Page 8 of The Brooklyn Way
It took my cousins a few hours to get my things loaded into the U-Haul. At one point, Vince had come out of his room looking and behaving like he was about to leave for work. Once he saw me pointing out which furniture pieces should be placed on the truck, his eyes bugged.
My eyes rolled. I knew this dude didn’t think I was about to leave behind the furniture that I paid for so he and his girl could have someplace to frolic. He really wasn’t right in the head if he thought that.
He pulled out his phone, whispered into it, then made his way into the kitchen. He stood there like some type of overseer, watching every move my cousins made presumably making sure they didn’t take anything that belonged to him. He did not have to worry. His taste was basic and ugly as fuck. He could keep those whack ass brown wooden lamps that matched the brown threadbare ass floor rug. He could also keep the hideous, raggedy dark brown recliner.
When my cousins were done loading the truck, the apartment looked noticeably different. I took one last lap around the place, nodding at Big Red once I was certain that everything I wanted to take had been removed.
“We’re headed out now, Vince,” Big Red called to him, causing a guttural groan to escape from my closed lips. My plan was to leave without uttering one word to him.
“Okay.” He made his way from the kitchen toward us. When he was close, he actually wrapped my grandmother up in a hug.
“It’s always a pleasure, Mrs. Waverly,” he told her.
She gave a single nod. “I don’t think we’ll ever lay eyes on one another again on this side of glory, Vince.”
His eyes grew large at the bluntness of her words.
“But,” she continued, “let me pray for you before I go.”
I moved to step away so that she could hold his hand or his shoulder or whatever part of him she planned to touch while she prayed. All I knew was that I didn’t want to join in any prayer circle that would require me to hold his hand.
I had mixed feelings about Vince. There was a part of me that truly resented him and his recent treatment of me. But there was also a part of me that remembered how he had been there for me during a time I really needed someone to lean on. He had been solid and reliable. I didn’t hate him, but I definitely didn’t like him.
“Aww, Mrs. Waverly, I don’t want to be disrespectful to you, but you know I don’t really believe in all of that… Jesus, the Devil, Heaven, and Hell stuff.”
“You don’t have to believe in it, Vince. I do. And besides that, even if it is all make-believe and folklore, what’s the harm in it?”
I lingered behind them, pretending to adjust something inside my purse. I wanted to hear what she would pray over him, but I didn’t really want to be involved.
Instruction came from Big Red. “Get over here, Brooklyn, and let’s join hands.”
Suppressing an audible or even visual sigh, I walked over and linked a hand with Vince’s and the other with Big Red’s.
“Heavenly Father,” Big Red began, “we come to You in the mighty and matchless name of your son, our Lord, Jesus Christ. We come thanking You for all that You are, and all that You have done. Thank You for being an all-knowing God. Thank You, Lord, that even when humans are blinded by charm and… moyen looks, You recognize a rapscallion when You see one.”
I had to stop myself from giggling once I realized that it was going to be one of those prayers. My grandmother specialized in telling you truthfully about yourself, under the guise of speaking a blessing over your life. When she was really disgusted with you, she would throw in a little bit of her favorite language, French. Her using the word moyen let me know what type of time she was on. And I was there for it. She was about to roast Vince, and he wouldn’t even know it.
Translation of the opening words of her prayer: Thank You, Lord, for being all knowing, even though my granddaughter was an absolute fool for falling for somebody who was moderately charming, but not handsome, with his medium looks. You knew from the get-go that he was a motherfucker.
The word rapscallion didn’t literally translate to motherfucker. It actually translated to something like… mischievous person. But I had been Ruth Waverly’s granddaughter all my life, so I knew what she meant when she used the word. She used that word to fill in for one of two phrases that she would never dare utter: motherfucker and no-good nigga.
She continued. “Lord, You know. You know the hearts of those that belong to You and even those who don’t. You know where they’re delicate and where they’re wicked. Your word says that little foxes will see tender grapes, come in and will destroy the vine. Don’t let that happen, Lord. When the enemy comes in like a flood, fulfill your word, Lord, and raise up a standard against it. Remind us to be as Matthew chapter seven, verse six instructs. Let us not give what is holy to dogs, or cast our pearls to swine, lest they trample them, then turn and do the same to us.”
Translation for the second stanza of the prayer: Lord, when You find a fool, You should bump their head. Brooklyn was a fool, so Vince bumped her head. Let her have learned her lesson, Lord. When he (or the next man) tries this again, let her see that thing for what it is. Don’t let her be the same fool twice. Lord, remind Brooklyn not to give away what she considers valuable to those who are unworthy. First of all, they won’t appreciate the importance of what she’s given them. Then, once they squander and destroy her gift, they’ll turn around and try to destroy her spiritually, mentally, and maybe even physically.
She went on.
“Lord, I ask that You lay your hands on both my Brookie and Vince right now. Search their hearts and minds. Make every crooked place straight. Rebuke anything that is not like You. Come in like a mighty rushing river against anything that is not like You.”
That part was self-explanatory.
She continued.
“Lord, your word will never come back void and will accomplish exactly what You please. Your word says that the prayers of the righteous avail much, so I ask in your holy name that any person who touches even the very hair of your anointed shall face your reprisal to the highest degree. Your word says that one thing You hate is feet that are quick to rush into evil. May every Judas reap what he has sown. May every Delilah stand in triumph holding the very strength of every foolish Samson in her hand, while he looks on love-drunk and dazed. And Lord, if it be your will that those called of You might be present to witness the spectacle to gain encouragement and faith in your ability to deliver recompense in any way you see fit, then we ask that it be so.
“Position every Esther, Lord. Strengthen her. Equip her. When Boaz shows himself, Lord… give her the wisdom to recognize and realize that she has been called for such a time as this. Now Lord, may we leave this place, but never your presence. Amen.”
Translation: Lord, please answer my prayer. May Vince pay heavily for every dirty deed he’s perpetrated against my granddaughter. May he reap what he has sown by having Kelly play in his face, while he stands there still in love with her and not understanding why she is doing him the same way he did Brooklyn. May the floozy he’s messing with take everything from him: his money, his power, his happiness, and maybe even his good name. And if it’s in your will, Lord, let Brooklyn witness this to remind her that she is important to You, and You will come against things and beings that come against her unjustly. Prepare Brooklyn to meet the man You have prepared for her. Amen.