Come Sunday Morning

by Terry E. Hill

  The intoxication from thoughts of Danny mingled in his head with rage at Samantha and pity for the trauma-stricken Catherine. He now knew what he had to do. Leave Samantha, move in with Danny, and accomplish this feat while maintaining the ministry he had dedicated his life to.

  He could tell people that Danny was his housekeeper, or maybe the son of a dear friend in Texas. There has to be a way to make this work, he thought.

  Particulars of the complicated process raced through his mind. The church was not big enough for the both of them. Samantha would have to leave it and join another one. There was no way he could look at her each Sunday in the audience with venom darting from her eyes. He could pay her to leave the church. Promise her something, anything she wanted, to let him go and allow him to start a new life.

  Hezekiah, Samantha, and Jasmine sat at their dining-room table having dinner. Etta busily set platters and bowls of food around the well-appointed table. No one spoke and eye contact was avoided.

  Over the years Etta had seen the Cleavelands at their best and at their worst. This night was unprecedented, as far as she could recall. She could not begin to imagine how the evening would end, but she hoped she would have the opportunity to retire to her quarters before things got out of control. Her heart went out to Hezekiah as he sat at the head of the table with Jasmine to his right and Samantha to his left. She often wondered why he stayed with her. Why did he put up with her lavish spending and her often unpredictable temper?

  “I hope the meat is cooked the way you like it, Pastor,” she said as she placed the last dish on the table.

  “I’m sure it’s fine, Etta. Thank you.”

  “If you need anything else, I’ll be in the kitchen.” Etta said a silent prayer for the Cleavelands as she retreated from the room.

  Jasmine shuffled food around her plate with her fork. She had grown to hate the dinner ritual. Her mind jumped from remembering the wild events of the previous evening to anticipating the ones scheduled for that night. She tried to ignore the tension between her parents as she prepared an excuse for leaving the house.

  “Daddy,” she said innocently, “I need a hundred dollars. I’m going out this evening.”

  Before Hezekiah could answer, Samantha stepped in. “Where are you going?”

  “I was talking to Daddy.”

  Hezekiah sat and barely listened to the exchange. He had a rule not to get involved in arguments between his wife and daughter. He felt the relationship between a mother and daughter was far too complicated for any man to understand.

  Samantha abruptly dropped her fork on the plate. “I don’t care who you were talking to. I asked where you are planning on going.”

  Not wanting to tangle with her mother while she was teetering on one of her terrible moods, Jasmine snapped, “Never mind. Just drop it.”

  “Don’t talk to your mother that way, young lady.” Hezekiah finally spoke while reaching for his wallet. “Where are you going?”

  Jasmine welcomed the intervention of her father. She could always count on him to look beyond her condition, regardless of how chaotic, and only see his bright-eyed little girl. “Kelly and I are going to a movie.”

  Hezekiah reached into his wallet and handed her a one-hundred-dollar bill. Whenever he looked at Jasmine, he could only see the little girl in a white lace dress with yellow ribbons in her hair who ran into his arms every time he entered a room. He couldn’t see the rapidly deteriorating young woman who drank too much and had sex in the back of cars with men she barely knew.

  “What are you doing, Hezekiah? She’s lying. Don’t give her that!” Samantha shrieked.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Hezekiah said calmly.

  “Why do you indulge her like this? It only makes things worse. Can’t you see what’s happening to her?”

  “You’re making things worse by blowing this out of proportion. If, for once in your life, you could stop and think of how your tantrums and manipulation affect others, maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “So it’s my fault that you can’t control yourself, and that our marriage is falling apart. The fact that you can’t keep your…” Acknowledging Jasmine, Samantha had the presence of mind to censor her words.

  “Yes, Samantha, much of this is your fault. You want to control everything and everyone around you. This is not the church, damn it. It’s our home. You can’t even tell the difference anymore. People have their own lives. People have a right to private thoughts—thoughts that even you can’t control.”

  “Save your sermon for Sunday morning. I’m not one of your sheep that needs you to tell them when to sing and when to pray.”

  Samantha snatched the cloth napkin from her lap and threw it onto the table. The china shook as she stood and a glass of water almost tipped over.

  “If you could pull your head out of the sand for once, you’d see that your daughter is killing herself and needs our help. But you’ve got more important people on your mind these days.”

  “Don’t involve Jasmine in our problems. Jasmine, you should leave. Your mother and I have to talk.”

  Jasmine stood up from the table. “Are you going to be all right, Daddy?”

  “I’ll be fine, honey. Don’t stay out too late. I want you home at a decent hour.”

  “I will be, Daddy.” Jasmine kissed her father on the forehead and made a hasty exit.

  From the kitchen Etta heard the loud voices and pressed her ear against the door.

  Hezekiah waited to hear Jasmine close the front door before he spoke. “I want to talk to you about Catherine. You had no right to fire her. You crossed the line and you owe her an apology.”

  “Crossed the line? You must be joking. I’m not the one fucking men in alleys, or park bathrooms, or wherever the hell it is that you go.”

  Etta gasped behind the kitchen door.

  Hezekiah stood up quickly and took a physically threatening stance. Samantha looked him in the eye and said, “What are you going to do, hit me?”

  Hezekiah rushed toward her and slapped her hard on the cheek. Samantha’s long hair swirled as she rebounded from the blow.

  The force of the impact caused her to knock her plate off the table. After gaining her footing she stood upright and said, “So now you want to be a man. After seventeen fucking years, you want to be in charge now. I’ve got news for you, Reverend. It’s too late! You never were a man and now you’ve proved it by letting some faggot fuck you in the ass.”

  Hezekiah slapped her again. This time, before his hand completely cleared her face, she lunged at him and wrestled him to the floor. Dishes and glasses crashed to the carpet. The flower centerpiece toppled over and water splashed against the wall.

  “I’ll kill you, you fucking bastard. I’ll kill you.” She pounded his head with her open palms. Hezekiah grabbed her neck and rolled her to her back. He straddled her chest while she continued to scream and claw at his face.

  Etta burst through the kitchen door, screaming, “Pastor, no! Don’t hit her.” She ran behind him and tried to pull him away from Samantha’s thrashing body. “Pastor, no. You’re going to kill her.”

  When he heard Etta’s voice, his hands froze. His eyes focused on Samantha’s distorted face as she continued to spew obscenities. He pushed Etta aside and stood up.

  Panting, Samantha moved away from him and scrambled to her knees, shouting through disheveled hair, “What’s wrong—you not man enough to put me in my place?”

  Hezekiah coldly stared at her and said nothing. He looked at Etta cowering next to the wall and yelled, “Don’t just stand there. Clean this mess up!” He then gestured toward Samantha, still on her knees. “And get her out of here.”

  Hezekiah turned and walked out of the room. Etta bent down to Samantha and tried to help her up.

  Samantha snapped, “Don’t touch me. And if you ever mention this to anyone, I swear I’ll kill you.”

  17

  Danny St. John stood beneath the freeway overpass, next to
a pile of clothes, soiled blankets, and soggy newspapers. He was one block from the sprawling construction site of New Testament Cathedral. The smell of urine and human waste assaulted his nose.

  Sounds from cars speeding overhead filled the air. Remains of a campfire burned in the distance, and a mother with two small children gathered a large stuffed plastic bag and dashed from the area before he could approach. As Danny walked toward two men sitting next to a cement pillar, which vibrated from the traffic above, the mud squished beneath his feet. Their foggy eyes became alert as he approached. One man struggled to his feet and tried to walk away.

  “Wait a minute, guys,” Danny called out. “I’m not the police. My name is Danny. I’m an outreach worker.”

  The two men seemed to relax and turn themselves over once again to their alcohol-induced haze.

  “Hey, man,” one said, “you got any vitamins? I got a cold that I ain’t been able to shake for weeks.”

  They each wore blue jeans covered with mud. One was a Native American, and the other’s thick drawl told of his deep Southern roots. Their shirts were torn and missing several buttons. Hair that had once been their crowns was matted and covered with unidentifiable white flecks. Danny rustled through his backpack and found two small bottles of vitamin C. “Here you go, guys,” he said, handing them the bottles. “I’ve also got clean socks if you need them.”

  The Indian’s words were slurred from three days of nonstop drinking. “Man, I been trying to get an affordable apartment for three years now, but they always tell me there ain’t none available.”

  “They told me I had to be sober before I could get an apartment,” the Southerner chimed in. “What kinda shit is that? If I could get sober by myself, I wouldn’t need their motherfucking charity.”

  Both men laughed in unison and leaned toward each other in a gesture of camaraderie. Danny had heard the story many times before.

  “I know it’s tough, guys, but if you come to my office, I can make a few calls for you and maybe get you in somewhere.”

  The two men seemed startled by Danny’s proposal.

  “Man, I got an appointment at the welfare office this afternoon. Can I come in some other time?” came the response from the Southerner.

  The Native American held up his hand, signifying his rejection of the offer.

  Danny handed them his business card.

  “My office hours are on the back. You can come in anytime. If I don’t hear from you by next week, I’ll check back here, if that’s okay.”

  “You guys oughta build more affordable housing,” said the Indian. “Somebody should tell the fucking pastor of that church over there that instead of building that fucking forty-five-million-dollar piece of shit, he oughta be building housing for poor people.”

  As Danny walked to his car, he made a mental note of the conversation with the two men and the squalor in which they lived. He wanted to recount it to Hezekiah the next time he saw him.

  Something was not quite right at New Testament Cathedral. Staff members speculated about the strange behavior of those closest to the pastor. Why had Hezekiah canceled all his afternoon appointments?

  Why had Catherine barricaded herself in her office? “Hold all my calls” was the only instruction to the baffled secretary.

  Why had Naomi suddenly dropped a wall of silence via an “urgent” e-mail sent to all department heads? It read:

  Until further notice, all communications with members of the press are to be cleared by me first. Violation of this directive will result in disciplinary actions by the pastor’s office.

  “I heard the pastor collapsed last night and had to be rushed to the hospital” was the rumor whirling through the carpeted cubicles of the finance office.

  “Naomi finally stood up for herself and told the pastor to get off her back” emerged as the top theory with the maintenance crew.

  “Hezekiah caught Percy Pryce in bed with Samantha. They had a fight and Percy punched Hezekiah in the jaw. Didn’t you see the scar on his face this morning?” The scintillation of this rumor made it the top choice for staff in the cafeteria.

  New Testament Cathedral still looked the same. The grand main staircase continued to sweep elegantly to the main entrance. Sculpted white cherubs still dangled perilously from balconies. Mail room staff, on their usual morning rounds, delivered stacks of envelopes stuffed with cash and checks. This morning, however, the air was thick with a tension that caused conversations to halt suddenly when unfamiliar faces entered a room, or when a member of the pastor’s inner circle walked by.

  “Good morning, Naomi,” a brave staff member said as Naomi passed her in the hall. “Is everything all right with Pastor Cleaveland?”

  Naomi recognized the woman’s face but couldn’t remember her name. “Why? What have you heard?” Naomi asked, slowing her pace only slightly.

  “Someone said that he looked sick.”

  Naomi turned her head to the woman, but her feet continued to move forward. “I just saw the pastor this morning. He looked fine to me. Only idiots believe the gossip they hear around here. What’s your name?”

  “Sarah,” said the startled woman.

  “Sarah,” Naomi said, as if making a mental note. “I’ll mention what you said to the pastor the next time I see him. I’m sure he’ll want to know who said it.”

  “I didn’t mean…It was just something I heard from someone,” the panicked woman said to Naomi’s back. “I would never gossip about the pastor.”

  Naomi said over her shoulder, “Have a nice day, Sarah.”

  Hattie Williams squirmed in her favorite chair as she dozed. An old gospel hymn crackled on the radio. She intermittently thrashed her head from side to side. “No, don’t do it,” she mumbled in her sleep. “Look out, Pastor. Don’t listen to them.”

  The dream was so vivid, Hattie thought she was awake.

  The church floor ripples to the rhythm of Hezekiah’s beating heart as he falls in the sanctuary. From the top to the bottom, each pew ebbs and flows, mimicking the motion of an ocean wave.

  Frightened people on the billowing pews ride the waves in horror as Hezekiah’s body spirals downward. Women, wearing clothing inappropriate for such a turbulent sea, lose their footing as they look upward at the flying pastor. They tumble to the floor. Some hit the solid ground with a thud, while others scurry on hands and knees to avoid being crushed.

  Chords of music screech from the pipe organ. The chandeliers flicker and shrieks of horror can be heard from every corner of the room. Suddenly the glass birds and cherubs in the stained-glass windows come to life and join Hezekiah in his flight. Beams of light reach through glass panels, trying to catch Hezekiah as he falls, but his twirling body eludes their grasp. He tumbles in the air like a leaf falling to the earth, which heralds the end of a long, hot summer, or a snowflake foretelling the cold winter to come. The fall seems endless. Laws of gravity have ceased and have left him suspended in air, unable to touch the ground below. He is a wounded bird in flight for all to see and pity.

  Hezekiah looks down and suddenly sees the faces of his beloved members have contorted into hideous shapes, spewing bile and contempt.

  “You lied to us, Hezekiah Cleaveland!” they shout.

  “If God loved you so much, then why has he let you fall?” they challenge, mocking and laughing.

  The chorus of truths causes Hezekiah’s body to slow its descent. “Fall, Hezekiah Cleaveland,” they chant. “Fall!”

  “God doesn’t love you anymore!”

  The bulging eyes and distorted face of Samantha Cleaveland appears on the balcony of the auditorium. A diamond bracelet on her wrist sparkles as she extends her long, deformed hands toward the falling Hezekiah, not to break his fall, but to speed it.

  Hezekiah’s plunge continues mercilessly as familiar faces, dreaded confrontations, and painful events flash in rapid succession through his mind. This is it. His life has been condensed into the eight seconds it took to fall to the earth.


  “Please tick faster.” His eyes are pleading. “I don’t want to see any more of my life. Please, God…let this end.”

  Hattie violently jerked her head one last time and bolted upright in the chair. She was shaking and her brow was doused with perspiration. She gasped for breath as she gripped the cushioned arms of the chair.

  Through anguished gasps Hattie cried out loud, “She’s going to do it. Lord, you’ve got to stop her.”

  Lance typed revisions to the article after his interview with Danny:

  Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland has been involved in a homosexual affair with Mr. Danny St. John, a resident of the Adams District. St. John is an employee of the Los Angeles Homeless-Outreach Team.

  Cleaveland and St. John met for the first time in June of last year. It is not clear if they are still together, but e-mail messages obtained by this reporter show that their last correspondence occurred as recently as last week.

  In one such e-mail Cleaveland wrote, “I can’t meet you tonight, baby, because there is a planning commission hearing I have to attend. They’re finally deciding tonight whether to grant the conditional-use permit for the new sanctuary. Wish me luck. I am free tomorrow evening. I love you, Danny, and can’t wait to hold you again. Love, Hezekiah.” The e-mail was dated April 17.

  Parties close to Cleaveland have confirmed that the relationship was sexual in nature, and that the two have met a minimum of once per week over the last twelve months. Our source, who requested anonymity, is quoted as saying, “His driver takes him to Mr. St. John’s house usually after dark. He stays there for at least two or three hours. I only know of one occasion when he actually spent the night.”

  Colleagues at the Los Angeles Homeless-Outreach Team have confirmed that Cleaveland has called personally on many occasions inquiring as to the whereabouts of St. John.