As his father’s cheesy grin clashed with Bart’s stoic glare, Larry could feel his heart leap into his chest. These were two grown men, right? His father’s skin was too damn thin sometimes.
Moving to divert attention from the damage, Amy turned to Larry. “Larry, have you told the Blasingames about your involvement with that community center? That certainly sounds like a worthwhile endeavor.”
Eager to cool off the simmering egos at the table, Larry stopped pretending to eat his dinner salad. “No, I haven’t had a chance to mention it to them. I don’t know if Ashley already has—” The vague roll of her eyes signaled that she hadn’t. What the hell was her problem? She always acted like she was too good to keep up with his Ellis Center activities. Of course she hadn’t told her parents anything about it. “Well, my housemates and I are working to help keep a community center located near campus from closing. The place has a rich history of helping the local children and teens overcome the obstacles they face living in that part of town.”
“You mean the obstacles they face as black folk in America.” Larry senior’s quip, coming from a man who didn’t have a militant bone in his body, was clearly designed to scrape its way under the Blasingames’ sensitive skin.
“Ah, Pop,” Larry said, placing his hand on his father’s shoulder, “we all have obstacles, but when you grow up in an underprivileged, crime-riddled environment like Northwest D.C., you need special help to understand all this country has to offer.”
“Oh, I agree totally,” Mrs. Blasingame replied in her patrician tone. “Too many people of color seem to think that a little melanin in the skin is an excuse to start crying racism. Anything that a place like that can do to keep children from developing that victim mentality is to be applauded.”
The hangdog waiter arrived with the entrees, and Amy reached to continue this positive bent of the conversation. “What kind of programs does the center run, Larry?”
As the smoky smell of his charbroiled filet mignon wafted to his nostrils, Larry steeled his rumbling stomach long enough to respond. “They really have one of the most comprehensive curriculums I’ve ever seen. For children ages three to twelve, they have a year-round evening program that bolsters their students’ daytime educations, which leave something to be desired. They offer courses in reading, spelling, mathematics, science, literature, Afrocentric history, and business and entrepreneurship.”
“They’re able to convey some of those concepts to children that young?” Bart Blasingame fixed Larry with a dubious glare.
“As the children get older, yes. Some of my peers in the school of business volunteer as instructors in the entrepreneurism class. This year they’re teaching a class for the twelve-year-olds and one for teenagers. Each child’s project is to design their own business. The best projects will be funded for actual implementation. More than a few of these students in the past have gone on to form their own companies. I met a guy at a board meeting who attended the center in the early eighties and now owns a chain of local hardware stores.”
Larry senior elbowed his way back into the conversation. “That’s not all, is it, son? You see, I know, ’cause Larry talked me into making the first significant private contribution the center’s received in a few years. They have some summer programs that have literally kept kids out of gangs and pulled other knuckleheads out. They work with local churches, the Nation of Islam, and politicians to bring diverse resources to these kids. I’m a booster.”
Halfway into a bite of his grilled salmon, Blasingame made no attempt to acknowledge Larry senior’s speech. Larry shook his head as his father continued to push.
“So what do you say, Blasingame? I’ve already given my boy in excess of twenty thousand big ones to help save the center, now that they’ve lost so much public funding. Certainly a man of your means would want to show some community activism and meet my contribution level. Can I have Larry put you down for twenty thou?”
Running his fingers through his well-gelled mound of hair, Blasingame allowed a smirk to rest on his face. “Whitaker, I could write your son a check for twenty thou out of my petty-cash account right now if I wanted to. Let me suggest that you never challenge a man who has a bigger wallet than you.”
“That’s about all you got bigger than me,” Larry heard his father mumble under his breath. He dug his elbow into his father’s fleshy side. Speaking audibly now, Larry senior leaned in toward the Blasingames. “There’s no need to make this a contest, Blasingame. I just thought you’d like to show some support for your daughter and the man in her life. Forget it.”
Sighing out of apparent frustration, Bart returned to his meal. “I’ll have my accountant get a financial package from the center and determine if it would be a wise donation.” He paused to glare at Larry before reaching for his silverware. “I’ll get back to you, son.” Larry decided not to hold his breath waiting on Blasingame’s donation.
CHAPTER 12
. . . . . . . . . . . .
THE KID IS NOT MY SON
It was several hours after Tony Powers dropped him off, and O. J.’s massive Pioneer stereo system bubbled with the soothing sounds of the Reverend James Cleveland. From his gray plaid futon sofa, which he had set up in the middle of the floor, O. J. admired the monstrous technological wonder, which included a turntable, an equalizer, a six-disc CD player, and two speakers. He had saved and invested all through his first three years at Highland for a setup such as this. If there was one thing a man of God needed, it was a quality sound system to blast his holy harmonies.
Just above the stereo, perched on a shelf built into the wall, sat O. J.’s thirteen-inch Zenith TV. On-screen, with the sound muted, Keith Sweat was bumping and grinding his way through another video, promising the joys of the flesh. O. J. wondered when Keith’s next CD would be out; he had to get that, Keith was his boy.
The phone was screaming beside him, but he couldn’t decide whether to answer it or not; he was still praying for some peace after Tony’s revelation about Keesa. But he knew it was time to confront her and quit running. On the sixth ring, he opted to be brave and pick it up.
“O. J.?” The husky voice was warm and familiar.
“Dad! Hey, man, what are you doing?” This was the one person who could bolster his spirits right now. Maybe the Lord had heard his prayers.
“I’m wondering if you’re ready to come home for my twentieth anniversary service, that’s what I’m doing. You know it’s just a few weeks after your graduation.”
It was hard to believe it had been twenty years since Rev. Peters, his wife, Myra, and his infant son had come to serve the Mount Moriah Baptist Church of Atlanta. He was just a couple of years out of Bible college at the time, and his qualifications had been questioned. By the third year of his reign, though, his powerful preaching, careful financial management, and active networking on behalf of the church had won him enough fans to ensure lifelong employment, the ultimate goal of many black preachers.
O. J. laughed at his father’s question. “Man, you know it would take Jesus himself to come back and take me away to keep me from bein’ there. Besides, if I don’t make it, who’d give the keynote sermon?”
Rev. Peters laughed heartily. “I figured you were still comin’, but I know things are heating up with graduation, your own ministering, and the seminary thing. Heard from any schools yet?”
“Well, they’ve been better, in all honesty. I got a rejection notice from Trinity Seminary on Wednesday. They trippin’, man, saying my grades were questionable, and—get this—they questioned my commitment to service, you know, witnessing and outreach.”
“What!” O. J.’s father sounded disgusted. “How could they question that, O. J.? You’re an associate minister at a respectable church, traveling and preaching all over town. Plus you do volunteer work at that community center.”
O. J. shook his head in mutual exasperation. “I don’t see it, either. I guess I just gotta wait and hope that Dallas, United, or Walker comes throug
h for me. Guess it’s a case where I gotta let go and let God.”
“Amen, son. God will take care of it. You know, I pray for you every day, thanking our Father for the gifts he’s given you, and trusting you’ll be responsible with them. Son, as you show yourself faithful to God, which I know you have, he will in fact direct all your paths. Stand on that!” The pastor was slipping into his preacher’s tone.
“You betta say that, Dad.” O. J. rubbed at the side of his head. “I try to remind myself that all things work together for the good of them that love the Lord. When it’s time for me to attend seminary, he’ll open a door.” A thought pricked O. J. as the words rolled off his tongue: Do I really buy that?
Pastor Peters sighed in agreement. “That’s faith, just like God wants, son. Never forget, I am proud of you. Your momma would be, too. Matter of fact, I believe she is. I know she hears my prayers for you. Sometimes I feel like God lets her comfort me and answer my requests in his stead. The Lord really blessed us with you.”
Hesitant to touch on the subject but unable to resist his curiosity, O. J. interrupted his father. “Dad, at the anniversary celebration, will there be any recognition of, well, you know.” The silence of empty air hung between them as O. J. searched for the right words.
“Son, there will be a speech to honor your mother’s memory. I didn’t even have to suggest it. Sister Parker and Deacon Smith are heading up the anniversary committee, and they pulled me aside months ago and let me know of their plans. They’ve even got a separate writeup for the church program, summarizing her life and accomplishments. It’s taken care of. All you need to do is come with an inspired word, preach, then relax with me and enjoy the festivities.”
Satisfied, O. J. relaxed fully into the futon, closing his eyes. His father updated him on the church’s buildingfund progress, prompting an argument about what O. J. viewed as the “stingy spirit” of most black congregations. Ever the optimist, Pastor Peters refused to join O. J.’s tirade.
“I just get tired of black folks’ attitude toward preachers,” O. J. insisted. “First, they want you to take some ridiculous vow of poverty, like a call to the ministry should mean you have a lower standard of living than someone ‘called’ to the business world, or law, or medicine. That don’t make no sense. If I’m entrusted with guiding souls to Jesus, I think I’m entitled to more than some layman. They don’t do nothing but work to support themselves and their own families.”
“O. J., you and I have had this conversation many times, son,” his father replied. “I felt the same way myself when I was a young preacher starting out. And it is true that some folk have unrealistic expectations of us, and are too stingy to financially support the church, but you know what? If I’m as close to God as I say I am, I should have faith that he can help overcome those obstacles for me, in his own time, of course.”
O. J. sighed. Another argument that would get neither one of them anywhere. “All right, Dad, you always add a new perspective. God bless you, man. I’m gonna get off and let you go out and have some fun tonight.”
“Son, you know I ain’t had no fun in quite a while. Since I broke up with Sister Johnson, I haven’t really met anybody I hit it off with. And I’ve learned the hard way the follies of shallow relationships. That’s probably the only good thing about my hitting an age where lust for the flesh is starting to slacken off.”
Now thoroughly uncomfortable with the subject his father had thrown on the table, O. J. rushed to close the conversation. “Well, Dad, I gotta be out.”
Rev. Peters injected the standard phrase he loved to inflict on his son. “Son, remember, if you’re treatin’ yourself to the desire of the flesh, I at least pray that you are being safe. God bless.”
As he hung up the phone, O. J. rose, breathing quickly. Now that he had been pumped up by his father, it was time to knock out the unpleasant task that awaited him. Pacing the floor with the long white cord of his phone trailing him, he punched in the seven digits. She better be home. He didn’t feel like playing phone tag.
“Hello.” The voice sounded almost angelically pure. A stranger might actually be fooled, O. J. thought.
“Keesa, this is O. J.,” he said, his mouth tightening.
“Ohh! Now you can call me, huh? What happened? Did Tony Powers do just what I expected? He blabbed off to you, didn’t he!”
Gritting his teeth, O. J. tried to sound light. “Keesa, a brother’s been unbelievably busy lately. I don’t have time to return phone calls immediately.” He began pacing through the jumble of textbooks, Bible-study lessons, and party flyers that littered his floor.
Keesa wasn’t sounding very peaceful. “I seem to remember telling you we needed to talk at church last week, before your punk ass ran out after service.”
Throwing his arms in the air at the sound of profanity, O. J. was indignant. “See, why do you have to be like that, sister? I’m callin’ you tryin’ to show some respect, and you have to go and get ugly. Lord Jesus!”
“I just found out I’m two months pregnant, Oscar,” she said, using his formal name like a deadly weapon, “and you, of all people, know I didn’t get this way by myself.”
“How long have you known?”
“About two weeks. I’d been late for a while, and when I started throwing up, my roommate took me to the campus health center, where I got the lovely news. That was why I harassed you for so long, not because I wanted your sorry tail back. You got some responsibilities to live up to.”
“Okay, okay, slow your roll. Let’s do some math here.”
“There’s no math to be done, O. J. You’re the only guy I been with in the last year.”
O. J. felt his voice rise to a new level. “What do you think I am, Keesa, some kind of fool? I didn’t want to tread on this territory, baby, but your reputation precedes you. We only dated six months; you gonna tell me—”
“I’m gonna tell you what, nigga?”
“You’re gonna tell me six months was time enough for you to run off all the other brothers used to havin’ their way with you?”
For a moment O. J. thought she had hung up on him. Maybe his bold telling of the truth had intimidated her into admitting that she had no idea who the father was. Those hopes were dashed as he heard a faint, haunting laughter come through the receiver.
“Is that the best you can do? Mr. Preacher Man, Man of God, God’s Vehicle? I’ve heard pimps and dealers give more sophisticated defenses than that shit! I knew you were a sorry ass, but, damn, is that really all you’ve got?”
Thrown off balance, O. J. fished for a way to calm her. He tried to imagine what some of his heroes in the clergy or the gospel-music industry would do. He had heard plenty of horrid tales from Grier and other ministers in both D.C. and Atlanta, men who had weathered storms that resulted from their voracious appetites for women. Back-door payoffs, offers of employment, scholarships to attend school, even luxury apartments complete with a monthly allowance—all these had been used by ministers he knew to pacify pregnant or spurned lovers. It was time to come up with his own bag of tricks.
“Keesa, you’re a sophomore this year, right?” O. J. paused as a loud bang shook his window. He assured himself it was someone’s car backfiring; there hadn’t been a shooting on this block for almost six months.
Keesa’s tone was dismissive. “What’s it matter?”
Assuming that meant his guess was correct, O. J. pressed forward. “I realize that if you have this baby, whose ever it is, you’re going to want to do your best to complete school in a timely fashion. You’re working a couple of jobs and going part time to UDC, you’re gonna need some help.”
“Is there an offer on the table?” The bile in her voice was starting to intimidate him.
“I know one of the trustees at the church is the comptroller of UDC, Harvey Benton. I bet I could place a good word with him to push you as a top candidate for a full scholarship next year. Your grades have been pretty good.”
“Oh, really now?” She
was beginning to sound interested.
“If I could deliver on that, Keesa, would you be willing to let the issue of paternity lay?”
“Could I put your name on the birth certificate?”
Stifling a laugh, O. J. tried to make his tone genuine and soothing. “Now, what purpose would that serve, Keesa? I can’t be identified as the father of an illegitimate child. I’ve got a pastoral career to build.”
“Oh, please, I know plenty of well-established ministers with a walk-in closet full of skeletons!”
O. J. clenched his jaw and extended a finger heavenward. “You’re right, but you must understand, I’m at a tender point in my development. The very accusation of immorality could keep some ministers from inviting me to preach at their churches or take part in their seminars and conferences. Those types of events are a major source of income.”
“Look, Rev, I’m sorry to be screwin’ up your business, but that don’t mean jack to me. If I can’t claim a father for this baby, no other payoff is gonna do. You know how screwed up it was for me, growing up with my momma’s name? Made me feel like the man who could make me wouldn’t claim me. I won’t have that happen to my child. It’s my fault I’m in this situation, not this baby’s.”
Pursing his lips and pulling on his ear to relieve the tension building inside, O. J. made one more lap around his room. “Well, I’ve offered all I can, Keesa. You always knew we weren’t serious; we had the understanding it was not exclusive. I pray you make a mature decision about this. I’ll be here when you’re ready to agree to my terms.”
“Well, don’t hold your breath, you phony, hypocritical, no-good—”
O. J. slammed the receiver down. Any more of that woman and he’d have to let Satan have his way with him.
Hurling himself onto his futon and loosening his tie, he turned his eyes toward the clock at his bedside. Eight-thirty Saturday evening. He decided to take a catnap, trusting that could help relieve some of the stress. He expected calls from Carla Grier, the pastor’s daughter, as well as Angela and Sylka tonight—not to mention the possibility of his new friend Michelle. Sighing, he stared at the ceiling. It was time to decide which one to spend the evening with. He didn’t have the energy to go creepin’ tonight.
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