I made my first move a few weeks later, when I invited her to join me at a coffee shop downtown. I showed up early.
Ms. Finley was waiting at one of the small round tables by the door. She smiled when I came in, and her smile turned puzzled when I handed her the bag. The grin went bright again when she looked inside.
"Where'd you pick this up?"
"Atlanta. Went there for a concert last week. I hope it's the right color."
"Can't go wrong with bone. Good shade for an old broad. Matches just about everything and dresses up nice. I think my old one had brass buttons, but I don't remember. This is nice, thank you. What's the occasion?"
"I just wanted you to talk."
"Why me? I gave you just about everything I could, though I'm happy to come out and be social. And of course, I thank you for the sweater."
"You're welcome, Rhonda. Thing is, this time, the talking isn't exactly for me."
Lulu's tall shape cast a shadow past our table as she breezed by the big window and reached for the coffee shop door. She nodded at me, then at my table-mate, though her forehead was wrinkled with curiosity.
"Have a seat," I told Lulu, offering up mine. "This is Rhonda Finley, but she used to go by Marion. Rhonda, this is—"
"I would have known her as surely as I knew you, even if I saw her on the street. I'll try not to dislike you on sight for looking that much like you did as a girl." The older woman rose and extended a hand. From polite habit, my aunt took the hand—though she was too surprised to speak. She recognized the name and it shocked her. When she looked my way for an explanation, I shrugged it off.
"What do you want? The regular? I'll get it at the bar." I ushered Lulu into the chair and dug a ten-dollar bill out of my front pocket. She always gets chai. She orders it cold in a glass all summer, and hot in a latte mug all winter.
By the time I returned with the beverage, the two were talking without me. That was fine. At least they were talking.
While we were out, I got my first phone call on the cell phone I'd broken down and gotten when I returned from Florida. It was Malachi. He didn't leave his name, but I knew the voice, and even though I left him with a solemn vow of no more attempted homicide, I cringed to hear him speak.
He left a number. I deleted the message without writing it down.
My feelings about him are too mixed to sort out properly quite yet.
But bless his heart, he learns fast. He didn't call again, but just the other day I received a letter that said what a phone call might, and I didn't have to pretend to any small talk.
He says that God still speaks to him, but then again God always did—now He just talks more, that's all. Now Malachi understands, and there is less confusion. He knows where he went wrong, and God has forgiven him for his mistakes. Each day he sends up a prayer for me, that I might find clarity and resolution.
I sure hope God listens better than Malachi does.
