by Carl Weber
The papers fluttered to the floor around my wheelchair as I sobbed uncontrollably at the horror of my situation. While I was on the West Coast, planning to come home and reveal my sexuality to the church, my wife was on the East Coast, preparing to have me assaulted. And now I was in a wheelchair, almost entirely at her mercy.
When I had no more tears left, I sat silently and considered my options. Alison had committed an unthinkable act, a crime, and I knew I had to call the police to report it. But as I imagined the events that would follow her arrest, I wasn’t so sure it would be my best move. I was able to take care of B.J.’s basic needs—changing his diapers, warming his bottles, putting him down for his naps—but beyond that, how much could I really do for him if Alison was in jail? How would I handle it once he learned to walk? I couldn’t even get to the phone in time to answer it, so it was pretty unlikely I could chase behind an energetic toddler to keep him out of danger all day long. The closest thing I had to a family was James, and he was too busy with his own life right now to ask him for any help. I could hire a babysitter, but that cost money, and until my doctors said I was fit to return to work, I would never be able to afford it. The truth was, Alison was the one supporting our family, and without her, I would be virtually helpless, unable to give my son the life he deserved.
As I thought about the frightening truth, B.J. began to cry. I went into his room, stopped beside the crib to take him out, and once he was in my arms, his cries subsided. I rocked him gently until his eyelids drooped and he drifted off to sleep. A single tear fell onto his shirt as I watched him sleep and tried not to cry again. My first concern, I knew, had to be the safety and happiness of my child. I wondered, though, if running away with B.J. would be a wise choice. Just like if Alison went to jail, who would help me raise B.J. if I took him right now and ran away? I realized that taking away his mother would not be in his best interests.
Of course, I still had to question whether we would be safe here in the house with Alison. After all, she had done something so unimaginably horrible. She had robbed me of my ability to function as a man…but the act was so out of character for her. The Alison I had known was mild-mannered and kind, so willing to give of herself, to care for me in my time of greatest need. What had driven her to such an act, I wondered. Had Alison gone crazy?
Then it hit me. With great sadness, I realized that it wasn’t really Alison who had done this to me; I had done it to myself. It wasn’t her fault that she married a flawed man. Alison was, in fact, the sweet woman I had first known her to be. She wasn’t a deranged criminal with violent tendencies. No, I was the one who turned out to be something other than what I said I was in the beginning. If I had been honest with myself about my sexuality from the start, I probably never would have married her. All she really wanted was someone to love her, someone to start a family with. I let her believe she could have those things with me, and even gave her the child she wanted. So, how did I expect her to react when I threatened to take all of that away from her in the blink of an eye? Yes, she went further than she should have to keep her family together, but I knew that as long as I wasn’t planning on leaving her, I would never have to worry about Alison harming me again. In fact, I knew that all she really wanted to do was care for me better than anyone else ever could. And when I was truthful with myself, I had to admit that I needed her to do that now. I needed Alison’s care, and so did B.J., the only person who really mattered now.
I looked down at my wheelchair and sighed. I would be staying in this chair for the rest of my life, and my family would be staying together, in spite of it all.
A READING GROUP GUIDE
SO YOU CALL YOURSELF A MAN
CARL WEBER
ABOUT THIS GUIDE
The suggested questions are intended to enhance your group’s reading of this book.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Do you think James should have told Cathy about Marcus right away? If not, why? And when would have been the right time?
Did you think that Sonny was going to kill the couple in his apartment?
If you were James, would you have let Michelle continue to blackmail you into babysitting after the first few times?
In what previous Carl Weber book was Michelle also a character?
Were you surprised when Jackie’s true identity was revealed? Did you look back to see if you had missed clues, and if so, did you find any?
If you were Tiffany, would you have moved in with Sonny after you came home and found roaches all over your apartment?
Would you be able to leave your child behind as easily as Michelle did?
Do you believe Brent was ever physically attracted to Alison?
When did you realize that Sonny was crazy?
Do you think you have people like Jackie and Brent in your church?
Would you have let James back in the house if you were Cathy?
What was your opinion of Sonny’s wife, Jessica, before Brent met her in San Francisco?
What did you think of Alison? Did you feel sorry for her? Did she go too far to protect her reputation in the church?
Could you kill your best friend to save someone else’s life?
The following is a sample chapter from Carl Weber’s
eagerly anticipated upcoming novel
THE FIRST LADY.
It will be available in January 2007
wherever hardcover books are sold.
Enjoy!
Prologue
“Hey, Charlene, you ready to get started?”
My good friend and confidante, Alison Williams, smiled as she walked into my hospital room. I tried to smile back when she kissed my forehead, but the abdominal pains I was experiencing wouldn’t allow it. So, I lay there in my bed, grappling through the pain as I watched her sit in the chair next to my bed and pull out a notebook and pen. I pressed the button that controlled the morphine drip in my arm, and Alison waited patiently for my pain reliever to kick in. Six months ago, I refused to use any type of pain medication, but now I understood why the Lord invented addictive drugs like morphine and Demerol. Without them, I probably would have died from the pain of my cancer weeks ago. As it was now, I was pushing the damn drip button every fifteen minutes and I was on the highest dose there was, which meant I only had a few weeks left to live.
I wasn’t afraid of dying, though. I’d lived a good life, married a wonderful man, Bishop T.K. Wilson, raised two fantastic children, and had the honor of being the first lady of absolutely the best church in Queens, New York. If the Lord was ready to call me home, although I considered myself still pretty young, I was ready to go. The only thing I was afraid of was what would happen to my family—more importantly, my husband, T.K., after I was gone. So, I was making preparations to make sure my man was taken care of from the grave.
You see, as good and honorable a man of God as T.K. was, he was still just a man with desires and needs; and men, no matter how bright they may appear to be, are very naive when it comes to women, especially slick-ass church women. I could see it now. Fifteen minutes after they put my body in the ground, those church heifers would be in my house trying to figure out the best way to redecorate my shit out. Say what you might about my choice of words, but I’d seen these so-called church women in action too many times in the past.
Last year when Sister Betty Jean White passed away, within six months her worst enemy, Jeannette Wilcox, had weaseled her way into that woman’s house and was sleeping with her husband. A few months after that they were married, and if you walk into that house today, there’s not one memory that Sister Betty even lived there. So, I could envision T.K. in his moment of grief and loneliness letting somebody manipulate him into doing just about anything she wanted, and I was not about to allow that. That’s why, with the help of Alison and possibly my daughter Donna, I was making plans to stop her and any other threats to my family.
I hope you don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t trying to stop my husband from moving on with his life
after I was gone. On the contrary, I wanted him to find someone to spend the rest of his days with and be happy. I just wanted to make sure that whoever the woman was, she had his best interests at heart and wasn’t just some ambitious, gold-digging floozy disguised in a church hat and a flowered dress.
I felt the pain medication finally kick in, and Alison helped me as I struggled to sit up. She placed a pillow behind my head then sat back in her seat to take notes as I began to dictate the fourth of seven letters to be given out after my death. The first one was to T.K.; the next two were to my son, Dante, and daughter, Donna. The final four letters, which we would write this day, were to the four women I thought were possible candidates to one day replace me as T.K.’s wife and become the first lady of First Jamaica Ministries.
I started my dictation with a letter for T.K.’s first love, Marlene, the mother of his illegitimate daughter, Tanisha. I never really told anyone this, but I liked Marlene. She had spunk, and from what I heard, a loyalty to T.K. that almost rivaled mine. I must admit, though, that I liked her more when she was living in D.C. with her daughter and my son, who, believe it or not, were married. But that was before I was diagnosed with cancer, when I made it a point to keep any women that might interest T.K. as far away as possible. Now I was happy to hear that she had recently moved back to Queens and had even shown up at a few church services. She, unlike any of the other candidates, had a connection to my family, which made her a very favorable competitor in the race for T.K.’s heart. Her only flaw was that she was a recovering drug abuser…but then again, so was my husband.
The next letter was to be written to Ms. Monique Johnson, the first lady of plastic surgery and implants. I’m sorry, but there was no way a forty-year-old woman with two kids could have a body like hers without something going south. Not only was her body fake, but so was her personality. I’d never met a phonier woman in my entire life. She was always smiling in my face and grinning at my man. She knew she wanted him. Rumor has it that she’d had relationships with at least two high-profile members of the church, both of them married. In fact, when Monique was around with her flirtatious self, every wife in the congregation had her man on lockdown. Like I explained earlier, there was no doubt in my mind that Monique had her sights set on T.K. Some of my girlfriends from the church confirmed that her overtures toward him had become even bolder since I’d become hospitalized. I was sure T.K. hadn’t even given the woman a second thought with me being sick and all, but a question still remained: Would he be strong willed enough to stay away from her after my death?
After we wrote Monique’s letter, the pain was starting to come back, but I fought through it as we started on Savannah Dickens’s letter. Savannah was the church’s new choir soloist. She was a quiet, attractive woman in her midthirties who kept to herself. I didn’t know much about her because she was new to the church and the community, but I will admit I wasn’t much for quiet folks because they were usually hiding something. She was, however, the niece of Trustee Joe Dickens, one of the more prominent older members of our church. Joe was looking to become the chairman of the Board of Trustees. I was sure that after my death he would be trying his best to push T.K. and Savannah together in an effort to consolidate power. It was a move I wasn’t against, because it would probably benefit T.K. in the long run. What I didn’t like was the fact that she was only thirty-five years old. I wasn’t objecting to her age so much; she was only ten years younger than T.K. What I was worried about was the fact that she was thirty-five and didn’t have any children. A woman under forty who hadn’t had a child probably wanted kids of her own, and that was out. The last thing T.K. needed after raising Dante and Donna and putting them through college was another baby to support.
Right before we finished the sixth letter, the pain hit me hard and I had to push the drip. I lay back down and Alison insisted that we’d done enough for the day. God willing, we’d finish the seventh and final letter the next day. It was to my good friend, Sister Wilma Mae Jenkins, one of the church’s Holy Rollers. Although I’m not going to reveal its content, I can assure you that it would shake up a whole lot of people. Six months from now, I’d be dead, but I could guarantee my presence would still be felt.
Can you dictate the lives of your family, friends and enemies from the grave? Those were the thoughts I contemplated as I waited for the new dose of pain medication to take effect. I could picture the scenario now: The first lady of First Jamaica Ministries is dead. Who will win the bishop’s heart and become the next first lady? Time would only tell.
DAFINA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
850 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 2006 by Carl Weber
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-6122-9
Table of Contents
1. James
2. Sonny
3. Brent
4. James
5. Sonny
6. James
7. Sonny
8. Brent
9. James
10 Sonny
11. James
12. Sonny
13. James
14. Brent
15. Sonny
16. Brent
17. Sonny
18. James
19. Sonny
20. Brent
21. Sonny
22. Brent
23. James
24. Brent
25. James
26. Brent
27. James
28. Sonny
29. James
30. Sonny
31. James
32. Brent
33. James
34. Sonny
35. Brent
36. Sonny
37. Brent
38. James
39. Brent
40. James
41. Sonny
42. James
43. Brent
44. James
Epilogue: One year later—Brent
A Reading Group Guide
Discussion Questions