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

heavy lifting at twelve, three, six, and nine o’clock. So she went for it.
    â€œJehovah, one and only…” Delilah began with what she felt was the solid truth. Everything she’d had was her one and only: the deacon, the only man she’d ever married or truly loved; Jessie and Tamara, her only son and granddaughter; even her career—she’d never done anything but sing and model. She needed to start there because at the moment, none of her life made sense except her one and only great Jehovah.
    And so there she was. Even at the end of praying for two days, the sense of family she’d seen on display in Jessie’s living room gnawed away at her. Where was that homey feeling inside her home? And why should the deacon be free to remarry, if she went through with the divorce plans? Did she really need to go through with the divorce after the deacon hadn’t been honest about knowing where Jessie was? It was beginning to look as though everyone would end up with a family except her.
    She’d gone from room to room, inside her large rented house in affluent Garden City. And yet Delilah felt as abandoned and as poor as a church mouse. Suddenly none of her mementos displayed throughout the house meant a thing.
    Pictures of her and Ella Fitzgerald should’ve been of her and perhaps her daughter-in-law, Cindy. The ones of her and jazz great Arthur Prysock, whom she’d met when she spent a short time in South Carolina—that should’ve been Jessie standing proudly next to her. Even her precious autographed pictures of her and Lena Horne became almost irrelevant. Lena had written on one of them, To Delilah, my sister from another mother. It should’ve been of her and Tamara. After all, if she could pass for Lena, then so could her one and only granddaughter.
    Delilah had also waited for the deacon to call. When he’d brought her home the other night she could tell he’d softened a bit toward her. Besides, she could’ve spilled the beans about him back at Jessie’s and she hadn’t. Before he’d driven away she’d exploited his unspoken guilt and gotten him to promise to help her get her car back. Of course, she had to also promise not to drive it anywhere on Jessie’s block. She’d only made the promise because she had to. Delilah also had to get her family back, and if that meant she had to park around the corner from Jessie’s block to keep her word, she would.
    But just when she thought the deacon wasn’t going to come through with his promise to call, he finally did. He called that afternoon. But all he seemed to want to talk about was making an appointment to see a divorce lawyer. Every time she asked, “What about my car?” he’d respond with, “What about that divorce?” Finally she’d slammed down the phone out of frustration.
    To her credit, she did want to call him back. She’d sacrifice and be the bigger person, but she couldn’t. She should’ve insisted on getting his telephone number, too. Doggone cable folks would have to keep their subscribers’ numbers unlisted. She’d gotten that tidbit from the deacon when she told him how hard she’d tried to find Jessie and couldn’t.
    But all she could do was go inside her living room and wait. Waiting wasn’t something she was good at or used to, so she hoped the deacon was still anxious for his divorce and would call back.
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    At the same time that a frustrated Delilah waited inside her Long Island home, anger brewed over in Brooklyn, New York.
    Upstairs inside his comfortable one-bedroom apartment, Deacon Thurgood Pillar was pissed. He slammed down the black phone, which looked almost pale compared to the deep ebony hue his already dark skin took on.
    â€œThat witch Delilah just hung up on me. She’s fussing about where I’ve been, like I was supposed to be at her beck and call.”
    So Deacon Pillar did what