Deliver Me From My Enemies

by Sharon Oliver

Genres: African American; African American Christian

Synopsis

Charlotte Morley's visit with her grandparents is about to wind down, but not before she starts receiving a series of letters from her aunt, who is in prison for murder and ready to tell it all. Helping her sift through the startling letters is Hiawatha, an old childhood buddy and the son of the wisecracking Sista Jones. Before long, Charlotte discovers a few skeletons in the family's closet and learns that sometimes dead men do tell tales. Follow Charlotte as she, along with a host of family and friends, works through zany situations, shattering revelations and searching for forgiveness. How can a book filled with sad social issues be so hilariously entertaining? Simple: Such is life. And such is the power of God's mercy and grace to get through.

Release date: September 18, 2012

Publisher: Urban Christian

Print pages: 368

Sample

Thirty-one-year-old Charlotte Morley could tell it was going to be one of those lazy kinds of late summer mornings, evident by the cloudy overcast and her snail’s pace. The motto carpe diem was the furthest thing from her mind. In fact, she pictured spending the rest of the day lying in a hammock with a piece of straw hanging from her lip and enjoying a fine September day.

She spied through the smoke-tinted glass at Walker’s Auto Garage to see if the mechanic had finished working on her grandfather’s truck. Instead, she found a young Bob Marley knockoff with the same long, fat dreads and yummy cashew pigmentation working non-stop beneath the hood of a green Ford Explorer.

Although Charlotte was anxious to read the letter tucked away in her leather satchel, she opted to do a quick study of her surroundings first. Leon Walker, Sr. was not only the best auto mechanic in town, but his establishment was the only black-owned auto body shop on Turtle Island, and it was no secret that such an enterprising feat had richly and quickly fattened his bank account.

She let her eyes tour the waiting area that consisted of four white wicker club chairs along with one very out of place metal folding chair. Charlotte guessed that this small seating arrangement was of no major concern since most customers tended to linger around the garage to chat with the mechanics and other customers. The walls were painted a bright sky blue with a collection of white fluffy chiffon-like clouds stenciled about, reminding Charlotte of her computer’s screensaver. A handsomely made cobweb suspended from the ceiling and laid claim to the southeast corner of the room.

A heavy pair of faded navy-and-cream striped drapes with silver blue sheers in the middle hung from the window. The lone potted plant that kept the magazines company on the chrome and glass table could cry for water no more. It was beyond dry. Charlotte had a sudden craving for a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich, but had to settle for a cup of caffeine instead. As Charlotte helped herself to the strong, freshly brewed coffee, she heard a very familiar voice behind her.

“Hey, there!” Nora ‘Sista’ Jones cheerfully greeted as she entered the premises. Strutting two paces behind her in a pair of wrinkled grayish-blue overalls was the shop’s proprietor, Leon Walker, Sr., more commonly known as Walker. Immediately, Charlotte noticed the strong resemblance between Walker and his son, Junior, the mechanic working on the truck.

“How y’all doin’ today?” Walker asked, whisking past Charlotte after nearly knocking Sista down to the floor. The wooden floor boards made a loud squeaking noise as Walker marched across the room accompanied by his clanking keys, which were grouped together by a plastic coil key chain wrapped twice around his wrist.

“Shucks, this ole clock done went out on me again,” he said, looking up at a wall clock. “I told that boy of mine to get a new clock three weeks ago. Sometimes I think Junior is one hot dog away from a picnic. Either one of y’all got the time?” Walker asked as he placed his collection of keys on the countertop.

Annoyance was written all over Sista’s face. She was as irritated as a teething baby. She rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling, thinking Walker wasn’t sharp as cheddar himself at times. “Half past my elbow accordin’ to my fist,” she answered sarcastically. Touché!

That was classic Sista, a comical and sprightly character.

“And why was you so close up on me comin’ through the door? You was up on me like you my girdle or somethin’. You almost knocked me down,” she added.

Walker winked at Charlotte as he removed the clock from the wall. “Come on now, Sista. You know I was not trying to knock you down on purpose.” He was obviously proud of his ability to rattle Sista’s cage. “I’m sorry. I was in a hurry. I promised this fella I’d have his car ready by noon. Anyway, how come you don’t like me? What have I done to you?”

“Oh, you ain’t done nothin’ to me. I like ya just fine. ’Specially since Mattie Mae married Edmund instead of you!” Sista snapped gruffly, her sagging breasts heaving beneath her blouse. She strummed her fingers along the windowsill, frowning at the day’s worth of dust choking the windowsill and the blinds.

Walker was one of Charlotte’s grandma’s gentlemen callers back in the day. She could not imagine her grandparents, Edmund and Mattie Mae, being married to anyone else aside from each other.

Charlotte ran her fingers through her hair. She desperately needed to take a comb to her head since her hair saw fit to stick out like curly fries all of a sudden. Her pink sundress was so faded that it was hard to tell if the dress was supposed to be floral or polka dot. And to top it all off, her ashy knees resembled snowcapped mountains. Charlotte could not forgive herself for leaving the house looking that way. She had hoped to zip in and out of the garage before her grandfather needed the truck, and without being seen by half the town.

Given Walker’s profession, Charlotte could understand his appearance. Black smudges covered his hands, and his khaki uniform was covered in oil, grease and God only knew what else.

Sista, however, was another story all together. Sista knew how to dress and could dress well since her children kept her closets stocked with nice, expensive outfits. She was decked out in a pair of burgundy, green and beige argyle polyester knit britches that were too short to be pants and too long to be capris. Sista, at times, simply just did not care.

Now, feeling a little self-conscious about herself, Charlotte pulled a small bottle of oatmeal and honey lotion from her bag. She squeezed out a liberal amount and rubbed over her chalky white knees to control the ashiness that had started to spread at an alarming rate. She squeezed out a second helping and slathered her elbows for good measure.

Every few seconds, Walker would look back and give Sista a good up and down inspection. “Why you holdin’ on to the past, Sista?” Walker asked through his thick mustache. After placing fresh batteries inside the clock’s compartment and hanging the clock back on the wall, he then slipped the opened pack of batteries inside a drawer, nearly jamming his thumb in the process.

“I ain’t holdin’ on to the past,” Charlotte heard Sista insist. “You the one still livin’ in the past. You called yo’self a playboy back then, and you still call yo’self a playboy. If you ask me, Shirley Mae shoulda left yo’ behind a long time ago.” Sista took a few steps forward, made a sharp left turn and plopped down in the chair next to Charlotte.

“Why you so worried about my business? You must want me for yo’self.” Walker grinned slyly, winking again at Charlotte. Charlotte grew curious as to why he winked so much, considering that he did indeed behave like a true flirt.

“Who want yo’ po’ behind, Walker?” Sista raised her voice, clearly outraged by the insinuation, yet able to have the grace to blush the color of a red russet potato.

“You must want my po’ behind.” Walker released a hearty laugh that came straight from his belly as he proceeded through the door which led to the garage. He seemed totally unaffected by Sista’s ability to use words for arsenal.

Sista sucked her teeth and turned to face Charlotte. “How are you, Charlotte?”

“I’m doing well, how about you?” Charlotte replied.

“Other than my feet sproutin’ corns, bunions and onions, I’m doin’ just fine. Listen. I saw Edmund’s truck out there and I thought he was in here. John Edward is out there get-tin’ something done to his car. I told him I wanted to run in here and talk to Edmund, but I can talk to you.” Sista cocked her head sideways to roll her eyes at Walker, who was busy chit-chatting away on the telephone.

“I’m curious. Why do you dislike Mr. Walker, Miss Sista?” Charlotte asked, hoping the question would lead to information regarding his former relationship with her grandmother.

Mattie Mae often beamed like a beacon of light whenever Edmund came in the room, and said on more than one occasion that she felt her name was safe in his mouth. Their marital relationship was ideal to many.

“Oh, I don’t hate Walker or nothin’ like that. He knows that. We just cuttin’ the fool. Although, back when we was young and he called himself likin’ Mattie Mae, I could not stand him! I knew Edmund was fool ’bout Mattie Mae and I knew Walker was nothin’ but a plain ole fool. All the girls was crazy ’bout Walker too. He was tall, dark and handsome; and he had that good hair. Plus, he always worked on a job, so you figured he’d be a good provider. Walker probably got enough money saved up to use for toilet paper.”

Charlotte sensed a ‘but’ coming. Sista popped a piece of hard candied mint in her mouth and moaned, “The problem wit’ Walker is the women loved him and he loved the women. He wouldn’t know how to stop cheatin’ if there was only one woman on earth. He’d find a way to cheat on her.”

“God, I hope not,” Charlotte said flatly. “Surely, he has changed by now.”

“Changed?” Sista nearly shouted at the top of her lungs. “Baby, that’s an old root and the only thing you can do with an old hard root is kill it. Walker can’t help it, I suppose. He’s a womanizer just like his daddy, Henry, was. Henry met his end in a watery grave, and there was talk about how he got there too. Now that’s something to think about.”

“I imagine so,” Charlotte moaned before covering her mouth to yawn.

“But I just like to mess wit’ Walker. You know, he can near ’bout fix anythin’ ’cept that loose screw in his head. Anyhow, his wife, Shirley Mae, don’t seem to mind his cheatin’ ways, so I guess I shouldn’t mind either. They got plenty of money and she don’t want for nothin’, so maybe that’s why she can turn her head the other way. I heard that he lets her handle the purse strings.”

“Oh, I’d bet she would rather have a faithful husband. As old as Mr. Walker is, I would have thought he’d have all of that out of his system by now. But I have to say he really is attractive for his age. I can only imagine how he looked back in the day.” Charlotte rubbed her chin. “Let me guess. I bet he and his wife were probably one of the cutest couples on the island.”

“They were a cute couple. I admit that,” Sista said. “I even admit that Walker still looks good, but Shirley Mae used to be such a pretty girl. Now she looks like sin.”

“Miss Sista, that’s not nice,” Charlotte scolded.

“I mean all that worryin’ she used to do when Walker ran the streets took a toll on her.”

“You sure don’t have a problem with saying what’s on your mind.”

“I sho’ don’t! I do not believe in bitin’ my tongue or swallowin’ my words, and if you ever see me quiet, that means I’m either sick or somebody got a gun in my side. Just thank God Walker didn’t turn out to be yo’ granddaddy. Listen, I ain’t get a chance to talk to Mattie Mae yet. How is she?”

Although Charlotte was only half listening, she did hear Sista’s question and it sent shivers down her spine. How is she? Surely that had been the burning question on everyone’s mind lately. Usually, Edmund and Mattie Mae Morley’s home was filled with joy and laughter. Recently, it had turned into a house of sorrow, forcing the family to inhale more than its fair share of trouble and grief.

Charlotte then vaguely heard Sista say, “When it rains, it sho’ does pour.” And considering all that was going on in their family, she couldn’t think of a more appropriate cliché.

A strange scent from the garage wandered in the reception area. It was a dizzying cross between cod liver oil and hickory chips burning on a grill. Charlotte felt nauseated.

She looked around and found Sista standing at the door, keeping it slightly ajar with her foot, and listening to her son, John Edward, complain.

Once the clean-shaven John Edward finished whining of his reoccurring blackheads, whiteheads and oily skin, Sista suggested he try an inexpensive application of pure lemon juice on his blemished face. “I know yo’ skin is oily enough to fry chicken in, but God did put things on this earth to help us. You can even drink some yarrow tea for oily skin, John Edward.”

After listening to John Edward mull over the idea of purchasing a costly astringent from the local drugstore, Sista suggested again that he go home and simply apply some lemon juice or alcohol on the troubled areas. She then curled up the corners of her mouth and shook her head as if to say John Edward was not the sharpest pencil in the box.

Sista fidgeted about, expressing her need to go prepare a decent meal for her neighbor, Ms. Mamie. She went on to inform John Edward of her having found the senile Mamie feasting on a plate of dry sardines, scorched rice steeped in butter and a tall glass of buttermilk during a recent visit.

“And you know she’s hard of hearing,” Charlotte heard Sista say. “Mamie is about as deaf as a piece of wood.”

Sista looked tired. Poor thing. Due to lack of proper sleep, she had developed raccoon eyes. The gloomy dark circles almost gave the appearance that Sista wore sunglasses. But she had been a godsend in the Morley family’s time of need.

Charlotte checked the time on the clock Walker had just hung on the wall, and figured she may have enough time to read. First, she took the opportunity to clean out her purse, tossing out an old movie ticket stub, dried out tattered tissue, old grocery receipts, an old tube of apricot lipstick and Post-its with telephone numbers belonging to persons that escaped her memory. She tossed out a crumpled offering envelope from her church, Greater Faith Center, located in her hometown of Washington, D.C. Seeing the envelope only stirred up her desire to get back home and return to her duties as the senior minister in the Women’s Counseling ministry.

Charlotte carefully unfolded the slightly crumbled letter written to her by her aunt, Ramiyah. She slowly smoothed out the creases and started reading:


You probably don’t know all the details about that night or about the events that led up to it. I guess it doesn’t really matter now. I may have been christened Ramiyah Patterson, but in here I’m just #0195823234, thanks to the penal system.

I did not sleep well last night, not with all the screaming, crying, pleading and obscenities bellowing over my head and beneath my feet. Talk about acoustics. They have excellent surround sound in prison. Sometimes I think I can feel the inmates’ emotions sink into my bones, right down to the marrow, and eventually seeping into my very spirit.

Every night when those steel doors clank behind the guards, and I lay down in my tiny cot, my filthy environment is just another added distraction to keep me from peaceful slumber. Confession: I know I’m not supposed to hate anyone, but I really did hate that curmudgeon of a judge who so harshly sentenced me. I hated my poor excuse of an attorney who must have ordered his law degree from a JC Penney catalog. Most of all, I hated my dead husband, who swore that he loved every fiber of my being with every fiber of his. That was a lie straight from the pits of hell. I hated Ma and JT, and last, but not least, I hated myself.

Truth of the matter is, I’m disappointed in myself for allowing the devil to convince me to marry Cole, only for me to end up killing him. Now look at me. I’m serving time. So, where is the devil now? Undoubtedly, off somewhere recruiting more dumb souls like mine. I hated myself for not listening to you in the first place. But I am, by the grace of God, slowly getting past all this hatred.

Hindsight is definitely twenty-twenty. I mean, sin is truly ugly when you think about it with all its masked drawing attraction, only to result in pain and destruction.

Pray for me, Charlotte. Pray for my strength. Pray for my protection. I’ve already heard horrid stories about the butches (including some of the guards) in here, and I’ve got to tell you, I’ll kill again to keep from being raped.

Cole had raped me emotionally for years and I promise you I Will Never go through that torture again, nor will I worship another human being again. After all, it’s not like Cole was a miracle worker who taught me how to breathe or eat solid foods.

It’s time you know the truth since I have no pride left to hide behind. Besides that, you deserve to know the truth. All I have now is time. Time to wait, time to talk and time to rot. Well, time to talk through letters, at least.

You warned me not to marry Cole. Do you remember that. . .