Precious went and got Laymond's stuff, put it in a large brown envelope, thrust it in his hands, and practically slammed the door in his face before he could say anything to her. She pressed her ear to the door and then put on the extra lock when she heard his heavy, angry breathing coming from the other side. He took his time leaving and she stayed frozen in that position at the door until she was certain he was gone.
Chapter Twenty-three
SAPHRONIA SAT BY THE TELEPHONE THINKING about what Precious Powers told her. At first, Saphronia didn't want to hear what Precious Powers had to say, but now she wished that she had not been so terse with her. She wanted to know more. The closer the wedding got, the more unsure she was of Marcel. And she was so torn—all her life, her grandmother had told her that the only way she could be somebody big was to marry a prominent pastor. But now that she was about to achieve that goal, she was coming to question the wisdom of this thing.
She went into the bedroom of their suite and made sure her grandmother was asleep before she got the briefcase Marcel told her to keep safe for him. He had also instructed her not to look inside, saying it was a test to see just how trustworthy she would be when they married. But now, after talking to Precious, she was getting ready to fail this test with flying colors. Saphronia checked on her grandmother again. When she heard a steady stream of snoring, she sat down on the floor and opened Marcel's briefcase.
The first thing she pulled out was a folder containing minutes from the business meetings he had attended at the conference. She dug down in the case some more and touched something that felt thick, soft, and leathery. She opened the case wider and struggled to pull out a fat, red leather address book with a bunch of money stuck in it. Not just dollar bills, either—these were big bills, nothing short of a fifty and mostly hundreds. Saphronia frowned and started to count all of this money. It was a lot, even for a preacher, to have on hand.
She flipped through the book some more and came to a section with the names, telephone numbers, and church names of a number of ministers and bishops whom she had seen at the conference. Next to each name, in a column titled "Type," was a description. Some men had "fair-skinned only" next to their names, while others had specified "long legs a must," or "chocolate delight desired." And there was even one emphatic statement, "no short nappy-headed gals, please."
The last three pages had only women's names on them. Saphronia didn't recognize any of those names and wondered if Marcel had affairs with them. At the end of the second page, she saw the name Precious Powers with several numbers next to it, including one that had been hastily scribbled in the book with a pencil.
She lay the red leather address book on the floor and dialed the penciled in number, hanging up at the first ring. What if Marcel was with Precious Powers and answered himself ? Saphronia, who had always prided herself on her very proper and distinctive speech, knew that he would recognize her voice if she so much as breathed into that telephone.
"But," she thought, "this woman is angry with Marcel. She would not have him over there after what she found out." Feeling a bit more confident, she dialed the number again and let it ring until someone answered it.
"Hello."
Saphronia recognized the low, deep voice of Precious Powers. Her own throat was almost too dry and tight to let her speak. But she choked out, "Precious, I . . . found . . . your number and . . . I . . ."
"Saphronia, girl. That you, ain't it? You know you shocking me to death calling me like this. I got the feeling when we was talking earlier, you wasn't happy about me calling you."
"No, Precious. I wasn't happy to hear from you. Why would I want to hear, firsthand, that my fiancé is sleeping with not only one but two women?"
"Then why would you call me if your self don't want to know anything?"
Saphronia sighed loud enough to be heard clearly on the other end of the telephone. It was absurd—here she was, a well-respected speech teacher, feeling intimidated by talking with a woman who probably barely finished high school. She said, "I don't think Marcel has been very honest with me about a lot of things. I thought that talking to you would help me think better about all of this—clear my head a bit."
"Well, you need to forget about all of that head-clearing talk. You wasting your time there. Like I said, I think we should fix his sorry behind."
"Huh?"
Precious sighed with exasperation. "Revenge, Saphronia, revenge. Girl, the right kind of revenge could be even better than hearing Marcel groan when he—"
She stopped talking as it occurred to her that she was talking to Marcel's fiancée. That revenge thing had gotten so good to her until she forgot to watch her mouth.
"Uhh, sorry, Saphronia. I . . . kind of . . ."
Saphronia laughed softly into the phone. She knew exactly what Precious was talking about. She had heard that groan only once when things got a bit out of hand between her and Marcel and she figured out a way to give him some relief without going all the way. That groan had sounded so good when he let it out with her, she couldn't wait until things got out of hand between them again.
"There is no need to apologize to me. I know exactly what you are talking about." She laughed some more and then her voice got breathy when she said, "And Precious, you must agree with me when I say the man has some wonderful kind of a groan."
This time Precious laughed. "Girl, girl, girl! You sho' do know what you talking about. I'm telling you. Sometimes, I think that groan can get to me more than some of the other good things that rascal can do to a woman."
"Me, too, Precious. Me, too."
Saphronia was surprised that she was comfortable being this candid with Marcel's girlfriend. She had never talked to anyone like that—never dared to tell a soul about her complex feelings for Marcel. She knew that she must have hit a serious impasse with Marcel to be able to have this conversation with Precious Powers.
"Precious, the idea of revenge is beginning to sound appealing to me. Tell me, just what do you think we should do? You know whatever it is, it has to surpass anything Marcel is capable of doing."
"Girl, you sho' is right. And that there is a problem. You know, anytime a preacher working with that crook, Cleotis Clayton, by bringing that jive-timer business for his funeral home ho' club, he'll do just about anything."
Saphronia felt a cold wave of shock run through her chest and down to the pit of her stomach. She thought she heard Precious say that Marcel had something to do with a prostitution service with Cleotis Clayton, of all people. Everybody knew Cleotis Clayton was shady, but his mother, Sister Willie Clayton, had only recently testified about his return to the church. Surely she was mistaken about what she thought she heard. But the clear, straightforward tone in Precious's voice let her know that she was not. She started breathing hard into the telephone without even realizing it.
"Saphronia, you all right? You sound like you having a asthma attack or something."
She sat down on the couch and tried to steady her breathing. She was sweating and looked around for something to fan herself with. She found a conference bulletin and waved it vigorously across her face and neck.
"Saphronia, Saphronia, are you okay?"
She calmed down. But as her breathing became normal, she felt bile rising in her throat as she thought of all of those ministers' names and the descriptions of women in Marcel's red leather book. She lay the telephone receiver on the floor and put her head between her knees. When the nausea began to subside, she picked up the telephone and said, "I'm better. Just that I can't really believe what I am hearing."
"Saphronia, believe it. Your fiancé, the Reverend Marcel DeMarcus Brown, is running around this Triennial Conference like he one of the biggest pimps in Richmond. He, Rev. Sonny Washington, and Bishop Otis Caruthers, all working for Cleotis Clayton, and helping that lowlife run a ho' business for a select group of preachers at this conference who have some very deep pockets.
"Saphronia, girl, the only reason I'm in Richmond at all was be
cause Marcel asked me to come out here and do the books for what he first told me was some kind of refreshment club—a place where the ministers could come get a drink, read the paper, talk, swear, and grab a cigarette away from the eyes of the church folks. Offered me some good money, too. And I won't lie to you. I wanted to be with Marcel real bad. But girl, on the first night I stepped up in here, I knew that something funky was up. First thing, you know something's wrong when a bunch of Negroes want to hang out in a funeral home."
Saphronia started laughing. What Precious said was so true. Negroes just didn't want to socialize in a funeral home.
"I did confront Marcel about this. And you know what he did? Girl, he started laughing and then patted me on the head, and told me to keep my nose out of things I didn't understand."
"Why didn't you go to someone in authority at the conference and tell them what was going on when you figured things out?"
"Saphronia," Precious said, resentful of being questioned like that. "Who in the world was I supposed to go to? Honey, you just don't know who has been to this place and ordered themselves up a treat. Now tell me, who do you think could be trusted in the midst of all of this mess?"
Saphronia knew Precious was right. There was no telling what ministers and bishops were involved in this thing.
"But you didn't have to keep working for them, Precious. You may not be able to do anything to stop it, but you didn't have to be a part of it."
Precious got real quiet. Saphronia was right. She had stayed, knowing how wrong she was, for two reasons—Marcel and the money. She needed the money bad. She figured Saphronia couldn't understand the first reason. Saphronia gave the distinct impression of being a tight-lipped priss, who probably held everybody to impossible standards that she, herself, could not keep. And she knew that she had never been in a situation that would help her understand the second one.
Saphronia interrupted her thoughts, saying, "I cannot understand how all of this could happen and in church. I don't understand how Marcel could get involved with something like this. And I don't understand how he could do such a horrible thing to me."
"Look, Saphronia," Precious snapped. "This funky mess ain't about what Marcel doing to you. It's about some trifling and greedy men messing over they church and disrespecting they own Negro womens. And your fiancé, a bigtime preacher from Detroit, is trying to sell their souls so that he can have some heaven right here on earth. That's what this is really all about."
Precious was surprised at the vehemence of her anger about this mess. Just a few hours ago, she wanted to be with Marcel. Now she was beginning to wish she had never met him.
Saphronia was hurt and angry. She loved Marcel, but it hurt her deeply that he would ask her to marry him when he didn't even love her—and now this, that he would be mixed up in something definitely immoral and probably illegal. She blew her nose and sniffed. But then she heard her grandmother stirring. If her grandmother caught her on the telephone this late, and crying like this, she would not lose one minute finding out what was wrong.
"Precious, I better go."
"But we haven't figured out what we planning on doing to Marcel. Why don't we meet tomorrow? I'm staying with the woman who cooks the food for the club and I know she'll let us meet at her house."
Saphronia didn't respond to this suggestion because she wasn't so sure she wanted to arrange a meeting at the home of a woman who cooked for a brothel.
"Tee Cole is okay," Precious said, guessing the reason for Saphronia's hesitation. "The only reason she working there is to hold on to her house. She lost her other job and needed some good-paying work real fast."
Saphronia remained silent a few more seconds and finally said, "I guess I'll have to take you on your word. But will I be safe in her neighborhood?"
Precious sighed. She had momentarily forgotten how much of a snob Saphronia was.
"Look, Tee is a good woman and she lives around decent folks. Saphronia, education, money, and where somebody lives don't always tell you who is a decent person and who is not. Look at Marcel—if I used your scale, I'd have to say that he was decent. But we know that ain't so, now don't we?"
Saphronia felt ashamed at the truth of those words. "Precious," she said, "I will come by tomorrow if that is okay with you and that lady. The sooner we get together the better."
"You right. And don't worry, I'll have some kind of plan by tomorrow."
Saphronia smiled to herself. A tiny part of her was looking forward to meeting with Precious, even though she was going to have to tell a gigantic lie to get away from her grandmother. And she didn't doubt that any woman who had the nerve to call a man's fiancée and report that he was two-timing both of them, certainly had the ability to work up a brilliant scheme to get back at him.
Chapter Twenty-four
SUSIE JAMES LOOPED HER HAND THROUGH ESSIE'S arm and steered her to a row of seats on the gymnasium floor, with Willis and Thayline following close behind them. Rev. James and Theophilus had met that morning with Booker and Pompey, who had news to fill them in on. Then they would have to race to meet up with Bishop Jennings, who had asked them to march with him in the preelection processional. Any preacher seen in this lineup would be treated as someone who was important enough to keep an eye on.
"Baby doll, you think you gonna get a chance to talk to Baybro before service starts?"
Essie turned around and looked across the gymnasium in search of Theophilus. Like Thayline, she was hoping that either he or Rev. James would find them in enough time to let them know what was going on with this Bishop Caruthers business.
The gymnasium was almost packed to full capacity, though it was only 8:00 and the service wasn't even supposed to start until 9:15. The crowd was looking good, all these well-dressed, good-smelling, smiling, laughing, tall-walking, and proud-to-be-a-part-of-such-a-great-institution Negroes everywhere. The magnificent array of hats on the women's heads alone was something to see. There was one sister standing near them wearing a hat that was so outstanding that she could not help stand out, even in a crowd of more than four thousand people. The hat was made of sheer gold silk, with a silver and gold brocade ribbon around the crisp brim, and a shower of rhinestones on the crown that gave off a rainbow of sparkles every time she moved her head. This sister knew she looked good, as did the four ministers who rushed to hold her folding chair for her when she finally found a seat to her liking.
She spied Eddie and Johnnie Thomas working their way through the crowd, Johnnie's bright red pillbox hat bobbing up and down. She was a good woman, Essie thought, and they all should have known better than to prejudge her. Thayline's friends were bound to be good and decent folks, even if they did have outrageous-looking jeweled teeth in their mouths. Essie watched Eddie catering to Johnnie, making sure she was comfortable and placing his arm protectively around her shoulders so that she wouldn't get cold in that sexy red sleeveless dress she was wearing. This romance looked like it might last, even after this conference ended and Eddie went back home to Chicago.
But there was no sign of Theophilus and Rev. James.
When they had met that morning, Theophilus had been worried that they'd be late for the service, but Rev. James seemed to be focused entirely on the meeting with Booker and Pompey.
"Bishop Jennings asked us to march in the processional," Theophilus reminded him.
"I know. But this is more important. I think Percy would rather I do this first."
Theophilus had to agree—catching and stopping Bishop Caruthers was far more important than walking in a special processional at the Triennial Conference. If they didn't do something about Bishop Caruthers, there might not be much of a denomination to march before anyway. Negro church folk were mighty particular about how much dirt they could tolerate before they began asking themselves if the denomination they belonged to was one led by God or had been infiltrated by the devil. They would run people out of the church in droves—and away from God—if they didn't deal with this mess.
And now, Booker and Pompey's report was every bit as shocking as they feared.
"Murcheson, this ain't just no smokin', drinkin, and gettin'girls-to-the-preacher thing like I first thought it was," Booker said. "This thing being set up just like any other regular kind of business, even with offices."
Pompey chimed in, "Lawd! Lawd, y'all. It is some real nasty, stanky, skanky, low-down nasty business."
"So like we was sayin', you all need to get off your behinds and do something about it. 'Cause y'all know this devilment ain't right. Preachers!" Booker spat out the word like he was cussing.
Rev. James said gravely, "What I say we should do is get some podium time from Bishop Jennings tomorrow. Then, Theophilus, I want you to get up and tell folks what been goin' on."
Theophilus frowned at Rev. James. "Who said anything about me being the one to go up and expose anybody?"
"I did. I did as your new bishop," Rev. James stated, with a slight grin crossing his face as he recognized how a little bishop's power could come in handy at times.
Theophilus gave him a look that said, "Oh, so it's like that, huh?"
And Rev. James looked right back at him as if to say, "Yes, it is like that."
Theophilus brushed his hand over his forehead. Bishop Jennings or Rev. James were always talking about standing up for what you believed was right, and here they were putting this tremendous burden on him.
"Rev. James, I understand where you coming from. But what I don't understand is why I have to be the one to do this thing. Why aren't you going up there to do it?"
"Son," Rev. James said. "Son, the bishops and pastors who got some decency in them believe that you have what it takes to lead this denomination into the next century. Don't you realize that in twenty, thirty years, this church gone be faced with some things we don't even have the sense to begin thinking about right now? You have what it takes to be a bishop in the next century, Theophilus—the right kind of bishop. But you got to cut your teeth on some church mess to get you ready for that responsibility. You hear what I'm trying to tell you, Theophilus?"
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