Second Sunday (26 page)

“Sheba! You, you, you got some nerve, girl. What is wrong with you?” he hollered as a chunk of cake fell off his head and
splattered on his expensive turtleneck sweater.

Ignoring George’s angry sputtering, Sheba walked over to the office door, then turned to say one more thing. “George Robert
Wilson, you certainly do have a lot of work to do. Because it’s gone take you all the rest of this week to work out why you
acting like a pure-dee fool and keep running from the Lord. But I have work to do, too. And my work ain’t no fancy church
work. See, I’m pressed with the task of taking you and your nonsense to a Higher Source. I’m taking it to the One Who can
deal with you better than your mama or your daddy or your grandmama or your granddaddy or your auntie or your uncle ever could.”

When the door slammed for the second time that evening, George thought that Sheba was going to talk to Mr. Louis Loomis about
him. It didn’t occur to him that the girl was about to do just what she said—go straight over his head and on up to the Lord,
to tell her Father “just what that boy did.”

Sheba managed to hold in her tears until she reached the chapel. She made sure there was no one around, then went into a corner,
got on her knees, and leaned on her elbows on a pew cushion. She began to pray—that kind of deep praying that gave Bible folks
courage, like when Queen Esther prayed up the nerve to walk up to King Xerxes uninvited and unannounced.

“Lord. Lord-Lord-Lord. Lord, that man done worked over my last nerve. You know, Father, that I been praying about this heart/love,
man/woman thing for years, and since I have rededicated my life to you, Lord, I have been praying on it hard and ceaselessly.

“Now, Lord, I trust You, I believe in You, and I know You hear me and that You answer my prayers. But Lord, I’m sick and tired
of being all alone.

“Lord, you know the reason there is so much mess about love and sex in folks’ lives, is that too many people think those issues
don’t concern You. They think You don’t see our tears of loneliness and feel the painful aching of our needs. But I believe
You do. I just know in my soul, Lord, that a God who made beautiful flowers, rainbows, colors, music, and lightning that flashes
across the sky is a passionate God, One Who understands the hearts and longings that You Yourself created.

“Even George, for all his faith, his good works, and his dedication to You, doesn’t completely trust that You understand that
part of him. But You do, I know You do. You even understand how he threw away all the sense You gave him when he married that
crazy Glodean woman. You helped that man by letting that woman walk right out of his life. And another thing, Lord—don’t that
boy know that nobody but You, God, could have conceived of and fashioned something as complicated as what happens to men and
women when passion overtakes them and begs to be expressed through physical love?

“Father, I know that some folks would want to run me right out of this church for having a conversation like this with You.
But Lord, You know I love George. That’s why I didn’t snatch a hole out of his behind when I was in his office. But that boy
is
Your
chile. And I want You to deal with George Wilson before I have to hurt him. Lord, I am coming to You on this one, and it
seems to me, in my humble opinion, that You would want me to be able to testify to the power of prayer and about Your miracle-working
in this area of my life. So, please, deal with
Your
chile and help him and help me. Thank You, Lord. In Jesus’ name I pray and claim the victory, amen.”

Sheba wiped her eyes, checking again to make sure nobody saw her before she left. But Sheba hadn’t been alone. Aside from
the Lord, Mozelle had heard every single word of her prayer. And when she knew Sheba was gone, Mozelle went to the very spot
where Sheba had prayed, knelt down, and offered a supplication prayer for her.

“Lord,” she began, “these children need these prayers answered. And those waiting on the answer are tired. Love between a
man and a woman is something You need to take care of. It is too precious to be directed by a man or a woman without Your
help. You need to give Your children testimonies when they come to You in prayer, asking with heart in hand for the blessings
of that kind of precious love in their lives.

“You have blessed me with Joseaphus, Lord, and now I beg You to help Sheba. I been watching the pastor and, Lord, that is
one stubborn boy. Scared to death of giving the woman he loves his heart. And that boy know Sheba love him. Umph, Lord. It
ain’t fair. Deal with that boy, Jesus. Deal with Rev. Wilson and let him know Who running the show.”

A Love That Only God Can Give

L
ouise was more nervous than the bride. She looked at Bertha Kaye, with that baby just growing, and said, “Girl, hurry up.
You not even dressed. Gone hold up the whole ceremony—have everybody sitting out in the sanctuary waiting on you.”

“MamaLouise, it takes me longer to go to the bathroom and get myself straight now. I feel like I move like a snail.”

“A snail who’s about to pop,” Phoebe said, laughing as she watched Bertha waddle around the women’s lounge where the wedding
party was getting dressed.

“Well, you should have thought about that ’fore you laid up with Melvin Jr. and got that baby.”

Bertha and Phoebe looked at each other and rolled their eyes when they knew MamaLouise couldn’t see their faces. Why did your
grandmother always have to say “laying up with” when getting on you about yourself and a man? They just loved to say, “If
you hadn’t been layin’ up . . .”

“She wasn’t able to think, Louise,” Miss Mozelle said with a chuckle. “All Bertha Kaye could think of at the time was ‘Mel
. . . vvvviiinnn . . . oh, Melvin.’”

Bertha’s mouth flew open. It had never occurred to her that Miss Mozelle even thought about things like that. And she certainly
never imagined her saying anything that fast and frisky.

Louise stopped pacing around, shaking her head at her granddaughter. Young people didn’t think that anybody they considered
to be “old” knew anything worth knowing about men, love, and lovemaking.

“Close your mouth, Bertha Kaye, and finish dressing,” Louise said as she picked up a box of corsages and boutonnieres and
started out the door. “Mozelle, you ’bout ready? We need to get these upstairs.”

“Okay,” she answered, and followed Louise.

“You know you look beautiful,” Louise told her.

“Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself,” Mozelle countered, grinning.

Louise laughed. “Well then, I guess we two good-lookin’ old girls ought to get this show on the road.”

Mr. Louis Loomis was waiting for them, looking handsome in a black tuxedo, even if he did have on his trademark brown leather
belt. How he got a tuxedo with belt loops was a mystery Louise wasn’t so sure she wanted solved.

“I thought I was gone have to stand at the top of these stairs for almost forever,” he fussed. “I need to get the boutonnieres
to the groom and his party and then take the rest of the flowers to Precious Powers. You know that boy about to worry me and
everybody else in the men’s parlor to death, wanting the ceremony to get under way.”

Mr. Louis Loomis looked down the stairs behind Louise and Mozelle. “And where that Bertha Kaye? If she don’t hold up more
stuff these days, moving slow as molasses and complaining it’s the baby making her that way.”

“You know it all ain’t that baby, Louis. Bertha Kaye just slow. Ain’t she, Mozelle?”

“Umm-hmm. But she’ll be along soon,” her friend replied.

“Well, you two need to get situated,” Mr. Louis Loomis said. “Ceremony starting in about twenty minutes. And if it’s late,
I’m gone have to take off my belt and use it on the slowpoke.”

He started walking off in the direction of the men’s parlor, shaking his head, mumbling, “That boy ’bout to bust a vein gettin’
to that girl. But he gone have to wait like the rest of us had to wait on our wedding day.”

Louise and Mozelle decided to walk outside to get to their places for the ceremony. That way, they wouldn’t bump into too
many people. This wedding was very simple and sweet, in terms of the ritual itself, but it was turning out to be a three-ring
circus, because everybody at Gethsemane Missionary Baptist Church said they were “gone be there.”

Louise and Mozelle found their places just in time. Precious Powers, who was making quite a name for herself coordinating
weddings, was standing in the vestibule entry at the back of the church, tapping her foot and frowning at them.

“Now, I thought I told you two to be here at least fifteen minutes ago,” she said, with a hand on her generous and sexy hip.
Precious was splendidly dressed in a gold suit, with a short skirt to show off her shapely legs and the shiny gold, ankle-strap
platform sandals she was wearing. “Miss Mozelle, you know better than to run around here like that. Come over here and let
me make sure you just right. Gone ruin my reputation.”

Louise smiled at Precious. That girl had really come into her own after tearing up the Gospel United Church of America when
she caught her old trifling boyfriend, Rev. Marcel Brown, with another woman. If it weren’t for Precious Powers, that church
would have lost so many members, it would have seriously crippled the denomination and its ministry. Her earrings caught Louise’s
eye—gold hoops sprinkled with diamond chips.

“Anniversary present from my baby,” Precious said, all grinning teeth. “You know he got me so spoiled.”

Louise and Mozelle started giggling. It was no secret that Precious Powers’s husband, Tyrone, thought the sun rose and set
on that girl.

“And where is Tyrone, Miss Lady?” Louise asked.

“Right here,” Tyrone said as he came up behind them and kissed both Louise and Mozelle on the cheek.

“Boy, you gone mess up their makeup,” Precious admonished.

“Baby, calm down. It’s okay. They don’t mind. Do you, ladies?”

“No, baby, we don’t mind one bit,” Mozelle answered, smiling at that ebony-hued boy with the kind of physique that Louise
said made his “suits hang on him right.”

“Tyrone,” Precious said, “I need you to go on out and start lighting the candles. And tell the musicians to start playing,
so we can get this ceremony started.”

Tyrone kissed Precious on the cheek, then patted that big behind when he thought Mozelle and Louise weren’t looking. Precious
was a bossy thing, but he knew how to take the reins. He watched her try not to jump as he gave her a little squeeze, just
to let the girl know who really ran things in their family.

Mr. Louis Loomis walked into the vestibule just as Tyrone was signaling to Precious that everything was ready, then he opened
the florist box he was holding and presented bouquets to Louise and Mozelle. He gave the empty box to Precious and took Mozelle
gently by the arm.

“Is the bride ready?”

Mozelle answered with a breathless yes—as excited at age sixty-six as any bride of twenty-five.

Her gown was breathtaking, an Essie Simmons handcrafted original. At first glance it looked simple—a matching skirt and top
made of silver lace. Closer inspection revealed that Essie and her seamstresses had sewn iridescent bugle beads on the shimmering
lace fabric, which caught the light and glinted as Mozelle moved. And the lines of the dress were stunning: the top dipped
to a deep V in the front and the back, the sleeves a sophisticated elbow length, and the hem of the top trimmed with tiny
silver silk bows that gracefully framed Mozelle’s hips. The straight skirt, grazing two inches above her ankles to show off
her pale silver patent-leather pumps, was cut to mold Mozelle’s bottom and emphasize the shape of her hips. As Essie had said,
“Miss Mozelle, you got a cute little butt, and we gone show it off for your new hubby.”

But Essie never finished with just the outfit. She had not only chosen Mozelle’s dress and shoes but also picked out heart-shaped
diamond earrings, set in white gold, and a matching pendant. And for Mozelle’s hair, she had the florist make a wreath of
pale pink and off-white silk roses. Mozelle was radiant.

Essie had also outdone herself with Louise, the matron of honor. Tall and brown, with lovely dark brown eyes and thick beautiful
salt-and-pepper hair framing her slender face, Louise was an older version of her granddaughter, Phoebe. For her, Essie had
created the palest blue chiffon suit, cut in a very crisp tailored style, with silk piping on the lapels and cuffs. The long
skirt was slit up past Louise’s knee, profiling her legs, and showing off her pale blue stockings and pale blue satin sandals.
In keeping with the simple elegance of the suit, Essie found Louise a pair of sterling silver hoop earrings sprinkled with
semiprecious stones in bluish tones—amethyst, sapphire, and turquoise.

Mr. Louis Loomis, who was about three inches shorter than Louise, looked her up and down, patted his belt, and said. “Girl,
you so fine, about to make me whisk you off alone somewhere, so I can get a
good
look at that slit.
Lawd,
ha’ mercy!”

Louise blushed and giggled, saying, “Ohhh, Looouuuis, you so baaaad,” while Mozelle laughed.

Precious couldn’t believe those elders. But she silently thanked God for showing her proof that the fire of life didn’t grow
cold when the coals were gray. In fact, if her eyes and ears were serving her right, age was making those gray embers glow
even hotter. She silently vowed to take very good care of herself, so that she and Tyrone would have it just as good as what
she was witnessing in their so-called old age.

Inside the sanctuary, the Holy Rollers were entering the choir loft humming a gospel song by the blues singer Big Johnnie
Mae Carter titled, “A Love That Only God Can Give.” Then their main soloist, Sister Hershey Jones, came to the microphone
and crooned out the words to the beautiful ballad:

“One night I got down on my knees and I prayed and I prayed and I prayed. I buried my head in my arms and I cried and I cried
and I cried. And I prayed and I prayed and I prayed. And I asked the Lord to send me a blessing, to send me a love that only
God can give . . .