Hidden Riches

by Felicia Mason

  “Humor me.”

  Clayton knew his theory was kind of out there. But the entire situation was out there. This made more sense than digging up the backyard or cats wearing diamond collars.

  “Well,” he began tentatively, “you know how in Ana Mae’s obituary it says Howard’s address is unknown?”

  Archer nodded.

  “Well, Ana Mae was a serious churchgoer.”

  “To quote the good Reverend Toussaint le Baptiste—or, as Lester calls him, Reverend Holy Ghost—‘Sister Ana Mae loved her some God.’ ”

  The right-on-target impersonation of Toussaint at Ana Mae’s wake made Clayton smile. “Yes, she did. And if a son of hers wasn’t churched or saved or whatever when he died, Ana Mae wouldn’t know if he went to heaven or to hell. Hence, address unknown.”

  Archer’s mouth dropped open. He did not say a single word.

  “Well?” Clayton prompted.

  “Well, what?”

  “What do you think of my theory? It works, doesn’t it?”

  Archer just shook his head. “I’ll tell you this about that theory of yours, if that’s how that medical doctor brain of yours thinks and processes information when you’re not at the clinic, I think you entered the wrong profession. We could use that kind of nonlinear thinking in our litigation department at the law firm.”

  Clayton knew a long-winded compliment when he heard one. He leaned back and smiled.

  They were both surprised to find another visitor at Ana Mae’s gravesite. The headstone that Mr. Rollings’s people said had been preordered was not yet installed. However, flowers from the funeral—some in their baskets but now dried in the summer sun—still covered the mound at the grave. But a fresh bouquet of wildflowers in bright pinks, yellows, reds, and purples stood sentinel at the top, where the headstone would eventually be.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  Reverend Toussaint le Baptiste extended a hand to greet Clayton and Archer.

  After shaking the minister’s hand, Archer took a step aside. “I’ll start looking over here,” he said.

  “All right,” Clayton said. Then, “What brings you here today, Reverend?”

  “Probably the same as you,” Reverend Toussaint said. “Paying my respects.”

  Clayton nodded toward the new bouquet. “Pretty. Are they from you?”

  If he heard the question, the minister ignored it. “This is a nice quiet place to think,” he said. “I come here often, usually to sit by the creek over there and meditate on the goodness of the Lord.”

  “I don’t know much about that,” Clayton said. “I generally leave religion alone.”

  The two men—both tall, but one slim and in a dark suit and the other athletically lean and in casual clothes, even though they were pressed jeans and a polo shirt—stood at the foot of Ana Mae’s final resting place.

  “Why is that?” Reverend Toussaint asked.

  Clayton thought of all the hypocrisy he’d encountered in the church while growing up. In the pulpit the preacher would condemn homosexuality but didn’t seem to care if everybody knew the choir director was a flaming queen on Friday and Saturday nights and holier than thou on Sunday mornings. He thought about Deacon Reginald Crispin, who’d been sitting up all righteous with the deacons at Ana Mae’s funeral. That one was still in the closet, living a lie and calling himself a Christian. Clayton and Archer belonged to an open congregation back home, a congregation that didn’t put labels on its members. He’d leave that kind of religion to Reverend Toussaint and folks like Ana Mae.

  “Religion, organized religion, is a solace for those who need it and a crutch for those who are trying to hide or absolve themselves of their hypocrisy,” Clayton said. “People who need to believe that there’s a great magician in the sky controlling the universe, making decisions for us, laughing as we fail.”

  “You think the Lord is like the Wizard of Oz?”

  Clayton smiled. “I did not quite mean it that way,” he said, “but now that you mention it.”

  “Faith isn’t like that,” the preacher said.

  “There is no God,” Clayton said.

  “How do you know?”

  Clayton laughed, but little if any humor went with the sound. “If there’s a God, he surely has a sick sense of humor. Making me gay. Making me come back here to this godforsaken town.”

  “For someone who doesn’t believe in God, you . . .”

  Clayton held up his hand. “Reverend, I don’t mean you any harm or disrespect, but this is not a conversation I wish to have at the moment.”

  Or any other moment, Clayton added to himself.

  Reverent Toussaint nodded. Then he bowed his head. “All right.”

  Before Clayton could say anything else, the minister was praying . . . out loud. Clayton sighed.

  “Lord, we come to you today with bowed heads and open hearts. We don’t know your ways, but we know and believe that you alone are worthy of all of our praise and honor.”

  Clayton may not have been religious, but he knew enough to be respectful. His Mama had taught him that much.

  The thought of the late Georgette Futrell made him glance around, even as he kept his head bowed while Reverend Toussaint droned on.

  “. . . the path may be rocky, but the journey is divine. Order their steps, Lord . . .”

  Their parents were buried somewhere out here at Antioch Cemetery. It hadn’t crossed his mind to look for their gravesites the day Ana Mae was buried. The only thing on Clayton’s mind that afternoon was getting it all over with and returning to California as soon as humanly possible.

  The fact that he was still stuck in North Carolina did not sit well with him in the least bit.

  “. . . and lift him up, Lord. Brother Futrell and his, uh, his friend. Bless the whole family, Lord, and give them the strength they’ll need in these coming days. Hallowed be thy name and thy son Jesus’ name. Amen, and amen.”

  “Amen,” Clayton said, not meaning it in the least. He glanced around and saw Archer about one hundred feet away, looking at gravestones and not paying any attention at all to Clayton and Reverend Toussaint.

  “Thank you for your prayers, Reverend. But I don’t need them.”

  “Everybody needs prayer, son. Even those who don’t believe. I’ll leave you now.”

  The minister placed a fedora on his head and turned to leave.

  “Reverend le Baptiste?”

  Toussaint turned.

  “Thank you for everything you did for my sister.”

  The minister nodded. “She was a good woman. A Godly woman.”

  Long after the Reverend Toussaint le Baptiste slipped away, Clayton remained staring down at Ana Mae’s grave.

  While he hadn’t been paying much attention to the preacher’s prayer, a line of it remained with him. The path may be rocky, but the journey is divine. The words, in their simplicity and truth, gave Clayton pause. His entire life, from birth until this very moment, seemed encapsulated in that single sentence.

  A shout from Archer pulled him from his musings.

  “Clay, I found something!”

  18

  The Lady Who Loved Little Kids

  Feeling vaguely let down by her encounter with Eddie Spencer, JoJo drove around town as aimlessly as her thoughts were wandering. She didn’t have a lot of options open to her. Las Vegas had long since lost the appeal and cachet it had had for her in her youth, back when she knew—was certain, without any shred of doubt, misgiving, or lack of conviction—that her star would rise over the Vegas Strip, that she would be the principal of several shows and managing her own stable of young impressionable and talented wannabe stars.

  Life had had a few other opinions, though, and before JoJo could claim her piece of the star-studded rainbow, she was knocked up and struggling, not even sure who the father was of the baby she carried.

  “Ana Mae.”

  She said her sister’s name as if it were a prayer.

  Too terrified to tell h
er mother that not only had she run away from home to be a showgirl in a low-budget Las Vegas review but that she was also now pregnant, JoJo called her big sister.

  While a sermon on the virtues of chastity and holiness might come from Ana Mae, that punishment, JoJo decided all those years ago, was infinitely better than the bitter disappointment she knew she would find in her mother’s eyes.

  As far as JoJo knew, Georgette Futrell died without ever knowing that she had a granddaughter. Ana Mae had kept JoJo’s secret. And since apparently Ana Mae knew that Crystal lived in Laughlin, less than one hundred miles from Las Vegas, JoJo could only wonder what other secrets Ana Mae took to the grave with her about JoJo’s daughter. Crystal was so close geographically and so far away emotionally.

  JoJo gave a little snort, a half laugh of self-derision.

  “You kept my secrets, Ana Mae. I wonder if you tucked away any secrets for Clay or for Delcine?”

  She didn’t expect an answer but was half surprised to find herself in the parking lot at the Holy Ghost Church of the Good Redeemer. Several cars and minivans filled the lot, not so many as to indicate a service might be going on inside, but enough to tell her people were there during the day.

  A late-model Lexus with the personalized North Carolina license plate REV T made her immediately think of the Reverend Toussaint le Baptiste.

  With her mind on the sins of her own past and curious about the place where her sister had spent so much of her time, JoJo parked Ana Mae’s car next to the Lexus and made her way to the church.

  The front door was locked.

  Her own church back home was a little chapel occupying a former storefront that used to house a souvenir shop. The front entrance and a back door were the only two ways to get in, and the fifty or so congregants used the front door. A church like this, a real church even if it had a strange name, would have more than two doors.

  JoJo hadn’t been paying that much attention at Ana Mae’s funeral. Her mind was pretty much on other things than entrances and exits to the church, but she tiptoed on aching feet—her sexy shoes to entice Eddie Spencer were not made for traipsing across parking lots—back to the parking lot, then looked around. The kitten-heeled open-toe mules she’d put on looked great and felt like sheer hell.

  But sure enough, just as she was thinking she’d go on home, she saw an entrance a ways down and near where many of the other vehicles were clustered.

  An awning the same color as the red brick of the church covered a walkway.

  A few minutes later she found herself in a hallway. The sounds of children singing and a phone or two ringing gave her courage.

  What exactly it was she feared she would not have been able to name. But a bit of trepidation washed over her.

  Guilt. Not fear.

  “I’m sorry, Lord,” JoJo whispered.

  She felt guilty about wishing she could put a hit out on Lester. She felt guilty about not staying in better touch with Ana Mae.

  The singing drew her. The melody of the children’s song was familiar, but the words escaped her.

  “May I help you?”

  JoJo started. Then she turned to see a petite woman in a blue-jean dress with a smock covering part of it coming out of one of the rooms.

  “Hi,” JoJo said. “I’m, I’m looking for Reverend Toussaint la Baptist.”

  “Le Baptiste,” the woman said, correcting JoJo’s pronunciation. “His office is right down here. I’ll show you. But he’s probably just about ready to go in with the kids right now.”

  “Thank you,” JoJo murmured.

  She had not come to see the minister, Ana Mae’s and Rosalee’s childhood friend. But with no better excuse and the teacher-looking lady staring at her, that’s all that came to mind. The way things were in the world right now, the last thing she wanted was the lady thinking she’d come to kidnap a child or something. Crazy people were everywhere, including in small towns in the South.

  The woman led her to an office that had the door pulled to, but not completely closed. She knocked. “Reverend T?”

  JoJo smiled. So the Lexus out in the parking lot probably belonged to him.

  “Yes, Delia?”

  The woman pushed the door open. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  She guided JoJo into the small space and departed.

  “Sister Josephine,” Reverend Toussaint said, standing and coming around his cluttered desk to greet her. “What a surprise and pleasure. Come on in.”

  Shaking the minister’s hand, JoJo smiled.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she said.

  “Not at all. Have a seat,” he said, indicating two cushioned folding chairs in front of his desk.

  JoJo settled herself on one and put her big purse on the other.

  Reverend Toussaint took his seat again, then clasped his hands together and gave her a smile.

  “How are you doing?” he said.

  JoJo gave a half shrug. “I guess I’m okay, you know.”

  “Then tell me, what can I do for you?”

  JoJo absently noticed that he was a really nice-looking man with that wavy hair and those smoky eyes. Then, remembering she was in the Lord’s house even if it was an office, she opened her mouth to answer him. She closed her mouth. Opened it again and then started crying.

  “Oh, dear,” Reverend Toussaint said. “Sister Josephine, what’s wrong?”

  She sniffled. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I’ve made such a mess of my life. Nothing turned out the way I thought it would.”

  Sitting right there with this kind man, it all just bubbled up and over in her. Ana Mae was gone. She was broke. She wanted out of her marriage to Lester. Her own daughter hated her.

  Her life wasn’t just a mess, it was a hot mess. And the tears now came in a steady and heavy flow.

  “Sister Josephine, everything will be all right. Our God is a wonder-working God.”

  He got up and came to sit on the edge of the chair next to her—and accidentally pushed over her handbag. It fell to the floor with a clop, the contents spilling out.

  “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry,” he apologized, bending over to get her bag.

  One of the things that fell out was a small Bible, one of the little New Testament volumes that also included the Psalms and sometimes the book of Proverbs. She’d gotten it from a street-corner preacher back home. He’d been passing them out one Saturday afternoon, and JoJo liked the idea of having a Bible in her purse. It made her feel a little closer to God.

  JoJo leaned over, but Reverend Toussaint had already scooped up the Bible, a lipstick, a pen, and the purse. He handed her the loose items and placed the bag on his desk. With a quiet “Thank you,” JoJo put the lipstick and ink pen back inside and rummaged for a tissue.

  She dabbed at her eyes for a bit, hoping she hadn’t messed up her makeup, then finally sat back with the Bible.

  “Sister Josephine?”

  She batted her eyelashes, not flirting, but trying to hold fresh tears at bay. She felt one of her false eyelashes slipping. With a sigh and a few more tears, she closed her left eye and pulled it off.

  “I need a better-quality glue,” she said by way of explanation.

  Reverend Toussaint, apparently used to women weeping in his office, gave her a few moments to get herself composed.

  After a few more dabs at her eyes and a few sniffles, JoJo sighed.

  “I’m a poor excuse for a Christian,” she said.

  “We are all sinners saved by grace,” Reverend Toussaint said.

  “If you say so.”

  He smiled. “I say so. So tell me. What prompts these tears? What is on your mind and heart today, Sister Josephine?”

  She sat silent for a while. Then, answering a need to get it all off her chest, she told him, as if she were in a confessional with a Catholic priest.

  “I miss Ana Mae,” she said. “I wish I had been a better sister to her. I don’t love my husband. I want to stay here in North Carolina and live in Ana Mae�
��s house. It’s where I grew up, you know. I just don’t know what I’m going to do with my life.”

  Reverend Toussaint patted her hand. “That’s a lot going on,” he said.

  “Tell me about it,” JoJo harrumphed, getting some of her usual aplomb back. “Since I’ve been here in Drapersville, I’ve found out more about Ana Mae than I knew in all the time she was alive. What kind of sister loses touch like that? I just wish . . .” A few additional tears sprouted, and she quickly and defiantly swiped them away.

  “Josephine,” he said, taking her hand, “Ana Mae loved you very much.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because she was always bragging about you. About all three of you. She was so proud of what you, Clayton, and Delcine accomplished in your lives.”

  JoJo snorted. “Accomplished? I haven’t accomplished anything.”

  “That’s where you are wrong,” he said. “And I can prove it. Come with me.”

  He stood up and beckoned for her to follow him.

  JoJo grabbed her bag and tucked the small Bible inside. She slung the heavy tote over her shoulder and followed him down the hall and into an open and colorful multipurpose room filled with about twenty or so kids sitting on blue and yellow mats on the floor.

  “Hi, Reverend Toussaint!”

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “Your practice has been excellent today. I even kept my office door open so I could hear you,” he told the children, using the voice adults sometimes adopt when talking with elementary- and pre-school-age little ones.

  “I have a visitor with me, and maybe she would like to hear your song.”

  The aide in the room lifted her arms, and the children scrambled up and got into a three-line formation.

  “Ready,” the teacher said. “On three—one, two, three.”

  The children, who ranged in age from about four to seven or so broke into a rousing rendition of a song in the round.

  “Make new friends, but keep the old, one is silver and the other gold.”

  When they finished, JoJo and Reverend Toussaint both applauded.

  “That was wonderful, children,” he said.

  “I agree,” JoJo exclaimed. “I remember that song from Girl Scout camp with my sister Ana Mae.”