Chapter 7 Monk
SEVEN
Monk
“Pass the dressing, please,” my mother says. “And get off that phone. It’s Thanksgiving.”
I glance up from the screen and Verity’s text message, and then stuff the phone into my back pocket.
“Sorry.” I pass the dressing and reach across Mama’s small dining room table for the macaroni and cheese. “Charlie and Shrieva still coming over?”
“Yeah, they just running a little late.” Mama’s face shutters, but she forces a smile. “They called to say they’re helping your daddy at the church’s food kitchen and then they’ll be on. Told us to go ahead and eat.”
The food kitchen my mother started. So many things at Hope Christian Center exist because of Mama’s creativity and her compassion.
God knows that choir would be nothing without all the hard work she put in over the years.
I don’t comment because I don’t want to argue on Thanksgiving.
Every conversation we have about all my mother left behind and my father got to keep turns into an argument.
She doesn’t exactly defend him, but she won’t drag him, which is exactly what I want to do.
She has more reason to be angry and resentful than anyone in the scandalous shit show my father’s infidelity caused, yet she has been the most gracious.
The living room door of Mama’s small apartment flies open, and my brother and sister burst through, looking harried and almost like twins, though Charlie is older than I am and Shrieva is younger.
They take after my mother, and I, unfortunately, bear a striking resemblance to my father.
Every morning the mirror reminds me of the man I can’t forgive for destroying our lives.
“Sorry we’re late,” Shrieva says, plopping down into one of the two empty seats at the table. “Kitchen ran over.”
“Oh,” Mama says, her smile tight. “Good turnout this year?”
“More than we’ve ever had,” Charlie says, reaching for the corn bread before his butt even hits the seat. “Felicia’s really built that program up.”
Mama’s fork freezes halfway to her mouth at the mention of my father’s new girlfriend, maybe soon-to-be wife.
“Shoot,” Charlie says, his eyes concerned at our mother’s reaction. “I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to—”
“Baby, it’s fine.” Mama reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. “It’s good the program is growing. Means more folks are getting fed. That’s what’s important.”
I glare at my brother as soon as Mama lowers her head and resumes eating.
Sorry, he mouths silently, shrugging.
Shrieva rolls her eyes and shoves a forkful of collard greens into her mouth. We fall into a strained silence, only broken by the scrape and drag of silverware across plates and the occasional slurp of sweet tea.
“So tell us about this new girl you got, Monk,” Mama says, that stiff smile I hate firmly fixed in place.
“What girl?” Shrieva asks, her head swinging around to study me more closely. “You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.”
“Guess it didn’t come up in our weekly phone calls,” I say, sarcasm dripping from every word. “When was the last time we talked?”
“Is it my fault you stopped calling?” she fires back. “Stopped answering your phone?”
“If your whole life didn’t revolve around that church,” I say, “maybe we’d have more to talk about.”
“Maybe if you talked about something other than music and school,” Charlie interjects.
“I’m a college student,” I say dryly. “I talk about college shit.”
“Monk,” Mama chides. “Don’t cuss at my table.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, but lift a brow at my brother. “It’s not too late for you to go to college.”
“I’m happy at Hope,” Charlie says flatly. “If you came visit sometimes, you’d see what good work we’re doing.”
I snort my skepticism, but out of respect for Mama, drop the subject.
“So,” Shrieva tries again. “This new girl. What’s her name?”
I drag my fork through the mac and cheese, an involuntary smile working its way onto my face at the thought of her. “Verity.”
“Tell us about her, son,” Mama says, sitting back in her chair and giving me her full attention.
I shrug. “She’s a junior. Film major. Terrific writer.”
“You got a picture?” Shrieva asks around a mouthful of food.
“Yeah.” I retrieve my phone and scroll through my photos to find one of us together. “Here.”
It’s a selfie I took recently, a few days before Thanksgiving break.
It wasn’t too cool outside and we had spread a quilt on the grass in the arboretum.
Verity is sitting between my knees, leaned back on my chest, a copy of The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni open on her stomach.
Her full lips are curved into the sweetest smile, but the secret mischief I love dances in her eyes.
A bouquet of curls is gathered on her head and spills over her brows, a few tendrils escaping around her ears.
She looks soft and freshly kissed. I look… wow. Besotted.
The picture doesn’t lie.
We haven’t been together that long, just three weeks, but it already feels so right with her. She skipped class the day before we left for Thanksgiving and we stayed in bed all day, reading, eating, and not caring about the crumbs in my sheets. Making love.
It’s only been two days, but I miss her so bad it’s like a dull knife lodged under my ribs.
“Hmmm.” Charlie narrows his eyes on the photo and digs into his corn pudding. “I hope y’all ain’t fornicating.”
“Every chance we get,” I say without missing a beat, holding his outraged stare defiantly.
“Monk,” Mama admonishes half-heartedly, fighting a grin. “Now, you know better.”
Mama’s not as uptight as she was when she was Hope’s first lady.
She found another church, attends faithfully, and sits in a middle pew, blending in with everybody else.
She sings in the choir first and third Sundays.
The tension that used to exist between us because we didn’t see things the same way isn’t there anymore.
She seems content to let me figure out what I believe for myself. The rest of my family, however…
“Don’t even try to abstain,” Charlie mutters.
“Ask your daddy about abstaining.” I toss a napkin over my plate and send Mama an apologetic glance. “Sorry for cussing at the table, but this self-righteous asshole—”
“Both of you.” Shrieva bounces a pleading look between Charlie and me. “Just stop!”
“He started it!” Charlie points a long, accusatory finger at me, but is interrupted by the cell phone ringing in his pocket. He pulls it out and frowns at the screen before answering. “Daddy, everything okay? You need me?”
His frown deepens, eyes slitted with irritation aimed at me. He extends the phone.
“Daddy wants to speak to you.”
I suck my teeth. “He can keep wanting because I—”
“Wright Bellamy,” Mama cuts in, her expression taking no excuses. “If you don’t talk to your daddy.”
I lock eyes with her, and the stern lines of her face soften.
“Please, Monk,” she says. “For me.”
“Shit,” I curse under my breath, and snatch the phone from my brother. “What you want?”
There was a time when I would not have dared speak to Pastor Wright Bellamy so disrespectfully.
I didn’t believe all the things he preached, my innate skepticism making me doubt a lot of things I heard from the pulpit, but I believed he was who he said he was.
With his lies, he became just another fake-ass nigga, a snake oil hustler trying to get over, and I have treated him accordingly ever since.
“I heard you were home,” my father finally replies, his deep baritone much less changed than my opinion of him. “You’ve blocked my number, so figured I’d try to catch you while Charles was there with you.”
“My food’s getting cold,” I say, sharpening the edge in my voice. “So again I ask, what do you want?”
“Just wanted to say Happy Thanksgiving. I love you, son.”
That ice around my heart cracks a little because his approval was a habit it took me a long time to break.
When I was growing up, he was always at the church, so when he came home, his attention felt like gold.
It felt like God’s, but this man has ashy feet of clay.
I never needed him to be perfect. Just to be what he said he was.
“Okay.” I sound bored, but I’m really just mad and ready to be done with these emotions and this conversation. “That all?”
“Um, yeah. Can I speak to your mother?”
“Hell naw.” I hang up and toss the phone back to Charlie. “I’m going for a walk.”
“Monk,” Mama calls, but I don’t stop.
“I’ll be back.” I close the door to her apartment and think about the big brick house she was so proud of, the one she made our home.
Technically, that house is the parish, so it stayed with the pastor, even though Mama wouldn’t.
In the short distance to the sidewalk, I draw in a lungful of fresh air.
I always knew I wouldn’t follow in my father’s footsteps.
Even before he cheated, the career I wanted was taking me down a path he didn’t understand or approve of.
I never thought, though, that we’d be here.
I take out my phone and scroll to the pic of Verity I showed Charlie. Without thinking too long, I pull up her contact and dial.
“Hey.” She sounds the way she does when she wakes in the mornings or when she’s blissed out after making love. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I reply, a smile already quirking the corners of my mouth. “You napping?”
“That itis got me.” She yawns and laughs. “I ate too much, but it’s the only time I get neck bones.”
I bark out a laugh. “Wait, wait, wait. Did you say neck bones? Damn, Vee. How country are you?”
“Y’all don’t eat neck bones?” I hear the smile in her voice. “I’m revoking your country-boy card.”
“We do eat oxtails, so I should get points for that.”
“The Country Council will take it under consideration,” she says, giggling. “How’s home?”
“About the way I thought it would be.” My grin fades, the conversation with my father playing back in my head. “Ready to get back to campus.”
“I love seeing my aunts, but I’m ready to get back to you.”
“You have no idea,” I groan. “I miss you, Vee.”
“I’ll be back Sunday.”
I glance toward Mama’s apartment and my fractured family. I haven’t had this relationship long, but it feels like the best thing in my life right now. “I’ll see you then.”