Something Real Read online

  DATE NIGHT

  "Shouldn't you be getting home?" I ask him.

  "Mama's watchin' the kids," he says.

  "And you're watchin' me ""

  His face turns a delicious shade of red. "Yup."

  I squeeze his hand under the table. "You thinkin' bad thoughts about what you see, Mr. Baxter?"

  He nods.

  "How bad?"

  He gulps. "Real bad."

  "Good"

  He squeezes my hand. "Are you uh, thinking, um-"

  I put my lips next to his ears. "Think of the wickedest thing you can and multiply it by infinity." I stand to bowl the last frame, releasing his hand slowly. "Now double it, Mr. Baxter."

  I leave him nodding and gulping and leaning over Tonya. "Dewey's givin' me a ride home tonight," I say with a wink.

  She doesn't catch my meaning right off, but then she smiles. "You gotta tell me everything, okay?"

  I shake my head. "No, I don't. You'll just have to use your imagination . . ."

  Books by J.J. Murray

  RENEE AND JAY

  SOMETHING REAL

  ORIGINAL LOVE

  I'M YOUR GIRL

  CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF YOUR LOVE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  soemzt9,o

  Qeae

  J.J. MURRAY

  For my sisters, Janet and Jill

  Acknowledgments

  Sheree Williams, who kept me straight on all the gospel music and helped provide jump rope rhymes with Shemeka Childress, Ashley Jones, and Tonya Brown; my agent, Evan Marshall, for keeping my fingers crossed; my editor, John Scognamiglio, for helping me write "deeper" than I've ever written before; my parents for making me the way I am; my freckled sons for "helping" me write with all their glorious interruptions; and my wife for loving me ... just because.

  prologue

  I never should have married the motherfucker.

  I know I shouldn't curse. I'm a Christian woman. But sometimes I believe that God makes mistakes, because when he made Jonas Borum, he made a six-foot-two, one-hundredand-sixty pound pile of dog shit that even other dogs wouldn't sniff. It's as if God took a dump, and I happened to step into the pile.

  For fifteen years.

  I know, wasn't I conscious during that time? I thought I was. But when you smell anything-even shit-long enough, you don't smell it anymore.

  And now I know what alone is all about. Alone is loss. Alone is by yourself in the basement folding sheets for a bed you haven't had sex in for over six years. Alone is rereading the same verse in the Bible twenty-five times at four in the morning wondering if the sun is really going to rise or if your husband is really going to come home. Alone is hearing the echo of your angry words to him-"You're the biggest asshole I've ever known!" and the echo of his calm, cool reply: "You married me, so what does that say about you?" Alone is losing most of your friends, all of whom you see every Sunday at church, who treat you like you have AIDS because you divorced their preacher.

  That's right. I divorced the great man of God, Reverend Jonas Borum.

  And I still attend his church, playing the organ at every service because it's my church, too. I put fifteen years of my life into that place as the preacher's wife and over twenty years as the organist. And it's not like our divorce can forbid me from attending church. I lost quite a bit in the settlement because most of our shit was in Jonas's holy name, but I didn't lose my church membership. I've had that membership since I was baptized at twelve. Besides, when folks attend Antioch Church in Calhoun, Virginia, at the corner of Vine and Twelfth now, they'll see the great Reverend Bore-'em and his ex-wife Ruth Borum because I am keeping his name to keep folks scratching their heads. We'll be up there, side by side like always, and folks are just gonna have to wonder ... What the hell is going on here?

  I have lost so much.

  I just hope I can hang on to my sanity.

  And my faith.

  TART ONE

  Zt's Me, Oh Lord

  one

  I've been playing organ since I could reach the pedals, and I don't wear the heavy shoes some organists wear. My fat feet are heavy enough. And I never had any lessons. When I hear a tune, I can play it. That's my gift. God blessed me with a musical ear. Don't show me no notes, don't show me no hymnal, and leave the sheet music at the store. You hum it or sing it, and I can play it.

  "You have a gift," Grandma told me when I was very young. "And gifts get given. No need to get paid for having a gift from the Lord" As a result, I have never gotten paid for all those services, baptisms, and receptions. When I was younger, I didn't care. I just liked to play. I loved to be heard. I loved all the compliments I got, loved the attention. But later I learned that Grandma was wrong about the payment part. Grandma never had to hold the same note or play the same sad chord for ten minutes till Reverend Hamlin, Antioch's preacher before Jonas, was satisfied that enough folks had fallen out, come forward, or felt guilty enough for being one-day-a-week Christians. Grandma never had to repeat the choruses of "I Prayed About It," "He's Able," or "Hallelu jah" forty times because those were the only songs anyone seemed to know. Grandma never had to play "The Wedding March," "Always," or "Endless Love" several dozen times a summer. At least at a wedding I sometimes got some form of payment, usually a crummy corsage or maybe a ten-dollar bill in one of those tiny thank-you note cards.

  Though I can't sing for shit (trust me), I know all the words. "I Want To See Him," "His Eye Is on the Sparrow," "I Still Have Joy," "No Ways Tired," "That's Love" just a few of my favorites. Till the divorce. The Sunday after the divorce became final, I played "It's Over Now" instead of "Take It to the Lord in Prayer" during Jonas's altar call. I wonder if anyone even noticed the significance. Now the only song that can get me through the day is "My Life Is in Your Hands" And it is. It has to be. I've been praying nonstop for something, anything good to come out of all this, and when I play the organ, I feel good. I don't feel the glory I once did, but at least I feel something. It surprised me that the church board at Antioch let me keep my unpaid "job" at the organ, and at first I took it for a sign from the Lord. God was still letting me give my gift.

  Fact is, cheap asses at Antioch just didn't want to have to pay anyone to replace me.

  Antioch Church. Where do I begin? Antioch is a maledominated, y'all-womens-better-stay-at-home, and y'all- working-womens-better-keep-quiet kind of place. Jonas, of course, has used this defect in our church to his advantage, telling his version of the divorce which is about as close to the truth as white is to black. "She has become mentally unbalanced," he told the deacons, "and, sadly, anything the poor woman says is a lie." And being the big-lipped, thimblebrained carp that they are, the deacons swallowed his story hook, line, and sinker. They then passed the story on to their ignorant stay-at-home wives who care only about decorations for the next "Ladies' Social." That makes about two thirds of our church population who no longer know how to or even want to speak to me. In a church of five hundred, I have never felt so isolated. If it weren't for Tonya Lewis and Naomi Baker, two of the dearest friends that I've ever had in my life and my need to be a weekly object lesson to Jonas's flock of ignorant sheep-I'd be gone from this persecution.

  But where could I go? Calhoun is a small Southern city with a gossip streak as long and wide and shallow as the muddy Calhoun River. Can't nothin' happen in Calhoun without someone knowing about it and puttin' their mouth in it. Small minds, large mouths, houses too close together, too many folks fanning themselves on porches putting more hot air into the humid sky, and ain't nobody got cable. Naturally, everybody knows about the woman who divorced the preacher, and I can't even set them straight because everything I say must be a lie because the great Reverend Borum said so. Tonya and Naomi kno
w the truth, and that's all that matters to me. To the rest of them, I say, "BAAAA! Go on and be good sheep while your good shepherd takes out his rod and plows many a valley. Surely goodness and mercy ain't gonna follow none of you-Dr. Bone-'em's bad ways is gonna haunt y'all all the days of your lives."

  Right now, I'm just trying to keep my head above water. I've been nearly drowning in court-appointed this, that, and the other. I had a court-appointed divorce orientation (complete with videos) that told me what I already knew: "Divorce is shitty." I had a court-appointed mediator who told me what I already knew: "You ain't gettin' shit." I had a courtappointed psychologist who told me what I already knew: "Your brain is for shit." And I even had a self-appointed court clerk goddess white bitch who told me that my handwriting and typing were for shit. They all did everything in their power to further victimize me because they were taking such major pains to protect Jonas's career.

  Fact is, Jonas wouldn't have a career if it wasn't for me because I wrote the damn sermons, nearly every last one of them. Oh sure, he wrote the rough drafts, and that's all you would have felt in that church as much feeling and spirit he put into them rough drafts of dull air. "Today's sermon is on the love of God," he'd write. "Please turn with me to . . °" I'd scratch that out and write, "People, (pause and take a deep breath), the Lord has brought me safe thus far (wait for an `Amen,' Jonas), through many dangers (wait for it), toils (wait), and snares (wait); and what did He use to carry me? (pause; take a deep breath) I say, what did my (loud) glorious Savior use to carry me? (pause; another deep breath) He gave me His love. (If they don't `Amen' here, Jonas, repeat `He gave me His love' till they do) .. °'

  I gave those sermons fire, I gave those sermons depth, I gave those sermons feeling, and the church grew from thirty old, brave souls who met with us in a drafty, crumbling building ready for the condemned signs to five hundred and climbing in a totally remodeled, warm building. But did I get any credit for even one of those seven hundred sermons? You kiddin'? Since our divorce was finalized last month, the man's been recycling my old sermons, and he still ain't waitin' long enough for folks to say "Amen." I should have copyrighted those sermons so I could at least get a cut of the offering.

  Everything I have tried to do since all this began is to protect myself. During the separation, I hired another psychologist, a hopefully impartial white female psychologist, to reevaluate me and Jonas this time. The tests were brutal invasions of my privacy, but I took them and tested as being reliable, dependable, practical, reasonable, conventional, loyal, and flexible. That's me. Faithful as a puppy dog. I felt vindicated, especially when Jonas tested as being narcissistic and extremely self-centered. But somehow, this cold bitch psychologist with an ego the size of the North Pole ignored Jonas's shortcomings because "large numbers of people in Reverend Borum's profession share these characteristics." In other words, I married a stuck-up man, and preachers, as a general rule, are stuck-up people. I paid a thousand dollars (in addition to my attorney's retainer) for this ridiculous evaluation which only supported the court-appointed psychologist's claim that only I, Ruth Lee Childress Borum, was dysfunctional.

  Because of all this shit, I've been seeing a psychiatrist. I know most black folks don't do that, but they have their mamas and their families. I don't. My white daddy left the scene before I was born, and Mama died of a stroke when I was ten. I have no brothers, no sisters, no aunts, and no uncles, not even a second cousin twice-removed. My grandma, who raised me, passed twenty years ago, also from a stroke. And now, thanks to Dr. Holt, I am chemically fucked up. I don't know if I'm going or coming ... and I definitely ain't doin' any coming. Something about my drug "therapy" has destroyed my sex drive. Dr. Holt says that will come back (I doubt it) as he's weaning me off one drug while weaning me onto another drug which takes three to six weeks to see if it works. I'm trying to sleep, but it ain't easy. I'm on a new sleeping pill that leaves a metallic taste in my mouth. Taking one is like sucking on the lid of a four-day-old, unrinsed Spaghetti- O's can. But it gets me five whole hours of sleep, and I can handle the shitty taste, because five hours beats none.

  When JonASS and I first separated, my attorney advised me to do two things: get a job, then get disability insurance, you know, the kind of policy that protects your income in case you can't work due to illness or disability. I knew why I needed a job: so I could pay my damn attorney. I could always cut and style a mean head of hair, so I found me a job at Diana's, a little two-chair salon just around the corner from my one-bedroom apartment on Vine. That's right. I live within spitting distance of the church I helped rebuild. But my "fame" nearly cost me a chance at the job. Shit, I bet the owner, Diana Poindexter, was thinking during the interview, I can't hire the bitch I been talkin' about! Weather in Calhoun ain't that interestin' to talk about all damn day! I had to convince her that I could turn my friends into regular, paying customers. Diana, who's pushing fifty and who still wears a Diana Ross 'do and has posters of Diana and the Supremes all over her walls, asked, "Will they come weekly?" I had laughed just then because that's exactly what Jonas used to do. That was also one of the reasons that we didn't have any children. One "Dear Jesus!" or a "Yes Lord!" and he was through, leaving me blinking at the cobwebs on the ceiling. "Yes," I told her, "they'll come here regularly," and I got the job. And Tonya and Naomi did become regular paying (and tipping) customers because that's what true friends do. They chip nails on purpose or home perm their hair too long so I can have a job ... to pay my attorney.

  Six months of that, and I have money. Not much, but enough for a single forty-year-old divorced mother of none living in a single-celled apartment to survive on. Enter the disability insurance. "Why do I need this insurance again?" I asked my attorney. "Because you're under a doctor's care" So I got the insurance, and, sure enough, they have some of my income, and now they're protecting it for all they're worth.

  I tried to get some of my income back when I had my first breakdown and just couldn't get out of bed for two weeks. Depression is the heaviest motherfucker on earth, and it hit me so hard and fast after a Sunday service that I had trouble even breathing. I had just played "He's Working It Out For You" for folks to walk out to when-BAM-I felt so low. It felt like one of those dreams where you can't move, and you know someone's behind you grabbing at you, but you can't move, and whoever it is will strangle you or stab you or rip your head off. It was like claustrophobia and that other phobia, that fear of heights thing, at the same time. I was boxed in and falling.

  Somehow I filled out forms and gave them to Dr. Duck worth, my family doctor since I was born, and to Dr. Holt. They filled out the forms. The insurance people called me and asked me the same damn questions that were on the forms, they called Dr. Duckworth and asked him the same damn questions that were on the forms, and they called Dr. Holt and asked him the same damn questions that were on the forms. That was just so my "claim form" could go from Medical Review to being assigned a caseworker. How nice of them. Next, they took five to seven business days to pick daisies and their asses. They plucked off the petals and chanted, "She's sick, she's not sick. She's sick, she's not sick." At the end of that period, I got an official proclamation that my "claim" was approved. By that time, I was feeling better and could leave the apartment without feeling small and dizzy, so I went back to work and became undepressed. Just being around other people and solving heads of hair helped me through.

  I have still not seen a single penny of this income of mine that they're protecting. I'm sure cutting a check will take at least three months because they have to have a review committee approve procedures for using scissors. If they're anything like the church board at Antioch, which once took six months to decide on whether to decide to paint the lines in the church parking lot, I will never see my money again. Thank God I have lots of credit cards and big credit limits. You'd be amazed at how much these credit card companies are willing to risk on a preacher's ex-wife, like I'm better able or more likely to pay since I'm so godly. I had
to buy so much shit for my apartment. It was like starting completely from scratch: a table, chairs, dishes, silverware, glasses, and curtains for the kitchen; a sofa, chair, coffee table, curtains, and lamp for the main room; a bed, dresser, and night stand for the bedroom; a shower curtain, towels, toilet brush, cleaners for the bathroom. I have a feeling that my godly credit rating will go to hell by the time this divorce is finally over.

  If the divorce ever ends, that is. Dearest Jonas-who never gave me birthday presents, who never gave me anniversary presents, who never gave me Christmas presents, and who never even gave me one measly card-sent me an anniversary card for what would have been our fifteenth anniversary. In it, the prick graciously included a check for the hundred dollars he shorted me in spousal support that month. It was the single largest gift he had given me in the history of our marriage, and he probably had to raid the offering plate to get it. At the bottom was a simple note: "Could you please return my ironing board and iron?" That he rarely used. That I slaved over with the Niagara starch. Nearly every night. For fifteen years. I returned them. I had to. They were part of the settlement ... and now they're part of the big oak tree out in front of his house. He'll never be able to get up to that iron, though I'd like to see him try. I think it's wrapped around a branch and a power line. The ironing board I couldn't throw as high, but I doubt he'd want it now since the birds have pecked the padding out of it for their nests. All the settlement said was that I had to return them. The settlement didn't say in what condition.

  I should have married my senior prom date. Stuart Hart, a poindexter, an egghead, asked me to the prom in his squeaky geeky voice, and I accepted because no one else asked me. No one else had ever asked me to any dance. I was just that big-boned church girl who could play the organ, that lightskinned girl with the lightning smile and thunder thighs. Grandma told me that I was born big "with a head the size of a pumpkin." I am kind of pumpkin-colored-imagine an almost new penny-with naturally reddish hair and orangeish freckles because of my daddy. I'll bet he was Irish, which might explain my temper. I recently heard that Stuart is now a full partner in an Atlanta law firm, the corporate attorney for a big movie studio and a couple cable networks, easily making a half million a year. But (sigh) he's married (hap pily) with five kids and a dog. Five kids. What I would do for just one child.