“She hasn’t called me.”
“You gonna call her?” Grandma asks.
I don’t answer her. She knows I won’t. I think maybe her question is more of a suggestion. Grandma starts washing the few dishes that are in her sink. She washes everything right after she eats, dries them, and puts them away. “You know your momma is doing the best she can, right? Now, I’m not saying it’s your fault her best not good enough, but, well, it is her best.” Grandma turns the water off, takes her dish towel and begins drying a plate. “Love don’t come natural to everybody. Love is something you’ve got to practice in order to get good at.” She puts the plate in the cabinet and finishes drying the silverware. “You want to get good at loving? You’ve got to be patient with your momma, be kind toward your momma. You’ve got to forgive your momma. Even if she don’t ask for no forgiving. That’s love.”
I don’t respond. I know Grandma is right, and besides I know better than to talk back or act like I’m not agreeing with her. I wait a little while and then strike up another conversation, hoping to focus on something other than me and my mom. “What are your plans for the day?” I ask.
“I was just straightening up a bit here before I head down to the lounge to work on my puzzle. I’ve started a new one. Finished that other one you and I were working on a while ago.”
This is Grandma’s way of telling me I need to come by more often.
“I’ll help today,” I tell her. While she finishes up in the kitchen, I scoot to the edge of the sofa and read the open Bible that is on the coffee table. At the homes of some of my friends, I’ve seen Bibles open to the middle of the book so that both sides are even. I’ve also seen it open to the same page every time, a favorite scripture or something. But not Grandma’s Bible. Grandma’s Bible is always turned to a different page when I come over because she actually reads it, actually has her own personal devotion right here in her living room. She fusses at my mom and aunts for not going to church anymore, reminding them that they were raised going to church every Sunday, that Sunday is the Lord’s day, not a free day to lounge around the house, have brunch, and hang out. I never go to church—only a few times with Grandma when I was younger. So now, every time I come over, I make sure I at least read the scripture she has on display. I call it my three-minute church service. Sometimes, we discuss the scripture I’ve read, but most times, Grandma just lets me be, lets me take in the words for myself.
Today, the scripture is turned to James 2. She’s highlighted verses 14 through 18.
What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if someone claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save them? Suppose a brother or a sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to them, “Go in peace; keep warm and well fed,” but does nothing about their physical needs, what good is it? In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead. But someone will say, “You have faith; I have deeds.” Show me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by my deeds.
I read it twice, let the meaning sink in.
“All right, I’m all finished here,” Grandma says.
Even though I just made myself comfortable, I get up from the sofa and put my shoes back on. We leave Grandma’s apartment and make our way to the lounge, also known as the recreation room. The room is a long rectangular space with sofas and armchairs dividing the room so that on one side, people can sit and watch the big-screen television that is always turned up so loud it’s a wonder people outside can’t hear the reruns of Matlock. The other side of the room has bookshelves with books, board games, and magazines. There are square tables with mismatched chairs and a card table against the wall where pieces of Grandma’s puzzle are neatly laid out.
A man with a short salt-and-pepper beard is sitting at Grandma’s table. Next to him is an oversized mason jar full of iced cold tea sitting on the table, staining the wood with its condensation. “Well, what you say? Is this Miss Nala?” He smiles and wobbles up to shake my hand. “Oh, don’t look worried—I’m no psychic; your grandma just talks about you all the time. She’s shown me pictures,” he says. “You can call me JT.”
“Hi, JT. Yes, I’m Nala.”
JT sits down and brushes his wrinkled fingers over the puzzle pieces. “You come to help us put this thing together? Me and your grandma been plugging away at it all week.”
Grandma sits down. “It’s Annie Lee’s The Beginning of Jazz.” She holds up the box. “Just beautiful, isn’t it? Over a thousand pieces, though, so it’s taking a while.”
I join them at the table and start working.
Grandma clears her throat and says, “JT, what you got there in that jar? Diet iced tea, I hope.”
“No, ma’am. Now I done told you, a man my age ought to be able to eat and drink whatever he wants whenever he wants—”
“Your doctor said—”
“I don’t care nothing about what them doctors are saying. I ain’t never smoked, ain’t never had not one ounce of alcohol in this body. If sweet tea take me out, then so be it.” JT takes a long sip of his tea.
Grandma shakes her head. “All right, okay.”
I laugh because this sounds like an exchange Grandma would have with my mom or with Aunt Ebony. Not necessarily about how much sugar they are consuming, but she’d be fussing about something. She is the queen at fussing at people—making sure they are eating enough of the right thing, that they are wearing the appropriate clothes based on the weather, that they are getting enough sleep.
This is how Grandma loves.
JT takes another drink from his glass and starts spreading out puzzle pieces. He snaps them in place, and we work silently until my phone buzzes and sends trembles across the table.
It’s Tye.
I send it to voice mail.
I can feel Grandma looking at me.
The phone buzzes again, alerting me that Tye has left a voice message.
I turn the phone over and keep working on the puzzle.
“Well, someone sure did put a smile on your face,” Grandma says. “Who is he?”
“What makes you think it was a guy calling?”
“Only young puppy love brings about that kind of grin. You can’t even contain yourself.” Grandma smiles, and then she looks at JT and says, “I know that smile. I know that feeling.”
JT smiles at her, and I realize that maybe JT is not just a neighbor who hangs out in the lounge with Grandma. Maybe he is more.
“So, who is he?” Grandma asks again.
“His name is Tye. I just met him, he’s not . . . we’re not—”
“He makes you smile. That’s a good start,” Grandma says. She goes on fitting puzzle pieces together.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text message from Tye wanting to know what time I get off work. Just seeing the words “off work” fills me with guilt. I type back in an hour and turn my phone over.
Soon, Grandma’s friends join us. Ms. Norma—who is always knitting something, Ms. Louise—who dresses up every day like she’s going someplace fancy, and Ms. Mabel—who uses a scooter and is known to not-so-accidently run into people she’s annoyed with. They don’t help with the puzzle; they just sit and watch and gossip.