God Only Knows

by Xavier Knight

Genres: African American Christian; African American Women's Fiction; African American Romance

Synopsis

Julia Turner, an ambitious educator in her mid-thirties, leaves a high-profile job in Chicago to return to Dayton, Ohio to serve as superintendent of Christian Light, the K-12 private school system from which she graduated two decades earlier. A single mother with an ugly divorce and a complex childhood in her rearview mirror, Julia views her mission as a chance to contribute to her hometown and conquer the demons from her past. But she never expects to confront the one sin she and her childhood friends agree to bury as teens-the accident that left Eddie Walker hospitalized and incapacitated. Meanwhile, Detective Peter Whitlock, Eddie Walker's older bother, is still determined to find the person(s) responsible for his brother's condition. As an unrelated investigation leads to another woman who is involved in the accident, the responsible parties must decide whether they will keep their dark secrets, or tell the truth and let God decide the outcome.

Release date: March 3, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 276

Sample

It was the last day on which he would be able to bathe, dress, and feed himself, but for Eddie Walker, that fall day in 1988
started like any other. Wiping at his eyes, he slid off the tattered cloth couch in his parents’ family room and dared to
hope for more.


“Two more paychecks, babe,” Momma had promised the night before, kneeling so she could peck his forehead with a kiss. The
couch was a few feet from the front door, which she had slammed behind her after a late night helping with inventory at the
neighborhood Kmart. “Two more checks, and Lloyd and I’ll have enough to get that bunk bed you wanted. You know, the one at
Levitz with the Batman and Robin covers?”


His eyes barely open, Eddie hadn’t bothered to hide his disgust, well aware that it probably oozed from his pores as he shook
his head at Momma’s ignorance. “I asked for that when I was, like, ten. What was that, four years ago?”


Momma’s face had clouded with sad recognition before she spoke. “Four years? Eddie, I swear it was just yesterday you was
asking for that bed.” Her eyes flicked heavenward and she asked, “Where does the time go?” before turning and skittering down
the hall, her speed so great she reminded Eddie of a cockroach fleeing light.


If he’d been spared, been able to mature into the traditional form of adulthood, Eddie might have at least come to appreciate
his mother’s guilt. Edna Morrison loved both of her boys mightily, but life had been hard and she was the first to admit she
had fallen short of her Christian faith. Raised in the church, Edna had seen her faith wax and wane through numerous external
and self-inflicted trials. The arrival of Eddie’s big brother, Pete, when Edna was a testy nineteen-year-old with nothing
to her name but a dead-end relationship with an unemployed car mechanic, had reminded her of the need for a Higher Power’s
help. How else could she ever shepherd a new life past the types of hills and valleys —mostly valleys —she had endured?


At fourteen, however, Eddie was blind to Momma’s journey, blind to the sacrifices she had made to provide him and Pete with
the modest comforts of life, including a home of their own and —on the third try —a stepfather who never raised a hand in
anger. Finally the toughest trick of all for a woman with a poverty-level income: private-school educations.


Not that Eddie really valued the privilege of attending Christian Light Schools. He fantasized about turning sixteen and dropping
out, intent on signing up at the nearest vocational school. He’d had just about enough of the corny, starry-eyed religious
teaching and preaching, the nosy teachers who questioned whether his parents were really married, and the preppy, pampered
students of the “in crowd,” who so clearly enjoyed pretending he didn’t exist. The “in” kids were too scared of Eddie to ever
pick with him, which got on his nerves even more; he licked his lips daily for an excuse to introduce one of the stuck-up
jocks to the wonders of Pete’s Swiss Army knife, if his brother would ever let him borrow it.


As he bounded over to the bedroom he shared with Pete, though, Eddie found his thoughts turning to three of his least favorite
people in the entire school —Julia, Toya, and Terry. Tall, pitch-black, smart-mouthed, and viciously angry, the nigger girls
seemed like the only folks who hated Christian Light more than he did. When they weren’t looking, Eddie would occasionally
slide up behind them in the cafeteria and chuckle under his breath. The girls cracked him up, the way they always fantasized
about escaping Christian Light for the Dayton city school system, where they’d be surrounded by fellow blacks.


“I’m going to Dunbar for high school, forget this place,” Toya would always brag in her singsongy whine.

“Forget that, my momma says I can use my grandma’s address and go to Meadowdale,” Terry claimed confidently.

Julia, the one who usually spoke to Eddie when he crossed paths with them, would always bring her mouthy friends back to earth.
“Ain’t neither one of you jokers going anywhere,” she would remind them. “My pop-pops asked both of your mommas where you’re
going for high school last week, during the parent-teacher conference night. He was so excited when we got home, saying he
knows I’ll always have you two to count on as long as I’m at Christian Light. We’re all trapped here,” she would say, sighing,
“so we may as well make the best of it.”


Inevitably, one of the girls would feel Eddie staring, and that’s when things would get ugly. One of them would ask, “What
you starin’ at?” Eddie would respond, “Oh, just checking out a few baboons,” to which they would respond with wisecracks about
his BO, his soup bowl haircut, or the fact he wore the same shirt from Tuesday on Friday. Just yesterday Julia had hit him
with a new one: “Hey, Eddie, you still in love with Cassie? Too bad she says you smell like mildew!” That last line stung;
as Julia and her friends’ laughter mocked him, Eddie recalled that kids he considered friends had made the same crack about
his scent.


Cobwebs just now clearing from his brain, Eddie still felt his blood heat at the memory. How did these nappy-headed hos know
about his crush on Cassie Duncan, who was too pretty and had way too much beautiful, feathery hair to really be black? And
how did they know what Cassie thought about him?


Julia had lied, Eddie told himself as he rummaged through a creaky dresser in search of clothing. Cassie couldn’t have already
ruled him out; he hadn’t even told her about his crush. Maybe it was time, though. Eddie knew who he was, and he was definitely
worthy of a half-colored girl’s time. One thing his grandparents, aunts, and uncles had taught him in his young life —they
had all helped raise him through the years as his momma had often held down two or three jobs to maintain the lifestyle she
provided —was that he had a proud family legacy. The Walkers and Morrisons of East Dayton were hardworking, hard-drinking
clans whose sweaty labor had helped construct many of Dayton’s most well-known buildings, from downtown throughout the entire
Miami Valley.


“Get out of here, booger breath.” Eddie’s deep thoughts were interrupted by Pete’s grumpy greeting, followed closely by the
thud of a gym shoe against his temple. “You woke me up, you little freak,” his brother continued. There were no blinds or
drapes in the tiny bedroom, and Saturday-morning sunlight bathed the entire space, but Pete had enjoyed a blissful sleep until
his brother stumbled across the threshold. Unlike Eddie, he had long been content without a real bed. Since graduating from
high school last year, he had made do with the air mattress; his last bed had caved in halfway through an afternoon make-out
session with an ex-girlfriend.


Pitching the sneaker back at his brother, Eddie reminded Pete that the room was really his; their stepfather had threatened
to toss the older brother out on the street if he didn’t get a real job soon.


“You wanna see somebody get tossed,” Pete replied, “you keep pressing your luck with me, freak.”

Eddie chuckled, his back to his brother, as he stepped into a pair of wrinkled trousers and picked out a plaid sport shirt
from a heap on the floor. “Forget you anyway, Pete. I got plans today.”


Pete sat up on his mattress, hands on his knees and an entertained grin on his face. “Oh, you do? What, you gonna go out and
finally get some leg? Or are you buying into that Christian Light jive about being ‘pure’ and whatnot?”


“Don’t worry about it.” Eddie didn’t bother to look at his brother; that would just encourage him. No point writing checks
with his mouth that his fists couldn’t cash. Once he figured out how to win Cassie over —and got his friends to understand
that she wasn’t like the other black girls, that, in fact, she was barely half-black —he’d shut up smart-mouths like Pete
for good.


Pete sighed theatrically, thudding back against his mattress. “Just get out.”

“See you later tonight,” Eddie said once he had pulled on his sneakers, including the one Pete had landed against his head.
Fully dressed, he hustled toward the doorway before a force pulled him back. “I’m taking the bus to the mall,” he said without
knowing why.


“So?”

“I’m just sayin’, Pete, that’s where I’ll be if Momma’s worried about me later on. I’ll either be at the mall or at the homecoming
game later tonight. I’m gonna hitch a ride out there with Matt and his mom.” When his brother snored in response, Eddie raised
his voice. “Pete! Just tell Momma, okay?”


“Yes, freak, I’ll tell her.” Pete turned away from his brother. “Don’t do nothing I wouldn’t.”

“Later.” Eddie took a lingering look at his cluttered room and the sleeping lump that was his brother, then darted quickly
to the foot of Pete’s air mattress. Kneeling, he dug through Pete’s pile of dirty clothes until he felt the handle of his
brother’s knife. Slipping the weapon into his backpack, Eddie headed back down the hall, unaware that his actions would echo
into the next generation.


For the first time she could remember in years, Cassandra Gillette felt like a woman fulfilled. Freshly showered, she sat before
the laptop PC in her spacious dressing room, checking e-mail. She had another hour at least before her newly built luxury
home would be overrun by her family; her husband, Marcus, had gone to pick up their twelve-year-old twins, Heather and Hillary,
from a friend’s birthday party out in Middletown. In addition, her seventeen-year-old son, Marcus Junior, was still seven
hours away from his midnight curfew.


“There is so much to be thankful for,” Cassie whispered to God, letting her words ring through the quiet of her master suite.
This was not the average lazy Saturday afternoon; for the first time in nearly four months, Cassie had made love to her husband.


Their separation had gotten off to a fiery start, but as tempers cooled and nights passed, God had brought Cassie and Marcus
back together. Marcus had quickly tired of Veronica, the twenty-something news anchor who had welcomed him into her condo,
and Cassie’s eyes had been opened. When her best girlfriend, Julia, confronted her, she finally realized how her actions in
recent years had starved Marcus of the respect and affirmation that even the strongest man needed.


So it was that after several late-night telephone calls and a Starbucks “date” hidden from their children, Mr. and Mrs. Marcus
Gillette had decided to get up off the mat and keep the promises they made before God seventeen years earlier, a few months
after M.J.’s arrival. They had agreed to surprise the children with news of their reconciliation tonight, but with the house
empty this afternoon, the couple had started a private celebration. The house was new enough that aside from the master bedroom,
their frisky activity had “christened” the kitchen’s marble-topped island, the leather couch in the finished basement, and
the washing machine in the laundry room.


As she dashed off an e-mail to the staff at her real estate agency, sharing news of the latest deal she had closed —a $420,000
sale, their thirtieth property sold for the quarter —Cassie nearly shuddered with delight as she recalled Marcus’s smooth
touch. Although she had lost thirty pounds over the past year, she was still nearly twenty pounds heavier than she’d been
on their wedding day, and she had been pregnant then. Nevertheless, Cassie’s Marcus knew and loved her body, in exactly the
way that frank Scriptures, like those in Song of Solomon, encouraged. Like most everything else in marriage, the Gillettes’
sexual relationship had experienced ups and downs, but Cassie licked her lips unintentionally as she mentally applauded her
man: When he’s good, he’s GOOD.

An instant message popped up on her screen: Julia, her best friend. I heard a rumor, she IM’d.


Cassie smiled as she typed back: No idea what you mean.

Julia’s IM response popped up: They say a handsome, bulky brother tipped into your crib this afternoon.

Cassie smiled as she typed, Girl, I am too old to be kissin’ and tellin’.

And I’m too old to be listening to such filth, Julia typed. As a Ph.D. and superintendent of schools at their shared alma mater, Christian Light Schools, Julia let her
words communicate their humor; Cassie’s friend was above the use of those corny emoticons. Julia sent another missive: You are coming to my Board of Advisors meeting Monday, right? I need help saving this school system, child.

Cassie stuck her tongue out playfully as she entered her response: Still not sure how I fit in with this crew. You said you’re pulling together the “best and brightest” Christian Light alumni?
Don’t see how I count, given that the school expelled me when they realized why my belly was swollen.

Stop it, came Julia’s response. Besides, you have what matters most to a struggling school system: Deep pockets!

Cassie shook her head, her laughter easing any guilt she might have felt about throwing the painful memory of her expulsion
— accompanied by the school principal’s labeling her a “girl of loose morals” —in her friend’s face. Julia alone had led a
student protest in Cassie’s defense at the time, marching on the school’s front lawn and even calling local media in a vain
attempt to embarrass the school into reversing its decision.


Cassie was typing a lighthearted response when her front doorbell rang, the chime filling the house. Changing up, she shot
her friend a quick Doorbell —call you later before taking a second to tuck her blouse into her jeans. Padding downstairs to the foyer, she chuckled to herself. She would
have to help Julia save the world later.


When she peered into her front door’s peephole, Cassie’s heart caught for a second at the sight of a tall, blond-haired gentleman
flashing a police badge.


“M.J.’s fine,” said the voice in Cassie’s head as the badge stirred anxiety over her teen son’s safety. She wasn’t sure whether it was the
Lord or simply her own positive coaching. For years now Cassie had combined her faith in God with affirmative self-talk meant
to power her through life’s stresses and adversities. In her youth, she had crumpled one time too many in the face of indifference,
prejudice, sexism, and just plain evil. By the time she and Marcus walked the aisle of Tabernacle Baptist Church, where each
had first truly dedicated their respective lives to Christ, Cassie had vowed to never be caught unaware again. That same spirit
of resolve propped her up as she confidently unlocked and swung back her wide oak door.


As strong as she felt, Cassie’s knees still flexed involuntarily when she saw M.J. standing beside the plainclothes policeman.
At six foot one, her son was every inch as tall as the policeman and stood with his arms crossed, a sneer teasing the corners
of his mouth. Though relieved to see he was fine, Cassie sensed an unusually defiant spirit in her boy, so she locked her
gaze onto the officer instead. If her man-child had done something worthy of punishment, she wouldn’t give this stranger the
pleasure of witnessing the beat-down. She unlocked her screen door and, opening it, let the officer make the first move.


“Mrs. Gillette?” The man held out his right hand and respectfully shook Cassie’s as he spoke in a deep, hoarse voice. “I’m
Detective Whitlock with the Dayton PD. I’m really sorry to bother you, but I was hoping we could help each other this evening,
ma’am.”


Cassie opened her screen door all the way, one hand raised against the fading sunlight in her eyes. “Please come in,” she
said, focused on editing the airy lilt out of her tone. She didn’t mind letting her naturally fluttery voice out when among
family and friends, but now was no time for it. “Why don’t we have a seat in the living room.”


“Again I apologize for showing up unannounced. A neighborhood this nice, one of those draws a lot of eyebrows probably,” Whitlock
said, nodding toward the sleek police car parked out front. “Marcus Junior and I had an unfortunate confrontation this afternoon.
The more I talk to him, I’m convinced we can handle this without a trip downtown.”


Cassie nodded respectfully. Who can argue with that? she thought as she motioned toward the expansive living room. “May I take your suit jacket?”


“Oh, no thank you,” Whitlock replied. He slowed his gait and allowed M.J. to first follow Cassie into the room. The detective
stood just inside the doorway, peering at Cassie’s expensive sculptures and paintings as M.J. reluctantly took a seat beside
his mother. Once they were settled, Whitlock strode to the middle of the living room, his hands in the pockets of his dress
slacks. “Marcus, why don’t you tell your mother how we crossed paths.”


M.J. stared straight ahead, his line of sight veering nowhere near Cassie and shooting over the top of Whitlock’s head of
wavy blond hair. “I was minding my business, Mom. Officer Whitlock here —”


“Detective Whitlock, son,” the policeman replied, a testy edge betraying the professional, placid smile on his tanned, leathery face.
Cassie found herself admitting he was a relatively handsome man, one who even reminded her of the male cousins on the white
side of her family. The policeman was probably around her own age, she figured, somewhere between thirty-five and forty.


Grimacing, M.J. continued. “The good detective here pulled me over on 75. Said he clocked me at seventy-eight in a fifty-five.”

“Oh, I see,” Cassie said, a wave of relief cleansing her tensed insides. She placed a hand on her son’s shoulder but kept
her eyes on the detective. “If that’s all that’s involved, my son should certainly pay whatever fine is required by the law.
You’re not doing him any favors giving him a simple talking-to.” She nearly chastised herself for fearing the worst. This
was probably just a case of her superjock son —a varsity star in Chaminade-Julienne football, basketball, and track —getting
special treatment for his local celebrity, a celebrity nearly as big as the fame that had first attracted her to Marcus Senior
back in the day.


Holding Cassie’s smile with calm blue eyes, Whitlock reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a manila envelope. “Asked
and answered. The state trooper wrote this ticket up for your son during the traffic stop.” He walked over to the love seat
and slowly extended the envelope to M.J. “I agree that Marcus needs to pay his speeding ticket, Mrs. Gillette. If that’s all
that was involved, I would have never been called to the scene.”


Everything is fine. My son has done nothing illegal. Cassie fingered the gold locket around her neck but prayed she was otherwise masking the dread pulsing back into her. “Then
get to the point, please, Detective.”


Whitlock paced quickly to the corner of the adjacent couch. When he plopped down, he was less than a foot away from Cassie.
“You see,” he said, his elbows on his knees, his faintly yellowed teeth glinting as he seemed to smile despite himself, “I
was called in because Marcus had a convicted criminal riding with him, the sort of character who can make even this fine young
man look guilty by association.”


“Please tell me,” Cassie said, swiveling rapidly toward M.J., “that you weren’t riding around with him again.” When M.J. bunched his lips tight and shrugged, Cassie couldn’t stop herself from popping him in the shoulder. “Boy!
You promised me! You promised me, M.J.!”


Whitlock had removed his cell phone from his suit jacket. His eyes focused on the phone and as he punched its buttons, he
asked, “By ‘him,’ are you referring to Dante Wayne?”


“Yes,” Cassie said, her forehead so hot with rage it scared her. She wasn’t sure whether to be more upset at this white stranger
lounging on her couch or her increasingly disobedient son.


Whitlock stared straight into Cassie’s eyes. “And you’re familiar with Mr. Wayne how?”

Cassie sucked her teeth angrily. “He’s my cousin’s oldest son.” Donald, Dante’s father, ran a small taxi service and was the
first relative on her father’s side of the family —the black side —who had reached out to Cassie when they were both struggling
teen parents trying to figure out life. Though they didn’t talk often these days, Cassie still counted Donald a personal friend,
and her loyalty to him through the years had led her to foster M.J. and Dante’s friendship from the time they were toddlers.
That was before she realized that Dante would adopt the morals of his mother’s family, nearly all of whom had died in their
twenties or spent significant stretches in prison.


“So M.J. was straight with me, they are cousins.” Whitlock stroked his chin playfully as he observed mother and son. “Marcus
insisted that was the only reason he was riding around with Dante in tow. Dante took up for him too, insisted there was no
way Marcus was hip to the drugs we found in the car.” He nodded toward M.J. “Why don’t we discuss this one adult to another,
ma’am. Marcus, based on your exemplary reputation in the community —as well as your parents’ —I’m willing to assume you had
no knowledge of your cousin’s activities. If you’ll just excuse us?”


M.J. looked between his mother and the detective, the first signs of a growing son’s protective emotions on his face as he
tapped Cassie’s knee. “You okay with him, Mom?”


“Go down to your room,” Cassie said through clenched teeth, “and shut the basement door after you.” As her son rose, she punctuated
her words. “Don’t even think about coming up until your father and I come down for you.”


I can feel your frustration, ma’am,” Whitlock said when they were alone, once she had excused herself to change from her slippers
into a pair of real shoes. He sat a few inches from Cassie, leaned forward with his eyes seeking hers like a sympathetic counselor’s.
“You look like you’ve had an exhausting day as it is. I’ve seen your realtor signs all over the city. You work aw. . .