Theophilus nodded his head yes and just sighed.
"Now tell me, son," Rev. James asked. "Just what is it you so afraid of?"
Booker and Pompey looked at Theophilus with disappointment. They had long placed him in the category as a man with some "balls."
He took heed of those looks, got quiet for a few seconds, and took a few deep breaths to gain some composure. The last thing he wanted to do was fail those two—not to mention Essie, himself, and God.
"Look," he said, "before I go jumping up on the podium making serious accusations against some of the most powerful men in this church, I need proof—some serious proof— in writing. That's what I thought we were going to be getting this morning."
"No," Booker interrupted. "We said we would get proof. Didn't nobody say a thing about something in writing. You wanted proof that the place exists—which meant that somebody had to go and see it with their own eyes. Now we have done all of that."
Rev. James put his hand on Theophilus's shoulder and said, "Now, son, I know your mama and daddy didn't raise you to let something as shallow as keeping a job stop you from doing the right thing. This here thing is bigger than you being able to pastor that church down in Memphis. It is about righteousness and God and doing right by God's people. You are a pastor and your job as a pastor is to teach, protect, and lead the people God has placed under you to shepherd. You and I both know that one day you will stand before the Almighty and answer to Him concerning how you did your job. And it has been my assumption all along that you, Theophilus, have always been about doing the right thing for your church, your people, and the Lord. Am I right or wrong about you on this?"
Theophilus acknowledged, "You are right, Rev. James."
Rev. James nodded his head as if to say, "I thought that was the case here." He looked straight at Theophilus again and said, "The way I see it, if you don't go up in there and carry out this here plan like we all planned it, whether you have some written proof or not, your church won't be worth much anyway. In fact, not a one of our churches will. For you see, Theophilus, this wickedness we 'bout to do battle with, if left to itself, will spread and spread and spread till ain't nothing left but the devil's ashes where God's houses used to be. And 'fore you know it, the church God gave you won't be nothing but an empty shell, just masquerading as something it once used to be."
"Way I see it," Booker said, "y'all as much to blame as those devils hiding out in preachers' robes. Y'all just as much to blame as they are. And you just as much to blame because when Bishop Caruthers, Rev. Washington, and that son of Ernest Brown's first started doing little bits and pieces of dirt, somebody should have stopped them dead in their tracks. Sometimes you preachers act like this denomination gave y'all some license to preach. But wasn't it God supposed to have picked you? You just need to put that there robe laying 'cross your arm on and march on in there and do God's work."
Theophilus knew that Booker was right. Every time a good preacher didn't take action against a corrupt one, it was like putting a stamp of approval on the man. If he was worth the ground he was standing on, he had to leave aside the denomination's politics and do God's work, which is what he had been called to do—to stand up not just for the church he pastored, but for the entire Church.
Theophilus raised his hands to the men standing expectantly before him. "I'm ready," he said. "You all just have my back covered in case one of these preachers gets a little too crazy when I get to calling out those names tomorrow."
"Jesus got your back, but we'll be there anyway," Booker said. "Don't you worry none, Theophilus."
It was not until the afternoon, long after the service had ended, that Essie was finally able to get Theophilus alone and ask about the meeting with Booker and Pompey. By then she was burning up with curiosity, suspecting that the story could be, as Miss Coral would say, "a doozy."
"Uncle Booker and Mr. Pompey found the preachers' club and saw everything with their own eyes," Theophilus told her. "And, baby, that place is something else. I believe plush was the word Uncle Booker used to describe it. And you wouldn't even begin to imagine how many preachers they saw going in and out of those rooms with some woman. They were some pretty women, too, if what Uncle Booker and Mr. Pompey said was true."
"How long were they there? Sounds like they didn't just walk in and walk out."
"No, they didn't walk in and out. They stayed about two and a half hours."
"Theophilus, why would Uncle Booker and Mr. Pompey need to stay at a cathouse for over two hours? I would think they would want to leave as soon as they got there."
Theophilus looked at Essie and stifled a laugh. There weren't many men in their right mind who would rush in and out of a cathouse when they had a legitimate reason to be there. Just a man's curiosity alone would make him want to stay and nose around a bit. But he said, "Well . . . they stayed so long because they got something to eat—said the food was real good, too—a little bit to drink, and they . . ."
Essie's eyes narrowed. She had a feeling Theophilus was about to say something that she really hoped he didn't have to say. "What about they, Theophilus?"
He hung his head a bit and studied his shoes.
"What happened?" she asked.
"Well . . . nothing happened. But they kind of decided to watch what turned out to be some kind of dance show, you know."
"No, I don't know. But I sure would like to."
Theophilus was so embarrassed that Essie could see the deep ruby tones peeking through his chocolate skin. She wanted to laugh out loud. Just a few moments ago, he was as fresh as he could be. And now he looked like a little boy standing before the principal, trying to tell her that her uncle and former employer sat back and got themselves an eyeful of a hoochie-coochie dance.
"Baby, you see it's like this. They were eating, drinking, laughing, and acting like preachers when—"
"Make it good now," she said in a sly-sounding voice.
"Oh shoot, Essie. They stayed and watched a striptease dance. You satisfied?"
Lord, Essie thought, a man just couldn't resist seeing some women dancing half-naked and carrying on like that. Seemed like even the best of them would have to look.
"Theophilus, you know they ought to be ashamed of themselves, right?"
Theophilus shrugged. He agreed with her, but the man inside him could understand. It was kind of hard to deny a man the opportunity to watch a woman who knew what she was doing when she started shaking that stuff all over the place. He cleared his throat and looked at her with what her mother called the "a man just has to be a man" look on his face.
She cut her eyes at him as if to say, "That look ain't doing nothing for or to me."
He got a little more bravado in his look and kind of swaggered in the spot he was standing in. He said, "Well, I wouldn't have stayed there, but they are not ashamed. Said the two girls who danced, could dance real good."
"I bet they could. But I hope they got all of the information the church will need while they were on that little ex-pe-dition."
"They did," he said and then added, "I wish you could have seen how Uncle Booker and Mr. Pompey looked when they told us."
"Were they dressed up to a tee?" she asked, with a smile spreading across her face.
"Baby, they were too sharp to touch without cutting my hand."
"Theophilus, I sure wish I could have been a fly on the wall to see them at that cathouse."
"Baby, you and me and half of the Negro population of Richmond, too."
Chapter Twenty-five
SAPHRONIA RANG THE DOORBELL AT THE HOUSE of the preachers' club cook, Tee Cole, and a plump, brown-skinned woman answered the door with a warm and welcoming smile. "Well, a good morning to you, Miss Saphronia Anne McComb."
"Tee?"
Tee pushed opened the screen door and waved her hand, beckoning Saphronia to come inside. With that plain mauve suit, Saphronia looked downright dowdy, Tee thought, and she was holding her body awkwardly, like she was scared.
<
br /> "Don't no hungry wolves live here, Miss Saphronia Anne McComb."
Saphronia gave her a questioning look.
"I said, don't no hungry wolves live here. Meaning, that we ain't gone eat you up alive if you come up in my house."
Saphronia was embarrassed. Precious had told her not to worry, and here she was acting just like her grandmother would act with somebody like Tee Cole. She stepped into a small and modest living room that was so clean it almost sparkled.
"Precious back in the kitchen getting a bite to eat. Come on back."
Saphronia followed Tee down the tiny hall into the kitchen, where Precious was sitting at the table munching on a big fluffy biscuit smothered in apple butter and slurping on a delicious-smelling cup of coffee.
"Girl, you need to get yourself one of these biscuits because they is good."
Tee said, "Saphronia, you want a biscuit?"
Saphronia nodded her head.
"Want some coffee?"
"Yes, please. Black with a teaspoon of sugar."
Precious looked at her. "You drink your coffee like white folks in the movies, all black without anything to smooth it out?"
Saphronia didn't respond. She took the coffee out of Tee's hand, leaned against the counter, and took a sip, then locked eyes with Precious. Each was trying to figure out what the other had to make Marcel interested in her.
"Y'all gone waste the whole day sizing each other up?" Tee asked, startling them out of their staring contest. Then she commanded Saphronia, "Put down that coffee and stand up straight for a minute."
Saphronia was not used to a woman like Tee ordering her around and she held her place at the counter, stubbornly refusing to so much as move a muscle.
Tee gave her a "you ain't nobody special" look and said, "Girl, ain't nobody asking to borrow your man for the night. I just want to get another good look at you, that's all. Now, will you please stand up straight and turn around for me?"
Saphronia did as she was told and Tee gave her a thorough once-over. Then she said, "Let me help you two out with this situation. Here's what I see: One, a man who out there in the streets running a ho' service and at a funeral home ain't worth nothing. Two, he a jive punk—loving you, Precious, but got no courage to marry you, and Saphronia, trying to marry you 'cause you make him look good. And three, the Negro like big behinds. 'Cause between the two of y'all, there enough butt in this room to supply every little white woman in Richmond with some decent hips. So I say that Rev. Marcel ain't worth all this trouble. Now you two can quit worrying about him and get down to some business."
Looking at Saphronia, she added, "Things have a way of working out for you when you least expect it. All you gotta do is trust in the Lord and then let Him take control over your life. Baby, that man done, done you a favor. Not marrying him is the smartest thing you ever did."
Saphronia tried to hold back her tears. She knew she couldn't marry Marcel, but until now had not made a final decision about it.
Tee headed out into the yard, and Precious got up and rinsed out her coffee cup. Tee was right. They weren't here to compete with each other but to get that low-down dawg Marcel.
"Sit down," she said to Saphronia, who answered with a short sniffle. Then sat down at the table, chin in hand, and said, "I'm all ears."
Precious took a deep breath. She hoped this plan sounded as good now as it had when she first shared it with Tee.
"Saphronia, Marcel likes to run everything. And from what I've seen, he really likes to run you. Probably done started telling you what to wear by now."
Saphronia looked at her indignantly.
"Look, Saphronia, don't get all uppity on me because I'm telling you the truth. Your clothes, as expensive as they are, look like clothes that some man wants you to wear because he don't want nobody looking at you. I'd bet some money that he has made you take stuff back when it looks too good and he know you really like it. And you all ain't even married yet."
Saphronia was surprised at just how much Precious knew about Marcel. They had just had an argument about a dress. It was a beautiful raw silk dress that was such a pale shade of pink, it looked like a blushed shade of white. She had wanted to wear it to that banquet for selecting the new bishops. She looked good in that dress, too, with its wide scooped neckline that showed just a hint of cleavage, capped sleeves, and a perfect fit that showed all the best features of her figure. But when she showed it to Marcel, he told her not to wear it, that it wasn't something his fiancée should wear to a Triennial Conference function.
"Saphronia, the way I figure this thing, you the only one who can really get Marcel. I'm the only one who know how to get him. But you the only one who can get him."
Saphronia looked a little confused.
"Think about it. You the most controlled part of Marcel's life. Now if you was to go over to that funeral home, just your presence would scare him silly. But if you was to go over there, do something out of control, and embarrass his butt? Girl, that would do it. That would do it good."
"Are you saying that you want me to go to that brothel?"
"No, Saphronia. I don't want you to go to that brothel," Precious said in imitation of her voice. "I want you to go over to that ho' service center and give that cheating, no-good, lying Negro a heart attack. That's what I want you to do."
Saphronia wasn't so sure she wanted to set foot in a brothel, even if she did like the idea of getting Marcel. "Precious, I know my presence at the brothel would shock Marcel. But how would I ever get in and find him?"
"Girl, that is the best part of the plan. Wait till you see how I'm gonna fix you up. Did you bring what I told you to?"
A delicious feeling of mischief came over Saphronia, who said, "Take a look at the dress I brought. It doesn't look like anything you'd expect me to wear."
When Precious unzipped the peach satin garment bag and pulled out the pale pink dress, her face broke out into a wide grin. "Ooo, girl. This thing looking good. Expensive, too. Did you bring the shoes for it?"
Saphronia dug around in the bottom of the garment bag and pulled out her shoes. They were low-heeled, pale pink satin pumps—and actually quite nice for the dress. But they were a far cry from what Precious had in mind.
"These shoes cute but they ain't gone work."
"What do you mean by, 'They will not work'?" Saphronia demanded in what Precious thought of as her "Miss Anne" voice.
"Look, these shoes have preacher's wife written all over them—even though you still in the fiancée stage. You gone have to get some better shoes than these if you call yourself doing anything worthwhile tonight."
Saphronia got mad and threw the shoes on the floor. "Okay, so my shoes don't work for you. Do you have a better pair I can wear?" she snapped.
Precious rolled her eyes. "Miss Anne, I just might. What size shoe do you wear?"
"Eight."
"Well, see there, our problem has been solved. Tee has some shoes that will be good."
"So, is this all there is to your plan?" Saphronia asked, her voice tight. "I mean, do you honestly think a fancy dress and a pair of high-heeled shoes are the key to getting back at Marcel?"
"No, girl, that ain't what I'm saying, but you got to look the part to get to play the part."
She tilted her head and looked at Saphronia real hard. "Your hair. We gotta do something about that."
The horrified look on Saphronia's face made Precious start to laugh. But then she stopped, frowning suddenly.
"What's wrong?" Saphronia demanded.
"Please hush your mouth. I just realized that I don't know what we gonna do about your voice."
Saphronia lifted her eyebrows. "My voice?"
"Yeah. You too proper. You gonna have to talk like you got some street in you and you gonna have to curse, too."
All of a sudden Saphronia's feet started feeling very cold. She didn't want to be too successful at this charade. "What if I am so convincing that somebody tries to get me to . . . you know . . . work, Precio
us?"
"You not going as no ho'," Precious said, with just a touch of exasperation in her voice. "You going as a hostess, food server, or something like that. I do the books for the club, Saphronia, and nothing else. And Tee ain't no ho', neither. All she do is cook food. But you still got to talk right for that place or else your butt won't get steps past the front door."
Tee walked into the room, listening to the two of them going back and forth. "You two standing there fussing like two wet cats. You might as well stop being mad at each other, 'cause ain't nothing wrong with both of you but y'all in love with a trifling man. Saphronia, you knew Marcel would cheat on you, just walked around hoping you was wrong. And, Precious, you were wrong to stay with him after he made it clear he was going to marry Saphronia, despite how much he claimed to love you. And plus, he was your boss and your pastor. Girl, you had to know that was some kind of mess, right?"
Precious lowered her eyes to the floor and didn't say anything.
"I thought that was the case or at least I certainly hoped so," Tee said, and then looked back at Saphronia.
"Now, Saphronia. I know you take a lot of pride in not talking like the rest of us but Precious is right. You voice is all wrong for what you have to do. And there ain't no sense in half stepping on something like this."
Saphronia nodded her head in resignation. As much as she knew they were right about her voice, she still did not want to walk up in that place talking like the two of them.
"Tee, do you have any shoes that will look good with this dress?" Precious asked.
"Sure do. Got a pair of silver pumps with five-inch heels that'll look real good with that dress. Is that all you need?"
"No. I think Saphronia gone need some kind of wig."
Tee studied Saphronia's face a moment. "My son Junie's girlfriend got the perfect wig. It's red, kind of blond-like but it'll look pretty good on you. Lord knows it don't do nothing for her. I'll call Junie and tell him to bring it when he come over to help me take the dinners over to the club."
Church Folk Page 24