by Pat Simmons
“Of course,” Wilma assured him before they said their good-byes.
Parke finished dressing for church, but slower this time as his mind wandered. By the time he arrived at Cheney’s house an hour later, all distractions were gone when she opened her door. Wow. There stood a stunning replica of a Vogue magazine model. He had never seen her look more beautiful in a dress. Forget the call from Wilma. The moment was all about Cheney Reynolds.
“Wow,” he repeated aloud, exhaling. He leaned against the step up to her foyer, placing his right hand over his heart. “You slay me.”
Ignoring his dramatics, Cheney pouted for a kiss. She wiggled her silky eyebrows, signaling her impatience. Parke obliged. “Thanks, I needed that.”
“Nervous?”
“Hopeful.”
His woman. Parke’s eyes danced as he stroked his goatee. “Forget what they say about the woman in red. You are sizzlin’ in black.” He jammed two fingers in his mouth and a whistle escaped. Cheney glowed as spiral curls flowed down her back. His eyes were glued to her sling-back pumps and black sheer stockings hugging sculptured legs.
“Where have you been hiding that dress?”
“It’s new. I wanted to look nice.”
“Done. You look more than nice.” Even though the dress was inches below her knees—modest for church—it hinted of her shapely places. Parke closed his eyes and inhaled an unfamiliar scent. “Hmm, you smell very, very good.”
“You’re making me blush with all this attention.” Cheney mouthed thank you. “You look very handsome.” She wrapped her arms around his waist. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For always caring about the part of me I’ve buried so deep inside that only you’ve been able to reach.” She sighed with the saddest expression. “Because of you, I met your friend, Annette. I’m glad she invited us to church.”
He disengaged himself from Cheney and began to pace her living room, rubbing the back of his neck. “Listen, I received the strangest call from Wilma this morning.”
“Wilma? Why did she call you? What did she want?” Cheney frowned.
“She asked me if I knew there was a boy in foster care with a name the same as mine.”
“Oh.” Cheney searched for the nearest chair and dropped down.
Parke couldn’t read her expression. “I may have a son somewhere. Or some woman gave her son my name as a joke. Or some rejected lover decided to have a baby who could be mine and gave him away as punishment. It’s all speculation on my part. If this boy proves to be my son, I plan to take possession immediately.”
“I’m happy for you.” She sniffed and leaned back into the chair. “This is all so strange. I mean, I had an abortion, which sterilized me. I become a foster parent to right my wrong. I meet this neighborhood stalker—”
“I’m a lover, baby, not a stalker. You are my princess.” Parke smiled and sat in the twin chair close to her.
She smiled back and counted out the facts. “Anyway, for no reason, but to make me happy, you’ve been there for me. Parke, I’ve never been surer about anything in my life, except if my child had been born it would’ve been a girl. I don’t think you need me to tell you. You know that child is yours. I can’t explain it, Parke, but I know it.”
Without saying it, Parke did feel an instant kinship. He just needed to find this boy, the mother, or have a paternity test to prove it.
“You’ll make a wonderful father.”
“You humble me. My desire will always be to fulfill your needs, Cheney.” Her words had touched his soul. Checking his watch, Parke sighed. “Let’s go praise the Lord. Annette may already have the church van to pick us up. When I told her we were coming, she started shouting Hallelujah.” He didn’t mention that Annette told him she sensed Cheney needed deliverance. Had Annette become a prophetess or something? Deliverance from what?
“Let me grab my purse. I’ll be right back.” Cheney stood and hurried upstairs.
As Parke waited, he thought this was supposed to be an ordinary Sunday, taking an exceptional woman to an ordinary church, the day was proving to be interesting. The previous night, they asked Mrs. Beacon to babysit. Parke didn’t want the children to become restless, especially if he did. “Church!” she had shrieked into the phone. “If no one’s dead, what ya going for? Take those kids to the park for a picnic or to a movie.”
After convincing Mrs. Beacon that Cheney might enjoy it, she agreed.
Cheney returned with her purse and Parke chanced another glimpse of the captivating creature. He was tempted to take Mrs. Beacon’s advice to skip church, kidnap Cheney, and get lost in her sweet kisses. Not a bad idea, he thought.
Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor as she walked across the room to answer the phone. “Hello?” She laughed. “It’s Grandma BB. She says Kami’s tearing up her house trying to get over here. She was looking out the window when you came.”
Parke stretched out his hand. “I guess we better stop next door.”
“We’re on our way out the door,” Cheney said, disconnecting.
“You know, baby, we could skip church and enjoy the day, just you and me.”
Cheney paused from locking her door. “You don’t want to go?” She tried to hide it, but Parke heard the disappointment in her voice.
Not really. I’d rather spend the day alone with you. Parke stuffed his hands in his pants pockets. “Just kid—”
As they turned around, Cheney and Parke stopped in mid-step. Dre, Sasha, and her neighbor, holding a squirming Kami, posed picture-perfect on Mrs. Beacon’s porch.
“You look pretty, Miss Cheney,” Sasha yelled, waving.
“Yeah,” Dre agreed, grinning. “You clean up real good. You look better than the chicks at the baseball game.”
“Remind me to have a man-to-man talk with you later, Dre,” Parke warned.
“If you stay here any longer, you can play poker with us,” Mrs. Beacon offered with a mischievous grin. Kami moved hysterically in her arms, screaming his name. Her possessiveness always gave him an undeserved sense of pride. “That’s my girl.” He crossed the lawn to receive her loving hug and mushy kisses. Cheney followed.
“How much longer do we have with Kami?”
“Not long, ten days maybe,” Cheney answered, climbing into his passenger seat.
“I’m going to miss her.”
Cheney blew kisses to the group as Parke pulled away. “Yeah, Wilma says the family isn’t being very cooperative in trying to get Kami back. She may have to leave me and go into long-term traditional foster care.”
***
Parke turned into Faith Miracle Church’s overcrowded parking lot. “Whoa, how many people attend this church?”
“Hmmm, I was thinking the same thing,” Cheney said absently. “The preacher must be doing something right.”
Maybe. When had he become so cynical? Parke maneuvered his SUV into a narrow space and parked.
When they got out, Parke intertwined his hand with hers as they walked toward a majestic one-story gray stone accenting a white brick building.
“I hope I’m not making a mistake,” she mumbled under her breath.
Just then, Annette waved from inside a double-glassed door. She flung open the door and playfully yanked Cheney inside, engulfing her with a bear hug, ignoring Parke.
“Ooh, I’m so glad you came,” Annette rattled. “When Parke called me this morning, I just thanked Jesus.” She looped her arm through Cheney’s and escorted them to their seats. As an afterthought, Annette turned her head. “Oh. Hi, Parke, I’m glad to see you, too. Did you play the CD I gave you for Christmas?”
“How nice of you to notice me. Yes, I did,” Parke stated.
Annette had insisted at the end of their phone call that Parke play Donnie McClurkin’s Stand CD on the way to church. When the singer first asked a simple question, Cheney became immersed. She sniffed and at one point, faced the window, wiping away a tear. Even his ears zoomed in on the song that called
out guilt, shame, and past mistakes, active ingredients in anyone’s life.
“We’ll stand together against our past decisions, just like Paki and Elaine, who couldn’t undo the past, but boldly shaped a future,” he had told Cheney.
In the sanctuary door, thousands of worshippers packed the auditorium. Some sang and clapped, others sat rocking from side to side with their eyes closed. Parke guessed they were meditating. The organ’s pipes caused the sanctuary walls to vibrate. Numerous wind and percussion instruments’ sounds exploded, harmonizing with a choir too large to number.
A balcony stretched from one end of the sanctuary to the other. On the main floor, Annette sat next to Parke, and he next to Cheney whose face was unreadable. Scooting closer, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “You all right?”
She forced a weak smile. “My family and I attended church for weddings and funerals. Studies, extra-curriculum activities, and social events took up my time.”
As if privy to Cheney’s remarks, Annette nudged Parke’s left shoulder, wearing a pleased expression. Mission accomplished. She had gotten him inside her church walls, using his woman as bait.
“Thanks for bringing me. I don’t think I would’ve come by myself,” Cheney said.
He nodded, not sure if church was exorcising her pent-up fears or recycling them to another level. Unlike Cheney, the Jamiesons did attend church, not regularly, but as a routine, copying other families. It had been a socializing opportunity to be seen and make business connections. At his parents’ house, an old family bible was laid on a table in the foyer. Parke didn’t know what book it was opened to or the page number. He did know it contained the names, births, and deaths of his ancestors.
As the music died down, a middle-aged man dressed in a beige-and-black preacher’s robe came to the podium. “Praise the Lord, everybody. Whether you’re sitting, standing, or sick in your body, put your hands together for Jesus. Even a small child can clap. Luke nineteen and forty warns us if we withhold our praise, the stones will immediately cry out with praise. You showed up today. Now let’s show off for Jesus.”
A thunderous roar erupted throughout the auditorium. Folks all around him clapped vigorously. Annette yelled, “Thank You, Jesus.”
Cheney remained seated and slumped over. He was about to touch her when her head drifted back, revealing a trail of tears glistening down her cheeks. He didn’t know what to expect when they came to church, but Cheney’s crying wasn’t it.
As the noise settled down, the minister shouted, “Don’t you feel better?”
Some in the crowd shouted, “Yeah.” Others waved their hands. Parke exhaled when Cheney nodded, dabbing her face with a Kleenex Annette had handed her.
“Then, let’s have church,” the minister commanded them.
Annette leaned across Parke and informed Cheney the man was the pastor, Elder Baylor Scott.
“Despite the praise a few minutes ago, somebody didn’t join in. Some of you may ask, ‘How do you know?’ Just like the woman with an issue of blood who pressed to touch the hem of Jesus’s garment, Jesus knew the moment power left Him. In the midst of shouts, God knows who that someone was who didn’t praise Him.” Elder Scott turned the pages in his Bible. Cheney touched Parke’s thigh.
“That was me,” she confessed.
What is she talking about? He looked perplexed.
. “Although I clapped, I felt like such a hypocrite.”
Even in church, Cheney’s trespasses were weighing her down. He racked his brain to offer some soothing words, but the pastor interrupted him.
“Everybody turn your Bible to 1 Peter 5: 7.”
Annette whipped out a huge Bible, and thrust it in his hand for him and Cheney to use. “When God starts working, I always come prepared,” she said with compassion.
The minister cleared his throat. “Let’s read together. ‘Casting all your care upon Him; for He careth for you.’ Regardless of what problems you walked through the door with this morning, God is commanding you to throw them away with a great force—to fling, to drop, to shed, to rid yourself of all that is weighing you down, keeping you up at night, or eating you up inside. Give it to God today. Why, because God cares for you without any prejudices. He already knew about them before you committed them.”
“Thank You, Jesus,” someone shouted behind Parke’s head.
“Amen,” an older woman, sitting two rows ahead, added. Others clapped, encouraging the pastor to preach the Word.
Cheney sat in a trance. Parke knitted his brows and twisted his lips in confusion. The man only read one scripture. Why is everybody getting so worked up? he wondered.
“When God takes our burdens, we can wave them good-bye, so long. They won’t be back. They won’t be back,” the pastor continued, preaching about a carefree life, tossing away the bad and grabbing the good.
Cheney listened attentively while Parke wondered if he had fathered a disregarded son from his carefree style.
The preacher finished his sermon with a resounding, “Hallelujah.” Some members surrounding Parke jumped up, waved their arms or danced to a secret beat.
“Let us stand and pray. Jesus, You know our needs. You see the souls that are marred with sins, and the cries that are pleading for deliverance. Lord, we know we can’t make a change without You,” the minister prayed.
Parke couldn’t explain it, but the atmosphere was changing. He listened as the choir hummed the melody to “Jesus is Love,” a song he connected with Lionel Richie. Cheney’s knuckles reddened as she gripped the back of the seat in front of them.
Pastor Scott warned, “Listen to me. This moment is not about churches or religions, it’s about your soul and where you will spend eternity,” his voice pierced the air. “I don’t have to tell you whether you’re saved, living in sanctification, or sin. Make your choice today. Don’t walk out of this building and back into sin. Repent.”
Subliminal spirits agitated the crowd. Parke chanced a glance around. He could count the number of faces where the message was hitting home.
“Friends, I’m not preaching because it’s Sunday. I’m concerned about your soul! Tomorrow’s breath is not promised today. From where you are, repent of your sins.”
Parke didn’t know if anyone else’s heart dropped like an elevator and then zoomed to the top floor, but Cheney leaned into him. He heard what sounded like a quick rush of wind. The origin was uncertain as if they were standing in a cornfield and could see a tornado building.
“If you say that you’ve accepted Christ, yet still have problems living holy, leave from where you’re standing. C’mon down and let God wash your sins away, and give you power to live right. We have baptismal clothes for you now. We’re ready to serve you now. Are you ready? No need to make an appointment. You can leave here today a new creature filled with the Holy Ghost and have the evidence of speaking in unknown tongues,” he begged the crowd until one by one many left their seats.
“That’s right. Come on. The Bible says in the Book of Acts 19, ‘Then said Paul, John verily baptized with the baptism of repentance, saying unto the people, that they should believe on him which should come after him, that is, on Christ Jesus. When they heard this, they were baptized in the name of the Lord Jesus. And when Paul had laid his hands upon them, the Holy Ghost came on them; and they spake with tongues, and prophesied.’ That’s right. Let God give you some power to live right.”
The pastor bowed his head as in prayer, moans, cries, and some screams of deliverance permeated the air. Looking up, the preacher scanned the sanctuary as many reacted to his message either in prayer, wailing, or walking down the aisle. He adjusted the microphone. “Know that God is big enough to take away your burdens. Make your way to the front altar, repent, and give God your life.” He turned to the choir for a selection. “All right, don’t let it be said too late.” He took his Bible and went back to his seat where he knelt, prayed, and then sat.
“I want to go, Parke, will you walk with me?” Cheney’s
face displayed a childish innocence he had never seen before.
Yes was on the tip of his tongue as he stared into her watery eyes, but no was shouting from his heart. The sad thing was he had no legitimate reason for his resistance. Parke couldn’t blame it on Annette. She had always been a good friend. He really didn’t have a beef with God or His blessings. So where were the ill feelings coming from? Cheney’s eyes pled with him before turning away and bowing her head.
Annette reached across him and stroked Cheney’s arm. “I’ll walk with you.” She led Cheney down a long aisle that quickly swelled with others—young, old, and a few in wheelchairs. Parke couldn’t believe his eyes. In front of the pulpit, Cheney whispered into Minister Dyson Kidd’s ear, Annette’s friend from the baseball game.
Nodding, Dyson uttered something to Cheney before laying his hand on her head. He closed his eyes and prayed fervently while Annette stood behind Cheney with her head bowed. Parke didn’t like it—Dyson touching his woman or praying for her.
Within minutes, Cheney stretched out her arms as if she was submitting to something. Two women approached her, dressed in white suits, and wrapped their arms around her waist. Then they steered her through a side door. Annette gave Parke an accusatory glance when she returned to her seat.
“Many have come today, but somebody’s still holding out. Perhaps you feel you aren’t carrying any burdens, but are you guilty of works of the flesh?”
The choir’s distinctive words had subsided into soft humming. Parke turned to Annette, whispering, “What is that man talking about, works of the flesh?”
“Cheney has decided to get her sins washed away, so she’s on her way to get baptiz—”
“Let me break it down for you, friends,” the minister continued, “Are you guilty? Are you mixed up in adultery, are you a fornicator—sex outside marriage—what about lasciviousness? Galatians 5:19 begins the hit list—idolatry, witchcraft, hatred, wrath, strife, sedition, heresies, envying, murder, drunkenness, and such will keep you outside of God. Are you guilty? My advice is let it go.”