Excerpt of Televenge by Pamela King Cable

1972

DAYDREAM BELIEVER

Andie Parks Oliver

Never had there been a time when I was riper for love than the summer of my fourteenth birthday. I drew boys like beetles to magnolias. Nature, lust, puppy love . . . folks always had a name for this phenomenon. But for a young girl from Winston–Salem, North Carolina, it was the moment my hormones wept at the altar of my womanhood. I shouted and my eyes sparkled with the covenant of God embedding itself into the deepest regions of my heart. The gangly girl dissolved, leaving only a sanctified goddess, and in that instant—I met Joe.

I attended church at the House of Praise on the outskirts of the city with my younger sister, Caroline, and occasionally with my father. But my mother, who I called Dixie because that's what she wanted us to call her, never missed a service. From a tender age, I had scanned the pews for a husband. Church boys were more handsome, and most descended from upstanding Southern families, which in my estimation, made good husbands, fathers, and providers.

I approached a row of sophomore boys slouched like lanky pups on the back pew in the sanctuary.

"You're sitting on my Bible."

"Sorry . . . I don't see your name on it."

I snatched my white leather King James from the pick of the litter. "It's Andie Parks."

"It's nice to meet ya, Andie."

"Likewise."

"Ain't ya gonna ask my name?"

"I already know your name, Joe Oliver."

"Then I'm glad I sat on your Holy Bible."

"I'm glad I put it there for you to sit on, silly."

So, on my sixteenth birthday when Joe placed a silver promise ring with its diamond chip on my left hand, my future was set in that tiny stone. Dixie then permitted me to spend certain weekends in Salisbury—a town full of Southerners with lineages back to Stonewall Jackson and beyond.

Maudy and Al Oliver welcomed me into their home. They had prayed long and hard for God to show favor to their three evangelical sons. As a result of their fervent prayers, they believed Jehovah–Jireh provided their eldest son with a gift of music, their middle son with a gift of intellect, and their youngest son with a church girl, saved and filled with the Holy Ghost.

Maudy had made me a bed on the couch, and that's where she expected to find me in the morning. "Sleep well?" She towered over me with wire–brush curlers wrapped tight to her head.

"Fine, thanks." I hadn't slept at all.

Joe discovered an old mattress in the attic. In luminous moonlight streaming through open windows and reflecting off yellowed, peeling wallpaper, he promised before God to love me forever. He was unshakable about his promises and I believed him. I'd been brought up to trust in spiritual things so I returned his promises—that no matter our future, I'd love him until the end of my days and beyond. I rolled to my back and pulled Joe onto my naked breasts. I knew someday we'd recall that moment; our moment of commitment, of purest love, when we reached for the hem of God, knowing we would marry and be one flesh forever. I closed my eyes and promised Joe openly and God silently, that I'd never love another.

The sizzle and smell of sausage frying jolted my senses and I rolled off the couch with a nubby blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I love you, Andie Rose. I scampered to the bathroom with Joe's voice penetrating my thoughts. Splashing cool water on my face, I wiped away streaked mascara with a towel as my promise ring flickered in the mirror and in my eyes.

"Breakfast, Andie!" Maudy's voice rang from the kitchen.

I shivered.

He had held me until morning's first light, chancing discovery, not wanting to let go. He told me I was smart and pretty and sweet. He loved me. I knew it. Slipping out of his arms, I whispered against his cheek, "What will your mama say if she finds us making love up here?" Naked except for a pair of wispy blue panties, I stood in the steeply pitched attic and pulled on Joe's sweatshirt, and then crept down the narrow staircase, careful not to make too much noise. The old house creaked as if threatening to expose my escapade. An hour had passed when I heard Joe leave for work at the Esso station, and before I had a chance to respond to his kiss on my forehead.

Maudy knocked on the bathroom door. "Breakfast, darlin'. Come get it while it's hot."

Startled, I shook myself. "I'll be right out." I smelled him, the remnants of Joe lodged in every part of me.

§

I washed down my first bite of Maudy's biscuits and gravy with coffee and a replay of the previous night's church service. Calvin Artury's sermon to the youth expounded on the sin of premarital sex. The Friday marathon service had bothered some—I'd overheard the gossip after the altar call. It seemed our pastor enjoyed preaching about sex; proclaiming Christians had the best sex lives. But I concurred with Calvin—it was "better to marry than burn," and if there was one thing I knew for sure, it was that Joe and I were burning.

I also agreed with Calvin's views on the unnecessary pursuit of a higher education. Every Bible–Belt evangelical worth their salt held fast to the blessed hope that Jesus was coming back and right soon. As a result, Joe and I had been invited to more than a dozen teenage weddings—a common occurrence at the House of Praise. Progressing from high school to homemaker fit into my plans, too. More than anything, I wanted a wedding. A beautiful home. A good husband. Well–raised children. Everything my mother had.

Maudy fidgeted with the kitchen radio. I sat at the table, recalling the day I grew deeper in love with the Oliver family. The day Maudy enlightened me as to the family's commitment to Christ. Riveted, I felt my heart would burst at the seam watching my future mother–in–law's tears drip like a leaky spigot. "The Lord healed me from the cancer in ‘66 when Reverend Artury first came to town and touched me during a service in the tabernacle. I'll praise God's name forever," she cried. "We Olivers don't need what the world offers. We search for a deeper walk with the Almighty. It's no secret our neighbors think we're crazy because we speak in unknown tongues and drive an hour to church when we could've joined the First Baptist Church in Salisbury. It's the price we've chosen to pay for saving the lost at any cost. We've dedicated our lives to furthering the ministry of Reverend Artury."

Daddy and I never called him Reverend Artury. Daddy said it was just too uppity for any man to call himself Reverend. And until the moment Maudy explained her devotion to the House of Praise and its Reverend, I had also viewed the Olivers' allegiance as a deformity. Like they had three eyeballs, and everyone stared at them because of it. Suddenly it all made sense and I wanted to be one of them—a proud and dedicated member of the church. A believer. An Oliver.

Still, I'd heard the talk in the ladies' restroom, the lobby, and the parking lot. Rumors that Calvin possessed all nine gifts of the Holy Spirit. I reasoned preachers got the gifts like most folks were blessed with a talent. But it was the gift of discernment that troubled me most. The possibility of Calvin peering inside my soul—knowing my motives, Christian and otherwise—if it was true, I didn't want him within twenty feet. I figured I had fulfilled Maudy and Al's unspoken requirements as a marriage candidate for their son, accepting Jesus Christ as my Savior and missing only an occasional church service. That was all Calvin needed to know about me.

I snapped out of my stupor when Maudy turned up the static on the AM radio station.

"Wide is the road to Hell! But narrow is the gate to Glory! Dedicate your lives to God, consecrate your minds to Him, or face an eternity where the worm never dies!" Calvin's pre–recorded sermon pierced the air as Maudy sliced more biscuits. Her eyes watched me until I gave her the look. That look all good Pentecostals have down pat when they feel the Spirit move. Shoulders raised, a slight shake of the head, and the anointed smile that purses our lips.

I was baffled. After enduring three endless church services every week, why did we need to listen to him on Saturday morning radio? Calvin's evangelizing voice droned on. I swallowed the bite of biscuit in my mouth and put the rest down on my plate. Daddy's blasphemous words vibrated inside my head. Hell, the Olivers would spit on the sidewalk if Calvin told ‘em to do it. Not a devoted churchgoer, Bud Parks refused to tolerate the House of Praise at times and opted for church attendance on his own terms, even at the risk of losing his soul. I admired Daddy's honesty, yet prayed for his redemption. I wanted to be a good Christian, but my hands trembled carrying breakfast dishes to the sink.

§

In the spring of my senior year, Joe and I set a wedding date: July 1, 1972, one month after my high school graduation and one month before my eighteenth birthday. As the day approached, not a soul questioned how we'd survive. Our sole possession, Joe's God–awful green 1970 AMC Javelin, had lost its hubcaps to some Rowan County ditch months before. With no savings and no real employment, we decided to live on love, because, after all, we believed in Bible prosperity, mustard–seed faith, and miracles. Calvin had promised—as long as Jesus Christ and the House of Praise remained the bedrock of our life, Jehovah–Jireh would meet our every need.

§

Days before the wedding, I retreated to my favorite spot—the Oliver porch swing. Basking in the glow of dusk, I heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel behind me. It was Joe, with his hair combed back and wet from his after–work shower. He collapsed into the swing, exhausted, slipped his arm around me and rested his head on my shoulder. Soft rain fell from the few purple clouds dotting the sunlit evening, and I sat still and quiet, hoping our future held endless moments like that one wrapped in each other's arms.

The landscape faded further into nightfall when I saw the house lights come on. "I'd better help your mama with supper," I said.

"Don't go. Not yet." Joe simply strengthened his grasp and watched the evening shadows thicken, without saying another word. As if trapping the moment deep in his memory.

I started to wiggle out of his embrace, but Joe slid his arm under my legs and held me on his lap. Clutched against him, I felt the warmth of his shower on his skin and smelled the gasoline and oil set into the cracks of his hands. Soothed by his relaxed mood, my head against his chest, I drifted easily into my favorite pastime—daydreaming. The old swing rocked back and forth, the rust–covered chains screeching out familiar tunes while soundless rain dripped from clematis wound around splintered porch posts. Cradled in my fiancé's arms, I shut out the world and fantasized.

In sweetheart fashion, we remained entwined for what seemed like forever until a few insatiable daydreams popped out of my mouth like bubble gum. "I know you want me to work, but when the babies come—" I paused and smiled, lifting my face to his. "We are building a house, right? We talked about it. Remember?"

"What will we build it with, Andie, honey, our fat bank account? I know you got big dreams, but can we talk about houses and kids later? At least until I find a better–paying job. You ain't trailer trash, I know that, but it don't mean you can't live in one for a while. Besides two can live as cheap as one, if we don't eat much."

I didn't push. Ladies must sometimes go through the back door to a man's heart. I'd learned that from Dixie. Joe loves me. I believed the rest would come in time.

Quiet again, I smiled at the dozen rocking chairs that greeted guests like a flock of ducks floating on a wooden pond. Strewn the length of the Olivers' deep wrap–around porch, the chairs had comforted me as I spent endless evenings there, dreaming about making babies with Joe, spending holidays with the Olivers, and about the sisters–in–law I was sure to have—envious girls my own age who would fuss over my beautiful child as Joe rocked it to sleep on that same porch. I thanked God I'd soon be a part of the old house and the Oliver family. I kept my goals simple and uncomplicated, and preferred my life to remain that way.

§

President of Future Homemakers of America, I also led my own special club—one of nine girls in the Class of ‘72 planning a wedding. Marriage was every young girl's destiny and I pitied college–bound girls with no boyfriends. Between homework assignments, I clipped pictures of gowns and flower arrangements from Bride magazine. Pouring through Dixie's House Beautiful magazines, I organized and decorated rooms for my dream house, and every night I tied up the phone with my best friend in the whole wide world.

"Mavis! Just because you're black doesn't mean you can't be my Maid of Honor!"

"Mavis! Maudy said to invite the whole congregation. What do you think?"

"Mavis! Of course, Joe agreed with me. Two boys, two girls and a big house!"

Her less–than–enthusiastic responses annoyed me, but all was forgotten as I became increasingly absorbed in wedding plans. Mrs. Joe Oliver had been scribbled over the phone book, my notebooks, and my tennis shoes. Nothing could keep me from it. My intentions were as clean and clear as Dixie's living room picture window. I followed a neat and tidy little path with no divergence. Nobody had to tell me to pick up my clothes or finish my homework. I had brushed my hair 100 strokes every night from the time I was old enough to wash it by myself. Making my bed seemed as natural as scrubbing my face, and I wore my choice of marriage over college like a badge of honor. Studying and straight A's came as easy as breathing. Still, there were no plans to further my education. Daddy and Dixie had discussed my potential, but Lord knows, they never breathed a word of it to me. A wedding was far cheaper than potential.

It didn't matter anyway. At seventeen, my love for Joe filled my head and my heart, leaving room for little else. I had no desire to squeeze into Patty Lou's Volkswagen after graduation and head to Myrtle Beach; there'd be no beach–blanket stories to tell, no up–all–night frolics to remember with friends. No secrets to keep. No bridges to burn. I wanted none of that wild and crazy stuff. It hindered my plans to marry Joe, bear his children, and build a new home with a picket fence, a fancy front door, cathedral ceilings, a stone fireplace, a frost–free freezer, and a color TV and princess phone in every room.