Second Sunday (3 page)

Mr. Louis Loomis snorted. Trouble getting to St. Louis? You could practically walk from Pine Bluff, Arkansas to St. Louis,
Missouri. Mr. Louis Loomis was sick and tired of Cleavon Johnson and his whole family. It seemed that every black church had
its resident big-shot family who wanted to run everything and got on everybody else’s nerves. And the Johnsons, who owned
a string of mom-and-pop convenience stores throughout North St. Louis called The Only Stop, were definitely Gethsemane’s pain-in-the-butt,
big-shot family.

“Cleavon,” Mr. Louis Loomis countered, “that man ain’t what we need for this church, and you doggone well know that. It worries
me that you let the funk of your own mess overpower you to the point where you can’t think straight enough to do right by
your own church.”

Cleavon bristled but composed himself enough to say, “There is nothing wrong with you, old man, but mad—mad because you like
an old tree that has lost all of its sap. You need to step aside and let a young man do what you ain’t got the stamina for.”

Mr. Louis Loomis dropped his hand to his belt, moving in on Cleavon as if to say, “Boy, give me a reason to whip your tail.”

Instead, he told him, very quietly, “Boy, a tree just reaching its prime at one hundred. At seventy-six, I got a ways to go.
A short hard stroke ain’t always what it take to get the job done right. But I’m sure you don’t know what I’m talking ’bout,
since you spend most of your waking hours wasting time with short, no-count strokes.”

Cleavon stood up, stuck his chest out, and made a move toward Mr. Louis Loomis. Wendell and Melvin Sr. jumped up to intervene,
but held back when they saw that Mr. Louis Loomis was not fazed one bit by Cleavon’s posturing. He didn’t move a muscle, but
just said firmly, “You need to watch how you come at me, son, ’cause you know I don’t play that.”

At that point Bert, who was fed up with all the bickering, decided to exercise his authority as committee chairman and head
of the Deacon Board. To show he meant business, he pushed his chair back from the table so hard that it wore through the threadbare
gold carpet and scraped the dull wooden floor beneath it. Then he announced, “This meeting is adjourned,” and stormed out
of the room, forcing all of the other committee members to follow suit.

Wendell Cates and Melvin Vicks, Sr., were equally tired of all the dissension, but kept quiet until they all reached their
cars. Then Melvin Sr. said, “That poot-butt Cleavon think he’s so slick. I don’t believe that Negro wants Rev. Blue Patterson
any more than we do. We don’t need all of this headache from Cleavon. It would solve a whole lot of problems if we could kick
him off this committee.”

“Yeah,” Wendell agreed, “Cleavon keep up more mess than a little bit.”

“Well, we can’t get rid of him,” Bert said flatly. “Being in charge of the Finance Board, he is entitled to help choose the
pastor. I suppose that technically we could remove him from the Finance Board, but think what a ruckus that would raise. We
have enough problems to deal with already in this church without going off and usurping church protocol.”

Melvin Sr. shrugged and sighed heavily in frustration, even though he knew Bert was right. Bert was always on the money when
it came to church business—that’s why he was head of the Deacon Board. They were stuck with Cleavon Johnson for the time being.

“I’m wondering,” Wendell said, “if Cleavon is forcing this interview because he believes that Blue Patterson will make the
preacher he
really
wants at this church look good. Did you see how excited he got when somebody asked a question about Rev. David O. Clemson?”

“Yeah, I saw that,” Bert answered. “At first I thought it was just me.”

“Nah. It was me, too,” Melvin Sr. chimed in. “Cleavon could hardly contain himself.”

“Umm-hmm,” Bert said. “He came close to showing his hand when Rev. Clemson’s name was put on the table.”

“Cleavon is gone do any and everything that he can to get around us and have his way,” Wendell said. “Let us not forget to
stay on our knees, ’cause we really gone need the Lord’s help with this.”

“Yep,” Bert said with a heavy heart, as they got into their cars. How in the world were they going to find a decent preacher
with all this intrigue and mess and with the biggest devil in town, Cleavon O’Rell Johnson, able to cast a crucial vote in
the matter?

Two Sundays later Rev. Blue Patterson came to preach at Gethsemane. Twenty minutes before the service started, Bert Green
eased his gold Cadillac Eldorado into the church’s gravel parking lot and searched for a space, all the while wondering what
kind of church they would be having this morning. He hadn’t met Rev. Blue Patterson, but in his short phone conversation with
the man the night before, Rev. Patterson struck him as pompous and ill-mannered.

So Bert had been relieved when Nettie had nagged him into changing his suit from the brown three-piece knit he had selected
to an outfit complementing the cute blue knit minidress his wife had had the nerve to wear this morning. Nettie had insisted
that Bert put on his navy blue leisure suit with his new cream and blue polyester shirt and the gold medallion necklace she’d
bought him last Father’s Day. Now they were running late, and mercifully, he’d barely have time to do his duty as head of
the Deacon Board and extend their guest an official welcome.

The rocks crunched and popped under his brand-new whitewall tires as Bert spun the car slowly around in circles, trying to
find the perfect parking space—one where nobody could hem him in. He hated having to wait when he was ready to go home from
church, especially when there was a good baseball game coming on TV, like today.

Nettie, sitting quietly beside him, felt glad that their daughter, Bertha, didn’t ride to church with them this morning. Bertha
was twenty-seven, with her own business, house, and car, but she still wanted to ride to church with them. A big baby, that’s
what she was—a big spoiled baby. And today Nettie needed some private time with Bert, to try to pick his brain about Rev.
Blue Patterson without Bertha all up in their business.

“Honey, do you think this man can preach?” she asked softly, knowing how discouraged Bert had been after talking to Rev. Patterson
last night. She had wanted to ask about their phone conversation then but knew better than to press her husband, especially
when he was already so upset over Cleavon’s machinations. She also knew that Bert would take interviewing Rev. Patterson seriously.
Her husband was a man of integrity, and if he agreed to do something, no matter how much he might have initially opposed it,
he was going to do it right. Wisdom and prudence and twenty-eight years of marriage told her that she was going to have to
handle Bert with care.

So Nettie placed her pink-pearl-painted fingertips gently on Bert’s right knee and let them inch their way to that spot,
way
up on the inside of his thigh.

Bert grinned, watching Nettie out of the corner of his eye, and relaxed his leg a bit when he felt the perfect application
of pressure from her hand. He saw her peeping at him from under the floppy brim of the ivory silk hat she was wearing, with
that little look on her face that
always
got under his skin.

“Baby, why you giving me that yum-yum look of yours and asking about that preacher all in the same breath?”

Nettie stroked Bert’s leg a few more seconds and then gave him the sweetest smile, while thinking about the trump card up
her sleeve—Sheba Cochran. When Nettie had approached her about taking on the mission, Sheba had said, “Yes, I’ll be glad to
do it, because I’ve been itching for a way to get Cleavon Johnson back for playing me for a fool.”

Then, all of a sudden, Sheba got distant and quiet, as if she was thinking about changing her mind.

“Sheba?” Nettie asked, a bit puzzled by the abrupt shift in her.

“On second thought, y’all on your own,” Sheba said.

“But just a moment ago, you were all eager to help us.”

“Nettie,” Sheba stated matter-of-factly, “you never have and never will be seen by other women as the party-hearty girl. Humph,
the women at your church got some nerve. Whole bunch of those biddies don’t even speak to me when I come to church, and now
they need me to do what most of y’all can’t do. And you know that Katie Mae Johnson is the worst when it comes to me.”

“But Sheba, Katie Mae is Clea—”

“She didn’t speak to me
before
Cleavon, Nettie.”

All Nettie could do was sigh. Sheba was right. Some of the women at church acted like they were so much better than Sheba
because she liked to go to that hot and jumping disco, the Mothership Club, over in East St. Louis, Illinois. And Katie Mae
could be the snootiest of all—not only to Sheba but to any woman who appeared to be the type Cleavon chased in the streets.
Nettie was about to tell Sheba to just forget it when she felt a gentle nudge, deep down inside, to give it one more try.

“Sheba, me and Viola and Sylvia have always been your friends. We love you, my mama loves you, our children love you, and
our husbands are like brothers to you. I’m asking you for our sake. We need to hire a good pastor, and it is going to take
a lot more than Bert’s Search Committee to beat Cleavon at his own game.”

Nettie watched Sheba’s face as her words sank in. Then she pleaded, “So please, Sheba, can you find it in your heart to help
us? Forget those women who need a lesson on what it means to be Christian.”

After a long moment, Sheba gave in. “Okay, I’ll help you, Nettie. But you and Viola and Sylvia better tell them other stuck-up,
wouldn’t-know-Jesus-if-He-slapped-them-in-the-face heifers not to disrespect me. Alright, Nettie?”

“I will,” Nettie promised, praying that the main culprit among the women, Katie Mae Johnson, would heed their advice and leave
Sheba alone.

“Nettie,” Bert said impatiently. “You gone answer my question, Nettie Green? Or just sit there looking dumbstruck and make
us even later for church?”

Nettie came back to earth with a jolt, but recovered quickly.

“Well, Bert honey,” she managed to say, “last night makes it mighty hard to stop thinking about you, even though I know I
need to have my mind staying on Jesus and praying on the trouble plaguing our church.” She rubbed his leg some more, only
a little higher, and continued, “Ain’t my fault you such a sweet thang, boy, that you distract me right up to the front door
of the Lord’s house.”

At first Bert sat up all cocky-like, with his chest stuck out, grinning from ear to ear. But when he stole a look at Nettie,
an alarm went off inside him.

“Miss Lady is
up
to something,” he thought as he turned off the motor, stepped from the car, and walked around to Nettie’s side to help her
out. She had been furious over what happened at the first search committee meeting, and he should have been expecting her
to zip something by him. He’d have to be on the lookout for anything that might tell him what Nettie was planning to do.

As soon as they walked into the sanctuary, Nettie tried her best to find Sheba Cochran without Bert’s catching on. She let
her eyes dart around the church, turning her body as slightly as possible, until she saw Sylvia sitting in her spot with Melvin
Sr. Nettie waved at her friend, who quickly glanced over at Melvin Sr. before giving a nod toward the front of the church.

Bert watched Sylvia closely before turning back to his wife. “Nettie, why Sylvia jerking her head around like that?”

“Like what, Bert, honey?”

“Like she trying to give you some sort of secret message.”

Nettie hated lying in church—even more than lying to Bert—but there were some things he didn’t need to know. “Honey, you know
how that crazy Sylvia is. She was trying to get me to see a woman wearing a feather hat that is so ugly, it looks like she
killed a chicken on the way to church and stuck it right on her head.”

Bert, a tall, husky, cocoa-colored man, with captivating black-brown eyes set in a round and boyish face, looked around the
sanctuary, wondering why his cute, sexy, tiny, coffee-with-two-drops-of-cream wife would think he believed she could get all
that information from just a nod. Sometimes Nettie thought she was so clever and smooth, but she’d just overplayed her hand.

He said, “Humph. Everybody look okay to me. I don’t see one person in here wearing a hat that ugly.”

“Well, maybe the woman left the sanctuary before you started looking for her, honey.”

“Maybe,” Bert answered, cutting his eyes at Nettie to let her know she hadn’t convinced him of a thing.

Nettie caught the look, read Bert’s mind, and proceeded to give him the same bold smile she had given him in the car. Bert
got embarrassed, and Nettie grinned on the inside of herself, thinking, “That’ll teach Mr. Bert Green about trying to get
me
straight in church.”

As Bert ushered her down to their regular seats next to Nettie’s sister, Viola Cates, and her husband, Wendell, his eyes scanned
the sanctuary to see if their daughter had made it to church. Lately she had been missing too many Sundays for his comfort,
and he wondered what was going on with her. He checked the balcony where Bertha always sat with her cousin Phoebe and the
other young adults. They had occupied that same spot since they were old enough to sit in church by themselves and had continued
the tradition now that they were all grown, and some of them married with children of their own.

Phoebe was there in her seat next to Melvin Vicks, Jr., Melvin Jr.’s sister, Rosie, and their friend Jackson Williams. Rosie’s
husband, Latham Johnson, sat a bit off to the side, by himself. Bert thought that Latham was just like his uncle Cleavon—selfish,
stuck on himself, and convinced that his wife was put on this earth to serve him. Latham didn’t run around on Rosie like Cleavon
did Katie Mae, but Bert and Wendell were certain that virtue wasn’t the reason. Latham Johnson was a conceited tight-butt
who probably thought he was too good to need a strong rap to pull a woman his way.

The seat next to Phoebe—Bertha’s spot—was empty. Bertha always sat on one side of Phoebe and Melvin Jr. on the other. It had
to be that way, because Bertha and Melvin Jr. had been fussing with each other since they were little. Many a Sunday morning,
either Bert or Melvin Sr. had to go up in the balcony and separate those two at some point during the service. Poor Melvin
Jr. would always look him in the eye and say, “Mr. Bert, she started it.” And when Bert looked at Bertha, all pretty in her
pink organza dress, hair ribbons, fancy lace socks, and black patent leather shoes, he knew that it was true. Bertha would
tell all on herself, saying something stupid like, “Daddy, I just can’t stand him.” Then, when she thought Bert wasn’t watching
her, Bertha would stick out her tongue at Melvin Jr., who would make a fist and say, “We can finish this after church.” To
this day, Bertha complained that Melvin Jr. got on her “last nerve.” As Bert looked at the empty space next to Phoebe, he
made a mental note to ask Nettie if she knew what was up with that girl.