Second Sunday

by Michele Andrea Bowen

  All Essie did was laugh and say, “Girl, I will put this away for you. If you feel strong enough to risk asking about it, then you know in your heart that you need it. You just have to have enough faith to sit back and let the Lord work it all out.”

  And in only two weeks, Sheba ran back into the shop hardly able to contain herself, breathlessly blurting out, “Essie, you’d never believe it but—”

  “You need your peach wedding dress.”

  When Sheba nodded, Essie embraced her, then immediately set out to fashion a Ghanaian-inspired gown that had Precious Powers drooling over it when Sheba came in for her final fitting. The fabric alone was breathtaking, a rich brocade pattern on handwoven cotton, so soft and delicate that it looked like silk. The ensemble had a peplum top with cream-colored silk braiding on the collar and edges of the sleeves, and a long, straight skirt with a slit high up the side. For the wedding, Sheba’s hair was wrapped in a headpiece made of the same material as the dress, and she wore white gold hoop earrings, engraved white gold bracelets on each arm, and cream satin platform pumps. Her bouquet was a large assortment of bright colors and shades—oranges, reds, hot pinks, and sunshine yellows.

  This was the second time that Mr. Louis Loomis had to give a bride away in a month, and he was starting to feel like “Marryin’ Sam.” He was so proud of Sheba—ever since she’d joined the church, she had grown more and more into a godly woman on the order of that described in Proverbs 31. And he had to hand it to Louise, Mozelle, Nettie, Viola, and Sylvia for pulling together a wedding in less than one week’s time. The tiny side chapel at Freedom Temple Gospel United Church looked beautiful decorated with fresh flowers and ribbons in the same reds, oranges, pinks, and yellows as Sheba’s bouquet.

  George and Sheba had picked a popular gospel love song by Elroy Thorn and the Gospel Songbirds for her entrance, played on the small stereo Rev. Simmons kept in his office. The song was so perfect for the two of them—with lyrics stating so loud and clear what George and Sheba had secretly felt from the moment they first met:

  “I took a walk with God one morning, and on that day I asked Him to send me someone just like you. On that morning while I prayed, I didn’t even know if it were meant for me to have a love so true. But God was with me on that day. He listened to my heart and sent you my way. I said, my God, He truly heard me pray, and sent me one as wonderful as you—my blessing in the form of you . . .”

  As the song faded, Sheba took her place beside George, with her children standing behind her, along with her closest friends. She had always dreamed of having a big, fancy wedding. But never had she imagined that her real wedding would be as beautiful and spiritual as the one the Lord had given her today.

  When Sheba got saved, she understood that she had been looking for love the wrong way, partying at the Mothership Club all Saturday night and coming home so early on Sunday morning that the thought of going to church made her head hurt worse than the drinking, hours of dancing, and lack of sleep ever did. And on the day she accepted Christ in her life, she had gotten down on her knees, praying, “I tried it my way, Jesus, and we both know it didn’t work. Now I want to do it Your way. Deliver me from this aching loneliness and give me a witness to the power of God to answer our deepest prayers, especially when we pray for love to come our way.” And the Lord granted her that witness, with today shouting out her testimony.

  George was so regal he made Sheba think of an African king—her African king. He was wearing a pale blue Ghanaian tunic with silver braiding around the neckline and sleeves, as well as on the edges of his matching pants and hat. When George looked deeply into Sheba’s eyes, whispering, without moving a muscle in his face, “You are my queen, Sheba,” she reached out toward Mr. Louis Loomis for a handkerchief.

  Rev. Theophilus Simmons, who was conducting the ceremony, was overjoyed for his friend on this glad day. George Wilson was the first friend he’d made when he was appointed the pastor of Greater Hope Gospel United Church in Memphis. It was George who had let him talk out his grief when Theophilus was healing from being tangled up with a woman he would discover was George’s own ex-wife, Glodean Benson. Only a man who had been whipped down by Glodean could understand the pain and torment that woman could inflict.

  From the beginning, George had been as loyal and good a friend as Theophilus’s buddy, Rev. Eddie Tate, who had flown down from Chicago with his wife, Johnnie, to attend this wedding. When Theophilus told Eddie that George had finally gotten some sense and was going to marry Sheba Cochran, all Eddie could do was say, “God is good. ’Cause Theo, man, some of the sweetest and most virtuous women can come in the most controversial and unusual packages, like Sheba and my wife, Johnnie.”

  As the guests formed a semicircle around the bride and groom, Eddie wrapped his arm around Johnnie, kissed her on the cheek, and whispered, “You know I love you, girl—with your ole sapphire-tooth-wearing self.”

  Johnnie, looking good in a pastel pink dress that hugged every voluptuous curve, smiled and sucked on that sapphire and gold tooth she was so famous for. She loved her some Eddie Tate. And she worked hard by his side as the first lady of Mount Zion Gospel United Church. Of all of the people in this chapel, Johnnie Tate was the most joyful for Sheba. Because when she fell in love with Eddie, he was just as stubborn and running as fast from love as George Wilson. When she first heard about Sheba, she started praying on that hardheaded George right then and there.

  The wedding was very small—just MamaLouise, Mr. Louis Loomis, Bert and Nettie, Viola and Wendell, Sylvia and Melvin Sr., the Tates, the Cantrells, and Theophilus and Essie Simmons—but it was perfect as far as George was concerned. His first wedding had been a major production, and being merely the groom, he was assigned only a walk-on role in the extravaganza. But this wedding was different—it was not about the show, it was about the Lord and the marriage.

  Sheba and George exchanged their simple white gold wedding bands amid loved ones gathered in one accord, all rejoicing over this union. And when Theophilus pronounced George and Sheba “husband and wife,” he could barely get “And now you may kiss the bride” out of his mouth before George had Sheba wrapped up in a deeply passionate kiss.

  At first Sheba was embarrassed by her husband’s display of affection. But when she felt his heart beating in the same rhythm as hers, she relaxed and embraced him, losing herself in his kisses. Then George put his cheek next to hers, closed his eyes with the pleasure of the softness of it, and whispered, “I love you, baby.”

  Sheba blushed and lowered her eyes. George held his wife and breathed to her in a voice so soft that it made Sheba feel like he was making love to her, “Can you feel me, girl?”

  When she gave him a shy and self-conscious smile, he said, “Can you handle me, baby?”

  “Time for y’all to leave,” Mr. Louis Loomis said, to diffuse some of that heat, because those two didn’t even know there was anybody else in the chapel at the moment. Folks like that needed to handle their business so that they could come back to earth with the rest of the people. But then again, as far as Mr. Louis Loomis was concerned, it was a mighty beautiful and blessed thing for two people to feel that way about each other.

  III

  The parsonage looked beautiful, decked out in flowers and ribbons for the pastor and his new First Lady by Nettie, Viola, Sylvia, MamaLouise, and Miss Mozelle. It was a lovely classic two-story house with large, high-ceilinged rooms painted a soft cream with a hint of sunset pink, which was echoed in the sand-colored hardwood floors. It had gracious bay windows with comfy window seats, overlooking a well-manicured lawn and flowers in the front yard and a tiny vegetable garden in the back.

  George took Sheba’s hand and guided her upstairs, then opened the door to the master bedroom. He couldn’t help but smile as he witnessed the pure delight on his wife’s face at seeing the inviting room for the very first time. It had pale violet walls, a large sleigh bed with a pale gray satin comforter, and large soft pillows in violet, pink, white, an
d gray.

  “Your wedding gift, baby,” George said. “You like it?”

  Sheba’s eyes shone. “It’s perfect. Thank you, George. I’ve never had anybody give me a gift like this.”

  George took Sheba’s bouquet, placed it on the dresser, and kissed her hand. “You deserve it, sweetheart,” he said, kissing each of her fingertips. He reached up and unwrapped her headdress to reveal beautiful cornrowed braids swept up into a French roll, which glistened in the light. He ran his fingers over those braids and said, “Baby, who did your hair? I’ve never seen this kind of braided hair.”

  “Sylvia.”

  “I love it.”

  Sheba’s eyes filled with tears, as she whispered again, “Thank you, George.” Nobody had ever told her that she had beautiful hair.

  George kissed Sheba with such love and tenderness, the tears fell down her cheeks. He bent down and tasted them, taking her chin in both hands, and kissed her on the lips, first softly and gently, then more urgently. She felt the heat coming from that kiss all over her body and pulled her husband in closer.

  “Baby,” he said, “you just hold on to me to your heart’s content.”

  George let his hands slip down to cup Sheba’s behind. It felt good. He pressed her to him and did a slow grind, slipping his foot between hers, letting Sheba feel as much of him as she could. When she jumped and said, “George,” he just laughed. “What’s wrong, girl?”

  “Nothing. But you . . .”

  “I’m what, baby? Tell me what I am,” he asked, with mischief running in his voice.

  “Uhh, never mind.”

  “Sheba,” George said, unbuttoning the top of her dress, “how did you get those four babies?”

  “The regular way,” she answered bashfully, eyes closed, as he slid her top from her shoulders, put it on a chair, and slipped off her skirt.

  “Hmm . . . I’m not so sure about those,” George muttered, tugging at her stubborn panty hose. “Help me with these things, Sheba.”

  Sheba took off her panty hose and shoes. She was standing in front of her husband wearing only a baby blue lace bra and matching panties. Her figure wasn’t curvy, just nice, and cute, and so firm that it didn’t look like she had one baby, let alone four.

  “I thought brides were supposed to wear white.”

  “You once told me that blue was your favorite color,” she pointed out. “So I thought I’d wear something you liked on your wedding day.”

  “Oh really?” George said, and eased Sheba over to the bed, standing in front of her and removing his clothes down to the pale blue cotton boxers he was wearing. Then he slipped her out of the rest of her clothes and lay her gently on the bed.

  “I’m cold, George.”

  “No you’re not—you are embarrassed,” he said, lying beside his wife and wrapping his arms tightly around her. “Now, is that better?”

  Sheba nestled up in George’s arms and whispered, “Yes.”

  “Well, then,” he said, planting a hot kiss on her lips, “this should be even better. What you think, girl?” George rolled Sheba on her back and let her feel his full weight, looking deep into her eyes, before kissing her again. He kissed her lips, each cheek, her earlobes, her jawbone, and nibbled at the hollow of her neck, then moved down to her collarbone and planted a soft kiss right on the spot where he could feel Sheba’s heart beating hard and fast. George sighed and kept kissing his wife—her stomach, the sides of her hips, and on down.

  Sheba lay perfectly still, almost afraid that if she moved this moment would evaporate. Her husband kept blazing his hot trail of kisses until, all of a sudden, Sheba jumped and said, “George?”

  All he did was chuckle and kiss his way back north, not stopping until he was looking in her eyes once more. “I love you, my bodacious, bashful-with-a-man, little North St. Louis girl,” he said.

  “And I love you with all my heart,” Sheba replied.

  They rested in each other’s arms, luxuriating in the closeness of their bodies, for a moment until Sheba said, “I feel like we should have some music.”

  “Umm-hmm,” George answered lazily, and reached over to the radio on the nightstand.

  He flipped it on, and Betty Wright’s “Tonight Is the Night That You Make Me a Woman” filled the air.

  “What a perfect song,” George murmured, and set out to finish what he had started—making his woman, Sheba Cochran Wilson, his wife.

  IV

  Unfortunately for the newlyweds, their honeymoon bliss was short-lived. Just ten days after the wedding, Ray Lyles sent George a certified letter officially laying claim to the land under the church. It began, “Pursuant to my letter of October 13, 1975, we intend to reclaim possession of the land granted to Gethsemane Missionary Baptist Church upon expiration of the 100-year term on June 1, 1976. Inasmuch as there has been no response or counter to our claim, my wife, Betsy Ashton Lyles, the sole living heir of the grantor, is prepared to assert her right of ownership . . .”

  Reading the letter, George was aghast. “How could the church receive a claim like this back in October and not act on it?” he said. “Who would have gotten it?” Then it struck him. “Cleavon!”

  George jumped up from the table so fast that he knocked over his soda and a chair.

  “Wait!” Sheba said. “What’s going on?”

  “Whatever Cleavon was after in the safe has something to do with this,” George fumed. “And I aim to find out what if I have to beat it out of him.”

  “Baby, you ain’t going nowhere in this state,” Sheba insisted, “especially not over something this big. You can’t deal with that fool without an attorney and a clear head. We need to call Phoebe right now.”

  George called her, and when he finished reading her the letter, all she said was “Hmmm, interesting, very interesting.”

  “What do you mean by ‘interesting, very interesting,’ girl? This is serious,” George insisted.

  “Pastor, you need to calm down, so that you can handle this like you do everything else—with smooth, prayerful, street-brotha finesse. Now, that has always been a winning combination in my book.”

  George relaxed and said, “I hear you, Miss Lady. Gone ’head and do your thing, and then come back and tell your pastor what he need to know.”

  “I’m coming by to get the letter, then heading on over to Mr. Louis Loomis’s house to get some information that might turn this thing all the way around.”

  Mr. Louis Loomis answered his door wiping his mouth with a napkin in the way that only black men can do. He brushed it across his mouth, his mustache, and then both hands, patting each one several times before he was through.

  “Come on in, baby,” he said. “Just got off the phone with Sheba, who gave me the news. You know that white boy done lost his mind. And I’d bet some money that Cleavon is somehow tied up in this mess.”

  “Yeah, Rev. Wilson and I were thinking that very same thing,” Phoebe said as she followed Mr. Louis Loomis into the kitchen. She liked his house. Mr. Louis Loomis was a carpenter before he retired, and he could do just about anything with his hands. And she especially liked his handmade kitchen set. The wooden table was painted bright blue, and it was surrounded by four chairs in bright green, yellow, red, and orange.

  Her grandmother was sitting in the yellow chair, her favorite color, eating a bowl of red beans and rice like it tasted so good she wanted to cry. She smiled at Phoebe and asked, “Baby, you hungry?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Phoebe smirked at MamaLouise as if to say, “You ain’t foolin’ nobody with your slick self.”

  MamaLouise looked back at Phoebe, eyes twinkling, as if to reply, “You don’t stop being a woman just ’cause you get old.”

  Phoebe sat down in the red chair as Mr. Louis Loomis handed her a bowl of red beans and rice. Then he refilled his own and, sitting back down, dipped up a big spoonful and blew on it a few seconds before pulling it in his mouth. MamaLouise poured Phoebe some iced tea and added a little more to her own glass. Then
Mr. Louis Loomis put on his reading glasses and perused the letter, chewing and sucking on his teeth. “Oooh, babygirl,” he exclaimed, “this boy is plumb crazy. Do they have a case they can take to court?”

  “Maybe,” Phoebe answered him evenly, “but I have a workable plan. I just need your help to set it up. And I’m going to ask Miss Mozelle to call Queenie Tyler.”

  “Queenie Tyler?” Mr. Louis Loomis and MamaLouise both said, looking perplexed.

  “I can’t go into it right now,” Phoebe said, “but Queenie Tyler has access to something that can help the church and eliminate a bunch of foolishness once and for all.”

  Mr. Louis Loomis, doing exactly as Phoebe had instructed, put out the word: “You better be at church on Wednesday night, unless you want your church torn all up by a pack of wolves.”

  Wednesday night prayer meeting had been suspended for the emergency, and George walked up into the pulpit not knowing what he was going to say. He glanced at Sheba, who was wearing a stunning cotton candy pink knit suit, with black rhinestone buttons and black braided silk trim on the collar, the cuffs, and the bottom edge of the jacket, along with black patent-leather pumps and a matching envelope shoulder bag. The outfit came from Essie Lee Clothiers, and it had “First Lady” written all over it.

  But as good as Sheba was looking tonight, George knew she was very nervous. This was her first official appearance as the First Lady of the church. George winked at her to let her know how proud he was of her, then grinned at his four stepchildren, drawing strength from their answering smiles.

  “Church,” he began, “it is no secret that this congregation has been in turmoil since the day Rev. Clydell Forbes died. But now it is imperative that we come together to deal with a serious threat.