Second Sunday

by Michele Andrea Bowen

  But Essie never finished with just the outfit. She had not only chosen Mozelle’s dress and shoes but also picked out heart-shaped diamond earrings, set in white gold, and a matching pendant. And for Mozelle’s hair, she had the florist make a wreath of pale pink and off-white silk roses. Mozelle was radiant.

  Essie had also outdone herself with Louise, the matron of honor. Tall and brown, with lovely dark brown eyes and thick beautiful salt-and-pepper hair framing her slender face, Louise was an older version of her granddaughter, Phoebe. For her, Essie had created the palest blue chiffon suit, cut in a very crisp tailored style, with silk piping on the lapels and cuffs. The long skirt was slit up past Louise’s knee, profiling her legs, and showing off her pale blue stockings and pale blue satin sandals. In keeping with the simple elegance of the suit, Essie found Louise a pair of sterling silver hoop earrings sprinkled with semiprecious stones in bluish tones—amethyst, sapphire, and turquoise.

  Mr. Louis Loomis, who was about three inches shorter than Louise, looked her up and down, patted his belt, and said. “Girl, you so fine, about to make me whisk you off alone somewhere, so I can get a good look at that slit. Lawd, ha’ mercy!”

  Louise blushed and giggled, saying, “Ohhh, Looouuuis, you so baaaad,” while Mozelle laughed.

  Precious couldn’t believe those elders. But she silently thanked God for showing her proof that the fire of life didn’t grow cold when the coals were gray. In fact, if her eyes and ears were serving her right, age was making those gray embers glow even hotter. She silently vowed to take very good care of herself, so that she and Tyrone would have it just as good as what she was witnessing in their so-called old age.

  Inside the sanctuary, the Holy Rollers were entering the choir loft humming a gospel song by the blues singer Big Johnnie Mae Carter titled, “A Love That Only God Can Give.” Then their main soloist, Sister Hershey Jones, came to the microphone and crooned out the words to the beautiful ballad:

  “One night I got down on my knees and I prayed and I prayed and I prayed. I buried my head in my arms and I cried and I cried and I cried. And I prayed and I prayed and I prayed. And I asked the Lord to send me a blessing, to send me a love that only God can give . . .

  “And on that night, I stayed on my knees, as I prayed and I prayed and I prayed. While I cried and I cried and I cried. The Lord heard my prayer. He heard my cry. And He sent me you. He sent me a love that only God can give . . .”

  The melody was so slow and bluesy and the song so sweet and tender that even Sister Hershey Jones started to cry when the Holy Rollers lit into the chorus: “I prayed and I cried. I cried and I prayed. I prayed and I cried and I cried and I prayed for a love that only God can give.”

  Mr. Louis Loomis wiped at his eyes with a handkerchief and whispered, “You alright, Mozelle?”

  She nodded, barely managing to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill down her cheeks and ruin the makeup that Precious had spent so much time applying to perfection.

  As the song was ending, Rev. Wilson came in and showed the groom and his son to their places. Mr. Joseaphus Cantrell was clean, from his short silver Afro and meticulously groomed sideburns to the white boutonniere, sprayed with a touch of silver, that graced his formal, conservatively cut black tuxedo. With it he wore a white, raw silk shirt, with black studs on it, and a black silk tie and cummerbund shot through with very thin silver stripes. On his feet were soft patent-leather, slip-on shoes with silk bows.

  At the sight of the groom and his son, Charlie, who was a forty-six-year-old version of his father, a lot of women, young and old, started using those church fans. Nettie and Viola nudged each other, as if to say, “Umph, umph, umph.” Sylvia whispered, “Girl, Mr. Joseaphus Cantrell and Charlie standing up there making Richard Roundtree and Fred Williamson look kind of plain. And you know that is a hard thing for them to do.”

  They all laughed and slapped palms. What Sylvia said was true. Because if Richard Roundtree and Fred Williamson strutted up in church today, nobody would know they were there, for staring at the groom and his best man so hard. This was going to be a good wedding.

  Nettie and Viola looked around the church to find Katie Mae. She was up in the balcony with her husband Cleavon and his nephew Latham, who was making it a point to sit as far away from his soon-to-be ex-wife, Rosie, as possible. Nettie felt kind of sorry for Katie Mae, who was looking like she would rather be anywhere but where she was. Lately, every time Cleavon found out that Katie Mae had been hanging out with her friends or talking to them on the telephone, he picked a fight with her, then stayed out all night or slept on the couch—anything to get her back under his control.

  About the only woman in church who wasn’t drooling over Joseaphus and Charlie Cantrell was Sheba Cochran, who had eyes only for George Wilson. And the harder she looked, the more mad at him she got for so adamantly denying what she just knew were his feelings for her.

  “Why does that man have to look so doggone good today?” Sheba thought, wanting to smack George for being too fine in his royal blue clerical robe, fashioned out of the finest Ghanaian fabric, with an orange, red, and blue Kente stole around his neck.

  Five of Miss Mozelle’s six children were sitting in front pews with their spouses and her grandchildren. With the exception of the oldest brother, Oscar Lee Jr., they were overjoyed that their mother had finally found love and happiness. They loved their daddy, but they knew what he was like. When Mozelle had first brought up the subject of marriage to Mr. Joseaphus Cantrell, those five said, “Go for it, Mama.”

  Oscar Lee Jr., on the other hand, had put on a performance just like his daddy would have done back in the day. He even looked just like Oscar Lee Sr. And he showed out right in his mama’s house, carrying on about her being “totally disrespectful” and “desecrating” his father’s memory. He insisted she was acting rash and foolish, hopping up and marrying this stranger, when, as he said, “Daddy ain’t even cold in his grave.”

  But what Oscar Lee Jr. had not bargained for was that his mother had over forty years of experience dealing with a fool. She just kept right on cooking during his tirade and then, when she sensed that Oscar Lee Jr. had used up all his energy and words, she took him on.

  “Oscar Lee Jr., you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she told him. “Your daddy gave his blessing for this marriage, and it will happen whether you like it or not. Lord knows I want you there—you, my firstborn, the first baby I ever held in my arms. But if you want to be a fool, then be one. As for me, I am getting married and that’s that. I have Oscar Sr.’s blessing on this, and that overrides any objection coming from you.”

  Oscar Lee Jr. was speechless. But just like his daddy, Oscar Lee Jr. hated losing a fight, and especially to a woman. He snatched his jacket off the back of his chair and started stomping out of the kitchen. But his mother’s voice sliced right through him, stopping him dead in his tracks.

  “You know, your daddy spent his whole life making everybody miserable. But in the last days of his life, he worked hard to set his wrongs right. I’ve never seen anybody make amends like your daddy did. So, I know in my heart that he would be disappointed and disgusted with you right now, Oscar Lee Thomas, Jr. He didn’t set wrong right just for me. He did it for you, too. He did it so you wouldn’t have to live the way he did—always needing to get himself right with God.

  “Now, son, you can leave my house. And don’t you come back until you have an apology on your lips, and you got sense enough to show the proper respect to me. ’Cause the next time you walk up in my house cuttin’ the fool, you gone need the ambulance people to get you out.”

  Louise took her place at the front of the altar to await the entrance of the bride. She could see Bertha positioned at the back of the church, glowing and so pretty in a pale blue chiffon A-line “hostess” gown that flowed gracefully from her shoulders. Beside her stood Melvin Jr., watching Bertha with the special pride and love of a man who is crazy about the woman carrying his baby. Louise
would be happy and relieved when those two finally got married—people that much in love needed to be married. Plus, she could tell, just by Bertha’s cravings and how that baby was sitting, the baby was a boy—Melvin Vicks, III.

  On the other side of Melvin Jr. stood Phoebe, her cautious tomboy grandbaby, statuesque in a short pale blue chiffon shift that hugged all her curves and emphasized her long legs. Her beautiful, thick hair, swept off her face with paIe blue jeweled hairpins, hung soft and heavy down her back. Louise watched as Phoebe fussed with her corsage a moment before Jackson Williams rushed over to help her with it. If her old-lady eyes weren’t playing tricks on her, Louise would have sworn that Jackson stroked Phoebe’s cheek for a second after fixing her flowers.

  “Umph, umph, umph,” Louise thought. “All this time I been thinking Miss Phoebe Josephine Cates been all by her little lonesome, and Miss Lady got that ole long sip of Pepsi-Cola being all attentive to her self.”

  The organist struck up the first chords of the traditional bridal march. Phoebe and Bertha opened the church doors and rolled a white paper runner down the aisle, sprinkling it with pale pink rose petals. Then Mozelle appeared at the door, arm-in-arm with Mr. Louis Loomis, looking like an angel in her silver lace dress, holding a large spray of pale pink and ivory roses.

  “Girl, this show ’nough your day,” Mr. Louis Loomis whispered. “You been waiting all your life for it, haven’t you?”

  Mozelle could only nod, and seeing tears gathering in her eyes, Mr. Louis Loomis handed her his handkerchief. “I thought something was missing,” he said. “I knew you had something old, something new, and a blue garter. ’Cause you ladies love those blue garters. But I wondered if you had something borrowed, and now you do.”

  Mozelle took the handkerchief gratefully. Then they started moving slowly down the aisle to a soulful version of the wedding march, rendered on organ and piano, drums, and lead and bass guitars.

  “You know, black folks can really work over white folks’ songs, can’t they?” Mr. Loomis murmured.

  Mozelle chuckled, saying, “Louis Loomis, you a mess.”

  When they reached the altar, Rev. Wilson greeted them, beaming, feeling so blessed at conducting this wedding and marveling at how much the Lord loved folks in love. He took Mozelle’s pretty little hand and placed it in the strong outstretched one of Joseaphus Cantrell, who was glowing with joy.

  Mozelle smiled into the eyes of the man who was about to become her husband. Then she bowed her head for a second in memory of Oscar Lee. She felt thankful that Queenie Tyler had blessed him with true love before he died. It was a miracle how God had worked all that out, despite how Queenie and Oscar came together. Through the grace of God, Oscar got the kind of love he had wanted all his life, and so did Mozelle, when the Lord gave her Joseaphus.

  And the power of the Father’s love was so supreme that it had inspired Mozelle to insist that Queenie, who had recently joined the church, sit in the family pew alongside her children. Mozelle was glad that God had opened her heart in forgiveness, for the love Queenie showered on her and her children was so sweet and sincere that it was a blessing in itself. Mozelle could understand why Oscar loved Queenie Tyler so much. Even with those gruff street ways, the girl was one of the kindest and most generous people Mozelle had ever met.

  Queenie caught her gaze and winked over the head of the grandbaby she was holding in her lap. Then she turned and smiled at her best friend, mean old Warlene, who was huddled up under Old Daddy like she was scared he would slip away from her. As usual, Old Daddy was sharp as a tack in a lime green silk leisure suit with a matching lime green silk derby, a pale turquoise silk shirt with a big collar, turquoise gators, and a sterling silver cane. Since getting saved, Queenie had been desperately wanting her friend to share in the joy she got from the Lord, and she didn’t want Old Daddy to reach death’s door before rededicating his life to Christ. But Queenie also knew that Warlene had something that could be helpful to her new church, should Cleavon Johnson try once more to force Rev. Earl Hamilton into that pulpit. And if Warlene got saved, it was a certainty that she would share what she had with the church.

  Queenie thought it best to entice Warlene and Old Daddy to church with an invitation to the wedding and reception. Those two liked to party, and she knew that was about the only way they would come to church. When Miss Mozelle called Warlene, at Queenie’s request, to personally invite her to the wedding, both Warlene and Old Daddy replied that they were tickled pink and couldn’t wait to come.

  With a light brush of his fingers on her bare wrist, Joseaphus drew Mozelle’s attention away from Queenie and Warlene. His eyes were loving and tender, but in them she saw a passion so intense, it made her have a hot flash. Her reaction brought a rumble of pleasure from her groom that set Mozelle’s heart to racing. She had to clutch her bouquet of roses to steady herself as Rev. Wilson began their wedding.

  II

  The Soul Train line was long—twenty-five people on each side, from little kids standing across from their mamas and daddies, to teens who couldn’t wait to “get down” the way they saw the Soul Train dancers do it on television, to Rev. Wilson, Sheba Cochran, Bertha waddling across from Melvin Jr., Bert and Nettie, Phoebe and Jackson Williams, MamaLouise and Mr. Louis Loomis, Warlene and Old Daddy, and, of course, the bride and groom.

  George was happy to be standing across from Sheba in the line. It had taken quite a bit of maneuvering to get this spot. And everything would be perfect if Sheba would stop glaring in his direction like she was ready to do him some damage.

  The music changed from the O’Jays’ “Love Train” to James Brown’s “We Gone Have a Funky Good Time.” George, who loved James Brown, jumped out in the center of the line before his turn, threw a hump in his back, and started Camel Walking to the beat and the claps of the other folks in the line.

  The teens laughed, and one of the boys shouted out, “Pastor, you look like Shaft, one baaaaad—”

  “Hush yo’ mouf,” his friend chimed in. “You ain’t talkin’ ’bout Shaft.”

  “And,” the second teen’s mother said from her spot farther down the line, “yo’ li’l narrow, mannish behind better hush yo’ mouf, talking grown enough to get it washed out with some soap!” The teen bent his head down in embarrassment, as his friends snickered and poked at each other, glad that it wasn’t one of them.

  George stepped up the pace of his movements and then lunged to yank Sheba from the line and into the center with him. But she pulled back, saying, “I’ll wait this one out and let you carry the show yourself, Reverend.” Again George, who had been trying his best to get back in Sheba’s good graces, grabbed her hand, and this time he wouldn’t let go. “You scared to dance in this line,” he challenged, “’cause you know you can’t do nothing with me.”

  Sheba couldn’t believe that boy. He had the nerve of a brass monkey drinking Brass Monkey, talking that trash about how she couldn’t handle him. She sucked on her teeth and started moving to the music, acting like he wasn’t even standing there.

  George was not about to let Sheba play him off like that. He got right in front of her and started doing a series of dance steps, spinning around, while his congregation egged him on.

  “Pastor, you know you ought to quit.”

  “Gone ’head with your superbad self.”

  “Sheba, girl, you better work it a little harder, ’cause that boy gettin’ ready to take it to the bridge.”

  And when George got to dancing harder after that last comment, somebody said, “You know I’m gone pray for you, Pastor. ’Cause you gone need some prayer and laying on of hands, when you wake up all stiff and sore in the morning.”

  George moved in closer to Sheba. “You ready to be turned every which-a-way but loose?” he demanded. “Or are you too chicken for that?”

  “Chicken?” Sheba snapped.

  “Yeah,” George retorted. “Chicken—bawk, bawk, bawk-bawk-bawk,” he cackled, laughing and doing the Funky Chicken.
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  Sheba wanted to hurt George Wilson, and she was not about to let this think-he-God’s-gift-to-the-Missionary-Baptist-Church boy get the best of her. She stared at him with what was clearly an I-ain’t-a-bit-more-playin’-with-you-than-I-am-the-man-in-the-moon expression and stepped into the clear. In one smooth move, she slid down into a split with such grace that her lavender silk hat didn’t even budge on her head. Only a taste of thigh showed when her lavender silk maxi coat swung back to reveal the matching short dress beneath it. Then, without missing a beat, she jumped back up on her feet, breaking into the Crazy Legs, and then the Robot.

  “Some smart-mouth Negro who shall remain unnamed in front of his parishioners need to shut up and take some notes on this lesson,” Sheba said as she bent back into a Parliament-Funkadelic version of the Limbo. She eased back up and then slipped into a Camel Walk that had everybody looking at the wooden floor of the Masonic Lodge as if it had turned into the hot sands of the Sahara Desert. “Ooooh, Rev. Wilson,” someone said, “Sheba Cochran just capped on you good!” Folks started clapping and calling out, “Go on, girl, ’cause you know your self is just as bad as that Foxy Brown.”

  George stopped dancing and was just moving from side to side with the beat, unable to tear his eyes away from Sheba. Those moves on that girl made him wonder, when he knew better than to, what kind of moves Sheba could put on him in private—and to make matters worse, she had the nerve to look breathtaking in that lavender suit. George glanced upward for a second and made a silent plea: “Help me, Father.”

  Sheba danced right out of the Camel Walk and spun around so fast, she looked like she was doing a Soul Train pirouette. Then she stopped spinning, purposefully landed right in front of George, stared him dead in the eye, and stated “So, you were saying that I couldn’t handle you? What about you handling me?”

  “You can handle me in a Soul Train line, Miss Sheba Loretta Cochran,” George whispered in his I-ain’t-in-the-pulpit-now voice. “But there’s just some situations where you wouldn’t be able to do a thing with me, girl.”