Upon This Rock

Book 4: Shelton Heights

by Kendra Norman-Bellamy

Genres: African American; African American Urban; Christian Fiction

Synopsis

An ex-con learns the hard way that it’s better to be with God than without. Deon “Rocky” Rockford is released after spending time in jail. He may have been “saved” on the inside, but now his term has been overturned. He is also free from the shackles of the prayers of the men’s ministry of the New Hope Church, and wants only to focus on himself. Fearless and strong, this big guy won several fights behind bars, and feels ready to forge a new life in Shelton Heights. Soon he will see that the only “rock” he can count on is God.

Release date: March 1, 2011

Publisher: Urban Christian

Print pages: 320

Sample

“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Kyla. Happy birthday to you!”

Rocky sat on a corner stool, not even tempted to cover his ears as the song was rendered for the stylishly dressed honoree. The teenage friends that sang it to her were surprisingly on key, but the whoops and hollers that followed were deafening. The spontaneous eruption echoed off the walls of the extravagant living room, but Rocky was enjoying the scene too much for the excessive noise to bother him. By now, he had been at the home at least a dozen times, but every time he visited, he was awed by the beauty of the split-level mansion.

The next wave of cheers threatened to break the sound barrier following the successful blowing out of the sixteen red candles that topped the cake. Then teenagers and adults alike began grabbing saucers and forks as they made ready to devour the sweet treat. Kyla was allowed to go first, but her friends crowded her, anxious for their turn to get a slice.

“Why are you sitting there like a stepchild?” Peter Jericho nudged Rocky’s shoulder as he passed by. “Don’t you see all these greedy kids? Man, you better come on and get it while the getting is good. You snooze, you lose.”

Rocky laughed. Not that what Peter said was all that funny, but the irony of one of his words tickled him despite the bitter reality: “stepchild.” It was all Rocky had ever been. He’d never had what he defined as a real family. It wasn’t until he connected with the group of people he now sat observing that he had an inkling of what it was really like to have caring parents and fun siblings—even what it was like to have nieces and nephews to spoil. His eyes darted back to Kyla, Peter and Jan’s daughter. The girl’s face beamed, and Rocky could only imagine the joy she felt inside. Firsthand experience escaped him. At forty-one years old, he had not once had a birthday party thrown in his honor. Maybe it was because he’d never had any honor.

“Y’all hurry up so we can ride the horses before it starts to get dark!”

That was Malik, Hunter and Jade’s son. When he said the words, his voice cracked a little, as all boys’ voices tended to do when they are making the transition from puberty to manhood. Malik was a year or so younger than Kyla, and although they didn’t officially call themselves boyfriend and girlfriend, everybody knew they had a special fondness for each other. Even the way Malik shadowed her right now sent a silent signal to all the other guys in the room that the birthday girl was taken.

Rocky still hadn’t moved from his observation station. From where he sat, he could see them all. All the people whom God so graciously had placed in his unworthy life. Having spent so many of his years growing among thorns alongside other bad seeds, it had been an adjustment to establish a comfort level around his new Christian family. After four months, though, Rocky was starting to get the hang of it. His eyes continued to scan the room.

There was Hunter and Jade Greene, owners of Greene Pastures, the champion horse-breeding farm that covered about ten acres of land outside their manor. It was their house in which the birthday party was being held. Every time a special occasion arose in the lives of any one of those in their inner circle, Hunter and Jade’s home was the expected venue to host it, and the horses were the largest reason why. Whether it was one of their birthdays, anniversaries, a holiday gathering, or whatever . . . Greene Pastures was automatically named party central, and riding the horses was automatically a part of the celebration. The Greenes were what Rocky defined as “filthy stinking rich,” but their humble attitudes didn’t reflect it. Aside from their lucrative horse farm, Hunter owned metropolitan Atlanta’s hottest newspaper, the Atlanta Weekly Chronicles, sometimes called the AWC. Jade was nothing to sneeze at either. Jade, or Dr. Jade Tides-Greene, as the professional community knew her, owned and operated her very own psychiatric business. Hunter and Jade were one of those power couples, like Jay-Z and Beyoncé . . . one of those beautiful couples, like Boris Kodjoe and Nicole Ari Parker. They had been married for more than three years now, but they still acted like newlyweds. It was sickening and endearing at the same time. They were the parents of Malik, who was Hunter’s biological son from a previous relationship, and eighteen-month-old Leah, the gorgeous, auburnhaired spitting image of Jade.

Then there was Peter and Jan Jericho. They weren’t nearly as lovey-dovey and touchy-feely as the Greenes, but their fifteen-year marriage was as solid as a rock. There weren’t a lot of people in the world that Rocky would admit to admiring, but Pete was one of them. Just a few years ago, Pete had been one of five U.S. Marines who became POWs, tortured and beaten in Iraq while actively defending their country. Rocky was incarcerated when it all unfolded, but he remembered being engrossed in the newspaper articles and the updates that he was able to catch on television. The day that Peter and the two other surviving soldiers were rescued, even the prisoners found reasons to rejoice. Peter retired from active duty after the ordeal, but he still wore the uniform and remained associated with the military. He now headed the Junior ROTC program at one of the local high schools. The master sergeant still had the mind of a soldier and the gait of a soldier. Every time Rocky looked at the battle scar that was still visible on the side of Peter’s head—the scar that had been permanently etched there by the barrel of an Iraqi soldier’s gun—his respect multiplied.

“Here. And don’t make this no habit. You ain’t got no servants around here, you know.”

Rocky took the saucer, which was practically shoved in his face, and laughed out loud. The giver of it was Jerome Tides, the closest thing he’d ever had to a best friend. They’d met in prison, where they had shared a cell for a few months before Jerome was released after serving ten years. At the time, Jerome was a preacher’s kid gone bad; but now, not only had he “found his way back to the Cross,” as his father, Reverend Tides, put it, but Jerome was following in his dad’s footsteps. He’d received his ministerial license about a year ago, and he was now serving in the capacity of assistant youth pastor. Talk about turning over a new leaf—Jerome had turned over a new tree.

As Jerome stood beside Rocky eating his cake, he was joined by his fiancée. Dark and oh, so sweet, Ingrid Battle reminded Rocky of the slice of chocolate cake he now held in his hand. He didn’t know how a convicted felon could get so lucky as to net a woman as strong and supportive as Ingrid—not to mention one as curvaceous and feminine. In Rocky’s eyes, she wasn’t quite as pretty as Jan or Jade, but Ingrid Battle held her own, and every now and then, Rocky found himself feeling a little jealous of his friend’s good fortune.

Rocky shoved a hunk of the cake in his mouth. “I wonder where Stuart is.” He chewed and scanned the room like there was a chance he’d somehow overlooked the Lyons clan. “I can’t see Tyler missing Kyla’s birthday party.”

“He’ll be here.” Jerome glanced at his watch. “He had to go pick up Candice from the airport. You know she had to fly to South Carolina to check on her dad, and she was returning to Atlanta today.”

“I hope he’s doing better,” Ingrid said, slipping her arm around Jerome’s waist at the same time.

The affectionate gesture must have triggered some type of emotion in Jerome, because he lowered his lips and planted a tender kiss on the top of her head before replying, “I hope so too, babe. Stu said they released the old man from the hospital on Wednesday, so that has to be a good sign. He probably just needs to take it easy for a few days. Chest pains ain’t nothing to play with, especially at his age.”

Ingrid nodded. “I know . . .”

They kept talking, but Rocky had tuned them out. It had been Rocky’s question that started the conversation; yet his mind now wandered in the middle of it. It wasn’t the presence of Stuart Lyons, the resident law enforcement officer, his son, Tyler, or Stuart’s lady friend, Candice, that Rocky was missing; but he knew that if they walked through the door, so would the person whom he really wanted to see.

“Lord, I love this time of year. Seems like everybody got birthdays coming up. In a few weeks, we’ll be celebrating with Jade. Always a blessing to have a house filled with people. Milk, anybody?”

The voice of Mildred Tides invaded Rocky’s thoughts. He unconsciously broke into a grin at the sight of her pudgy frame as she rounded the corner, balancing a rectangular-shaped wooden tray in her hands that had at least ten Styrofoam cups of milk standing on top. He didn’t know what it was about the first lady of New Hope Church, but just the sight of her had a way of warming him. She could be a tad nosy at times, but Mildred was funny, affectionate, gentle, nurturing, and dutiful. As far as Rocky was concerned, she was the kind of woman whom everybody wished they had for a mom. She was another reason he was sometimes jealous of his best friend.

“I got that, Mother.” Jerome separated himself from Ingrid and relieved his mom of the tray, just as she was preparing to protest.

“You’re eating, son. I could have taken care of that.” She reached out like she was going to reclaim her load.

“You’re not the hostess of this party, Mother.” It was the third time today that Jerome had to remind her of that.

“That’s right,” Peter said as he walked toward the voices he’d overheard. “Why don’t you go and have a seat at the table with your husband, Mother Tides?” He took the tray from Jerome’s hands, and then jerked his head in the direction of the dining room. “Go on and have a seat and enjoy your cake. Jan and I will make sure all the kids get their milk and whatever else is needed.”

Rocky swiped a cup for himself. The cake was delicious, but if he didn’t get something to wash it down, he wouldn’t be able to finish it.

“Well, all right, if you say so.” Mildred mumbled the words as Peter strode toward the teenagers who were sprawled all over the floor of the den enjoying their dessert. She shrugged her shoulders and added, “I was just passing them out. It’s not like I was headed to some pasture to round up the cows and milk them.”

Mildred had barely disappeared around the corner, which led to the formal dining area, before Rocky and Jerome burst into laughter. Ingrid tried to quiet them.

“She’s gonna hear y’all,” she warned.

Rocky shook his head and looked at Jerome. “I don’t think your mama knows what to do with her hands if she ain’t using them for work.”

Jerome agreed. “She really doesn’t. Did you see the look on her face just now? Mother looked like she was offended at the notion that we want her to relax.”

“Speaking of relaxing,” Ingrid said, looking at Rocky, “I’ll bet you’re glad to be moved into your house finally, huh?”

Still laughing, Rocky said, “Well, it ain’t like I had all that much stuff to move in. It was more work to get the house than it was to move in it.” He took a moment to sober himself, and then looked at Jerome. “Man, I don’t know what I would’ve done without your parents speaking up for me. I would’ve been cool just to get a one-room studio joint somewhere in the city. I never dreamed I’d actually have a house. I couldn’t believe they cosigned for me like that.”

“That’s Dad and Mother for you,” Jerome said. “They offered to do that for me too.”

Rocky shifted his weight on his stool. “Yeah, but you’re their son; that’s different.”

“Man, please. As far as they’re concerned, you’re their son too.”

Rocky found himself turning up his cup to his mouth to hide the threatening evidence that the words Jerome had spoken so coolly had stirred his emotions. He had known Reverend and Mrs. Tides personally for only a short while, but they already felt more like parents to him than his own ever had.

“Actually, you were your own worst enemy when it came to getting a house,” Jerome added.

When Rocky used his napkin to wipe away his milk mustache, he also took that moment to quickly dab the corner of his left eye. He squared his shoulders. “My own worst enemy? What do you mean?”

“All your stupidity about the Shelton Heights legend—that’s what I mean.” Jerome kept talking as Ingrid snickered softly. “You could have been in one of the houses out there easily, but because of some silly superstition, you had to live elsewhere; and elsewhere was not as nice as Shelton Heights, but it was more expensive and required better credit than you could prove to have. In Shelton Heights, you could have gotten a two- or three-bedroom home for the same price as that little one-bedroom house you’re in now.”

It wasn’t silly as far as Rocky was concerned. Even being locked behind prison walls didn’t stop him from hearing about all of the strange happenings that seemed to take place in the Shelton Heights subdivision. The residents of that upscale, low-cost community had been served more than their share of hardluck stories. He’d had enough misfortune in his life, and he wasn’t about to volunteer to take on any more. The only way he could guarantee a good life was to live outside of that godforsaken sector.

“Yeah, well, it ain’t like I didn’t have reason to be nervous.” Rocky tipped his cup in the air as if giving a toast, and then added, “It’s better to be safe than sorry. I’ve had enough trouble in my life to last another lifetime.”

“You and me both,” Jerome said, laughing as the two of them slapped palms with one another, and then turned it into one of those creative handshakes that ended with them bumping shoulders.

The celebration would be short-lived. It ended when the front door of the home suddenly flung open with such force that it brought with it a hush that blanketed the entire house. In the open doorway stood a breathless Sgt. Stuart Lyons, looking distraught and borderline hysterical.

“Where’s Rocky?” His words came between pants of breath. “Is he here?”

Rocky’s heart dropped. He felt it beating in the bottom of his belly. He hadn’t been out of prison nearly long enough to have forgotten what it felt like to be there. Every day, as a part of his morning prayer, he asked—no, begged—God not to let him do anything that would send him back. The look on Stuart’s face was the reflection of a man who was ready to make an arrest. Friend or foe, if Rocky broke the law, then Stuart would be bound by duty to bring him in.

“What’s wrong?” Reverend Tides asked as he walked from the dining room to an open space near the door. Concern washed over his face, and his finger made a slow migration in Rocky’s direction, as though he feared that the gesture was turning him into some kind of unwilling snitch. “What’s wrong, Stuart?” he repeated.

Stuart looked at Rocky, and for a moment, Rocky considered making a run for it. The crowd in the room was too thick, and his chances of escape were slim, but it might be worth a try. Anything not to see the inside of Phillips State Prison ever again. What had he done? Rocky’s mind raced. Oh God . . .

What a satire this could turn out to be. Stuart’s was the arrival for which he’d been impatiently waiting. He knew that when Stuart arrived, he’d be bringing others with him. One of those others was the person whom Rocky had been waiting all afternoon to see, but she was nowhere in sight. The only things accompanying Stuart were the deep worry lines that creased his forehead and the sunlight that beamed from behind him through the still-open door. The brightness of it seemed to make Stuart’s extraordinarily dark skin glow. Stuart started toward Rocky, but a smaller version of the cop—his son, Tyler—ran through the open door and shot past his dad.

“Rocky!” Tyler’s voice was elevated and full of fear. “It’s your house!”

My house? What about it? Rocky’s mind tried to process words that his paralyzed lips couldn’t form.

“It’s on fire!” the boy screamed. “Your house is on fire!”

Ashes. Bricks and ashes. That’s all that was left of what used to be Rocky’s house. The flames had been doused days ago, but the smell lingered in the air. It had been his first home. The first thing of any real value that he’d ever owned. Honestly owned, that is. He also owned the black-and-orange two-year-old Harley-Davidson Low Rider that was parked in the driveway. However, he’d purchased the motorcycle for almost nothing, in a back alley, from a man who was wearing shades at midnight and an overcoat in the summertime. For the price he paid to get it, Rocky was almost sure that the seller had stolen it from somewhere. He sat on the edge of the property that surrounded his burned house and stared in disbelief at the debris. What had been destroyed on the inside wasn’t worth much, but it represented just about everything he called his.

“Excuse me, mister.”

Rocky didn’t even bother to look up at the boy who stood near him. He didn’t want to talk to anybody, and he didn’t want anybody talking to him. But that didn’t stop the nameless, faceless, and apparently clueless lad from dangling a sealed bottle of Dasani water in front of Rocky’s face. A cold droplet of the sweat that had accumulated on the outside of the bottle fell onto Rocky’s exposed arm.

“My mama told me to bring you this. She said it’s ninety-three degrees out here, and you might want something to drink.”

The icy moisture felt good against skin that had been battered mercilessly by the midday sun for the past two hours, but Rocky wasn’t stupid. He may have turned in his “playa’s card,” but he still recognized game. Whoever the boy’s mama was, he’d bet anything that it was her hunger—not his thirst—that drove her to pimp her son. The Dasani was just a lure, and “my mama” was just another term for desperate housewife looking for fulfillment that her husband didn’t provide or single mother looking for a daddy for her kid. Either way, he wasn’t the one. Especially, not today. Today, “my mama” could be that Asian beauty he was rooting for on America’s Next Top Model, and he wouldn’t care. Today, she could be his unspoken crush, the largely hated reality television star Omarosa, and she still wouldn’t turn his head. Today, “my mama” could walk up to him looking like Halle Berry in that eye-popping Catwoman suit, and he wouldn’t be impressed. Okay . . . maybe that was pushing it, but the point of the matter was he didn’t want to deal with anybody right now, and one way or another, he had to drive that point home to this kid.

With his eyes still set straight ahead, Rocky’s tone was as chilly as his stare when he said, “Go tell your mama that there ain’t a darn thing water can do for me. Ask her if she’s got anything stronger. If so, then maybe we can talk.”

When he heard the boy’s fading footsteps as the bottom of his tennis shoes crunched against the asphalt of the paved street, Rocky was tempted to call him back and offer an apology for his cynical response. No doubt the boy’s mother would be ticked off by the message he’d just sent her way, and if she was anything like the women Rocky was used to, it might be to his advantage to reach for his helmet. At least his head would be protected. But as much as Rocky knew that he should take back his words, he wasn’t feeling very apologetic or cordial right now. He didn’t want to be bothered. Some of the old Rocky was beginning to resurface as he took in the enormity of the devastation in front of him. He was angry. He felt vengeful. Somebody had to pay for this.

One at a time, the knuckles on his right hand cracked under the pressure of his left. The cause of the fire hadn’t yet been determined, but Rocky’s mind was flooded by the laundry list of suspects who may have orchestrated the torching of his home: Smoke, Killa K, Nose Face, Solo, Stank-Um, Popeye, Widow Maker, Blade . . . All of them bore identifying names, and none of what they identified was good. At one time or another, Rocky had worked side by side in crime with each of them. Now, each one was in prison serving time, while he enjoyed freedom. Were they after him? He was sure they had people on the outside to whom they could assign his demise. Was the massive heap in front of him the result of an act of revenge? Rocky’s mind was so preoccupied that he didn’t even flinch when an approaching vehicle came within feet of running him over before it came to an abrupt stop. Only one man drove that crazy, and he didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

“I thought I’d find you here.” The truck door slammed shut, and a few moments later, Jerome found a space on the roadside next to his friend. Quiet ruled momentarily, but Jerome soon spoke again. “It’s been a week, Rocky. How long do you plan to spend your afternoons out here staring at the ruins, man? Looking at it ain’t gonna change nothing.”

Sometimes saying nothing was the better choice, and Jerome wasn’t making good choices right now. Rocky pressed his lips together as tightly as he could. If he allowed them to part, there was no telling what might come out. Impatient fingers drummed a rapid, unrhythmic beat against the shiny surface of the black helmet that sat on the grass between his knees.

“Look on the bright side.” Clearly, Jerome was unaware that he was testing Rocky’s tolerance. “God is good in spite of this. Just think. If this had happened to you before you moved back here and started living for Jesus, you would have been homeless.”

Rocky’s fingers stopped their tap dance. If he didn’t need to use Jerome’s spare bedroom as a temporary living quarters, he might have followed through with his urge to wallop him one good time. Even with the need, restraining himself wasn’t easy. Rocky had to say or do something; holding it in was no longer a viable option. “The bright side?” He snapped his face to the right and looked at Jerome for the first time. Frustration edged his tone. “Man, there ain’t no bright side to this. I ain’t saying that God ain’t good. Yeah, He’s good. He’s great. Super. Fabulous. All that. But do you think for one minute that I wouldn’t have had any place to stay if this had happened to me in Calhoun? Please!” Particles of spit flew from his mouth as he huffed out that last word. He should have apologized when he saw Jerome grimace and use his hand to wipe away some of the evidence from his cheek, but once again, none was offered. “As a matter of fact, if this had happened there instead of here, I would have had my choice of beds to lie in. Believe that! So don’t think you doing me no favors.”

Jerome shifted his body so that he faced Rocky. “Man, what’s wrong with you? Where is all this anger coming from?”

In one motion, Rocky was on h. . .