“What you doing here, man?” Rev. Benson demanded, mad when collard green juice dripped on his white silk tie and ran down his navy silk suit, ruining the tip of the white silk handkerchief stuffed in his breast pocket. But George didn’t give him a chance to think too much on why he was at his own house after working all night. He just grabbed Benson by his tie and lifted him clean out of the chair, holding him by the throat so tight that the man’s face started losing its color—and Teasdale Benson was black as ebony wood.
“Let him go,” Glodean yelled, looking breathtaking in a pink raw silk suit.
But George was so hurt and angry, he found that he couldn’t let go of Rev. Benson’s tie. So he pulled on it harder, oblivious to the blue tint on Benson’s lips.
At that point Glodean, fearful that her soon-to-be ex-husband was going to kill her husband-to-be—and thus killing as well all of her carefully laid plans—got desperate. She picked up the sterling silver tray George’s grandmother had given her and slammed it hard across his back, stunning him long enough to loosen his grip on her lover’s necktie.
As soon as George let go, Benson struggled away from him and fell on the floor, gasping for breath. Glodean ran over to him, loosened his tie, and held his head in her lap. When Benson regained a bit of composure, Glodean helped him to his feet and then walked out of George’s life without so much as a backward glance.
For many months after that, George hated preachers and refused to set foot in church. But the Lord had other plans for George Wilson. God pulled on him so hard that George had no other recourse but to go to church one Sunday morning, desperate only for peace. And that morning, he not only found peace, he got saved, got baptized, received the Holy Ghost, joined the church, and got a calling to preach before service got started good.
George sat in his chair with his feet up on his desk, eyes closed, listening to the Ohio Players’ “Heaven Must Be Like This” on the radio, thinking that the Lord had brought him a mighty long way from the day he came close to killing another preacher.
Sheba knocked, then pushed at the door, saying, “George?”
“Yeah,” he answered, not moving, with his eyes still closed.
“That bad, huh?” she asked, hating to see him so upset.
“Worse,” he replied, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“You couldn’t help them, could you?”
“What do you think?” he snapped.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked softly, hoping to pacify him a bit.
“No, Sheba. There is ab-so-lute-ly nothing you can do for me right now—or for Rosie, or for Cleavon’s idiot nephew Latham, for that matter. I guess you know firsthand what the men in that family are like.”
“What, did Latham say something about Cleavon?”
“It seems there’s a lot ‘the whole church,’ in his words, knows about you that I don’t.”
Sheba was very hurt by that statement and, blinking back tears, started for the door. But then she decided that she wasn’t letting George Robert Wilson—or anyone else, for that matter—talk to her or treat her like less than what she was. No one but God had the power to judge her, forgive her sins, or redeem her soul, so no man was going to throw stones at her and get away with it.
“George Robert Wilson,” Sheba began, in a voice that had “mama” all over it, “most times I let people think what they will about me. One, because I don’t give a care about what people think who have never lifted a finger to help me and my children. And two, because I know I am a good woman.
“But I have always believed, George, that you of all people could see the real me and that you knew that I was a good woman who deserved to be treated with respect.”
Sheba waited a moment and then, when George didn’t respond, continued, “You’re absolutely right that I know how difficult a Johnson man can be. And it’s no secret at all that my four children have four different daddies. But it’s a lie that I just ran out in the streets and got all of those babies because I was hot, fast, and trifling. What I did wrong was to fall in love and believe, like a fool, that those four men knew they had found a treasure and wanted to claim me as their own.
“And I made some other mistakes. Cleavon was a mistake. Just like your first marriage was a mistake.”
George sat up in his chair and opened his mouth, but Sheba ignored him and kept right on talking.
“Mr. Louis Loomis told me that you were once married to a woman who was so crazy and fixed on preachers, she was stupid enough to leave a good man like you for a pastor who dumped her for someone else before the ink on the marriage license could dry.”
All George could think at that moment was that the CIA didn’t have a thing on black church folks’ spy network.
“But you know something, George,” Sheba went on, “I asked the Lord to forgive me my mistakes. And if the One who made the heavens and the earth could forgive me, surely a mere mortal like yourself could find it in your heart to do the same.”
George said nothing, and Sheba bit back another rush of tears. It was a shame and so frustrating that he was being so hardheaded, refusing to see that the Lord had placed her in his path. Because Sheba knew deep down in her heart that she was George’s wife. It hurt that he was fighting so hard against himself and his own blessing. Her only comfort was the knowledge that God was in control of this situation, so it would work out as He saw fit. No matter how hopeless it might look to her right now, she had to remember that nothing was impossible with God.
But when George finally spoke, he didn’t apologize. Instead, he opted to “put a little tear in his draws” with Sheba. He stood up and in his “preacher voice” said, “I need to address some important church business before I get off work. So,” he continued, not having sense enough to pay attention to the expression on Sheba’s face, “we’ll have to have this little talk later, when I get some free time.”
Sheba was so mad at George for that dismissal, she couldn’t even cry. Her eyes fell on the piece of German chocolate cake she had brought him, still sitting on his desk. Before George could even blink, she snatched it up and smashed the entire piece of cake right onto his immaculate, carefully groomed, shimmering Afro Sheen– sprayed head.
“Sheba! You, you, you got some nerve, girl. What is wrong with you?” he hollered as a chunk of cake fell off his head and splattered on his expensive turtleneck sweater.
Ignoring George’s angry sputtering, Sheba walked over to the office door, then turned to say one more thing. “George Robert Wilson, you certainly do have a lot of work to do. Because it’s gone take you all the rest of this week to work out why you acting like a pure-dee fool and keep running from the Lord. But I have work to do, too. And my work ain’t no fancy church work. See, I’m pressed with the task of taking you and your nonsense to a Higher Source. I’m taking it to the One Who can deal with you better than your mama or your daddy or your grandmama or your granddaddy or your auntie or your uncle ever could.”
When the door slammed for the second time that evening, George thought that Sheba was going to talk to Mr. Louis Loomis about him. It didn’t occur to him that the girl was about to do just what she said—go straight over his head and on up to the Lord, to tell her Father “just what that boy did.”
Sheba managed to hold in her tears until she reached the chapel. She made sure there was no one around, then went into a corner, got on her knees, and leaned on her elbows on a pew cushion. She began to pray—that kind of deep praying that gave Bible folks courage, like when Queen Esther prayed up the nerve to walk up to King Xerxes uninvited and unannounced.
“Lord. Lord-Lord-Lord. Lord, that man done worked over my last nerve. You know, Father, that I been praying about this heart/love, man/woman thing for years, and since I have rededicated my life to you, Lord, I have been praying on it hard and ceaselessly.
“Now, Lord, I trust You, I believe in You, and I know You hear me and that You answer my prayers. But Lord, I’m sick and tired of being all alone
.
“Lord, you know the reason there is so much mess about love and sex in folks’ lives, is that too many people think those issues don’t concern You. They think You don’t see our tears of loneliness and feel the painful aching of our needs. But I believe You do. I just know in my soul, Lord, that a God who made beautiful flowers, rainbows, colors, music, and lightning that flashes across the sky is a passionate God, One Who understands the hearts and longings that You Yourself created.
“Even George, for all his faith, his good works, and his dedication to You, doesn’t completely trust that You understand that part of him. But You do, I know You do. You even understand how he threw away all the sense You gave him when he married that crazy Glodean woman. You helped that man by letting that woman walk right out of his life. And another thing, Lord—don’t that boy know that nobody but You, God, could have conceived of and fashioned something as complicated as what happens to men and women when passion overtakes them and begs to be expressed through physical love?
“Father, I know that some folks would want to run me right out of this church for having a conversation like this with You. But Lord, You know I love George. That’s why I didn’t snatch a hole out of his behind when I was in his office. But that boy is Your chile. And I want You to deal with George Wilson before I have to hurt him. Lord, I am coming to You on this one, and it seems to me, in my humble opinion, that You would want me to be able to testify to the power of prayer and about Your miracle-working in this area of my life. So, please, deal with Your chile and help him and help me. Thank You, Lord. In Jesus’ name I pray and claim the victory, amen.”
Sheba wiped her eyes, checking again to make sure nobody saw her before she left. But Sheba hadn’t been alone. Aside from the Lord, Mozelle had heard every single word of her prayer. And when she knew Sheba was gone, Mozelle went to the very spot where Sheba had prayed, knelt down, and offered a supplication prayer for her.
“Lord,” she began, “these children need these prayers answered. And those waiting on the answer are tired. Love between a man and a woman is something You need to take care of. It is too precious to be directed by a man or a woman without Your help. You need to give Your children testimonies when they come to You in prayer, asking with heart in hand for the blessings of that kind of precious love in their lives.
“You have blessed me with Joseaphus, Lord, and now I beg You to help Sheba. I been watching the pastor and, Lord, that is one stubborn boy. Scared to death of giving the woman he loves his heart. And that boy know Sheba love him. Umph, Lord. It ain’t fair. Deal with that boy, Jesus. Deal with Rev. Wilson and let him know Who running the show.”
Part 5
A Love That Only God Can Give
I
Louise was more nervous than the bride. She looked at Bertha Kaye, with that baby just growing, and said, “Girl, hurry up. You not even dressed. Gone hold up the whole ceremony—have everybody sitting out in the sanctuary waiting on you.”
“MamaLouise, it takes me longer to go to the bathroom and get myself straight now. I feel like I move like a snail.”
“A snail who’s about to pop,” Phoebe said, laughing as she watched Bertha waddle around the women’s lounge where the wedding party was getting dressed.
“Well, you should have thought about that ’fore you laid up with Melvin Jr. and got that baby.”
Bertha and Phoebe looked at each other and rolled their eyes when they knew MamaLouise couldn’t see their faces. Why did your grandmother always have to say “laying up with” when getting on you about yourself and a man? They just loved to say, “If you hadn’t been layin’ up . . .”
“She wasn’t able to think, Louise,” Miss Mozelle said with a chuckle. “All Bertha Kaye could think of at the time was ‘Mel . . . vvvviiinnn . . . oh, Melvin.’”
Bertha’s mouth flew open. It had never occurred to her that Miss Mozelle even thought about things like that. And she certainly never imagined her saying anything that fast and frisky.
Louise stopped pacing around, shaking her head at her granddaughter. Young people didn’t think that anybody they considered to be “old” knew anything worth knowing about men, love, and lovemaking.
“Close your mouth, Bertha Kaye, and finish dressing,” Louise said as she picked up a box of corsages and boutonnieres and started out the door. “Mozelle, you ’bout ready? We need to get these upstairs.”
“Okay,” she answered, and followed Louise.
“You know you look beautiful,” Louise told her.
“Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself,” Mozelle countered, grinning.
Louise laughed. “Well then, I guess we two good-lookin’ old girls ought to get this show on the road.”
Mr. Louis Loomis was waiting for them, looking handsome in a black tuxedo, even if he did have on his trademark brown leather belt. How he got a tuxedo with belt loops was a mystery Louise wasn’t so sure she wanted solved.
“I thought I was gone have to stand at the top of these stairs for almost forever,” he fussed. “I need to get the boutonnieres to the groom and his party and then take the rest of the flowers to Precious Powers. You know that boy about to worry me and everybody else in the men’s parlor to death, wanting the ceremony to get under way.”
Mr. Louis Loomis looked down the stairs behind Louise and Mozelle. “And where that Bertha Kaye? If she don’t hold up more stuff these days, moving slow as molasses and complaining it’s the baby making her that way.”
“You know it all ain’t that baby, Louis. Bertha Kaye just slow. Ain’t she, Mozelle?”
“Umm-hmm. But she’ll be along soon,” her friend replied.
“Well, you two need to get situated,” Mr. Louis Loomis said. “Ceremony starting in about twenty minutes. And if it’s late, I’m gone have to take off my belt and use it on the slowpoke.”
He started walking off in the direction of the men’s parlor, shaking his head, mumbling, “That boy ’bout to bust a vein gettin’ to that girl. But he gone have to wait like the rest of us had to wait on our wedding day.”
Louise and Mozelle decided to walk outside to get to their places for the ceremony. That way, they wouldn’t bump into too many people. This wedding was very simple and sweet, in terms of the ritual itself, but it was turning out to be a three-ring circus, because everybody at Gethsemane Missionary Baptist Church said they were “gone be there.”
Louise and Mozelle found their places just in time. Precious Powers, who was making quite a name for herself coordinating weddings, was standing in the vestibule entry at the back of the church, tapping her foot and frowning at them.
“Now, I thought I told you two to be here at least fifteen minutes ago,” she said, with a hand on her generous and sexy hip. Precious was splendidly dressed in a gold suit, with a short skirt to show off her shapely legs and the shiny gold, ankle-strap platform sandals she was wearing. “Miss Mozelle, you know better than to run around here like that. Come over here and let me make sure you just right. Gone ruin my reputation.”
Louise smiled at Precious. That girl had really come into her own after tearing up the Gospel United Church of America when she caught her old trifling boyfriend, Rev. Marcel Brown, with another woman. If it weren’t for Precious Powers, that church would have lost so many members, it would have seriously crippled the denomination and its ministry. Her earrings caught Louise’s eye—gold hoops sprinkled with diamond chips.
“Anniversary present from my baby,” Precious said, all grinning teeth. “You know he got me so spoiled.”
Louise and Mozelle started giggling. It was no secret that Precious Powers’s husband, Tyrone, thought the sun rose and set on that girl.
“And where is Tyrone, Miss Lady?” Louise asked.
“Right here,” Tyrone said as he came up behind them and kissed both Louise and Mozelle on the cheek.
“Boy, you gone mess up their makeup,” Precious admonished.
“Baby, calm down. It’s okay. They don’t mind. Do you, la
dies?”
“No, baby, we don’t mind one bit,” Mozelle answered, smiling at that ebony-hued boy with the kind of physique that Louise said made his “suits hang on him right.”
“Tyrone,” Precious said, “I need you to go on out and start lighting the candles. And tell the musicians to start playing, so we can get this ceremony started.”
Tyrone kissed Precious on the cheek, then patted that big behind when he thought Mozelle and Louise weren’t looking. Precious was a bossy thing, but he knew how to take the reins. He watched her try not to jump as he gave her a little squeeze, just to let the girl know who really ran things in their family.
Mr. Louis Loomis walked into the vestibule just as Tyrone was signaling to Precious that everything was ready, then he opened the florist box he was holding and presented bouquets to Louise and Mozelle. He gave the empty box to Precious and took Mozelle gently by the arm.
“Is the bride ready?”
Mozelle answered with a breathless yes—as excited at age sixty-six as any bride of twenty-five.
Her gown was breathtaking, an Essie Simmons handcrafted original. At first glance it looked simple—a matching skirt and top made of silver lace. Closer inspection revealed that Essie and her seamstresses had sewn iridescent bugle beads on the shimmering lace fabric, which caught the light and glinted as Mozelle moved. And the lines of the dress were stunning: the top dipped to a deep V in the front and the back, the sleeves a sophisticated elbow length, and the hem of the top trimmed with tiny silver silk bows that gracefully framed Mozelle’s hips. The straight skirt, grazing two inches above her ankles to show off her pale silver patent-leather pumps, was cut to mold Mozelle’s bottom and emphasize the shape of her hips. As Essie had said, “Miss Mozelle, you got a cute little butt, and we gone show it off for your new hubby.”
Second Sunday Page 20