Sister Jenkins, as she was called, suffered no patience for slackers. She believed she was the example all should follow. She was there bright and early every Sunday morning for the sunrise service. After which, she taught Sunday school. Every Tuesday and Thursday night you would find her faithfully attending Bible Study. She was a model of Christian womanhood.
“Good morning, Sister Jenkins,” a congregant called as she ascended the steps of the church.
“Good Morning to you, Brother James. How’s Sister James doing?” she inquired.
“Not so good, Sister Jenkins. She’s still ailing pretty badly. Do you think you could stop by this week? She’s been asking after you,” Mr. James replied as she walked up to him.
“Sure thing, Brother James. Did you put her on the prayer list? How about food? Do you have enough food? We’re delivering some meals tonight. I’d be happy to stop by,” she said, reaching out to touch his old wrinkled hand.
“I’d sure appreciate it, sure would. I know it will make Ma feel better if you could just sit with her for a while.” He looked up into Denise’s face with grateful admiration and patted her gloved hand resting on his. Sister Jenkins was one of a kind. She always had a good word and a kind heart. That’s why everybody loved her, he reasoned.
“I’ll be there around five tonight. You go sit down now, Brother James, and rest yourself.” She said kindly and proceeded into the church.
“Denise,” a female voice called from the far corner of the vestibule. She turned to see Audra Turner waving to her anxiously. Taking a deep breath, Denise plastered a cordial smile on her face and walked over to where Audra was holding court with a few other women.
“Good morning, ladies,” she said, walking up to the group. A quick glance around the circle allowed her to see and assess who was assembled there: Bonnie Newcomb, biggest gossip in the church, next to Audra; Marla Thompson, a lush who could barely remember her own name, let alone anyone else’s; Debbie Smith, a tramp who should be ashamed to show her face in God’s house; and, finally, Inga Jones, a quiet little church mouse who let these losers lead her around by the nose.
“Debbie was just telling us of a wonderful idea for a fund-raiser for the women’s auxiliary. How about a male auction? We have so many single women in the church, it is sure to bring in a bundle,” Audra said excitedly.
“I don’t think the church is in the business of procuring men for the single women of the congregation. God knows we have enough women around here shamelessly throwing themselves at men who are already here, even the married ones.” Denise looked pointedly at Debbie in her tight red dress and voluptuous bosom nearly bubbling over the bodice of her dress.
“Now, wait a minute!” Debbie said and stepped into the middle of the group to confront Denise. “Look Miss Holier Than Thou, just cause your tight a—”
“Please! Ladies. we’re in the church, for crying out loud,” Bonnie interjected.
“I’m just saying, I don’t think this is an image Mount Calvary wants to have. I’m sorry, I did not mean to offend anyone,” Denise replied contritely, knowing full well that that was her intention. She couldn’t stand these fake Christians. Every Saturday you could find Debbie Smith shaking her booty at the After Five till the wee hours of the morning and then she dragged her butt in here on Sunday morning, sometimes reeking of smoke and sex and then repenting for the evilness of her ways. She never came to Bible Study or helped with the meal delivery. Denise was so tired of these women. All they did was show up on Sunday to gossip and see who was wearing a new hat or outfit. She’d have more respect for them if they did some Christian good work. Then she might think they were worth saving. “We’ve got meals to deliver for the shut-ins tonight. Can I get any of you to help with the preparation or delivery?” Denise asked, though she already knew the excuses she would get.
“I’ve got relatives coming from out of town,” Bonnie replied.
“There’s a pancake breakfast at the Lodge. I promised to help with that. Sorry,” Debbie said.
“Marla?” Denise queried.
“Uh-uh. No, I can’t,” Marla replied, too hung over to even think of an excuse.
Audra and Inga just looked away, trying to pretend they had missed the question.
“Enjoy the service ladies,” Denise said as she turned on her heel and dismissed them as clearly as if she’d physically swatted them away like annoying bugs.
“Who does she think she is?” Debbie hissed at the group. “Strutting around like her shit don’t stink. She makes me sick!”
“Debbie!” cried Inga. “Please, we’re in the church.”
“Well, then, just wait till I get outside. I’ll finish this later, and I’m not dropping the idea of the male auction either. I think it would be fun, and it can raise a lot of money,” she finished and stormed away.
SURVIVOR—Paige wiped the steam off the mirror in slow circular motions. She stared at her reflection through the foggy circles. Her dark brown hair hung loose and wet around her shoulders. Her café-au-lait complexion was a striking contrast to her Caribbean Ocean–blue eyes. Her gaze trailed to her shoulders, small and broad. She slowly unwrapped the white towel she’d put on as she’d stepped out of the shower and allowed it to drop to the floor. No matter how many times she saw herself, she could not get used to the sight. Perhaps one day she would look in the mirror, and after the towel dropped she would see two breasts capped with dark brown nipples as she remembered them. It was her dream; this was her worst nightmare. Her eyes took in one perfectly perky breast on the right and nothing but a flat, ugly scar on the left where her breast used to be. She tentatively touched the scar with her right hand. It still tingled to her touch, but no one ever touched her there anymore. Her focus strayed farther down to the small waist, the gentle flowing hips, the small triangle of neatly trimmed dark hair covering her pubic area. She was beautiful once, she thought. Not anymore. No man would ever think her beautiful again. Her fiancé had managed to stay for one whole year after the mastectomy, and then he left her for another woman. Jamal said it had nothing to do with the loss of her breast; she never believed him.
She turned away from the mirror and walked naked into her bedroom. Picking her robe off the bed, she tied it around her body and headed to the kitchen. She turned on the teapot and made herself a cup of tea. Strategically placed around the room were pictures of family and friends. There was a picture of her mother and father, both in their early fifties; her mother was tall and light-complexioned, with sandy brown hair and deep brown eyes; her father more chocolate in complexion, with an engaging smile and dimples. There was an old restored black and white photo of her grandmother; her pale white complexion and straight blond hair were unmistakable, but the blue eyes she had passed on to her granddaughter could not be distinguished in the colorless photo. Paige had torn up all the photos of Jamal after he’d left. Feeling betrayed, she’d wanted no reminders of him in her home. But his face was forever etched in her mind. He was a competitive tennis player with a classic tennis player’s body. His mocha-colored skin often glistened in the sun. His body was strong and wiry. She was drawn to him immediately. She loved his smile. How long ago, it seemed.
She collected her newest erotic romance novel from the coffee table and curled up on the couch to read. This was the