Anna May and the Preacher: A Collection of Short Stories

By Theresa W. Bennett-Wilkes

MEET the WOMEN of ANNA MAY and the PREACHER: A COLLECTION of SHORT STORIES. These sistahs are African-American women whose foibles, flaws, yearnings, and choices define, inform, and affect their attitudes and actions. Together they are a bouquet of courageous women who do the best they can with what they have, even if t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Holly Tree Publications LLC
• Release date: Oct 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781087870120

Theresa W. Bennett-Wilkes

Theresa Bennett-Wilkes hails from the Pacific Northwest and grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area. She is a second-generation Bennett Belle - an alumna of the oldest of two historically black colleges for women, Bennett College in Greensboro, NC. She lived and worked for many years in England and now resides in High Point, NC, where she is an adjunct professor of communications. She travels extensively with her husband Willie, collecting art and literature. Visit her on the web at www.alwaystheresa.com. Literary Writing is my passion. When I put pen to paper, I am in my element and life is good.

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ANNA MAY and the PREACHER:

A Collection of Short Stories

Second Edition

Written by

Theresa W. Bennett-Wilkes

Copyright ©2013 and 2004 by Theresa Williams Bennett-Wilkes

All rights reserved. The artwork, arrangement and stories in this collection may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means now known or to be invented, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except for the brief inclusion of quotations in a review, without written permission from the author.

Still I Rise by Maya Angelou, first published in And Still I Rise,

Copyright 1978 by Maya Angelou.

Book cover by Malaga Corp.

Published by Holly Tree Publications, LLC

1589 Skeet Club Road

Suite 102, Box 183

High Point, NC 27265

www.alwaystheresa.com

ISBN: 978-0-578-14370-5

ISBN: 978-1-087-87012-0 (e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014918532

Printed in the United States of America

DEDICATION

Anna May and the Preacher is lovingly dedicated to Amy and Babee. It’s also dedicated to women from all walks of life; women of every persuasion, all shapes and sizes—women who love and women who desire to be loved. We are sisters!!!

I wanted to tell you a little might about women’s rights, and so I come and said so. I’ll be around again sometime. I’m watching things and I’ll get up and tell you what time of night it is.

Sojourner Truth

TABLE of CONTENTS

The End of a Dream

Just a Word or Two

Introduction to Second Edition

Thank You, My Sister: A Tribute to Dr. Maya Angelou

Sunday Morning

Anna May and the Preacher

A Much Married Woman

The Dutiful Wife

Audra’s Wedding

Single and Straight

Too Busy Bein’ a Fool

Sisters in the Name of Love

A Wrong Turn

Sing a Song of Sorrow

Mother’s Day

THE END of a DREAM and the BEGINNING of a LIFE

To my dear daughter with love,

Dreams are the unspoken hopes, desires and expectations that mothers have for their daughters.

This dream I had for you began when you were just a little girl in your early school grades. At a teacher and parent conference, your first grade teacher said, All the other children are content to accept the author’s ending for the fairy tales, but Theresa goes on and on, creating her own endings. This was only the beginning!

Later, maybe just a year or two, you began writing your own stories. I remember the one when you were explaining how babies were born and comparing human birth to birds. You said, When your mother was going to deliver, she didn’t sit on an egg and wait for it to hatch. Oh, no, your father took your mother to a hospital and waited for the baby to be born.

Your writings were expanded and grew as your church involvement increased. I loved the poem/prayer titled God’s Work. It was written and had pictures to enhance your work.

For flowers that bloom about our feet, Father, we thank thee.

For tender grass so fresh and sweet, Father, we thank thee

For songs of bird and hum of bee, for all things of air we hear or see,

Father, we thank thee. For blue of stream and blue of sky, Father, we thank thee.

As you matured your horizons widened and your writing took second place, but the talent was still there. Then the writings found their way on special occasions. There was the beautiful, soul-stirring tribute to Uncle Ed read at his home-going service.

There is a surge of pride and thrill of a dream come true as I read the letters from Europe. Letters that literally put you there. Even the tour guides recognized your tremendous knowledge of world history as you talked with us or we walked through historic castles, moors and ivy halls. Letters that made history live. And now, I am on cloud nine when I read your columns in The Black Voice newspaper and the Carolina Peacemaker.

There have been some detours, some soul searching, some disappointments, but for me, I see the dream ending and the new life beginning and it does not yet appear what you shall accomplish. A passage of scripture found in Jeremiah 29:11, sums it up beautifully. "For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." (New International Version)

Mama

Blanche Madelyn Graves Williams

January 2000

Grandview, MO

JUST A WORD OR TWO….

Writing fiction is so much fun! I often wondered what I could say after such an all-encompassing opening statement; on the one hand, not a great deal. On the other hand, a whole lot. The decision hinged largely on whether I chose to give a historical perspective on the evolution of this book or pursue some other angle. I anticipate plenty of opportunities to talk ad nauseam on the story of this story. Therefore if you will, please indulge my passion to write for writing’s sake.

I did not realize how much genuine pleasure I would derive from telling stories. I give thanks to Almighty God, Jehovah, Allah, and Yahweh (any name that suits will do) for this gift. More importantly, I am thankful I can spend time doing something I thoroughly enjoy, and I love writing fiction. Had someone—anyone—told me this just a few years ago, I assure you my response would have been underwhelming, to say the least. Writing was not on my mind or my agenda.

Each day offers us untold opportunities to pursue our dreams or merely live our lives as best we can. Since I began writing as a serious avocation, I have met untold numbers of people who tell me, often wistfully, I really want to write a book, but… The bottom line seems to be life; unspecific and undefined has gotten in the way of this desire of the heart. How unfortunate. With all the challenges confronting us daily, we ought always make the time to do those things which bring us joy, peace of mind and a sense of fulfillment. Otherwise what else is there?

I am convinced of the benefits of practicing our passions, nurturing our gifts and expressing our talents. They make us, both individually and collectively, better people. After years of writing staff reports complete with the obligatory list of recommendations—and with the unassailable knowledge that nine times out of ten not one recommendation would be used—I find writing for the sheer joy of it almost indescribable. Through this process, I continue to learn more about myself, always a plus. Moreover, I have also found my true voice and what a voice it is.

On another note, this labor of love could not have been completed without the considerable help of my editor, Jamie L. Lloyd. Every writer needs a good editor. Raw written artistic expression would probably escape the senses of many readers without the careful direction of someone highly skilled in the fine art of writing sentences expressing complete thoughts. My deepest and most heartfelt thanks goes out to you, Jamie. Sharing my work with you was truly an act of faith on my part. I was not disappointed. Thank you for trusting your instincts. Your guidance proved to be expert, timely and informative. I am a better writer for your efforts.

And now to you, my friend and reader, enjoy this collection of short stories. Each one was written with you in mind. May peace and blessings abound in your life.

Always,

Theresa W. Bennett-Wilkes

High Point, NC

November 11, 2001

INTRODUCTION to SECOND EDITION

This is one of the glories of man, the inventiveness of the human mind and the human spirit; whenever life doesn’t seem to give an answer, we create one.

Lorraine Hansberry

Anna May and the Preacher is my first effort to write—and publish—fiction. The stories grew out of a very real and urgent need to be productive and creative. I didn’t understand or fully appreciate the gift the Universe handed me with no strings attached in the form of this collection of original short stories. Fortunately, in my blissful state of ignorance I accepted what was given and ran with it. I had a wonderful time writing. Actually I had a rich, enormously satisfying and rewarding experience. Meeting—and writing the stories of Cecilia Jackson Jones-Mayes, Big Tee, Anna May, Aunt Bertha, Iris, Leylah Rose, Sharyn, Paulette, Earnestine, Lavonne, and all the other women who chose me as the medium through which to share their stories has been quite an experience. I look forward to writing more fiction. I absolutely love it.

I fell in love with these women and came to appreciate their humanity as an expression of myself and others. I look forward to sharing their stories and envision opportunities to discuss how they came to be. When the last word to the last story was written I hit a wall. Rather than trust the Universe to carry me forward and allow this literary offering to see the light of day I found reasons—and excuses—to immerse myself in other efforts, some far less meaningful than I anticipated.

A decade passed before Anna May emerged in book form. It was an experiment steeped in magical thinking. I traveled some three thousand miles to find something outside myself—convinced it lay on the shores of another coast, buried in cherished memories of a time which had long since come and gone. Despite my unintentional philandering, the Universe supported me—for God is truly a loving, understanding, and beneficent God—and brought me to the profoundly personal realization that what I thought I wanted and needed I already have. Once again I traveled three thousand miles back to the place which has nurtured my nascent literary career. I have been warmly and graciously welcomed back. The vision I was afraid to own has resurfaced, untarnished and still very much intact.

Anna May and the Preacher deserves—in publication—the same love and respect I felt during its creation. It is with deep humility and thankfulness I offer this second edition. I now gratefully accept the vision I once entertained for this offering as my own. When I needed something to do, the Universe gave me Audra, Deirdre, Wanda, Stanice, Ophelia and a cast of characters who speak their peace boldly and brilliantly. They share their stories to edify, entertain, and inform.

Peace and Blessings,

Theresa W. Bennett-Wilkes

High Point, NC

December 21, 2014

THANK YOU, MY SISTER A TRIBUTE to DR. MAYA ANGELOU

Nothing can dim the light which shines from within.

Maya Angelou

I first met Maya Angelou in 1982 through her heartfelt autobiography, The Heart of a Woman. I was living through a period of strife and her memoir came as blessed relief—an assurance I, too, could triumph over grief, despair and loss. This work remains a personal favorite. I had no inkling of my future as an author or writer when I met her—first through her prose—and later in person. I came to appreciate her as the poet who electrified the world with On the Pulse of Morning at the first inauguration of former president, William Jefferson Clinton, January 20, 1993. My heart swelled with pride as I listened to her mellifluous contralto carry us on a journey of hope simply yet forcefully expressed as only she could.

I stand in awe of her for many reasons: primarily because she celebrated the courage, resilience, fearlessness, and beauty of African American women: cogently, eloquently, elegantly, gracefully, and honestly. She used the power of the pen to speak her truth unflinchingly and unapologetically. She heralded our societal interconnectedness, acknowledging our shared heritage as God’s creations with a brutal forthrightness whose veracity cannot be glossed over, sanitized or romanticized.

Through her poetry and her literary offerings she helped awaken the muse in me. She challenged my reluctance by exposing cowardice born out of a lack of self-confidence—a selfish fear of possibly becoming successful.

Where are the black writers who will dare to confront this racist nation? Who will illuminate the dream of the disenfranchised and sing the song of the voiceless?

She demanded. Timidly I raised my hand and lifted my head. She heard the call and heeded it. She gave to posterity a legacy of literature chronicling the depths of her pain and the joys of her victories. She shined a radiant light on black womanhood with an unmatched insouciance—calling forth the agony of our ancestors. She wrote our anthem with a timeless passion which grows stronger with every utterance:

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may tread me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like the suns,

With the certainty of tides

Just like hopes springing high

Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don’t you take it awful hard

‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines

Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I’ve

Got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame

I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

I rise

I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave

I rise

I rise

I rise.

SUNDAY MORNING

R-r-r-ring, r-r-ring, r-r-r-ring. A small hand reached tentatively from under the bedclothes clumsily retrieving the telephone.

Yes? Cecilia’s throat was dry, her breath sour, lips parched. Those problems, however, did not compare to the pain reverberating through her skull. She felt as though thousands of sharp nails had been pounded into her scalp by jackhammers working in unison.

Cecilia, Rene, here. His English was clipped and precise. I have some business to discuss with you this morning. In her semi-altered state, Cecilia could sense his tension but not acutely enough to respond intelligently. Alright, it’s 9:30 now, I shall be there by 11:30. Click. Silence.

She could not remember if she said anything at all. Heavy drapes shrouded her bedroom in darkness. She eased carefully out of bed, willing her limbs to do their jobs. Mind over matter failed and she landed on all fours, rocked by an exquisitely excruciating pain.

Crying, cursing and nauseous, Cecilia crawled into her bathroom. When she came to herself, she was lying on the cold tile floor in her vomit. She missed the commode and the sight of bile, mucus and partially digested food brought on another bout of retching, tears and snot. Please stop, she begged no one in particular.

She managed to pile every towel she could find on the floor around the toilet. Her stomach stopped roiling. She raised herself up slowly and faced her reflection in the mirror. The haggard, hollow-eyed image staring back elicited a horrified gasp. She was shocked to discover herself still dressed in the slinky, stylish little one-piece black dress she slipped on last evening. A single strand of pearls rested at the base of her neck and pearl studs graced her ears. Her rhinestone-studded designer hosiery remained undamaged. Fighting back the urge to scream in anger and humiliation, she fled to the nearest bathroom outside her bedroom. She managed to close the door knowing Magda, her housekeeper, would clean up behind her.

Cecilia shook her head slowly as despair engulfed her. She stood in the hallway of her twentieth floor co-op apartment numb and discomfited. On this beautiful spring Sunday morning, she felt chilling loneliness diffuse through her body like iced water.

Gently pressing her aching temples, she wondered out loud, Tony! Where is Tony? More than a month had gone by since they had spoken to each other. Bits and pieces of their last confrontation flooded her mind. As she struggled to pull herself together before Rene’s arrival, Cecilia traveled back to another Sunday. They, she and Tony, were together in her eggshell white sitting room decorated with framed art work vividly depicting black folk in bold colors. Handmade masks and an antique arras which once hung in a fourteenth century English castle completed the ornamentation. She could still feel the warmth of the sunlight as it streamed through the four bay windows creating a cozy atmosphere. Tony was nervous as he paced back and forth.

Cece, I’m going back to London for six weeks and then on to Boston. I’ve been offered an executive vice president slot with First American National Bank and I’ve decided to take it. He rushed through, pausing to breathe heavily at the end.

I see, was her curt reply.

No, he responded evenly, I don’t think you do.

Why, what do you mean, darling? She purred, feigning sweetness.

I want out, Cecilia. He spoke slowly and more calmly now.

Pregnant silence enveloped them. Cecilia, still sitting, felt fury rising within her. Tony stood facing her, his legs firmly set apart. He fastened his gaze on her and continued, I am not your little darling—your plaything. I am tired of being known as Mr. Cecilia Jackson Jones-Mayes. I don’t need all this white bread snobbery just so I can feel like a man. I AM A MAN! By now he was shouting, pacing up and down the room. His hands frequently sliced the air emphasizing the depth of the emotions coursing through his body.

She was surprised by his vehemence. As he continued to spew out his rage, she felt nonplused. Gradually the stuff of his saeva indignatio emerged and her confusion hardened into icy arrogance. He most certainly was not talking about her or them.

***************************************

On this morning, tears filled her eyes as she eased out of her soiled clothing and stepped into a large whirlpool tub filled with soothing primrose aromatherapy bath oil. Lovingly she bathed and caressed herself giving in to the memories crowding her conscious mind. While she never really understood what he felt when he was publicly referred to as Mr. Cecilia Jackson Jones-Mayes, she now accepted, belatedly, she had not invested much time, effort, or energy in his ambitions, dreams, or desires, let alone his wants and needs.

To her he was still the luscious, ravishing Black man she met on an otherwise empty beach in Bermuda seven years ago. His very presence took her breath away. Eight months after their initial up close and personal encounter, they married. Ironically, they spent only five days together on Aldeburgh (All-brough) Beach but it was enough to turn red hot sparks into white-heat passion.

Had their careers gotten in the way? she mused, relaxing in the gentle swirl of warm bubbles. Tony revealed precious little of the inner torment which erupted from him with volcanic intensity on that fateful Sunday morning.

***************************************

Why are you screaming? Do you want our neighbors to hear you? Do you want out business in the street? Cecilia was trying to be cool. What’s got you peeved this time, lover?

Tony fumed at the disparaging nomenclature. He despised the term lover. She spat the word out with such hatefulness it made his skin crawl. What was it this time? The same thing as last time, and the time before. He was as pissed off with himself as he was with Cecilia. His impotence in expressing his frustrations to her dogged him and exacerbated the acrimony characterizing their marriage. He had difficulty admitting—to himself—that he had fallen out of love with her. He was no longer besotted and felt imprisoned in an unproductive relationship devoid of passion and companionship. Anthony Gerald Mayes was thirty years old but at times his interactions with Cecilia made him feel like a naive and impressionable sixteen-year-old football jock. He could talk a good game but the bravado was pure drama.

Cecilia winced as she recalled their quarrel. Still believing he was caught up in a temper tantrum, she took a private exit, hearing but not comprehending the despair fueling his anguish. She remembered thinking how good he looked and how pleased she was with her skill and artfulness in selecting his clothes. She had not, for even one moment, contemplated or considered the full measure of the man she married. She remembered how handsome he was standing there, all five feet eleven inches...slender, the color of whole wheat toast. He wore beige linen trousers and a burgundy short-sleeved shirt accentuated by a pale pink and gray tie with matching suspenders. Italian leather barefoot sandals completed his outfit.

Misery laced with bitterness washed over her as she dissolved into tears, again. How she wished she could go back to their last Sunday morning together. How she yearned for the chance to change the scenario and right the wrongs, both real and perceived. Time and remembrance were now her most potent enemies.

***************************************

Memories engulfed her…

Inhaling noisily, Tony moved closer to the armchair where Cecilia was seated. Standing ramrod straight, he locked his eyes on hers and began speaking quietly, falteringly at first, I, uh...I...ah, wanted to suggest...living apart for a while...but, uh, I changed my mind. I don’t want to be here at all anymore. The commute between here and Berne has gotten old. This is your home; you remind me every chance you get. You don’t like my taste or my… my choice of words. Hell I can’t even order a bottle of wine without you puttin’ me down. I am a man, not a man-child. I am perfectly capable of thinking for and taking care of myself. I do know how to dress myself and I can tie my own shoelaces, thankyouverymuch. Life here is miserable. I got hassles on the job and then I come home every weekend and have to put up with your crap. By now he had hit his stride. Rage commingled with humiliation spilled from his gut like gusts of hot Santa Ana winds whipping through an arid landscape.

Even as his wrath intensified, another reality, one he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge, insinuated itself into his diatribe. Truthfully, Cece and their marriage were only part of his dilemma. Seven years earlier he walked out on his fiancée, Janelle, two days before their wedding. He and Cecilia were already married. Janelle didn't know the real story, for he withheld any incriminating details. For the first few years he managed to keep his shameful secret carefully hidden. He was never able to put his finger on what resurrected this monstrous skeleton. From time to time he saw Janelle in Cecilia. Was this possible? Naw, it couldn’t be. No way!

Tony’s physical and emotional estrangement from his family began to eat at him. He could still vividly—and now painfully—recall his parents’ stunned reaction to his surprise. His father insisted he tell Janelle. What no one else knew, at least at the time, was how disingenuous and deliberately evasive he was. Rather than telling her the truth, he said he couldn’t marry her. What he did—and how he went about it seemed fair enough at the time. He wasn’t looking forward to their impending nuptials. Having said what he felt he needed to say, he walked out, leaving her to deal with his unexpected announcement as best she could.

He couldn’t pinpoint when things began to go sour between him and Cece. He couldn't talk to her about the bad dreams, the guilt, and the unanticipated desire. He felt sure he was really in love with Janelle after all. Well, sometimes, anyway. His life was a lie and their marriage a sham. He felt suffocated by Cecilia's overbearing behavior. In their relationship, she was this goddess of mythic proportions and he was a mere mortal doomed to love her from afar. Only this didn’t sound right, either. They didn’t have fun together anymore. There was a time when she made him want to holler from the heights of the Pyrenees or the Alps. There was a time when her touch made him feel like butter. These days his constant prayer was for a night of uninterrupted sleep come bedtime. Was it really all her or was she a convenient scapegoat? He wasn’t looking for answers. He just wanted out: and the sooner, the better.

Cecilia’s haughty, bemused look crumpled into dark, menacing contours and threatened to explode with seismic ferocity. Get out of my face, she screamed. Enraged, she shouted obscenities at him.

I’m leaving. Those were his last words. She hadn’t appreciated how carefully he planned his departure until she saw the empty closet and drawers.

***************************************

Until last night she hadn’t cried, hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on Tony or their last acrimonious exchange. She kept telling herself he would come back—they’d be able to settle their differences, whatever they were. He wanted a family; now it was time for her to think about it. Nonetheless, he never called her and she didn’t reach out to him, either. No man—in his right mind—walked out on Cecilia Jackson Jones-Mayes. Tony did and now she understood he wasn’t looking back. There would be no second time around.

Hangovers are hell, she thought, recalling her forgettable evening. Eduoard Benedetti, an Italian designer, popular on the Continent, invited her to dinner. He suggested the invitation was business or had she imagined it? She briefly pondered his approach. Why had he bypassed Rene and come directly to her? More importantly, why did she so quickly agree to meet him? Midway through their meal, he received a telephone call and left hastily. Watching him hurry out of the restaurant, she sensed the whole evening was orchestrated at her expense. It was a crock and she fell for it, lock, stock and barrel.

Hurt, embarrassed and determined to have her night out, Cecilia got a taxi to take her to the Bushrod Inn, a club on the western edge of the city. There she drank Scotch, straight up until the bartender intervened. Some kind soul gently led her out. Weeping and incoherent, she strained to unload her heartache but no one was listening.

By the time Rene arrived, Cecilia had bathed, donning jeans and a large tee shirt. She was drinking her second cup of black coffee and nibbling on a piece of dry toast when the elevator to her foyer yawned. It disgorged a small, smartly dressed white man. He sported a single gold hoop in his right earlobe and a blonde ponytail hung down his back.

He dispensed with this usual warm greeting, something Cecilia silently and painfully acknowledged. She didn’t know he brought her home after receiving a discreetly placed call advising him of her distress. He didn’t want to think about the quivering, runny-nosed, whimpering blob of humanity he found, sloppy drunk and nasty. It hurt him to see her suffer but this was a matter he could neither mediate nor arbitrate. He was not asked to vote on it, so to speak, and now was not the time to offer his services as a Monday morning quarterback.

Good morning, Rene, to what do I owe this honor? She meant to sound strong and sure of herself. Instead she sounded pathetic and weak. She felt dangerously close to tears which she was determined not to shed. She had already cried enough for one day.

He struggled to find a tactful introduction. Diplomacy, however well-intentioned failed him. He blurted out his business as if reaffirming his own discomfort. "Cecilia, I have scheduled a