Looking for Merci
Fiction | Black and Queer women characters |
Romance | Friends to lovers | Coming of Age
Photo by Kenny Eliason on Unsplash
Her lips pressed soft and sure, but mine were limp and confused. Merci put her hand on top of mine and squeezed an apology. Her skin still glistened from the cocoa butter she rubbed in this morning. Or maybe it was sweat. I nodded silently to say it was okay.
We stayed like that, one brown hand on the other, on top of the Bible in my lap. The last little bites of cake sprinkled on a small round paper plate on my other side. A little butterfly danced in the grass in front of us in the empty yard between the main sanctuary and the annex. The organ sent a low and loud hallelujah up to heaven.
Our Sundays, as Merci liked to call them, were special. Today was the most special of all—our jailbreak Sunday that we’d planned for weeks. We snuck out of the youth church and showed up like fugitives at the back door of the kitchen to plead our case to our mamas who both cooked and prepared the plates the church sold after service. Everybody knew the annex was too hot. The AC never got fixed no matter how much they collected for the building fund.
The first girl I kissed tasted like pound cake and sin.
I think it’s because the grown folks wanted us to know what hell felt like so we’d be scared. But they didn’t know hell ain’t always so bad when all your friends were there.
We convinced our mamas that one of us, or both of us, felt sick from the heat. Even did our best begging to get a piece of cake because we felt “faint.” It’s not that we were convincing, they were just too tired to fuss with us. It was the best Sunday we ever had until Merci did what she did to my lips.
We sat the quietest we had ever been, with our hands still on each other and the Bible. Merci looked at me—kinda of how she always looked, but a little different. Probably because of my hair that grew bigger and bigger and more of a mess. A silk press with no relaxer in the Georgia summer heat was foolish, but you got to look your best before the Lord, even if it didn’t last a day. Merci snatched off her hair tie and shook her hair loose like a wet dog. She sighed big and folded her arms when I took the tie from her.
“What?” I finally asked, annoyed.
“Whitney Marie, They said you like Jeffrey,” she hissed.
My mouth dropped, Merci only said my name like that when she was serious. “Knock-kneed, Jeffrey? Do not! And who is they?”
She sucked her teeth and looked away from me. “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!”
Merci gasped. “You can’t say lie in church!”
“We not in it. We near it!” I protested.
Merci squeezed my hand and looked me in the eye.
“Do you like him?” she asked, gently.
Pound cake and sin hit my lips again. This time my lips responded, without me knowing I told them to do that. I kissed her back long enough to know I enjoyed it, but too long for us to deny it when the backdoor to the sanctuary swung open, and the click-clack of dress shoes stood next to us. Merci’s dad 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.
My chest puffed out even though the air in my lungs felt heavy. I turned my shoulder to put my body between Merci and her father with my Bible clutched to my chest. We would face her daddy the same way we did everything on Sunday—together.
“When I get back, you need to be in my office,” he spoke to Merci in a tone so cold it made her wince.
“And you,” he pointed at me. “Gon’ back to youth church.”
He marched across the field to the annex that felt like hell. Merci and I exchanged glances. Her eyes were already red with tears. We watched as he disappeared into the building. She grabbed my hand. I gave it one long squeeze. My tongue felt thick like cold grits and blocked all my words. Merci disappeared behind the stained glass door, but my feet didn’t move. My head said to go back to the youth church since I’d gotten in enough trouble for one day. But I just sat there on the bench, on our Sunday, alone.
A little while later, Merci’s daddy rushed by me without a word back into the sanctuary. The choir started up their usual song to send us on our 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. The big men guided the teenagers away before they got too free. People went on about their business and didn’t notice my puffy face. The kitchen door swung open when most of the cars cleared out. I smelled the familiar scent of white diamonds mixed with fried chicken and spritz.
“You bout ready to go?” My 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.
She nudged me 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.” I said quietly. Mama stepped back into the kitchen. The heavy slam of the metal door sent another chill down my spine. Pastor would say I should repent, but I didn’t pray a word the rest of the day.
Every night, I pulled the phone into the pantry and curled up next to the green beans like I always did. I waited and waited for Merci’s call and played with the curly cord that stuck out underneath the door. Merci went to that school with the checkered skirts that didn’t let boys in—much farther than my bike could go. She had more homework than anybody I knew. Then there were her family’s church duties, of course, like mid-week worship, bible studies, and choir. All she had to do made me glad my Mama worked nights. But our nightly calls, where we giggled and giggled until our heads felt light, always happened no matter what. Until now.
The next Sunday, I called Merci’s name in a loud whisper around the church grounds until youth service started. No call came, but I knew she’d be here today. She had to be. Nobody ever got on punishment that bad where they couldn’t come to church. When she didn’t show up to the annex, I escaped. Called out Merci? Merci? in the bathroom and back hallways. Another lap. Then I noticed her mama and daddy’s car wasn’t in the parking lot either. The search ended in the kitchen. Mama was alone, and too tired to fuss, so she put me to work.
“You looking all sad, chile, you miss your lil friend don’t you?” Mama nudged me with her hip. I bit my lip to hide the tremble.
“Well, and don’t you go repeating this, 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 and faced me, concerned.
“Merci got into some trouble around here or something. Pastor wanted them to stay, but 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 my age get into with either boys, or reefer, or back talkin’. I couldn't hear her. A big hole opened up in my chest. Pain so sharp it felt hot.
“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.
We went back to work without more discussion. I knew better than to ask more. Every so often, Mama looked over her shoulder at me a little longer than usual. I froze, but the stern stare faded into a smile as she looked me up and down, satisfied that I’d managed to stay away from whatever mess Merci had gotten into. I shook knowing she might find out one day I liked that kinda mess.
The grease with the chicken started to roar. Mama thanked me for my help with a fresh piece of pound cake and sent me out of her kitchen.
Everything was as it always was outside. I even left a little room for Merci on the bench. The yard. The sounds of the organ. The butterflies. All the same, except none of it mattered without her. The cake was sweeter than usual. The glaze a little thicker. I pushed my lips together to feel the sweetness and the sin, looked up to heaven, and cried out for Merci one more time.
20 years after part 1
Merci crashed into every room she entered. A goddess wrapped in the colors of sunsets and the bulk of waist-length braids, caged in a proper bun on top of her head like a lightbulb. She commanded attention like the reverence of 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 hiss rippled the red in her glass. 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, her wife was in an 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 track meets. 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. Then they’d go home. Fuck for her wife’s pleasure, and 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. According to her calendar, they’d all do today and then again three — no two — days from now.
She watched a group of women pass by arm in arm, with a fresh happy hour in their system, heads back or bellied over in rambunctious laughter. She scoffed her jealousy into another long sip of wine.
Her mind drifted, as it usually did, to her mother. 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, Merci 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. Fifteen 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. Her mother. The sun tea. The sound of the organ.
And a kiss behind the sanctuary that tasted like pound cake and love.
Part 2: Merci
20 years after part 1
The door tugged. “Just a minute!” I yelled. I desperately held up a battery-powered mini-fan to my armpits to dry them.
I’d prepared for everything and anything on these long assignments.The light blue button-up was probably a terrible choice in the heat, but I couldn’t risk not wearing my lucky color for this assignment. I took another look in the mirror. The ancestral force of Eco-Styler gel and prayer held my low ponytail in place against the summer humidity. You’d think by now I’d learn not to wear a press in the summertime, but Mama drilled into my head that the only way to be presentable was with a fresh press. At least I’d been sensible enough to wear a ponytail instead of loose curls.
I wouldn’t see my Mama again for a few weeks, but I promised to keep up our traditional Sunday phone call once she got home from cooking at the church. I missed being in person to watch my mama make magic from a few herbs and spices, but I had to admit it was better since I moved. When the conversation inevitably shifted to Mama’s favorite topic—marriage and grandchildren—I could feign bad reception until we moved on.
The door tugged again. With the drying mission mostly successful, I tucked my fan into my work bag. I 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 bold features that should be on a magazine cover and perked up when I roamed around the store. Her skin was the color of burnt red clay. Her lips were full and supple, permanently puckered as if swollen from a kiss. Damnit. I didn’t turn away fast enough. Maybe she didn’t notice. I buried myself in the bagged ground coffee options until it was safe.
The feeling stirred. That’s what I called it now. The feeling I’d ignored for years until it burned my stomach like an ulcer. My doctor had warned me about the impact of stress on the body while I half-listened and counted the specks of purple on the multi-color floor tile. But we made a plan I followed completely - fewer sugars, more exercise, and mindfulness. Despite my doctor’s concerns, I knew the feeling wasn’t stress. If I dared to call it what it was out loud, my whole world might get snatched away again. So, it killed me inside out instead. It churned and turned into a familiar blistering burn as I browsed the ground coffee bags aimlessly.
“Need help with anything?” the barista called out. I had inadvertently stared off into space again with a bag of dark roast in my hands.
“Thank you, I’m okay. Oh, that looks good. What’s that?” I 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.
I scrunched my 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,” she leaned in, motioning for me to step closer. I obliged.
“Real butter,” she whispered.
Our giggles were almost as warm as the barista’s hand now gingerly placed on my arm. I stared at the pound cake. My heart pounded in my ears. There it was, this thing I hadn’t touched in twenty years, in a pink disguise.
“I don’t know how long you’re in town, but if you love cake, I know another cute little bakery we could try,” the barista smiled with a different sparkle in her eyes. Cold sweat dripped from my temple down the curve of my neck.
“I leave today, but thank you,” I lied, fleeing the scene.
I doubled over at the corner of the block, my breath ragged. The feeling burned again. I’d tried everything to snuff it out over the years. The first was Ricky, the one who clumsily fumbled my bra hooks for five minutes in the back of his mama’s Altima back in high school. All the girls were doing it now, so I figured something would click for me when I 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. Instead, I went home that night, pisssssed, with breasts sticky from his spit.
Then, more recently, was my ex-boyfriend Luther. 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. When I broke things off after finding an engagement ring in his sock drawer, he promised to change into whatever I needed. It was hopeless; I let him go and be a good husband to someone else and buried myself in work. It was better for everyone that way. As an expert in high-stress situations, my job demanded my full attention. I could get lost in my work like a detective uncovering clues. It also gave Mama something to be proud of while she prayed for grandbabies.
I regained my 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 me and shared adorable stories about his kid's track meets on the walk to the opposite end of the office. I was glad it was fitted with plenty of monitors, whiteboards, and table space for me to do my best work. Even a tiny window let some light in. A lot of folks tried to stick me in some back closet even though I was the one saving their ass.
A quick rapt at the door startled me.
“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,” I said, extending my 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. “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 had been 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 me but gestured towards her Chief of Staff at the end of the table; her wedding ring sent a flicker of light over the table. I could see the Chief of Staff try to hide a bashful smile in my peripheral vision. My upbringing in a small church had benefits—my radar tuned to pick up on skinning and grinning. I could not wait to talk to Mama on Sunday.
“Tell me something,” Robin continued. “Where are you from?”
I paused; a hefty serving of chicken and Caesar salad dangled from my fork. “I live in Atlanta now, but I’m from a little town just outside of Macon, Georgia.”
“Oh really? I’m familiar,” Robin leaned forward. “My wife grew up in that area for part of her childhood and adolescence.”
I nodded, surprised. People typically knew nothing outside of Atlanta and Savannah; the rest of Georgia was often a mystery.
“Maybe we went to school together,” I shrugged. “Church. It was one of those ‘everybody knows everybody’ places.”
Robin took a sip of her cold brew. “I’ll introduce you if you’re still here when she comes by later. I’m sure Merci would love to meet you.”
Part 3: Whitney
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 at the shoulders of her pink two-piece short set and down almost to her waist. 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 that 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. She resisted asking until yesterday. 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 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. One seat left next to a woman with a messy bun, typing away on a laptop in a white t-shirt with ripped denim jeans. The woman’s natural curls revolted against what was probably a press a few days ago—curls oddly familiar to the same curls Merci helped tame all those years ago.
“Whitney?” she asked, hesitantly putting her wine down on the side table. Whitney lifted her head. Her mouth opened and closed quickly as if the words were terrified, so they 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. But she hoped God couldn’t be that cruel twice.
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. And then, Whitney exhaled.
“I could never forget you,” she replied, the words inched out cautiously. Her shoulders lowered, and her leg bounced a little slower. “I wasn’t sure if it was you or tall-Merci on the praise team when your wife mentioned it. I was too afraid to ask,” she swallowed.
“How are you?”
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 later…
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 so much that she made a call to her doctor back home for an emergency antacid prescription refill last week. She’d told Merci it was all the new food she tried 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 Whtiney’s phone like a puppy with their bowl.
It’d been a few short weeks since their encounter at the bullshit-mash-up shop, and they’d seen each other as much as possible since. 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. Whitney’s fingers sank into the softness of her belly, trying to soothe the pain. Merci slid one hand on Whitney’s back, rubbing in slow circles.
“Breathe, baby. 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 in the closet of her bedroom weeks after Merci was snatched away. Crumbled in a blanket, stifling cries for her friend. Praying God didn’t hate her. Maybe God might find enough love for her, to let her have Merci. But God never did—until now. Whitney toyed with one of the braids that hung over Merci’s shoulder. 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 Whitney let herself be devoured for a few precious moments.
“Wait,” Whitney breathed out. Merci was straddled on top of her on the couch with her top flung across the room. She moved back and forth rhythmically but slowed to stop at Whitney's request.
“We can slow down, baby; 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. The life you living isn’t you. 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 throwing ice water on you 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. She launched the final dagger.
“You sure about that?”
Every moment of the last three weeks evaporated. It sank like a lost city to the bottom of the ocean between them, leaving nothing but sore waves of reality in its wake. Silence. Then, 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 4: Merci
One year later
Elbow-deep cleaning chicken at seven in the morning is not how I thought I’d spend my Sunday in town, but life had surprised me more than once in the last year.
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 I 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 me and Mama more time to prepare.
About an hour later, I 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,” I agreed, shaking another bit of Lawry’s in the flour.
“Good morning, Saints!” a familiar voice called from the doorway. In walked a woman I hadn’t seen in 21 years, 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 done this every day of her life.
“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 Donalds back then,” Mama shuffled Miss Jeffries over to me. She gave me a big hug and covered me in White Diamonds perfume. My tongue felt glued to the top of my mouth. I smiled as big as I could but only managed to nod.
“Still got all that pretty hair!” Miss Jefferies smiled. I reached up to touch my 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 getitng 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, Miss Jefferies was not the same one 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!” I 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. I moved immediately to wash up in the sink, shivering from the cold sweat down my back.
I could hear my mama close the big fridge door behind me. “Maybe Merci can help you with your lil problem, Whit.”
I 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 definitely 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!” I 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. I took my 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 me a kiss and went on to talk about me, my attempts at dating women, and my hair, like I wasn’t in the room. I’d shown Mama how to connect her phone to a tiny speaker and she turned up the sound. Miss Jefferies and Mama moved like dancers in perfect sync with the sounds of the Georgia Mass Choir. Finally, they left me alone, so I left them to their rekindling and stood out back to wait.
Merci pulled up on the grass about 10 minutes later. Her braids were still blonde, 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. I watched her sort through her anxiety from a safe distance, then finally knocked on the window.
Merci jumped. She studied my face briefly, then hopped out of the small black car with an attitude. I expected nothing less. “You the welcoming committee?” she rolled her eyes.
“Don’t start!” I 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 our mothers, we moved like people with two left feet or one broken heart. Our hands jumped when we touched the same bag, but our eyes softened if we caught each other in 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, our bench, without looking up at me 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. I stood at the backdoor of the kitchen, with all the sounds of the sanctuary behind me. 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. My phone buzzed. Merci lazily turned her head in my direction.
“Oh, so your phone does work,” she sucked her teeth.
I 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.
I 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. I pulled my lips in, and my shoulders shook. 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.”
She leaned in and whispered. “You know, I never said anything. About…us. What happened in New York.”
“Me either,” I whispered back. “But it’s okay. She knows about me now.”
The ice started to thaw. Merci reached over to grab my hand. She rubbed the rough places on my knuckles still dry from the kitchen soap. The feeling stirred again but like the soft bubbles of a bath, not a pot of boiling oil. Merci studied the few butterflies that danced in the grass. We talked for the whole service until the pastor started the altar call. The organ heaved another hallelujah up to heaven.
A calm settled over her face. “I missed that sound.”
“Me too.”
“And you,” she mumbled, still stroking my hand.
I 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 I saw in my dreams. The words never made it out of my mind, but I squeezed her hand. She understood.
The kitchen’s backdoor opened, and Mama stepped out with a small white plate covered in a napkin. Instinctly, Merci moved her hand from mine, but I grabbed it and held it tighter. We 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 a fork.
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.
I took the fork from her and cut off a piece. Merci looked across the field again. I gently put my finger under her chin and pulled her to face me.
“No,” I smiled, holding the fork up to her lips. “It’s even better.”