Unexpected Dismounts by Nancy Rue Page B

heavenward, the peace so thick it even settled over the furniture and made it seem less shabby. It should have been easy to hear God, detect a Nudge. And in fact, I almost felt one.
    Almost.
    “Almost,” my father used to say, “is just another word for not good enough.” The veins in his neck would bulge when my ninety-two average was almost an A, or the tennis ball I hit nearly cleared the net, or the job I took came close to what a Chamberlain ought to earn. It infuriated him so much that by age fifteen, I deliberately did almost enough in everything, just to see his jaw muscles twitch. In my mind, if he didn’t like it, it must be good. Almost became a habit for me.
    It never bothered me before God started forcing me to reach past almost. But now, being so close to whatever was niggling at the edge of my brain was like Chinese water torture. Hearing wash their feet yet again, without knowing what it meant, was palpably painful.
    Wasn’t I doing that already? Hadn’t I washed enough blood and vomit and sweat from these women to show I got it?
    Y ou’ve got it, Allison. But do they?
    I opened my eyes. The rest of the heads were still bowed. Desmond’s was wagging back and forth like an imitation of Stevie Wonder, but he clearly hadn’t heard what I’d heard. I closed myself into darkness again. All right. If this was where we were going …
    Who? Who doesn’t have it? I cried out in my head.
    Wash their feet. All of you—wash their feet.
    It came like an unwelcome emotion this time, like anger you can’t express without committing a Class B felony, like frustration you can’t take out—on anybody.
    “Dang it— whose feet?”
    My eyes came open. Jasmine stopped moaning, and Mercedes scowled like she was about to belt somebody before she realized I was the one who had broken the silence.
    “It ain’t my feet smellin’,” Desmond said.
    Mercedes did start to whack him, but I put my hand up and turned to Hank.
    “Let me say this before I talk myself out of it,” I said.
    “Go for it,” she said.
    I closed my eyes. “We need to tell India that the fund-raiser is going to be at my house—on Palm Row. And we’re not going to bring in caterers and servers and all that. We’ll prepare the meal ourselves, like the kind of feasts Jesus used to go to. All of us are going to prepare it, and we’re going to serve the people we’re asking to serve us. That’s all I know.”
    I let my eyes come open. They didn’t look convinced, necessarily, or inspired, but nobody was looking at me as if medication were the next logical step.
    “I don’t mean to be dense,” Sherry said, “but I don’t see what this has to do with feet.”
    “Forget that,” I said. “It’s just an image that—never mind, that part’s complicated.”
    “I trust you want me to head up the cooking end of this,” Hank said, mouth twitching.
    “Oh, Lawd, don’t you let Miss Angel do it,” Mercedes said. “Nothin’ against you, Miss A, but girl, you the only person I know can ruin a baked potato.”
    “I don’t want to do no cookin’,” Desmond said.
    “That’s good news too,” Hank said.
    “But I could be like the Mother D.”
    “Mother D?” Jasmine said. “Whatchoo talkin’ ’bout, boy?”
    I tried to keep the chortle out of my voice. “Do you mean maître d’? Like the head waiter?”
    “The one gets dressed up real sharp and lead the ladies to their table,” Desmond said. “I seen it in a movie.”
    “That would be so you, Desmond,” Hank said. “But I don’t know if that’s what your mother has in mind.”
    I didn’t really know what God had in my mind. We were clearly talking metaphor here, and I didn’t have the whole meaning yet.
    But at least it was closer than almost.

    Chief’s Road King was still in its parking place on Palm Row when Desmond and I got home.
    “Mr. Chief gonna spend the night?” Desmond said as we hung our helmets in the garage.
    “ No!” I said.
    “You don’t need to