Jubi Stone:

by Yvonne J. Medley

Genres: African American; African American Christian; Christian Fiction

Synopsis

Jubilee "Jubi" Stone was a long-awaited gift from God to her now aging parents, James and Esther Stone. However, by the time their "gift" reaches her teens, a total disconnect between the generations creates a poisonous wound in their relationship. A toxic mixture of false pride, denial, and sexual abuse stand as the cause. Nineteen-year-old Jubi rebels and spirals into a desperate hell of drug abuse and prostitution, but she is a gifted songbird, and her destiny holds fame, fortune, and a rich legacy—if she can get there. The devil knows it. He's set to help Jubi destroy herself before she turns twenty. Esther Stone's only hold on her child—and the only road to this family's healing—is prayer. When Jubi finds herself on the altar of the Forest Unity Church of Baltimore, she's secured in the embrace of the Reverend Charles A. Wicker, praying for her salvation. The next moments prove crucial because for Jubi, her parents, and the devil, time is running out. On that unforgettable Sunday morning, someone will die and someone will live.

Release date: July 1, 2013

Publisher: Urban Christian

Print pages: 273

Sample

1993 . . .

“What’s that you just slipped in your pocket?” Esther said to her daughter, Jubi. Esther kept her eyes on Jubi’s hands when she said it, too. Jubi was a medium height, leanly built nineteen-year-old who was going to turn twenty in a month. She looked frail and actually too lean these days. And the corners of her eyes and lips were crusty. She stood there trying to look dumbstruck at her mother. But her dumbstruck look failed. Instead, she managed only to re-create the look of the beat-up, old whisk broom propped up in her mother’s living room. Jubi’s straw-like hair had little curlicues here and there. Every strand practically stood on its own.

Esther stood there thinking, Has this child been in a fight or something? I mean, electric shocks couldn’t have pointed those rusty antennae with any more precision. But she pondered this for only a second due to the pressing matters at hand. “So what’s that you think you’re walking out of here with this time?” she asked sarcastically. Then she answered her own question. “But you’re not.”

Jubi was silent, thinking up something to say or something to do. Jubi feared that perhaps if Esther moved in a little closer, there might be some spicy BO—bad odor—to behold. But Esther stood firmly where her feet had planted her. It was a position from where she could accurately assess the total picture. She also stood blocking the path to Jubi’s front-door freedom. She wasn’t about to budge.

Surrounding them both was the projected glee of family portraits. There were grouped images of Esther; Jubi’s daddy, James; and Jubi. They depicted happier times and tracked Jubi’s years from birth to tween. Each portrait doubled as history and decor to fill out a beautifully decorated front room. Had those pictorial scenes been rewrapped in flesh, they would have felt shame over this present scene.

“Uh-huh,” was Esther’s audible response to Jubi’s silence and lame dumbstruck expression. “I’m gonna ask you again,” Esther said smoothly. She worked to keep her demeanor smooth, as smooth as her beautiful olive skin. She spoke calmly, remaining as calm and collected as she was always expected to be around those who knew her. Jubi tried to make a dash for the door. Esther blocked her. She still kept her cool.

Esther’s general demeanor and appearance took on a classy, regal air. It was second nature. And Esther liked to look stylish, too. Dressing for church earlier that day, she felt that the bracelet now stowed away in her daughter’s jacket pocket, and about to be smuggled out the door, was the perfect addition to the new outfit she planned to wear. That was why the bracelet had been exhumed from its hiding place. It had been inadvertently left out, and ultimately snatched by Jubi, Esther’s gift from God.

When Jubi was around fourteen or so, all the rebellion and trouble started to invade the Stones’ world. “That’s when the devil moved into our house,” Esther shared one Tuesday night during a weekly ministry group meeting at her church. Forest Unity Memorial Church of Baltimore was a pillar in the Forest Park community, where the Stones lived. And it was a saving grace to Esther. She had not long been voted in as chairperson of the group, aptly christened the FISHH Ministry. FISHH! It stood for “Fellowship, Intercession, Study, and Healing Hurts.”

Responding to her mother’s disbelief at the present moment, Jubi said, “What?” She draped it in a fake laugh, one that verged on a cackle of disbelief. Jubi’s stale, cracked voice was once the voice of heavenly angels and sweetness to the ear. For the final touch, Jubi worked to paint an incredulous look on her face. She used it to season her laugh as she let her mother’s bracelet plummet into the pocket of her worn-out, armpit-stinky jacket.

Jubi’s maternal grandmother, Adele, had sent the bracelet to Jubi’s mother when she married. And so that gold bracelet, encrusted with glistening sapphires, had been in the family since forever, it seemed. According to family folklore, the bracelet had slavery blood on it.

“Whaddaya talkin’ about?” Jubi said, letting go of the bracelet and thrusting her empty hand into the realm of plain sight like a magician. She made a motion with her hand that seemed to say, “This conversation is over, and I’ll be leaving now.” “Mom, you seein’ things again. You know you gettin’ old,” Jubi said. She gave a phlegmy laugh that caused her to clear her throat and wipe her runny nose with a dusty hand.

And it was true. Her mother was getting old. In truth, Esther was well into her fifties and looking around the corner at her sixties. She somehow managed to look better than she felt, which was run-down, because her beloved was a thief and a crackhead.

Esther hard-eyed her daughter. “If you think you’re gettin’ outta here with that bracelet you got there in your pocket . . . ,” Esther said. Her death-ray stare targeted Jubi’s pocket for just an instant. Esther kept her voice smooth, even toned, but she executed a mean black-woman neck roll for visual emphasis. Her hair, with its abundant, healthy brown waves fashioned in a flip, bobbed on her shoulders when she rolled her neck at her daughter. She aimed her eye again on the very pocket that harbored their family’s heirloom. She declared, “If you think you’re gettin’ outta here with it, you’re sadly mistaken.”

Esther wore a purple-print housedress. It was neatly pressed, even though she wore it only in the house. She had on house slippers to match. Her hairdo still looked fresh from church because she hadn’t yet had the chance to take that power nap she’d promised herself. She’d planned to fry up some pork chops for James’s dinner once she was reenergized. But Jubi had come knocking on the door, messing up the groove of things. Esther had barely gotten out of her church clothes when she heard the knock. James had to work, so she had gone to church solo that day. Jubi had their routine committed to memory. She had timed her visit perfectly. She didn’t want her daddy around when she came to ask for money or to lift what she could from the premises.

It was nearing the middle of the month, and Jubi was short, real short, on the rent and some other necessities. If she couldn’t make up the shortfall from her parents’ place, then she’d have to make it up in other ways—ways that lately had begun to turn her stomach and were almost unbearable. The parent savings and loan was fast becoming her first and only option, her desperate option.

“Mom,” Jubi said as if settling a contract dispute. “Hey. Look . . .” She shook her head while moving toward the door. “Look here, I just came over to say hi. Ya know? I thought that maybe we could talk or something. But I see you trippin’. So I’ma just go. All right? Get out of your hair. Okay?”

She gibbered some more and sidled forward until she had just about met up with her mother and was nose to nose. Perhaps it was the last bit of home training that stopped her. Who knows? Esther would wonder about that later. But right then, Esther neither abandoned her silence nor backed up. There was a slight, brief dance between the two of them. When Jubi attempted to glide around her, Esther blocked her. They danced to the left, then veered to the right.

“Hey, Mom, I said I’m leavin’. What you doin’? Huh?” They were now eye to eye, nose to nose for sure.

“I told you you’re not leavin’ here with my bracelet,” Esther said. “Oh, you can go,” she heard herself clarify, “but that bracelet—and whatever else you’re hiding that belongs to me—is staying.” Esther let a meditative moment lapse, for Jubi’s benefit. Then she sprinkled a little paprika on her prior statement, you know, for dead-on clarity. “You got that, right?” Esther questioned Jubi. “I mean, you understand what I’m sayin’, right?”

Mother and daughter stood their ground, equally stunned and steamed at the other’s growing gall. Neither could believe it. Television murmurs and familiar commercial jingles played innocently in the background, but that didn’t lighten the mood. Suddenly, Esther stepped forward and gave Jubi a good push. Jubi was caught off guard and almost tripped backward over the maple coffee table. The coffee table tipped over, and one of its wooden legs fractured. Ju-bi’s arms pinwheeled, and she searched frantically for leverage in the air. She found none.

In what felt like an out-of-body experience, Esther made another quick decision to take advantage of the situation. Her primary goal was to end it all right there. While Jubi struggled to reclaim her steadiness, Esther lunged forward like her body was not tired at all and yanked at Jubi’s jacket pocket. It ripped. The bold move caused the sapphire-encrusted bracelet to break free. It dropped to the hardwood floor, rolled, and swiveled under the couch like a runaway slave.

Jubi was incensed. She became crazed. She cursed. Cursing was an offense she had never before perpetrated in front of her mother. Jubi dove to the floor, her hands and knees hitting first, then her belly. She dove to where she thought she’d seen her future bankroll disappear under the couch.

“Oh, no, you’re not,” Esther yelled. Her cool was gone. It was another out-of-body experience. Her physical strength had come from . . . Well, later, she’d recall that she didn’t know from where it had come. Because in the old days, Esther would not have ever raised her voice or her hand in such raw anger toward her child, let alone started a brawl. But on this day, the bracelet represented the last straw. Esther felt like shaking her baby about the head and shoulders until some godly, good common sense filtered in. And, if she’d wanted, she could have done it, too. Esther was a longtime registered nurse. She was used to tussling to restrain patients when she had to. But such strength was reserved for the job, not the home. The overwhelming sensation of wanting to violently shake some sense into her daughter was real, but not readily recognizable to Esther.

God forgive me, she thought in the rush of things. James, where the heck are you? She pounced on the back of her baby girl like a Roller Derby skater in the midst of settling an argument. She aimed to draw Jubi back away from the couch, and away from the bracelet. But the bracelet, having been through much worse for sure, kept still and sufficiently hidden. Thoughts of shaken baby syndrome consumed Esther while she had Jubi in her clutches. At the moment, it actually seemed like a possibility.

“Jubi, stop all this mess,” Esther shouted as she pulled Jubi away from the couch with little effort. “Stop living like this! God don’t want this mess outta you. You’ve lost your mind,” Esther yelled as they tussled. Jubi huffed and puffed and tried to scramble away. Esther mercifully allowed Jubi to get to her feet, hoping this would lead to a cease-fire. But all mercy did was allow Jubi to attempt to get the upper hand in the situation. The two became interlocked. They fell and rolled on and off the couch. They grunted and screamed, and a lamp on the end table crashed to the floor.

“God!” Jubi shouted, breathing hard, surprised. She saw herself pulling her mother’s hair. In the back of her mind, this was an out-of-body experience for her, too. She was assaulting her mother. It was something she couldn’t believe she was doing. “God!” Jubi shouted again as she took a stinging slap across her face from Esther. It came shortly after they both had climbed to their feet. The slap drew tears from them both.

But the tussle wasn’t over. Jubi threw a wild punch that caught the side of her mother’s head. Jubi’s jagged fingernails scratched her mother’s cheek as she drew back her hand. Jubi, stunned, wanted to shout, “I’m sorry, Mama!” But instead she bellowed, “You always shouting about some God. Like that’s supposed to do something.” Her voice screeched and quivered. “And look how you treatin’ me! God tell you to do this?” Jubi challenged.

“God ain’t tellin’ you to mess yourself up like this,” Esther said as the two of them managed to stand their ground. Their fists remained on guard and clenched tight. A quick survey would show that the living room had taken quite a hit. It had become a battlefield.

Just then, James appeared in the doorway, astonished. “What the heck happened here?” he asked, surveying the damage, his eyes popping. “I could hear y’all shouting from the curb. Y’all gonna cause the police to come here again.” He stepped between them like a Roller Derby referee.

“Mama hit me,” Jubi rushed to say, trying to effect a little girl’s tattletale tone. “She hit me for nothin’, Daddy.” She tried the doe eyes, too. That used to work on her father when she was a cute little girl, a honey-hued gingersnap. But the daddy’s girl innocence had long vanished. They both knew it. Sad, but true.

Panting and staring, Esther shouted at Jubi, “You need to fall down on your knees and beg God for forgiveness for the life you leadin’.” She checked the long, deep, wet scratch on her face for the blood that she knew was there. She drew in a heavy breath, searching for the calm of salvation, but there was still anger in her heart. She glared at her flesh and blood like she was a stranger when she said, “I don’t know you, chile. What’s gotten into you? Ever since you left the church, you’ve—”

Incensed at hearing the word church, Jubi shouted, “Church! God! Church! That’s all you ever talk about. That’s all you care about. You don’t care nothin’ about me. You only care what those fools think about you down at that stupid church.” Jubi stared at her mother through intense slit eyes and said, “You didn’t care nothin’ about me when you left me bleeding!” Her words were clipped as she huffed. Snot dribbled to her crusty lips.

Esther just looked at her daughter as James reached for his hankie and handed it to his baby girl. Esther stood there, feeling both steamed and sorry, but she kept silent. In her head she bellowed, You don’t understand! Esther found herself standing there in a flood of secrets and nightmares about her past. She could have explained things, perhaps. But, sadly, any brief rebuttal she was willing to give would have been useless. That awful night years ago, Esther had come home from a late-night work shift to find a bloodstained bathroom and her daughter hiding in the shadows of her bedroom. There was even a strange stench in the air, one that was very recognizable to her. What in the world made her dismiss it all, again, and go to bed, she’d never know. Or did she know the root of her behavior? For there had been times when pride and appearances won out over Jubi’s drama.

James kept his daughter at bay as she wailed and accused. “You don’t know, Mama,” Jubi yelled in wounded tones. “You don’t know nothin’ about me—what I’m goin’ through! All you care about is that stupid church!” Her tears gushed down her cheeks, leaving dusty trails. “Mama, that church and your God can’t do nothin’ for me.” Jubi’s voice squeaked, and she felt helpless.

Esther wanted to run to her, hold her, and wipe her tears away, but she kept herself away and still. She stood there and wiped her own tears and dabbed at the traveling trickle of blood with a tissue she’d fished out of her housedress pocket. She struggled to reclaim her composure. She looked at Jubi with fresh pain in her eyes. It was an alphabet soup of compassion, remorse, and hurt. But what Jubi saw was disdain.

Her voice was low now, but direct. Esther’s total focus was Jubi’s soul when she said, “Neither of us can reclaim the past, chile. But just the same, you’ve hit a new low. For some reason, you’ve walked away from everything we taught you. You’ve thrown away everything you really are. You won’t listen to reason. You won’t grow up. You won’t forgive and move on.” Esther shook her head, then eyeballed Jubi real good when she added, “And you’re right. I don’t understand it.”

Jubi’s breath caught in her chest and choked her. She gulped a dry, bitter heave that rendered her speechless, because, deep down, she knew her mother’s words were true. At this moment, Jubi was unrecognizable even to herself.

On days that lacked Jubi drama, days unlike the present one, days when she could momentarily take a break from her maternal shame, Esther liked to fondly remember the good times. On Installment Sunday, set to celebrate the church officers, the Reverend Charles A. Wicker, Jr., said, “Sister Esther, we’re so blessed and grateful to have you head up the FISHH Ministry again. As a matter of fact, we’re grateful you’re our cherished and faithful longtime warrior of this branch of Zion.” Then he looked at her and smiled and squeezed her as he gave her a big preacher hug.

Esther remembered how her skin prickled and her cheeks flushed warm. She then turned to her left and hugged her husband, the good Deacon James Stone, who stood firm in support of his lovely wife. At James’s touch, Esther’s flushed, warm feeling overflowed. It showed up as a deep maroonish color in her cheeks. Yes, she often reminisced, that was a very good day.

Of all the busy work she’d done and the ministries on which she had served throughout the nearly twenty-five years of her being a part of Forest Unity Memorial, she had no doubt that this one, the FISHH Ministry, was truly her purpose. Esther was the mother of encouragers. It was sewn into her flesh with thick generational thread. And it wasn’t lost on her that, strangely, as her family was moving through this valley, someone had the foresight to throw her name in the hat to be chairperson for a second time in her life at the church. She was a prayer warrior, steadfast and true. She loved to pray. And up till now, as quiet as she kept it, she felt she had earned all the stripes there were for her to earn. “Forgive me, Lord,” she sometimes whispered only to God, acknowledging her slight embarrassment over such a bold revelation.

At the monthly FISHH meeting, when she made her confession about the devil moving into her house, she was teary-eyed and tired—physically and mentally. The other ladies in the group, who included two of her best friends, First Lady Beola Wicker and Peggy Gentry, who served as Reverend Wicker’s administrative assistant, quickly huddled around her and drenched her in prayer. In moments of thankful release, Esther swooned in their advanced praises for the victory. The victory, they all swore, was coming.

The trouble brewing in Stone paradise, whether Esther spoke of it or not, was not exactly something that had gone undetected. Peggy and Esther were longtime coworkers, nurses at Providence Hospital, and Peggy had noticed the first signs of trouble. It was just that these signs of trouble were not discussed in Esther’s or James’s presence. The ladies had read Esther’s frail appearance and mood correctly that evening. These women had been with her throughout her awful journey. And they patiently waited for her strength to be restored. They understood.

At home, Esther often gazed at the fireplace mantel, crowded with pictures. A huge photo of Jubi’s baptism loomed over Jubi’s shoulder on the day she fought physically with her mother. Jubi was baptized at the tender age of eleven, and the photo had captured the proudest day in all their lives. It outranked Esther and James’s wedding day. It even outranked Jubi’s birth, because at age eleven,. . .