On the Come Up(28)

Some of the deacons are over to the side, including Deacon Turner with the Jheri curl. My stank-eye is strong for that one. A few months ago, he got up in front of the congregation and ranted about how parents don’t need to hug and kiss their sons because it makes them gay. Sonny’s parents said that rant was a “bunch of bullshit.” They haven’t brought Sonny and his sisters back to church since. I’ve flipped Deacon Turner off every chance I get since.

Like now. He’s not wearing his glasses though, which explains why he just waves at me. So I give him the double-middle-finger special.

Trey pushes my hands down. His shoulders shake from fighting a laugh.

Grandma’s up front with her group from the decorating committee. Her hat’s the biggest of them all. She says something to her friends, and they glance back at us.

“Heffa bet’ not be talking about me,” Jay says. “With that synthetic mess on her head. Wig looking like roadkill.”

“Ma!” Trey says. I snort.

Granddaddy comes up the center aisle. He can’t take a step without somebody saying, “Morning, Deacon Jackson!” This is the only place where people don’t call him “Senior.” His round belly looks like it’ll pop out of his vest. His purple tie and handkerchief match Grandma’s dress and hat. My grandparents always match. Not just on Sundays, either. They’d show up to Markham’s football games in identical tracksuits to watch Trey. He didn’t play—he was a drum major—but the band is just as important as the football team at HBCUs. Shoot, more important.

“All right now, y’all,” Granddaddy says to us.

That’s his way of saying good morning. He leans across the pew and kisses Jay’s cheek. “Glad to see y’all made it today.”

“Of course, Mr. Jackson,” Jay says. “Nothing could keep me from the house of the Lord. Glory!”

I side-eye her. Not that Jay doesn’t love the Lord, but she gets extra-Christian when we’re in church. Like her, Aunt Gina, and Aunt ’Chelle weren’t just twerking to bounce music last night in our living room. Less than twenty-four hours later, and every other word out of Jay’s mouth is “glory” or “hallelujah.” I doubt even Jesus talks like that.

Granddaddy leans toward me and points to his cheek. I kiss it. It’s fat and dimpled, like my dad’s was.

“Always gotta get my sugar from my Li’l Bit,” he says with a smile. He eyes Trey, and the smile is gone. “Boy, you know you need to go to a barbershop. Got more hair than a white man who done got lost on a hike.”

I smirk. Only Granddaddy.

“You really gotta start this morning?” Trey says.

“You the one gon’ have wildlife running out your head. Y’all making it, Jayda?”

He knows. Not surprised. As the head deacon, Granddaddy finds out everything.

“Yes, sir,” Jay claims. “We’ll be all right.”

“I ain’t ask if you will be, I asked how you doing now.”

“I’m handling it,” says Trey.

“With that li’l mess you call a job?” Granddaddy asks.

Granddaddy thinks Trey should get a “real job.” Last week, he went into this whole thing about how “this new generation don’t wanna work hard,” and that making pizzas “ain’t a man’s job.” See, Granddaddy was a city maintenance worker for forty years. Was one of the first black men to hold a job there, too. Let him tell it, if Trey isn’t coming home sweaty and grimy, he’s not working hard enough.

“I said I’m handling it,” Trey says.

“Mr. Jackson, we’re fine,” Jay says. “Thank you for asking.”

Granddaddy takes out his wallet. “Least let me give you something.”

“I can’t take—”

He counts out a couple of twenties and puts them in Jay’s hand. “Stop all that foolishness. Junior would want me to.”

Junior’s my dad and the key to ending any argument with my mom.

“No,” Jay says. “If he were here, he’d be giving you money.”

Granddaddy chuckles. “That boy was generous, wasn’t he? The other day, I was looking at this watch he bought me and got to thinking ’bout it.” He taps the gold piece that stays on his wrist. “It’s the last thing he gave me, and I almost didn’t take it. I would’ve regretted that, had I known . . .”

Granddaddy goes quiet. Grief hasn’t left my grandparents. It hides in the shadows and waits for moments to hit.

“Keep that money, Jayda,” Granddaddy says. “I don’t wanna hear another word about it, you hear me?”

Grandma comes over. “Just don’t go wasting it.”

Jay rolls her eyes. “Hi to you too, Mrs. Jackson.”

Grandma looks at her from head to toe and purses her lips. “Mm-hmm.”

I’ll be the first to say my grandma’s stuck-up. I’m sorry, but she is. Main reason she doesn’t like Jay is ’cause she’s from Maple Grove. She’s called Jay that “ol’ hood rat from the projects” plenty of times. Then again, Jay has called her “that ol’ bougie heffa” just as much.

“I hope you use that money for my grandbabies and not some of the other mess you probably into,” Grandma says.