LITMIR.BIZ

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space. That was all I’d come to church for today, to redeem the time, to set some boundaries in my life.

      Tad came for something else entirely.

      To wash my feet.

      And to take my turn teaching Sunday school. This quarter, the pastor had implemented a new program for the lay leaders. Each ministry in the church, deacons and deaconesses, women’s auxiliary, singles group, seniors fellowship, married enrichment group, music ministers, children’s department and everybody in between, would take a turn teaching Sunday school to a class made up of peer leaders. Tad had surprised me last week by calling to say that he’d take today’s entire lesson.

      I was relieved then, calculating the extra minutes I’d have to run through my choir solo and check with my ministry volunteers. For a moment, I was a little miffed that Tad responded to the pastor’s edict but never called to help with any of the programs I put together. Why can’t I just be thankful? It never dawned on me that Tad had something like this planned. It wasn’t as if we communicated verbally enough for me to read him. Though we interacted often, today was the most words we’d shared at one time since that talk earlier in the summer about my son.

      Instead we spoke in actions, a language of Secret Santa gifts and assigned seats in the choir stand. We shared a silent and frustrating loyalty, both to each other and to the church. Ours was a bottomless desire to outserve, outgive and outsuffer everyone else, including each other. A need that I wanted to eliminate from my life, starting today.

      I’d probably never stop serving in church completely but with a grandchild on the way and my son’s father in the congregation every Sunday with his diamond-dipped girlfriend, the unending well of my Christian love seemed to be running dry. I needed to take Dana’s advice and let God be good to me for a while, maybe even be good to myself. It didn’t seem likely than anyone else was planning to take on the job. At least not until this morning. Now I wasn’t so sure I wanted anyone to. This was just weird.

      Though we were president (me) and vice president (him) of Brothers and Sisters in Christ (BASIC), Tad usually looked past me, as if too busy to give me his full attention. Today though, another man lived in his skin—a towel-brandishing, knee-bending, foot-washing man.

      His towel hung from one side of his waistband now, like a child’s napkin at a barbecue. He tugged it free and tossed it to the floor before tapping my ankle for me to lift my foot out of the tub. How he knew to do that I didn’t know. Did he get pedicures too?

      Too embarrassed to look at him any longer, I stared at my sunshine shoes, the yellow peekaboo pumps I’d made for Dana’s wedding but had only been brave enough to wear today, three months later. Now, I longed for a pair of fuzzy slippers. They’d be easier to escape with. I’d tried to roll with it, but this was ridiculous. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I have to go.”

      I struggled to get up, but Tad held my foot, massaged my heel. He took a deep breath. “Wait…Listen.”

      The rhythm of Mother Holloway’s humming my favorite hymn, the music minister praying under his breath, someone’s wife crying behind me, and the splashes of simple service moved me, moved through me. It started as a shiver at first, then a stream and finally a flood. The room faded as I shut my eyes, letting the sacred sounds close in on me. Who knew that feet could bring such peace to a place?

      Warmth poured over my ankles, flowed between my toes. That Tad. Sneaky. I sat in my chair, head buried in my hands. If he’d only stopped there, I could have endured it, pretended none of it had happened. But as always, Tad went too far.

      “You have beautiful feet, Rochelle, the Gospel-spreading, life-giving kind, the kind that make it to the finish line.” He said it loud, in his tornado-warning voice.

      Mother Holloway stopped humming. I stopped sitting, dropping my unopened Bible from my lap as I stood. The book splashed Tad’s face as it thudded into the water. The black cover peeled back and released the gold-edged pages, billowing at first, then bloating.

      Tad grabbed the book and squeezed as though saving a life. And he was saving a life. Mine. From the cover, bought by my son as a boy, to the notes scribbled in the margin on almost every page, that book contained the past ten years of my life and all God’s promises for my future. Still, I went for my shoes, to run, to save my heart. To save my mind.

      “Wait.” He held out the damp Bible. When I took it, he held it with me, knowing I wouldn’t stay. Everyone was looking at us, listening, but he didn’t seem to care. “Really, Rochelle, your feet are beautiful. So are you.” He released his grip on my Bible, but tightened the grip on my heart. Why had he waited until today, when I was giving up on everything, to get all brave? I held the wet stack of pages in front of me like a shield and headed for the door.

      “If that boy thinks those feet are pretty, Chelle, you’d better marry him. No offense, sugar.” Mother Holloway’s voice followed me to the door.

      None taken, I thought, unable to speak. As for marrying Tad or anyone else, the thought that had always been laughable before became painful now. Why was Tad saying stuff like this now, when it was too late? When whatever shred of womanhood had that survived seventeen years of single parenting, entrepreneurship, church service and a really bad attempt at having a boyfriend last year lay dead on the bottom of my heart. It was best to leave it there. Sometimes it’s been too long for a resurrection.

      On his arrival, Jesus found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb for four days.

      Now at the door, I looked back at Tad, still kneeling and reaching out with those long copper fingers. He was looking at me, his lips curved into a waning moon full of star-bright teeth. “Thanks for coming. You have so much to offer.” He whispered it, but again, everyone heard.

      I stabbed my feet farther into my shoes, grinding my toes into place. Water dotted the canary leather like tears. My own tears refused to fall. After months of crying for everyone else, I had no tears left for myself.

      Tad’s smile, a small one, was like a boy with a secret, a man with a plan. I stepped into the hall, reminding myself of how other women in the church had been sucked into a web of mixed messages and ended up with broken hearts and, in some cases, broken faith.

      A thousands Sundays of hide-and-seek with Tad had taught me never to put my trust in him. Or my hope. Our game stayed the same each week. (“It’s good to see you, Sister Rochelle.” “And you.”) Stolen glances that would have rendered lesser souls legally blind would follow, but never anything more, unless you counted that February eight years ago when he held my hand for four Sundays in a row. He’d made up for his slip by ignoring me for months, like he’d probably do after today.

      On my way to the car, I reminded myself of that, as well as how cruel he’d been to say those things in front of some of the main grinders of the church rumor mill. I’d spend the rest of the year explaining that we weren’t dating, but things like that never occurred to him. I stepped painfully toward the car, trying not to think about the Bible leaking through my dress. How could I start over without my notes? My thoughts? Tad’s thoughts came to me instead.

      Gospel-spreading feet.

      Yeah, these tootsies could spread cement from here to Mexico. In fact, they’d tried to do just that. When pregnant with my son, the doctor had advised cutting back at work as my feet swelled and my not-so-sensible shoes cramped. Determined to show my teenage heartthrob (who I was sure would marry me at any moment) that I wasn’t a lazy woman, I ignored the doctor’s advice and worked more, not less. If my son’s father was impressed, he had a sorry way of showing it, going to the bathroom during my labor and never returning.

      The next time I saw him was on a TV screen as he drank and fought his way through a few stormy years in professional basketball. Though it’d hurt to see him in magazines with pretty women on his arm, the money he sent (a couple hundred thousand, which I invested in design school, my home, my shoe boutique and Dana’s shop) was helpful. One day the money stopped and the only man I’d ever loved or made love to disappeared from the face of the earth. I realized quickly that he might not ever come back. Might not save me.

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