Second Sunday

by Michele Andrea Bowen

  “I told you to stop. And you ain’t hiring that trash to run my church.”

  Cleavon raised his hand to take a swing at Melvin Sr., but Bert grabbed his arm and stopped him cold. “Why can’t you ever quit while you’re ahead?” he said. “We not hiring David Clemson, Cleavon, and that is that.”

  “Y’all a bunch of punks,” Cleavon spat out, and his cousin Rufus started to rise.

  “Sit your butt down, Rufus,” Bert said. “Melvin Sr. will mop up this floor with the both of you. And especially you, Rufus.”

  Rufus Johnson sat down and scowled. Bert Green, Melvin Vicks, Sr., and Wendell Cates got on his last nerve. Sometimes he wished he had not let Cleavon pay off some of his bills, because he hated being on this committee.

  “Oh, so you and your boys gone let a perfectly good preacher slip right through your fingers on account of that trollop Sheba Cochran?” Cleavon pressed. “I talked to Clemson about her, and he told me Sheba begged him to meet her at that house and practically waylaid him on the porch she was so eager to get next to him. Said she’d never experienced a preacher before, and—”

  Mr. Louis Loomis had remained above the fray, chewing on a fat bologna sandwich with lettuce, tomatoes, cheddar cheese, mustard, pickle, and red onions on it. Now he set it down and took a sip of iced tea.

  “Boy,” he said, wiping his mouth and hands, “how you have formed your mouth to say that mess is beyond my comprehension. Remember, I was there. And if the Lord had not put a temperance on my spirit, I would have gone in that house and pistol-whipped that Negro, after I gave him a good pimp-slapping.”

  Cleavon opened his mouth to argue, but couldn’t—Mr. Louis Loomis was a pretty irrefutable witness. All he could do was sneer, “Pistol-whipping? Pimp-slapping? I would have sold my mama’s mink stole to have seen that, old man.”

  “I hope Vernine can survive without that doggone stole, ’cause you just might get to see that, son,” Mr. Louis Loomis said matter-of-factly.

  “That’s enough,” said Bert. “I motion that this committee vote NOT to hire Rev. David O. Clemson, III, as our pastor. Does anyone second?”

  “I second the motion,” said Melvin Sr., his ears still smarting from Sylvia’s blessing-out.

  “It has been moved and properly seconded that we will not hire Rev. Clemson,” Bert said. “All in favor say aye.”

  Everyone on the committee but Cleavon and his cousin Rufus raised their hands.

  “Nays?”

  Cleavon and Rufus raised their hands defiantly.

  “The ayes have it,” Bert said. “We are not hiring David Clemson.”

  “But who are we going to hire?” Wendell asked.

  “I don’t know about hiring,” Mr. Louis Loomis said, “but I do know that we need to interview this man.”

  He pushed a resume across the table to Wendell, who read it over quickly, nodded, and passed it back to Mr. Louis Loomis.

  “Who is it?” Bert asked.

  “Rev. George Wilson from Memphis, Tennessee,” Mr. Louis Loomis answered. “Seems like his first letter of application got lost, so he sent us another one.”

  “Good thing he wrote again,” Bert said, trying not to look accusingly at Cleavon. He was so glad that he had stopped Cleavon from going through the church’s mail and assigned the job to Mr. Louis Loomis. He read over the resume and letter, then started grinning.

  “Looks like we have a winner here. Rev. Wilson has been a pastor for eleven years. He has held mortgage-burning ceremonies for two of the churches he pastored, and he has a glowing letter of recommendation from Rev. Theophilus Simmons.”

  “When he coming?” Melvin Sr. asked. “Rev. Simmons is the man among preachers in St. Louis. And if he’s recommended Rev. Wilson, the only thing I want to know is, when he coming.”

  “Let me see that,” Cleavon said, sucking on his teeth. Bert handed him the resume and recommendation, which Cleavon studied, frowning. He didn’t like Rev. Simmons because Rev. Forbes never liked Rev. Simmons. Theophilus Simmons always blocked Forbes’s power plays when the black ministers in St. Louis decided to sponsor a political candidate or participate in a citywide project.

  Cleavon turned down his lips and sucked on his teeth some more. “I’m not impressed. So, he paid off two little country churches down in Tennessee. Anybody can do that.”

  “Both churches were the same size as our church. And anybody can’t do that—or, let’s say, none of our other pastoral candidates could do it,” Bert replied.

  “Well, that’s still not enough to warrant an interview. He’s a small-town country boy. We need a man who’s sophisticated enough to be a big-city pastor, like my other candidate, Rev. Earl Hamilton.”

  “Rev. Wilson already has an interview date set,” Mr. Louis Loomis said evenly. “Mr. Chair,” he addressed Bert formally, “the Lord led me to invite Rev. Wilson for the interview. I apologize for not following protocol and asking you to issue the invite. But there are times when I, as a child of the King, am compelled to do as He wills.”

  “Well, Mr. Louis Loomis,” Bert said, trying not to laugh, “the Lord just laid it on my heart to honor your actions.”

  “Since you didn’t follow protocol, we need to uninvite this country bumpkin,” Cleavon said.

  “Can’t do that, Cleavon,” Mr. Louis Loomis said. “The man has already made arrangements to come all the way to St. Louis, and we can’t very well take back the invite now. It would make the church look bad.”

  Bert, Wendell, and Melvin Sr. started laughing. Memphis, like Pine Bluff, Arkansas, was a hop, skip, and a jump from St. Louis.

  “Yeah, Cleavon,” Melvin Sr. said. “If we couldn’t run the risk of insulting Bozo the Clown—I mean, Rev. Patterson—then we certainly can’t risk insulting a preacher with a recommendation from Rev. Theophilus Simmons.”

  “So, when he coming?” Wendell said again.

  Rev. George Wilson eased his silver and white Cutlass Supreme into the parking space marked “Pastor,” then got out and leaned back against the car to survey the church. Gethsemane was nearly a hundred years old, and it looked venerable, with its sturdy old red brick, well-maintained stained-glass windows, and heavy walnut wood doors. Its solidity hinted at a formidable history and a favorable future, despite its turbulent present.

  Bert Green, as head of the Deacon Board, greeted him at the door with a firm handshake and a warm smile. He took him upstairs to meet the search committee members, most of whom were immediately impressed with Rev. Wilson. They found him to be personable and down-to-earth, with a whole lot of horse sense. He also had a good sense of humor and was a well-read biblical scholar. When he was introduced to the congregation, the ladies were struck by what a fine-looking man he was. He was forty-three and nicely built, and had light, tobacco brown skin and deep golden brown eyes that sparkled when he smiled.

  The search committee had agreed that each candidate should be allowed to conduct the Sunday service according to his personal taste, so that the congregation could decide whether or not they liked his style. One way that Rev. Wilson distinguished himself from the other candidates was by the African stole he wore, which he told everyone was made of Kente cloth from Ghana. And then he got the church fired up when, at the end of the first of the senior choir’s A and B selections, he came out of the pulpit, kissed the hand of the lead soloist, Sister Hershey Jones, and said, “Sister, your voice is a blend of Aretha Franklin and Sister Willie Mae Ford Smith, with some extra spice the Lord bestowed solely upon you. I want you to pick another song and let the anointing of the Holy Ghost bless this congregation through your elegant voice. Praise God!”

  Hershey Jones sang Andre Crouch’s “Through It All,” and service got so charged up that Viola whispered to Nettie, “Good thing Hershey is saved and don’t touch alcohol. ’Cause she so hot, if she drank, she’d light right up.”

  Nettie laughed and thought that Rev. Wilson looked awfully natural sitting in the pastor’s chair.

  After the service, eve
rybody was talking about his sermon, “Black Folks and the Twenty-third Psalm.” When they were downstairs at the dinner, Katie Mae’s grandmother walked up to Cleavon and said, “Didn’t you just love the way the Reverend broke it down on Psalm Twenty-three? I just wanted to throw my purse up at that young man and shout out, ‘PREACH, PREACH’ when he said, ‘Walking through the valley of the shadow of death sometimes means that you walking in the midst of folks who are intent on courting evil, and at your expense. But you don’t have to fear that ’cause God is always right with you when you walking that valley.”

  The last thing Cleavon wanted to hear was an excerpt from George Wilson’s sermon. He gave Katie Mae’s grandmother a tight smile and tried to ease away before she could say any more.

  Rev. Wilson, who had been standing nearby, overheard Katie Mae’s grandmother and walked up to them. He put an arm around her shoulder and said, “Now, you are my kind of member—quoting from my sermon. Not talking about it—you up in here quoting it. Sister, I’m scared of you.”

  “I don’t mind scarin’ a man, long as I don’t scare him off,” the eighty-year-old replied sassily.

  George leaned down and kissed her, which made her grin and say, “Oh, Reverend, you know you need to quit.”

  “Naw, Sister, you know you need to quit. ’Cause you something else, I can see that right now,” he said, reaching out his hand to Cleavon for a palm slap.

  Cleavon left George’s hand hanging in midair, unslapped. He turned away and started talking to a woman in a dress that was way too tight and short for church, or the club, for that matter.

  When George looked hurt and confused, Katie Mae’s grandmother said, “Look out for that there Cleavon. That boy ain’t right. And he’ll do a whole lot of dirt at your expense.”

  With the words of his own sermon ringing in his ears, George offered a silent prayer. He knew that Cleavon was the kind of enemy who cast such a deathly shadow that he would need the Lord by his side whenever he came upon this man.

  V

  Ever since Rev. Forbes’s death, Sunday mornings at Gethsemane had been missing something. Not that Forbes was an ideal pastor—far from it—but he could preach a good sermon, and the members were used to his ways. Over the previous few Sundays the members had felt like they’d been invited to a fancy dinner at which the host hadn’t prepared enough even to nip their hunger, let alone fill them up.

  Rev. George Wilson’s service had been out of the ordinary, giving them spiritual food so down-home and good, it stuck to the ribs of their soul. As far as most of the members were concerned, this man belonged in their pulpit. Yet, despite this seemingly good fit, Nettie and her group were cautious and wanted to make sure that George was all that he seemed, not just a clever and smooth game player like Rev. Clemson.

  Sheba agreed with them wholeheartedly. But for her the most troublesome thing about Rev. Wilson was that she couldn’t find a way to get next to him after the service or at the dinner. By the third time Sheba sashayed past Rev. Wilson at the dinner without any results, she gave that up and started praying for a little help.

  The Lord delivered the answer to Sheba’s prayer in record time, and He even threw in a bonus by making a way out of no-way that led straight to Pompey’s Rib Joint #Two on Monday afternoon. Sheba spotted George Wilson as soon as she stepped up in Pompey’s. He was alone and sitting at a table by the window, reading a thick book. She took a deep breath, then walked into the restaurant and right over to him, making sure there was a big sexy smile on her face.

  “Aren’t you Rev. Wilson, the guest preacher over at Gethsemane Missionary Baptist Church?” Sheba asked, with a little swing of her hips and sassy tilt of her head.

  George looked up at Sheba, reading glasses falling down on his nose, and smiled. He was trying to remember why she was so familiar, when it occurred to him that she was the woman who kept trying to come on to him yesterday at church. He stood up and shook her hand.

  “Yes, I’m George Wilson. And you are?”

  Sheba smiled some more and ran her tongue across her top lip. She said, “My name is Sheba Cochran. I was a guest of Bert and Nettie Green at church yesterday. They are my neighbors.”

  “As in Bert Green, the head of the Deacon Board?”

  “Umm-hmm,” she answered with a soft purr.

  George couldn’t help but wonder how Deacon Green fared living next door to a Sheba Cochran.

  Sheba stood there watching him a few seconds and then decided to move her hips about just a little. George caught the movement but didn’t respond to it.

  “Would you like to sit down, Miss Cochran?”

  “I sure would,” she replied, and slunk into her chair like a temptress would sit down with a man in a movie.

  Rev. Wilson ignored that maneuver and signaled for the waitress to come to their table. He looked back at Sheba and said, “I take it you haven’t ordered yet, right?”

  “No, I haven’t, Reverend.”

  “Neither have I. I was told by my good buddy, Rev. Theophilus Simmons, not to leave St. Louis without coming up in Pompey’s Rib Joint #Two. I’m hoping the food is as good as he says it is.”

  “It is,” Sheba said in a sweet, relaxed voice that sounded more like her real self than she had since she’d met him.

  He liked this change in her. All that sashaying, lip-licking, fake purring, and putting-on got on his nerves. He said, “What should I order?”

  “I recommend the rib tip sandwich if you real hungry. And the ham sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes is good if you just want a quick bite to eat.”

  “What are you having?” he asked.

  “I like the fried turkey sandwiches.”

  “Pompey’s has fried turkey sandwiches? Hmmm, been a while since I’ve had one of those. Most folks don’t like to fool with frying a turkey.”

  “Yeah,” Sheba said, “but Mr. Pompey know he can fry some turkey. He seasons that bad boy to perfection, drop it in that big ole barrel outside, and let it fry until it is brown, crispy, and juicy.”

  “You making me awfully hungry there, girl,” George said, grinning.

  Sheba liked that grin, though it had so much “mannish” in it, she wasn’t sure of how to proceed. She was supposed to be checking him out.

  In an attempt to regain some control over this situation, Sheba picked up the book Rev. Wilson had been reading and said, “You like W. E. B. Du Bois?”

  “Yeah,” George answered. “I just started this one.”

  “I’ve read several of Dr. Du Bois’s books, but not Black Reconstruction.”

  “What books of his have you read?” he asked, becoming more and more curious about a woman who sashayed and purred and read W. E. B. Du Bois all in one heaving breath.

  “The Philadelphia Negro, his book on the slave trade, his autobiography, and of course, The Souls of Black Folk.”

  “Of course,” he answered with a taste of surprise in his voice.

  “Rev. Wilson, don’t be too shocked that a woman who looks like me reads Du Bois. I’ve read Ralph Ellison, Langston Hughes, Anne Petry, and Zora Neale Hurston, too.”

  “I’ve never read any books by Zora Neale Hurston,” he said. “Are they good?”

  “Her books are very good. I’ve always loved the way she writes about people like me. You know it’s near to impossible for me to find myself in a book, ’less it’s about me cutting up my old man or being on welfare or something like that.”

  George smiled again. He was beginning to like this woman despite all of that sex-kitten foolishness she had thrown his way. She gave him the impression that her feet were planted firmly on the ground, and she had what he always called “the genius of the folk.” George couldn’t help but wonder why this delightful woman had been working so hard to get next to him. The way she’d acted at church and when she’d first come into Pompey’s didn’t fit with the way she was right now.

  “Tell me, girl,” he said in a smooth and mellow voice. “Why are you so intent on pre-tending l
ike you want to get next to me?”

  “Well,” Sheba thought, “this man is smart and perceptive.” Neither Rev. Patterson nor Rev. Clemson had caught on to her, and they were very worldly men.

  “Miss Lady,” he said, “don’t try and play me for a fool. You’re up to something. And I’d appreciate your respecting me enough not to keep up this game, now that you know I’m on to you.”

  Sheba was in a tight space on this one. She couldn’t break the women’s confidence, but she didn’t want this man to think she was one of those women who shamelessly chased after preachers. She took in a deep breath and blurted out words that had quietly and surprisingly settled in her heart.

  “I want to come back to church, and the only thing holding me back is finding a church home with the right kind of pastor.”

  “I see,” George said. “So, you have been checking out all the pastors coming through Gethsemane, huh?”

  She nodded.

  “And, uh, what kind of competition am I up against for this job?”

  “None,” Sheba said flatly.

  “None?” he asked.

  “None,” she repeated. “The two men they interviewed before you weren’t nothing but trouble. The first one was a jive-time jackleg preacher. And I don’t know what possessed that man to wear his hair like he did.”

  George raised one eyebrow.

  “He was bald at the top—had a great big clean circle in the middle of his head—and then had an Afro that wrapped around the bottom part. That half-moon Afro had to be about this big.”

  Sheba held her hands four inches away from her head.

  “Sounds to me,” George said, trying not to laugh, “that you all got clowned.”

  “Big time,” Sheba answered, smiling back at him, and then frowned.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I was thinking about the second man. He could preach real good but when you got close up on him, he was just like Christmas tree lights hung in a dirty window with raggedy drapes.” She suppressed a shiver, recalling just how dirty and raggedy Clemson turned out to be.