“And what do you want, Big Bro?” James queried.
“That contract for one,” he answered him.
“And for two?”
Lamont stroked his chin and casually looked across the parking lot, where Theresa Hopson, her brother, Bug, his wife and kids, along with their mother, were making their way up to the church door.
He said, “Well, you know, some things really need to be left in the good Lord’s hands. Don’t need to go broadcasting everything I plan on asking for.”
“I hear you loud and clear, Big Bro,” James said, as his eyes followed Lamont’s gaze. As soon as he knew that Theresa’s brother, Bug, had seen them, too, James gave his fraternity brother the Omegas’ “throwin’ up the funk” sign—that unmistakable raising of both arms with the hands held up, open-palmed and in the shape of the Omega symbol. In reply, Bug put his hand up to his mouth and gave out a deep, loud Omega Psi Phi “dawg” bark.
Theresa didn’t know why Bug had to bark like that all the time and at church of all places. Here she was trying to get her mind set on Jesus, and her brother was out in the church parking lot acting like he was getting ready to throw down in a fraternity step show. And to make matters worse, James gave his own exceptionally loud bark, only to be followed by another bark and “funk-throw” by Bug. She glanced over at her sister-in-law to gauge her reaction. No help from that love-struck girl. The child was worse than her husband, grinning and cheesing like she was a Q-Dawg.
Theresa shook her head and started walking away, intent on getting in and finding good seats for the whole family.
“Morning, Miss Lady,” Lamont called out, as he hurried up to where the Hopson clan was. Theresa thought the greeting was meant for her. But in case it wasn’t, she didn’t say anything. She did, however, slow her pace considerably.
“You not speaking to folks this morning, Miss Theresa?” Lamont asked, as he tipped his chocolate derby at her and scanned her person from head to toe.
What Theresa had on was a better advertisement for her store than any of her commercials airing on the black radio stations could ever be. Lamont didn’t know a whole lot about women’s hats. But he did know that Theresa’s black hat, which was covered in black silk, beaded tulle, had to be one of the best-looking ones he had ever seen.
And that outfit? The cashmere and silk blend of the black suit was of the same quality as the material used for the finest menswear. But instead of being severe and too masculine, the suit was quite elegant, and awfully sexy, too, with a snug jacket grazing the hip of the straight and short skirt that rose a good three inches above the knee. Theresa’s long, sinuous legs were showcased in silky black hosiery with a tiny star pattern and a pair of three-inch-high, black suede ankle-strapped shoes.
“Theresa,” Bug’s wife said, “aren’t you going to speak to James’s brother?”
“Uhh sure,” Theresa answered. She raised her hand in one of those stiff and proper Miss America waves, and extended him an even more stiff and proper smile.
“Praise the Lord, Lamont,” she said, causing her own family members to turn and stare her down. Her mother cleared her throat until she had Theresa’s eye, and then looked at her as if to say, “Did you fall out of bed and right on your head this morning?”
Theresa tried to play dumb and said, “What?”
“You know what, Prophetess,” Bernice Hopson answered loudly.
Both Bug and Vanessa started cracking up. Bernice always called somebody Prophet or Prophetess when they were not acting right in church—especially when the person was hiding behind “Saved” lingo to put someone else off from them. And if she called you “Apostle,” you were really cutting the fool.
Lamont was having a good time watching the cool, saved, always-did-and-said-the-right-thing Theresa Hopson fidget under his scrutiny, as well as that of her mother. He experienced a hot thrill knowing he’d gotten so far up under her skin, and then be able to act like he hadn’t purposely pushed all of Theresa’s buttons like that.
“Why so formal, baby?” he asked in a sultry voice. “I thought that we had a real nice connection thing going on between us.”
Theresa blushed and then caught herself when she realized that her mother was staring at the two of them so intently one would have thought she was watching one of her favorite television shows.
Lamont peered into Theresa’s dark, almond-shaped eyes.
“Well? We do have a connection, don’t we?” he stated.
“Do you or don’t you have a connection with this man, Theresa Elaine,” her mother asked with some mischief in her voice, and her poker face in place, so as not to give away her burning curiosity about what was going on between those two. Last time she heard anything about her daughter’s love life, the girl was calling herself dating that punk-tailed Parvell Sykes.
“And now, looka heah, looka heah,” Bernice thought, “the oldest Green boy is eyeing the girl like she’s a piece of piping-hot, fried-to-golden-brown-perfection chicken.”
Bernice and Bill Hopson had known the Green boys since they were in elementary school. They had always secretly thought that Lamont was just what the doctor ordered for their duty-bound baby girl. As far back as grade school, Theresa worked hard to outdo the kids in her class and didn’t have a clue about the joys of just being regular like everybody else. It was a contrived perfection that both parents believed had been very costly to her. Because for all of Theresa’s perfections, she never figured out how to disable her ability to let two wonderful “wannabe” husbands slip right through her fingers because they had some flaw that she did not possess.
Bill always said, “Bernice, that girl is going to have a time finding a husband. I mean, who can bear to sleep next to pristine perfection each and every night. ’Cause let’s be real, baby. There are times when a man wants his woman to leap at the chance to get to the point where she sweats back the roots in her perm for her man.”
Bill was right, too. Because that is exactly what your man wanted and needed. And watching Lamont pick at Theresa made Bernice think that he was probably the one man capable of making her want to mess up that immaculate coiffure of hers.
“I need to quit giving you a hard time, Miss Thang,” Lamont said sweetly but without as much heat in his voice. He had not missed Bernice Hopson’s rapt attention to his and Theresa’s conversation.
“Yes you do,” Theresa said smiling, working hard to hide just how much that man had gotten next to her, and pulled at the church door.
“Girl, let me do that for you and your mother,” Lamont said, as he held the door all the way open for them.
“Thank you,” Theresa said with a gorgeous smile lighting up her face.
“Yes, thank you,” Gwendolyn Green chimed in as she hurried through the door after Bernice, stopping right in front of Lamont, pulling on his arm, and gazing up in his eyes as she struck up a conversation with him.
Theresa’s sunny smile disappeared behind the cloudy expression that was settling on her face. She gave Gwen a polite greeting and walked off without a backward glance at Lamont. Why she believed that anything she said last week would get through his obviously thick skull was foolish thinking at its best.
Gwen was talking and smiling and looking up at Lamont, who didn’t hear a word she said. He sighed and closed his eyes, wishing that he would have had sense enough to excuse himself from Gwen and go and stop Theresa from rushing off like she did. Why couldn’t he get it through to the girl that he only wanted to be considerate of Gwen’s feelings—nothing more, nothing less?
“I’m going to sit down,” Gwen said and then repeated, “Lamont, I am going to sit down, okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” he mumbled and waved her off, stretching his neck and trying to get one last glimpse of Theresa before she slipped through the sanctuary doors.
Bernice followed her daughter, thinking, “And Miss Theresa walking around Durham thinking the only man willing to date her is Parvell Sykes.”
While the other min
isters were deep in their pre-service prayer, Parvell, who had decided to forgo wearing his clerical robe this morning, was already in the sanctuary profiling his new holiday attire—a Christmas green velvet suit, white silk shirt and matching tie, green, slip-on gaiters with red leather piping, and a snow-white, floor-length mink coat, which was draped around his shoulders.
Chablis Jackson and her mother hurried and slid into their seats because Miss Shirley did not like standing out in the vestibule socializing on the Sundays they made it to eleven o’clock service. As soon as they were situated, Chablis gave her mother the eye, hoping she’d take the cue to remove the yellow rubber cleaning gloves from her hands.
“Don’t be eyeballing me,” was all Miss Shirley said as she stubbornly refused to remove her gloves, wishing that Chablis had not challenged her, so that she could have gotten those sweltering hot things off her hands as soon as they sat down.
“You act as if I am the only person who is touched in the head in this sanctuary,” she continued, and then started pointing a yellow rubber finger at Parvell. “Look over there. Ain’t that Charmayne’s boyfriend, Mr. Big from the Isley Brothers?”
“No, Mama,” Chablis snapped, wishing her mama wouldn’t always have to point and talk so loud.
Miss Shirley loved the singer Ron Isley’s character “Mr. Big.” Every time a “Mr. Big” music video came on BET, Miss Shirley stopped cleaning, took off her gloves, and said, “Umph, umph, umph. Just looking at that fine Mr. Big can rock my world.”
It vexed Chablis to no end that her mother loved coming to Fayetteville Street Church just to see “Mr. Big’s” taller and thinner and younger look-alike, Rev. Parvell Sykes.
Parvell’s mink was beginning to feel hot and getting heavier by the minute. He knew that Rev. Quincey would flat out refuse a request to carry the coat on his arm during the processional. He scanned the sanctuary in search of a trustworthy person to watch his mink. He thought about asking Chablis and her mother. They were definitely trustworthy enough—but not the best choice since Chablis was tight with Charmayne and Miss Shirley was always trying to flirt with him.
He kept right on looking until he spied the president of the Daughters of Naomi Missionary Society, Roxanne Daye, who always managed to be in his immediate vicinity whenever they were at church. Maybe it was time the two of them had more contact with each other.
Parvell walked over to Roxanne’s pew and said, “Praise the Lord. Sister Daye, I must say that you are quite lovely this morning in all of that green.”
Roxanne gave a coy giggle and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle on her forest green silk suit that was the exact same shade as the one Parvell was wearing.
“Thank you, Rev. You know I think we’re looking like twins today.”
Parvell squeezed out a smile, as he thought, “Why do black folk love being twins with somebody,” and then answered Roxanne with a polite, “I guess you could say that. But what I’m wearing,” he continued, moving deftly into a playa lie, “can’t hold a candle to you, my dear.”
Roxanne tapped him lightly on the arm and said, “Rev., you so crazy.”
Queen Esther, who was sitting several rows behind Roxanne Daye, thought she’d puke listening to the two of them. She leaned over and whispered to her husband, Joseph.
“Baby, that mess they handing out to each other so full of syrupy poop, I feel like I’m about to catch a case of the sugar diabetes.”
Joseph nodded. As far as he was concerned, Rev. Sykes, who was prancing around the sanctuary dressed in a mink like he was The Mack or Superfly, wasn’t worth a pinch of dissolved table salt. And Roxanne, who was waving to fifty from the forty-something shore, was determined to marry a professional man with high visibility in the Gospel United Church.
Roxanne, who had been skinnin’ and grinnin’ all up Parvell’s face just moments ago, frowned. He gave his mouth a blast of Binaca, sneaked and sucked in a few puffs of air to make sure Roxanne’s frown wasn’t caused by his breath, and then followed her troubled gaze around the church to where Theresa had just sat down.
Parvell had forgotten that Roxanne Daye hated the ground Theresa Hopson walked on—which made this thin woman, with few womanly indentations on her figure, all that more attractive to him. Parvell decided right then that it was high time he gave Ms. Hopson payback for not calling him after he broke up with her, and for failing to return his ring.
When Parvell saw Theresa looking in his direction, he took his mink and draped it around Roxanne’s shoulder with a great show of “chivalry.”
“I thought you might like this to keep you warm and remind you of me,” he said in what he had been told by Charmayne was his sexiest voice.
“Thank you, Rev.,” Roxanne gushed as she inhaled his cologne and rubbed her hand over the luxurious fur, making Parvell worry that the oil from her hand would get his coat dirty.
He took both of Roxanne’s hands in his to get them off his coat. When she frowned a second time, he turned around and spotted Charmayne and her mother, Ida Belle, taking their seats in front of Chablis and Miss Shirley.
“Is everything all right, my dear?” he asked.
“Yes,” she lied, hoping that he had not seen Charmayne. Rumor had it that Parvell’s car pulled up into Charmayne’s driveway during those late night times known as the “booty call” hours. As much as Roxanne hated to admit it, she knew that Charmayne Robinson, with that naturally blond hair, and bouncing boobs and “rumpshaker” butt, was some stiff competition.
Plus, to make matters worse, Charmayne was always putting it out there that she had some serious “skills.” Roxanne, on the other hand, was president of the biggest missionary group in the church, and not at liberty to release the same information. And even though there were some men at the church who knew that she “served it up” behind closed doors, it took some maneuvering for her to get a man behind them without drawing unwanted attention to herself.
Charmayne had not missed Roxanne’s fierce scrutiny. She waited until she knew both Roxanne and Parvell were looking her way, and then licked her lips like the warmth of her tongue on them was just about the best thing she’d ever felt.
Roxanne stiffened. Parvell tried not to think about Charmayne’s mouth. He tore his eyes away from her and refocused his attention on Roxanne. The pastor and the choir were filing into the sanctuary. Parvell squeezed Roxanne’s hands and hurried to the back of the church.
“I’m going to have to have a little talk with Charmayne,” Parvell thought, all the time wondering how he was going to do so without making her so angry she shut down his booty calls.
“Don’t you think it’s time to find a new and improved strategy for handling Gwen?” Lamont’s sister-in-law, Rhonda, said as she came up on him from the direction of the ladies’ bathroom. It was taking all her strength not to haul off and slap the black off him, for letting that little transaction happen between the two of them.
“I’m just being considerate and polite, Rhonda,” Lamont said. “When did that become a crime?”
“Here’s a news flash for you, Big Brother,” Rhonda said solemnly. “If you were truly being considerate and polite, you wouldn’t have been rude and thoughtless to Theresa.”
“I didn’t realize that I had been rude to anyone,” Lamont responded defensively.
“Big Brother,” Rhonda pushed, determined not to back down on this one, even if they had to have a good old-fashioned sibling spat right in the church lobby. “You can’t sacrifice Theresa for Gwen, just to make sure that you are being . . .”
She raised her hands and made the quotation sign with her fingers, “. . . considerate and polite.”
“Don’t you know that if you are falling in love with Theresa, her feelings have to come first? And don’t you know that when you marry again, that your wife’s feelings cannot be put in second place on those occasions when it isn’t comfortable for you to put them first and you believe it’s time to be nice?”
“You need to go in that sanctua
ry and stay out of grown folks’ business,” Lamont told her. He was having a hard enough time admitting that he was falling for Theresa. Last thing he needed was a baby sister chewing him out over how he was treating someone he didn’t want to admit he was falling for.
Rhonda rolled her eyes, sucked on her teeth, and then went and found her husband and children, mumbling, Negroes, under her breath.
Lamont checked his watch. He would need to get into the sanctuary and take a seat in a few minutes. He inhaled the masculine smell coming from the fine leather, cognac-colored bench he was sitting on. Then he inhaled a second time, taking special note of the smell of what he always called “church air.”
It had been six months since he had attended a Sunday morning service, and he had almost forgotten how good church felt and how comforting the smell of “church air” was to him. Lamont couldn’t say just exactly what “church air” smelled like. But anybody who grew up in church knew it when they smelled it. It was a combination of things—breathing in the wood on the pews and the furniture polish used to keep it clean, the scent of heavy choir robes, meals that were being prepared by the kitchen ministry, new hats, perfumes and colognes, Communion wine and crackers. It was like you could smell the very beginning of each service—a smell that touched and warmed your heart the moment you stepped up in church.
The smell of Fayetteville Street Gospel United Church of America made Lamont feel good. It made him feel safe. It made him feel like all the burdens of these past months were being taken off his shoulders and handled. It made him wish he’d come back home to church months ago. It made him feel good, at home, comforted, and convicted all at the same time.
His church was beautiful. As a man who built houses for a living, he had a special appreciation for the architecture, the landscaping, and the design of the interior of Fayetteville Street Church. The church had been built with custom bricks that were a pale terra-cotta with flecks of a muted apricot color in them. It was a one-story building that spread across several blocks, and was nestled comfortably in the midst of a small hill of velvety grass, lush shrubbery, an award-winning rose garden, and bright wildflowers in yellow, orange, red, and hot pink.
Holy Ghost Corner Page 16