Free Don't Blame the Devil by Pat G'Orge-Walker Page A

the door ahead of her, she would’ve seen the flood of tears that’d begun to soak her son’s face.
    Jessie remained silent as his tears poured. He looked like an adult who’d suddenly had to grow up and didn’t want to. All his life he’d wanted to experience the beautiful flower of a natural mother’s love. Now it came delivered in person and he’d treated it like poison ivy.
    But like Delilah, who hadn’t seen her son’s tears, he, too, had turned and walked away and hadn’t seen hers.
    All those tears wasted.
    Â 
    In the darkness, with only a glimmer of light provided by the street lamp, Tamara rested against the coolness of the metal chain fence for almost twenty minutes, and she was hot. Emotions of anger, confusion, and the need to pray collided.
    â€œTamara?”
    Tamara’s face swung around toward Sister Marty’s voice. The proud walk, the pure white nurse’s uniform—she’d know the woman anywhere, even if she’d not called out. Sister Marty was the sort of godmother who’d laughed, sung, prayed, cooked, and was the one who answered yes when her mother often said no. Although Sister Marty, a petite woman, was a size five to Cindy’s tall size eighteen, some folks wouldn’t believe that Marty wasn’t somehow Cindy’s lost sister. And because Cindy loved Marty for the way she’d loved Jessie when he was in her foster care, the two remained inseparable until Cindy’s death did the parting.
    â€œHi, sweetheart,” Sister Marty called out again as she came toward Tamara lugging two heavy plastic bags. Her usually smiling, pecan-colored, heart-shaped face looked confused. “What are you doing outside my door by yourself? You have my spare key. Why didn’t you go on inside and wait for me?”
    By the time Tamara could think of an answer, Sister Marty was standing next to her.
    â€œI haven’t been here but for a minute,” Tamara replied, not wanting Sister Marty to worry. “It was such a nice evening I thought I’d come down and chat for a moment.”
    â€œOh, now really…?” Sister Marty handed one of the bags to Tamara and started up the porch steps. “Didn’t your father tell you that I was working late and couldn’t make the Bible study? I certainly hope he told the deacon….”
    And that’s when Tamara happened to turn and look up the block. She saw Delilah appear to drag the deacon along as the two of them headed toward the deacon’s truck. The truck was parked just a few doors down from Sister Marty’s.
    â€œI don’t know how you carried these heavy bags,” Tamara said as she almost threw Sister Marty through the open door. “Whew! I need to hurry and set this thing down.”
    Sister Marty was too surprised to answer. And she’d have been even more surprised if she’d seen what Tamara had.

Chapter 9
    I t was Monday, and two days had passed since the deacon had driven Delilah home from Jessie’s house. She couldn’t believe she’d finally seen her son and met her granddaughter. But now she’d grown tired of being stuck at home.
    And yet she still couldn’t wrap her mind around how her only family lived an hour or so away, and that she’d had her car repossessed. She’d have to take three buses just to get to a train that would take her to Brooklyn. She needed her beloved Navigator to get around, and back into their good graces. Delilah was at her wits’ end. Knowing where Jessie lives ain’t doing me a bit of good if I can’t get to him. And what about getting to a church service? I certainly need a car for that.
    So over the past forty-eight hours she’d often fallen to her knees or just stood in the middle of the floor and prayed.
    Delilah looked at the clock in her living room. It was almost twelve noon. She’d heard it mentioned that God was always available for extra