Mercy, Mercy Me

by Ronn Elmore

  “Will that be all, sir?”

  Dwayne nodded, handing the man a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Thank you, sir.” The bellman disappeared into the hallway. Dwayne threw his jacket on the plush white sofa, then reached for the phone. But Beverlyn was not in her room.

  He loosened his tie, then made his way into the bedroom. The Jacuzzi tub was more than inviting, but he resisted, knowing his schedule was too tight for that. He opted instead for a quick nap, pulling back the heavy bedspread and laying his head against the softness of the feather-down pillows. His eyes weren’t closed for a minute before the phone rang.

  “Darling!”

  “Beverlyn.”

  “Just get in?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Boy, I’m glad you’re here. You wouldn’t believe my day.”

  “Things not going well?”

  “Well, everything is fine now, because of course, L.W. took care of it—but I don’t want to talk about that. Are you up for an early dinner? We can go downstairs to Jean Georges. It’s fabulous.”

  “That’s fine. Listen, Beverlyn.” Dwayne’s tone grew serious. “Sean missed the plane. Have you heard from him?”

  “I thought you knew.” She paused, continuing when he didn’t speak up. “He canceled his appearance at the crusade.”

  Dwayne sat up straight in the bed, now worried. “Is he all right?”

  “I didn’t speak to him directly, but his assistant, J.T., said something important had come up.”

  “What could be that important?”

  “Any number of things, Dwayne. Why are you so worried? J.T. said that all was well and that Sean would make it up to me.”

  Again, there was nothing from Dwayne.

  “Dwayne, things happen. I’m sure it was nothing. He’s canceled before.”

  “I don’t know …”

  “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it here and now.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “Let’s forget about the crusade and Sean and everything else tonight. Let’s just have a good time.”

  “Okay. He hesitated before adding, “I’ll meet you in the lobby in one hour.”

  Dwayne had barely hung up when he dialed J.T.’s number.

  “J.T., this is Dwayne Grandison. I need to get in touch with Sean.”

  “Oh, Dr. Grandison, Sean asked me to call you. His doctor ordered him on a much-needed hiatus to get some rest.”

  Though he could read no reason for alarm in J.T.’s voice, Dwayne didn’t believe a word. He paced the floor. “J.T., give it to me straight. Is Sean all right?”

  “He’s just fine and doesn’t want you to worry.”

  Dwayne paused. Sean hadn’t talked to many people about his life. He didn’t know what J.T. knew. “The fewer the number of people who know,” Sean had once told him, “the better chance I have of keeping my personal life personal.”

  “Sean will be back on Wednesday,” J.T. continued. “He’ll call you then.”

  Dwayne hung up the telephone. The best thing for him was to believe J.T. If he did that, he wouldn’t have to believe that his friend’s illness had taken over and begun to ravish his body as he imagined over and over in the past hours. Sean probably just needed some rest as J.T. said.

  Anyway, if Sean was sick, Dwayne was sure he, Dwayne, would be the first person Sean would call. Sean had long ago lost touch with his own family except for an occasional relative who popped up from some obscure southern town requesting financial aid, in the name of the Wiley family.

  Dwayne sat down on the bed. Now that he thought more about it, his worries were probably without cause. He looked at his watch and dashed into the bathroom for a quick shower. He’d relax and unwind later tonight.

  Seconds after the waiter who’d served them removed the last of the fillet of salmon and braised lamb they shared, another waiter followed, and with three swift swoops of his table scoop, removed all signs of crumbs from the white linen tablecloth.

  “Are you as stuffed as I am?” Beverlyn asked.

  Dwayne nodded and reached for her hand. “Let’s take a walk.”

  After signing the check, Dwayne took Beverlyn’s hand and led her through the restaurant still filled with people, many of whom had come in from the Wynton Marsalis concert at Lincoln Center.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Boudreaux.” The young Puerto Rican man who had served them came up behind them. “Would you mind if I had your autograph?”

  Beverlyn smiled, took the paper, and signed her name.

  “Thank you,” he said. He stared for a long moment at Dwayne, then shook his hand before he turned and walked away.

  Dwayne followed her as they walked outside, taking her hand as they ran across Central Park West. Silently, they strolled at a leisurely pace along the park’s western perimeter. The sweltering heat of the hot July day had cooled and was now replaced by a comfortable seventy-nine degrees that was enhanced by a light breeze.

  Central Park West was packed with the usual evening rush of cabs as they dashed across driving lanes and through red lights in their quest to take passengers to downtown destinations. The air filled with sounds of horns blaring, people yelling, and whistles from doormen of surrounding hotels and apartment buildings vying for the next vacant cab.

  “I love New York,” Beverlyn said, putting her arm around Dwayne’s waist. “When I was little, I dreamed of living here.”

  Dwayne looked down at her. “Really?”

  Beverlyn paused and pulled Dwayne to the waist-high brick wall. She stuffed her hands deep inside the pockets of her wide-legged denim slacks.

  “Yeah, right after I snatched my first purse.” She laughed at the irony of her words. “There was this girl, Sara, at the orphanage. She told me that snatching purses was the easiest way to get money. She was older than me, so I looked up to her.

  “She had me practice on some other girls and then I went with her out on the streets to try.” She paused, but his eyes told her to continue. “It’s a wonder we never got caught, but all the kids knew those back alleys and passageways almost better than the police. And the smaller you were, the better.

  “Anyway, I was supposed to snatch the purse, run to the nearest alley, take out the money, then dump the purse. But I found three brochures about New York. I stuffed them into my pockets, and that night, I waited until Sara was asleep and then I read the pamphlets. I couldn’t understand all the words but I knew I wanted to come here. That was the first night I made a deal with God.”

  “What was the deal?”

  “I told Him that if He would just send someone to rescue me and take me to New York, I would get a real job.”

  “And how old were you?” Dwayne inquired. “Seven, eight?”

  “Yeah, the joke was I thought what I was doing was work. I wanted a better job.”

  Together, they shared a good laugh. This was when he liked her most, though he wasn’t sure if the attraction was based on the doctor in him or the vulnerability in her.

  “At least half of my dreams came true. Did you know that L.W. came to New Orleans just to look for me?”

  “I didn’t know that.” Dwayne hoped his tone didn’t reveal his doubt.

  “He said he searched for months and was determined to find me.”

  As Dwayne pulled Beverlyn into his arms, he wondered what the real story was. The man whom Beverlyn described was hardly the same man who stared him down in meetings, barely speaking to him if they were to pass each other in the halls and refusing to refer to him as “Dr. Grandison,” only condescendingly as “young man” or “Mr. Grandison.”

  “Oh,” Beverlyn said, jarring his thoughts, “there’s Tavern on the Green.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re hungry. We’ve barely walked—”

  “Oh, come on. They have the best cheesecake. You just have to taste it.” Beverlyn ran ahead of him, and when he caught up with her, they stepped inside. Even though it was after ten, nearly every table in the main dining room
was occupied.

  “I don’t think we’re going to get in here tonight,” Dwayne whispered.

  “Watch this.” They stepped to the hostess stand. “We’d like a table for two. Just for dessert.”

  “Do you have reservations?” the woman asked without looking up.

  “No.”

  When the hostess looked up, her recognition was instant.

  “Dr. Grandison.” She smiled. “Welcome to Tavern on the Green.”

  Both Beverlyn and Dwayne raised their eyebrows in surprise.

  “Follow me.”

  They were seated at a windowed corner table facing Central Park West. It didn’t take long for a waitress to take their orders for the mixed-berry cheesecake and crème brûlée. Over dessert, they chatted about the crusade and the fall’s season plans for Higher Ground. Their initial strategy was to produce another ten shows. But with the explosive ratings, they decided to double new show production and change the time. The show would now air twice, both critical time slots: once at 9:00 A.M. and then again at 8:00 P.M.

  Dwayne looked at his watch. It was almost midnight.

  “I need to get you back,” Beverlyn said. “You have to be up early. I’m so excited about Saturday. The women are really going to love you.”

  They walked silently, arms hooked, back down Central Park West. Even though the hour was late, people strolled and traffic flowed almost as if it were the middle of the day.

  “Dwayne, what are your dreams, what is it that you want?” she asked, laying her head on his shoulder as they walked slowly down the boulevard.

  He thought for a moment. “My dreams have changed so much. They’re different now from when I first started out with …” He stopped himself from saying his wife’s name.

  “So tell me, what did you dream in the beginning?”

  It didn’t take him a moment to answer. “I wanted to become a pastor like my father.”

  “I didn’t know that. Why didn’t you?”

  “It’s a long story, but I’m not unhappy with what I’ve done.”

  “You shouldn’t be. You’re reaching people who may never enter the church.”

  Once again, Yvette’s words.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  She was silent for a moment. “There is not much more for me to dream about. I have more than I could ever imagine. What God has done for me gives new meaning to the Scripture’s ‘exceedingly, abundantly’ …” She let her voice trail off.

  “Yeah, me too. Everything has changed so drastically in the last few months. It’s hard to get used to, because this kind of success has never been my focus.”

  “You more than deserve it, you know …”

  “I don’t know. My heart has always been with helping others. That’s how my father lived his life and that’s how I wanted to be.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you have me, because while you’re thinking of everyone else, I can be thinking about you.”

  “So”—Dwayne stopped and took Beverlyn’s hand—“why do you do all of this? The concerts, crusades, the Jubilee Network.”

  “It’s the way I survive. I work to give back to the children and… because of where I grew up. I never want to go back there,” she said, shaking her head forcefully.

  He took her hand, and when she looked up, he saw the tears in her eyes. “Beverlyn, you don’t have to worry.”

  She laid her head on his shoulder as they paused in the hotel lobby. “Sometimes I feel like this could be taken away.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe it’s because I wonder if I deserve this.” She fingered the gold and diamond Rolex on her wrist.

  “Beverlyn?”

  Their heads snapped up at the voice.

  “L.W.,” was all Beverlyn said as she stood and straightened her sweater.

  “I’ve been calling your room for hours,” he said, as if he’d forgotten Beverlyn wasn’t a teenager. “Tomorrow’s keynote speaker backed out. When I couldn’t reach you, I got worried. Remember, we have a crusade to run …” He looked at Dwayne with disgust.

  “If you’ll excuse us, young man.” L.W. moved in between them.

  Dwayne held his temper, clutching his hands at his side.

  “Hey, wait a minute, L.W.,” Beverlyn said. “You’re being rude to Dwayne.”

  With a lethal glare, L.W. stomped away, leaving the two agape, standing in the middle of the opulent lobby.

  “Dwayne, I’m sorry,” Beverlyn said when L.W. disappeared into one of the elevators.

  “You don’t have to apologize.” Dwayne unclenched his fists. “You need to speak to your uncle. I’m too old for this.”

  “I will,” Beverlyn said, trying to calm Dwayne. “He’s probably just worried. There’s so much at stake doing the crusade here in New York. Everybody’s freaking out.” She paused. “Walk me to my room?”

  They rode to the seventh floor in silence, and when Dwayne walked Beverlyn to her door, he kissed her lightly.

  “Dwayne, please don’t let what happened downstairs ruin the great time we had.”

  He looked into the brown of her eyes. She was right. Five minutes couldn’t override five hours. At that moment, as he looked deeply into her eyes, he felt a pang—a stirring he hadn’t felt in some time, with the exception, that is, of Nina.

  “Are you still planning to stay in New York for a few days?”

  He was thinking yes, that would be very nice. She brought her lips to his and they kissed deeply.

  “Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” she said, then stepped into her room, gently closing the door behind her.

  The New York Crusade marked the first time Dwayne had accompanied Beverlyn to such an event. One couldn’t help but be overwhelmed as upwards of 50,000 people crowded into the Empire Stadium. It was Beverlyn’s first appearance in the Big Apple in over three years, and there was enough demand that promoters could have sold 100,000 tickets if space had permitted.

  It was all handled very much like a stage production, complete with sound and visual effects. The backstage flurry of activities included the greeting of local celebrities and church leaders, many of whom requested and received VIP treatment—TV media coverage and a battalion of security.

  He was surprised at how glamorous it all was, right down to the stylish fashions worn by the luminaries as well as the attendees. Beverlyn had been dressed by New York-based fashion designer b. Michael. His high-couture line of clothing and hats was carried in big-name retail outlets like Saks and Nordstrom. Beverlyn—like all of the other renowned first ladies and African American celebrities he dressed—attended his annual fall and spring showings during Fashion Week in New York City.

  With the sudden withdrawal of Bishop Lawrence Biggham, one of the nation’s foremost Pentecostal preachers, both L.W. and Beverlyn had been scurrying earlier to find a replacement. A lot was riding on the crusade, and without big names, crowds lost interest no matter how anointed the evening. But as fate would have it, Bishop Franklyn Grace—ranked second by most on the list of the nation’s top African American evangelists—was in New York and could alter his schedule to accommodate them.

  Dwayne was struck almost as much by the pecking order at such events as by the protocol. He thought it particularly strange that the speakers most often arrived at the conference just in time to do their bit and never came to the stage until just before they spoke and then directly after were taken back to their dressing rooms to change, everything handled like a production, with them as the stars. Even he had felt like one as Kim had wrangled an interview for him backstage with Gospel Today, whose publisher, Teresa Hairston, had been on hand to cover the event.

  Still, the high point for Dwayne was witnessing firsthand the effect Beverlyn had on audiences. Watching her onstage was like watching a ball in motion, the feeling of being handed over to another force, one that may exalt you or cast you to the ground. Not surprisingly, it was hard to tell where the gospe
l artist stopped and the evangelist began—the synchronicity, no doubt, by design.

  As he waited in the wings, he wondered how—and if—he could hold his own on that stage and then, before he knew it, came the introduction that meant he was about to find out firsthand.

  The lights were almost blinding and Dwayne found himself looking into a maze, genuinely surprised at how easily the words flowed, whizzing through the twenty-minute discourse. Before he knew it, he was closing:

  “As we move forward, we would do well to remember that everything begins with the individual choices we make. What most people don’t realize is that faith requires something. It requires that you believe. And when you believe, you act with renewed optimism, and it is that optimism reflected in your attitude that will all too often determine your outcome. In closing, I want to remind you that the key to every man is his thought. What you can and cannot do starts and stops with you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Dwayne had rushed into the office just five minutes before Walter and Latasha Winston arrived. Walter was a superstar NBA player who’d wed Latasha after she’d become pregnant with his child in their senior year of college. They were friendly, attractive, and intelligent people with two children, and very active in their church. Everybody loved them. They, on the other hand, seemed to hate each other.

  Walter and Latasha had a troublesome habit of waiting until their weekly sessions—or church Bible studies—to launch a verbal attack on each other. Walter used prayer times to ask God to strengthen him so that he could deal with his “lazy and unsubmissive wife.” Latasha constantly attempted to twist their session around to make it support the many bitter complaints she had about Walter. If Dwayne didn’t keep them in check, he feared their sessions could become violent.

  Actually, both Walter and Latasha had valid complaints about each other that deserved to be dealt with—but the couple had not learned one of the cardinal rules of loving relationships. Praise each other in public, protest to each other in private. One of the quickest ways to completely kill a relationship is to embarrass, berate, criticize, or otherwise “dis” your mate in public. To have a beef with each other was fine, he’d told them, but to serve it up in the presence of others was not.