Queen Esther could not stomach either Rev. Sykes or that hissing, spitting venom, snake-in-the-grass, Nathaniel P. Nance, whom she always referred to as “Negro Please Nance.” If there was some mess going on in their church, she could bet one of Joseph’s Viagra-strength glasses of fresh orange juice that “Negro Please” was bound to be somewhere in the midst of it.
“You got your lips so tight baby, I’m beginning to worry that you can’t get any air in your mouth,” Joseph leaned over and whispered to Queen Esther, wondering what had caused that fierce, fire-spitting expression on her face. It was fourth Sunday, her favorite worship Sunday because the kids sang today. And Bishop Tate and Mother Johnnie—two of Queen’s favorite people—were at church this morning.
“Sorry, sweetie,” she sighed. “It’s just that the devil is so busy this morning and service ain’t even really started.” She dug around in her purse and pulled out her bottle of anointing oil.
“Now what in heaven’s name do you think you are going to do with that?” he asked.
“Anoint the bishop?” she said sheepishly, all the while pouring a drop of the fragrant oil in the palm of her hand.
“Anoint the bishop when? While he is conducting service from the pulpit?” Joseph pressed.
“Uhh, well . . . yeah,” she answered with a whole lot more conviction than she felt. Somebody needed some oil on them this morning. In addition to the mayhem stewing in Nance and Sykes, Charmayne Robinson, along with Lamont’s ex-girlfriend and their mothers were at church and sitting together.
As soon as every choir member was in place, Rev. Quincey said, “The hymn of praise, ‘God Will Take Care of You,’ can be found on page two of your bulletin and page 220 in your hymnal.”
Queen Esther had been so busy with all that was going on in church, she hadn’t been paying attention to the progression of the actual service. She grabbed a hymnal, stood, and waited as the pastor commenced with the lining of the hymn.
“Be not dismayed whate’er betide, God will take care of you. Beneath His wings of love abide, God will take care of you. God will take care of you, Thru’ every day, O’er all the way; He will take care of you, God will take care of you.”
“Without further lining of the hymn,” Rev. Quincey said, “let us sing this wonderful testimony of God’s ever-present help and love in our lives.”
The congregation rose and prepared to sing, pausing for a few seconds, when it dawned on them that the rhythm had been kicked up a few notches. Jarnquez rolled right over that traditional hymn style and pushed everyone to keep up with his updated version of the song. The members of the choir started grinning and singing the song with an enthusiasm they had never previously displayed when they sang what they referred to as “one of those old-fogey church songs.”
Queen Esther, who loved this choir and all of her babies in it, raised her hand in the hip-hop style Jarnquez had shown her and called out, “Sang babies. Let Jesus know you love Him, even if ya’ gotta put a li’l dap in your praise.”
The youth choir sang even louder and with more fervor. A few of the teens raised their hands and two shouted out, “Praise the Lord somebody! Praise the Lord!”
“Girl,” Charmayne whispered back to Chablis, “your little nephew is serving it up this morning.”
“I know,” Chablis answered.
“Baby,” Miss Shirley said, “you got some hand lotion?”
Chablis dug around in her purse and handed her mother a tube of Sensi perfumed lotion.
“Baby, I can’t use this fancy stuff on these hands,” her mother said and raised up a brown hand, which looked like it had powder on it as a result of wearing her yellow rubber cleaning gloves. “I need some grease.”
Charmayne, who wanted to hear more of the song than Miss Shirley’s discussion of hand grease, passed her purse over her shoulder to Chablis.
“There should be a tube of that creamy Vaseline in my purse.”
As Chablis dug around for the Vaseline, she found samples of blond hair tracks stapled to a card with instructions for weave selection from Charmayne to her hairstylist, LaShawn. She quickly put the hair back and pulled out the tube of Vaseline. A note fell out with instructions for buying out homeowners in the neighborhood where her brother and his family lived for prices that went way below market value.
Chablis could hardly believe that Charmayne was working with Jethro Winters to sell out hundreds of hardworking black people like Jarnquez’s father. She gave her mother the Vaseline and slipped the note into her own purse before giving Charmayne hers. Even though she was barely on speaking terms with Lamont, she was giving him this note. Because there was no way she was going to sit back and let anyone, including her girl, Charmayne, swindle her brother and nieces and nephews out of their home.
Chablis loved making money, and as much of it as she possibly could. But it was a shame for Jethro Winters to have such disrespect for working-class black folk that he was willing to systematically destroy a pretty, safe, loving, and affordable neighborhood. She fought back her tears and then smiled when she saw her nephew, who was a child who truly loved the Lord, getting so caught up in the music that he had started dancing his way out of the choir loft, and commenced to doing some mighty fancy footwork once he was on the floor.
By now the entire congregation had gotten caught up in the music and was clapping and swaying as Jarnquez shouted and danced.
“Lawd, that boy out there working like he trying out for the gospel Soul Train hour,” Joseph whispered to his wife.
All Queen Esther could do was nod, wishing she could get out there and dance like that with Jarnquez. He looked like he was having the time of his life—dancing with all his heart, and all his strength, and all his might for the Lord. Now that was some dancing.
Lamont was so tickled. He had been away from church far too long. Nobody could have church like black folk. He turned around to see how Theresa was taking this all in. She always seemed so reserved to him that he wondered about her reaction to things that were clearly filled with unadulterated emotion and joy. Much to his delight, Theresa was clapping and smiling and having the time of her life.
Parvell Sykes was sitting back in his seat hoping that this display of “Negromania” would end soon. The song wasn’t that good. He wished he could reach over and slap Bishop Tate, who was now up on his feet waving his arms in the air in that hip-hop “raise ya’ hands in the air, and wave ’em like ya’ just don’t care” style. But Parvell certainly thought twice about that. Bishop Tate was six feet six and just two M&M’s short of 275. Plus, that Negro was one of those old-school, brawling bishops—the kind who packed heat and would punch you down almost as fast as he would pray for you.
The song ended and two ushers brought in a big red basket and sat it at the foot of the altar.
Bishop Tate walked up to the pulpit and said, “Christmas is fast approaching and there are people who need a helping hand. Fayetteville Street, I’m asking you to open your hearts and your pocketbooks, so that we can send a bounteous gift to the folks who are still struggling from Katrina. If you have a decent home to go to after service, you should run down to give something to somebody in need. Ushers, I want you to start with the back rows, so that we can do this quickly and in an orderly manner.”
Charmayne pulled out a five and stood and grinned at the usher when he reached her row like he was her new man. She gave him her hand when she stepped into the aisle, let her eyes drop down to his waist, and whispered, “God is good and His provisions are great.”
The usher grinned from ear to ear and pimped to the next aisle.
Roxanne sat there hot and sweating from the heavy mink on her shoulder, gritting her teeth with every step that Charmayne took down toward her hoped-for man. She thought, “Why does that conniving skank always have to look so good?”
As soon as it was time for Roxanne’s row to get up, she hopped in front of some people, anxious to find out Parvell’s reaction to Charmayne in that ruby St. John’
s suit, with rhinestone buttons down the front of the jacket, black clear-heeled pumps, and a ruby silk shoulder bag with “Charmayne” embroidered on it with sequins. And to make matters worse, the girl had a full-length, silver fox coat draped around her shoulders.
About the only other woman in church who could top that outfit was the bishop’s wife, Mother Johnnie, who was dripping St. John’s herself. Known for her sexy outfits, Mother Johnnie, who was now well into her sixties, caused several men to whisper, “Lawd, ha’ mercy,” when she walked into church this morning wearing a snug navy blue dress, with sterling silver buttons all the way down the front and on the sleeves. Her navy patent leather pumps with the silver trim around the edges of the shoe were complemented by the navy patent leather clutch she was carrying. But it was the navy, full-length mink with “Johnnie” embroidered in navy silk thread all over the silver lining that set Mother apart from the other women in church.
Johnnie wasn’t wearing a hat—instead, opting for a sleek, shoulder-length style, a wisp of shiny silver hair, falling over her eye whenever she moved her head. Mother was so fine and sexy, she gave being in your sixties a whole new meaning. She had scored several points with the teens this morning in that outfit, especially when she smiled, revealing what they considered to be an enviable white gold tooth with her infamous sapphire in the middle of it. They couldn’t believe that their bishop’s wife, one old enough to be their grandmother, was sporting gold and sapphire in her mouth.
Jarnquez had whispered, “Mother Tate looks like she used to dance in music videos back in the day,” when he saw her tooth.
“They didn’t have music videos for her to dance to back in the day, fool,” the bass player had hissed to him. “They probably didn’t even have TVs when she was young.”
“Yeah . . .” Jarnquez mused. “Ya’ probably right. No TV, no music videos, no hip-hop. Lawd, they musta been bored stupid.”
“They were,” one of the girls hissed. “Why ya’ think she went and got that tooth? She was bored stupid.”
Charmayne flipped out a hand-painted, ruby-lacquered fan and waved it furiously in her face.
“Hussy-heifer,” Roxanne mumbled, as she pulled Parvell’s sweltering mink closer to her body.
As soon as the last person took a seat, Parvell stood at the pulpit podium and raised his hands for this special offering to be blessed. When the ushers took it away, he stayed at the podium and started flipping through the Bible, obviously intent on giving the scripture reading.
Eddie Tate, who was now seated in what was traditionally the pastor’s chair, noticed the frown on Rev. Quincey’s face and knew that this fool had overstepped protocol and appointed himself to do that reading. He picked up his program, grabbed the pen resting next to his glass of water, and wrote, “Why is that joker up in your pulpit without permission, Obadiah? And where is his clerical robe? He looks like an oversized gangsta elf in that outfit.”
Rev. Quincey smiled. His bishop was so crazy. He wrote, “Man, I have had about enough of that Negro. But the presiding elder ignored your last e-mail to let him go because he wants Sykes to help the district buy some land in Johnston County.”
“Bump the presiding elder,” Eddie Tate wrote. “I’m the bishop and I say get rid of him. We have enough riffraff in the denomination and don’t need to add any more to our ministerial ranks.”
“Done,” Rev. Quincey wrote.
“Good,” the bishop wrote back. “Does he look like Ron Isley to you?”
Rev. Quincey nodded and covered his mouth with a handkerchief, hoping no one figured out that he was laughing.
“Whew,” Eddie scribbled, “I thought it was just me.”
Parvell didn’t miss the note passing and took the liberty of reading from several more scriptures. Both Rev. Quincey and the bishop had to hurry and flip through their Bibles to keep up with him. He was now reading from Psalm 71. Eddie frowned as he listened to Parvell jump around the text in search of words to use against him and the pastor, which was a serious breach of ministerial etiquette.
“. . . for my enemies speak against me,” Parvell read from the first part of verse ten, before jumping down to verse thirteen. “May my accusers be put to shame; may those who want to harm me be covered with scorn and disgrace . . .”
Parvell paused a moment to turn and glare at his pastor and the bishop, before facing the congregation again, only to give Lamont the same menacing stare. After he had handled his own business, he then moved to the parts of the scripture Eddie had selected for the text of his sermon this morning.
Parvell read, “Since my youth, O God, you have taught me, and to this day I declare your marvelous deeds. Even when I am old and gray, do not forsake me, O God, till I declare your power to the next generation, your might to all who come.”
The bishop frowned. Parvell, who had read the first part slowly, was now rushing through the text, after he had given clear directions in Rev. Quincey’s office for this part of the scripture to be read slowly, so that all the young people had a chance to absorb verses seventeen and eighteen from Psalm 71. Eddie knew that Parvell had read the scriptures any kind of way, to be spiteful.
But Eddie Tate had not been in the ministry all of these years for nothing. He was an old dog, whose bite was a whole lot worse than his menacing bark. He had stood by his best friend, Bishop Theophilus Simmons, through one of the stormiest moments in their denomination’s history, and they were all still standing. He was a man of God and an esteemed member of the episcopacy but he was also a street Negro and didn’t take this kind of mess off of anybody.
“Rev. Sykes, read from verses seventeen and eighteen again,” the bishop called out, like he was talking to an impertinent child.
“Excuse me,” Parvell said, not fully believing what he was hearing.
“You heard me, Rev. Read it again. I don’t think anybody got anything out of it the first time, with the way you were rushing through the text.”
Parvell coughed, stalling for enough time to think of something to say that would put the bishop in his place. He was not about to let Bishop Tate clown him like that in front of the congregation, even when he knew good and well that it would be a serious breach of church protocol and ministerial manners to say or do anything disrespectful to your senior pastor and any bishop.
He squared off his shoulders and said, “It appears as if our representative from the denomination’s esteemed episcopacy has mistaken the members of this great congregation for someone from his own previous church.”
Parvell turned around to make sure his point had been driven home. Satisfied with the “Negro, is you crazy?” expression on Rev. Quincey’s face, he continued.
“Our congregation, unlike far too many churches in the denomination, has been blessed with a disproportionate number of highly educated people, who don’t require that the gospel be spoon-fed to them.”
At this point, Eddie Tate had enough. He stood up and gripped Parvell’s shoulder in what felt like an iron vise.
“Son, the Lord appreciates when a man or a woman wants to become a better citizen by completing his educational training. But even more than that, God delights in a man or woman whose heart and mind and soul are turned to heaven with a desire to serve Him to the fullest. And if every single man, woman, and child in my old church was so dumb they didn’t know how to pour a glass of water, I would rejoice and consider myself a blessed man if they all found Christ and were saved, sanctified, and full of the Holy Ghost.
“Now you read that scripture right and give my Father the honor and glory He is entitled to. Because I’ve had enough of watching you stand here sinning, ’cause you so intent on serving yours.”
“Ooooo,” Jarnquez said under his breath to the pianist. “Bishop done told Rev. Sykes that his daddy is the devil.”
Queen Esther, who was of the same mind as Eddie Tate, stood up and called out, “Thank you, Jesus. You ain’t never been scared to throw a money changer out his stall, when they come a callin�
� in the house of our precious Lord.”
“Amen and Praise the Lord,” James shouted out, clapping his hands with such fervency that Lamont found he couldn’t stop himself from standing up and joining his brother in praise.
Several other folks, who wholeheartedly agreed with the bishop’s bold move, stood up and clapped and called out a few “shout outs” to the Lord. At that point, the organist, who felt the shift in the mood of the church, hopped up and started playing what Bug always said was “that old Negro spiritual, ‘The Shouting Song,’” to fan the sparks of the Holy Ghost into full-blown flames.
Theresa, who had been content to stay seated and just watch the drama being played out in church like it was a TV show, suddenly felt the anointing of the Holy Ghost pouring over her so strong, it made her rise out of her seat, lift her hands up, and call out, “Thank you, Jesus, Thank you for coming up in this house and cleaning it out.”
Charmayne stood up and waved her hands around like she was feeling the spirit because she wanted to make sure that Parvell knew she was in the congregation and having some fun at his expense. She twirled around to see what the rest of the folks were doing and caught Lamont Green watching Theresa Hopson like she was something good to eat.
“Umph, Miss Thang got a li’l thangy-thangy going on up in here and she too saved to pause a moment and see it,” Charmayne thought to herself.
Lamont was enjoying watching Theresa praise God so much, he could feel that joy spreading all through his chest like a warm and soothing liquid. She was absolutely breathtaking standing there in such deep praise. He’d always wondered why Uncle Joseph looked at Auntee like she was some red-eye gravy when she got the Holy Ghost and shouted. Now he knew—the anointing of the Holy Spirit made a woman a man loved even more beautiful than she already was.
Charmayne liked the way Lamont Green’s biceps bulged every time he clapped his hands.
Holy Ghost Corner Page 18