After receiving my education degree and my teacher’s certificate, I told my grandmother and my aunts I would stay in Durham for a while, teaching, and that I had decided to attend seminary before I sought ordination as a minister. I was certain my grandmother would cry; I’m sure she did, but not in anyone’s presence. She began telling people that she had known it all along, I knew that boy was going to make a preacher. I knew it. My aunts cooked cakes and pies for me.

I taught in the Wake County Public School System first in Raleigh, then in Cary, and remained in Durham, taking a few night classes and summer courses at Southeastern. But there was little joy in my life, I realize now; it was more the life of a monk. Existence in that grey industrial tobacco town depressed me, causing me to fear growing old and alone, even as a preacher. I had no desire to see women.

One day, coming out of the bank, I saw her. I had been sure she had fled the town upon graduation, gone to Spain or Brazil, forsaking and forgetting her heated speeches of two years ago. I asked her to have a hamburger with me. She agreed.

“Changed your mind?”

She had become a social worker. Placing and overseeing the care of foster children in Durham county.

“No. Have you?”

Something about her seemed older, less reckless, yet no less potent. In fact she seemed to have grown in determination.

“Well, preacherman. You know what I found out?” She put out a cigarette. “Some men ain’t worth the trouble. Some men are.”

“Had some trouble? Some guy mess you over?”

“Everything is fine. Now. You know how it can be.”

“Do I?”

“I think you do.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m the fool.”