Unpleasant Duties, Part IV
Tank‘s POV
A month earlier“Pierre, what do you know about Lula’s people?” Momma asks, rinsing the last of the dinner dishes.
Not enough. I’ve had the background done. Her mother is a restaurant manager. Her father is unknown and her step-father is a truck driver. Her brother works a help desk and her sister is a hair stylist. Solid working class family. Neither of her siblings is married or has kids, they attend church on Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday, and her sister still lives at home. Sister is divorced. Brother never married. No records, no scandals, nothing.
Lula, however, is known in her parents’ community as the wild child, the one who took off to New Jersey with her boyfriend against her mother’s permission. She fell into sin and vice, selling her body on the streets, in and out of jail. No one’s heard from her in years and it’s widely believed she’s probably dead.
The cautionary tale for every parent. Don’t let your child grow up to be Tallulah Jackson. Keep a firm hand over your daughters and their chastity. Carefully chaperone dates with boys. Ensure modesty of dress and habits and your daughter won’t be Tallulah Jackson. You won’t have the pain Teresa Jackson has.
Of course, less known is Teresa Jackson’s past. Had Tremaine at 17, had Lula at 19 and her first two children were by different men. She drank, smoked and partied as a young woman while her parents raised her children. Her arrest record is as long as my leg and has just about every petty crime out there on it. Of course, she cleaned up at 30, married and had her final daughter. She’s lived a clean and sober life since, counseling drug addicts and ‘fallen women’ and encouraging them to turn their lives to Jesus.
Looks good on paper. The stories are very nearly the same but I find it interesting that nearly everyone the Trenton man assigned to this (Sybo) talked to knew the story. Lula may have a point. Sounds as if there’s some use of her story as a ministry.
I turn to Momma. “Why?”
She sighs and puts the sponge down. Everything’s clean, so she joins me in the living room. I offer the remote but she shakes her head and grabs her Word Search book, so I mute the TV.
“She never speaks of ’em. Lula’s such a good woman. Is it really possible that her family doesn’t know what good things she’s doing?”
I’ve wondered too. Lula is determined to draw a line in the sand when it comes to her family. It’s the only fight we have right now. I’d like to extend her family the same olive branch Lula encouraged me to extend to Antoine. Lula’s answer? “Hell no!”
Today’s subject in pre-marital counseling was the role of family in your marriage. Lula gushed about her love for my Momma and how she enjoys spending time with her and asking her opinion. It’s the mother-daughter relationship she’s always wanted. Momma’s thrilled to have another daughter and she comes over to San Antonio to stay with us and visit with Lula. I love those visits because I’ll come home and my two favorite women are curled up on the couch, eating ice cream and crying through sad movies, but I hate those visits.
You can’t sex your fiancée with your Momma in the next room!
We come home to Louisiana at least once a month and Lula, Momma, and my sisters get together and plan the wedding, shop, eat, go to the movies and just spend time together.
Sometimes I feel like they’re ganging up on me. I’m having to fight against attempts to sneak in more colors again!
She and Antoine get along like best friends. She admits that out of everyone in my family, he’s her favorite. Antoine’s blunt and funny, just like her, and they both had hard knock lives that made them street smart. Since Lula’s a rap fan, she’ll go to Antoine’s studio and listen to the artists and enjoy herself. Me and Antoine are still trying and, with Lula there to help, we’re getting there. I had to remember that if I want forgiveness in my life, I have to extend it, so I’m letting the anger and hurt with Antoine go. I told Lula I plan to ask him to be a groomsman. Lula said she’d ask Chenae to be a bridesmaid, which shocked me.
“Why?”
She smiled. “You love her and we’re getting there. Plus, it’ll force her to shut her mouth!”
I can’t wait to see how that works out.
Sometimes I wonder if my family loves my woman more than they love me!
The fact that Lula isn’t close to her family sent up a flag for Rev. Fulmer. He wondered what was behind that so Lula explained in a closed door session with me and him. They’ve been praying but he also encouraged her to go see her family. Things get taken out of context over the phone, he said. Go look them in the eyes. See if there’s love and forgiveness there. Family is important.
“Do you think one of the reasons you’re so close to Pierre’s family is because you reject your own?” he asks.
Lula was stiff. “I didn’t reject them. They rejected me.”
“Have you given them a chance to accept you?”
“I speak to my Momma once a year.”
“And the last time you spoke to her, she was happy for you?”
Lula was running out of patience. He was hitting a sore nerve. “Reverend Fulmer, you don’t know my Momma. I do and let me tell you something: if she’s happy for me, it’s because there’s a ministry there for her.”
—oOo—
Present
“Come on, y’all, let’s have some Church!”
His line’s never busy, tell Him what you want
His line’s never busy, tell Him what you want
His line’s never busy, tell Him what you want
Go on, call Him up and tell Him what you want!
Hey, Jesus on the main line, tell Him what you want
Lord, we’ve been havin’ some ‘Chuch’ for the past two and a half hours. Now, I gotta admit, this is one hell of a church service. It’s rocking and rolling in here and the choir is excellent. The Spirit is high in this building and everyone is hot and sweaty, worshiping with enthusiasm. The tambourines are shaking, the band is jammin’, and everyone is on their feet, praising God.
Momma would love this church service. Lula would groan.
I’m on my feet, clapping and singing, praising the Lord with everyone else. It’s impossible not to feel to feel the Spirit rolling through this building. I wore the wrong suit. I’ve ditched the jacket and loosened the tie. I had to; I’ve nearly sweat through this shirt already, although that would merely make me normal, same as every other man in here.
Hal’s completely red from exertion but smiling. I was surprised he volunteered to come along, but the moment I said I was headed to scope out a church, he asked if I minded if he tagged along. He blushed and muttered that he hadn’t been in almost a month and he missed fellowshipping.
“Hell yes,” Bobby said, stripping his tie. “Go put on your suit, Hal.”
“One foxhole away from atheist,” I muttered, amused, watching him walk off. Bobby will do a lot of things for the brotherhood, but church is usually attended under duress.
“I’m spiritually independent, you asshole,” Bobby replied, hitting the stairwell to the infirmary.
“What’s that, sir?” Hal asked once Bobby disappeared.
“Religiously lazy.” I looked at Hal, who had a broad smile on his face. “Bobby’s a deist. Get dressed. The church is in Philly.”
“Philly, sir?”
“Coming or not, Linden?”
“Five minutes, sir.”
—oOo—
Because Hal disappeared on Candy (who took it surprisingly well), I told him the true purpose of my trip. That intrigued him, so we’re here, enjoying the service.
Whatsoever we ask, in the name of Jesus, and it SHALL be done!
“Sir, this is worship,” Hal says, clapping along. He hasn’t known the words to a single song yet, but he’s been on his feet clapping and praising too. I grin; I’ve known the words to every song.
I grew up Pentecostal. This is home.
The music finally winds down and we take our seats. You can tell the old-timers in the church; they have fans from the local funeral home and they’re going. I’m surprised; I expected this congregation to be small, but there’s at least 100 people in here. The minister moves to the pulpit and sways for a moment, waiting for everyone to sit and calm down, as the ushers begin taking another collection. I grin (Lord, collections in a Pentecostal church!) and drop another $20 in the plate. Hal does the same and we fan ourselves with the programs.
“Yes, Jesus is always on the main line . . . Amen, amen, amen . . . Brothers and sisters, we just have to tell Him what we want! Amen, sweet Jesus, amen. Let the church say Amen!”
“AMEN!”
“Let the church say Amen!”
“AMEN!”
“Let the church say Amen!”
“AMEN!”
“Church, I intend to pray on a subject close to my heart today,” the minister says quietly. “I’ve been wrestling with God on this—”
“Testify!” someone calls.
“—and I need to unburden myself. Let us turn to Luke 15.”
My mind thinks rapidly and I smile, as does Hal. We look at each other and nod. Heaven sent.
The parable of the Prodigal Son.
—oOo—
My true purpose today? To scope out Lula’s family.
My woman says her family turned her back on her and I believe her, but she also said that her mother was happy for her when Lula called to tell her she was off the streets and getting married. ‘Prodigal child’, Lula said, and the term struck me.
Is her mother truly ready to welcome her back into the fold? Or is Lula correct in thinking that her mother wants to use her for a lesson? Interesting juxtaposition there and I want to solve this mystery. My mother wants to know why Lula’s family has abandoned her and so do I.
The minister is Lula’s mother and her lesson today is the Prodigal Son. This should be interesting.
Lula is a ringer for her. Beautiful woman and, if genetics hold, my woman will age wonderfully. ‘Good black don’t crack’, Momma would say, and since Momma barely looks her true age, I agree. Lula’s beauty has yet to truly shine. Her mother looks a fraction of her age. Teresa Jackson’s hair has been twisted into dreadlocks and wound into a crown on her head. Red dreadlocks with some blond highlights. Lula inherited her love of color from her mother. Her dark blue robes are decorated with Kente cloth, not the standard issue yellow, red, green Kente cloth, but a vibrant pink and blue weave.
She’s also a big beautiful woman with strong features. Full red lips and dark eyes. Apple cheeks with square eyeglass frames resting on them. I’d say she’s about 5’3 or so and even with the robes covering her, Lula inherited that chest.
I wonder how many more similarities I’ll find.
Another woman, younger, steps to the side podium and reads the chapter. I’m pretty certain this must be Lula’s sister, Tamera, although she and Lula look nothing alike. My woman is a beautiful pecan brown, all sexy soft curves. This woman is tall and thin, at least 5’10, with light brown skin and eyes. She has freckles across her cheeks and dimples. I see the resemblance though. I see it in their mannerisms, the way they walk and move. She smiles and retakes her seat in the front, close to her mother, as the Minister wipes her brow.
“So many of you know of my difficulties with my eldest daughter, Tallulah,” Rev. Jackson says. I hear murmurs around us, mostly centering on Lula’s former profession. “I have struggled with my faith, praying for my daughter to be returned to me but believing her to be lost to us, believing her to be beyond redemption but not because I wanted her to be. I wanted her to come back, to return to the family and our loving embrace. I want the best for her but I believed I would never know that joy. But I forgot that I worship an awesome God—”
“AMEN!”
“And through him, all things are possible!” She removes her glasses and wipes her eyes. “My Tallulah called me some months ago and told me she was no longer on the streets, was no longer defiling her body shamefully, and was getting married and Church? My first thought was, Yeah right. What‘s your new boyfriend promised you this time?“
The mutters around us are as judgmental as you’d assume and the guesses are interesting. Apparently, I’m a lying snake in the grass, a blasphemer who has sold Lula’s innocent body and mind (and soul) into sin beyond redemption. I’ll be cast into the fieriest furnaces of hell.
I’m privately amused. Hal’s looking around.
“Sir?” he whispers.
“Yes?”
“This is … lively.”
I chuckle mentally. “The Pentecostal denomination is definitely a call-and-answer faith, Hal.”
“Yes, sir.”
The minister motions for everyone to calm down. “I called the office where she said she worked and Church, I found out it was true. My daughter was getting married to a good man, a morally upright man who loves her, and she’s moved to Texas!”
A keyboard trill starts up at that moment and the praise and worship starts up again. God answered the prayer! Lula’s been saved!
“I called a minister I know out in Texas and asked him to check. Just see if he could find her and he did. He called me back and told me God had answered my prayer! My daughter had been saved and pledged herself to a good man, a righteous man, who saved her from her demons! He brought her back into the embrace of the church, praise Jesus!”
The applause is like thunder and the praise starts up again. Everyone is celebrating Lula’s salvation from sin.
I’m frozen like stone. I don’t like this. I don’t like how this story is being told and I don’t like where it’s headed.
“She’s moved out there and she’s going to school. She really is getting married and the minister marrying her is an old friend of mine, Church! She and her man are in the Church, preparing for her wedding. She’s accompanying her future mother-in-law to services and committing herself to the way of truth!” She beams. “And I thought, I‘m her mother. I should be there. My husband should be there to walk her down the aisle and her family should be there to support her. I should be there the day my oldest daughter gets married to let her know I‘m proud of her—”
“Why?”
My voice carries easily through the room. I know the rules: Never interrupt the minister, especially not in the middle of the sermon, but I don’t care. This is my woman’s mother and I need to test her. Let’s see how she handles this challenge to her authority.
Everyone turns to look at me. I’m staring at Rev. Jackson.
“What?” She’s confused.
“Why are you proud of her?”
Heads are swiveling back and forth. Her smile has dimmed as she looks for, and finds, me. “Because she’s off the streets. She’s turned away from wickedness and sin. She’s getting married and doing well. The lost sheep has come home, praise Jesus!” The music starts up again and she smiles, ready to move on. I wait for the music to die down before continuing.
“Has she? Or has the lost sheep found a new home?”
She stares at me for a moment. “Young man, you don’t know my daughter. You don’t know what I went through watching her sink further and further into depravity with man after man. My daughter was a prostitute. She sold her body for drugs. Drugs! I tried to help her. My family tried to help her but she didn’t want help. She didn’t need us so we left her there. We couldn’t save her but Jesus saves! He saves!”
And there’s my answer. Lula called her family right.
Her mother abandoned her to her fate instead of searching for her or trying to help and when Lula did call for help, they ignored her. Luke 15 has three examples in it and the first is the parable of the lost sheep. As Jesus states, if you have 99 sheep and one goes missing, you search for that missing sheep. You don’t go, Oh well, the sheep is missing. Maybe it‘ll come home someday.
Or perhaps my memory of Luke 15 is rusty. I grab my Bible and check. Nope. Memory still sharp as ever. I make a note to go speak to Connie. I doubt she was the one who told, but I want to know who gave this woman her initial info. Maybe Vinnie?
This is a story for the congregation, a safe story since Lula will never set foot in this church. Her mother can twist the facts of her life however she needs to for her own purposes, because at the end of it is a story of salvation and redemption. She doesn’t have to get details right. She doesn’t have to get basic facts right.
This story will carry power because she can testify to its personal relevance to her. Rev. Jackson will appear to be a figure of power because it was her daughter who experienced the conversion and came through her experience stronger. The lost sheep came home.
Except the lost sheep never went home. The lost sheep found a new flock.
She’s the mother of the Prodigal Daughter, who will never be seen by these people. Never mind that she only speaks to her daughter once a year. This story has power.
The sermon continues and as I listen I’m more furious. I send a text to Momma, asking her to pull Rev. Fulmer to the side and ask him if he’s gotten any calls about Lula. Momma texts back that he has, from a church in Texas, on behalf of a minister in Philly. I tell Momma to ask Rev. Fulmer to ax any further communication about Lula; the minister in Philly is Lula’s mother and I’m at her church right now. Lula’s story is being twisted.
Momma’s furious and so is Rev. Fulmer. He texts me himself; he’s instructed every associate minister that nothing about myself or Lula is to be discussed. I text back that the minister says he’s her good friend. He assures me he’s not spoken of Lula beyond the fact that Lula accompanies my mother to service on occasion and I’m a good man. He knows Lula’s mother only slightly, through conventions and national meetings.
Good friend, huh?
The service moves into the invitation to Christian fellowship and the chairs are placed in front of the altar for anyone who wants to join the church. Three people move to join the church, so the service is extended so the members of the church can ‘welcome him into the body of Christ.’
“Sir?”
“Every member of the church is going to go shake their hands, Hal.”
“Every member?”
“Every member.”
“Once?”
“Three times.”
“Do we have to go?”
“No.”
I called it right. Hal is shaking his head. The call for prayer is done and those with a need for prayer move to the front to ask for the congregation’s prayers as they battle the demons in their lives. The sick and shut-in list is read and there’s a call for visitors to introduce themselves.
Since I made a nuisance of myself earlier, everyone in the church turns to me, waiting, so I stand.
“Greetings. Giving honor to God, Rev. Jackson, and everyone here today. My name is Tank LaPierre and I come to you from St. Temple First Born Church of the Living God of Carencro, Louisiana, under the leadership of Reverend Marquis Fulmer, and it has been a pleasure to be here and worship with you today.”
That much is true. Didn’t care for the sermon, though.
At the name of my church, Rev. Jackson freezes. My eyes are directly on her and her eyes widen. She nods, jerkily, and I sit, my eyes still on her. Hal stands, introduces himself and retakes his seat. The rest of the visitors stand and introduce themselves, but Rev. Jackson and I are in a battle of wills. She hasn’t moved her eyes from my face and I haven’t moved my eyes from her. Finally, the final invocation is left on the program, so she breaks eye contact, stands and gives the invocation. Everyone around us stands and we shake the hands of everyone nearby as they head to fellowship and eat a meal together in the dining hall.
Total time? Four and a half hours. That’s what I don’t miss about church as a kid. Half my day is gone but, until that sermon, it was a spectacular service.
False prophet? Hmm . . .
We line up to shake the minister’s hand and I approach the front. The minister turns from greeting the person in front of me to look at me.
“Brother LaPierre, do you have a moment?” she asks quietly.
“I had hoped to speak to you.”
She nods and greets Hal. We leave the sanctuary and stand outside.
“Sir?”
“Hal?”
He looks uncertain for a moment then straightens his shoulders. “Perhaps my understanding of the Prodigal Son is a bit rusty—”
“I highly doubt that, Hal.”
He smiles. “But it did seem to me that major elements of that story were left out.”
“Or slightly twisted.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I would agree.”
“And, sir, perhaps the minister didn’t have quite the correct information about Lula.” He frowns. “I got the feeling she thought Lula just got off the streets.”
“You would be correct, Hal.”
He nods and stands quietly.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Is this your childhood faith?”
“Yes.”
Another extended silence.
“They have a lively service, sir.”
I look at Hal. “You’re not getting the full effect. No one spoke in tongues.”
“Three women did fall over in raptures, sir.”
“There’s an evening service. Starts at 1800. Interested?”
Hal’s eyes widen dramatically. “I think I’ve ridden my pew for the month, sir.”
“You Methodists don’t know how to party.”
Hal laughs. The boy is slick. He’s getting there.
—oOo—
“Should I assume you’re Lula’s fiancé?”
“Correct.”
I’m sitting in the Rev. Jackson’s office, the entire family in front of me. The room is decorated with pictures of the minister and her family with local elite. There are pictures of high school graduations and college diplomas, Jesus on the walls, and regulations. I spotted Lula in two pictures, clearly high school graduations. My woman was half her current size at her high school graduation and, oddly enough, I like her bigger. More Lula for me to love.
The desk is littered with papers, everything from the Sunday programs to half-finished sermons. It reminds me of Reverend Fulmer’s office when Lula and I arrive for our pre-marriage counseling. He always has to shift the piles to be able to see us and Lula offered to do some filing for him.
I quickly shook my head. The universe can’t stand another upset. The man might lose our wedding license the day of the wedding if she files for him.
I called the sister correctly. That’s Tamera. The man on the drums was her brother Tremaine. Her step-father George is standing to the side, staring at me. Tamera is his daughter while Tremaine and Lula belong to other men. Lula said she never knew her father. Her mother had a wild-child youth before finding God and going to seminary.
She smiles. “I’m glad to finally meet you.”
My assessment is done. Result? Snake. I merely nod.
“How is Lula?” Tamera blurts out eagerly. She looked me up and down when I arrived, clearly interested, but now she’s anxious to hear more about Lula.
“She’s reaped what she’s sewn,” I reply coolly, and Tamera blushes bright red and sits back.
“I’m not that person anymore,” she mutters. “I really want to apologize to her for that. I was angry at her when I said that.”
“I’ll let her know.”
I stare at the Jacksons, waiting to see how they choose to proceed.
“Are we welcome at the wedding?” Tremaine asks. He’s calm but resigned, clearly expecting me to say no.
“That’s Lula’s decision.”
That gets a faint smile.
“We haven’t received an invitation,” he says.
“That’s her decision so far.”
He nods. “Let her know I want to be there for her.”
To celebrate her good times? Where were you when she was in need? I want to ask but I don’t. I just removed a speck from my eye and, although it puts me in a better position to judge than this family, no need to push it.
“I think we should clear up some misunderstandings,” her mother says, sighing. “We’ve tried to support Lula through the years. We asked her to repent her sins and come back to the Church. We wanted to help. We wanted—”
“You wanted to make her a story for your ministry and you got one. Interesting story. Just enough truth to make the story go down smooth. That’s the construct of the best lies.” I lean forward. “I’m not ignorant of your story, reverend.”
She blushes and her husband steps closer to her. “Which is why I wanted her to repent—”
“And turning your back on her was your method for doing that?”
I sit back. The room is silent.
“Who are you to judge, young man?” her step-father asks softly, steel in his voice. “You know nothing of my wife’s struggle—”
“And you know nothing of your stepdaughter’s. You judge her and you haven’t seen her in fifteen years. What do you know of her struggle?”
That silences him.
“For I will forgive their iniquity, and their sin I will remember no more,” I quote. “Jeremiah 31:34. You forgot that verse in your reading today. That’s what makes the parable of the Prodigal Son so powerful. It’s not just because the son humbled himself enough to come home. It’s because his father embraced him and treated him as the son he always was instead of the servant he expected to be. He forgave his son his sins and foolishness. They didn’t need to speak of it. He was simply grateful his son had come home. That’s the true meaning of forgiveness.”
I stand and glance at my watch. I’m done. Lula’s decision on her family stands.
“And be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God in Christ also forgave you.” I stare at Lula’s mother. “Perhaps you should try that verse with your daughter. It works miracles. I know. Lula convinced me to use that one in my own life.”
—oOo—
“Yo!”
“Yo?”
I smile. “Lula Bear,” I growl, dropping my voice an octave.
I hear a moan. “You ain’t right.” I smile; the longer she’s been in the south, the more she’s taking on the accent. It’s a weird southern twang.
“I got a call today.”
“From?”
“My brother.”
I wonder if I’m busted. “And?”
“He and my sister want to come visit.”
They want to come snoop on your mother’s behalf. “Your decision, Lula.”
She sighs. “I miss my big brother but I don’t really want to see him here. I want to leave that part of my life behind.”
“Want to visit them here? Over Christmas, maybe?”
“Hell no! I’m looking forward to Christmas with your family. I’m trying to figure out what to buy your mother but that’s impossible. What do you get the woman who has everything?”
A new purse? I’m stuck on your Christmas present too.
Lula updates me on everything going on at home and I sit back and relax. I miss my woman and her never ending stories. Apparently, since I’m gone and she’s bored, she and Rosa Deuce decided to meet up again and Lula took Maria along. Lula also called Stacey, the wife of one of my old frat brothers, and asked her to join them and all three women hit it off. They met up in Austin, ate BBQ, watched a movie and shopped till they dropped.
I’m glad. My woman’s making friends, pulling people into her circle. She’s pulling together a support system of people inside and outside RangeMan. The tension in my body is leaving me. She’s making friends wherever she goes.
“So, how was service?”
I tense. Shit!
“Umm hmm … I know you went. Tremaine told me Momma had a fit. You called her out in the middle of service, and I know you know better.”
“Lula, I can explain—”
“I know you can, but Tremaine already did,” she says softly. “Thank you, Tankie Bear.”
I lean back against the pillows and sigh. Thank god. “You’re not mad?”
“I’ve been expecting you to do that ever since I told you about ’em. Honestly, I half expected you to ‘surprise’ me with them at our wedding.”
“I’d never do that.”
“Thanks. So … ?”
“Interesting. Hal and I both—”
“Hal?”
“Boy missed his church services. He went.”
“How’d he like black church?”
“It’s lively. I told him he didn’t get the full experience.”
“No raptures?”
“No speaking in tongues.”
“Damn! He was cheated.”
I laugh. Lula sounded annoyed on Hal’s behalf.
“Service was excellent.”
“Really?” She sounds hopeful.
“Yeah.” I’m quiet for a moment. “The lesson was the Prodigal Child.”
“Oh.” Her voice is flat. “How was that told?”
“Your story, embellished with some details missing or left out, a couple of half-truths and a few miscastings, makes an excellent ministry.”
She’s quiet. “That bad?”
“Somehow, I became the hero of that story. You didn’t save yourself. I saved you, lifted you out of sin, washed you clean and put a ring on your finger.”
“She fairy-taled me?”
“The truth wasn’t miraculous enough.”
—oOo—
“Tell me ’bout this service, Pierre.”
I smile. Momma held out for six hours. I can almost see her now, ready to pack her car and drive to San Antonio in case Lula needs her.
I give her the story of the service and at the end, Momma is livid.
“That woman has no concept of truth! To turn Lula’s story into some Disney mess and cast her daughter as a weak, silly girl with no sense! Hypocrite! I have half a mind to go kick her!”
“You hate planes.”
“I’ll make an exception.” The venom in Momma’s voice leads me to think she really might.
“Headed to San Antonio?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“Thank you, Momma.”
“Lula ain’t gotta worry ’bout her family. We’ll be her family. That’s one sheep this shepherd won’t lose.”
—oOo—
Lula‘s POV
I’m moping around our apartment. I can’t wait for Tank to come home. It’s lonely here. Just me and the cats and they been fed and got fresh water. I toss Salem a catnip toy and watch him lose his mind playing with it.
The doorbell rings and I walk to the door, wondering who this is. I’m not expecting any packages today.
“Hey, baby! I got chocolate ice cream and everything Morris Chestnut’s ever been in. Up for a movie marathon?”
Tank’s mother knows exactly what’ll make me feel better and I walk right into her warm embrace.
“Thank you, Mrs. Carol Jean.”
“Momma, baby. Just call me Momma.”
A/N: Standard Sunday service at my childhood church, except I was there for Sunday school. 8-2, then 6-8. I’ve been Church’d for a lifetime.
