Read Online Something She Can Feel by Grace Octavia - Free Book Online

a second biscuit in protest—I’d regret that later. But my little demonstration was completely necessary. May was the most saved and sanctified person I knew. She knew her Bible better than most pastors and often spent hours in prayer. Because she was always trying to preserve her peaceful and angelic demeanor, she was often railroaded by Jr’s antics. Her only ally at most dinner tables, I usually picked up the boxing gloves on her behalf.
    â€œYou two stop it,” my mother said.
    â€œThere’s nothing wrong with a woman with a little meat on her,” Billie said, wiggling delightfully in her seat beside Mustafa. “They like big women in Nigeria. Don’t they, Mustafa?”
    â€œYes. The queen must have fertile hips,” Mustafa said confidently and everyone looked up from their plates and at him. Jr’s fork fell to the table, May leaned in to be sure she could catch every word, Nana Jessie’s glasses were slid to the tip of her nose as she peeked over the brim to get a closer look. Even the crystal pyramids hanging from the chandelier over the table seemed to sparkle right on Mustafa.
    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.
    â€œFertile?” my father asked.
    â€œYes,” Mustafa went on, “so she can give her husband many sons.”
    â€œOh, you don’t have to worry about that with Billie over there. She ain’t the motherly type,” Evan said. “Are you, Billie?”
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œHow lovely,” my mother said politely as she put more ham on my father’s plate. “Mustafa, I hope you enjoyed worshipping with us today.”
    â€œIt was quite moving, Mrs. Cash. It was—”
    â€œYes, that was a wonderful sermon, Dad,” Evan cut Mustafa off, his voice effortlessly reverent.
    â€œAmen,” Nana Jessie agreed.
    â€œSure was,” my mother added. “And it would’ve been better if Journey would’ve sung.” She looked to me. “What happened?”
    â€œI don’t know. I just froze. I’ve been tired lately.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œThank you, Mama.”
    â€œDon’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?”
    â€œI never said that. I’m just ... busy with the school.”
    â€œPlease,” 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—”
    â€œâ€”spoil the child,” my father finished his sentence.
    â€œNow, 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