Church Folk

by Michele Andrea Bowen

  The afternoon Saphronia spent with Tee and Precious was the best that she had ever had with other women. Tee fixed them a delicious lunch of fresh pole beans from her garden, cooked with red onions and crispy slices of bacon, salad with fresh home-grown tomatoes, cucumbers, and green onions, and cornbread so light and fluffy it practically melted in your mouth. They talked about everything—men, sex, working, white folks, the civil rights movement—and, of course, they talked about Marcel so bad that Precious swore that his ears were burning off.

  Tee lit a cigarette, looked at the clock on the wall, and said as she blew a long stream of smoke out of her mouth, "It's almost 3:30 and I got to pack up dinners to take over to the funeral home for this evening." She took another draw on the cigarette and said to Saphronia, "Girl, you be sure to do some more work on your talkin'. 'Cause right now, chile, the way you sounding up in here is right pitiful."

  This time Saphronia laughed and said in her best imitation of Precious and Tee, "Girl, you quit worryin' 'bout me 'n go 'n get those dinners all fixed up."

  Precious was so impressed by this she hit the side of the kitchen table and said, "By jaw, I think she done gone and got it," in her best imitation of a crisp British-sounding accent.

  Saphronia rolled her eyes. "Precious, it is by Jove, I think she's got it."

  Tee laughed. "Now, what about that hair?"

  "Go get dressed," Precious told Saphronia. "Then we can get to work."

  A half hour later, Saphronia returned to the kitchen dressed, perfumed, and barefoot. Her plain face and the straight brown hair hanging down her back were in sharp contrast to the sassy and sophisticated dress she was wearing. She sat down in a chair and Precious draped an old sheet around her shoulders.

  "Saphronia, girl, I don't know how I gonna pin all of this long, pretty hair up tight enough to fit under a wig."

  She pulled Saphronia's hair away from her face and mixed some Vaseline with a dab of foundation. "Your skin is kind of dry, and this will make it have a nice glow to it."

  She began to apply the foundation and Saphronia closed her eyes, completely relaxed under the cool, soothing touch of Precious's soft fingers on her face. Once the foundation was applied to Precious's satisfaction, she put black mascara on Saphronia's lashes, which made her eyes look wider. Then, she put on some pink eye shadow and lined her eyes with a black pencil, smudging some of the liner in the corners of her eyes. She took a big brush and dusted her cheeks with some blush, then finished with a light dusting of face powder to set the makeup in place. Last of all, she took a Q-Tip and lined out the natural shape of Saphronia's lips with a soft pink lipstick, filling it in with feathery strokes so that her thin mouth would look more lush. She stood back and admired her work for a few seconds.

  "Saphronia, girl, you know you not as plain as you first appear to be. All you need to do is wear some makeup and you'll be looking real good. Hold your head back so I can tweeze your eyebrows. I don't know why I didn't do this before I put on all of this makeup."

  She touched up the makeup one more time after finishing Saphronia's eyebrows and then began the arduous task of parting her hair and braiding it into sections so that it would fit under the wig. When she was done with Saphronia's hair, she put some hair oil on the wig and started brushing it with a wig brush.

  "Girl, get up and turn on that radio. Couldn't figure out what was wrong in here—it's too quiet."

  Saphronia, who was enjoying the quiet, turned on the radio sitting on a small table in the corner of the kitchen. A soulful man's voice ran out loud and clear, making Precious move her shoulders like a shiver had just run up and down her spine.

  "Ooooh Lawd, chile. What that man can do to me when he sing a song. You familiar with Otis Redding's songs, Saphronia?"

  Before she could answer yes or no, Precious continued, saying, "You know something? He sho' do kind of sound like that big, fine preacher from down in Memphis, don't he? You know who I'm talking about?"

  "Theophilus Simmons?" Saphronia asked, thinking that Precious was right about his voice. He did sound a bit like the voice on the radio—only she thought that his voice was deeper than the man's voice, more akin to Brook Benton's. "Yeah, yeah, that's him, Rev. Simmons."

  Now Precious put the wig on the crown of Saphronia's head and fit it into place. "Ooohh, girl," she said. "Come on back to Tee's room to see how you look."

  Saphronia followed her to Tee's room and went and stood in front of the large mirror on the dresser. She was transformed. To her surprise, she absolutely adored the way that short, sassy blond wig looked on her.

  "I cannot believe how good I look," Saphronia said and gave Precious a hug.

  It was such a warm and appreciative hug that Precious felt a stiff ache in her jaw from trying to fight back her tears. A wave of sadness washed over her heart as she recognized that this was the end, that she would never return to Marcel as his lover, his secretary, a member of his church, or a willing participant in all of the dirty business he was into. How could she have been so dumb as to think this man could help her love herself as a result of him loving her?

  Saphronia reached out her hand and gently wiped away the tears that were now flowing down Precious's face. She was deeply touched. No other woman had ever cried with her over shared hurts and sorrows. Even her own mother, who had abandoned her to start a new life in California, hadn't cried when they were reunited at Saphronia's engagement party after a twenty-year estrangement.

  "Precious, please don't cry like that over all of this. Look at it this way. If you had not fallen so hard for Marcel, I wouldn't be standing here looking good and feeling brave enough to do something about my life. And if I hadn't gotten engaged to Marcel, you would still be waiting for him to marry you. You deserve better than that. How many women do you think would have had the nerve to come to me and cook up something like this?"

  Precious smiled and wiped her face with both hands.

  "I guess you right about that, girl. This is probably one of those 'the Lord works in mysterious ways' kind of things."

  Saphronia said, "Probably so," and then turned toward the mirror to look at the wig again. "I'm going to do something with my hair when all of this conference business is finally over with. I've thought about cutting and highlighting my hair for a while, but Marcel always told me that I would look like I worked in a brothel." She shook her head as she said, more to herself than to Precious, "But I guess he should know a lot about what that looks like, huh?"

  Precious just listened as Saphronia continued, "And you know what makes me so angry, is that this two-timing rogue didn't even stop and take the time to think that maybe I would have looked better."

  Precious took one of Saphronia's hands in both of hers and said with a solemn look on her face, "He knew you would look better, just didn't want you to look this good."

  Saphronia felt a quick stab of anger at the truth of those words.

  "Now, Saphronia," Precious said. "There's one more thing we have to talk about. And that is, what you gone do to embarrass Marcel?"

  Saphronia shrugged. "What could possibly embarrass that man? You catch him with another other-woman and he is helping to run a brothel at a funeral home for preachers attending a Triennial Conference. Now, can you honestly think of something that would embarrass him?"

  Precious shook her head and said, "Other than you showing up dressed like this, no. But maybe this ain't something we can plan. When you get there, you're gonna just have to watch and wait and see what to do." She rubbed her forehead and then snapped her fingers. "Know what, when you get there, don't ask for Marcel. Just give them my employee number, 10, and then go straight to the Sanctuary area."

  "The what?"

  "The Sanctuary. It's a joke—one of the preachers thought it was funny to call the room where most of them come to the Sanctuary."

  Saphronia thought she had heard it all about this club. "Just what goes on in this, this . . . Sanctuary?"

  "Depends. It's mostly a waitin
g area, and the only women who are allowed in there are a few hostesses who get them drinks and food."

  Saphronia closed her eyes, hoping that she wasn't going to lose her nerve.

  "Precious, you do realize that Marcel is going to be very angry at me when I show up at this place. And once he gets over his shock, he is going to find out who sent me there. Are you sure you are ready for that?"

  "Saphronia, I'm not scared of Marcel. I'm kind of scared of that Laymond Johnson, but I'll be ready for him when he figures out that I sent you—because I know that big Negro will figure it out. He's a lay delegate from Bishop Caruthers's old district. He's also on the payroll for the ho' service. And let me tell you, that is one hateful man. Always trying to pat and paw on you like Bishop Caruthers and Sonny Washington. You watch yourself with him. He wears white shoes, and he might be at the door. Try talking a little crazy to confuse him."

  "Well, I had better get going," Saphronia said. "Hand me those uncomfortable-looking shoes."

  Saphronia slipped the silver pumps on her feet and wobbled from side to side when she stood up and tried to walk. Precious reached out and grabbed her elbow to help her find her balance.

  "Saphronia, I didn't know your siddity self couldn't walk in high heels. You know you got to switch your big butt around on these shoes if you want them to let you into the Sanctuary."

  "Maybe I can walk slowly," Saphronia said doubtfully.

  Tee, who was standing in the doorway quietly admiring the way Saphronia looked, said, "Here's your pocketbook. You left it on the couch." She walked over to Saphronia and examined her carefully. "Miss It, Lord knows when you first walked yourself up in my house, I'd a never thought you could look like this. Chile, you gots to know you looking good."

  "Thank you," Saphronia said.

  Precious looked her over one last time to make sure that everything was just right and realized that something was missing.

  "What's wrong?"

  "You don't have on any earrings."

  Tee went over to her dresser and rambled through a purple satin jewelry box until she found a pair of crystal beaded clip-ons.

  Saphronia put them on her ears and looked at herself in the mirror again. Precious was right. These earrings added the perfect last touch.

  Precious frowned again.

  Saphronia raised her eyebrows. "Now what's wrong?"

  Precious grabbed her purse off the bed and dug around in it until she found her pocketknife.

  "You know how to use one of these? Could come in handy if one of them preachers try to get frisky with you."

  Saphronia shook her head no. She had never been anywhere where she might need a knife.

  "It's pretty simple. See, look at what I'm doing," Precious said, as she grabbed the handle firmly and flicked the knife open and closed. "All you got to do is flick this thing open and whoever it is that is bothering you will leave you alone. None of those preachers would want to have to explain a big cut on them to their wives."

  Saphronia took the knife and practiced flicking it open a couple of times. She was surprised that she could learn to use a knife so well after only a few moments of practice.

  "Saphronia," Precious said. "When you walk around in that neighborhood, try and look like you belong. Don't you get out of the car looking and acting like some proper Miss It. That's all some of them people gone need to mess with you— you understand?"

  Saphronia walked into the living room, put the knife in her purse, turned toward Precious and said in her best new voice, "Okay, Precious, girl, I heard you already."

  Precious patted her arm and smiled. "I ought to charge you for all this. I'll be waiting to find out everything that happened, okay?"

  Saphronia nodded her head.

  "Now, you remember where you supposed to go—the Sanctuary, right?"

  "Goodbye, Precious."

  "Saphronia?"

  "Goodbye, Precious."

  "Saphronia, what are you going to do to Marcel?"

  "I don't know at this moment. It will come to me once I get there. Good-bye, Precious."

  "You sure you will think of something?"

  "Good-bye, Precious."

  Chapter Twenty-six

  SAPHRONIA GRABBED HER PURSE OFF THE SEAT and locked the car. She was putting her keys in her purse when she noticed that the man who had been on the other side of the street had crossed over and was heading in her direction. Trying not to look afraid—remembering Precious's advice about warding off trouble—she managed to smile at the man, who dropped one shoulder down and began to swing his arm, doing that strut that indicated he was going to try and "talk" to her.

  Anxious not to offend but wanting to keep her distance, Saphronia smiled again and began to walk away from the car. She tried to switch like Precious had instructed but wobbled in those shoes and had to steady herself by leaning against a tree. She remembered to throw another smile at the man when he said, "Baby girl, baby girl. I sho' do wish I could just turns myself into a pretty pink dress and wraps myself all o-ver your fine self. Lawd, ha' mercy!"

  She inched away from him and half switched, half tripped her way down the block toward the Victorian-style funeral home. She wondered if anyone on this quiet street of older homes, a barbershop, a restaurant, and a small dry cleaners knew what was going on just steps away from their own front doors. Walking around to the back of the building, just as Precious had instructed, she tapped three times on the door leading to the screened-in porch.

  To her horror, a man wearing white shoes came to the door. That had to be Laymond Johnson. She was tempted to run off as he unhooked the door, but thought to herself, "If I am to get in, I had better be prepared to get past him."

  He stood with his face pressed against the opened door, leaving only a narrow space for her to squeeze in past him. She recoiled, and he gave her a curious look, saying, "You must be new here, baby, or you'd know that all you girls have to kind of squeeze by to get in."

  Saphronia's cheeks flushed under their soft strokes of brushed-on color.

  Laymond laughed right in her face, amused that she didn't want to participate in this ritual. "Now, so that we can get out of this here doorway, you go on and tell me what I need to know to even let you in."

  Saphronia stared at him dumbly for a few seconds until she realized that he was asking her for her entry code.

  "Uh . . . Mr. Sonny . . . uh . . . I mean Rev. Sonny Washington, he the one that sent me and gave me number 10 and I was told to come on over here and just mingle unless somebody sayed number 10 which he said they wouldn't do tonight, right?"

  Laymond had a hard time following her, and she watched him processing all those words. He finally said, "Precious Powers sick or something? Number 10 the number for the book-keeper and she the only one we got. And I know you not one of the regular girls 'cause they've all checked in."

  He remained silent for a moment, searching her face, looking like he was ready to hurt her if she didn't come up with the right answer.

  Saphronia was kind of scared, but she opened her eyes real wide and raised her eyebrows as if to say, "What that got to do with me?"

  She looked around the porch like she didn't have the faintest idea where she was, adjusting her bra strap and sucking her teeth like she was extracting a piece of food. And when she said, "You gotta toothpick I could borrow," he relaxed. Most of these ho's were kind of dumb—even the well-dressed ones like this girl—and if she hadn't been sent by Reverend Washington, she would have backed down and tried to leave. He moved back an inch or two, making a little more space for her to come through the door.

  "I gonna be real nice to your dumb behind and let you come in here and do whatever you were told to do, if you're capable of remembering that."

  "I thinks I 'sposed to serve and stuff like that."

  Laymond just looked at her, wondering if she could hold a tray of food right and said, "Yeah, whatever. But I want you to remember something."

  "Uh huh, what's that?"


  "I want you to remember that the next time you come here to work, you better remember everything you were told, including your work number. I don't stand for no dumb ho's working at my establishment. You got that straight?"

  Saphronia swallowed hard and forced herself to give him a toothy grin as she switched and wobbled her way through that tiny space he had allotted for her in the doorway. He had some nerve calling this place his establishment, when he was nothing but a lackey for Cleotis Clayton and these preachers. She wondered how many of the women working here really believed that Laymond Johnson was running this place.

  The grin and that big old butt swaying up against him made Laymond relax enough to feel that perhaps she was okay after all. He smiled back at her and then reached out and rubbed his hand over the curve of her behind. He liked the first feel so much, he took the liberty of getting another one and said, "Maybe you should think about more'n just serving up some food this evening. That fine-looking behind you got swinging off the back of you is a moneymaker if I ever saw one."

  He caught a glimmer of something in her eye that made him feel uneasy, the same kind of look that uppity Precious Powers always gave him. He pointed down the hall and nudged her to get to walking in the direction of the Sanctuary and went to find something to eat.

  When he was gone, Saphronia leaned against the wall and fought back the tears that were threatening to spill down her cheeks. She could not believe that man had the audacity to touch her like that. A sob rose up in her throat but stopped cold when she suddenly realized that Laymond had not touched her behind, he was patting on a "ho'." Her spirits lifted and she marveled at her own successful subterfuge. With a swell of confidence, she walked to the end of the hall, past two rooms set up for funerals, and knocked boldly on the Sanctuary door. After a brief questioning by some kind of security guard, she was in.

  What she saw shocked her. She had expected a room that looked something like those two parlors she passed in the hall. But this room was so sophisticated that it must have taken months of work to ready for the Triennial Conference.