Come Sunday Morning (4 page)

H
ezekiah first saw the young man kneeling at a corner on skid row. His green canvas backpack lay on the sidewalk beside him, filled with the daily rations of vitamins, warm socks, and condoms for homeless people he encountered on his rounds of the city.

The sounds of horns honking and public-transit bus engines revving echoed off glass towers and graffiti-marred hotel facades. The block was cluttered with wobbly shopping carts filled with plastic trash bags, aluminum cans, plastic bottles, soiled clothes, and half-eaten cans of beans and sardines. Cyclone fences served as the only barriers between the human debris and parking lots filled with BMWs, Jaguars, and other nondescript silver foreign automobiles.

The pungent smell of urine and human feces was everywhere. Emaciated dogs foraged through piles of trash, looking for the morsel that, for them, stood between life and death. Drivers sped by, making extra efforts to avoid looking to the left or the right. The human misery was too painful to witness, and the filth too disgusting to stomach.

One man lay sleeping in the middle of the sidewalk. His limbs were twisted and his face was pressed into the cement. His blue denim jeans were stained from being worn for over two months. Alcohol fumes were almost visible as he breathed. He looked as though he had been dropped from the roof of a five-story building.

A woman sat on the curb with her legs spread to the street. She wore a dirty pink scarf wrapped around her matted hair, a dingy, tattered yellow sweater, and no shoes. Her feet were covered with scabs and open wounds. “I told you ta stop bring'n dose peopo in'ta my mothafuck'n house. I'm mo kill that mothafucka if he do dat ta me again,” she cursed to the air as it breezed by.

Other men and women lay coiled and hidden under oily, lice-ridden blankets and behind cardboard fortresses.

When Hezekiah first saw Danny St. John, he was speaking to a homeless man named Old Joe, who was sitting on the curb, rattling a paper cup filled with coins. Everyone who lived in or walked through the shopping cart shanty-town knew Old Joe. He was a tall man with matted black hair, wearing oil-stained clothes.

Brakes screeched, a car barely missing elderly pedestrians, as Danny and Old Joe talked below on the sidewalk. Lights flashed green, yellow, and red, and pigeons danced amid the remains of half-eaten burgers and discarded French fries. The two men spoke of warm places for Joe to sleep when the cold returned for the night.

Danny reached into his bag for a clean hypodermic needle sealed in cellophane. He searched in the bag around packages of alcohol wipes, a tin canister filled with condoms, bottles of Purell hand sanitizer, and bundles of clean socks until he found the syringes. He looked over his shoulder to ensure a private moment for the exchange and found himself staring into the eyes of Hezekiah Cleaveland.

The pastor was watching him intently from the driver's seat of a silver Mercedes-Benz. Before Danny could look away, Hezekiah called out, “Excuse me. Are you a city employee? May I speak to you for a moment? I have a question for you.”

Danny recognized the handsome face immediately. He excused himself from Old Joe and walked to the car.

“No, I don't work for the city,” Danny said bending to the window. “I work for a nonprofit homeless-outreach agency downtown.”

Hezekiah's brain went uncharacteristically blank as the tall, attractive young man looked into the car. He hadn't expected to see such a beautiful face or hear so gentle a voice come from a man who worked so closely with the outcasts of the city.

At twenty-eight Danny looked as though he had never had a difficult day in his life. He was a handsome man, with smooth almond-brown skin, who attracted admiring glances from both men and women. Just over six feet tall, his slender body was modestly hidden under a baggy T-shirt and green army fatigues.

Hezekiah quickly regained his composure and introduced himself. “My name is Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland. There's a homeless woman who sleeps near my church on Cleaveland Avenue at Imperial Highway,” he said. “She's obviously mentally ill and has a dog in a shopping cart. You can't miss her. She's always there. Can you go over and talk to her?”

“I know her. Everyone in my agency knows her but she has a long history of refusing services from our agency.”

As Danny spoke, Hezekiah became distracted again by a glimmer in the beautiful young man's eyes.

There was an awkward silence after Danny finished his sentence. Then Hezekiah replied, “I would appreciate it if you would speak with her again.”

Danny looked surprised. He never thought Hezekiah Cleaveland had any interest in people who couldn't send him a donation.

“I'm glad to hear you're concerned Rev. Cleaveland. When I've seen you and your wife on television it seemed you were only interested in people who could make large contributions to your church.”

“Don't believe everything you see on television,” Hezekiah said, smiling. “I was poor once myself and I've never forgotten it.”

As Danny walked back to Old Joe he heard Hezekiah call out again. “After you talk to her would you mind stopping by my office at the church? Just to let me know how it goes,” the minister explained.

“I'll stop by and see her this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” Hezekiah replied with an odd sense of relief. “By the way, what's your name?”

“Danny. Danny St. John.”

I
t was 10:50
A.M
. Catherine Birdsong rushed to gather the information Hezekiah had requested.

Her office was small compared to others in the administrative wing. There were no pictures on the walls. Newspapers, magazines, and press releases occupied every available surface. A silver frame on the desk held a picture of her seven-year-old daughter, Sarah.

Catherine jumped when the telephone rang.

“Yes, Pastor Cleaveland. I'm on my way,” she said before the voice on the line could speak.

She hurried through the winding halls to Hezekiah's office.

Without stopping at the receptionist's desk in front of Hezekiah's door, Catherine snapped over her shoulder, “He's expecting me.”

Hezekiah was laughing on the telephone when she entered the room. He concluded the conversation with, “Don't worry, Barry. Just let me know if you need me to call him. He's good for at least another hundred thousand.”

Hezekiah hung up the telephone.

“Where have you been? It's almost eleven o'clock.”

Catherine did not respond while handing him the reports. She stood over his shoulder and attempted to explain the numbers as Hezekiah studied the pages.

“Pastor, no one seems to have an accurate number on how much the project has cost to date. The figures range from twenty to twenty-five million. That would mean we have between twenty and twenty-five million more to raise. I recommend going with the lower number because of all the controversy surrounding the building project.” Catherine continued quickly before Hezekiah could ask a question. “The second page is a geographic breakdown of contributions to date. As you can see, the majority of our contributions are coming from the southern states. The Midwest is coming in at a strong second. It looks like we need to put more emphasis on the East Coast, though. For example, donations from Maryland, Rhode Island, and D.C. are falling short of what we projected for this final phase of fund-raising.

“The last page shows the donor demographics. Of course, women between twenty-five and sixty-five years of age are our most prolific donors. Followed by men thirty-five to sixty-five. The number of single white female donors has increased significantly in the last two months.”

Catherine refrained from offering further explanations as Hezekiah continued to scan the reports.

The intercom on his desk cut through the silence.

“Pastor Cleaveland,” said the receptionist, “Mr. Lance Savage is here for your eleven o'clock.”

“I'll be out in a minute,” Hezekiah said sharply.

Moments later Hezekiah and Catherine emerged from the office and Lance Savage jumped to his feet. Lance was a tall man of thirty-five years who never left home without a slightly wrinkled sport coat, thick corduroy pants, and a pair of well-worn suede shoes. His pale yellow shirt had gone several wearings without benefit of dry cleaning.

“Hello, Lance,” Catherine said as she approached him. “I'm going to join you in this meeting if you don't mind.”

“No, I don't mind. I've just got a few questions for Pastor Cleaveland.”

Hezekiah approached Lance with a welcoming grin. “Lance,” he said, extending his hand. “You here to rake me over the coals again?”

Lance laughed and shook Hezekiah's hand.

Hezekiah directed Lance and Catherine to attractive, yet uncomfortable, chairs in front of his desk. He sat behind the desk surrounded by plaques, awards, and framed magazine covers with pictures of the perfect Cleaveland couple which served to remind all who entered the room that he was one of the most famous ministers in the country.

Hezekiah spoke before Lance could settle into the chair. “Lance, I've pulled together some information on the new sanctuary and media center building project. The community is going to benefit greatly from the expansion of our ministry.”

“I'm sure the project is very impressive, Pastor Cleaveland, but I'm not here to talk about the new cathedral.” Lance retrieved a small notepad from his breast pocket and continued. “Pastor Cleaveland, are you familiar with a man named Danny St. John?”

With no discernible signs of surprise, Hezekiah responded, “The name doesn't sound familiar.”

Lance continued his questioning. “Is that so? Would it jog your memory if I told you Mr. St. John is a homeless-outreach worker with whom, my sources tell me, you've spent a considerable amount of time over the last year?”

Hezekiah's face hardened as he felt the muscles contract in his shoulders. “I'm sorry, but I don't know of anyone by that name. My ministry, however, is very concerned about the growing number of homeless people in Los Angeles.”

“Pastor Cleaveland, I have been given information by a reliable source that you and Mr. St. John have a relationship that…How can I put this? A relationship that goes beyond your mutual concern for the well-being of Los Angeles's indigent population.”

“I'm a busy man, Lance,” Hezekiah said impatiently. “What is this about?”

“All right, sir. Would you care to comment on the fact that we have information which suggests that for the past year you've been involved in a homosexual relationship with Danny St. John?”

The chair bumped the bulletproof window behind the desk as Hezekiah leaped to his feet.

“What are you talking about? This is ridiculous! Who told you that?”

“I'm sorry, sir, but I am not at liberty to say.”

“How dare you come into my church and make a libelous claim like that? I'll sue you and the
Los Angeles Chronicle
if any word of this lie appears in it.”

Lance stood to his feet. “Pastor Cleaveland, there's really no point in denying it. My source's proof is irrefutable. I'm here to give you the opportunity to respond, even if that response is simply ‘No comment.'”

“I won't dignify this nonsense with a response. Now get out of my office.”

“That is your choice, Pastor Cleaveland. However, please know that we will run this story within a week, with or without a quote from you.”

Hezekiah rushed from behind the desk to Lance and pointed to the door. “Get out.”

Catherine stood. “Lance, this is outrageous. Pastor Cleaveland said he never met this Danny St. John person!”

“Shut up, Catherine.” Hezekiah turned his anger to her shrieking face. “Stay out of this.”

As Lance walked to the door, he turned and said, “If you change your mind, you know how to reach me.”

Catherine collapsed into the chair after Lance left the room. “Pastor, a story like this could ruin you. Would you like me to call our attorneys?”

Hezekiah's eyes glazed over. He stood in front of her and slammed an open palm on the desk.

“No,” he snapped. “Don't say a word about this to anyone, and especially not Samantha.”

A
ssociate Pastor Kenneth Davis sat alone in his office on the second floor. His was one of the largest offices in the church, second only to the pastor's. The size of his space reflected the tremendous influence he wielded in the ministry. His power came from his shameless tendency to flaunt his close association with Hezekiah Cleaveland.

Kenneth paced the floor.
Stupid idiot,
he thought angrily, not of Lance Savage but of Hezekiah Cleaveland.
So close to completing a multimillion-dollar construction project and he pulls a stunt like this.

The framed picture of his twelve-year-old son from a failed attempt at marriage stared helplessly at him each time he walked past the desk. His mind was awash with thoughts of private school tuition, braces for the crooked, bright smile, monthly child support, his car note, and mortgage payments for the Tudor mini-mansion he had purchased behind the gated walls of Hancock Park only a year earlier.

His clenched fists slammed together repeatedly as he continued his silent assault on Hezekiah. “All the work that went into this fund-raising campaign, down the drain,” he muttered. His steps grew more agitated as he silently tabulated his monthly bills.

“I've got to stop that story,” he said loudly. “There's no way I'm going to let him screw up all I've worked for. I'm not going out like this.”

Kenneth had first heard the name Danny St. John two weeks earlier at a gay bar in West Hollywood. He had always taken painstaking efforts at church to conceal his predilection toward men, but the idea of being spotted in a gay bar by some other “closeted queen” seemed a risk worth taking in exchange for the camaraderie he felt with others who had similar tastes in companions. He was having a drink with Larry Kennedy, a fellow closeted minister from another congregation.

 

The small neighborhood bar was filled with men who looked like they had just returned from long weekends in Palm Springs. Toned, tanned, and well-dressed bodies packed the room. Music blared from below, above, and everywhere in between. The two men had just ordered their second round of beers.

“So what's up with the latest gossip going around about Hezekiah?” Larry asked while reaching for his drink.

“Why? What have you heard? Who's he supposed to be sleeping with this time?”

“Everybody's been talking about it. I'm surprised you haven't heard. I hear it's some guy who works with the homeless downtown. Danny something. A buddy of mine who works for the same agency told me he is gorgeous.”

Kenneth laughed loud enough to be heard over the pulsating music. “A guy?” he said dismissively. “You're joking. What else have you heard?”

“Well,” Larry said, leaning forward, “supposedly it's been going on for about a year now, but I don't know how true that is.”

“Larry, if you're dumb enough to believe a story like that, then you deserve to be an assistant pastor for the rest of your life.”

Larry smiled. “Yeah, I know. It sounded ridiculous to me when I first heard about it, but what if it's true? Can you imagine the fallout? The gay community would be pissed because he's a closeted high-profile minister. The black community would feel betrayed and embarrassed, and God only knows what the evangelicals would do.”

“Nobody is ever going to find out, Larry, because there's nothing to this. Hezekiah's not dumb enough to sneak around banging some guy in the middle of a forty-five-million-dollar capital campaign.”

“For his sake and yours, I hope you're right. By the way, who's Lance Savage?”

“He's a reporter with the
Los Angeles Chronicle.
Why?” Kenneth asked.

“Because he's been asking questions around town lately. Apparently, he's working on a tell-all story.”

 

Now sitting alone in his office, Kenneth recalled the conversation with Larry Kennedy. He began to wonder if the gossip could be true. He hoped the possibility of Hezekiah being gay or even bisexual was too far-fetched to be real.

If it is true,
he thought,
he can kiss his church good-bye. This country isn't ready for a powerful gay black preacher and especially not one who cheats on a woman like Samantha.

 

Collard green stalks peeked over the pink brick fence surrounding Hattie Williams's garden. Green tomatoes waited for the day Hattie would say, “You're just right for picking.” Green beans on the vine protected their precious contents from the sun, and bright yellow squash provided a beautiful contrast in the emerald sea.

The neat stucco house was quiet except for the gospel hymns playing on the radio. Hattie sat at her kitchen table, which overlooked the garden.

Her Bible was open to John 3:16.

She read aloud, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”

 

As she pondered the words and gazed out the window, the image of Hezekiah Cleaveland flashed before her. His face expressionless and his eyes hollow. He wasn't looking at her but rather looking at himself.

All she could hear, see, and feel at that moment was the battle of emotions that raged in his soul. The pastor's conflicting feelings of torment and relief, anger and fear, drowned out the crackling of the radio. She sat motionless and silently watched the battle that played out in the reflection of her garden window.

“Lord, what has the pastor got himself into now?” she said aloud as the melee in her window raged on.

She had never seen so many warriors on the battlefield of one man's soul before. Fear violently thrashed his sword at the breastplate of peace. Contentment protected his head from the deadly blows of confusion. Love cowered under the pounding leveled by a white horse whose rider was death.

The image of the equestrian made Hattie shiver. She had seen him before: at the bedside of her mother and in the hospital room of her late husband. On each occasion she pleaded that he ride away and allow her just one more day with her loved ones. Each time he did not hear her. She knew he would not hear her today.

Hattie had learned to separate her emotions from those of others. But today she sat helplessly and succumbed to the tears that welled in her eyes as the horseman delivered the lethal blow to the man lying on the ground.

“Oh Lord, not the pastor. Not Pastor Cleaveland!” She cried out as the scene faded from her window.

 

Catherine Birdsong instructed her secretary to hold all calls after the startling meeting with Lance Savage. Her body trembled as she reached for the small flask of bourbon tucked beneath an even smaller bottle of minty green mouthwash, tissue, and a silver makeup compact.

The office was quiet. Only the muffled white noise of traffic passing below her window could be heard. Cool pale light hovered around oil canvases and ceramic vases filled with yellow and white lilies. With shaking hands, she took the first sip of the brown tonic, then a second, and third.

Catherine had been with Hezekiah Cleaveland for over ten years, throughout his various business and religious incarnations. She was thirty-three years old and always impeccably dressed, accomplished by frequent and extended-lunch shopping excursions throughout Beverly Hills.

Her expensive tastes in clothes and jewelry far exceeded her salary as a chief operations officer. That of her husband, however, generously supplemented her own. He was a prominent real estate developer who sold New Testament Cathedral the property across the street for the new church. This deal had bordered precariously on a conflict of interest for Catherine. She naively believed that her position in the church never influenced her husband's sweetheart deal but silent observers knew otherwise.

A knock on the door shattered the private moment between her and the bottle. Catherine returned the now half empty bottle to the safety of her purse. It was Kenneth Davis.

“Kenneth, this isn't a good time for me. Is this something that can wait?”

“Catherine,” he said, “I want to know what's going on. He's been snapping at everyone for weeks now. There are rumors going around that Pastor Cleaveland is gay and supposedly a Lance Savage is working on a story about it. Do you know anything about this?”

The alcohol had temporarily sharpened her defensive skills. Catherine bolted to her feet. “Kenneth, I said now is not a good time.”

Kenneth's long legs made light work of the distance between the door and her desk.

“Catherine, you need to tell me what's going on. We need to do damage control. You can't hide in this office and pretend this will go away. The entire ministry might be at stake. If Hezekiah is destroyed, we'll all be destroyed with him.”

Catherine's knees buckled under the weight of his statement causing her to wilt back into the soft leather chair. Her eyes filled with tears as she scrambled for the tissue in her purse. There was a tense silence shared between the two while she stared vacantly out the window. Reverend Davis held his gaze firmly on her quivering face.

Then, through mounting sobs, Catherine said, “Close the door, Kenneth. I don't want anyone to hear this.”

Kenneth closed the office door and sat in front of her desk.

“So what is this all about?”

“Kenneth, you've got to promise me you won't repeat this to anyone. He'd kill me if he knew I spoke to you.”

“Who am I going to talk to? Now tell me.”

Catherine took a deep breath and proceeded to recount the amazing confrontation she had just witnessed between Hezekiah and Lance Savage.

“Savage claims to have proof that Pastor Cleaveland is having an affair with a man.”

Catherine looked away to avoid Kenneth's bulging eyes. Her lips longed for another encounter with the flask in her purse.

“His name is Danny, Danny St. John. He's a homeless-outreach worker.”

“Catherine, that's crazy,” Kenneth said. “A gay rumor surfaces about Hezekiah every few years but no one has ever proved anything.”

“I know, Kenneth. I've heard them too, but…but it was the way he reacted when Lance said it. I've never seen him that angry before. He snapped. I thought he was going to attack him. It was horrible.”

“So what makes you think he can prove it? Did he identify his source?”

“No. Pastor Cleaveland didn't give him a chance to. He exploded and threw him out. Lance would have never confronted him the way he did unless he knew something. He was so cocky and bold.”

Kenneth stood and walked abruptly to the door.

“I'm going to call Savage. We'll sue that paper for slander if they print the story, even if it is true.”

Catherine sprang from her desk. She grabbed Kenneth by the arm as he reached for the door handle. “Kenneth,” she said through tears, “you said you wouldn't repeat this to anyone. You promised.”

Kenneth pushed her away. The force of his thrust, and the alcohol, caused her to lose her footing and stumble backward.

“You're crazy, Catherine, if you think I'm going to sit by and allow Lance Savage to destroy this ministry.”

“You bastard,” Catherine said as the reverend darted down the hallway. “You liar. You're going to make him even angrier. Stay out of this, Kenneth.”

Her words echoed without reception, through the hall as Reverend Davis vanished from sight.