While I’d explained everything I knew about the situation with Mustafa and Billie before the two got to the house, my family just wasn’t the sort of crowd I could spring surprises on—at Sunday dinner, no less. We’d hosted many guests, some from as far away as Ireland and another minister who always came for Easter from Australia. But still, the Cashes weren’t exactly the United Nations when it came to non-Southerners. And this non-Southerner happened to be with Billie, who my father swore was just out in the world, sleeping around with everyone since she wasn’t married and thirty-two. Naturally, they’d been waiting to dig into Mustafa and he’d presented the perfect starting point for their inquisition.
“Fertile?” my father asked.
“Yes,” Mustafa went on, “so she can give her husband many sons.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that with Billie over there. She ain’t the motherly type,” Evan said. “Are you, Billie?”
“Yes, I am!” Billie cut her eyes at Evan. “I’m just looking for the right man. And I think I found him.”
She and Mustafa linked hands on top of the table.
“How lovely,” my mother said politely as she put more ham on my father’s plate. “Mustafa, I hope you enjoyed worshipping with us today.”
“It was quite moving, Mrs. Cash. It was—”
“Yes, that was a wonderful sermon, Dad,” Evan cut Mustafa off, his voice effortlessly reverent.
“Amen,” Nana Jessie agreed.
“Sure was,” my mother added. “And it would’ve been better if Journey would’ve sung.” She looked to me. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. I just froze. I’ve been tired lately.”
“I remember when you used to sing at church and the pews would fill up,” my mother continued. “And I was so proud. Seemed like people got just as much out of your singing as they did the Word. Like the Holy Ghost was standing right next to you.”
“Thank you, Mama.”
“Don’t thank your mother,” my father said. “You thank God by using your gift. You can’t do that if you don’t sing—won’t sing in the choir no more? You going to stop coming to church next?”
“I never said that. I’m just ... busy with the school.”
“Please,” Jr said. “Those kids don’t need more singing. They need some old-fashioned whipping. There’s no parenting happening at home. Spare the rod—”
“—spoil the child,” my father finished his sentence.
“Now, if the parents did more at home,” Jr went on, “they wouldn’t be in such bad shape. They got the Bloods and Crips and I heard they even got some gay sex parties there, too.”
“Really?” May clutched her chest.
“Well ... they’re dealing with a lot,” Evan said, his coolness lifted. With the new job, he became defensive whenever someone brought up something bad about Black Warrior.
“My Lord!” May bowed her head and began to pray silently. I rested my elbows on the table and shook my head. All this in thirty minutes.
“I remember when children acted like children,” Nana Jessie said. “Down here in the South, they listened to grown folks. Called them ma’am and sir and there wasn’t none of this fighting going on.”
“And that was because they got a whupping if they did,” my father added. “Now they just let the kids run wild.”
“It’s not all bad,” Billie said. “We have some success stories. Like that rapper Dame. I saw him on the cover of Rolling Stone at the grocery store the other day. He had on boxers and LOST painted on top of a cross on his chest. It was hot.” She fanned herself playfully.
“The one with all the tattoos?” my mother asked.
“What you know about that, Mama?” Jr jumped in and we all looked at my mother surprised.
“I’m a Christian—not blind,” she said. “No woman I know could’ve missed that cover in line at the grocery store. You can hardly ever get out of the store without seeing him on the cover of some magazine. And he never has a shirt on.”
The men looked to the rest of us, but we just diverted our eyes. My mother was right. Dame was the big buzz. While I didn’t listen to much hip-hop, I couldn’t check out at the grocery store or even watch the news without seeing his face. He was bigmouthed and always in the news, shirtless and sweaty, his wild dreadlocks hanging over his shoulders like a lion’s mane as he invaded the covers of magazines with headlines like “Crush the World” or “Take Over.” In the tabloids, he was making love to married Hollywood stars and bed-hopping in London and Dublin. He had a clothing line, a beverage company and, as I’d heard one of my students mention, a sneaker deal. All of the kids at the school wanted to emulate him because he was from Tuscaloosa. In fact, he’d gone to Black Warrior and was one of my former students. But still I wasn’t so sure he was the best role model. The one song of his I’d listened to was about sex and drugs. Nothing unique. The kids needed much more than that.
“So you women all crazy about some rapper?” my father asked in the silence.