"The money. You can keep it this month," he told him. "Why?"
Bishop Caruthers laughed and Marcel felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up.
"If everything goes like I hope it will at the Triennial Conference, you won't have to pay me another dime," he said. "But, Marcel—the next time Cleotis Clayton calls you, be a little more friendly to the man. He is, after all, dropping some serious cash in the pot for your father's campaign for bishop, and he has some big plans for the Triennial Conference. You need to be grateful and quit acting like you doing him a favor just by saying good morning to him."
Marcel almost asked, "What plans?" but caught himself in time. If Bishop Caruthers was cooking up some scheme to get reinstated, he wanted to stay in the dark about it for as long as he could.
But Marcel's blessed ignorance couldn't last. He was soon summoned to Memphis by Otis Caruthers for a meal at Willie Clayton's, and he was told to leave that "snippety-up-in-your-face-Miss-Precious-Powers" at home.
Bishop Otis belched loudly to polish off one of the best meals he had eaten in months. Willie Clayton had outdone herself this evening. She had served baked turkey that was crispy brown on the outside and juicy and tender in all the right places. Cornbread dressing with oysters, collard greens cooked with juicy ham hocks, yam pudding, tossed salad, homemade rolls—and his favorite, ambrosia salad with tiny marshmallows and plenty of chunks of fresh-cut pineapple in it. And the dessert—Otis thought he would hurt himself when he tasted the first morsel of the delectable, four-layer red velvet cake Willie had made especially for him.
Marcel Brown sat next to him, picking at his cake, watching Willie's niece, Glodean Benson, work her charms on Rev. Sonny Washington. Sonny could be mean as a snake, and he had been especially nasty since his censure by the Board of Bishops. But tonight he did seem to be falling even more head over heels for Glodean.
"Can I get you anything else, Bishop?" Willie said.
"Some of that fine cognac you have stashed away would be perfect about now."
Willie Clayton smiled and walked over to the liquor cabinet, pulling out her best glasses and best liquor for Bishop Caruthers.
Otis swirled the liquor around and then inhaled the fragrance of it before he sipped it. "Sister Clayton, you sure outdid yourself on this meal," he said. "Pour a little more of that good stuff in this glass for your bishop."
He then clinked glasses with Willie's son, Cleotis.
Cleotis had spent the meal outlining his plans for the new funeral home in Richmond, Virginia, which would have an inaugural gala in August during the Gospel United Church's Triennial Conference. Rather than throw a party, Cleotis had come up with a scheme to open the new funeral home to the visiting clergymen at the conference as sort of a club, where they would be free to partake of the vices, such as smoking, drinking, and women, that many liked to indulge in away from home but couldn't pursue publicly in Richmond with their church members and superiors so close at hand.
A stiff admission fee plus hefty charges for services would yield a tidy profit, to be shared by Cleotis, who would use it to finance the funeral home, and by Bishop Caruthers, as well as, to a lesser extent, Marcel and Sonny, who were to recruit patrons for the club. Among the thousands of pastors and bishops in attendance, surely at least several hundred would be willing to pay for the club's services and would be trustworthy enough not to blow the whistle.
The plan was risky, Marcel knew, but it was brilliant, in a perverse way. Looking around the table at his co-conspirators, he thought of the old saying, "The devil always busy in church." It seemed especially apt to him tonight.
Chapter Fourteen
SISTER SIMMONS, I SURE DO WANNA THANK YOU for making all these pretty clothes for my little grandbaby. Chile, she would've been almost naked without them."
Essie put the box of newly made baby clothes in the woman's arms, smiling at her and wishing she wouldn't carry on over her so. Made her uncomfortable.
"Folks keep saying how you can really sew. But Lawd ha' mercy! Lawd, I think you liked to kick the machine in two when you made these clothings."
"I only made two of the dresses. Mrs. Coral Thomas made the rest. I think you should call her and thank her, too. I know she would appreciate hearing from you."
"Naw. Don't need to do all that. Just as happy to talk to my first lady. Lawd, what my folks gone say when they's find out that my pastor's wife made all these here chirren's clothings for my grandbaby."
Essie had to work real hard not to let this woman hear her sigh out loud. Some church members questioned whether it was even proper for the First Lady to start a Sewing Club, but Essie believed that it was doing God's work to make beautiful baby and maternity clothes for unwed mothers and women down on their luck. Eventually she planned to hold classes to teach the women to sew themselves. The Greater Hope Sewing Club was a great necessity in the Negro community, even if some of the women only came to church when they needed something: "Money to turn my lights on." "Food to tide me over to payday." "Change to catch the bus to the doctor." And on and on.
And now, for this one to refuse to call Mrs. Thomas and thank her was almost an insult. Part of the reason, Essie knew, was that she liked getting "special attention" from the First Lady, but part of it was embarrassment, too—shame at accepting charity from a church member she thought of as her equal, one who had the same standing in the church. She sighed. Being a first lady took a lot of gut-level thinking, as well as patience. It carried a heavy responsibility because it was a ministry in itself.
Stifling her annoyance, Essie opened the front door, hoping the woman wouldn't gush anymore. But she wasn't quite through: "Sister Simmons, I just have to thank you one more, no, two more times. Thank you—Thank you. Don't know how I would have clothed my grandbaby without you."
It crossed Essie's mind that the woman might be lingering because she was trying to get up the nerve to ask for money, as well as the clothes. Then she remembered what Rose Neese once told her—that the only way some folks knew how to get love was to beg for things. Saying a firm good-bye, she hugged the woman, then as she closed her door silently asked the Lord to forgive her for being judgmental toward this woman whom He loved just as much as her.
Essie's eyes now fell on her desk, where a large pile of letters had accumulated, all waiting to be answered. Most of them were requests for her to join the various Negro women's groups in the city. At first she had managed to fend them off by claiming that she was a new bride and wanted to be with her husband. But now the requests had started pouring in again and Essie didn't know what to do. She didn't really have the stomach to join any of them, preferring to work with the Greater Hope Sewing Club and to socialize with more down-to-earth pastors' wives, than to get mixed up in all the influence peddling of the city's Negro elite. If she got involved in anything it would be the local chapter of Southern Christian Leadership Conference. She and Theophilus had wanted to join in some of the civil rights protests in Mississippi, but Rev. James and Bishop Jennings had asked them to work from behind the scenes, where they could be more valuable as part of the movement's organizational network than in more visible and active protest activities. But there was still plenty of work to be done—mailings and phone calls about meetings and arranging lodging for protesters passing through Memphis, as well as bake sales to help raise money.
She was just thinking about dumping all those invitations in the trash can when the doorbell rang. To her surprise, Saphronia McComb and her grandmother, Mother Harold, were standing on the porch. Lee Allie had mentioned that the two were coming to town for an Alpha Kappa Alpha sorority reunion.
But they had never set foot in her house in Charleston, and she couldn't imagine what would make them want to visit her in Memphis. As she invited them in, she didn't miss the very large diamond ring on Saphronia's hand, evidence that the rumors of her engagement to Marcel Brown were true. As much as Saphronia got on her nerves, she felt sorry for her—falling in love with a m
an who was a well-known womanizer and, judging by his daddy's behavior, not likely to change when they were married.
"What brings you all to my neck of the woods?" Essie asked, praying that she had a welcoming expression on her face.
Mother Harold walked into the living room and handed Essie her purse, taking in everything like she was conducting a home inspection, before settling herself on the sofa. Saphronia followed, thinking of some excuse that would enable her to see the rest of Essie's house. She figured that she would have to make a long trip to the bathroom before she left.
"Would you and Saphronia like some refreshments?" Essie asked. "I have tea, lemonade, or Kool-Aid."
Mother Harold wrinkled her nose at the thought of drinking Kool-Aid, and Essie fought back the urge to roll her eyes. Mother Harold always walked around with her nose in the air, acting like she was some rich white lady in Gone With the Wind, instead of what she was—a snooty little Negro woman living in a small town in Mississippi most people had never even heard of. She knew goodness well that Mother Harold hated Kool-Aid. She and those other "old high-yellow biddies" in the church felt that Kool-Aid was the drink of what they called "field folk."
"We will have tea with a few sprigs of mint leaves in it," Mother Harold said.
"I only have lemons," Essie replied.
Mother Harold sighed and sucked on her teeth, looking at Saphronia as if to say, "See, I told you she wouldn't have anything decent in her house."
This time Essie did roll her eyes and just went to get them some tea with lemons. She thought to herself, "I oughta not put any sugar in it. Then it'll be just right for that old nasty-acting sourpuss."
She came back rolling a beautiful mahogany wood tray with tea and some lemon tea cakes she had made yesterday evening for Theophilus, who loved tea cakes. She served both women their tea and tea cakes, then took her favorite seat in the room, a comfortable, deep, and cushiony lavender swivel chair.
"Essie, dear, I know you are wondering what brings us to your home," Mother Harold said.
"Yeah, Mother Harold, you've got that much right."
Mother Harold gave her a mean look and continued, "Since your marriage to Rev. Theophilus Simmons, several ladies' organizations in Memphis have contacted me on your behalf, asking me to serve as the liaison between you and them. It seems that you, Essie dear, have been remiss in responding to their invitations."
As her grandmother spoke, Saphronia kept twirling that big ring, making sure Essie knew it was there. Essie took a deep breath and whispered a prayer for courage. "Mother Harold, I appreciate your help," she said. "But I'm really too busy to join any of those groups."
"Now Essie dear, as I understand it, one of the sororities contacted you, and they were even willing to wait for you to enroll in college to become eligible to pledge. Then, there was the Ladies of Distinction Social Club, filled with the wives of the most prominent colored men in the city. And, you even turned down the Memphis chapter of Class Keys, Inc."
Saphronia kept twisting that glittering engagement ring around and 'round on her finger, as Mother Harold went on, "Essie, I don't have to tell you that these are distinguished groups of colored women who are trying to help you build a proper social life in this town. No one can just join these organizations. Before you even received the invitations, you were checked out, discussed, and voted on. Most first ladies think that is an honor and would be eager to associate with colored women of this social caliber."
"Well, I'm not most first ladies," Essie said. "Their social caliber doesn't really mean much of anything to me."
Mother Harold was sure that Essie was missing the point. Could the girl really be so obtuse that she had to spell it out? With exasperation in her voice, she said, "Essie, I happen to know that the day your name came up at one club meeting, there was a serious argument. A lot of the women objected to your background. It took real effort to convince them to give you a chance."
Saphronia, who had been silent all this time, stopped playing with her engagement ring and looked at her grandmother like she was crazy. Even she knew better than to insult someone in their own home—especially if that someone was Essie Lane.
Essie got up out of her chair and walked right up to where Mother Harold was sitting.
"That is exactly right, Mother Harold. When I was a jook joint cook, most of those women would not have even formed their mouths to say good morning to me. Now I'm married to a well-respected pastor, and they've suddenly discovered I'm 'worthy' to be in a group with them. But if they didn't want me when I worked for Mr. Pompey, then they sho' don't need me now. And the same goes for you and Saphronia. Now, get out of my house."
Mother Harold looked at Essie with amazement.
"You heard me right," Essie said. "Please leave my house before I throw your old tight-tailed self right out. Mother Harold, you have some nerve, coming up in here trying to tell me how excited I should be because your old stuck-up club ladies decided that I am okay, just because a pastor saw fit to put a wedding ring on my finger. You and your kind always think you better than everybody else. But you ain't."
Essie's eyes shot over to Saphronia. "Girl, you better get her out of my house before I lose my religion."
Saphronia had said that the visit was a bad idea. She had agreed to come along only because she had wanted to show off her ring, to make it clear to Essie and through her, Theophilus, she had done very well for herself. But Essie had hardly even looked at the ring. Now she grabbed her grandmother, gently steering her to the door. When she saw Essie put her hands on her hips, she quickened her pace, practically dragging Mother Harold out of the house and to their car.
Watching them go, Essie's anger ebbed and sadness crept in to replace it. Negroes had enough trouble in their lives— some, like the woman who had picked up the baby clothes, had trouble just keeping food on their tables. But even folks who were relatively comfortable like herself, her mother, Uncle Booker, Rose Neese, and Coral and D.S. Thomas, still had to fight just for their basic rights. Women like Mother Harold could draw all the lines they wanted to between who was worthy and who was not, but all of them were still just plain old coloreds to most white folk. The Klan didn't care if Mother Harold belonged to every Negro women's club in the South.
Essie felt too restless to get back to her sewing, so she decided to wash her hair. Something about washing her hair always made her feel better when she dealt with some mess. It felt like she was rubbing trouble right out of her brain.
Chapter Fifteen
SO WHAT ELSE BEEN GOING ON DOWN AT THE church, son?" Mr. Jarvis, a longtime member of Greater Hope, managed to say in between heavy spasms of coughing that drained his energy. He lay back on his pillows weakly but gestured for Theophilus to stay when he got up to call for the nurse. He reached for Theophilus's hand.
"Now what about that little fast gal you been counseling?" he asked.
"Who?"
"You . . . know . . ." Mr. Jarvis answered.
"Lillian Graves, Jr.?"
"Yeah, little Lillian," Mr. Jarvis said and drew a breath. "Lord, why did her crazy mama name her Lillian Graves, Jr.? The mama's name ain't no Lillian, it's Flossie Jean.
"Now, Theophilus," he continued. "Ain't nothing wrong with Flossie Jean's baby girl but she fast. Sixteen years old, smoking, drinking cheap liquor, staying out all night with some jive-time twenty-year-old boy who don't half work none, and then have the nerve to cuss out her mama . . ."
Mr. Jarvis sat up a bit. He knew he needed to stay quiet but he wanted to help Theophilus understand what he was dealing with, with some of those fools down at Greater Hope. He had been a part of that church all his life. And at eighty-eight, he knew what was up.
"See," he said, through a haggling cough. "Ahhhh . . . see . . . Theophilus, don't get all caught up in that mess with them peoples. Flossie Jean the one who really the trouble. See, she used to be something else, too. Man in, man out the bedroom. That's all that girl know. That's what the matter with her ch
ild. That Lillian."
He started coughing again, so shaken by the spasms that he had tears in his eyes. "This pain like some burning ache, running all which-a-way in my chest," he said, looking at Theophilus through watery eyes. "Reverend, start up a prayer and ask the Lord to give me some real relief . . ."
Theophilus took Mr. Jarvis's other hand in his and started praying. Before he got sick, Mr. Jarvis had been his top deacon in the church. It was he who had taught Theophilus how to minister to the sick and shut-ins, especially the members who were close to death. Seems like Mr. Jarvis had a gift for seeing a brother or sister to the doorway leading them home. Theophilus cleared his throat several times to hold back the tears. He knew Mr. Jarvis didn't have long, and he hated letting him go.
"Lord, this is the first time I have had to lead a prayer with Mr. Jarvis in tow. But this pain in him and this sickness got a hold on him, Lord, and he need for You to make it let go. He needs to be back on his feet, helping to cheer the sick and teaching those You are calling home not to be afraid. Give him the peace, O Lord, that he has brought to so many others. We thank you for your everlasting mercy, O God."
Theophilus expected Mr. Jarvis to say Amen. But Mr. Jarvis was lying back on his pillow with a look of utter contentment on his face. To his surprise, he noticed that Mr. Jarvis's hand was limp and let it go. How could Mr. Jarvis have slipped away from him so quickly and quietly? But then that was so like Mr. Jarvis—looking out for him, not wanting him to be upset or to worry him up to his very last breath on earth. Theophilus pulled a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wiped the tears that were streaming down his face. He kissed Mr. Jarvis on the forehead and went to get the nurse.
Theophilus pulled up into the driveway of the parsonage and turned the engine off, leaving the radio on. Howlin' Wolf was singing. Mr. Jarvis, like Uncle Booker, loved him some Howlin' Wolf. Always told him that the Wolf was one Negro who could "sang an old man just right." Said he used to play himself some Howlin' Wolf whenever he had a mind to get frisky with the missus. It filled Theophilus with warmth to think about Mr. Jarvis like that, and he hoped he and Essie would feel passion all their lives, just like Mr. and Mrs. Jarvis. That had to be the kind of love the Lord had always intended a man and a woman to have. But when the song ended, it was as if Mr. Jarvis had slipped away on him again. His sorrow crept right back up on him, weighing him down and making his steps heavy as he went into the house.
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