Rhythms of Grace Read online

  “No, it was my fault, Dr. Mayfield.” His name felt familiar in my mouth, liked I’d said it before, seen him before. But I doubted that. I would have remembered. He wasn’t the kind of man that a woman forgot. He had presence like someone who usually ran things—and liked it. “I’m Grace—Grace Okoye.”

  He really looked interested then. “You’re Nigerian?”

  “Something like that.” I sighed, not really wanting to get into my late husband’s genealogy with a stranger, especially not if he was one of those deep back-to-Africa brothers that could talk you to death. I was late enough as it was.

  The police saved me from having to explain more. I made a mental note to look out for Mayfield kids in any of my classes. Boy or girl, any child of his wouldn’t be hard to find.

  When the policeman left (who the good doctor had known by name, but whose name I’d forgotten already), Dr. Mayfield pointed to the boxes still in my backseat. “New in town? Or coming back?”

  “Both.” I grabbed my purse from the car. Poor guy. He would have to meet me when I was in one of these moods. Oh well. “Let me know if I owe you anything else,” I said before straightening my dress and stepping around him.

  While he’d seemed to be in a big hurry too, my last vague comment must have taken him over the edge because he grabbed my hand and spun me toward him like in some kind of black-and-white movie. I tried to duck when he—and his lips—moved closer to my face, but he was too quick. While I cringed, he planted a quick kiss on the top of my hand.

  “That’ll cover it,” he said, before walking away, leaving me staring after him.

  14

  Brian

  “A custom program for at-risk students . . .”

  That’s how the Imani Academy radio spot began. Judging from the crowd, the advertising campaign targeted the right market. At-risk. I hated the phrase. It was worse than a torn-up umbrella in a downpour—no help and something else to carry. It wasn’t just the students who earned the label. It was the parents too. At risk of losing their jobs, their marriages, and sometimes even their minds.

  Right now, I felt at risk of going crazy myself. Maybe I already had. I ran my thumb across my lips and slid into my chair at the registration table. While I processed a grandmother with a kind smile and the six thugs in matching outfits who turned out to be her grandsons, what just happened outside turned over in my mind.

  I couldn’t make sense of it any way I turned it, so I just let it go. Or pretended to. Women approached me all the time, but nothing usually came of it. Especially not lately. In the past year, I’d just been . . . hesitant. Until tonight.

  If I could find that Okoye woman again, I’d apologize, but that might just make things worse. I hoped I hadn’t gotten myself into a mess. These days, a man couldn’t be too careful, litigation being such as it is. I warned my male students every day. Look, but don’t touch. Now here I was doing the opposite.

  A corporate couple signed in next, pulling along their son, with hair spiked like a porcupine and snakes tattooed around his neck. The father looked unsure, but the mother, briefcase in hand and Bluetooth in operation, had a set, determined line across her mouth.

  Next came Mr. McKnight, a man whose blood pressure was high and his tolerance for foolishness low. I’d picked that up the first time I’d met him. I think they sent him to anger management class over the summer too. We’d both blown up over his son Sean, a former student of mine who’d made some bad choices and landed me in a mess of trouble. As usual, Joyce had neglected to tell me that the boy would be back.

  “This was mandatory, right, Dr. Mayfield?” Mr. McKnight didn’t look up from signing his name.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, glancing at the V-shaped sweat stain bleeding into his embroidered nametag. I’d worked those kinds of jobs in undergrad and knew what happened when someone left early: a short check and less hours next week.

  Sean’s two-hundred-dollar sneakers told the rest of the story: a child spending money faster than a man could make it. And from the look on the boy’s face, his attitude hadn’t changed since last spring when he’d gone from being an honor student to a troublemaker. Whatever teacher got him this time around would have their hands full.

  Mr. McKnight stared me down. “I know that Sean has made some mistakes, especially with you, but he’s sorry. I know you stayed on him because you cared. Can I trust you to keep an eye on him again?”

  The impulsive man who’d twirled a woman in the parking lot was gone. Left behind was me, cold, calculating, and definitely keeping it real. Then I looked at that sweat stain, thought about how hot his day had been, how much hotter it was working under a car.

  “Yeah. I’ll keep an eye on your boy.” I shook his hand. “Come see me on your next day off. My car might not be on the lot, but I’ll be here. Somebody hit my car tonight.”

  Sean’s father smiled a broad, full smile. “Now that I can help you with, bruh. Bring it by Monday morning. I’ll take care of you.”

  He shook my hand and gave Sean a pat on the back before turning back for the door. I wasn’t surprised to see him go. He’d probably come to talk to me more than anything.

  Sean waited for his father to leave and then joined another group of boys with no parents, some who looked too old to even be in high school, but they all had registration forms in their hands and were listening to the orientation. Still, I planned to keep an eye on them.

  Everyone was signed in now and Joyce had started her presentation. The crowd was something to see—the “smart kids gone bad” crowd interspersed with the “last stop before jail” crew. Their arms were crossed and their eyes steely, the look of most first timers. It was going to be another long year, but I wouldn’t miss it for anything.

  Just as I realized I was hungry, I smelled cedarwood and lime. I pushed back my chair and stood to my feet. Only one of my kids smelled like that. Quinn Rankin, my favorite student.

  He’d grown. I could hardly believe it. Quinn and I stood almost eye-to-eye, with him looking down on me just a bit. He must have grown five inches over the summer. “Boy! What happened to you? What are you, six-two?”

  “Six-three.” Quinn laughed and put his plate down on the table before giving me a firm handshake.

  Unlike other students who invaded my personal space trying to hug me, Quinn knew I wasn’t up for all that. If I was going to hug a student, though, it probably would have been him. His white satin scholar jacket stopped several inches above his wrists.

  Three years ago, I’d been a professor at Ohio State, a bestselling author and international lecturer. Quinn Rankin was a pimply faced beanpole who could barely read. Joyce convinced both of us to come to Imani. Seeing the polite, intelligent young man in front of me, I was glad she did.

  While many students balked at my sometimes unorthodox teaching strategies, Quinn reveled in them. Despite his deficits in learning, by the end of the first year, he was near the head of the class. This year, he was expected to be valedictorian. Something about him seemed different tonight, though. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

  “Well, I’m headed out. I just came to get some hookup with the cook up, if you know what I’m saying. Wanna split with me?”

  I was no good at sharing things, especially if it was something I really wanted. “I’ll get my own.”

  Quinn waved goodbye. “Okay, but hurry up. Miss Thelma is shutting it down.”

  He didn’t have to tell me twice. While Joyce prattled on about the Imani vision, I slid into the last place in the burrito line. I stepped in front of Miss Thelma with a smile and a tray, hoping she’d be in a good, but quiet, mood. I wasn’t up for the sermons tonight.

  “Two supremes, please. And a sweet tea with lemon.” The sugar would give me a headache after so long without it, and the beef and dairy would deal its own blow. Between the woman outside and Sean McKnight showing up, I just needed to get something to eat. Might as well go all the way.

  Miss Thelma gave me a suspicious look. “Don
e with the vegan thing?” She looked down at the food.

  “For now.” I left it at that. She’d let me know when to talk, just as she had in the years when she’d served me lunch every day at school. In the evenings, in her house across the street from where I’d grown up, she spooned up wisdom as well. No doubt, she’d have an extra helping of advice for me tonight.

  Thelma patted her face with a napkin, soaking up the foundation, two shades too light, pooling under her chin. She adjusted her hairnet and pushed back her gloves at the knuckle. “What you need is a wife—”

  “Don’t even go there,” I said. “I’m still recovering from the last time you set me up.”

  “Lottie?” Thelma ladled cheddar sauce onto a mound of meat. “Give her another chance. She’s a little rough around the edges, that’s all.” She handed me a plate and a cup with a lemon wedge on its rim.

  I took my plate and gave a snort. “A little rough? She cursed like a sailor and drank like a fish. We went to a nightclub. Can you imagine? That is so played out.”

  The older woman shrugged. “You won’t come to church and meet a real woman, so what can I do?”

  I grabbed the last pack of nuclear taco sauce and lowered my voice since Joyce was raising hers. That was her way of saying I was too loud.

  “I’m going before you get me in trouble,” I whispered before turning away.

  “You’re already in trouble and don’t have sense enough to know it.” Thelma’s voice carried across the room.

  Without bothering to turn to face Joyce, I knew that was probably the last straw. I took a bite of my burrito, knowing she’d never let me finish it. The food was good, but a little too greasy to enjoy on the run. I tried not to think about the nutrition facts or lack of them. I tried not to think of that woman with the African name and an Ohio accent. I tried and failed at both.

  All that pretty hair.

  I took another bite and wiped my mouth with a napkin before tossing the rest of it. As hungry as I was, I couldn’t stomach that stuff. I was starting to make myself sick, in more ways than one.

  Let it go. Anger management has made you soft.

  In truth, it’d just made me more angry. No matter how happy I was when I arrived, after an hour of “so tell us about your anger,” I couldn’t help but get mad. That, of course, meant another session. Eventually, I caught on. Told them what they wanted to hear. My mother issues and all that mess. In the months since, though, I’d wondered how much of it was actually true.

  Just as I was checking the door for an early escape, I heard my name over the mike.

  “Most of you now have probably heard of our next staff member or seen him on television. We’re thankful that, though he could do many other things, he’s chosen to stay with us another year. Please welcome Dr. Brian Mayfield.”

  So much for early exits. I made my way to the microphone.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Sean,” I whispered through my teeth, quickly recovering with a smile.

  “Let the Lord handle it, baby,” she whispered back, dropping her head so low that a salt-and-pepper curl tumbled down into her eyes.

  She knew how to get me in place, but I had signals of my own as well. Another word from Joyce about God and we’d both be in a place that neither of us wanted to visit. Especially not tonight. I said my piece nice and easy, with my TV voice, the one they wanted to hear, that made them think we’d be able to do all Joyce was promising. I needed to hear it myself.

  Zeely Wilkins had the microphone now, talking about plans in the math department for another great year. I tried to listen, but I’d heard it all before. Or at least I thought so . . .

  Joyce took back the microphone. “Thanks, Ms. Wilkins. We’re almost done, everyone. Hang on a little longer. This part will only take a minute.”

  I looked behind me for a chair. I didn’t go to church anymore, but I knew that the Bible said that a thousand years is like a day to God. Well, for Joyce, a minute meant at least an hour.

  “The two women I want to introduce next are both special to me for many different reasons. The main reason is that they accepted my last-minute invitation to join the Imani Academy faculty. Give a hand to my Bantus as both these ladies were once my students.”

  Two women stood up. One with neon pink lipstick and a matching miniskirt. The other, a few inches taller than the first, wearing a mustard yellow dress with wine-colored flowers that I hadn’t been able to see clearly outside.

  Grace Okoye.

  The introductions didn’t go well, probably because we’d all met under less than the best circumstances.

  Joyce started with Lottie first. She looked even crazier than when I’d seen her on our last date. In her fashion, Joyce introduced her as though she were a queen. “This is Charlotte Wells. She’ll be teaching art. She’s done some wonderful murals and some local exhibits. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”

  I coughed into my fist. “We’ve met.”

  “I know Dr. Mayfield quite well,” she said, taking a step closer to me. “I know his answering machine even better.”

  Here we go.

  “Right. Well, you know how it is getting ready for school and all. Busy.” I fumbled with something, trying not to think about what kind of year this was going to be.

  Joyce released Lottie’s hand. “Thank you, Charlotte. Please continue your orientation. I look forward to seeing you on Monday.”

  Lottie nodded at Joyce.

  She winked at me.

  I stared at Grace, who looked away just as Joyce wound an arm around her waist. My mentor beamed like a proud mother as she made the introduction. “This is my butterfly. A chrysalis I saw emerge before my own eyes. You probably don’t remember it, but you were there too. I get chills sometimes just thinking of it.”

  Though I’m not one for the emotions much, a shudder of memory prickled my skin too. It was her. The dancer.

  Joyce laced fingers with Grace. “This is Dr. Mayfield. He was the drummer for that first Ngozi class you came to.”

  It was Grace’s turn to stare. Her look, and the fear streaking through it, made me remember how she’d never shown up for our recital. How I’d drummed for Zeely but it wasn’t the same because her legs were shorter. Or at least that’s what I told myself then. Now, seeing her again, I knew that it wasn’t the same because it wasn’t her.

  I reached for Grace’s hand and spoke in a voice much lower than the tone I’d spoken with outside. It was as if talking too loud would break the moment, shatter the memory. There was something here between us, something I’d felt that first day when she danced right up to my drum, something quiet and easily frightened away. “You had another name then,” I said, forgoing any pleasantries.

  She smiled, but with another flash of fear. “Diana. It’s my first name. Grace is my middle. I go by Grace now.”

  “Right.” Her hand was big for a woman’s, with long, tapered fingers. It fit perfectly in my palm. No woman’s hand had ever fit there before, not even my wife’s. I’d thought that when I found a woman’s hand that fit in mine, it would have been my mother’s. Instead this dancer, this Grace with her unexpected perfume and innocent drape of her dress, had the hand that fit. I forgot myself and brought it to my lips.

  Again.

  I countered by kissing her knuckles and taking a deep bow, welcoming her back home in a stammering monologue that made no sense. In just a few minutes, she’d reduced me into a shy, angry boy again, one who’d wondered for longer than he should have where she had gone back in 1985.

  Grace’s eyes fluttered closed. Only when I leaned in closer did I hear the short, breathy prayer.

  “God help me,” she’d said, hardly speaking at all.

  Amen, I thought before I could reason it away. Amen.

  Joyce gave us a puzzled yet satisfied look of her own. Perhaps she’d realized that Grace had accomplished in a few minutes what she’d been trying to do for the past five years: getting me to acknowledge and approach God. I maintained
that I didn’t believe, but she knew me better than that. What she didn’t know was that until a few minutes ago, I hadn’t known myself better than that. I’d believed in my not believing. It was easier that way. Much easier than this.

  I let go of Grace’s hand, but she linked my pinky. I tucked both our hands behind my back, which only brought her closer.

  “She hit my car today,” I said for no reason in particular, stiffening with the words as if expecting another impact.

  Joyce shook her head. Grace and I were laughing too, just a little with our lips barely parted. Still it was something, just enough to make me wonder if Grace would ever dance for me again. I saw it in my mind, her dancing that first time, then Joyce spoke and turned everything upside down.

  “I’m not sure what happened in the parking lot, but it must have broken the ice because you two seem to be getting along. That will be a great asset this year while you’re teaching together.”

  That made me let go of Grace and latch on to my anger, held in check by a thin leash. Joyce remained still, her collarbone rising and falling fast above the scoop of her silk shell. I’d upset her, but I couldn’t help it. Did she think I needed a babysitter? Was this about that McKnight boy? I kept asking but she wouldn’t budge. No answers.

  Grace moved as much as Joyce stood still, crossing her arms and recrossing them, staring off behind me as though she saw something we could not. I didn’t turn around to check. I’d seen her dance. She could definitely see things I couldn’t. For now, Joyce’s words were enough to handle.

  Joyce delivered her explanation with a look of finality. The facts were these: Grace was to be my partner, not an observer. I hadn’t done anything wrong, this was nothing personal.

  My eyes eased back to Grace in her mustard yellow wrap dress and earrings as big as fists. Looking at her, I knew that Joyce had never been more wrong. This was all too personal.