Come Sunday Morning (13 page)

H
attie had not slept well the night before. Exhausted and still a bit groggy, she made a strong pot of coffee, sat under the bird lamp, and turned her weathered brown leather Bible, with
King James Version
embossed in gold on the cover, to the Twenty-third Psalm. The dates of her mother's and father's births and deaths were recorded on the front pages of the Bible. The marriages, births, baptisms, and deaths of the Williams and Fisher, Hattie's maiden name, families were all chronicled within the pages of the Bible. Yellow highlighter striped passages on every page, and all the margins contained Hattie's handwritten notes in black, red, blue, and graphite.

Hezekiah had appeared in her dream again the night before. Hattie clearly saw Hezekiah's body falling through the sanctuary at New Testament Cathedral with a force that would ensure death. Members of the congregation scrambled frantically to clear a space on the sanctuary floor. Feathered and flowered hats scurried around the room like brightly colored marbles that had been spilled from a schoolgirl's sack onto the pavement. Choir members in flowing robes and sashes ran to safety and screamed, “Pastor Cleaveland is falling!”

Mothers shielded the eyes of their small children from the scene that would surely scar their young minds for life, while old ladies in sensible shoes hobbled away from the inevitable point of impact.

Hezekiah could see the look of horror and fear in the eyes of his beloved members even at the pace that his body fell. Women whose powdered cheeks he had kissed and men whose hands he had firmly shaken now ran with abandon from the one they once called pastor, shepherd, and friend.

The dream had faded as quickly as it had appeared. Hattie now pondered the scene that had played like a movie in her dream. Was the pedestal they had placed him on too high and unstable? Everyone knew a fall from so high was inevitable, but still they had insisted Hezekiah take the place of honor above their heads and beyond their reach.
What mortal could survive at such heights?
she thought.
How could his soul find peace at elevations so dangerously close to the sun?

Hattie sat still under the glow of the lamp with her feet planted firmly on the floor and hands resting on the open pages of the Bible.

“Hold on, Pastor Cleaveland,” she said softly. “I'm praying for you.”

 

Samantha drove her car into the parking lot of the church. She retrieved her purse from the seat and walked briskly through the corridors toward Catherine's office.

Catherine Birdsong was sitting behind her desk. She wore a green skirt and a white ruffled blouse with a floral scarf around her neck. She looked like a woman who wrestled daily in front of her mirror to find a look befitting her station in life as chief operations officer to a prominent church.

A large, curved desk surrounded Catherine. The walls were covered with plaques that the church and pastor had received over the years. A fax machine and copier sat in the corner, and Catherine's desk held a computer, telephone, and pad.

“Good morning, Mrs. Cleaveland,” she said to Samantha, who was standing in her doorway. “Pastor Cleaveland hasn't arrived yet. He called earlier and said he would be late.”

“I'm not here to see Hezekiah. I'm here to see you.”

Catherine saw the familiar hint of anger in Samantha's eyes. She adjusted her chair in preparation to stand. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Yes.” Her voice began to escalate. “You can tell me why you've been covering for Hezekiah when I call and he's not here. Why you've never mentioned to me that he's been unable to account for his whereabouts lately, and why do you think it's in your job description to interfere in my marriage?”

Catherine's eyes widened. Her knees shook as she braced herself on the desk and stood. “I'm not sure what you're talking about. I—”

Samantha cut her off. “Don't lie to me. You know exactly what I'm talking about. You are not to decide what information I should and should not have about my husband or this church. I knew this wasn't going to work out when I first met you. I knew you wouldn't fit in here.”

Catherine could not speak. She found her throat was contracting as she tried to sputter out her defense. “I…I never…”

“Don't bother. I don't want to hear anything you have to say. It's over. You're fired. I want you out of here by the end of the day, and you better leave every stapler, paper clip, and pen, or I'll have the police at your door to get them back.”

Samantha clutched the purse under her arm and stormed out of the office.

Catherine sat down as the telephone rang. It was impossible for her to contain her tears. She felt as though breath had been snatched from her lungs by an incubus that had descended from the steeple of the church. The ringing of her unanswered telephone echoed through the empty halls of the building.

 

The
Los Angeles Chronicle
newsroom was busy as usual. Loud conversations mingled into an indecipherable buzz through the long, windowless room. Sounds of clanging computer keyboards, whirring copy machines, and ringing telephones flooded the space. The anonymous faces behind the stories that chronicled life in the city worked furiously to meet yet another deadline.

Lance Savage sat at a corner desk with his eyes on a glowing computer screen. His fingers tapped furiously at the keyboard, making the final revisions to the article he had toiled over for the last six months:

Lance paused as he read the last line on the computer screen. He had, in fact, never attempted to contact Danny. Hezekiah's shouting face flashed in his mind. He had denied the allegations so adamantly that a trace of doubt prevented Lance from further typing.
What if Cynthia is lying?
he thought.
What if this Danny person is just a cousin or a family friend?

There had been no doubt concerning the relationship with the young outreach worker until the explosive confrontation with Hezekiah. But the look in Hezekiah's eyes, the indignation in his voice, caused Lance to hesitate. Had he overlooked some important piece of evidence?

Lance had questioned Cynthia Pryce's motives when she first contacted him with the unbelievable story six months earlier.

 

“Mrs. Pryce,” he had asked when they spoke on the telephone months earlier. “Why are you coming forward with this story? You know if this is true, Hezekiah will be forced to step down as pastor.”

“I know,” she replied. “But I can't sit by any longer and watch the Cleavelands waste so much of God's money building that horrible shrine to themselves. That money could be used to do so much good in the world. It's time someone exposed them for the immoral and greedy people they are.”

“So what is his alleged lover's name, and how did you find out about him?” Lance asked, making no attempt to conceal his skepticism.

“His name is Danny,” she answered confidently. “He's a homeless-outreach worker. I found out about it by accident.”

“By accident?” Lance asked.

“Yes, by accident. I was in a meeting with Hezekiah and several other people in the church conference room, and Hezekiah needed a document he had left on his desk and asked me if I wouldn't mind getting it for him. When I went into his office, his computer was on. There was a half-written love letter to Danny on the screen. I did a search for other e-mails sent to that address and found dozens of disgusting messages they had sent to each other. I printed as many as I could. I didn't have time to print them all because Hezekiah was waiting for me to return to the meeting. You can see them, if you don't believe me.”

 

Lance had thoroughly investigated the story after the conversation with Cynthia. He reviewed all the e-mails between Hezekiah and Danny. Several telephone calls to agencies that serve the homeless in Los Angeles led him directly to Danny St. John. He even followed Hezekiah's limousine one evening to the house in the Adams District and saw Danny for the first time as he greeted his illustrious guest at the door.

Lance had also secretly followed Danny on his rounds for two weeks. Through the parks, under freeway passes, to homeless shelters, and to the emergency room at Los Angeles General Hospital, where the young man had accompanied a woman who later died from an overdose of heroin.

From a safe distance, ducking behind buildings, cars, and lurking in the shadows, Lance marveled at Danny's gentle manner. Without fail, he held the scab-covered hands and patted the weary backs of disheveled men and women whose singular existence was never acknowledged by housed residents of the city. They were simply called “the homeless,” a lumbering beast roaming the city. Danny was the embodiment of the compassion that the creature craved so desperately.

Lance could not bring himself to confront Danny after all he had witnessed. He didn't want to disturb the gentle spirit he'd seen wandering the streets with the green backpack on his back, bending down to touch the weary shoulders of so many destitute people. Lance grew surprisingly fond and, against his better judgment, protective of the Danny he had come to know during those two weeks.

Moisture began to accumulate in the palms of his hands. The toxic words begged for closure as his eyes focused again on the computer screen.
I don't have a choice,
he thought.
I've got to interview Danny, or I don't have a story.

 

Danny's weekly outreach schedule was predictable. He arrived at the homeless center on Central Avenue. There he would encourage members of the large crowd to visit the city's free clinic, where their myriad wounds and infections could be treated.

The large, open space was busy with activity. Men in tattered clothes and worn-out shoes sat transfixed in front of a large television screen, watching
The Today Show
. In the facility's shower area, women made futile attempts at washing away the streets' grime, while others slept in crumpled heaps on the floor, preparing for another night of aimless wandering through the city.

He walked through the room, searching for those in obvious need of medical attention: the man nursing a swollen foot, the woman cradling a bruised arm, or the old lady cowering in a corner with an open wound on her emaciated and frightened face. There was never a shortage of candidates for his services.

Danny spotted a man limping through the crowd. His pant leg was torn, exposing a deep gash on his right leg. “Excuse me, sir,” Danny said, approaching the man. “That cut looks pretty bad. You should have a doctor look at it at the free clinic.”

The man turned around slowly, attempting to maintain his balance. His white hair pointed in every direction from beneath a red bandanna. A scraggly yellow-stained mustache dipped in and out of his mouth as he spoke. “Who are you?” he asked in a raspy voice.

The smell of alcohol and stale breath met Danny's nose immediately. “My name is Danny.” He smiled disarmingly. “I work for the Homeless-Outreach Team. I can make an appointment for you with a doctor, if you would like.”

The man steadied himself on his good leg. “Some strung-out junkies jumped me last night. I was drinking with them out in Griffith Park and all of a sudden they just started beat'n the shit outta me. Took my last two dollars, too, fucking assholes.” He leaned over to show Danny the wound on his leg.

“Cut me with a knife here,” he said. Then, standing erect again, he raised his shirt to reveal yet another gash on the side of his torso. “And here,” he said. “I'da gave 'em the fucking two dollars if they'd just asked for it.”

Danny escorted the man to the only vacant seat in the lobby. “You really shouldn't be walking around with those wounds. You might have some internal damage. I'm going to have our outreach van come and pick you up and take you to the clinic. What's your name?”

“Nathanial Ford. Folks call me Nate.”

“All right, Nate. Just wait here. I'll be back in a moment.”

Danny made his way to the receptionist counter. “Hi, Chris,” he said to an attractive Asian woman with wide brown eyes behind the counter. “Can I use your telephone? I have to call for a van to pick up Mr. Ford and take him to the clinic, and the battery on my cell phone is almost dead.”

“Hello, Danny,” she responded with a smile. “Looks like Nate got beat up pretty bad again last night.”

Danny nodded in affirmation as the woman handed him the telephone.

“Hi, Emma. It's Danny. Could you send the van to the drop-in center on Central? I need to have someone transported to the clinic.”

After completing the arrangement, Danny thanked the receptionist and headed back to the old man in the lobby. As he made his way through the crowd, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. When he turned, he saw the clean-shaven face of a man who looked out of place in the room filled with homeless people.

“Excuse me. May I speak with you for a moment?” he said. “My name is Lance Savage. I work for the
Los Angeles Chronicle
.”

“I'm sorry. I'm not authorized to speak to the media,” Danny said, turning to walk away. “It's against agency policy. You'll have to call my supervisor.”

“This isn't about the homeless, Mr. St. John,” Lance said with a hint of regret in his voice. “Is there somewhere we can speak in private?”

The sound of his name spoken by the stranger startled him.