When All Hell Breaks Loose Read online

  Copyright © 1997, 1999 by Akimac Publishing

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  VILLARD BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  An earlier edition of this book was published in 1997 by Akimac Publishing, Dallas, Texas.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Spencer, Camika.

  When all hell breaks loose / Camika Spencer.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-82303-8

  1. Afro-American Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3569.P4459W47 1999

  813’.54—dc21 99-20832

  Random House website address: www.atrandom.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Sunday Morning – 6 A.M.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  A Thought from Adrian

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Sunday Morning – 6 A.M.

  With the small black velvet box covertly in my hand, I nudge her out of her morning slumber. She looks like a brown angel. Quiet. Restful. I’ve never felt this way about any woman, and what I’m about to do will be my first and last time.

  “What is it, baby? Is something wrong?” she asks as she looks at me. On her side of the bed, I get on my knees. I’m so close to her face, I can smell last night’s dinner of pizza and Coke. Foul as it is, this is what love is about. Right here. This moment, in the peace and quiet of the morning. I lean in silently, not sure where to begin. The daybreak is making itself known. The room has taken on a deep blue-gray color as if the sun can’t get through the clouds. I feel my heart beating. I wonder if she can hear it.

  “Adrian Jenkins, I just wanted to take this opportunity to tell you I love you.”

  Adrian smiles a sleepy smile, telling me she understands. Her hand glides from the bed and touches mine. Her touch is warm, and it makes my Willie stir out of its sleep.

  “Gregory, baby, I love you too. Now and forever.”

  “I want to know if you can love me in the cold,” I say. My homeboy J gave me this idea and the script. I have it memorized to a T and I’m serious about every word.

  “Yes,” she says, cracking the singing of the birds outside the window with her chalky morning voice.

  “I want to know if you can love me when I’m old.”

  “Baby, you know I can. Stop being silly and come to bed.”

  “I want to know if you will feed me when I’m sick.”

  “Gregory, isn’t it a bit too early to be playing Twenty Questions? You know I will feed you when you’re sick. Remember last winter when you had the flu?”

  “Will you always let me know what’s bothering you and give me the opportunity to help?”

  “Yes. Now come to bed, baby. I miss you over here.” She pats the empty spot next to her.

  “One last question.”

  “You are so silly and so romantic.” She giggles. “What’s the last question?”

  I pull the box from behind my back and place it, opened, on the edge of the bed near her nose. The blue-gray morning goes well against the diamond. Twenty-two-carat total weight. Gold and diamond band. It shines like the moon at midnight.

  “Adrian Jenkins, will you marry me?”

  She rises out of the bed, her hair matted to the back of her head. Tears fill her eyes. “Gregory Alston, it’s too early in the morning for this! Look at me! I look a mess!” There’s a smile on her face as the ring goes on her finger. Tears fall from her eyes. It looks pretty good against her naked hand and body. Instead of telling me, she pulls me into bed and shows me her answer. It’s a big yes! At this time, nothing can come between us … nothing!

  1

  I’m feeling real good right about now. A brother don’t have many days when he’s on cloud nine. I mean, just last week my car had a flat, the hot water in my apartment was off for two days, and our company basketball games had been canceled. If I didn’t know better, I would think it just wasn’t meant for a black man to be happy at all. But this morning, before some serious lovemaking with my girl, Adrian, I did it. I asked her to marry me. I believe, in my heart of hearts, she’s the one thing in this world that makes me smile in spite of all the bad, and she has been for the past three years.

  Let me tell you about my Adrian. She’s a self-employed beautician with no children. She’s caring, supportive, intelligent, and fine. The one thing that really attracted me to her was, after our second year of dating, she promised to never leave me. It wasn’t just what she said, but how she said it. There was conviction behind it, as if that was what she was living for. That counts for a lot with me, and that’s why I love Adrian Jenkins and want to spend the rest of my life with her. No woman has ever made me feel this way, and I trust my feelings.

  We’ve been dating steady for the past three years. I know that’s a long time, but I had to make sure she was my type. I’ll admit, when I first met her I thought she was wild and unsettled. She just had that wild and unsettled look. Most beauticians have it. I see them all the time at the clubs looking like Lil’ Kim video hopefuls and rejects. They wear fake nails that are a million colors, platinum blond highlights in the hair, and the Big T Bazaar designer Versace, Dolce, and Donna Karan imposter clothing. I don’t know what they teach our sisters in hair school, but with some of ’em, it’s a wonder Mary Kay, Flori Roberts, and Avon haven’t taken over the White House and painted it mauve with gold highlights, posting Patti LaBelle up as their trademark.

  When I first met Adrian, the only thing that turned me off was her nails. On both hands, they were long and blue with constellation symbols on them. She had the moon on her thumbnails, the sun on her pinkie nails, and planets and stars on her six middle finger nails, which just about covered everything I learned about outer space in grade school. I was turned off because it reminded me too much of this chick I used to date back in the day named Deidre, who used her nails wickedly in bed. Makes me shudder at the thought. But aside from the nails, I was totally attracted to Adrian. She didn’t have a lot of makeup on. It was just enough to make her facial features stand out and make a brother like me take notice. She had on a brown leather-and-suede pants suit. Fitted like a glove and her booty was talking to me. For real! I could hear it going, “Yo Greg baby! I’m over here waiting for you! Come on, sweetie!” Her physical was popping off in tongues. Now, let me remind you, my woman is fine. I’m talking about five foot four, one hundred ten pounds, firm, and brown-skinned. Not that skin color matters. I’ve been with women who were so black they looked purple at night. And then I’ve been with those of the light, bright, damn near white persuasion. But Adrian is a creamy brown. She has the skin tone that falls somewhere between hazelnuts and dark honey. If you ever met her, she would remind you of Chili from the three-female group TLC. Although Adrian doesn’t have na
turally curly hair like Chili, she keeps her short style kept up. Like I said, she’s a beautician.

  Back to how I met Adrian. I was at Players, a local club for the twenty-to-thirty-something crowd, and she was sitting at the bar with two of her friends. One of them was kind of thick. Healthy arms and a booty that could have walked through the crowd on its own. She wasn’t fat, just big-boned, while the other friend was fine like Adrian, but her haircut was all wrong. She had one of those asymmetrical-to-the-fifth-power-with-honey-blond-highlights things going on. Her head looked like a cutting board, but I assume that’s what the sisters are into because she wasn’t the only one that night sporting the hairdo. They were laughing and you could tell they were talking about other people in the club. Going through their girlfriend motions as they sipped their drinks. Look, point, talk, giggle.

  At first, I was reluctant to go over to Adrian because she had one of those looks that sisters sometimes give in a club. It was that look that says, I’m looking good, I’m feeling good, I want to dance, but not with you! If it hadn’t been for the way she smiled at me, I would have never approached her. Not in this lifetime. I don’t wear rejection well. It isn’t my color. The DJ was spinning a nice remix of a song that had the crowd hyped, so I told myself, What the hell, and walked over and asked her to dance. At first she hesitated and had me standing there like I was Joe Fool or somebody. I got kind of pissed because her girls were checking me out, looking me up and down like I was yo-yo. I knew they would probably have something to say once I walked away from the bar. Look, point, talk, giggle. Women always do. Adrian looked over at them and smiled. The one with the bad haircut smacked her rose-colored lips and said, “Girl, go on, I’ll watch your drink.” I held my hand out and she took it. I still remember how soft her hands were the first time I touched her. Man! Every time I think about my baby, I feel good! Anyway, we danced the rest of the night. Before the club closed, we did the man-and-woman thang by exchanging phone numbers and ever since then it’s been heaven on earth. Man, I love my lady!

  So here I sit, Sunday morning, getting ready for church. Adrian just left. She was ecstatic. The ring cost me a pretty penny and I’m glad I got a college education and a damn good job working with computer systems. Otherwise, I would have been at the Dollar General store trying to get the Cinderella cubic zirconium special without the pumpkin. Those hairdressers make nice money, especially if they’re good. Adrian is the best. Her salon is called AJ’s Getaway. It is the only black-owned and black-run shop here in Dallas where sisters can go and get a free massage if they get a perm, cut, and color. Adrian is working on getting a business-improvement loan so she can add to the shop. She wants reading and day care rooms. She believes that hair salons should be an escape where black women don’t mind giving their money. They can’t mind much now, because she’s driving an LS400 fully loaded Lexus. I’m telling you, my lady is bad! Dammit! I better hurry up.

  I’m supposed to go to church today with my sister, Shreese. She’s my baby sister by three years, but we’re close. She’s all into the church scene and it affects everything she does. She goes four nights a week and all day on Sunday. I mean all day, from sunrise to sunset. She’s on the usher board, in the women’s chorus, and head of the Pastor and Staff Relations Committee. She is the only woman I know who cried and fasted for two weeks when she found out gospel artist Kirk Franklin married Tammy. She also has a framed, blown-up, action-sized photo of her and T. D. Jakes hanging in her living room like it’s a Brenda Joysmith original. That wouldn’t be so bad, but the picture is in a frame that cost her a good ninety-seven bucks! She professes that Mr. Jakes is worth every penny spent on the frame.

  My sister has some serious religious issues that need to be resolved, is what I think! I believe she’s more into the practice of church than the purpose of church. She’s always been that way. Back when I was a senior in high school and she was a freshman, she would carry her Bible to school with her every day. Other students used to tease the hell out of her. By the time she graduated, she had been voted “Most Likely to Achieve Immaculate Conception.” But it was cool, because I never had to fight the boys off her like most big brothers had to do. Shreese didn’t go out on dates and she didn’t allow any guys to call her after six. She’s always been a little weird, but I love her and she’s good people. Telling her about my engagement is going to be tough, because Shreese takes nothing lightly.

  Oh, hell! Where’s my watch? Oh, I left it in the kitchen. Got my keys, Bible, wallet, cool … I’m out. I better watch my swearing, too. Last time I visited, I almost let one slip out.

  2

  Mount Cannon Baptist Church is packed when I arrive. Luckily my sister saved a spot next to her. One of the ushers looks at me crazy because I’m late by ten minutes. She’s an old, wrinkled-looking woman with pouty lips, gloved hands clutched tightly together, and several noticeable chin hairs. Probably drove her one and only husband to an early grave and hasn’t had companionship in her life since, except a half-blind dog the size of my shoe. She cuts her beady eyes at me and tightens her lips as if I’m forcing her to do her job. I ignore her and straighten my tie. She leads me in and takes me directly to where Shreese is sitting. When my sister sees me, she beams. She pats the empty spot and I cross over a few people and sit down.

  “Greg, you’re late,” she whispers. “You missed Reverend Dixon’s welcome to the visitors.”

  I lean in and kiss my sister on the cheek. “It’s good to see you too, li’l sister.”

  “You didn’t bring Adrian?” she asks, looking past me.

  “No, she rushed home this morning. She told me to tell you she’s sorry she hasn’t gotten around to visiting church with you, but she will soon.”

  “She needs to be in church with you right now. I know y’all can’t see the error in your ways, but Sundays are for repentance.”

  “Reese, don’t start.”

  The pastor has said something we both missed and the congregation says, “Amen,” in unison. Shreese picks up her program and fans herself. The church is stuffy and I can barely stand the tie being around my neck already.

  The choir gets up to do a song. As the director announces the “A” selection, an upbeat version of “Down at the Cross,” my mind begins to drift to Adrian’s answer to my proposal and how we celebrated. The lovemaking is so fresh on my mind, I have to cross my legs and adjust on the pew, in order to keep my Willie under control. I’m slightly ashamed that I could think about sex in the middle of church service, but I know I’m not alone.

  The choir immediately starts jamming the song and my sister jumps up on her feet, clapping her hands and singing along. I look at the choir and shake my head in disbelief. They’re rocking intensely, and some of them are blatantly dancing! I’m talking about the Friday night stuff! One sister with a short bob haircut with gold highlights is doing a dance I know I was just doing last week down at the Prime Times club near downtown. Then there’s this brother who is doing a grand rendition of a slide step, reminiscent of James Brown! Mount Cannon is jamming like it’s New Year’s Eve in Times Square. I suppose they can since the church has a full band of brothers who I grew up with, most of whom still play Saturday night gigs at local jazz spots around Dallas. They even have a Caribbean drummer. Now I know what they mean by, “It’s on when the club close.” I can’t tell if they’re jamming for Jesus or auditioning for a role in the next Janet Jackson video. They’re rocking this song, but where do you draw the line? See, I’m from the old school, where gospel music was more humble, without all the glitter and pretentious behavior. This music definitely moves me because the musicians know what they’re doing and they understand what the right amount of bass and keys can do to the human spirit, but it appears no different than being at a play or some put-on show. Shreese is even cutting the holy rug a little, with a small two-step, jitterbug-type dance. I’ve never seen her groove before, and looking at her do her small step, jump, and bounce is causing me to wonder what she does in he
r spare time.

  I almost jump out of my skin when some woman in the back gets the Holy Ghost and starts screaming and flinging her arms about as she falls over a pew and catches another sister square in the back of her head. Several ushers rush over and surround her, making sure she doesn’t hurt anybody else, including herself. She’s a big woman, who is catering to at least two hundred and sixty pounds! I can see why they pick those plump women as ushers. They all look like courteous football linebackers.

  Half the church congregation is on its feet. I stand up too, envying the small children who are sleeping through all this praising and hollering. I don’t want these people to think I’m not having a good time, so I clap along like a robot. I keep my eyes darting around in case someone near me gets the spirit, because I don’t want to be in their way. The heat rises in the sanctuary and I take my program and fan my face. Three women and one brother in the choir stand have fainted and have been carried out, but the choir is still bouncin’.

  The pastor is sitting in his chair like an emperor. I’ve always wondered what it was like to sit in one of those big chairs that all big-time pastors have. Reverend Dixon must have skills because he has gold knobs at the ends of the armrests—at least, they look gold, probably just brass or gold-plated. I’m not doubting that this man has a blessing on his head, but in my experience, preachers who carry themselves like Dixon have come across as professional hustlers and this man is no exception to the rule. Shreese told me that Dixon isn’t like that. She said he has an anointing that was placed on him when he was twelve and ever since has been on a mission from Jesus. Hmph, Shreese is naive. The only thing placed on this brother’s head at twelve years of age was a hair relaxer that he obviously hasn’t the will to let go of. He’s sitting up there like a black Adonis, smiling and waving to some of the congregation members. He randomly shouts out praises, which cause some of the members to go wild with the music. Shreese told me he’s single and on many occasions he has talked about how he’s waiting on the Lord to send him a virtuous helpmate, which cancels out about eighty-five percent of the women in his congregation. Shreese practically brags about how he is always complimenting her on her kind ways and beautiful voice. I can see that she’s hopeful something will blossom with him, and being a pastor’s wife would be right up her alley. If he was anything other than a pastor, I know my sister wouldn’t give him the time of day, but he’s not and I have to keep a watch on him. He’s older than my sister by six or seven years, and that is enough for me to make sure his intentions with her, if there are any, are pure. All the other women in the congregation seem just as eager to be the next Mrs. Dixon. As I stare at the brother, I can almost see what they like in him. If I were a woman, I would say he’s handsome on that street level, but I’m not a woman. If you can imagine a young pimp in the pulpit, then that suggests a good concept of Reverend Dixon. A real ladies’ man of God. He was also recently elected to a seat on the city council, which moved him up a notch on the status belt. I never believed in mixing church and politics, so I have strong doubts about this brother and his ministry. I just hope nothing pops off between him and my little sister, ’cause then I’d have to act a real fool.