Second Sunday (23 page)

“Amen” echoed around the room.

“You alright, Mr. Thomas?” George asked gently.

“Mighty right, Pastor,” Oscar replied, smiling. “But there’s just one more thing I need to tend to while I’m still here.”
He looked at Mr. Louis Loomis and said, “I suspect you have something that belongs to me.”

When Mr. Louis Loomis frowned in confusion, Oscar laughed weakly and said, “Louis, I know you have the papers on the church—figured
Mozelle here would give them to you for safekeeping. The reason I wanted you here was to tell you face-to-face, man-to-man,
that I know.”

Rev. Wilson was confused. If there was something this important going on with the church, he should have been told. Why would
Mr. Louis Loomis hold out on him? And he almost asked, until he felt Sheba’s gentle tug on his sleeve. “Not now, George,”
she whispered. “Mr. Louis Loomis got your back.”

“Louis, hold tight to those papers,” Oscar was saying in a raspy voice. “As you already know, it’s the key to keeping the
church safe.” He grimaced and massaged his chest, and Queenie jumped to get his oxygen tank. But he stopped her with a shake
of his head and reached for a Kleenex tissue to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Then he took as deep a breath as he dared
to, because his heart and chest muscles were awfully weak and tender.

“Look, y’all do whatever you have to do to keep Rev. Earl Hamilton out of our pulpit.”

They all looked surprised. Everybody knew that the Cleavon Johnson Faction in the church, as it was now called, didn’t want
to make Rev. Wilson the permanent pastor. But they had thought that Cleavon was smart enough not to try to pawn Earl Hamilton
off on them again. If Cleavon and his folks had secret plans to install Rev. Hamilton, then there was more devilment brewing
than anyone had guessed.

Oscar adjusted himself in his chair, gasping for breath, as he tried one last time to explain. “Y’all need to keep quiet on
the papers. But pray. Pray for guidance about when you need to use it and how you need to use it. I know the Lord will guide
you. I know the Lord will help you keep Earl Hamilton out of my church. ’Cause if he becomes the pastor, he gone—”

All of a sudden, Oscar’s eyes rolled back up in his head and there was a guttural, rattling sound coming from down in the
back of his throat. Everybody in the room knew what that meant. It was what the old folks used to call the “death rattle.”

Mr. Louis Loomis dabbed at his eyes, and Louise wept openly, as George lay his hand on Oscar’s head. Mr. Joseaphus Cantrell
wrapped his arms protectively around Mozelle to shield her from the pain of Oscar’s death. By the time Mozelle turned back
around, Oscar was gone, looking more peaceful than he ever had in life.

It took Queenie a moment to understand that Oscar had passed. And even then, she couldn’t bear to accept it. She reached down
and shook him by the shoulders so hard, she would have given him whiplash if he were alive to feel it. Queenie screamed out,
“Oscar! Oscar! Please, please. Open your eyes, baby, squeeze my hand. Don’t leave me, baby, don’t leave me.”

Mozelle pulled away from Joseaphus Cantrell.

“Queenie,” she said softly, touching her arm gently. “Baby, it’s over now. Oscar Lee is gone.”

“But . . . but, Miss Mozelle, I love him. He is everything to me.”

“I know, baby,” Mozelle said, opening her arms to Queenie, who flew into them like a little girl running to her mother. “But
listen, Jesus is your everything. Oscar was your love, your heart. And the Lord gave him to you and to me. But your everything,
baby, is the Lord.”

Queenie sobbed as Mozelle stroked her hair and whispered, “There, there, baby. It’s gone be alright. There ain’t no sorrow
on this earth that heaven cannot heal.”

Louise handed Queenie a handful of tissues. Queenie blew her nose and whimpered, “I know you right, Miss Mozelle. But how
am I gone live with this ache in my heart, this hole in my soul?”

At that point, Sheba, who had been fighting tears, broke down sobbing. Sheba knew how much God loved her, but her loneliness
was a constant heartache. There were times when she had to get on her knees and beg the Lord’s forgiveness for being so sorrowful
over being so alone. So she knew better than anyone else in the room what Queenie meant when she asked what God would do with
the ache in her heart.

George couldn’t stand to see Sheba like that. He pulled her into his arms and held her so close, he could hear her heart beating
up against his own.

“Baby, baby,” he whispered. “It’s okay. I’m here to catch you when you fall. I’m here to catch you when you fall.”

Queenie calmed down some when Miss Mozelle kissed her and said, “Baby, you need to get saved and get right with God. Ain’t
right for you to be out in this world without the Lord.” Then Mozelle turned to George and said, “Reverend, we need to lay
hands on Queenie.”

George let go of Sheba and took both of Queenie’s hands in his, while the rest of the group surrounded her, just like back
in the day, when folks used to circle people and tarry with them until they received the Holy Ghost.

“Are you a sinner, Queenie?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe Jesus Christ died for your sins?”

“Yes.”

“Do you accept Him as your Lord and Savior, Queenie?”

“Yes, I do.”

George took one hand and placed it on Queenie’s forehead, and said, “Father, receive Queenie into Your arms and forgive her
sins. Save her, Lord. Save her, Lord. In Jesus’ name I pray and claim the victory, amen.”

Then he tapped Queenie’s forehead and she fell back into the arms of Mr. Louis Loomis and Joseaphus Cantrell. The Holy Ghost
was now so strong in that room that everybody felt it. Mozelle lifted up her hands and shouted, “You a good God. The Alpha
and the Omega, the beginning and the end.” George had to stomp his foot and cry out, “Thank you, Jesus!” Mr. Louis Loomis
just waved his hands before grabbing one of Joseaphus Cantrell’s, who had tears streaming down his cheeks.

Sheba knelt down and held Queenie’s hand, whispering her praises to God, and then shouted out, “Ohhhh, glory” when Queenie
opened her eyes.

And after it had all calmed down, Louise said, “Well, I guess we done shouted old Oscar Lee right on up the King’s Highway,
and he should be pulling up an easy chair to the right of the Lord.”

“You know you need to quit, Louise Williams,” Mozelle said, as she picked up the church fan on the dresser and then started
dialing the number of the funeral home.

George thought about that last meeting with Mr. Oscar Thomas and the lesson Miss Mozelle had given them all on the power of
love and forgiveness. That Mozelle could come out of such a destructive forty-year marriage and manage both to forgive Oscar
and bring his girlfriend Queenie to the Lord seemed almost miraculous. There weren’t many worse hells on earth, George knew,
than a loveless, abusive marriage, yet Mozelle had emerged from hers stronger than ever in her walk with the Lord. She was
truly an inspiration.

Marriage was on George’s mind because today he’d had not one but two pastoral marriage sessions scheduled. Just an hour ago,
he had finished conducting the first prenuptial meeting with Bertha, Melvin Jr., and both sets of parents.

Bertha, with her spoiled self, wanted a wedding that was big and fancy enough to get a picture in the wedding section of
Jet
magazine. Everybody tried to tell her that a modest ceremony with a big reception would be the way to go, because what Bertha
wanted would take months to put in place. That would bring her so close to her due date that Nettie said she was scared the
baby’s head would crown before Bertha even got down the aisle good.

But no one could get through to that girl. Bertha was too stubborn to back down, and everybody just got tired of arguing with
her. In fact, it was Bert who finally ended the meeting, saying, “Let’s quit worrying with this silly girl and go on home.”
Then he looked over at Melvin Jr. and said, “Boy, you got yourself a handful sitting over there acting like she the only woman
in St. Louis to ever get pregnant and married.”

As he sat in his office, George thought he heard a soft tap on the door, and then he sat up in his chair, smiling, when he
heard Sheba’s “Hello?”

“Come on in,” he said.

As she entered, she studied his face, then asked, “Are you okay?”

“Tired. Week barely started and I feel like I’m running to meet myself.”

Sheba put a plate wrapped in wax paper on George’s desk. “What a surprise,” he said, then leaned toward it and sniffed. “What’s
this?”

“Spareribs, cabbage, yams, cornbread, and a piece of German chocolate cake. I brought a rib tip sandwich for myself.”

“Hmm,” he said, grinning. “I like members like you, girl. Come on over here and shake your pastor’s hand.”

“George,” Sheba said, letting a giggle escape. “You so crazy, boy.”

“I’m crazy alright. Crazy ’bout you,” he mumbled, not knowing what possessed him to say that, even though it sure did feel
good.

Sheba blushed, wondering if she’d heard him right. When she was quiet too long for George’s comfort, he grinned at her and
said, “What you standing over there like that for? Sit yourself on down, girl, relax, and eat your food with me.”

Sheba pulled up a chair and started unwrapping her sandwich, smelling up the office with Pompey Hawkins’s signature barbecue
sandwich.

“You bring anything to drink?” George asked, biting off a piece of corn bread and sprinkling pepper on his cabbage.

“Yeah,” she said, reaching down in her purse and pulling out two cans of Vess Cola, along with two straws.

“Now see,” George said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “now see, you slipping in your walk with the Lord.”

Sheba looked concerned, until the corners of his mouth turned up in a mannish, flirty grin.

“How am I slippin’, Reverend?” she asked with a sly smile tugging at her lips.

“I think you keeping bad company.”

“What?”

“Well, you in my office being such a good churchwoman, and all I can think about is what makes you get all fiery and feisty
under that sweet churchgirl exterior.”

Then he gave Sheba a wink that was so hot and “grown,” all she could do was whisper, “My, my, my.”

Completely satisfied with Sheba’s response, George picked up his fork and dug right into his cabbage and said, “Hmmm. Mr.
Pompey know he is so wrong, fixing food that taste so good it make you want to hurt somebody.”

“Yeah,” Sheba agreed while sucking on a rib tip. “Mr. Pompey’s food so good, it’ll make you wanna slap your mama.”

George laughed. “That’s some show ’nough good food. ’Cause if I ever thought about slapping my mama, I wouldn’t even have
a head. Be walking ’round this church with a lamp shade or a bucket or something up on my neck.”

“I believe it,” Sheba said, and reached her hand out for a palm slap. She glanced up at the wall. “George, when are you going
to take that thing down?”

“What thing?”

“That thing,” Sheba answered, pointing to the portrait of Pastor Clydell Forbes.

“Can’t,” he said. “Not as long as I’m just the interim pastor.”

“Shame,” she said. “You know, I don’t know how that ugly, cross-eyed, big-black-glasses-wearing, bad-perm-in-his-hair fool
got more than a greasy glass of water from a woman, let alone all folks say he got from some silly women in this church. ’Cause
that man is so ugly he could make the lights in here start blinking.”

George laughed, and they ate in silence for a few minutes, content just being in each other’s company. Finally, Sheba said,
“A penny for your thoughts,” when she saw a pensive expression creep across his face. “George?”

“Yeah, baby,” he replied.

That “baby” sounded like music from heaven to Sheba. She sipped on some soda to keep from melting out of the chair and on
the floor, but she gulped it too fast and started choking.

It tickled George no end that his calling Sheba “baby” could send her into such a tailspin. He was beginning to think that
her “reputation” was a whole lot more hype than reality and that her knowledge of men arose simply from her very astute sense
of people in general. He came over to her chair and gave her his handkerchief, his eyes sparkling with pure mischief. “Hmmmm,
baby,” he said, “I must be the man. Got this sweet, sexy lady all choked up over me.”

Sheba took the handkerchief with shaky hands and wiped at her tears.

“I . . . I,” she stammered, desperately trying to come up with a smart retort.

“I . . . I what, baby?” George asked, his voice low, soft, and sexy. “Can’t talk, Miss Sheba Loretta Cochran?”

Sheba strained to come up with something to wipe that smug and mannish grin off George’s face. But he always befuddled her,
looking as good as he did. Today, as usual, the brother was razor-sharp, with his shoulders and biceps bulging in a royal
blue silk turtleneck sweater, tucked into finely woven black silk gabardine bell-bottom slacks. His shoes were soft, black
leather slip-ons, with a modest stacked sole and heel—just enough of a platform to be stylish but still appropriate. His Afro
was perfectly smooth, about three inches high, and his sideburns and mustache were so immaculately trimmed that he put Shaft
to shame. He smelled good too, standing there grinning with those almond-shaped eyes and full lips, making her feel as nervous
as some fast little teenager wanting to kiss on a boy in the top row of the movie theater.

To hide her discomfort, Sheba started collecting the wax paper and napkins, which reminded George of a conversation he had
with his friend, Theophilus Simmons, many years ago. Theophilus said he’d first figured out that his wife-to-be Essie was
in love with him when the girl kept fussing around in her mama’s kitchen, washing out one glass over and over, until Theophilus
put a stop to that nonsense and put something else on her mind. Watching Sheba fuss around his desk, George’s heart started
to sing as he helped her clean up before his next appointment.

Sheba tried to not stand too close to George, but he wanted her to know that he had discovered her secret. He put his arm
around her waist and sank back in his chair, pulling Sheba with him onto his lap. She sat there all stiff and awkward, not
knowing how to respond, until George wrapped her up in his arms.