The Choir Director

by Carl Weber

  Books by Carl Weber

  Torn Between Two Lovers

  Big Girls Do Cry

  Up to No Good

  Something on the Side

  The First Lady

  So You Call Yourself a Man

  The Preacher’s Son

  Player Haters

  Lookin’ for Luv

  Married Men

  Baby Momma Drama

  She Ain’t the One (with Mary B. Morrison)

  The Choir

  Director

  CARL WEBER

  DAFINA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2011 by Carl Weber

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn.: Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2010939173

  eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-6833-4

  eISBN-10: 0-7582-6833-5

  First Hardcover Printing: February 2011

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  This book is dedicated to my readers: Rebecca Reed, Simone Young, Lynette Robinson, Latonya Townes, Ms. Ruth, Renee Warner, Maxine Thompson, and Joylynn, the people who gave me feedback during the writing process and quite possibly have made this the best book I’ve ever written.

  Contents

  Books by Carl Weber

  Prologue

  The Bishop 1

  Aaron 2

  Monique 3

  Aaron 4

  The Bishop 5

  Tia 6

  Aaron 7

  Monique 8

  Aaron 9

  Monique 10

  The Bishop 11

  Simone 12

  Aaron 13

  Monique 14

  Simone 15

  Aaron 16

  Tia 17

  Monique 18

  Tia 19

  Simone 20

  The Bishop 21

  Monique 22

  The Bishop 23

  Simone 24

  Aaron 25

  Tia 26

  Aaron 27

  Simone 28

  The Bishop 29

  Simone 30

  Aaron 31

  Simone 32

  Tia 33

  Simone 34

  Aaron 35

  Monique 36

  Tia 37

  The Bishop 38

  Simone 39

  Aaron 40

  Simone 41

  Aaron 42

  Monique 43

  Simone 44

  Tia 45

  Monique 46

  The Bishop 47

  Simone 48

  Monique 49

  The Bishop 50

  Monique 51

  Simone 52

  The Bishop 53

  Aaron 54

  Monique 55

  Simone 56

  Monique 57

  Aaron 58

  Monique 59

  Aaron 60

  Simone 61

  The Bishop 62

  Monique Epilogue

  Discussion Questions

  Prologue

  It was Father’s Day at First Jamaica Ministries, the largest church in Queens, New York, and the pews were filled to capacity with those honoring the men in their lives. Bishop T. K. Wilson, the pastor of the church, was in top form as he pranced around the pulpit, preaching on what it truly means to be a father and a man in this upside-down world of ours. His sermon was so powerful and his words so inspiring that he brought grown men to tears and had some of the more animated women jumping out of their seats and fainting in the aisles. He touched on the responsibilities of being a husband and a father. What made his sermon so special was that he tied it all into the word of God so well that even the children had no problem understanding it.

  When he finished his sermon, everyone in the building felt enlightened, but the celebration was far from over because when the bishop sat down, the choir stood up and the collection plate went around. Halfway through the first song, everyone in the church was on their feet, singing, clapping, and paying tithes.

  “Hallelujah!” the bishop said as the choir finished their third selection and sat down. “Wasn’t that wonderful? Praise God! Thank you, Jesus. There is nothing like having a good song with the Word. Can the church say amen?”

  “Amen!” the congregation shouted back in unison.

  “Now, as most of you know from my sermon, today is Father’s Day, the day we’re supposed to honor our fathers and husbands.” He held on to the microphone as he paced from one end of the pulpit to the other. “I know some of you are ready to go home and barbecue with Dad, maybe go to the beach with him, maybe even just sit in front of the TV and watch the game with him, but before you leave, there is one order of business that we have to take care of.”

  Bishop Wilson returned to the center of the pulpit and placed the microphone back in its holder, then reached under the podium and removed a large plaque. “You see, every year on Father’s Day, we give out a Man of the Year Award and a scholarship in the recipient’s name. This year, though, I think the committee’s outdone themselves with their choice of Man of the Year, and in my opinion, this year’s award is way overdue. Not just because I consider the recipient a personal friend, and not just because he’s an outstanding father and husband, but also because of all the hours he’s spent on making your choir one of the best in the entire country.”

  As the bishop turned to the choir, the entire congregation rose to their feet in anticipation of his announcement. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters, it is my absolute honor to announce that the winner of the First Jamaica Ministries Man of the Year Award is our choir director, Mr. Jackie Robinson Moss!”

  The crowd erupted in cheers and applause when Jackie, a tall, handsome, olive-skinned man with green eyes, stepped from in front of the choir and approached the pulpit, where the bishop awaited him with the plaque.

  Bishop Wilson shook Jackie’s hand, then gave him the award. He was about to relinquish the podium to the Man of the Year when he heard a woman shout, “Bishop! Bishop! I’d like to say a few words, if you don’t mind.”

  The bishop smiled his approval when he saw the woman. “Sure. We’d be glad to hear a few words from you, Deaconess Moss. I mean, after all, who knows Jackie better than his wife?”

  There was another round of applause as she got up from her seat in the deacon’s row and slowly made her way to the pulpit. She was a good-looking, brown-skinned woman in her mid-forties and had been married to Jackie, her college sweetheart, for almost twenty years. Approaching the pulpit, she shook the bishop’s hand before stepping up to the podium and adjusting the microphone.

  “Hello. As you know, my name is Deaconess Eleanor Moss, and you’ve bestowed the honor of Man of the Year on my husband.” She turned to give Jackie a look of contempt, then turned back to the crowd to deliver totally unexpected words. “I’m sorry to say it, but you have made a grave mistake in giving him this award. Unfortunately, my husband is not the man you think he is. And he is definitely not the man I thought
he was. Not anywhere close to it.”

  Members of the congregation started squirming in their seats. Some were reacting to the uncomfortable awkwardness of the situation, while others were eagerly anticipating some juicy drama getting ready to take place.

  Realizing that things weren’t going exactly as planned, Bishop Wilson turned to Jackie and mouthed, “What is she talking about?”

  Jackie shrugged his shoulders, looking dumbfounded. It was obvious he was as clueless as everyone else about his wife’s strange behavior. The two men stood by helplessly as she continued the speech that would destroy all the good feelings Bishop Wilson had created with his Father’s Day sermon.

  “I know this is going to be hard for many of you to believe, but trust me, it was even harder for me. I’ve been married to this man for twenty years.” She took a breath and straightened her back, as if what she was about to say required all of her strength. Then she delivered the final blow. “But I think you should all know my husband is a homosexual.”

  It was as if her words sucked all the air out of the room. The entire church went silent, except for one woman who shouted, “Shut up!” sarcastically.

  At this time, Eleanor’s two best friends, Lisa Mae and Kathy, began handing out quarter-inch–thick xeroxed pamphlets down each row, beginning in the back of the church.

  “If you look at the pamphlets the sisters are handing out,” Eleanor continued, “you will see copies of my husband’s journal, which I found hidden in the ceiling panels of our basement, along with some pretty filthy Polaroids. I’m sorry I could not furnish originals, but I need them for my divorce. The highlighted entries show affairs Jackie has had with different male members of our choir and congregation. You will see names, dates, times, personal comments in some cases, and even preferred activities. I know some of you will be upset by this, but I honestly believe it’s better to know now rather than later. I myself am about to get an AIDS test.”

  Her business complete, she turned around, walked up to her husband, and slapped him across the face as hard as she could before she walked out of the church.

  The congregants, who had now all received copies of the pamphlet, were furiously paging through them. As the sound of rustling pages and confused whispers filled the sanctuary, Bishop Wilson stood, slack-jawed, staring at the man who had been his choir director for seven years. He’d heard rumors over the years about Jackie but he figured those spreading the gossip were just jealous and catering to the stereotype of a gay choir director. Never once did he think the rumors might actually be accurate.

  Now he had to ask the question: “My God, man, is this true?”

  Jackie didn’t answer. He simply turned toward the door by the side of the pulpit. Bishop Wilson followed his gaze and watched four male choir members sneaking out of their seats, headed toward an exit. Two of them were active members of the church, proud family men. If someone had told the bishop that these men were involved in homosexual affairs, he would have placed wagers against it; yet, here they were, their escape practically an admission of guilt.

  An abrupt scream startled him, and he turned to the pews to see a physical altercation erupt between a deacon and his wife. He ran to break things up, wondering just how much chaos this incident had introduced into his church.

  The Bishop

  1

  I stepped off the elevator and onto the third-floor oncology unit of Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, holding the hand of my wife, Monique. We were accompanied by my good friend of more than twenty years, Deacon Maxwell Frye. As we walked down the hall, I recognized the pungent odor of medical disinfectant. It didn’t matter what hospital I visited; the smell was always the same, and it seemed to embed itself in my nostrils. I hated it because it always reminded me of the imminent deaths of the people in the rooms around me. Oh, I’d learned to tolerate it over the years, especially since visiting people in their last days was part of being the pastor of First Jamaica Ministries, but today’s visit wasn’t just to any old parishioner on his deathbed. No, today’s visit was much closer to home and way more personal for me and Deacon Frye. We were here to see our very dear friend James Black, who was dying of lung cancer.

  “T. K., Monique, get your behinds in here,” James coughed out when he saw us standing in the entrance to his room. He hadn’t seen Deacon Frye yet. Despite his condition, it was obvious he was glad to see us.

  As we entered the room, Monique’s grip tightened around my hand. I could tell she was struggling to conceal her shock at just how bad James looked. I had tried to prepare my wife before we arrived, but words couldn’t describe how much he had deteriorated.

  This was the first time Monique had seen him since he’d pled guilty to murder charges a little over a year ago. I still couldn’t believe he’d willingly gone to jail for a crime he didn’t commit, but I guess some parents will go to any lengths to protect their children. Can’t say whether I would have done the same, but I was glad I had never been put into that position. He’d been given a twenty-year sentence, but I pulled some strings after a recent visit when I heard his prognosis, and he was released for medical reasons. Cancer had taken a vibrant, six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound man and turned him into a talking skeleton. Even more unbelievable was the fact that his hair was completely white. He seemed to have aged twenty years in less than a year’s time.

  It didn’t take my wife long to gather her composure. In a matter of seconds, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around James to give him a kiss on the cheek. She shot me a pointed look when she spotted a picture of his two grown children sitting on the night table beside his bed. Monique hated the idea that his daughter and son were both missing in action and hadn’t come to see their father once since his arrest. I didn’t fault her for feeling that way, but I knew a little more about the situation than she did. I’d made a promise to James not to share what I knew, even with her.

  “James, I’ve got a surprise visitor for you.” I gestured toward the door and watched as a grin broke out across James’s face.

  “Wait, don’t tell me, T. K. You finally pulled it off. You got Holly Robinson-Peete to divorce her husband and become my personal nurse until the Lord takes me home.”

  “Holly Robinson? Have you lost your mind? Here you are supposedly on your deathbed and the woman you want to spend your last days with is Holly Robinson-Peete? You couldn’t set the bar any higher than that? I mean, come on, James. If you’re going to fantasize about a woman, you need to go all out and do it with a bang!” Maxwell joked as he appeared in the doorway. He and James had always been like that.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Maxwell Frye, how the hell are you?” James smiled from ear to ear. “I’ll be honest, brother. I didn’t think I’d see you again in this lifetime. How long you back for?”

  Deacon Frye had been in Iraq for almost five years. His company, Maxwell Enterprises, was a minority contractor for the government and was doing infrastructure work in Iraq. One of the stipulations in the contract was that he oversee things personally. He’d been back stateside only a few times briefly since.

  Maxwell walked around to the far side of James’s bed and gave him a hug. “I’m back for good. I was having some heart problems, and they had to fix me up with a pacemaker. Sorry I’m just getting around to seeing you, but I’m only now starting to get readjusted. Things have really changed around here.” He glanced over at me and my wife. We had not been married when Maxwell left for Iraq. Like many other church members, Maxwell was surprised by my decision to marry Monique.

  “Change … don’t I know it,” James said. “It’s good to see you, Maxwell. The Wilsons over there are gonna need your help keeping these church folks in line.”

  “Well, you know I’ll do whatever I can, James.”

  “I know you will. I feel better about things already.”

  James turned to my wife as Maxwell took a seat in the chair on the other side of his bed. “So, Monique, how are you? You’re looking good as ever.” He looked at
me and winked. “No offense, old friend, but your wife just gets finer and you just keep getting older.”

  “I know that’s right,” Maxwell added.

  “None taken.” I chuckled. “I think she looks pretty good myself. That’s why I married her, remember? And as far as getting old, well, I’m like a bottle of wine: I get better with time.”

  “Mmph, you sure do, honey.” Monique gave me a smile, then turned her attention back to James. “To answer your question, I’m doing fine. What about you? How you doing? You look good.”

  James laughed. “Girl, I swear, you have fit right into that first lady’s role, haven’t you?”

  I watched my beautiful wife blush.

  James spoke gently to her. “Now, I know I look like crap, so you don’t have to lie to me, Mo.” He sighed. “I know my best days are behind me. I made my peace with that a long time ago. I’m ready to die.”

  “Who said anything about you dying? You’re probably going to outlive us all, you old coot.” I was trying to break up the mood in a way only a true friend could do.

  “If I do live that long, it’s only to be a pain in your ass, T. K.” he joked, forcing himself to sit up. My wife helped him by propping a pillow behind his neck. “But seriously, I’m tired and I’m ready to go home. I just hope the Lord’s willing to let me in the door.”

  I hated to hear him say things like that, so I tried to offer him some encouragement. “I don’t think you have to worry about that, James. I think you’ve sacrificed enough, don’t you? The Lord—”

  James shot me a glance that basically said, “Let’s not go there.”

  I nodded my head out of respect for his condition and his feelings, but that didn’t mean I had to like it. That man had sacrificed his entire life for the love of his family, and he had been willing to die in a jail cell because of it.

  James quickly changed the subject. “So, Mo, how about him? He taking care of you the way he’s supposed to?”