Church Folk

by Michele Andrea Bowen

  The walls were painted baby blue, and the molding, doorways, and windowsills were a soft, creamy white. The furniture was an eclectic but tasteful assortment of velvet and silk damask couches and butter-soft leather chairs in various shades of blue. The roomy and comfortable-looking leather armchairs were navy blue, the velvet couch and silk damask love seats were a matching robin's egg blue, and the smaller-looking wood and leather chairs were all upholstered in a rich, jewel-toned turquoise.

  There were large crystal vases filled with multicolored bouquets of fresh roses—pink, yellow, ivory, and peach—placed on gleaming mahogany tables that were next to the armchairs and in front of the couches. A sleek, silver-framed mirror adorned the wall behind the long, polished, mahogany bar. The hardwood floor was covered with exquisite tapestry area rugs with navy, ivory, and pale blue running through them, and the velvet draperies, which were closed, were the same baby blue as the soft-colored walls.

  The only thing that betrayed the purpose of the room was the mirrors on sections of the ceiling and the wall facing the bar. It was those mirrors that snapped Saphronia back to attention and reminded her that, tasteful or not, this was the reception room for a brothel. Now, for the first time, she noticed the men standing around in front of the mirrored wall, sitting on the couches, and stretched out on the chairs.

  She adjusted her purse on her shoulder and walked around the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of Marcel and trying to act as she thought a brothel hostess would behave on the job—swinging her hips and smiling at the men who made eye contact with her. She had just spotted the back of Marcel's head across the large room when she felt the tickling of fingers running from her shoulder to her hand. She jumped and turned to look into the face of a pastor who served at a small church in Detroit. At first she was afraid that he would recognize her, but then she remembered that this man, who liked real fancy-looking women (even his wife always wore busy, ruffled dresses and hats with too much trimming), had never bothered to look her in the face the few times they had met when she visited Marcel's church.

  Saphronia smiled at him sweetly and said in her new voice, "Baby, why you runnin' yo' hand down my arm like that? You know you could make me lose my job, temptin' me to take you up in one of them rooms for the en-tire evening."

  She started fanning her face with her hand, as if just the thought of being with him was enough to make her hot. The pastor, who Saphronia thought looked like a shriveled-up little laboratory frog, said in a raspy, gravelly voice that sounded like he was up in the pulpit, "And . . . ah . . . ah . . . you know . . . ah . . . I wish you could afford to lose your job ovah me. 'Cause I been lookin' for a blessin' all evening. And I believe goin' up to one of those rooms with you, Laaawwwd, would be more exciting than when Ezekiel saw the wheel way up in de middle of de air."

  What a fool, Saphronia thought. He had the nerve to use words from an old Negro spiritual to try to hit on her. She was about to walk away from him in disgust when the man reached out and pulled her close to him, wrapping his arm tightly around her waist. She held her breath when he placed his face a few inches from hers because his breath smelled like whiskey and hog maws.

  She looked over his shoulder, trying to find Marcel, and saw a preacher go over to the juke box to play a song. Lavish as the Sanctuary was, Marcel and his cronies were so cheap that they didn't have the decency to provide their club members with free music—and worse, these men were stupid enough to pay for it, too.

  The song that began to fill the air was "Just a Closer Walk with Thee" by Evangelist Elroy Thorn, until somebody yelled, "Turn that crap off. We ain't in no church up in here."

  Now someone played Big Mama Thornton's "You Ain't Nothing but a Hound Dog," and Saphronia thought that if she could get this pastor to dance, maybe it would get his stinky breath out of her face. "Sweet daddy," she crooned, "why don't us get out on that floor and do some dancing. You know, a little moving around might help to cool me down a bit."

  He gave Saphronia a great big grin, said, "Well, Lawd yes, let's dance," and grabbed her even tighter, giving her such a strong whiff of his breath that she could actually tell where the hog maws started and the liquor left off.

  She pulled away from him, saying as nicely as she could, "Pastor, this here song got a upbeat sound to it. We'll look silly out on this here floor if we get to dancing all tight and close."

  He took a moment to think about what she said and answered, "Ah . . . ah . . . guess you right," and led her to the middle of the floor, right in front of the mirrored wall. All the while, she had been hoping to fake him out because she couldn't dance. But then the pastor asked, "Darling, you do plan on dancing for me, don't you?"

  Dance for him? Alone, in front of all these men? She took a deep breath, hoped for the best, and began moving her hips from side to side, with her purse still hanging on her shoulder. Once she got confident with this movement, Saphronia, to her own surprise, began feeling kind of good and feisty all over. She snapped her fingers, gave the pastor a seductive look, swung her shoulders back and forth, and rolled her generous behind around. When she noticed that the pastor had moved back to get a better view of her and that she had caught the attention of several ministers, she put her hands on her hips and shook her butt harder, shimmying on down to the floor and staying there, shaking for almost five seconds. When she stood back up, she looked in the mirror and saw Marcel's reflection as he walked toward the small group of preachers, who, by now, had formed a circle around her. "What if he doesn't recognize me?" she thought, but then panicked, thinking, "What if he does?"

  "Embarrass him"—that is what Precious had said, and now was the time to do it. When she knew that Marcel was looking at her, Saphronia dropped down on the floor in a squat, put a hand on each knee (still holding her purse up on her shoulder), and rolled her big butt around in the nastiest way she could imagine.

  Marcel's first thought when he saw her was that she certainly wasn't a hostess who had been hired and trained by Cleotis. And his suspicion was confirmed when he saw her reddish blond head bobbing up and down in that circle like she was dancing, of all things. The women who worked here had all been told a hundred times that dancing, unless specifically ordered by him or Laymond, was not allowed in the Sanctuary.

  When he first approached the circle of preachers, he couldn't see Saphronia's face. Then, as he glanced in the mirror, the reflection solved the mystery of her identity. Seeing his fiancée shaking her butt for those preachers, he got a sickening feeling high up in his stomach. And when she dropped down on the floor and rolled her butt all around, he thought he was going to mess in his pants. He had never seen Saphronia so much as wiggle her hips. And here she was letting a group of men ogle her as she rolled those hips around like she was sitting on top of a man.

  Marcel took a deep breath to calm his nerves, pushed a few preachers aside, and walked into the circle and right up to Saphronia. Quickly surveying the small group to see if there was any recognition of her in their faces, he thanked God no one but he knew who she was. He stood right in front of her and watched the shock spread across her face when she realized that he had seen her—and that he was not going to make a scene and reveal her identity to the other men. Instead, he pulled her up off the floor and over to him, saying softly, slowly, with pure venom in his voice, "I ought to whip your tail good for pulling a stunt like this."

  Saphronia pressed even closer to Marcel, putting her arms around his neck, so the ministers thought she was coming on to him. She whispered in his ear, "You do that, and I'll pull this hot wig off of my head so fast it will make your head spin. And then I'll make sure that even the dumbest preacher in this room knows exactly who I am. So there isn't going to be any tail-whipping tonight, Marcel. And there is nothing you can do about what I have just done."

  Marcel was stunned, listening to Saphronia. All he could do was grab her arm and pull her out of the room. As he dragged her to his office, he was silently praying that there wasn't more to this little fi
asco than what had already been displayed.

  Opening his office door, Marcel shoved Saphronia in and slammed it shut before anyone else came along. Seething, breathing hard, and looking like he was going to burst wide open, he shouted, "What is your problem, stepping up in here looking like a two-dollar whore?"

  Saphronia didn't say a word. She just adjusted her purse on her shoulders and put her hands on her hips, with a stubborn "you ain't nobody" look on her face, because he was the one doing wrong, not her.

  That look sent Marcel into such a fit of rage that he slapped Saphronia down to the floor. Her face was burning, and she could taste the metallic flavor of blood when she ran her tongue across her lip. She sat up on the floor, with her head spinning and Marcel standing over her, holding his hand, which was throbbing with pain and beginning to swell.

  "I asked you a question, Saphronia. You'd better tell me something and you better tell me something now!" he yelled.

  "And what if I don't?" she said defiantly. "You can beat my butt good if you want to, but you can't make me talk!"

  He snatched her up off the floor and grabbed her by the hair, but the wig came off in his hand. That made him even madder. He reached down and, this time, grabbed a fat handful of her real hair, pulling her head back so far it made her neck hurt.

  "Okay, you siddity bitch. You had better start talking right now. Because if you don't, I'll put my foot so far up your behind, you'll know what my shoe polish tastes like."

  The word bitch rang in her ears, and it was that evil word that gave her strength she didn't even know she had. She pulled her purse off her shoulder and swung it around, hitting Marcel upside his head so hard that he crumpled over on his side and fell on the floor.

  "I am not telling you anything, you low-down, dirty pimp."

  Marcel was in shock, the impact of her words hitting him harder than the blow upside his head. He said, voice sounding a shade higher because of the sheer impossibility of this situation, "What did you just say to me, Saphronia?"

  "I said," she answered evenly, "that you are a low-down, dirty pimp who blasphemes the name of minister and is a disgrace to the Gospel United Church."

  "Who the hell do you think you are talking to?"

  "You, Marcel DeMarcus Brown. I am talking to you! And I know this one thing, you had better quit cursing at me or else—"

  "Or else what?" he said nastily, making it clear by the look on his face that he didn't think she was capable of doing anything worth worrying about.

  Saphronia stood there filled with rage for a few moments and then said, "Or else this," as she raised her foot and kicked him square in the behind. Before he had a chance to respond, she raised her foot and kicked him again and again. And, when those kicks didn't satisfy her, she jumped on top of him and began to beat him with her purse, hitting him anywhere she thought would hurt. Tears were rushing down her face as she sat on top of Marcel, beating him with every ounce of her strength.

  "For the past year I put up with your low-down, cheating self, just walking around acting like I deserved all of that crap you shoveled my way. And Negro, despite all that you have done, you have never even apologized to me. You hear me, Marcel? Never! Well," she said, as she grabbed his collar and stared right into his face, "I didn't deserve one iota of the crap you heaped on me and I'm not taking it off of you anymore."

  Marcel was speechless. Rarely had anyone had the nerve to confront him on anything. And now his fiancée, a little country girl from Mississippi, was screaming in his face. He tried to shove her off him and give her a taste of the butt-whipping he thought she deserved, but as soon as he moved, she grabbed him by the ears, pinned him down, and began banging his head on the bare wooden floor so hard he saw double. All he could do was pray she would stop, and when he felt like he was about to pass out, started hollering for help.

  Laymond Johnson and Cleotis Clayton ran into the room with pistols in their hands. They looked around for a robber and were shocked to see a woman sitting on top of Marcel, beating the living daylights out of him.

  Cleotis, who didn't like Marcel, put his gun back in his shoulder holster and then just stood there watching. Laymond, out of loyalty, went over and tried to pull Saphronia off him. But he backed away when she started swinging that purse around.

  Cleotis, who now recognized Saphronia, poked Laymond on the shoulder and shook his head no, warning him not to lay a hand on Saphronia. Laymond tried to shove him away but Cleotis stood his ground and now said out loud, "Don't hit her, man."

  Laymond tried to shove him again and said, "Get out of my face."

  Cleotis pulled at his coat sleeve. "Don't hit that woman unless you want to end up down on that floor next to Rev. Brown."

  Laymond was furious that this scrawny funeral home Negro had the nerve to talk to him like that. He spun around to deal with Cleotis and stuck his face right in the nose of the gun, which Cleotis had taken out again.

  "Are you crazy? Put that doggone gun away."

  "When you decide to leave Miss McComb alone, I'll put this gun away," Cleotis said.

  Laymond wasn't sure he had heard Cleotis right. He looked at Saphronia again and, sure enough, she was definitely Rev. Brown's fiancée. Laymond began to look scared. He had just known something was wrong when he let her in tonight.

  "Well, then, you take care of her," he told Cleotis, and beat a hasty retreat.

  Cleotis, still holding his gun, held out his free hand to Saphronia. She took it and got up to stand by his side. The sight of the gun made her feel squeamish. It had never even occurred to her that the people involved in this business might have to shoot somebody.

  Marcel now stood up, holding the side of his head, his face contorted by anger and throbbing pain.

  "You think you have really done something to me, don't you, Saphronia?" he said. "Well, just know this. You haven't done a thing but give me the reason I've been looking for to call off this wedding. Never wanted to marry your big old stuck-up butt in the first place." He laughed, then stopped because his head was hurting. "Did you know that my father and Bishop Giles made me pick you over Precious? Huh?"

  Tears formed in Saphronia's eyes and started running down her cheeks.

  "I see you didn't know that. But now you do," he said and spread his hands out like he was saying, "See, you can't have this." He sighed heavily and then gave her a nasty smirk. "Well, Miss McComb, hear this. Because you have proven yourself unworthy of marrying a pastor of my status, I am now free to go and get the woman I should have asked to marry me in the first place. See, despite your credentials, Miss McComb, the woman who has my heart is Precious Powers. So you just did me a favor, baby girl."

  Saphronia stopped crying and smiled at Marcel, knowing that the news she was about to deliver was going to wipe that cocky smirk right off of his face. She looked at him for a moment and said, "Who do you think sent me here, Marcel?"

  His face got guarded and he said, "What do you mean, sent you?"

  "Just what I said," Saphronia answered. "Do you honestly think I could pull this off by myself ? Not me, with my big-old-stuck-up-butt self."

  Marcel began to advance on her but she raised that purse up and he backed off.

  "Marcel, I don't think you are getting married to anybody anytime soon. You just made it clear you never wanted me. And now I just have to tell you that the woman you want so bad no longer wants you. And she sent me here to get you straight after she heard you in bed with some woman when you were supposed to be with her. So right now, I don't care that you never wanted me. Just telling you that Precious doesn't want you is enough to ease my pain."

  Saphronia watched Marcel digest that information. She didn't care that her face was swollen and hurting, and that she looked a mess, because she had not felt this good since she was five years old and won her first speech contest at church.

  Cleotis Clayton started to question her about just how much Precious Powers told her but changed his mind. He had earned all the money he needed to
launch the funeral home, and then some. He would be happy to close up shop because he was tired of these preachers, every last one of them.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  PRECIOUS EXAMINED SAPHRONIA'S FACE, SHAKING HER head in disgust, and held her hand out for the ice pack Mother Harold had just made. She had been furious when she caught Marcel with Jackie Giles. But this? This made her so mad that Tee had to stop her from going to the funeral home and jumping all over Marcel. She couldn't believe he would beat up a woman like this.

  Saphronia winced when she put the ice pack on her face, making Mother Harold jump. Despite Mother Harold's dicty ways, Saphronia was everything to her, and it hurt her down to the bone to see her baby hurt. She stroked her granddaughter's hand gently, like she did when she was little, and said, "Dear, is there anything I can do for you?"

  Saphronia was about to say no, but something occurred to her. "Yes, Grandmother. There is something you can do for me."

  Saphronia sat up slowly, every muscle aching. She leaned over, her head killing her, and reached under the bed to pull out the red leather book. Precious helped her back in the bed, taking the address book out of her hands. She counted the money in it real fast—over $6,500—and split it between her and Saphronia. Then she scanned the contents of the book, eyes big and round as she read the names of preachers she knew were members of that ho' club. Between Precious's blue record book and Marcel's red leather address book, there was enough evidence to get rid of Marcel, Sonny, and Bishop Caruthers for good.

  "Girl, you know this is some low-down funky stuff."

  Mother Harold gasped and was about to reprimand Precious for her language when she heard her own granddaughter say, "Girl, I heard that," before they slapped each other's palms.

  "So, girl, what you proposing?"

  Saphronia put the ice pack on her throbbing head. She said, "Grandmother is taking these books to the session later this morning, and she's going to give them to Rev. James. He will know exactly what to do with them."