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“There’s only one God—your Creator—who can fix that. And, church, I’m so grateful,” he went on as the choir became louder again. “I’m so grateful that our Creator is so merciful. So present. His doors are always open. Mr. Fix-It. The people who made your car. They might all be closed. But God, your Creator, never closes. Never turns away. Never forgets you. God is there in the midst of the storm, waiting to hold your hand and pull you out of the water. And for this, we should forever be grateful.”
The organist replayed the melody leading to the chorus and we all stood up as one church to sing along. May holding my left hand and Evan holding my right, we sang about how grateful we were to God for life, for stability, for redemption. And I felt every word.
The air outside was much too cool for it to be a May day in Alabama. While we were in church, the dew was supposed to lift from the grass and the sun was to dry the tips of the trees. But as Evan noted when we got into the car to head to the school for the graduation ceremony, it was nearly chilly. And that was a good thing.
We let the top on the car down. We wanted to possibly catch the last of good breezes that would surely stop when June came. Riding along, I thought of everything my father said about going to the Maker. About redemption and being grateful for the second chance that God was willing to give. I thought of my father and how many times he’d hurt my mother, and how my brother was now doing the same thing to May and I’d almost done it to Evan. We all seemed so ungrateful for what was standing right in front of us. Like my mother and like May, Evan wasn’t a perfect man. But he loved me. And I had to find a way to love him back. I had to feel for him the way I’d convinced myself I was feeling for Dame.
“You really think Billie is going to marry Clyde?” Evan asked when we pulled into the parking lot at the school.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I thought if anyone was sure, you’d be sure. You’re always talking about how much they can’t live without each other.”
“I know,” he agreed. “But sometimes, I think maybe I just want for them what I have with you.”
I looked at him as we pulled into a spot.
“What do we have?” I asked, not knowing I’d even had the question in my mind.
“After twenty-five years you have to ask that?” Evan laughed in disbelief. “Don’t be silly, Journey.”
“You say twenty-five years like we’re so old. Like this is just it for us. We’re only thirty-three.”
“This isn’t it?” he said, taking my hand. “Because I thought it was. Just you and me. Growing old on the porch together.” He looked into my eyes playfully.
“So you don’t ever think that maybe there’s someone else out there for you? Like another life or something.”
“Damn, girl! Where are these questions coming from?”
“I don’t know ... I just—Forget it.” I took off my seat belt and got out of the car with Evan.
“Look,” I went on. “I’m going to the chorus room to get the choir together. I guess I’ll meet you back at the car.”
Evan walked around the car and took me into his arms.
“Okay,” he said, kissing me on the forehead and stopping to look into my eyes again.
“What?” I asked as he just stood there and stared.
“There’s no one else for me. No other life I want to have. This is it,” he said earnestly.
“That’s good to know,” I said. “Really good to know.”
The was no room left in the bleachers on the football field. Not one space. And the grass surrounding the seats that had been set up before the stage for the graduates was covered with people—old and young, in baby strollers and leaning on walkers, men and women, from here and everywhere, waiting to get a glimpse at Black Warrior’s class of 2008. This was how it always was. Homecoming and graduation at Black Warrior pulled people out from all over. Some knew graduates; some didn’t. Some went to Black Warrior; some hadn’t. But they were all there. Packed in like this was the social event of the year. And it had been at one time. And this year, after that million-dollar check, it definitely was. Everyone wanted to claim the alma mater. To finally say how proud they were of Black Warrior. And my kids in the choir, who’d only heard bad things about their school up until all of the attention that came with the check, were beaming as we lined up in the rows to the right of the stage set aside for the choir.
“All these people here to see the seniors?” Opal asked as she walked past to get to her seat with the sopranos.
“They sure are,” I said proudly.
“I hope they come out like this when it’s my turn,” she added.
When everyone was in position and the graduates had finally marched in to their processional, I led the choir singing “Lift Ev’ry Voice and Sing” and then Mr. Williams gave his opening remarks. Afterward, he invited Evan to the stage to speak on behalf of the school board, and as Evan stood at the podium, I watched and noticed how natural he seemed speaking in front of our community. People listened and bent forward as he thanked—without belittling anyone—the community for working with him to build a better school for our children. He thanked them for supporting him, lifting him up and letting him lead the school. He said he knew this was not easy, as so many others had led them in wrong directions in the past. Listening, I realized I’d forgotten how passionately Evan felt about what he did. This was easy to forget day to day as he tried to climb up the political ladder. Then, he seemed so determined to just be on top of everything that it looked like he didn’t care who was at the bottom. But now, surrounded by our friends and family, I saw a glimpse of the man I knew in my heart he was.
I looked out into the audience and thought of how lucky I was to have him. How many women out there would be happy to actually have Evan. He was a blessing I was fortunate enough to receive early on in my life and at that moment, I was grateful for it.
“Now,” Mr. Williams said back up at the podium, “we’ll have the choir sing a song that’s always been sung during the graduation ceremony here at Black Warrior, ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.’ ”
I got up and turned, raising my hands to signal for the choir to get on their feet. I stood there, looking at them, moving my eyes from face to face, feeling their excitement about what we were about to do. As they must’ve been, I was nervous but equally energized and ready to show everyone our new composition. Smiling at Opal and then Zenobia and then Devin who was leading the tenors and another boy, Trent, whose sister was in the graduating class, I winked to let them know that whether the audience liked it or not, we did and that was all that mattered.
