Looking for Merci
Fiction | Black and Queer women characters |
Romance | Friends to lovers | Coming of Age
They sat the quietest they’d ever been, with hands still on each other and the Bible. Even in the shade, Whitney’s hair grew by the second as her heart continued to beat faster in her chest and sweat poured from every inch of her scalp. A silk press with no relaxer in the Georgia summer heat was foolish, but as her mama said, you got to look your best before the Lord. Merci let go of Whitney’s hand and snatched off her hair tie. She shook her braids loose like a wet dog.
“Here,” Merci said. Whitney took the tie without a word. Merci watched her wrangle the mane into submission and smoothed out a runaway curl. She stared even after the ponytail was the best it was going to get.
“What?” Whitney finally asked.
“Whitney Marie, they said you like Jeffrey,” Merci hissed. Merci only said her name like that when she was serious.
“Knock-kneed, Jeffrey? Do not! And who is they?”
Merci sucked her teeth. “Don’t matter. They said you like him, and he likes you, and now y’all about to go together.”
“Whoever said that lies like a snake!” Whitney fussed, her hands waving. Whatever happened a moment ago didn’t matter now. Somebody was gossiping and Whitney needed to know who.
Merci gasped. “You can’t say lie in church!”
“We not in it. We near it!” Whitney protested.
“Do you like him?” Merci asked, quietly. Her eyes are big. She held her breath as if her whole life depended on the answer.
Whitney looked down. She kicked her feet on the ground. It wasn’t true, but she thought she should say it was. Girls their age had crushes now on all the boys. They drew hearts and played MASH to see who would end up married to who. She had no doubt that even knock-kneed Jeffrey had somebody draw his name in bubble letters with hearts on their notebook. But Whitney didn’t want to draw anybody’s name. Nobody but Merci’s. She dreamed about them in the future sometimes. They’d see the world. Merci ripped pages out of a magazine of all the places she wanted to go and brought them on Sundays. They’d tuck the pages in between the small print of the hymnal. When they stood up to sing a hymn, they’d mumble through the words and stare at the pictures wondering what it might be like to go somewhere where the red clay didn’t stain your shoes.
Whitney faced Merci. In a moment, the taste of pound cake and sin hit her lips again. But this time, Whitney’s lips responded. She kissed Merci back long enough to know she enjoyed it, but too long to deny it when the back door to the sanctuary swung open, and the click-clack of dress shoes stood next to them. Merci’s dad, a Deacon at the church, glared with a gold offering tray tucked under his arm. The soft white lines on his suit looked like rivers of ice down his body.
Whitney’s chest puffed out even though the air in her lungs felt heavy. She turned her shoulder to put her body between Merci and the Deacon with the Bible clutched to her chest. They’d face Merci’s daddy the same way they did everything on Sunday—together.
“When I get back, you need to be in my office,” he hissed.
Merci blinked as if it were another language, unable to understand words spoken so coldly. He marched across the field to the hell-hot annex to collect the offering from the youth church. Merci’s eyes were already red with tears. They squeezed hands for a moment before Merci disappeared behind the stained glass church door.
A little while later, the Deacon rushed by Whitney alone on the bench without a word back into the sanctuary. The choir started up their usual song to send everybody on their way. Doors flew open. Big hats and shoulder pads marched through the grass, followed by big men in suits sharp as tacts. Little ones got scooped up with their ruffle socks, and Sunday school pictures crumbled proudly in tiny fists. Big men in colorful suits wrangled the teenagers before they got too free. People went on about their business, unconcerned with Whitney’s puffy face long as she was quiet and out the way. The kitchen door swung open after most of the cars cleared out. Whitney smelled the familiar scent of White Diamonds perfume mixed with fried chicken and spritz.
“You bout ready to go?” Mama huffed with both hands on her hips. Her apron was over her shoulder, and she had a new run at the ankle of her pantyhose beneath her long skirt.
Mama nudged Whitney with her elbow. “Where’s the frik to your frak?”
“Her daddy came and got her.”
“Must be an emergency. He came and got his wife, too, before we even started serving. I managed, but Lord I hope they alright. You know they got family that’s been on the sick and shut-in for months now.”
“Yes ma’am,” Whitney said quietly. Mama stepped back into the kitchen with the heavy slam of the metal kitchen door.
Every night after that Sunday, Whitney pulled the house phone into the corner of the kitchen and curled up next to the big house plant like she always did and waited for Merci to call. Although Merci went to that school with the checkered skirts that didn’t let boys in, and was at church more than anybody she knew for meetings and bible studies, Merci always called. Whitney’s mama worked nights so she could giggle big and loud with Merci without interruption, at least until her mama called and told her to go on to bed. The calls with Merci were the highlight of her lonely evenings. For days, Whitney played with the curly cord that connected one part of the phone to the other, and prayed for it to ring.
The next Sunday, Whitney called Merci’s name in a loud whisper around the church grounds until youth service started. She just knew she’d be at the service. Nobody ever got punished so badly they couldn’t come to church. When she didn’t show up to the annex, Whitney escaped again. Called out Merci? Merci? in the bathroom and back hallways until she noticed Merci’s daddy’s car wasn’t in the parking lot either. The search ended in the kitchen. Her mama was alone, and too tired again to fuss about Whitney not being in the youth church. Mama put her to work instead.
“What’s going on with you? You miss your lil friend don’t you?” Mama nudged Whitney with her hip as Whitney bit her lip to hide the tremble.
“Well, baby, I don’t know if you’ll be seeing her much. And don’t you go repeating this, but her mama called the kitchen this morning and said they won’t be back. Apologized for leaving me alone today like she did. Somebody was supposed to come help. But, you know everybody who wanna work already working somewhere else,” Mama paused, taking a deep breath.
“Merci got into some trouble around here or something. They said they gonna start fresh at a new church,” She paused to wipe the sweat.
Mama mused about what the trouble could be—the things girls their age get into with either boys, or reefer, or back talkin’. Whitney couldn't hear her. A big hole opened up in her chest filled with a white-hot pain.
“I’m so glad you didn’t get caught up in all that. It’s always the quiet ones. Lord knows what I’d do if you got into some mess,” Mama sighed.
They went back to work without more discussion because Whitney knew better than to ask. Every so often, Mama looked over her shoulder at Whitney a little longer than usual. The stern stare faded into a smile as she looked Whitney up and down, satisfied that she’d managed to stay away from whatever mess Merci had gotten into. Whitney didn’t face her, afraid that she might see it in her face that Whitney liked that kind of mess too. The grease with the chicken started to roar. Mama thanked Whitney for her help with a fresh piece of pound cake and sent her out of her kitchen.
Everything was as it always was outside. The yard. The sounds of the organ. The butterflies. All the same, except none of it mattered without Merci. The cake was sweeter than usual. The glaze was a little thicker. Whitney pushed her lips together to feel the sweetness and remembered the sin that didn’t feel much like how she thought sin was supposed to feel. One last time, she looked up to heaven and cried out for Merci.
Whitney’s first kiss tasted of pound cake and sin. The sound of the organ drowned out by her heart beats, she felt the warm touch of Merci’s lips on her. Merci’s pucker was soft at first then sure, while Whitney’s stayed limp with confusion. A kiss that ripped time in half to the before and the after. There was no going back. Merci gently placed her hand on top of Whitney’s and squeezed an apology. They stayed like that, one brown hand on the other, on top of the Bible in Whitney’s lap. A few crumbs from the pound cake they shared lingered, a stark yellow contrast to the deep black of the Bible. A little butterfly danced in the grass in front of them in the empty yard between the main sanctuary and the youth church annex. An organ heaved a chorus of hallelujah up to heaven, accompanied by the pounding percussion of their hearts.
Special Sundays, as Merci liked to call them, were magic. Today was the most special of all—the jailbreak Sunday. Everybody knew the annex was too hot. The AC never got fixed no matter how much they collected for the building fund. Whitney wondered if the grown folks wanted them to know what hell felt like so they’d be scared and act right. But maybe grown folks didn’t know that hell ain’t so bad when all your friends are there. The problem was that the annex was just far enough away that by the time Whitney and Merci got to the kitchen where their mama’s cooked and served plates after service, all the pound cake was gone. Week after week, they’d show up to an empty dessert table, but not today. Like two fugitives on the run, Whitney and Merci begged to get a piece of cake early because they’d fallen so ill during service that the ushers sent them outside to cool off. Maybe sugar would help. It’s not that they were convincing, but sometimes mamas are just too tired to fuss. A sweet victory, even if they had to tell a little lie. Maybe God didn’t mind lies. Maybe God loved pound cake too. Maybe God understood a lot of things people said God couldn’t understand.
Part 2: 20 years after the kiss
Merci crashed into every room she entered. A goddess wrapped in the colors of sunsets. The bulk of waist-length braids, caged in a proper bun on top of her head like a lightbulb. She commanded attention like deep thunder rumbling in the distance.
In her typical way, she flounced into the chair of a coffee-wine bar on the Upper East Side—the latest in the trend of, in her opinion, bullshit-hipster-mashups. But the music was good, and the baristas were beautiful, so what was there to complain about?
Merci sipped an emotional support Bordeaux in the bullshit-mashup-shop and waited. She flipped through receipts from her agenda - spa facial, the results of a phone call with her personal concierge to secure the Brunello Cucinelli and Pyer Moss items she had to have, and a 3-hour lunch. A triumphant and packed Tuesday, as usual. She turned the Cartier bracelet shaped like a nail wrapped around her delicate wrists as her phone buzzed with a reminder - BORING ASS DINNER at 7pm.
A long sigh rippled the red in her glass as she lifted it to her lips. For years, Merci’s wife dragged her to dinner with someone, the opening of something, or whatever else a budding power player in this city must attend to be seen by the right people. Black lesbians were all the rage this season - and double points if you’re married - so their schedule was packed more than usual.
As Merci sipped, she imagined what her wife must be up to right now in the office three blocks from there. More than likely fucking her Chief of Staff again. In 35…now 34 minutes…Merci would waft into the front door of her wife’s office and chit-chat with the receptionist about his kid’s games. Her doting and loving wife would enter the reception area perfectly prompt, in an impeccable suit, with her Chief of Staff trailing behind her in last season’s shift dress. A hint of someone else’s lipgloss would linger when Merci kissed her wife hello. All three of them would get in a private car to go a few blocks on a beautiful summer evening. The Chief of Staff’s nonstop chatter in a voice that could best be compared to the piercing sound of the train’s emergency break would fill the time.
At precisely 7 p.m., dinner with the board of god-knows-what to secure funding would drag on for hours. Merci would charm the golden geese in the room with her beauty, and she would sprinkle the conversation with a few hints of the business degree she never used.
Whenever it was over, her wife would pretend to take a call, which happened to conveniently line up with the Chief of Staff's need to catch a cab outside. At home, with her wife sound asleep, Merci would sit in the window, leaving tear stains on the glass—her wife snoring peacefully in the next room. Every inch of their apartment and their bank account belonged to her wife. Merci realized too late she was merely the last accessory.
Living the dream! Merci sighed.
She watched a group of women pass by arm in arm, with a fresh happy hour in their system, bellied over in rambunctious laughter. She silenced her jealousy with another long sip of wine. Her mind drifted, as it usually did, to her mother’s advice. Have your own, baby. Always have your own. Her mama warned her, and Merci, true to herself, had never listened. In the bullshit-mashup-shop, she longed to be down in that little town in Georgia again, with her feet in the grass and a fresh cup of sun tea with too much sugar that tasted like home.
“I’d like to meet that wife of yours one day. You gon’ bring her down this way?” her mama asked softly on the last visit, in the way a woman spoke when she’d been robbed of her voice for too long. Merci was still not quite used to this level of acceptance. But she’d been without warmth for too long to turn it away.
“Of course,” Merci said with a tense smile. The when hell freezes over was silent.
Now that her daddy was dead, her mother found the courage to love Merci as she was, with all the things she wasn’t supposed to be. Too many years of silence collapsed with a solemn phone call on a Sunday morning. (Of course, the mighty Deacon died on a Sunday.) But that was all it took to bring it all back from the box she buried it in in her mind. Her mother. The sun tea. The sound of the organ. And a kiss behind the sanctuary that tasted like pound cake and love.
Part 3
The door tugged. “Just a minute!” Whitney yelled, with a battery-powered mini-fan held up to her armpits.
She’d prepared for everything and anything on these long assignments, but the light blue button-up was probably a terrible choice in the heat. It didn’t matter. Her lucky color was essential for this assignment. She took another look in the mirror. The ancestral force of Eco-Styler gel and prayer held her low ponytail in place against the summer humidity. You’d think by now she’d learned not to wear a press in the summertime, but Mama drilled into her head that it was the only way to be presentable for the Lord and anything else.
Whitney promised to keep up their traditional Sunday phone calls even on assignment. She had to admit it was better since she moved and traveled so much for work, too. She could push their relationship into a tiny square on her calendar. A quick and neat phone call on Sundays after church where Mama couldn’t see her and know something was wrong. And when conversation inevitably shifted to Mama’s favorite topic—marriage and grandchildren—she could feign bad reception until Mama let it go.
The door tugged again. With the drying mission mostly successful, Whitney tucked her fan into the work bag. She still had 15 minutes, and every nerve buzzed as the clock ticked. The shop was relatively empty except for a table with a few blondes in athleisure and a scruff man hacking away at a computer with a baseball cap. The barista had magazine-worthy features, with a burnt clay complexion. Her lips were full and supple, permanently puckered as if swollen from a kiss. She perked up when Whitney roamed around the store and caught the last moment of Whitney staring a bit too long. Damnit, she thought. Maybe she won’t notice. Whitney busied herself in the bagged ground coffee options until it was safe.
The feeling stirred. That’s what Whitney called it now. The feeling she’d ignored for years until it burned her stomach like an ulcer anytime she felt that type of attraction. The feeling was responsible for the day her whole world got snatched away all those years ago. She hated it.
“Need help with anything?” the barista called out. Whitney had inadvertently stared off into space again with a bag of dark roast in her hands.
“Thank you, I’m okay. Oh, that looks good. What’s that?” she asked, putting down the ground coffee and pointing to the baked goods display case. A thick pink rectangular cake was on a crisp white display stand under glass without a sign. It was stuck right between double fudge brownies and coffee cakes.
“That’s new; it’s a pink lemon loaf cake. Would you like some?” the barista answered.
Whitney scrunched her nose. “Loaf cake?”
“Our loaf cake is basically a spin on pound cake. Not sure how long it’ll last in this neighborhood since we use,” the barista leaned in, motioning for Whitney to step closer. “Real butter!”
They giggled and Whitney couldn’t tell if the warmth was the heat from the open door or from the barista’s hand now gingerly placed on her arm. Whitney glanced at the imposter pound cake, and the barista's hand, and shook her head to stop the pounding sound of her heart.
“If you’re looking for the good stuff, I’d love to show you another bakery,” the barista smiled with a different sparkle in her eyes. Cold sweat dripped from Whitney’s temple down the curve of her neck.
“I leave today, but thank you,” She lied, fleeing the scene.
Whitney doubled over at the corner of the block, breath ragged. The feeling burned again. She’d tried everything to snuff it out over the years. The first was Ricky, the one who clumsily fumbled her bra hooks for five minutes in the back of his mama’s Altima back in high school. All the girls were doing it then, so Whitney figured something would click for her when she did it—like when you had to bang an old TV back in the day to get it to work. It didn’t get that far. She went home that night, confused, with breasts sticky from his spit.
Then, more recently, was her ex-boyfriend Luther. A relationship that was two years, three months, and twenty-two days of watching paint dry. Luther was everything he was supposed to be—kind, patient, loving, and attentive. Over the years she’d learned to fake enjoyment for what men liked and found some way to make it pleasurable for herself. Though it reminded her of that time she tried to go vegan and failed because it never did quite taste like the real thing. When Whitney broke things off after she found an engagement ring in his sock drawer, he promised to change into whatever she needed. It was hopeless; she let him go and be a good husband to someone else and buried herself in work. It was better for everyone that way. It also gave Mama something to be proud of as she prayed for grandbabies.
Whitney regained her composure and made it to the office with five minutes to spare. Some of the city was visible from the reception area. The sound of taxis and hoards of people felt far enough away that maybe they were all a fever dream. The receptionist greeted her and shared adorable stories about his kid's sports meets on the walk to the opposite end of the office. She was glad it was fitted with plenty of monitors, whiteboards, and table space for her best work. Even a tiny window let some light in. A lot of folks tried to stick her in some back closet even though she was the one saving their ass. A quick rapt at the door startled her.
“Ms. Robinson? Welcome. Glad you could make it,” a woman in a tailored grey suit, darkening the doorway. “I’m Robin, Founder and CEO.”
“Ms. Green, actually,” she said, extending her hand. “Michelle Robinson got sick late last night, so they flew me in as her replacement. But please, call me Whitney. I thought they emailed you.”
“I’ve been on calls all morning—I apologize for the oversight. Well, Whitney, I’m glad you’re here. We’d like to get started right away. My Chief of Staff should have sent the documentation you’ll need.”
“Yes, I read everything on the plane. We are in a good place to have your organization audit ready in time.”
Robin tapped the desk in excitement. “Great. Conference room in 10. It’s just down this hallway.”
Hours later, they were up to their eyeballs in files but took a breather for a very late lunch. It was the first of many long days, but it was smooth so far.
“So, Whitney, I like getting to know people I work with. I’ve found it makes the environment better. I keep good people around,” Robin didn’t break eye contact with Whitney but gestured towards her Chief of Staff at the end of the table; her wedding ring sent a flicker of light over the table. The Chief of Staff tried to hide a bashful smile. Whitney’s upbringing in a small church had benefits—her radar tuned to pick up on skinning and grinning. That type of slick and seemingly subtle behavior people did when they were up to something. She couldn’t wait to talk to Mama on Sunday about the mess.
“Tell me something,” Robin continued. “Where are you from?”
A hefty serving of chicken and Caesar salad dangled from Whitney’s fork. “I live in Atlanta now, but I’m from a little town just outside of Macon, Georgia.”
“Oh really?” Robin leaned forward. “My wife grew up in that area for part of her childhood and adolescence. She told me a bit about it.”
Whitney nodded, surprised. People typically knew nothing outside of Atlanta and Savannah; the rest of Georgia might as well be nothing but trees and peaches.
“Maybe we went to school together,” Whitney shrugged. “Church or something. It was one of those ‘everybody knows everybody’ places.”
Robin took a sip of her cold brew. “I’ll introduce you whenever you’re both here at the same time. I’m sure Merci would love to meet you.”
Part 4
Merci stood outside the door with her lipstick chewed halfway off. Her hand trembled, clenched in a fist, suspended in the air.
Just knock.
She exhaled and slid her hand down her side instead, defeated. Clusters of braids fell freely down to the waist of her pink two-piece short set. It was quiet on the other side, but her wife confirmed Whitney would be in the office this Saturday. She jumped at the sound of plastic buckets that dropped to the floor. The weekend cleaning crew was ready to get started.
Just. Knock.
It’d been five days since her wife said “some woman named Whitney from your hometown” was in the office. Merci thought there was no way it could be her Whitney. It could be buck-tooth Whitney, who sang in the choir. Or stuck-up Whitney, who teased her all the time. She still owed Whitney a nice crisp slap across the face, so that wouldn’t exactly be a total waste. There was no way it was Whitney with the pretty hair…and soft lips. Then one day, very casually, she asked her wife about the progress of the audit prep - and Whitney’s last name.
Knock. Damnit, just knock.
The door cracked open under the weight of her fist. The office was cluttered with notebooks — but empty.
Merci’s feet carried her in a fog to the bullshit-mash-up shop for an emotional support Bordeaux. Lululemon-clad walkers and tourists were stuffed into every available window seat. She paced up and down the shop, frustrated, and cut through a crowd of teenagers who blocked the path to the rear seating area. Success! One seat left next to a woman with a messy bun of hair that clearly revolted against what was probably a silk press a few days ago—curls oddly familiar to the same curls Merci loved all those years ago. She eyed the woman’s ripped jeans and white shirt as she typed away on a laptop. Another patron moved towards the seat and Merci lunged forward.
“Whitney?” she asked, flopping into the seat and almost spilling her wine. Whitney lifted her head. Her mouth opened and closed quickly as if the words were terrified and slammed the door shut.
“It’s me. Merci,” she beamed, clutching her chest. Whitney gripped the edge of the loveseat. Their eyes locked. The laptop wobbled back and forth on her bouncing knee.
“Please tell me you remember me,” Merci pleaded. In all the times she thought of Whitney, it never occurred to her that Whitney didn’t think of her.
Merci fidgeted. “Light on the Hill of Zion Baptist church, remember?” she asked. “I know we were young, but I thought you might remember me?”
Whitney stared at her without a word. A minute of silence ticked by in agony as the room seemed to shrink around them.
“I could never forget you,” Whitney exhaled, the words inched out cautiously. Her shoulders lowered, and her leg bounced a little slower. “I wasn’t sure if it was you when your wife mentioned it. I was too afraid to ask,” she swallowed.
Lightning struck twice. A familiar rhythm of conversation wrapped around them like a forgotten favorite blanket and settled their nerves. They were 11 again in the back pew with rambunctious laughs peppered between quiet tears. Cracked open. Alive. Every story spilled out one after the other in a breathless search for every word they never got to say.
A few weeks after their reunion at the bullshit-mash-up shop, Whitney opened the blinds to her corporate housing. She would miss the beautiful kaleidoscope the setting sun cast over the beige walls.
“This is KAHYUTTTEEEE,” Merci squealed, sliding in behind her. “I can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow, and this is the first time you let me come over.”
“You act like I’ve been here for years. It took me a few weeks to make sure you weren’t crazy. Who knows what you could be into by now in this crazy ass city.”
“Oh, I think you know what I’m into,” Merci cooed, sliding closer to Whitney on the couch. Whitney fidgeted.
“And what’s that?” Whitney finally asked. The feeling burned a hole in her stomach anytime Merci was around. She’d told Merci her stomach pains were because of all the new food she tried in the city, because there was no way to tell her it was simply how she felt anytime Merci said her name. Merci leaned in close, a delicious grin on her face.
“Enchiladaasss!” she squealed, nudging her phone in Whitney’s direction with the food delivery app already open.
They’d seen each other as much as possible since their paths crossed again. Broadway shows, ice cream in DUMBO, an open-top bus tour, and whatever other silly tourist thing Whitney found on Instagram. Merci didn’t believe in social media—she’d never even had an account—but obliged the requests anyway. They’d even stood in line for two hours to get a doughnut at some Brooklyn pop-up. It was delicious, but that’s not the point. Merci’s designer sneakers were ill-equipped for this much damn walking. But whatever Whitney wanted—wherever Whitney was—that’s where Merci wanted to be. Merci tucked her feet under her and rested her head on Whitney’s shoulder to look over the delivery options. Whitney froze, her breathing rapid, the phone stuck on the first page.
“You alright?” Merci whispered, more into Whitney’s neck than her ear. The feeling roared. It was the first time they’d been alone since that day on the bench. Whitney’s fingers sank into the softness of her belly, trying to soothe the pain from the feeling. It’d become physical in the recent weeks, and warranted an emergency antacid prescription from her PCP. Merci slid one hand on Whitney’s back, rubbing in slow circles.
“Breathe, Whit. Just breathe,” Merci inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. She followed Merci’s rhythmic breathing and relaxed into her arms.
If Whitney hadn’t heard the sirens outside, she might swear she was still on the bench long after the crowds cleared out Sunday after Sunday, overcome with grief for her friend. Praying God might find enough love for her, to let her have Merci. Whitney toyed with one of the braids that hung over Merci’s shoulder like a rope to safety. Twirled it, traced it up, and cupped Merci’s neck softly. Their kiss was as gentle as it was that day. Light and hesitant, then famished, as if they’d starved the last 20 years. The feeling raged, and, finally, Whitney let it run wild.
“Wait,” she breathed out. Merci froze with her hand on Whitnye’s belly. She moved back and forth rhythmically but slowed to stop at Whitney's request.
“We can slow down, love; I got you,” Merci reassured her, kissing her forehead.
“This is…this is just too many sins at once.” Whitney flung both hands up, covering her face. “You’re married.”
Merci chuckled. “Something like that.” Whitney gently lifted Merci off her lap to sit beside her. The sun was almost gone now; the apartment was silent except for their breathing and the hum of the AC.
“It’s not just that. I can’t risk gaining one thing that I can’t even have and losing the rest. You told me all the shit you went through when you came out. I could never survive that.”
Merci grabbed her hands. “Things are different now. People are more accepting. You could give the folks that love you a chance to know you. The real you.”
“You just don’t get it,” Whitney’s shoulders slumped, her eyes welled with tears. How could Merci understand? Merci was okay with choosing this thing over everything, and she won in the end. What if it didn’t work out that way for Whitney? Merci could say this was a fling and stay married. Whitney’s mama could disown her. And then what would it all have been for?
“You want to live a lie forever?” Merci asked, lifting Whitney’s chin.
“Aren’t you?” Whitney scoffed, agitated at the accusation. Merci recoiled.
“Excuse…excuse me?” Merci stammered.
“You always thought you could fool everybody. But not me. You think you’re happy but the life you living isn’t you. You haven’t gone half the places we talked about. Perched up here like some pretty bird - you aren’t doing anything you said you wanted to do. And now you’re about to do the same thing you cry about your wife doing,” Whitney fumed. The fear wrapped around her heart like an electric fence. She knew this couldn’t go forward, and there was only one way to stop it. This was the only way. Whitney had initiated the kiss. She wanted it. She still wanted it. But she could not want it.
She crossed her arms. “Sound like a lie to me. And living one lie ain’t better than another.”
“It’s not a lie. It’s not!” Merci got up, pacing the room. She snatched her shirt from the floor. Heat rose, and the room spun. As usual, Whitney saw right through her, but Merci was not ready to be seen, not like that. It stung like somebody threw ice water on her in the middle of a deep sleep. Merci folded her arms, rattled.
“At least I don’t hide who I am. WHAT I am,” Merci shouted, unable to control it. Whitney was up now, too, both hands shoved deep in her pockets. Merci was fuming now, and Whitney knew every button to push.
“You sure about that?” Whitney scoffed, launching the final dagger.
Every moment of the last few weeks sank like a lost city to the bottom of the ocean between them, leaving nothing but sore waves of reality in its wake. The slam of the door ripped Whitney in half. She fell to her knees and cried alone in the apartment—not for Merci this time, but for herself.
Part 5: One year after the argument
Elbow-deep cleaning chicken at seven in the morning, Whitney counted down the hours until she could be on the road back to Atlanta. Mama hummed with the bits and pieces of Amazing Grace that filtered down through the vents. The organ player had arrived to tune up for the big day. About fifty of God’s holiest soldiers were busy around the grounds, dressed all in white and purple. Women folded programs with big rollers in their hair. Men lined up chairs in the overflow. The soloist ran out into the field between the main sanctuary and the other building with the holy spirit all over her. Mama and Whitney peeped out the kitchen’s back door as the praise team fanned her down. If she already cut up like that for the warm-up, she’d take them through at least three reprises of an 8-minute song before somebody tossed a white sheet on her and let pastor get on with the show. But it was the 100th anniversary celebration for Light on the Hill of Zion Baptist Church, so nobody would mind a little extra singing. Plus, it gave Whitney and Mama more time to prepare.
About an hour later, they could hear the footsteps start to pour in from the parking lot into the sanctuary.
“When you done seasoning the flour, go on and start snappin’ them beans,” Mama whizzed by me with a dozen eggs in her arms. “Lord knows I don’t want to turn on this oven just yet, but the cake gotta go in first so it can cool to be iced later.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she agreed, shaking another bit of Lawry’s in the flour.
“Good morning, Saints!” a familiar voice called from the doorway. In walked a woman Whitney hadn’t seen in decades, with the same high cheekbones her daughter inherited. Merci’s mama was in a modest two-piece set with a big white hat. She carefully hung the hat on the coat rack and picked up an apron like she’d never left this kitchen.
“Praise the Lord! I’m so glad you made it,” Mama squealed, rushing over to the door.
“Whit, you remember Miss Ada Jeffries? Well, it was a different name back then,” Mama shuffled Miss Jeffries over. Although Miss Jeffries gave Whitney a big hug and smothered her in White Diamonds perfume, Whitney’s tongue felt glued to the top of her mouth. She smiled as big as she could but still only managed to nod.
“Still got all that pretty hair!” Miss Jefferies smiled. Instinctively, Whitney reached up to touch her wild and natural curls under the hair net and smiled in appreciation.
Mama beamed. “When you got to telling me about your city trip last year and how you ran into Merci, it made me think about how much I missed my friend too! I didn’t think nothing more about it,” Mama paused to find Miss Jefferies a hair net.
“Come to find out, the church had an old directory they found after they was getting everything ready for the anniversary today. Miss Jefferies’ number was not in service, but I got in touch with her cousin, you remember her? Use to wear her hair up in that big pouf?”
Miss Jefferies cackled. “Lookin like a rooster!”
“Didn’t she tho? But sweet as she wanna be!” Mama cackled.
Mama and Miss Jefferies fell into each other like no time had passed. However, Whitney could see that Miss Jefferies was not the same woman who followed her husband out of the church that day. Her skin glowed in only the way happiness can do. Her back was straight. She wore big gold hoop earrings. Her silver hair was curly and free instead of the slick bun that had become her signature. It was as if the time had stopped - and started - for her all in the same moment.
Mama continued. “Anyway we got in touch and got to talking again. And I thought it’d be a nice surprise if she come help us today.”
“It’s so good to see you!” Whitney finally chimed in.
“You too, baby, now move on over you ain’t seasoning that flour right,” she laughed and winked. “Merci about to pull around the back, she got a few bags to bring in that I made for the leaders. Will you go out there and help her?”
It wasn’t a question. Whitney moved immediately to wash up in the sink, shivering from the cold sweat down her back. She could hear my mama close the big fridge door behind me.
“Maybe Merci can help you with your lil problem, Whit,” Mama quipped.
Whitney whipped around, getting water all over the floor. Miss Jefferies cut her eyes with a mischievous I’m not listening but I am listening grin. Mama dropped blocks of cold butter on the counter.
“She been with the lesbians longer than you. Maybe she can help you find a lil girlfriend.”
Miss Jefferies, who was allegedly not listening, chimed in.
“Lord, I don’t know. You know she left that wife of hers. They was married so long I don’t know if Merci even know what a date is. Talking about she dating herself now.”
Mama slapped both hands on the counter. “Just the blind leading the blind!” Mama and Miss Jefferies cackled until they wheezed.
“Ma!” WhitneyI fussed, drying my hands.
“Don’t ‘Ma’ me! You know Ada,” Mama said, turning to Miss Jefferies. “Remember how I told you she was so scared to tell me. Poor thing just shaking. But like I told Whit…Whit, pass me that bowl,” Mama gestured over to a big shelf of bowls. Whitney surveyed the 10 bowls in front of her and took her best guess.
“Anyway, Ada, like I told my baby. People talked about me because I wasn’t married when I had my baby. I never want to make nobody else feel that way about nothing. There’s plenty of mess you could of gotten into, and that was the least of my worries,” Mama stood proudly with both hands on her hips.
“Anyway, I know plenty of the lesbians,” she said, waving her hands around. “The cashier at the Kroger? Lesbian. The lil girl with the funny nose ring looking like a bull that work on my floor now? MMhmm. Lesbian. And I love them. I really do. And I love you.”
Mama blew Whitney a kiss and went on to talk about her, her attempts at dating women, and her hair, like she wasn’t in the room. Miss Jefferies and Mama moved like dancers in perfect sync with the sounds of the Georgia Mass Choir floating from the kitchen speaker. Finally, a break in the conversation allowed Whitney to escape politely. She stood out back to face Merci.
Merci pulled up on the grass about 10 minutes later. Her braids were still long, and a few pink ones were thrown in for flare. The music coming from the car was low jazz, but she fussed and argued with an invisible person while picking at the big ruffles on her shirt. Whitney watched her sort through her anxiety from a safe distance, then finally knocked on the window.
Merci jumped. She studied her face briefly, then hopped out of the small black car with an attitude. Whitney expected nothing less.
“You the welcoming committee?” Merci rolled her eyes.
“Don’t start!” Whitney shot back. Merci popped the trunk, and about 20 huge gift bags filled to the brim were inside.
“Your mama said it was a few bags!”
Merci shrugged her shoulders. Unlike their mothers moving in sync in the kitchen, they moved like people with two left feet or one broken heart. Their hands jumped when they touched the same bag, but their eyes softened if they caught each other at a glance until it hurt too much.
After the last bag was tucked in the kitchen, Merci moved the car to the lot and sat down on the bench, that bench, without looking over at Whitney again. She fanned herself with a fan twice the normal size. The big purple monstrosity moved the ruffles on her shirt like a slower heartbeat. Whitney stood at the backdoor of the kitchen, with all the sounds of the sanctuary behind her. It smelled the same as it had that day. White diamonds. Fried chicken. The early scent of pound cake just about done in the oven. Whitney’s phone buzzed. Merci lazily turned her head in that direction.
“Oh, so your phone does work,” she sucked her teeth.
Whitney sighed, slinking into the space beside her. “We doing this all day?”
“Not in the Lord’s house,” she stared off across the field towards the youth church building.
Whitney sucked my teeth. “We not in the house! We near it.”
Merci squeezed her lips tighter than a button on pants two sizes too small. She snorted to keep a lid on it, but the dam of laughter burst wide open.
“I’m still mad at you,” Merci murmured, still wiping laughter-tears from her eyes.
“I know. I’m mad at you, too.”
“You ever thought we’d be back here?” she asked.
“I thought I might get struck down by the time I made it from the parking lot,” Whitney clutched her chest in a dramatic portrayal.
Merci leaned in and whispered. “You know, I never said anything. About…us. What happened in New York.”
“Me either,” Whitney whispered back. “But it’s okay. She knows about me now.”
The ice started to thaw. Merci reached over to grab Whitney’s hand. She rubbed the rough places on her knuckles still dry from the kitchen soap before she sighed and put both hands back in her lap. The feeling stirred again for Whitney, but like the soft bubbles of a bath, not a pot of boiling oil. Merci studied the few butterflies that danced in the grass. They talked for the whole service until the pastor started the altar call and the organ heaved another hallelujah up to heaven. It’d be time to help serve soon.
A calm settled over Merci’s face. “I missed that sound.”
“Me too.”
“And you,” she mumbled, still stroking Whitney’s hand.
Whitney looked at Merci; her ridiculous ruffles and colorful braids glowed in the afternoon light. The curve of her lips, still damp from the sheen of sweat we’d worked up in the heat, were the same ones she saw in her dreams. The words never made it out of her mind, but she scooted closer to Merci and grabbed her hand. Merci nodded like she’d heard every word.
The kitchen’s back door opened, and Mama stepped out with a small white plate covered in a napkin. Instinctively, Merci moved her hand away, but Whitney grabbed it and held it tighter. They both looked up at Mama, who smirked with a glint of I told you so in her eye. Silently, she dropped the plate on the arm of the bench with two forks.
Merci hesitantly pulled off the napkin, soaked with butter stains. A tiny piece of pound cake was in the middle.
“Is it still as good as I remember?” she asked, taking a deep breath.
Whitney took the fork and cut off a piece. She gently put her finger under Merci’s chin and pulled her face closer.
“No,” she smiled, holding the cake up to Merci’s lips. “It’s even better.”