It's All Love

by Marita Golden

  “Melba, honey, don't blaspheme like that.”

  “Jesus failed her, Ezra, like all the other men in her life and mine. I refuse to spend my Sundays shouting and waiting with you fools and believing in a prophet from Texas who can't write an intelligent letter. But if you really believe this stuff, then taint nobody's business if you do—just leave me out of it.” Melba tossed the letter at Ezra and lit up another cigarette.

  “One day you goin’ need the Lord, Melba,” said Ezra, picking up the folded letter from the floor.

  “What you hoping, Ezra, is one day I'm goin’ need you,” said Melba, “but I don't love out of need, and I don't believe out of desperation.”

  “Just come see the Prophet with me, so we can ask him for our blessings,” said Ezra. “Deacon John Hawkins at Miracle Temple asked me to carry the Prophet around when he arrives. Saturday night we having dinner at my house—”

  “You goin’ take this fool to your mama's house? Maybe that's God's punishment for his lying ass—he got to meet your mama,” said Melba.

  “My mama ain't a bad woman, she just got her ways—”

  “Yeah, and she can keep her ways,” said Melba, lying back on the bed.

  “I ain't asking you to make a decision on it now, Melba, just think about it,” said Ezra. “I got a good feeling about Prophet Bates. I think he might have what we need. And even if he don't have what I need, maybe he has what you need.” Ezra stroked Melba's shoulders. She untied his robe and pulled him toward her on the bed. Something told her the Prophet could be dangerous; something else made her long to meet him.

  II

  Everywhere I go people get quick action and fast results to their problems especially if you have money problems because I always find out what the blessing is going to be before I come to town and you can always get it straight if you follow what I tell you in fact I was in Washington, D. C. on last Sunday night and I told all of my followers and their fiends to read Psalms 79:5 for they money blessings on Monday and God did bless everybody who followed my instructions with cash money and folks is still counting they money and on this Sunday night coming I will be back in the city of Washington, D. C. so that you can do the same thing and put some money away for a change.

  “Hurry up, Melba, the Prophet over there alone with Mama,” Ezra said.

  “Don't rush me,” said Melba, frantically searching her closets, trying to decide what to wear. “Jesus—Ezra, don't you want me to look good for Prophet Bates?”

  “Please, Melba,” said Ezra softly, “don't use his name in vain.”

  “You mean Prophet Bates,” giggled Melba.

  “I wished you hadn't told those friends of yours,” said Ezra, dressed to the nines in his pin-striped, double-breasted suit with matching pin-striped suspenders and black leather oxfords. Melba had been through ten outfit changes already without a decision.

  “It ain't like I ran out onstage last night passing out flyers,” said Melba, digging deep into her closets. “How this look?” she asked, not waiting for Ezra to comment before she grabbed another dress. “I just told Brazil—how ‘bout this one?” Melba was already leaving the bedroom with her outfit, a purple suede dress that accentuated her ample hips and a matching jacket that did the same for her breasts. Ezra followed Melba over to the full-length mirror in the bathroom but walked out when she began undressing. He talked to her from the bedroom, raising his voice in an effort to be heard over the running water.

  “But the letter said specifically,” Ezra began:

  May I say to you please keep your busines—to your ownself until after you get your blessing as some folk talk too much but an old follower of mines whom I helped a many time in the past told me about you and they also said that you needed money and could keep your business to your ownself, but you may bring a close friend or a loved one that you know needs help if you think you can trust them and they will keep their business to their ownself because I am going to upset Washington, D. C. again when I get there an everybody what sees me on Sunday night will be blessed dead straight Monday so help me God or you can get every dime of you money back.

  “Brazil ain't exactly the kind of friend the Prophet was talking ‘bout,” said Ezra.

  Melba rushed out of the bathroom butt-naked, wet, and angry. She paraded up to Ezra until her nose touched his chin. The smell of fragrant soap flooded his nostrils. “Listen, Ezra, Brazil may not sing in the choir at Mount Calvary, but she's my friend—and I don't care how holy and righteous you get, don't you ever insult her,” said Melba, her hands on her hips. Ezra stuttered before squeezing a feeble apology from his lips.

  “Maybe you should see Prophet Bates alone.”

  “I said I was sorry, Melba, I wasn't trying to—”

  “Yes, you were, but you remember, Ezra, I ain't never dragged you into my bedroom, this is where you beg to be. Just ‘cause you met Prophet Bates don't make you a disciple. According to your Bible, you a fornicator—a sinner like me and my friends. And if they goin’ burn in hell for dancing naked, then so am I—and so are you for loving me.” Melba stomped back into the bathroom.

  Ezra stood next to the open window, hat in hand and sweat rolling off his forehead. When Melba came out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, fully dressed, Ezra was still standing like a small child sent to a corner for punishment. “You look beautiful,” he mumbled.

  “Come on, we got a Prophet to meet,” said Melba. Ezra smiled, scurrying out the door ahead of her, with his blessings already halfway granted.

  Ill

  Ezra, who couldn't persuade Melba to breathe if she didn't want to, certainly had not changed her mind about meeting the Prophet. It had been Brazil, her best friend and fellow dancer at the Penthouse Lounge who had explained to Melba that the Prophet was really a con man. “Shit, girl,” Brazil had said, “he ah jackleg preacher who claims he can give out the winning lottery number to people.” Melba had been reading the letter to her friend as they changed for their Friday night performance. Brazil, who once had a scandalous affair with one of D.C.'s most prominent preachers, had also been involved with a priest in Atlanta and a rabbi in New York. “Shit, it's just something ‘bout religious men—they the biggest freaks,” she said. Melba read the letter again, this time with Brazil pointing out the code words that indicated to the knowing faithful that the Prophet Bates would be performing a numbers offering service. “Why the hell would a preacher tell you to read Psalms 79:5 for a money blessing?” Brazil asked. “What he saying is play 795 straight.”

  Yes my dear Christian friend on this Sunday night coming I will be back in Washington, D. C. and if I was you I would come early as I am always crowded whenever I comes to town for everyone knows what I can do and it is always straight and one-way the very next day. Along with a straight Psalms for money I am also bringing a generous supply of my special Mojo Hands that will make you hold money when you get your hands on it and also special annointing oils for the sick and afflicted and once again I say to you this is it you dont have to look no further this is it. I have the thing for you Washington that God told me will fall and bless your right away and you can win as much cash money as you want to.

  “Let me call that fool before he gives away his soul to this hustler.” It was just like Ezra, Melba thought, to invite a con man to his house. But before Melba called Ezra, she suddenly decided that she wanted to meet this Prophet. Brazil tried to warn her against it. “Somebody who steals in the name of the Lord ain't to be played with, girl.” But Melba ignored her; something about the gall of the Prophet's hustle had sparked her imagination and interest. Whoever Prophet Bates was, Melba was sure he didn't cover his body when he was in the bedroom or sit around waiting for his blessings to arrive. He's probably a good-looking Reverend Ike type who can charm the skin off a snake. Now, like Ezra, Melba believed something was in store for her upon meeting the Prophet.

  Yes my dear Christian fiend on this Sunday night coming which is September 14, I will be back in Washington, D. C.
at the Miracle Temple of Divine Faith located at 1000 G Street N. W at 8:00 A.M. sharp in the greatest blessed and Healing service ever held in the city of Washington, D.C. I want you to know that I am a man of God and I don't believe in playing with God or trying to fool folk so I am saying to you right now if what I tell you is not right you can get every dime of your money back or I hope God to Paralyze me stone cold dead.

  IV

  “I see you finally hunted down Jezebel,” said Mrs. Johnson, Ezra's octogenarian and obnoxious mother. Decked out in a bluish gray wig, apron, and brown orthopedic shoes, she turned her back on Ezra and Melba and walked toward the kitchen. Ezra looked pleadingly at Melba, begging her with his eyes not to make a scene. “You better talk to her now; I ain't goin’ have that all evening,” said Melba, removing her coat while Ezra hurried into the kitchen. She could hear him arguing with his mother. Mrs. Johnson's gravelly voice crushed Ezra's sheepish whispers. Melba hung her coat in the closet and noticed a full-length camel's hair coat. She checked the label: “100% camel hair imported directly from Morocco for Steinberg's Haberdashery.” All right, Prophet, thought Melba, show me what you got. She straightened her dress and applied a fresh coat of purple haze lipstick, which perfectly matched her outfit. She walked confidently into the dining room, expecting to finally meet the Prophet, but the room was empty. “He in the toilet,” said Mrs. Johnson, brushing brusquely by Melba. She sat a bowl of mash potatoes and gravy on the large dining room table. “Can I help you with something?” asked Melba, instinctively being polite, but wishing she hadn't offered. Mrs. Johnson stopped in the dining room doorway, her lips parting quickly, poised, Melba thought, for another acerbic remark. “Well, come on, since you here,” she said, handing Melba an apron. Melba followed her into the kitchen and brought out the greens and candied yams, followed by Mrs. Johnson, who labored with the roasted chicken. Ezra, bringing the lemonade, passed Melba in the kitchen and stared at her. “You look good in that apron,” he said, smiling brightly.

  “I'll wear it the next time we make love,” said Melba. Ezra blushed and looked for his mother, then hastily exited. Melba set the rolls on the table and removed the apron, giving it to Mrs. Johnson, who handled it with the tips of her fingers as if it were diseased. She sat across from Ezra and Melba. The three waited quietly for the Prophet. Ezra broke the awkward silence. “You say he went to the bathroom, Mama.”

  “I said he was in the toilet,” replied Mrs. Johnson.

  “Maybe I should go check on him,” said Ezra.

  “What you goin’ do—go for him?” asked his mother.

  Melba restrained a laugh. Before Ezra could get up, the Prophet came strolling triumphantly into the dining room, patting his protruding belly. Ezra and Melba stood up to greet him. The Prophet was short and stocky, in his early fifties, Melba figured, and though he was nattily attired in a black silk and tweed suit, he looked plain. His hair, thinning and slicked back in a Jheri curl, reminded Melba of black telephone cord. He looks more boring than Ezra, she thought, instantly regretful about her decision to meet him. “Ezra's been pontificating about how wonderful you are,” said the Prophet, “and looking at you, I know he speaks with great veracity.” Melba was surprised at the Prophet's proper speaking voice. Unlike his letter, he sounded intelligent. Melba barely concealed her disappointment in a cheery reply and settled in for a torturous evening.

  The dinner turned into a painfully long “praise Jesus tournament,” which Melba thought was won by Mrs. Johnson when she thanked Jesus for her hysterectomy. Melba spoke only when spoken to, and then said very little. All she could think about was how the Prophet turned out to be a frog and the money she was losing by taking off on a Saturday night. Only when the Prophet asked what she wanted for a blessing did her mind return to the dinner. “Well, Prophet Bates,” said Melba, sarcastically, “I just want Jesus to deliver me from boredom.”

  “Why would a fine woman like you be bored?” the Prophet asked, his face contorted by a lecherous grin.

  “She need ta ask Jesus to deliver her heathenous soul from dancing naked for mens,” said Mrs. Johnson.

  “Your son don't seem to mind,” said Melba, getting up from the table. She had had enough of this charade. This is how life would be with Ezra, thought Melba, boring dinners with members of Miracle Temple Church and his ornery mother.

  “My son's goin’ burn in hell if he keep walking behind you,” said Mrs. Johnson, following Melba into the living room.

  “Mama, Melba, please,” said Ezra, “let's not spoil the Prophet's dinner.”

  “I ain't spoiled nothing,” said Mrs. Johnson, “this Jezebel come in my house and don't say two words to nobody all during dinner—'cause she don't know the Lord.”

  “I know you, you old witch,” said Melba, heading for the closet to get her coat. “I know how you rule over your son like a warden, how he ain't goin’ get nowhere in life long as you cast your shadow over him.”

  “Mama, Melba, please,” said Ezra, chasing behind her.

  The Prophet slowly trailed the combatants into the living room, enjoying the melee.

  “Melba, please don't go,” said Ezra.

  “I don't care how many dime-store Prophets come to town, ain't nobody disrespecting me goddamn it,” said Melba.

  “Don't you cuss my Lord,” said Mrs. Johnson, advancing on Melba. “I'll get my pistol if you don't leave my house.”

  Ezra gingerly grabbed his mother's arm to keep her away from Melba, who was already in her overcoat. “I'll catch a cab home, Ezra,” said Melba, heading out the door.

  Prophet Bates hurriedly grabbed his coat and ran after her. “Sister Melba, let me give you a ride home.”

  “That's awright, Prophet,” said Melba, “I know you got souls to save and numbers to give out.”

  The Prophet laughed heartily. “You something else, baby,” he said, his voice sounding suddenly unprophetlike. “You better get your fine ass in my ride before Sister Johnson sends you a couple bad ones from her thirty-eight.” Melba stopped and turned to look back at Bates. He was smiling, looking more like an aging hustler than a prophet.

  She laughed at him, “Okay, fool, where's your car?” Bates reached for Melba's arm and led her toward his large Pontiac. A damn rental, Melba thought as she got in.

  “I figured another few minutes and old Sister Johnson would've had me performing an exorcism on you,” said Bates.

  “Somebody need to perform one on you.”

  “Aw, baby, don't be so mean.”

  “I ain't your fucking baby, and my house is in the other direction.”

  “We ain't going to your house yet,” said Bates. “We're heading to my hotel for a nightcap—which I'm sure we can both use after dealing with Sister Johnson.”

  “Look, you country dog, don't get yourself hurt,” said Melba, sliding her hand menacingly into her purse.

  “Lord, Miss Melba,” said Bates, laughing like a department store Santa, “chill with your fine self. My hotel's a short ride from here. If you don't want a drink, you can get a cab out front.” Bates pulled into the driveway of the Jefferson Hotel. Two hotel employees in tuxedos opened the lobby doors, and the desk clerk handed Bates his messages. He tucked them into his black appointment book. Hell, the damn night's blown anyway, thought Melba, might as well see what this fool is about.

  She was impressed at how classy everything was. “Damn, they even got a leather couch in the elevator,” said Melba.

  “Baby, you know the Prophet only goes first class, just like the Good Lord wants me to,” said a grinning Bates.

  “You sound more like a pimp than a Prophet,” said Melba.

  “Hell, pimp, prophet, preacher, prostitute, we're all about bringing relief to a suffering American public,” said Bates, opening his room with an electronic passkey.

  “Room 725,” said Melba. “Should I play that straight, Prophet?”

  “Two dollars straight,” he replied. They both laughed. Bates's suite was larger than Melba's entire on
e-bedroom apartment. He led her to the living room and turned on the compact disc player. “Love and Happiness,” crooned Rev. Al Green. “Pardon me, need to make some calls, only be a second,” said Bates. “But let me get you a drink first.” He put his appointment book down, pushed a button on the remote control, and a stocked bar appeared from behind an oak panel. “What you drinking?”

  “Scotch and soda,” replied Melba. Bates poured the drink and hurried toward what Melba thought was his favorite hangout—the toilet. He left his appointment book lying open, and Melba immediately picked it up. She looked at Bates's appointment calendar and saw that he planned to be in ten different cities within two weeks. Good Lord, why are the wicked so strong? thought Melba, whose last vacation was a bus trip to New Jersey with Brazil. Melba dropped Bates's book and a wad of hundred-dollar bills and traveler's checks fell to the floor. She felt like a jackpot winner in Atlantic City. Hell, Bates was stealing from people with his lies, Melba quickly reasoned; this is fair play She tucked five hundred dollars in her purse and pushed the rest back into the fold. While putting the money back, she saw a check from Ezra. He was giving Bates twenty-five hundred dollars. On the check memo he had written, “blessing for me and Melba.” What a chump, Melba thought, tucking his check into her purse and closing the appointment book just as Bates returned.

  “Sorry for leaving you alone, just be another minute,” said Bates, picking up his appointment book and going into the bedroom to make some calls. He returned five minutes later with his jacket and vest removed.