Love's Challenges Page 3

  My kids moved down so that I could slide into the pew beside them. Since they were little, I always made them sit either beside me, one pew before or behind the one in which I was seated. That way I could keep an eye on them. As soon as I straightened from setting my purse down, I felt a presence at my side.

  I glanced over to see Roberto standing there, Bible in hand. When I simply stood there in shocked disbelief, he crowded me until I moved over, placed his Bible in the book holder attached to the back of the pew and calmly stood beside me singing, as though we sat together in church every Sunday.

  I wanted to sink through the floor. I could literally feel the surprised stares turned in our direction. While we hadn’t discussed it, I’d assumed that we’d keep whatever this was growing between us our secret until we—I—was ready for others to know. Apparently I was wrong.

  There was nothing to do but brazen it out.

  When it was time to be seated, I made sure there was plenty of space between us. No sense giving the gossipers more fuel. I might as well not have bothered. Roberto closed the gap and what space remained quickly dwindled when he placed his hand on the back of the pew behind me, and crossed the foot of the leg closest to me over his knee, in the manner of men.

  How was I supposed to concentrate on the Word being preached with his thigh brushing against mine? And when he leaned over to grab his Bible, his face came so close to my own that I felt his breath on my cheek. It disconcerted me to the point where I had difficulty locating the scripture Pastor called out. I gave up when Roberto held his Bible out for me to share, already opened to the right passage. I sighed, set mine to the side and helped hold up his as we both followed along and read.

  As hard as I tried to concentrate on the message, it simply wasn’t possible. Roberto, I discovered, was a toucher. I don’t know why I hadn’t realized this about him before. Maybe he’d been holding back but had now given himself permission to let go. Or maybe I had when I told him I was willing to give us a try.

  It was totally unconscious on his part I’m sure, but he was driving me to distraction. When he wasn’t playing with my hair, he was running his fingertips up and down the side of my neck, sending chills through my body. The few glances I slid his way revealed that he was totally intent on the preached Word, and completely unaware of what he was doing and its effect on me.

  I could have requested that he stop, but then that would have drawn even more attention to us. Already I could tell that there were people in the congregation—the women in particular—that were watching us instead of Pastor. I groaned inwardly and forced myself to endure.

  At the end of his message, Pastor invited us all to come to the altar. Roberto stood and waited until I’d entered the aisle, then escorted me to the front of the church with his hand on my lower back. If there was anyone there that was unaware or in any doubt that there was something between us, his actions just cinched it. I walked a bit faster, suddenly desperately needing this time of prayer. Unfortunately I left the altar just as unnerved as I arrived.

  As soon as the last amen was said, I motioned toward the car. That was my cue to the kids that I didn’t want to linger after service to speak to anyone, nor would I tolerate them doing so. I am ready to go. Out the corner of my eye I could see several of the bolder busybodies of the church headed our way. Fortunately, I made it a habit to park at the back of the church, allowing me to leave by the rear exit. If I moved fast enough, I could be gone before they made it to my side of the sanctuary.

  I was gathering my belongings when I heard my son ask, “Roberto, you coming to the house for dinner?”

  I determined then and there that my son and I needed to have a serious talk. Sundays were chill days, the one day a week I got to relax. The last thing I wanted to do was entertain. I might miss out on my nap.

  “That depends on your mother,” Roberto responded.

  I straightened to find the three of them looking at me expectantly. “There’s more than enough food,” I acknowledged with an inward sigh, hoping my reluctance didn’t show. To say otherwise would have been selfish and rude.

  “Then I happily accept your invitation,” he told Brendon with a smile.

  I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and realized the biddies—Lord, forgive me—the women were getting closer. “Excuse us, Roberto. If you’re joining us, I need to get going so I can finish.”

  “So I have time to go home and change out of this suit?” he questioned as he slowly stepped into the aisle.

  I brushed by him before he was completely clear. “Take your time. We’ll wait. See you at the house,” I stated and then rushed toward the exit like my dress was on fire, leaving my children struggling to keep up.

  “Mom, Mother Brown is calling you,” Bree called out.

  “She’ll have to catch me later. Let’s go!”

  I made it out of the sanctuary and parking lot without being stopped, only because I pretended not to see the hands raised in an attempt to get my attention and ignored the voices calling my name.

  Thank God for crock pots. My meal was already done, no extra work required. Today’s dinner was pot roast and vegetables. I threw the roast in the pot last night and let it cook on low, and this morning before church I added two bags of frozen vegetables for stew that I got out of the freezer department at Wal-Mart.

  Knowing I wouldn’t have long, I went straight to my room and changed clothes. I may not get to take my nap, but I was determined that nothing else of my Sunday ritual would change. I pulled out my shapeless blue T-shirt dress that I like to wear while relaxing. It had a scoop neckline and three-quarter sleeves. It was slightly faded from many washings, but other than that, perfectly acceptable to wear out in public. I liked it because I’d purchased it a size too large, so it was loose and comfortable, just the way I preferred my clothing to be.

  As I put up the dress I’d worn to church, I tried to ignore my bed, which was calling my name. My kids loved my bed because it was so comfortable. I couldn’t afford a pillowtop mattress, so I’d made my own. Resting on top of my queen-size mattress was one of those foam bed cushion/liners with the egg-crate bubbles. On top of that was a pillowed mattress cover about a half-inch thick. I didn’t lie on my bed so much as I sank into it. Added to that was a mountain of pillows.

  Yes, I really loved my bed.

  When I came out the room, my son was already in the kitchen, looking in the pot. I remembered the little chat we needed to have. “Brendon, before you invite someone to the house for dinner, you need to check with me first.”

  He gave me a confused look. “But I thought you liked Roberto.”

  “I do, but you still have to clear it with me. Don’t I make you ask me first before inviting your friends over to the house?”

  “Yeah,” he cautiously answered.

  “This is the same thing. I don’t care if it’s family, you still have to get my permission. What if I’d decided that I didn’t want what I’d cook and we were going out to eat instead?” Something that happened rather frequently in our household.

  “I didn’t think of it that way. Am I in trouble?” He looked up at me with wary brown eyes. Poor thing hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet, so he was still several inches shorter than me.

  “No, I just want you to start thinking before you act, okay?”

  “Alright.”

  “Now get out of my pot and go wash your hands. I know you haven’t,” I told him with a smile.

  He gave me a sheepish grin and went to do as he was told. As he left, Bree came bouncing into the kitchen. “Do we have to eat to the table again today?”

  “No, why?”

  “I want to watch Why Did I Get Married?”

  We each had a ritual. I went to sleep. Brendon read or played games. Breanna watched Tyler Perry DVDs, either the plays or the movies. We had the whole collection. Many times she fell asleep, but that was the whole point. She was the only person I knew that had favorite movies she selected when she wanted to
nap, and not because the movie bored her to sleep. These were movies she loved and watched so much she could quote the whole thing. Weird.

  “You can eat in the living room.” It’s where we normally took our meals anyway, in front of the television.

  “Good.” Happy, she went to go find the movie and set up the DVD player.

  Roberto arrived shortly afterwards. I answered the door this time. He looked good enough to eat. I’m saved, not dead. Roberto was one fine specimen of manhood, something I tended to forget when he was dressed in suits or dress shirts and slacks. Today he had on a pair of faded black jeans that clung to bulging quads and a long-sleeved black tee that molded to his massive chest and biceps.

  I knew he was retired Navy. It was evident that he still kept in shape. His salt-and-pepper hair may proclaim him to be in his mid-to-late 40s as I knew him to be, but his body was that of a much younger man.

  Briefly I questioned why he was interested in me. There were a lot of nicer looking women, with better shapes in the church that didn’t have the emotional baggage I was carrying. Why not pursue one of them? Maybe one day I’d find the nerve to ask.

  I suddenly realized I had him standing there in the doorway, and hadn’t spoken or moved to allow him in. “Sorry,” I exclaimed as I swung the door wide and got out of the way. “I’m not used to seeing you in jeans,” I excused my behavior.

  Good thing I wasn’t the drooling type or I’d be mopping up an embarrassing trail of spit. I surreptitiously checked the corners of my mouth, just in case.

  He grinned and his eyes held a knowing look, like he knew exactly what I’d been thinking. He probably did. I’d been told on more than one occasion how expressive my face is. It broadcast my every thought without my saying a word.

  “Something smells good.”

  “Pot roast. Kids, Roberto’s here,” I called out. “We normally eat in front of the television. Unless you just want to eat in here, I thought we’d eat in the living room. Bree wants to watch a movie while we eat.” I left the choice up to him. If he wanted to sit to the table, I’d eat there with him but I wouldn’t make the kids do so.

  “TV’s fine. It’s what I do at home.”

  “If you want to wash your hands, you can use the kitchen sink, or the bathroom’s through there.” I pointed it out to him.

  As he headed down the hall to the main bathroom, I had the sudden thought: I hope the kids didn’t leave a mess this morning. I had my own bathroom. Oh well, if he spent any time around us at all, he’d soon learn not to expect a perfect house. We were busy people and cleaning often got done when we got to it, although I was a stickler for not allowing the kids to leave their things all over the place. That’s why they had rooms—for their belongings.

  He didn’t comment so it must have been okay. Either that or he was too polite to say anything.

  I handed everyone a plate and put the crock pot where it was easily assessable. My mother would have been appalled. “Fix that man a plate.” I could hear her in my mind. Yes, the same woman that preached, “Start out as you mean to continue.” If this thing between Roberto and I did end in…I couldn’t even say it—that “m” word—then I wasn’t spending the next twenty or so years of my life serving him. I cooked. He could fix his own plate.

  We settled in the living room with our food. Bree was on the two-person ottoman, Brendon in the rocker/recliner, leaving Roberto and I to sit on the couch.

  “What are we watching?” Roberto asked.

  “Tyler Perry’s Why Did I Get Married?” The answer came from Breanna.

  “Have you seen it before,” I questioned.

  “I’ve seen quite a few of his pieces, but not this one. Is it the play or the movie?”

  “The play, which in my opinion is much better than the movie. Of course, that’s because it’s a lot funnier,” I finished.

  We quieted as the play began. Since I’d seen it plenty of times, I spent more time observing Roberto’s reactions than the screen. While the play was humorous, it dealt with the serious issue of infidelity in marriage, an issue close to my heart. Having been cheated on in several relationships before, this was a sore spot with me.

  Why were men—black males in particular—incapable of being faithful?

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure there were a few out there that knew how to keep it in their pants. None that I’d met, but a minuscule few. I also knew unfaithfulness wasn’t relegated to the male portion of the population, but since I didn’t swing the other way, that was the only portion I was concerned with.

  At the end of the play, they stopped several couples in the lobby and asked them why they got married. The people’s answers all varied. Some were amusing; other’s insightful. To me, what they should have asked is why they stayed together, especially the couples that proudly proclaimed how long they’d been married.

  All during the show, I’d felt like there was a magnetic field pulling Roberto and I together. It was hard to stay on my side, especially after I finished eating. He must have felt it too, because bit by bit, the distance between us decreased. I think most of it was me.

  As the credits rolled, Roberto turned to me and asked, “So why did you get married?” By this time the kids had disappeared to different corners of the house.

  “Young and stupid,” was my immediate and flippant response.

  He smiled as I’d intended him to, but his eyes remained serious. “Really, what motivated you?”

  I could see he was really interested. I thought back to that period in my life. “My ex, Tyronne, talked a good game. I was already pregnant with the twins and he kept on and on about how they should have two parents. I loved him but wasn’t convinced marriage was the best option. I didn’t think he ready for that type of commitment and I didn’t—and still don’t—believe in divorce. I wanted forever. I used to jokingly tell my friends that when I got married, it would be ‘til death do us part,’ even if I had to kill my husband to get out of it. He promised me that kind of commitment. It took him a little over a year, but he finally convinced me.”

  “So what happened?”

  I shrugged. “He couldn’t deliver. The responsibility was more than he could handle. He wanted to go out to clubs and hang out with his single friends, which I had no problem with him doing occasionally. Then the drinking started. I caught him hiding his wedding ring when he went out. I’d find phone numbers in his pockets when I washed clothes.”

  “So he cheated? Did he ever hit you?”

  “Hit me and live to tell the tale? I don’t think so. As for cheating, maybe not in the beginning, but I could tell he was headed that way. Talking didn’t do any good. He wanted me and the kids, but his freedom too.”

  Roberto frowned. “Then why did he get married?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? I think part of it was pressure from his parents to ‘do the right thing.’ The breaking point came when I discovered his lies.”

  “About other women?” He rested his arm on the back of the couch and leaned toward me.

  I shook my head. “I could have handled that. I still would have divorced him—adultery has always been a deal breaker in my book—but I don’t think I would have been so devastated. Men cheat. It’s a fact of life.”

  “Some men cheat, not all of us,” Roberto corrected.

  I didn’t want to get into that with him, so I let it go. “I found out he was lying, not just to me but to everyone.”

  “What happened?”

  “By this time we were living in Georgia, just over the state line, but Tyronne was still working in Florida. He had a supervisor that lived not too far from us that he sometimes gave a ride to. One day, she called and we got to talking. I mentioned how I’d been looking for a job but not having any luck. The bills were piling up and I was getting concerned. She said, ‘I thought you were a school teacher.’ I explained that I was a sub but I hadn’t been getting any calls. She asked why didn’t I come to the Care Center and apply. That they needed people
desperately. This was news to me. I’d specifically asked my husband if the Care Center was hiring. I used to work there and knew I’d have no problems getting back on. He told me no.”

  I sighed and rolled my shoulders to loosen the tension. I was no longer angry but recounting the tale still did things to me. “She asked me about Tyronne’s job at the hospital. I explained that he didn’t work at the hospital. The only job he had was the Care Center. That’s when it all came out. He’d been telling everyone that his wife was a teacher, his ‘real’ job was at the hospital in Kingsland, and that the Care Center was just a little part-time gig he had going. To maintain the lie he turned down every opportunity available for overtime, which was daily.”

  I looked Roberto in the eye. “I was so pissed. We were seriously struggling financially. He could have easily worked four extra hours a day and made enough money in overtime to get us out of the hole we were in, but his ‘image’ was more important than his family’s welfare.”

  “That’s why you divorced him?”

  “Yeah. As the saying goes, ‘I could do bad all by myself.’ I didn’t need him dragging me down. I packed up the kids and moved home until I could get on my feet. That’s how I ended up here.” I was silent for a moment, still caught up in memories. “Enough about me. Why did you get married?”

  “I was in lu-u-uv.” He wagged his eyebrows, making me laugh. “Seriously, I was. The do anything for her, believe every word that comes out of her mouth kind of love. I thought she felt the same. I was wrong. I was just her meal ticket out of town.”

  “What happened?” To my knowledge, Roberto never talked about his ex. His kids, yes, but not her.

  “Once, while I was in between tours, my middle son got sick and needed blood. Mine was incompatible. That’s when it all came out. She’d been having affairs, one after the other. While I was out on the ship turning down opportunities left and right, she was home living the life. I had all the boys—by then there were three—tested. Only the first and last were mine, and she admitted that was sheer luck it turned out that way. Even she hadn’t been certain.”