Church Folk

by Michele Andrea Bowen

  Essie looked at her mother and clapped her hand to her face, thinking, "Lord, have I just lost my mind? I've been all up on this man, right in my mama's kitchen."

  Theophilus, who had heard Lee Allie's bedroom door close when she had first left the kitchen, had been so caught up in kissing Essie that he had forgotten to listen for her return. He didn't want Lee Allie to think that he was trying to disrespect her home. He looked down at himself, grateful for no telltale signs, not realizing that his passion was boldly imprinted, like a great big sign, all across his face.

  Lee Allie almost laughed as she watched Essie and Theophilus trying to act all normal and polite. She could have told those two she was definitely born before yesterday and that there was nothing like unnatural silence to alert a mother that hot-and-bothered kissing was going on in her home. Instead she frowned at Essie, whose embarrassment was making her angry at Theophilus.

  "Essie Lee, why you huffing and puffing like you gettin' ready to start a fight?"

  She looked at Theophilus. "Reverend, you'll have to excuse her."

  "I'll do just that, Sister Lane. Essie and I were having a serious discussion and things got heated up a bit while we were talking. Didn't they, Essie?" he said with a smirk that dared her to contradict him.

  Essie couldn't believe him. And if she thought she could have gotten away with it, she would have smacked him right upside his head for saying that mess. She rolled her eyes at him and said, "Well . . . I wouldn't go so far as to say it was heated."

  Theophilus knew she was worried about her mother but shot her a look, eyes laughing, as if to say, "Guess I got your little tail, didn't I?" He said, "You wouldn't, huh? Well, that's awfully surprising given the passionate way you approached the subject, Miss Essie. In fact, I personally thought our discussion was rather stimulating. Didn't you?"

  Essie glanced at her mother, praying she wasn't paying too close attention to what he was saying.

  But Lee Allie wasn't a bit fooled by their exchange and recognized that Essie was just mad at herself for liking the feel of that man someplace he had no place being—all up on her. She wanted to tell that girl it wasn't a crime to like the feel of a man, if he were the right man and her husband. And Lee Allie felt that at twenty-five, it was high time Essie got interested in a man. All she did was work and save money so that she could move to Chicago or St. Louis and open a dressmaking shop. It had never even dawned on that girl that it would be nice to have a good man to share these dreams with.

  As far as Lee Allie was concerned, the man in her kitchen was a good man—and a good man for Essie. She only hoped that her hardheaded child had sense enough to know this herself.

  Chapter Four

  REV. JAMES PERSONALLY ESCORTED THEOPHILUS TO Mother Harold's, out of politeness, but with no intention of staying. Judging by the smile frozen on Mother Harold's face when she answered the doorbell, she was not eager to welcome him either. Still, after ushering them in, she announced, "Rev. Simmons, we will put your things in the guest room, then proceed to the living room for afternoon tea. I hope that you will join us, Rev. James."

  Silently begging God's forgiveness, Rev. James cleared his throat and said, "Mother Harold, I'm afraid I will have to pass on your invitation. Lord knows, there a few more sick and shut-in I have to attend to before my day is through."

  Theophilus couldn't believe that he was hearing such a baldheaded lie from Rev. James. For the first time he realized that his mentor, like every other preacher, found that certain members of his flock tested his religion. But Mother Harold seemed more relieved than offended by the excuse. With a warm goodbye to Theophilus and a quick nod to Mother Harold, Rev. James put on his hat and quickly made his escape before she could repeat the invitation. When the front door closed, Theophilus was left alone, feeling like he was locked in some place he definitely did not want to be.

  "Rev. Simmons, the guest room is this way," Mother Harold said, leading him down the hall to a spacious bedroom decorated in pale beige and mint green. Everything in this room was expensive and tasteful, from the plaid, beige, and mint green armchair, to the mint satin damask bedspread and the matching draperies at the window. It was a fancy room that hinted at long-standing financial comfort but without the welcoming warmth he felt at Mrs. Neese's or the Lanes' sweet little home.

  "Rev. Simmons, put your things in the closet. After you wash up, come join us in the living room for dessert and coffee. We also have homemade pound cake, handpicked strawberries, and fresh whipped cream. Is this suitable to you?"

  Theophilus relaxed a little bit and said, "Mmm-mmm. Pound cake and strawberries would sure hit the spot about now."

  Mother Harold scowled as if he had just taken something off her dresser and put it in his pocket. He couldn't even begin to figure out what he had done to deserve such a nasty look.

  Saphronia, who had appeared in the doorway while they were talking, knew exactly what was wrong. "Rev. Simmons, my grandmother disapproves of slang expressions."

  Theophilus was confused. "Huh?" he said.

  "Slang, Rev. Simmons. My grandmother hates to hear Negroes use idioms like 'hit the spot'—or say 'Mmm-mmm' or 'Huh.' "

  Theophilus looked from Saphronia to her grandmother in disbelief, thinking to himself, "It's gonna be a very long evening."

  Theophilus entered the living room just as Mother Harold was setting a large silver tray of desserts on the middle of the coffee table. She motioned for him to sit on a dark red silk Queen Anne chair, settling herself on the opposite red, gold, and ivory striped silk couch. Saphronia fixed Theophilus a healthy helping of pound cake, covered with juicy red strawberries and delicious-looking homemade whipped cream. Her starched white linen dress explained why Mother Harold had wanted to rush Rev. James out of the house. The purpose of this tea was to focus Theophilus's undivided attention on Saphronia.

  He couldn't help but notice how different the women looked, even though they were obviously related. Mother Harold was a tiny lady and if you didn't look at her too closely, she could easily be mistaken for a little bitty white woman. Her hair was straight and fine and her skin was very pale, with only a hint of peachy brown in it. Saphronia, though light, had too much color in her skin to pass for anything other than what that behind clearly stated she was. And even though her hair was straight, it was thick and heavy—actually quite lovely, if it were styled in any kind of way.

  "Rev. Simmons," Mother Harold said. "I must say that I am curious to know what motivated you to preach that outrageous sermon this morning. I did not approve of it one bit.

  Your blatant referrals to human passion were unseemly for a minister to have, let alone speak of during a church service."

  Was this attack some kind of test? Theophilus wondered. Was he supposed to give a certain kind of answer to prove himself worthy? He took a few sips of his coffee to get his feelings under control. What kind of so-called proper and upstanding hostess would go out of her way to make a guest feel so uncomfortable in her home?

  But he did his best to keep his answer measured. "Mother Harold, if Negroes are going to make any real progress in this country, we have to begin by loving ourselves. And that love has to begin in the home where the family is, between a husband and wife, where the family begins. How can the Negro community appreciate itself and believe it deserves the best, if Negroes aren't able to experience an all-abiding, passionate love in their own homes? And if passion helps to binds us to one another, I shouldn't be afraid to preach about it, whether it concerns the deep love we have for a child or the kind that sets off sparks between a man and a woman."

  Mother Harold narrowed her eyes at him and took a tiny bite of her cake before saying," And you attended Blackwell College, Rev. Simmons? Simply amazing. I cannot imagine anyone at Blackwell entertaining this foolish thinking of yours."

  Theophilus sat dead still, fighting the impulse to snatch up that hateful little woman and shake her. He said, "A lot of my professors at the seminary thought just like you
."

  She looked relieved, and that made him even madder.

  "Did you attend Blackwell on a scholarship? I run the Blackwell scholarship program here in Charleston and I would never approve one for a colored youngster who echoed your sentiments."

  He thought, "I just bet you wouldn't," but said, "I had a partial scholarship and worked to pay for the rest of my education. And you know something? Working that hard taught me a lesson."

  "And what is that, Rev. Simmons?"

  "That we have to stand up for what we believe in and trust God when storm winds blow over us because of those beliefs. And you know something else, Mother Harold? It is my job as a minister to preach the truth as God wills me to understand it. Where would we be if Peter had shut his mouth when questioned by the Scribes and Pharisees as described in the Book of Acts?"

  Mother Harold didn't know quite how to respond to his reference to Peter. But she did know that he needed to be straightened out about his foolishness concerning Negroes and passion.

  "Well, young man. You may not like hearing this but I truly resent young people like you who try to undermine all that people like me have worked so hard to accomplish for our race. There is absolutely no reason for us to stay 'field Negroes' by holding on to ways that mark us as overly emotional and animalistic. We must rid ourselves of these low passions that you seem so enamored of if we are ever to become as cultured and civilized as white people. As I always tell Saphronia, we need to act in ways that help white people forget we are colored and originate from the most savage part of the world. We have to help white people see themselves in us beneath this colored skin."

  Theophilus sat back in his chair, too outraged to say a word. What was "civilized" about the brutality inflicted on Negroes in this country, after they were dragged off from "savage" Africa? What kind of "culture" would burn a man at a stake shaped like a cross—just to cite one recent horror— and then savagely hack the source of passing on life right off his body?

  It had been a long time since he was exposed to such internalized racial self-hatred. He was relieved that even Saphronia had the good sense to look annoyed at her grandmother. He now understood completely why Rev. James considered this home a safe hiding place for Negroes who were involved with the civil rights movement.

  "Mother Harold, perhaps we should talk about something else. It would be bad manners on my part to continue this conversation, especially since you have so graciously opened your home to me."

  Saphronia, already bored, took advantage of the tension between Theophilus and her grandmother to get him alone.

  "Grandmother, I think it would be nice if we finished our coffee on the back porch."

  "That is a fine idea, Saphronia. But you two young people will have to go ahead without me." Mother Harold stared meaningfully at Theophilus. "Rev. Simmons, I hope you will conduct yourself properly when you are with Saphronia. She has been raised to expect a man to act like a gentleman when in her company. Do I make myself clear?"

  Theophilus was furious at this woman. First, she insulted his sermon, his background, and even his race. Now she was acting like he would go out on that porch and get all on top of her old stuck-up granddaughter. "Mother Harold, I don't have any reason to act in any but the proper way while I am a guest in your home," he declared.

  He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and followed Saphronia to the back porch, thankful to be relieved of the presence of Mother Harold and wishing he didn't have to be bothered with Saphronia, either. He knew from all those little looks she had been sneaking at him that she was interested in more than conversation. He hoped that she wouldn't do anything that would force him to hurt her feelings.

  Saphronia motioned for Theophilus to sit down on the porch swing and placed herself only a couple of inches away from him. She yawned and stretched, arching her back and poking out her chest. "Whew, I thought we'd never get away from my grandmother," she said, edging a little closer.

  "Sister McComb, your grandmother means well," he said in his best preacher voice, trying to ease away from her, wondering when she found the opportunity to undo the top buttons of her dress so the white lace of her bra peeked out at him.

  "I guess she means well, Rev. Simmons, but I do believe that she went a bit too far with you."

  Theophilus wondered what she would say to defend her grandmother, but she was headed in another direction. "I must confess that I often wonder what's inside of a man who can think like you do. When we were at church, I noticed that you made all the people you met feel comfortable. In fact, I found you to be especially adept at making the lower-class people in our church feel important."

  Saphronia saw the guarded look on his face but mistakenly assumed he was confused.

  "Oh, Reverend, what I mean is that you are adept at talking to people who aren't as educated and intelligent as you are—which is an admirable quality."

  Theophilus was certain that Saphronia was referring to Essie and he fervently hoped she would not say any more. Because if she did, he was sure that the restraint that had seen him through so far was going to snap.

  Unable to draw him into a discussion in which she could bad-mouth Essie Lane, Saphronia decided to tackle her objective more directly. Leaning against Theophilus, so her breasts rubbed his arm, she placed her hand on his thigh. The hard muscle in his leg became tighter.

  "Why, Rev. Simmons. I do believe you have just worn yourself out. Your leg muscle is tight and soooo hard," she said seductively, massaging the muscle in his thigh.

  Theophilus was shocked at her boldness. When Saphronia's hand started to rise higher, stroking a little too close to the danger zone, he stood up so fast that he accidentally spilled coffee on her dress, marring that pristine white linen. He was about to apologize when he caught her masking an ugly look that was more related to his rejection than to the hot liquid or the brown stain. The look was both angry and filled with contempt. She needed to be taught a good lesson about teasing men and acting like she was God's gift to the Negro race.

  Theophilus put his cup down under the swing, and pulling Saphronia to her feet, stood as close to her as he dared.

  Saphronia grinned. "I guess this means you do have some interest in me. I was a bit worried that you had become taken with that Essie Lane. But even if you play around with a jook joint cook, I know you have the good sense to want to settle down with a decent woman."

  Theophilus swallowed his fury and crooned at Saphronia, in a dangerous voice, words that he hoped would never, ever reach the ears of Essie Lee Lane.

  "You know something, Saphronia, decent women aren't dick-teasers. I know you understand that word, because I do, and I'm a preacher. And I understand exactly what you're trying to start here. If I weren't so tired, I'd call up all the good sisters from Mount Nebo's prayer circle and get them over here, so we could lose some of that mess out of your stuck-up butt."

  Saphronia looked at him like he was crazy. How dare he speak to her with such vulgarity and presumption? She turned her mouth down and said, in a nasty voice that sounded just like her grandmother's, "Rev. Simmons, what kind of woman do you think I am? How dare you suggest that I would crawl up under any man, just because he had the nerve to ask? Essie Lane might do that," she hissed, "but even if I did, I certainly wouldn't be up under a Negro as black as you."

  She started to walk away but he was so angry that, without thinking, he grabbed her roughly by the arm. "Saphronia," he said, "I don't know what kind of men you've been around. But I can tell you, girl, that I don't have any respect for a woman who plays these games. A woman who's selling it is more decent—at least she's honest about her intentions. As for Essie Lane, I can tell you that she thinks too much of herself to go rubbing up like you do on every preacher she meets."

  Saphronia's eyes narrowed into slits so tight that Theophilus doubted that she could see. He loosened his grip on her arm and she snatched it away from him. Her cheeks were flushed a bright pink, and she was furiously blowing steam in and out
of her mouth.

  "No man has ever talked to me like that," she huffed, "and I am going to report you to your bishop for even daring to think about what you just said."

  "Girl, you go right ahead and tell on me," Theophilus replied. "And here's something else you can add to your list. You act like you have some kind of prize up under that dress. You think you're so high-class. But what's low-class is you toying with a Negro as black as me because you're sure he wants your old high-yellow stuff. What's low-class is your mean little grandmother thinking that marrying her old bishop gave her the right to be insulting. I'd rather have stayed at Mrs. Neese's and risked facing the Klan than here, putting up with all your snooty low-class mess."

  Theophilus didn't wait for her response. Storming into the house, he went straight to his room, closed the door, and sat down on the bed, breathing hard to try to calm his nerves. Those two women had just about run him ragged. If people only knew what preachers went through, they would surely have to stop complaining about them.

  Part 2

  1962

  Chapter Five

  WHEN THEOPHILUS CAME BACK TO MEMPHIS from Charleston, he was in love. It was not that eating-up-your-insides, can't-sleep, can't-eat obsession that had consumed him with Glodean Benson. It was a peaceful yet passionate feeling of coming home to himself, and more—something no other woman had ever given Theophilus—of joy. Essie made him feel blessed that he was simply alive and able to love her. And if all of these wondrous feelings didn't keep leading him to contemplate marriage, life would have been absolutely perfect.

  His congregation could tell that something had changed in their pastor. Sometimes, when they passed by his study, they heard him whistling what sounded like B.B. King's "Sweet Sixteen." And then there were those days when he came to work looking tired and anxious, as if he had been wrestling with himself (or God) all night over some big, life-changing decision. Then, there were those times when he gazed off into space right in the middle of a conversation, so you had to call his name over and over again to get his attention.