayerful and thankful for everything he’d mention, but sometimes it seemed the longer his prayer got, the farther my mind would drift. Most times, I felt guilty for not being able to “meditate on the Word” the way he and Jr seemed to be able to do. But the older I got, I realized that, like everyone else at the table, I was just hungry.
I was trying my best not to laugh at Billie’s tight grip, but as I held it in, my body began to shake a bit. Evan, who was on my left, yanked my hand. Still listening to my father, I opened my eyes to see Evan frowning at me. Next to him was my father, his head low and nodding reflectively with each word, my mother, Nana Jessie, Jr, May, and Mustafa, who was next to Billie.
“Stop,” Evan mouthed angrily.
I frowned back and rolled my eyes playfully at my father, who was now actually repeating a part of his sermon.
“Amen,” my mother said suddenly during one of his pauses. “Amen and hallelujah.”
“Amen,” we all said quickly, opening our eyes and smiling at my father to reassure him we were prayed up sufficiently enough to eat.
A crease between his brow, he eyeballed each of us hard and slow as he always did and then looked to my mother.
“Amen,” he said, resolved. “Let’s eat.”
Everyone relaxed and we sat down and began passing the large platters of Nana’s macaroni and cheese and collard greens around like it was Thanksgiving. I watched as Jr eyed everything May put on her plate and scowled at him when he snatched a biscuit right from her hand. May, who was brown-skinned and had peach-shaped features and a sweet smile that immediately warmed everyone she came in contact with, had been taking fertility pills so she and Jr could finally have their first child after ten years of marriage. Over the last three years, her once petite frame had picked up more than fifty pounds and a face full of acne. But there was still no baby. It wasn’t necessary to spend more than ten minutes with her and Jr to see that this and her new appearance was taking its toll on their marriage. He seldom even looked at her, and when he did, it was most certainly to say something nasty.
“You need to say no to the carbs, too,” he said to me, laughing with Evan as I frowned at him for taking the biscuit.
“I don’t see six packs on the two of you either.” I reached and grabbed a second biscuit in protest—I’d regret that later. But my little demonstration was completely necessary. May was the most saved and sanctified person I knew. She knew her Bible better than most pastors and often spent hours in prayer. Because she was always trying to preserve her peaceful and angelic demeanor, she was often railroaded by Jr’s antics. Her only ally at most dinner tables, I usually picked up the boxing gloves on her behalf.
“You two stop it,” my mother said.
“There’s nothing wrong with a woman with a little meat on her,” Billie said, wiggling delightfully in her seat beside Mustafa. “They like big women in Nigeria. Don’t they, Mustafa?”
“Yes. The queen must have fertile hips,” Mustafa said confidently and everyone looked up from their plates and at him. Jr’s fork fell to the table, May leaned in to be sure she could catch every word, Nana Jessie’s glasses were slid to the tip of her nose as she peeked over the brim to get a closer look. Even the crystal pyramids hanging from the chandelier over the table seemed to sparkle right on Mustafa.
