Chapter fifteen
FREE TO DO WANT I WANT
SABAN
It almost seems blasphemous to ride my chopper up to St. Agustus (Tolton) Catholic Church, named after the first Black bishop in the U.S.
The irony of it being on the Shelby side of town is not lost on anyone — this being the bastion of the Shelbys who once enslaved every Black person in this area save for the Spencers, who were free and cousins to the Shelby patriarch and could often pass for white with their fair skin and green hazel eyes.
Yet most of the congregation is Black, Indigenous, Hispanic and Latine.
I’ve found out since Bahir dropped the little tidbit about the nun who just came, transferred from a parish in New Orleans.
Turning off my bike, I kick the stand down, removing my helmet and smoothing my hair back into a ponytail by readjusting the band.
“Hey,” looking up, I’m startled to see Rocco standing off to the side of the building.
“Hey.” Dragging out the word, the question of why he’s here lingering. My mind instantly goes to Snake, who’s shown up every night for a week to hold and watch over me while I sleep, only to be gone when I woke in the morning.
“Heard that big-ass engine. Everyone’s around back.” Jerking his head to the side, leading to the rear of the church, he pivots, leading the way like he didn’t just curse on church grounds like a heathen, he goes back the way he came.
Coming to a stop behind him I’m surprised when I see a sweat-slicked Padre wearing the thinnest t-shirt known to man and a few more perspiring el Diablo guys breaking up soil under the supervision of three women — two women I’ve come to know as Crimson and Clover Love and a dark-skinned woman with thick locs reaching well below her hips cascading from a high top knot at crown of her head.
The twins are wearing identical blue-jean coveralls with lavender tops underneath.
They’ve tucked their long auburn, kinky-curly hair into two long ponytails.
Both wear broad-brimmed hats to protect their delicate skin, along with dark protective lenses covering their sensitive eyes.
I almost feel like it’s a privilege to see them.
People say they’re the most protected of all the Loves.
Thier people will dead a motherfucker for even speaking on them.
One thing everyone knows is the Loves don’t play about the ones they deem cherished and blessed.
Crimson and Clover fall in that category, so the fact that the Rocco and Padre are allowed within ten feet of them is more than intriguing.
They and The Love Apothocary their parents gave to them before moving to Mozambique is said to be sacred to the Love family — it was the very first business they established along with a mercantile that was said to be burned to the ground during the great riot of 1875 that ended up splitting the town in two.
“Hey,” Clover calls over to me in a sweet, lyrical singsong fashion as her sister signs a greeting. Both of them smile sweetly at me before looking at one another in silent communication.
“Hey,” I say, my eyes straying to the other woman, who looks up from the rows of the planting she was intent on until her regard settles on me in curiosity.
I’ve lost most of my Haitian Creole accent over the years, but she still seems to pick up on the little nuances of my cadence.
She rises, a seed bag swaying around her ample hips, looking at me with a keen intensity that I should find unsettling, but I don’t.
Maybe it’s the longing of wanting a connection from my homeland, but I welcome her scrutiny, which only emphasizes the warm smile spreading across her face as she dusts fresh soil from her skirt as she approaches me.
“Are you the girl from Haiti?” she asks in lightly accented English.
“Wi, I’m Saban,” I answer in my native tongue, cutting through the niceties I’m sure the church taught her.
“Bon bongay,” her smile broadening, her gaze sweeping me with a warmth I didn’t expect.
Immediately, I feel covered in the warmth and acceptance of her regard.
I don’t know if it results from her chosen profession or who she is at her core, but she exudes love the same way Ezekiel-Jane does, accepting everyone no matter who they are or where they come from.
I don’t know if it’s their faith or just who they are as people, but it transcends anything I’ve experienced.
“Hey. You can’t just stand there gabbing. We’ve got sh — work to do.” Rocco grumbles, which makes the twins giggle at his almost misstep in front of the sister of mercy.
“Sure, show me what to do?” I ask no one and them all at the same time.
“There’s nothing to it. I’m Peace.” The sister informs me. “I’m planting Love heirloom seeds the girls brought. They’re guaranteed to bloom or germinate, the twins say.”
“I thought y’all had to take names like Sister Mary Francis or Sister Frank.” I tilt my head in question.
“Well, I’ve not taken my final vows yet,” Peace says, her mouth curving into a little mou, making me realize she’s not that much older or younger than me. You can never tell with melanated people.
“Oh, okay. Well, show me what to do, Peace.”
By the time we are done with our little row, I see Padre is no longer wearing his t-shirt like a second skin.
Using it instead to wipe the hard ridges of his back.
Turning, he steps past the guys he’s tilling soil with to saunter over to where the twins are working.
Going to Crimson, he wordlessly hands her his t-shirt.
Clover steps back, shaking her head with a grin, signs to her sister, “It’s up to you,” before busying herself spreading seeds.
Crimson takes the t-shirt, steps behind Padre, and begins to remove the streams of sweat from his back in long, gentle sweeps.
He hangs his head as if her touch is a blessing, even though the fabric separates them.
I’m captivated, though it almost feels like I’m intruding on a private moment.
“Ohh, he’s gone for her,” Peace whispers as we watch as he takes the t-shirt she offers back and then bends low to whisper something for her ears only, making her blush as bright as her name.
The twins, for all their playing, constant chatter, and signing actually get more work done on the section they were working on than anyone else.
It seems they met Peace when she came by their apothecary and formed an immediate friendship with the novice and have made her an honorary Love cousin.
They offered to help her with the victory garden she wanted to make for the church and community.
Service projects are something many churches around here are known for, so she wanted to immediately work on her contribution.
“Let’s break for lunch,” Peace suggests when some of the church members show up and start setting up a long picnic table.
My tummy growls when I smell fried chicken. There’s also potato salad, burritos,
black-bean salad, and yeast rolls. There’s lavender lemonade and vanilla-rose red velvet cupcakes the twins brought.
After washing our hands and Rocco’s cussing tail, saying the blessing over the food, we dig in. The women all cluster together, while the guys seem content to hang down on the other end of the table, though they seem to be on alert.
“Um, why are they here?” Lowering my voice, I ask Crimson.
“You mean our shadows?” she signs with a roll of her eyes before continuing, “They’ve been stuck to us like glue since that little insurrection Angel and ‘em started.” She adds, casting a look Padre’s way.
I follow, watching him take in her words, then huffing a laugh before turning his head away with a little shake.
“Yeah, but everything’s all good now that Easy is back with Angel and about to have another baby, and you and Snake made-up right?” Clover asks with a gentle eagerness that almost has me agreeing, but I’v never been a liar.
“Ah, not exactly.” Shaking my head at the crestfallen expressions the twins share, I take a bite of the delicious chicken and then the roll, hoping they will drop it.
No such luck, it seems, when Crimson taps my hand then, signs. “Why? He’s still mad about the misunderstanding? He won’t forgive you?”
“Excuse me?” I can’t stop the way my voice rises. “Sorry,” I hurry to add when I see Crimson flinching and covering her ears.
“Aye.” Padre’s voice is low with ominous warning, and the slow shake of his head communicates more than any shout ever would.
“Sorry, Crimson.” I apologize, feeling horrible. They entrusted me with an area where they feel safe, and I ruined it by being insensitive. “It won’t happen again.” I promise both girls.
“Okay, we forgive you.” Clover says, patting her sister exactly three times before moving her gaze back to me. “So y’all haven’t made up? Why?” Genuinely curious and maybe just a little messy like Kandie, I don’t know, but I use their cousin as my answer.
“Just like I’m sure Kandie hasn’t forgiven Ulysses.
” I trail off when the twins give me looks of certain doubt.
Easy, I can see. She just had a baby and all the emotions that come with that, plus she never saw those people being trafficked with her own eyes.
Kandie doesn’t have the same excuse. Her, I’m judging.
“Uh-uh, aint no way,” I shake my head. “You mean she took back up with who she calls the dirty-ass cop? Why? — Sorry, sister.” I hurry to add to the Novice, who seems to eat up every word of what we’re saying.
“No worries.” She waves for us to continue, letting me know that every penance she has for being nosy definitely needs to be paid.
“Because they are innocent — at least of that. They aren’t traffickers. Folks saying y’all rolled up on a rescue mission and got it all turned around.” Crimson tells me, her eyes are soft like she’s trying to soften the impact of her words.