“You better get ready to meet with Latham and Rosie,” Sheba said, hoping he had heard her loud and clear, but playing dumb, so she could get away with having said it.
“Yeah, I do have to get ready, though I’m not looking forward to this meeting at all,” he replied with a heavy sigh. “I am hoping I can help those two keep it together. But Sheba, the Lord will have to forgive me. I just don’t have anything in me that I can say to help them. Latham Johnson is a piece of work, and I don’t have the patience to deal with him.”
“So what are you going to do?” she asked.
“Don’t know. Unfortunately, I don’t even feel led to tell those two to stay together. Rosie seems like she is in so much pain, I can’t help but wonder if she would be happier without Latham in her life.”
Sheba took a deep breath and spoke from her heart. “George, you can’t save this marriage, because Latham doesn’t accept Rosie for herself—and he never has, for that matter. He has always believed that he’s better than Rosie because Sylvia and Melvin Sr. are caterers and his father is a dentist.”
“But—,” George began.
“But nothing, George,” Sheba said. “I believe the Lord is working in one of His unfathomable ways, moving Latham right out of Rosie’s life, and I hope that she will not refuse this blessing in deep disguise that is coming to her.”
Sheba could tell George was having trouble accepting the idea that he might be presiding over the inevitable end of a marriage. But she also knew that when a man had trouble digesting a hard truth a woman put in his lap, a wise woman did not try to force the issue, but instead petitioned the Lord to open the man’s heart and ears to receive what she had to say.
“I better get going,” Sheba said, breaking the tense silence that had descended on the room. “My intercessory prayer meeting with the Prayer Troopers will start soon.”
“How is that going?” George asked, glad to focus on something other than Sheba’s thoughts about Latham and Rosie Johnson. He had been wondering how Sheba, as the youngest member of the group, was faring among such old-timers as Mr. Louis Loomis, MamaLouise, Miss Mozelle, and Mr. Joseaphus Cantrell.
“I love it,” she announced brightly. “It’s nice being the youngest in the group. I get a whole lot of attention and I am learning a lot about the power of prayer.”
“And,” she thought, “I am taking notes from some serious prayer warriors on what to do about your behind.”
“Will you come by the office after prayer meeting?” he asked. When Sheba gave him a sweet smile and nodded, he said, “Lift me up in prayer when you go downstairs.”
“Don’t you worry none, George. I’ll be doing just that very thing.”
Sheba opened the door and was about to leave when something occurred to her.
“Why are you meeting with them anyway? With all that is going on with you and Latham’s uncle Cleavon, I would think you’d want to steer clear of that family.”
“Sylvia asked me to talk to them. She said that things were bad for her daughter and she needed some help in getting through to ‘that boy’ she was married to. And after watching what Miss Mozelle went through with Mr. Oscar, Sylvia said, she didn’t want her babygirl to waste forty years of her life.”
“That makes sense,” Sheba answered, shaking her head. “Because I don’t know how Rosie stands that boy. Lord knows I don’t know how she stands him.”
III
Barely five minutes after Sheba left, the Johnsons arrived. George opened the door, shook Latham’s hand, and told them to come in and sit down. He saw Latham nod at Rosie, indicating where he wanted her to sit.
George couldn’t understand why Latham thought he was so much higher than Rosie. The girl had started the city’s only black interior-decorating firm on a shoestring budget, and she was making quite a name for herself, helping folks put their houses together at a reasonable price. The two members’ homes she decorated that George had seen were beautiful—tasteful, down-home, welcoming, with all kinds of creative black touches in each room.
But it seemed that the more folks sang her praises, the worse Latham treated her. He even had the nerve to walk off from one of the church mothers who told him how good Rosie’s work was. And that was the Sunday that Rosie’s mother Sylvia had decided to intervene. As soon as church was over, she’d come straight to George’s office and said, “I don’t know about my daughter. But as for me, I’ve had enough of Latham Johnson and his jacked-up foolishness.”
Now, George started to sit on his desk, something that made most folks he counseled feel more comfortable. But one look at Latham told him to take a more formal approach, if he wanted to make any headway with this man. So he went and sat behind his desk, drew himself up to his full height, and looked right at Dr. Latham Johnson, who was flipping through an appointment book like he had something far better to do with his precious time.
George could see that this was not going to be easy and said a silent prayer, fervently hoping that Sheba was praying for him too. Because he was going to need all the prayer he could get to deal with this pompous-acting fool.
“Latham, I will be honest with you and Rosie. I called you in because Rosie’s mother is worried about what’s going on with you two. She says things are bad and you-all need some help.”
Latham cleared his throat and glared at Rosie as if to say, “I told you not to talk about us to anyone.”
She lowered her eyes in an attempt to avoid the anger in his before saying, “I didn’t talk to Mama. She talked to me. What was I to do, lie to my own mother?”
“Yes, if that would keep her out of my business,” he answered nastily. “What goes on with you and me, between you and me. I don’t know why you can’t get that through your big fat head.”
“But, Latham,” Rosie started to say, then stopped when he held up his hands, making it clear that he didn’t want to listen.
“What’s wrong with you-all?” George asked. “I wish I could approach you textbook style. But honestly, the friction being displayed here calls for me to put a few things on the line. I—”
“I,” Latham interrupted, “I figured that you would ask me about our difficulties, so I wrote out my complaints for you.” He pulled a paper out of his briefcase and handed it to George.
“There is a table of contents at the beginning of the paper and an index at the end, if you wish to look up a subject on Rosie without having to comb your way through the entire paper. I do, however, strongly urge you to read the opening statement, because it articulates my complaints about Rosie’s behavior over the past year.”
At that point, Latham looked real satisfied with himself, sat back in his chair, and unbuttoned his very expensive brown tweed blazer as if he was relieved that he had regained control over this situation.
George didn’t quite know what to do with this turn of events. He couldn’t remember ever dealing with such cold and calculated hostility from a man toward his wife. Mr. Oscar had sure showed out with Miss Mozelle, but at his lowest point, he wasn’t like this. George eyed Rosie, wondering if she had something in writing for him too. But she was just sitting there trying not to cry and looking like she had been stung by a very angry hornet.
George flipped through the paper to the end of it and read the index. This paper was simply amazing—written in a lofty style, wide-ranging in subject matter, and quite thorough, even if it was a bunch of hincty-fied craziness.
He glanced at the section labeled “Personal Growth and Integrity.” Latham had written, “As it relates to the personal growth of my wife, I wish to make the following analysis and summation: It appears that Rosie has become too comfortable with her current level of intellectual development. On too many occasions, she has resisted my directives concerning the level of literature she should be reading. And her lack of integrity on the matter was exhibited when the book I purchased for her, The Psychology of a Dysfunctional Wife, sat unopened on our dresser while she read magazines on home decor. This reflects a ser
ious intellectual deficit, which makes Rosie dull and prone to acting at a level that is beneath the cognitive functioning I am striving to produce in my home.”
George reread that mess to make sure it said what he thought it said. Then, in the most patient and neutral voice that he could muster up, he said, “Latham, I am not in a position to give this paper the response it deserves. All I want to know is what you think the problem is.”
Latham sighed in exasperation and said, “Rev. Wilson, there is no one problem. For example, please turn to page eight. It reads,” he started quoting himself, “‘On the matter of cleanliness, Rosie has been inconsistent with cleaning the home efficiently. On occasion, there have been dishes in the sink and a full trash can . . .’”
George knew that Rosie’s home was immaculate, because her mother always talked about how the girl seemed obsessed with a clean house. He stared at Latham, thinking, “Why can’t your lazy, cognitive-functioning behind wash dishes and empty the trash?” He took a deep breath before saying, “Latham, I don’t want to go over this paper with you right now. I just want you to tell me what’s wrong. I know something has to be eating at you, if you spent time writing this . . . mes—this treatise on your wife.”
Latham threw up his hands in frustration. “Rev. Wilson, you called my home and asked if you could speak to the two of us,” he said angrily. “I have obliged your request for a meeting I wasn’t interested in having. And now you are refusing my request to deal with this problem in the way that I see best. I wrote this paper to save time and give you some direction regarding how you need to deal with my wife. I believe this paper spells out all of the problems we have been experiencing and even offers solutions, on the bottom of page twenty-two.”
George sighed, not caring how it looked, and decided to go straight to the heart of the matter. He was not playing any power games with Latham Johnson. Sheba’s voice echoed in his mind: “I don’t know how Rosie stands that boy. Lord knows I don’t know how she stands him.” And at that moment, all he could think was “I don’t know how she stands him, either. Lord knows, I don’t know that.”
“Latham, it is a shame before God for you to write something this vicious about Rosie, or anybody else for that matter,” George said, holding the paper out toward Latham.
Latham was outraged that a man he viewed as no better than a jackleg country preacher would talk to him like that. He jumped up from his chair and was about to snatch the paper out of George’s hand when he saw the expression on his face. It was straight up from the street and clearly said, “If you snatch this paper out of my hand, I will forget I’m a preacher.”
Latham weighed that look a moment and decided to back down, turning his anger on Rosie instead. “Just look at you,” he spat out. “You are far more trouble than you’ll ever be worth, Rosie, trying to tear down your husband with the help of this ignorant fool. Women like you do everything in their power to suck a man dry.”
George had heard enough. He said, “You are way out of line, Latham. You don’t have a right to talk to a rabid dog like that, let alone your wife.”
Latham swung around to face George, so full of bitter anger that his face had turned a dark purple.
“What would you know about a wife, George?” he said in a voice so nasty, it sliced through the air like a machete. “From what my good buddy Marmaduke Clark says, you couldn’t hold on to your own ex-wife, Glodean Benson. She had to find another man—or should I say, men—to take care of her right.”
George, who had long been over his ex-wife, didn’t dignify Latham’s statement with so much as a blink of his eye. He turned to Rosie, who was sitting there with her head hung in shame over Latham’s awful behavior, and said, “Rosie, you don’t need to keep taking this off of him. I know I’m the pastor, and it’s my job to save marriages, but don’t nobody need to take this kind of abuse from another person. I don’t care who they are.”
George thought of what Sheba had tried to tell him—that Rosie would be better off with Latham out of her life. He had not wanted to hear it at that moment, but he understood now.
“Get up,” Latham ordered Rosie. “We are leaving. He,” he said, nodding in George’s direction, “isn’t worthy to advise me—or even someone like you, for that matter.”
“No, Latham,” Rosie said softly but firmly.
He looked at her, eyebrows rising up so far that George thought they were going to fall off of the back of his head.
“Ex-cuse me?”
“No, Latham, I am not leaving here until you apologize to me and to Rev. Wilson. You ought—”
“You ought to kiss my black behind, with your illiterate self,” Latham said, slapping Rosie across her face. George jumped up and grabbed Latham’s arm. He started to resist but quickly gave up when he couldn’t break George’s iron grip. Latham was a surgeon and wasn’t going to risk hurting his wrist struggling with Rev. Wilson.
When Latham’s arm relaxed, George let it drop. Then Latham snatched away from him and walked to the door, nursing his arm, and taking a few seconds to get his words just right.
“Rev. Wilson, you know nothing about women. You married that Glodean Benson, a known tramp, and now that man-eating hustler Sheba Cochran got you whipped. That hussy will lay up with any man she can, and the whole church knows it. She even chased after my uncle Cleavon till he could get her straight.”
George momentarily forgot he was working and stepped toward Latham, who laughed and held up his hand. “No need for violence, Pastor. You, not me, have a . . . hmmm, shall we say, thing for women with character flaws—if you know what I mean.
“So, Rev. Wilson,” Latham went on haughtily, “normally I find church politics beneath me. But I am going to make an exception in your case. I am going to join my uncle in his campaign to rid our church of riffraff, and run you and that tavern wench, Sheba Cochran, clean out of town.”
Latham turned back to Rosie, eyes narrowed, and mouth turned down in disgust. “You have one second to get over to this door or we are history.”
Rosie made a move to follow after him. But George was quicker than she was. He came around to her, placed a firm hand on her shoulder, and snapped, “Don’t you even think about moving.”
Latham walked out, slamming the door behind him as hard as he could, and Rosie broke down, sobbing. George handed her the whole box of tissues, feeling that he had failed miserably. He had wanted to help Latham and Rosie, but it seemed that all he had done was help turn a big problem into a big mess. A part of him wanted to start crying with Rosie, but his heartache eased up a bit when he thought about Miss Mozelle and all of those years of unnecessary suffering.
Then, he flashed back to the day Glodean left him for another man. Like Rosie sitting here and practically falling to pieces, he had thought that his heart would disintegrate and never ever be whole again. But after some time passed and he began to heal, he realized that her leaving him was a blessing in disguise. “Rosie,” he said, “Latham may have just done you a favor. Anyone with a spouse who spends more time tearing her down than building her up needs that person prayed out of her life. I know that doesn’t sound right coming from a pastor. But I just don’t think the Lord wants us ripped to shreds in our own homes. Just don’t seem right to me.
“So, do yourself a favor and let Latham go for now. Let him go with forgiveness for all the hurt he has caused you and with a prayer that he can turn himself around to become the kind of husband God wants him to be. But if he can’t, pray that God will open up the windows of your life and bless you beyond that which you could possibly imagine at this moment. You know, if Latham doesn’t turn around, I suspect that in a relatively short time, you will have a completely new life—great career, happiness, peace of mind, and a new man who simply adores you.
“Now, what is your mother’s number?” George asked, picking up the phone.
“393-9778.”
The phone rang one time and Rosie’s father, Melvin Sr., answered, sounding like he was w
aiting on this call. “You need me to come and get my babygirl, Reverend?”
“Yes,” George said.
“That . . . that negro showed out, didn’t he?”
“How’d you know that, Melvin Sr.?”
“Humph” was all that Melvin Sr. said, adding, “Tell Rosie it will be alright and that her daddy is on his way to get his baby.”
“Okay, man,” George said.
George hung up and told Rosie, “Your daddy is coming to get you. Have him pick up your kids, and all of you should stay with your parents tonight. And then tomorrow, you need to call Phoebe Cates, so she can get busy protecting you.”
“My marriage is over, isn’t it, Rev. Wilson?” Rosie asked through a sniffle, knowing the answer but needing someone to say what she could barely begin to think about.
George looked at Rosie’s tearstained face and took both of her hands in his. He did not understand her soon-to-be ex-husband. This was a good woman, the kind of woman any man with some sense would be proud to call his own.
George thought about what Rosie was asking him. It was a hard question to answer when put in that way. He looked her straight in the eye and said, “It may be, Rosie. Your marriage may have ended when your husband walked out of that door.”
IV
As soon as Melvin Sr. left with Rosie, George felt the hard memories of his own bad marriage pushing through. It was a painful day when he came home to find his wife, Glodean Clayton Wilson, packing her clothes. And worse, to find another man, Rev. Teasdale Benson, a prominent pastor in the Gospel United Church, sitting in his house, with his feet under his kitchen table, eating food his wife had cooked for him, and waiting patiently for her to finish packing so they could leave.
Rev. Benson had been a bold so-and-so, too. He didn’t even stop eating when George, who had just gotten off his job as a night security guard, walked into that kitchen. When the man didn’t have the decency to look uncomfortable, George went straight over to the table and snatched the food he was eating right out of Teasdale Benson’s mouth.
Second Sunday Page 19