Born at Dawn

by Nigeria Lockley

Genres: African American; African American Christian

Synopsis

Thirty-four-year-old Cynthia Barclay knows that marriage is supposed to be for better or for worse. Unfortunately, for the last ten years Cynthia has experienced the worst that marriage has to offer at the hands of her abusive husband, Marvin Barclay. With the hope of saving herself and her family, she turns to the Lord. When she doesn’t see God manifest Himself in her life fast enough, she decides that she wants out. Abandoning her hope, her husband, and her two young sons, Cynthia boards a bus from New York City to Richmond, Virginia. She begins a new life armed with six thousand dollars on a prepaid credit card, a sketchy plan for success, and a promise to return for her sons—that is, until she meets Cheo, a photojournalist with enough connections to take her where she wants to be and help her forget where she came from. After six years in Richmond, Cynthia’s dark past resurfaces. At the risk of losing it all—her past and her present—Cynthia returns home to right her wrongs. Has Cynthia chosen the right time to return home, or is it too late for God to restore everything she has broken?

Release date: October 1, 2014

Publisher: Urban Christian

Print pages: 288

Sample

Marvin Barclay flicked on the light switch in the foyer and tossed his keys on the table next to the door. He crept into the living room, reached over the arm of the sofa, and planted a slippery wet kiss on his wife, Cynthia Barclay’s, pouty lips. The smell of cigarettes and vodka leaped out of his pores.

Cynthia rose from the seat she’d occupied most of the night. “Where have you been, Marvin?” Cynthia inquired with her arms folded across her chest and the curve of her hip jutting out as far as it could.

“Are you for real? I came home looking for some loving, and this is what I have to deal with,” he said, licking his lips and rubbing his work-worn hands along Cynthia’s sides.

Cynthia contorted to get out of her husband’s tight grip, backed up a few steps, and peered into Marvin’s bloodshot, hollow brown eyes. “Where have you been?” she asked again.

“Don’t start with me tonight,” Marvin said, tossing his jacket onto the couch.

“Marvin, I’m not trying to start anything with you. I’d just like to know where you’ve been,” Cynthia responded emphatically.

Marvin turned his back on Cynthia and walked up the hallway toward the bedroom.

“Marvin,” Cynthia called to him marching behind him, “don’t you dare walk away from me or—”

“Or else what?” he asked, stopping midstride, casting a side-eye stare full of malice in Cynthia’s direction.

“Answer me. Where have you been?” Cynthia cried as Marvin turned the knob on the bedroom door.

In one quick step, Marvin was standing over Cynthia in the middle of the hallway. His warm breath scratched against her skin. “You don’t want to know where I’ve been.” His voice cracked. “Don’t start this nonsense tonight. Where my boys at?” He began calling out his son’s names. “Keith! James!”

“They’re not here.”

“Where are they, Cynthia?” he asked. His voice was marked with a slight hint of distress and his bulging eyes revealed his concern.

“They’re at Sean’s house waiting for you to pick them up.” The kids often had play dates at their friend Sean Dillinger’s house after their karate class on Saturdays. “Sean’s mother called me more than two hours ago.” She stated jumping back to the subject matter at hand. “Where have you been, Marvin?”

Marvin wrapped his thick, hard-knuckled hands around Cynthia’s neck in response to her question. “Woman, you’ve been sitting here waiting to fight with me instead of picking up my sons?”

Marvin’s grip tightened around Cynthia’s neck. She clawed at his hand with her delicate fingers, trying to pry them from her neck as he lifted her from the ground. She flailed her legs in the air, sending one lancing kick to his kneecap. The kick pulled Marvin out of his blind rage. He looked at Cynthia dangling from the palm of his hand and released her. She hit the floor with a thud and shrank against the wall in the hallway lined with family photos that portrayed them the way she wished they were: happy, united, and at peace.

“Go and get my boys.” Marvin tossed seven dollars at her.

“This is only enough for one fare.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Maybe you forgot we live in New York City,” she murmured gathering the sweaty, crumpled bills that had fallen around her.

Stooping down with his lips curled into a ferocious scowl he asked, “What did you say?”

“Nothing.” Cynthia bowed her head waiting for Marvin to at least be an arm’s distance from her face. That would give her a second or two to dart out of the way if he was going to punch her in the face.

“What do you want me to do, carry you to 118th and Lenox Avenue from here?” Marvin hiked up his pants leg, returned to an upright position, and kicked her in the knee. “Figure it out.” He then walked away, leaving his wife in a positioned he’d left her in on more than one occasion.

“Thanks, Barbara, for letting Keith and James come over,” Cynthia said as soon as Barbara Dillinger opened the front door of her brownstone. “Marvin got tied up at work.” Lying, Cynthia fidgeted nervously on the stoop while waiting for the boys to come out.

“Looks like he’s not the only one who got tied up,” Barbara said, her hazel eyes filled with horror. She pointed at the welts Marvin’s hands had left around Cynthia’s neck. “Why don’t you come in and relax for a moment?” Barbara opened the door wide enough for Cynthia to slide through. “The boys are upstairs playing, karate chopping and body slamming each other. A few more minutes of play isn’t going to hurt them.”

Barbara took Cynthia’s black leather jacket from her and escorted her from the steps of her brownstone into the living room.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to get over here; I walked,” Cynthia said, soaking up the place. In the two years that the boys had taken karate with Sean, Barbara’s son, the two women had never actually been inside of each other’s homes. Pickups and drop-offs were usually relegated to a switch at the doorstep of the parent supervising the play date or a meeting at the subway station.

“Please have a seat.” Barbara swept her arm around the room inviting Cynthia to take a seat.

Cynthia looked to her left and then her right, trying to decide whether she wanted to take a seat on the mustard quilted leather sofa or the spoon-shaped zebra-print chair that faced the picture window.

“Would you like a cup of coffee or tea?” Barbara offered.

“Barbara, there’s really no need in going through all of that trouble,” Cynthia said settling herself into the spoon-shaped chair.

“And there’s no need for you to go through all of that trouble either,” Barbara chirped pointing at Cynthia’s neck.

“Barbara, I’d rather not discuss this.” Cynthia craned her neck toward the spiral staircase and called for her sons. “Keith, James,” she shouted into the air.

“But I want to discuss it. Come here.” Barbara grabbed Cynthia’s hand and dragged her over to the full-length mirror that rested against an exposed brick wall near the window. “Look at yourself.” Barbara gathered Cynthia’s burgundy shoulder-length hair back as if she was about to put it into a ponytail. “This isn’t right, Cynthia,” she said, tracing the welts on Cynthia’s neck with her French-manicured fingernails.

“Marvin is just going through something right now. He’s trying to open his own business; he has me and the boys. It’s a lot for him to handle.” Cynthia fingered the welts herself wishing she’d tied a scarf around her neck.

“I don’t think he’s dealing with more than you are. You don’t have to go home if you don’t want to. You and the boys can stay here,” Barbara offered, releasing Cynthia’s hair.

Cynthia massaged her face with her hands. “We can’t. I mean, I can’t.”

“You can’t stay there either,” Barbara interjected. “I know we don’t know each other well, so this might seem strange or feel a wee bit uncomfortable, but if you won’t stay here, at least let me take you to a shelter,” Barbara begged Cynthia earnestly.

“And this might seem strange to you because we don’t know each other well, but I took a vow, for better or worse. Now there’s a reason those vows say for better or for worse; some days are going to be better and some days are going to worse. It just so happens that today was one of the worst.” Recalling the days when Marvin was sweeter, gentler, romantic even, Cynthia massaged the welts around her throat. “Marvin isn’t all bad, and I’m not all good, so it would be wrong of me to turn my back on my husband. I’m going to fight for this marriage until we get back to better days when we held hands and slow danced to Marvin’s old records.” Cynthia’s high cheekbones rose as she smiled, lost in the memories of the days when the phrase “I love you” did not come after a bloody lip or bruised eye. “He wasn’t always like this.”

Cynthia touched the princess-cut diamond of her engagement ring, which rested over a simple gold band. She could still hear Marvin say in his rich baritone as he presented her the ring while they were seated by the waterfall in Harlem’s historic Morningside Park, “A simple ring for the woman I simply want to spend my life with.”

Cynthia held on to that memory as Barbara presented her with reality of her situation.

“So how long do you plan on suffering through this? What about you? What about Cynthia? What do you want for your life? Forget your marriage. I mean you. What do you want?” Barbara cocked her head to the side and stared at Cynthia’s reflection in the mirror. Her hazel eyes felt like acid searing right through her skin. It seemed like she could see Cynthia’s thoughts.

“Do you think all I have is all I want? Anyone who knows me will tell you I love to cook. That’s the one moment of peace I get throughout the day. I wouldn’t mind doing it professionally, but if I have no one to share my success with, what good would that do me? You know, when I first came to sign up at the dojo, Sensei Kelly told me it was full for the semester and there was a waitlist for the next semester, but I came at least twice a week to check if anyone had dropped out until one day Sensei just said, ‘Mrs. Barclay, I have room for your boys.’ If I didn’t give up on a karate class, how can I give up on a marriage?”

“What good would being in a graveyard do you or your sons? What does your pastor have to say about this?” Barbara retorted without hesitation.

“My pastor?”

Barbara spun Cynthia around so that they were face to face. “You haven’t told your pastor about what’s going on?” Barbara said, wagging her finger. “That’s a big no-no. You can’t try to fight this battle on your own when you’ve got Satan right up in your house trying to kill you.”

“Barbara, I don’t have a pastor. I don’t even go to church,” Cynthia mumbled, her cheeks aglow from embarrassment.

“Huh?” Barbara inhaled and clutched her chest as if she was about to have a heart attack.

“No, I don’t go to church. We can’t all be the picture of perfection that you are,” Cynthia sneered.

Barbara grabbed Cynthia by both wrists and pulled her to the nook in front of the picture window. Both women took a seat in the nook.

“‘Except the Lord build the house they labour in vain that build it.’ I am not perfect but I rely on the one who is to keep everything afloat for me. How is your marriage supposed to stand without the Lord’s divine protection? Why don’t you spend the night with the boys and come join me tomorrow at Cornerstone Baptist Church?”

“Thank you, Barbara, but no, thank you,” Cynthia said, rising from her seat in the nook. “Marvin is expecting me back this evening. I could never stay out overnight, especially with you. He already thinks you’re a bad influence with all your makeup and fancy clothes.”

“There’s a church on every other block in Harlem. Just promise me you’ll find one to attend tomorrow.” Barbara clutched Cynthia’s hands and pleaded with her eyes.

“I’m not going to promise you anything, but I will think about it. Now could you please send my sons downstairs while I hail a cab?”

Cynthia let herself out. She took a deep breath of the evening cool, crisp autumn air that signaled the arrival of October in New York. With each breath Cynthia tried to purge her system of the words she’d heard.

A few minutes later, the boys bolted through the door and did their best imitation of a dog pile on Cynthia’s back, breaking her train of thought.

“What took you so long, Ma? I thought you forgot about us,” James said, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist. For a nine-year-old he had a strong grip thanks to all those karate lessons.

“Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah,” James said smiling up at his mother.

“No,” Keith said, stomping his foot. Cynthia already knew what was coming next: a complaint. Since turning twelve last month Keith wanted nothing to do with James. “This little punk was in the way all the time. Can I leave him at home next time?”

“Don’t call your brother a punk. We’ll see about that next time,” Cynthia said, holding the cab door open for her two little men.

By the time Cynthia got the boys in the bed, her body felt like it had been run over by a street sweeper. She climbed into the king-size bed she shared with Marvin and rubbed her body against his to conjure up some warmth between the two of them. Marvin rolled over to face her and began to kiss her neck. He wrapped his hands around her slender waist and drew her into him.

“You know I love you, don’t you?” he asked Cynthia, brushing her hair out of her face.

“I don’t know. Do you really love me?” she whispered to him.

“Now why would you go and say a thing like that, baby? You’re my number one.” Marvin kissed her all over her face, stopping at her lips.

“Marvin, you don’t treat me like you love me.” She sighed.

Marvin narrowed his eyes. “Where are you coming from with all this, and where are you going with it? Who you been out there listening to?” Marvin drew the navy blue sheet back and sat up. “You been letting that bourgeois girl fill your head up with nonsense?” he said, mushing Cynthia in the head. “What did she tell you, to leave me? That you don’t deserve this? Where is she at now, Cynthia? I’ll tell you where; she’s at home alone with no man and you’re going to listen her?”

“It wasn’t like that, Marv,” Cynthia said, sitting up.

“You’re dumber than I thought. You’re actually gonna take advice from a lonely chick who just wants someone to join her. Ever heard the saying misery loves company? Did she tell you how it feels to sleep all alone at night?”

Cynthia shook her head.

“Well, you’re going to find out tonight.” Marvin twisted to the side slightly, drew his knee back and kicked Cynthia out of the bed. She bumped her head on the bedside table as she tumbled out. “Let’s see if you’re still talking that women’s rights mess tomorrow morning,” he said, throwing her pillow at her.

Cynthia collected her pillow and a light blanket from the trunk at the foot of their bed. She tiptoed down the hall and collapsed onto the couch, hoping her sorrow would get sucked up like a vacuum does loose change between the folds of the cushions. With her hands folded behind her head she stared up at the ceiling and asked herself over and over until she fell asleep, is this marriage really all in vain?

The next morning she woke up with a stiff neck and an even greater question looming in her mind: what will I do if it is?

Cynthia took long strides across Amsterdam Avenue, dragging the boys across the street. Barbara’s words had made a dent in her heart. Maybe all Cynthia needed was a dose of Jesus to relieve all the tension between her and Marvin. She peered up at the overcast sky and hoped the rain didn’t begin falling before she reached the doors of Mount Carmel Community Church. They stopped abruptly at the entrance of Mount Carmel.

Her eyes fixed on the porthole window in the center of the polished dark mahogany doors of Mount Carmel. It was either Mount Carmel or Convent Avenue Baptist Church where her mother fellowshipped. Cynthia knew she didn’t have the Baptist look down pat. Nor was she in the mood for her mother to parade her around the church. She simply needed to get in touch with heaven. That urgency led her Mount Carmel. Her nonexistent relationship with God and her husband’s history with Pastor David weighed her down.

She took a deep breath. You’re too close not to go in.

She bent over and straightened James’s tie and wiped the corners of Keith’s mouth with her thumb, dampened by the spit of her tongue.

“Listen, boys, when we go in here, I want you to sit down, sit still, and be quiet. It’s different; just give it a chance, okay?”

The boys looked up at her and stared into her eyes, which were glowing and begging them to cooperate.

“Yes, Mom,” they said in unison.

“But why are we here?” Keith asked.

“Because Mama needs to spend some time with Jesus, and so do you,” Cynthia replied, pinching the tip of Keith’s nose.

The floorboards creaked as Cynthia and the boys attempted to ease into the last pew. The boys fidgeted in their seats, tugging at the mustard suits they’d worn last year to their cousin Darlene’s wedding. That was the only time they’d been in a church since they were christened. Cynthia’s mother always begged her to come to her church.

“It’s not right what you doin’ to dem boys,” Mildred had once said to her daughter as steam wafted up from her cup of tea. “It’s not right. If you and Marvin want to live like heathens you can; you’re grown and you got every right to. But dem boys shouldn’t be denied the chance to get to know their savior. Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of glory belongs to such as these.’ What do you think He’s going to do to you if you keep raising dem like there’s no God in heaven?”

“You’re right, Mama. I’m going to take them soon,” Cynthia would reassure Mildred every time she paused long enough for Cynthia to speak.

“You better be careful what you say, girl. He’s listening too.” Mildred had pointed her spindly finger at the ceiling. “You’re making a vow to the Lord, and you can’t go back on it.”

Recalling that conversation, a tingling sensation ran up Cynthia’s arm. She looked down at the pew bench on which she was seated. The twinge of pain Cynthia felt run up her arm snatched her out of her musings on the past and into the present. James was pulling at the cuffs of his shirt, trying to stretch them to his wrists. Keith tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Knock it off. Hold still,” Cynthia leaned over and whispered to them as the choir began singing “Amazing Grace.”

The sound of the organ behind the choir reminded Cynthia of the days when she sat beside her mother during Sunday service, sucking peppermint balls. It was easy for her to slip right back into place. By the second verse she was mouthing the song’s words along with the soloist. Tears streamed down Cynthia’s face, and she tilted her head back. She tapped her small feet as the tempo of the music picked up attempting to put the pain of the previous night behind her.

“Give God some praise,” the devotional leader shouted into the microphone. “No matter what the devil has done to you, he couldn’t kill you. My God said yes and here you are today. Stand up on your feet and give God some praise.”

Hallelujahs rang out all around Cynthia. She looked around and tried to join in on the cries of joy, but the pain that filled her aching bones held her hostage. She mumbled a weak “Thank you, Jesus” in an attempt to be polite.

“God wants to heal you. The devil couldn’t kill you, and God is waiting to heal you. But it starts with you,” the preacher said, pointing at Cynthia. “He sent his son, Jesus, to reconcile men with God. And He is ready, willing, and able to reconcile all of your relationships. Some of you haven’t spoken to your mother in years; some of you haven’t spoken to your baby’s daddy in months.”

Amens mixed with chuckles escaped from the mostly female congregation.

“Some of you haven’t spoken to your spouse in days. Let me ask you a question: how long has it been since you talked to Jesus? He can restore, and the work begins with you,” Pastor David said, pointing at the congregation.

To Cynthia it appeared as though he had singled her out again and was pointing directly at her. Cynthia turned to the boys to check if she was just being paranoid. James’s head hung, and drool was leaking on his jacket. Keith was thumbing through the hymnal. Since the boys could neither confirm nor deny what she was feeling, Cynthia tilted her head a bit to the right and tried to line her eyes up with the direction that Pastor David was pointing in, which led to her.

“We are always looking for God to work on the other person, and you know why the work isn’t getting done? ’Cause Jesus is waiting for you to cry out ‘Have mercy on me, thou son of David. Fix me, Lord. Save me, Lord. Give me clean hands and a pure heart, Lord.’ When you start loving God right, you can start loving your neighbor right, you can start loving yo’ mama right, you can start loving yourself right and realize if your baby daddy doesn’t want to make you his wife, it’s time to move on. You can start loving your husband right, with the meekness and submission that God requires of you women,” Pastor David preached passionately.

Snickers and nods rippled through the crowd.

Cynthia wondered if the way in which she loved her husband was right or wrong. It must be wrong since she managed to wind up on the wrong side of his wrath so often, she concluded as fragments of last night flashed through her mind.

“I know it’s a hard thing to do, ladies. I was raised by a black woman. The last thing y’all want to hear is submit to your husband, but we’re doing it God’s way, not our own way, and the man is the head of the woman. Check Ephesians 5:22–33 for that. If you have questions, bring them to Bible Study, ladies and gentlemen.”

Cynthia had a question. How do I get the man I love to stop beating me?

“Now back to the Word,” Pastor David said. “We first need to recognize what’s wrong with us and let Jesus in to restore and redeem us.”

Cynthia wasn’t really sure whether she was to blame or Marvin was to blame for all that was wrong in their life. There was only one thing she was sure of: she didn’t want to experience this agony and degradation anymore.

“Is there anyone here today who has not yet received Christ as their Savior? Is there anyone here today who is tired of the devil beating up on them and ready for a real victory? There’s winning power in Christ! He has overcome death, hell, and the grave to be a living sacrifice for me and for you. Isn’t it time to give Him a place in your life? Do you want joy? Do you want the peace that surpasses all understanding? Do you want the power to say, ‘Storm, be still, because He that the winds obey lives in me’?”

Cynthia reviewed the questions in her mind. Tears plopped onto the back of her hand. She put her hand on the back of the pew in front of her to pull herself up. Her legs felt weak, and she felt the eyes of the congregation on her as she moved slowly down the aisle.

“Come,” the pastor beckoned. “All of us are sinners. All of us have come short of the glory of God. Come. End it all here.”

Cynthia, two other ladies, and a teenage boy stood in front of the altar. The pastor stepped down from the pulpit and came over to anoint each one with oil, starting at the young man. When he reached Cynthia, she looked up into his face.

“Praise the Lord!” the pastor shouted excitedly, throwing his hands into the air. “Where’s your husband, sister?”

“I don’t know, David . . . I mean, Pastor David,” Cynthia murmured, looking at the floor.

“Pick your head up, sister.” Pastor David gently cupped her chin, lifting her face so that his dark eyes met with her almond-shaped brown ones. “Jesus is the great equalizer. He died for all men. Church, this is a wonderful thing you are witnessing. This is the wife of one of my former best friends. Look how wonderful God is. I’m preaching a message on restoring relationships, and here is the wife of an old best friend. Isn’t He a way maker? Hallelujah!”

That afternoon Cynthia accepted Christ as her personal Lord and Savior. When the service was over, Pastor David took her around to meet all of the members of the church. They welcomed her and the boys with open arms.

Brother Johnson, the choir director, hugged her, shook her hand, and hugged the boys. “Can you young brothers sing?” he asked, stooping over to look into their eyes. “I’ve been playing with the idea of starting an all-boys choir at the church, and you’re welcome to join.”

James and Keith just nodded and smiled as the next saint on the welcoming committee enjoined the circle that had grown around them. A bronze-colored hefty woman in a crooked and stiff two-toned wig stepped forward grinning from ear to ear.

“This is our lovely Sister Jeanette. She is our Sunday School teacher and the director of our women’s ministry program,” Pastor David said to Cynthia. “Jeanette, please give Cynthia a schedule. Cynthia, if you need anything, please, see me or Sister Jeanette, and we will help you as best we can.”

Cynthia nodded as Sister Jeanette squeezed her hand before reaching into her purse and gave the boys some peppermint balls. “Cynthia, you know we have a yard out back; most of the other kids are playing out there. Is it all right if the boys go play?”

Cynthia nodded in agreement with Sister Jeanette. “Boys, go and meet the other children in the congregation. They’re playing out back.”

Sister Jeanette turned back to Cynthia and her brown button eyes radiated the warmth of a mother. “You’ve done a good thing today. You’ve done the right thing. The Lord will bless you and save your family if you allow Him to. Sister, you have to be open to Jesus, not just in your time of desperation and desolation. You have to commit your whole self to Him and His ways.” She handed Cynthia a copy of the church program. “We offer babysitting on the nights we have classes, and we have counseling for domestic violence, too,” Sister Jeanette pointed out while centering her wig and peering over her glasses at the poorly camouflaged welts on Cynthia’s neck.

Cynthia didn’t have a lie or defensive statement prepared that would get Sister Jeanette out of her face fast enough. She didn’t expect to be found out on the first visit. Cynthia cleared her throat and straightened her back and said, “Thank you, Sister Jeanette, but I don’t have much time to talk. I’ll look at the schedule and come when I can.”

The transition from sinner to saint wasn’t easy for Cynthia. The moment she walked in the door from her first trip to Mount Carmel, the devil was waiting to tempt her.

“Where you been all day?” Marvin huffed at her while she helped the boys out of their jackets.

“We went to church today, Daddy.” At nine years old, James was the official family reporter. He was still struggling with learning the difference between what should be uttered and what should not be. “You should have come with us. A friend of yours was there.”

Twelve-year-old Keith slapped James in the back of his head, trying to demonstrate his superiority. “He wasn’t there. He’s the pastor.”

“The pastor?” Marvin asked with his eyebrows scrunched together. “Did you take the kids to that joke of a church, Mount . . . ?” Marvin snapped his fingers. “Mount . . .”

“Mount Carmel Community Church. It’s not a joke. It’s a lovely place, Marv,” Cynthia said resolutely. “Are you hungry?” She quickly tried to stave off the inevitable—Marvin’s monologue on the legitimacy of Pastor David’s ministry.

According to Marvin, Pastor David could not be trusted since he’d abandoned his street life and friendship with Marvin to pursue the ministry. Every time they walked past Mount Carmel or anyone mentioned it, Marvin had to trudge through the past.

“Of course, I’m hungry. You left me here alone to fend for myself, and you know I can’t go on without two things.” Marvin wrapped his hands around her dime-sized waist, pulled her in close to his body, and stared in her eyes. “I can’t go on without your loving.” He brushed back a few loose strands of Cynthia’s burgundy hair and planted a wet kiss on her lips. “And I certainly can’t make it without your cooking, girl.”

Cynthia could see through the act. She knew Marvin was trying to smooth whatever feathers his behavior had wrinkled the previous day, and it wasn’t working. It took every atom of Cynthia’s fragile being to cook Marvin’s food without spitting in it. Cynthia called it a small victory every time she was able to inflict some pain on Marvin unbeknownst to him, like the time she put Ex-Lax in his cupcakes.

Small victories were no longer satisfying. She . . .