Church Folk

by Michele Andrea Bowen

  "Keep your offerings, Willie Clayton. This church doesn't need money so bad that I have to be your pimp. And even if it did, I'd rather preach to three people out of the trunk of my car, like Rev. Roscoe Alexander, than be a kept pastor."

  Sister Clayton was ready to cuss him out, pastor or not. After all her family's years at Greater Hope, not to mention their financial support, his words were like a slap in the face to her. She was all puffed up and about to let him have it when Essie walked into the office. "That little slit-eyed heifer is part of this!" she thought. "She's the one who drove Glodean out of her home church."

  Willie Clayton's eyes locked on a silver-framed wedding picture of Essie and Theophilus. Snatching it up off the desk, she flexed her shoulder, ready to heave it right at Theophilus's head. Essie jumped in front of her and said in a low, deadly sounding voice, "I wish you would," then grabbed her wrist and tried to shake the photo out of Willie's hand.

  "Essie!" Theophilus snapped. "Let her go. Let her go and leave. This is church business. You need to stay out of it."

  Essie released her hold on Sister Clayton, shocked that Theophilus would speak to her so sharply and in front of a prominent church member, no less. His outburst also stopped Sister Clayton dead in her tracks, and she loosened her grip on the photo. Essie pried it out of her hand and set it on the desk, then marched out of the office.

  Willie Clayton stormed out right behind her, shouting, "Theophilus Simmons, your black behind has made a big mistake this time. You just don't know."

  Essie was so mad she walked right past Coral Thomas, who had been waiting to talk to her. Coral had heard the shouting going on in the office and got up to follow Essie, hoping to console her. She said, "I see you getting ready to end this honeymoon, Miss Essie."

  Essie started at the sound of Coral's voice, still too consumed with fury to quite catch what she was saying.

  Coral repeated, "You gettin' ready to stop being a bride and 'bout to become a bona fide wife, soon as you set that boy straight 'bout his mess. Lord, don't know what gets into him sometimes," she said, shaking her head. "You want me to stay and wait with you until he come out that office?"

  "No, I'm okay," Essie said.

  Coral understood that she needed time alone so she could calm down before she had to face her husband. She gave Essie a hug and kiss and went to find D.S., whom she had left outside sipping a Pepsi and walking around the church, checking out the building for any problems. Being in construction, he believed it was his Christian duty to keep Greater Hope in tiptop shape.

  "Who died and made you bishop, Essie?" Theophilus demanded, huffing and storming around the living room like he was trying to bring the house down on their heads.

  "You may run that church but you don't have the last word in running me," she shot back. "You owe me an apology."

  "I owe you a what? You're the one who came barging into my office, interrupting an important meeting, and got to tussling with Sister Clayton!"

  "Theophilus, I did not know that old witch was still in there. And she was the one who got to tussling—she was about to smash our wedding picture!"

  "You didn't belong in there, Essie! Willie Clayton was in the middle of threatening to pull out of Greater Hope."

  "Theophilus, if you had told me, your wife, why you were meeting with Willie Clayton, I never would have come in that room."

  "Why should I tell you church business that doesn't concern you?"

  "Because I am your wife, Theophilus. Because we are living one life now, not two. If you rise in the denomination, I rise with you. If you fall, if you wind up out on the street, I do, too. If you fight with Sister Clayton, I am the one who's going to defend you to the churchwomen, who are going to talk to me about it, not you. I am your helpmeet, and all your business is my business."

  "The point is, Essie, you should have knocked."

  Essie blinked back tears and, raising her eyes to the ceiling, over his shoulder, thought about King David as a young boy facing Goliath. She whispered to herself, "Lord, I need me a slingshot 'bout now."

  Theophilus felt outgunned. Whenever Essie felt he was getting the best of her in an argument, she always went over his head and straight to Jesus. Who did this little woman think she was—Queen Esther?

  Here his wife was, standing in his living room, having a little talk with Jesus and waiting, literally, for God to straighten him out. The bodacious prayers and faith of Negro women were something. And it wouldn't surprise him one bit, if when they all were in heaven, the Lord would pull out some kind of scroll, and on it would be all of the prayers of Negro women since the day they got off the slave boats on up to this civil rights movement and beyond.

  What were the men going to do, then?

  "Lord," Theophilus prayed, "I know Essie's gotten the jump on me, coming to You over this one. But I need You to help me, Lord. This marriage bond is hard, sometimes almost too hard for me to understand without Your help."

  Chapter Thirteen

  MARCEL BROWN CLOSED HIS EYES AND LEANED his head forward, letting out a low moan as the soft, cool fingers of his church secretary, Precious Powers, massaged the aches out of his neck. The two of them had been working all morning, shifting money around and straightening up the books. They went through this ritual every month, the week before he met with his Finance Board. And it never failed that Precious, with her astute sense of numbers, found a way to keep his butt out of hot water. It was one of the things he liked about her—and there were very few women he truly liked. He loved his mother but he didn't like her. And he had a fondness for and admired the accomplishments of his fiancée, Saphronia Ann McComb. But he didn't like her. But Precious Powers? Now, her, he liked—and he needed her.

  Precious finished massaging his neck and kissed the corner of his mouth. He reached up and, cupping his hand around the back of her head, pulled her closer to him. "Mmmmmmm, girl. Come on 'round this chair and put that big, fine tail of yours in my lap. We still have a few minutes."

  Precious, a pretty cocoa-colored woman with large black eyes and a natural, soft blush in her cheeks, smiled and kissed him back. She sat down on Marcel's lap, straddling him, skirt up to her thighs, and placed her honeysuckle-scented arms around his neck. He licked her collarbone, tasting honeysuckle, and breathed in the enticing aroma.

  "Ohhh, baby," he crooned.

  That made Precious wrap her arms tighter around his neck and bury her head on his shoulder, to hide her silent tears. She was losing Marcel. She loved him, and she couldn't bear the thought of that tight-lipped woman becoming his wife. Marcel kept trying to tell her that being married to Saphronia wouldn't change anything between them. He assured her that she was the one he really wanted to marry, but couldn't because of his father and Bishop Giles. With his career just taking off, they insisted that if he married a woman who was once a stripper, it would mess up any chance he had of ever becoming a bishop. To rise in the church, he needed the right kind of wife—a wife like Saphronia.

  "What about Mary Magdalene?" he once asked his father. Indeed, what about Jackie Giles, the Bishop's own wife, who had been a cocktail waitress when he met her? That was different, his father explained. He was already a bishop then, and everybody understood that he had married Jackie out of loneliness and grief, after facing the death of his first wife— a wife who had been the right kind of first lady.

  Marcel knew his father's words were jive and hollow because he knew all about Jackie Giles. She wasn't even a decent woman. She had been jumping in and out of Marcel's bed, drawn by his pretty-boy looks, right up until her expensive honeymoon in Barbados with the Bishop and just three days after she got back. Much as she loved putting on first lady airs, Jackie was too young and frisky to stay satisfied with a dried-up old man like Lawson Giles. For Marcel, getting her under those sheets hadn't even been a challenge.

  "It's time you took your sweet-smelling self back to work," he told Precious. "You know I'm waiting on Bishop Otis Caruthers."

  He tr
ied to nudge her off his lap, but Precious clung to him. "You better get used to interruptions," Marcel said. "Once this church has a first lady, she won't take too kindly to walking in here and finding your legs all up around her husband."

  Precious could no longer hide her sniffles.

  "Go back to work," Marcel said harshly.

  His reference to Saphronia sounded hard, he knew, but he was talking to himself as much as to Precious. To show her he was sorry he had hurt her feelings, he patted her on the head before pushing her off his lap. She was still dabbing at her eyes as she headed back to her office, with the scent of honeysuckle trailing behind her.

  She had left not a moment too soon. Minutes later Bishop Caruthers burst into his office, looking so full of hell the devil wouldn't be stupid enough to mess with him.

  "Where the hell was your secretary, Marcel? Do you know how long I've been sitting out there?" he bellowed. "Then when she did come waltzing by, she had the nerve to say, 'Just a moment, while I tell the Pastor you're here.' Well, I wasn't about to keep on waiting on Miss—"

  "Miss Precious, Miss Precious Powers, Bishop Caruthers," she said from the doorway.

  Otis Caruthers stopped and sniffed the air, making it clear that it didn't take a genius to know that a woman had been in the office just moments ago—and that his nose, picking up the honeysuckle scent, told him it was Precious.

  "I see you keep your girls real busy, Marcel," he said, looking Precious up and down like she was cheap. "But this one seems too dumb to know when she's keeping a bishop waiting."

  "I knowed," Precious said defiantly. "But I was doing my job for the Pastor, just like always."

  "You have to be the most loyal church secretary I have ever laid eyes on, Miss—"

  "Precious Powers," she repeated. She wasn't afraid of Otis Caruthers, though she knew he terrified Marcel. He had some hold on Marcel, but, much as she snooped, she could never find out what it was. Since she did the books, she knew that it was costing Marcel money.

  When Bishop Caruthers saw she wasn't planning to leave the office, he started pacing in agitation, clenching and unclenching his fists as if he wanted to slug her. Precious just smirked at him, looking like she was just praying for him to throw the first punch.

  "Miss Powers," Marcel said. "Let's call it a day. I need to talk to the Bishop alone."

  Precious looked at him to make sure that he really wanted her to leave, not to stay for moral support and to watch his back. But with his eyes, he signaled to her, "You making this worse, not better."

  As soon as the office door closed, Caruthers sat down in one of the two blue, black, and red plaid armchairs facing Marcel's massive mahogany desk. It was a gracious room, with a blue, gold, and ruby red Persian area rug lying on the walnut-stained hardwood floor; subdued sky blue walls decorated with a painting of the church and a large portrait of Marcel; navy blue silk draperies; and the two tree-height plants placed in front of the long, wide windows that overlooked a busy boulevard. Caruthers pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and Marcel pushed a heavy crystal ashtray across the desk to him. It had been a gift from one of his Trustee Board members who refused to smoke outside whenever he came to call on the pastor.

  After lighting his cigarette, Caruthers sat back. "Now, your Miss My-Name-is-Miss-Precious-Powers must be one hell of a secretary for you to set back and let her show her tail with a bishop."

  In his mind, Marcel begged Precious to forgive him as he said, "Precious is a real good secretary, Bishop—a real mighty good secretary. And she can type pretty good, too."

  Caruthers let out a snort of a laugh. "Well, Reverend, you and your daddy always did have a knack for selecting the right women to work for you. And I see you haven't lost your weakness for the ones with big juicy behinds, either."

  Marcel, relieved he had scored a few points with Bishop Caruthers, opened his desk drawer and pulled out the bottle of Seagram's he kept hidden in his desk. He opened the sliding panel on the narrow mahogany credenza behind the desk, took out a stack of paper cups, and poured two cups of liquor.

  Otis put his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and reached for the cup with the most liquor in it. "I was about to ask if there was anything, other than Miss Precious, worth having in this office."

  "Now, Bishop, it is my duty to please you."

  "And you think letting me face off with your secretary was pleasing to me, Marcel?"

  Marcel didn't answer that but just asked, "Do you need anything else?"

  "Precious Powers would be just what the doctor ordered after a few cups of this stuff."

  Marcel swallowed hard and said, "Can't help you there. I'm afraid Precious draws the line at bishops."

  Caruthers set his cup on a hand-carved wooden coaster on the desk and leaned back in his chair, letting Marcel sweat a few moments. He was talking about Precious as much to unsettle Marcel as anything else. He knew all about Precious, that disaster-waiting-to-happen with his pending marriage to Saphronia McComb, and those secret trysts with Jackie Giles. If Lawson ever found out that the son of his favorite pastor put his hands on his wife, there would be hell to pay, both for Marcel and his daddy.

  "Knowledge is power" was the name of Bishop Otis Caruthers's tune.

  "Did Cleotis Clayton contact you?" he asked Marcel.

  Marcel poured himself a refill and downed it in three quick gulps. The liquor was strong and made him wince and bite his teeth together, hitting him so hard his eyes burned. "What does Cleotis Clayton have to do with you and me?" he asked. "He said he would endorse my daddy's campaign for bishop if we publicly endorsed the new Clayton funeral home he was opening in Richmond, Virginia, at the Triennial Conference, this year."

  Otis sat up in his chair and fingered his cup for a second or two. He said, "Marcel, do you remember me telling you that I knew of someone who wanted to make some extra money as much as we do?"

  "Umm, hmm," Marcel said, getting kind of worried. He had a sinking feeling that endorsement from Cleotis Clayton had some extra strings to it and that Bishop Caruthers was the one pulling them. It looked like Jackie Giles was turning into one overpriced good time, with the price of silence going up.

  "Marcel, it's no secret that I am fed up with being on location. The money they throw my way is peanuts and I am constantly at the mercy of tight-fisted jive-timers like Percy Jennings."

  Gospel United Church bishops earned a modest base salary from the denomination itself. It was perks that made so many of them fat in the pockets—birthday and anniversary gifts from pastors wanting favors, love offerings taken up at every church they visited, money earned from sitting on various boards in their communities, money earned as guest speakers at churches in and out of their districts, and so much more. Otis Caruthers, as a located bishop, or a bishop who had been suspended by the denomination for questionable behavior, couldn't cash in on any of these perks because they were all connected to presiding over a district.

  "I get by on my little odds and ends," Caruthers was saying. He looked meaningfully at Marcel, who now opened his desk drawer. He took out a fat brown envelope stuffed with fives, tens, and twenties and pushed it across the desk to Bishop Caruthers, who let it sit there.

  "But, Marcel," he went on, "at this year's Triennial Conference I am determined to get my district back. That's going to take some cash."

  Marcel leaned on his elbows and looked straight at Caruthers. "People are afraid to support you," he said. "The daddy and mama of that little teenage girl you tried to pick up raised so much mess that every bishop had to vote to censure you. No one's going to break out of the pack. They're all afraid it will hurt their careers."

  "That's where the cash comes in," Caruthers said.

  "You mean for payoffs? To buy votes?" Marcel asked. "I cannot begin to imagine what you think will bring in enough money to buy you the votes you'd need to get reinstated to a district. Bishop, there simply isn't that much money floating around this denomination to get you back in."

  "Mar
cel," Caruthers said, "I have always believed that where there's a will, there's a way. And I've been a bishop long enough to know that if you have the right amount of will, you can certainly buy yourself a way."

  He got an odd, dreamy smile on his face that made Marcel wonder what he was thinking and—not for the first time— if he was right in the head. Every now and then Bishop Caruthers slipped into some spaces that gave him the creeps. After a minute or two Marcel found himself practically yelling, "Bishop!"

  Caruthers immediately sat up straight and remembered to give Marcel his attention.

  "You're talking about a will and a way. And I know you have the will. But my daddy says that there are people like Percy Jennings who want to bring you back up before this Triennial Conference and petition for your dismissal from the episcopacy. They don't even want you, as my daddy said, to preside over a pissant district out in the swamps of hell."

  Venom replaced the grin that had stretched across Otis Caruthers's face only moments earlier. "Who told you that?" he said.

  Marcel sat back in his chair rubbing his chin, enjoying being the bearer of bad news. Bishop Caruthers was the one who got all the dirt on everybody else in the denomination.

  "Bishop, you're not the only one in this church who can pluck the good grapes off the vine."

  "It's preachers like you who put the grapes there in the first place," Caruthers retorted nastily.

  He knew the only way Marcel could have been privy to such information was through that ever-tightening connection between his father and Bishop Lawson Giles. Those two wanted to run the whole show, and they were ruthless enough to cut anybody else out, including him. That—and the little hush money it gave him every month—was the reason he had been so happy to learn about Marcel and Jackie Giles. It was a blessing and he intended to make the most of it.

  Now Caruthers pushed the envelopeful of money back across the desk to Marcel. "This month's on the house."

  "Huh?" Marcel said, confused and growing even more worried.